#he's neither the provider nor the receiver. he's just himself

[dirkxcaliborn]

I was recently thinking about a frustration I've had with the way the fandom treats one of my favorite characters, and how I often frame it as "I hate how they feminize him" only to immediately feel off about it bc that's not really it. Because if I think about it for two seconds, I really love seeing him with things associated with femininity. It's not really a man being "feminized" that's the issue so much as how people treat femininity. I think what I've really been frustrated with is how he's been infantilized. And I think part of that association for me is just a history of m/m relationships being pushed into m/f gender roles and the "woman in the relationship" is always made weaker and helpless and needy. There's also a history of characters being pushed into a feminine role while being portrayed as actively hating it or being incredibly embarrassed by it.

And so in my mind being feminine became equal to "being treated like a girl" which became equal to "being made pathetic and shamed for it." And I think that last part is what I really hate.

[darkstaria]

Yandere Batfam - Soulmate Soul Animal Au.

Chapter 5:

Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Chapter 4. Chapter 6.

Sorry for the long weight everyone! I had to binge allll of Stranger Things for a friend's future birthday event and ohhh wow I thought the episodes were gonna be 20 minutes not 40-1hr

Also I suffered a bit of writers block, it happens

But regardless, I hope you all enjoy! ^ ^

(also the taglist has migrated to the bottom of the fic because it's a bit too long now)

----

The office was large, sprawling walls contained by an even bigger ceiling. The faint humming of Tim’s computer provided no reassurance, nor did the soft leather of your seat. It felt as if you could sink right into it, and try to fade away. There was a faint aroma of coffee that lingered around the office, but it gave you no solace. It just reminded you of the mistakes you made, to end up here. The elephant in the room.

Tim’s smile was bright, a warm sun. You were burning.

“It’s.. nice to see you again.” You attempted, words stumbling about on your tongue. You couldn't help it, the mere presence of your soulmate sending anxiety skyrocketing down your spine. Why couldn't he just get to the point?

“I didn't really expect my company and Wayne Enterprises to be working together.” You continued, a fake smile plastered onto your face. “What a nice coincidence!”

“I hope for us to have a successful collaboration.” Tim replies, still smiling. “But enough about the companies, it's been so long since I've seen you, and I didn't have your number to text.”

You laugh in response, a pale imitation of a real laugh. You had hoped to focus on discussing the work you both had to do first, and then escape before any catch up talks were attempted. Unfortunately, it appears that Tim won't let you do any actual work before engaging with him.

Your nails dug into your knees, an attempt to stay calm. Your reply was measured.

“Oh are you sure? Surely it would be better to get work on the collaboration done first, then we’ll have all the time left to chat freely.”

“I wouldn't worry about that, really. We’ve got plenty of time together, and I wouldn't be able to work without knowing how you're doing lately. Since you didn't have the time to text, I presume you've been busy?”

“Ah, right! Yes! Yes I have been, busy that is, you know how it is with work. Endless and all that.” You were frustrated at being pushed into a lie already. Tim was in charge here and he knew it.

“Why don't you give me your number then?” His smile was perfect, as flawless as his manipulation. “That way, when you're too busy to remember to message, I can remind you.”

You frowned. Like he didn't know your number already.

Quickly remembering you had to smile, you gave him your number, watching as he slowly typed it in, then texted. Only when you showed you received his text did he relent.

The ‘meeting’ continued on from there, Tim asking about all your hobbies and passions. Time ticked on, daylight turning to evening. Any attempt from you to redirect the conversation to either himself or work was swiftly dismissed. A small part of you admired his skill, he was playing you like a doll. You knew it, but you had no option but to play along. It was like an older sibling playing pretend with the young sibling. You hated the comparison.

The attention was unnerving. Your only solace was that neither of you had soul animals present currently, which was an absolute miracle.

Actually… what if that isn't a coincidence at all? Could this too have been engineered? Was that even possible?

“So then what’s your opinion on..” The sound of Tim’s voice slammed you back to reality. You quickly focused back in, fearing losing any advantage due to a lack of attention.

Abruptly, an alarm sounded, the noise blazing a path through your eardrums. You jolted in surprise. Tim however, was barely rattled. A frown appeared on his face as he glanced at his phone.

“That was the Arkham Asylum breakout alarm. It's no longer safe to go outside.” With these words Tim got up, walking over to the door and opening it.

“What…?” You mumbled, horrified.

“Stay here.” He commanded, a firm tone in his voice. This was Red Robin. “I’m going to check on the building, don't leave, it isn't safe.”

“Wait! But.. the collaboration.. we didn't..” The words rushed out of your mouth, leaving you feeling like a fool as Tim paused for a moment, to look at you.

“Don't worry.” He smiled, the weight of it bearing down upon you. You felt small. “You can just come in tomorrow, I'm sure your company won't mind.” With the final word said, Tim closed the door, presumably rushing off to become Red Robin. The click of the door felt like a dismissal, a scolding. A reminder to stay in your place.

Once again, you were trapped.

You clenched your fists. He wanted you to stay here, in his territory. You didn't doubt that Wayne Enterprises had amazing security, probably some of the best considering the identities of the owners. This was likely the third most safe place in Gotham, with the first and second places going to Batman’s base and Wayne Manor.

But… you haven't learned anything yet. All that time spent with him and somehow he hadn't brought up that singular, obvious fact. There was no way he didn't know, not with the way he was acting. And yet, he hadn't brought it up. Why?

What was he getting out of this?

Was he hoping that if you assumed he didn't know then you could easily be monitored? Was he just gathering information before acting? Where was the rest of the vigilantes in this?

Your head was spinning, going in circles. You couldn't understand him, you couldn't understand any of them. Why choose to be vigilantes, knowing the costs that life endures? Why were you tied to them, when you were so against a fundamental part of their existence?

You couldn't understand this at all. How could this be the basis of a soulmate bond?

You were… opposites.

You felt the telltale beat of an oncoming headache. For your own sanity, you decided to fold the incoming soulmate crisis into a small cavity of your brain to panic about later.

Fact One: There was an ongoing Arkham Asylum breakout, everyone is either being attacked, hiding away or escaping the city.

Fact Two: Batman and all his partners are going to be occupied for at least several hours if not a day.

Fact Three: You were going to take advantage of this.

It was the perfect time. All your soulmates were occupied, so none of them would be able to pay any attention to you. Red Robin might know your identity, and so the other vigilantes may know as well.

That didn't need to matter. They may have the information, but information itself is useless, if they are unable to act.

Right now, any Gothamite that isn't involved with rogues is either hiding or escaping. You could join the escapes, and get out of Gotham in the rush.

You didn't have to stay here, to play the role of a caged bird. You could escape, before they even got a chance.

You had to try.

You suppressed a shaky sigh, getting up and walking to the door. You tried the door handle.

Locked.

Uh oh. You tried it again, and then a few more times after that, shaking the door eventually in your desperation. Oh come on! You desperately thought to yourself. The one time you finally got the perfect chance and it's being ruined by a locked door.

Wait. You glanced at the small window in the door, the beginnings of an idea sprouting in your head. You glance over at Tim’s desk, noticing a small paper weight. You smile.

Lifting the paperweight, you judge the weight to be enough. Holding it up, you get into position to throw.

Wait.. the door has a keyhole, not a sliding chain, you realize, almost too late.

Ah.

Well that would have been embarrassing.

Sadly, you place the paperweight back down. There goes that idea.

But that wasn't the only door in the office, there was another one, the one that the shouting voice left out of. You approach the door, trying the doorknob.

Click!

It opens! Giving a small laugh, you advance through the door and out into the halls of Wayne Enterprises, a jubilant smile on your face. Whoever was shouting at Tim earlier, you almost wanted to thank them.

You avoid the elevators, instead picking stairs, as you presumed they may also be in lockdown. It didn't take you too long to get down to the ground floor, since the main walking areas were now barren of people.

The ground floor had some unfortunate news to offer you though. The once wildly open doors had now been locked down and barred, an iron wall between you and freedom.

Although, maybe there was some other way, you thought, eyeing the anxious security guards patrolling the front entrance.

Pulling out of your hiding spot, you approach the guards, making to time your steps, making noise to not scare them. You really didn't want to get shot before you had even left the safety of the building.

“P-please help me!” You stuttered, trembling with tears in your eyes. The guards jolted in surprise, turning to face you. They were expecting threats from the outside, not the inside.

“I need to get home, I can't stay here.” You sobbed, the guards pausing in confusion. They didn't know what to do with you.

“What’s wrong?” A sympathetic guard asked, patting you gently on the back. You almost felt bad.

“I need to go home!” You repeated, tone frantic.

A disgruntled guard stepped up to you. “Look, no one can leave right now. Company policy. It isn't safe, there's been an Arkham breakout. Just sit tight, and whatever’s waiting for you at home will be there when you get back.”

“N-no…” You mumbled. “You don't understand.. I have.. I have a cat, waiting for me.” You glance up, watching the expressions on their faces. They seem unmoved. “A-and my child!” You cry out, realizing you needed a better lie.

“A child?” The disgruntled guard repeated, sounding a little more sympathetic, but clearly not convinced. He eyed you up and down, evidentially thinking you looked a little too young.

“They're so little, but my cat likes to take care of them and I needed the money so, so I left them at home alone today. But recently they're been figuring out how to open doors and if anything happened to them I don't know what I’d d-” Your frantic lie is cut off, the disgruntled guard laying a hand on your shoulder.

“Alright listen. None of us can escort you, we're here on the job.”

You nodded, feeling exuberation rush through you.

“But if anything happened, run right back here, alright?”

You nodded again, fighting a smile on your face. The guards unlocked the doors, watching you dash out with frowns on their tired faces.

They were obvious to the beaming smirk on yours.

Nights in Gotham are by nature a little terrifying, but they're nothing compared to an Arkham breakout night. Shadows crawled up alleyways, the smell of booze and smoke lingering in a way it never could on normal nights. The terror was so pungent in the air, you could almost taste it. It was on the tip of your tongue.

Every so often you'd hear a scream, and you'd walk a little faster. Ideally you would have committed to the stealth route, but you had wasted enough time already.

Your house was on the way to the bus station, so you could easily pop in, grab essentials, and get out. You wouldn't lie, you were nervous. Every so often you’d feel your knees lose strength, and you'd have to fight with your body to regain the strength to stand.

But at this point it was either the horror of whatever your soulmates had in store for you, or the horrors of Arkham night. You'd already picked your poison, now it was time to swallow.

You took a breath in, then out, and continued walking. You were almost there.

The streets of Gotham stretched on endlessly, a cacophony of fear.

Just a bit longer.

A gunshot sounded nearby, the noise blasting through your eardrum.

Almost there.

The hum of a van's engine rushed through the night, haunting laughter echoing through the road.

You could see your house!

You beamed, a smile lighting up your face, as you practically skipped up to the entrance. You reached into your bag to withdraw your keys.

You had just retrieved them when a crowbar smashed into your head.

----

Wow umh, please pray for reader guys, this is NOT going well for them. Who do you think that was?

Me writing shenanigans for this chapter:

I just really feel like reader should smash open this window, let's do it. Wait. They wouldn't have doors that work like that. so reader sadly puts the heavy object down :(

Also me: yeah so reader lies here and it's an absolute mess

Also also me: rip reader that's a lotta head trauma omg

Sorry for the lack of soul animals this chapter :(( there's a reason I swear

The next chapter is definitely gonna be a bit insane, for sure! The soul animals return then anddd in droves!

Taglist: @moonchild-artemisdaughter @jjsmeowthie @madine11-blog @xxrougefangxx @hadesnewpersephone @neerathebrightstar @mel-star636 @jaythes1mp @rosecentury @lov3vivian @gaozorous-rex-blog @victoria1676 @vrsin @silverklaus @ryukyuin @kurai-hono-blog @thisisafish123 @isawyourbrowserhistory @ain-t-no-way-bsfr @realifezompire @lunaluz432 @nickey-diano @sukiiluvs @sara0055 @alleakimlala @kdidgg @paperhermits @lavender-moony @alishii @emmbny @sirenetheblogger @fantasy-angelo @andrasia @vinnvinnvintage @nyra-42 @armystaysatnct @beyond-your-stars @starsdotalk @adeptusxia0 @jailbimbo @yandereheros @sxftiebee @i-have-three-feelings @toast-on-dandelioms @lyl-3 @sitepathos @pato-spoiler-27 @ghostdoodlen @phoenixgurl030 @problematicreblogger @sociallyakwardpanda

@imaginarydreams @zanzie @yuyuzi-ling @soriansick @f1lover4ever @kiikkey @elizzsush @raincxtter @luoyi85 @yune1337 @erikasurfer @thekingofsimps @chaosbeanuwu

If I missed anyone out im super sorry! I generally check the replies for the current chapter and messages for people that want to be tagged, so it's possible for people to slip by

Just remind me again and I'll be sure to add you! (This also goes for if I misspell you accidentally, which also happens cuz I type them all manually)

For some reason I couldnt tag anymore people until I put a random space in-between the tags, so that's apparently a thing. If anyone has any ideas why, I'm listening

[harunayuuka2060]

Vil: *is not amused by MC's decision to visit him in Pomefiore. Moreover, after elegantly and gracefully subduing the students who tried to stop them, he had no choice but to let them in*

Vil: I trust you won't waste my time with such pointless requests.

MC: You're the only person I could think of who can do it safely, since your ability requires specific conditions to be met.

Vil: *frowns* Who told you that?

MC: I received the information from a reliable source.

Vil: Azul.

Vil: ...I see. Unfortunately, we're neither friends nor close acquaintances. I don't grant favors simply because someone asks.

MC: The acting skills of the actors in your Film Studies Club need improvement.

Vil: What did you say?

MC: I watched your members practice, and they came across as nothing more than wannabe protagonists.

Vil: ...

MC: ...

Vil: They are inexperienced because they have never had real acting work.

MC: Even so, you are a professional actor and model, although you may lack experience as an acting mentor.

Vil: ARE YOU TRYING TO PROVOKE ME?!

MC: That is not my intention.

MC: In fact, I can provide suggestions for enhancing the acting skills of your actors, especially since you mentioned that my acting skills are superb. *smiles*

Vil: ...

Vil: The last time, they didn't react negatively when I rejected them at the audition. So why are they bothering me now?

Vil: ...

Vil: Alright, I will permit you to be an acting mentor, but only for a week.

MC: That's more than enough time. In return, once you see improvements in your actors, will you finally grant me the favor I'm asking for?

Vil: Yes.

MC: Then we have a deal.

Rook: Roi du Poison, you chose MC as the acting mentor for your club? *genuinely surprised*

Vil: I know. A bad decisio—

Rook: Non! You certainly made the right choice!

Vil: *raised an eyebrow* How so?

Rook: Chevalier des Roses has been praising them because the Heartslabyul students have been behaving exceptionally well around MC.

Vil: The Pomefiore students aren't fans of them, Rook—Hold on a moment.

Vil: ...

Vil: *squints his eyes at Rook*

Vil: Are you...?

Rook: ...

Rook: *cheerful* Oui!

Vil: *facepalm*

Sebek: MC-sama! You shouldn't offer your help to commoners like them!

MC: ...

MC: Don’t most of the students from Pomefiore come from distinguished families?

Sebek: Yes, but you are still above them!

MC: ...

MC: Sebek, I don't think I need to worry about the class system since I don't have the prominent traits of the Draconia clan.

Sebek: MC-sama...

Lilia: *appears* Oho~ That's not true at all.

Lilia: Only ignorant fools would believe you don't come from a noble lineage.

Lilia: Because just look at you~!

Lilia: You're adorable and sweet! Just like Maleanor before she turned into a menace.

Sebek: L-Lilia-sama!

MC: ...

Lilia: *knows that they're planning something*

MC: Would you be let down if I turned out like my grandmother?

Lilia: *chuckles* Not at all.

Lilia: But surely, you'll let me see how this unfolds, right?

MC: *smiles apologetically*

Lilia: Aww... No?

Jamil: *feels satisfied that MC seems to be becoming more open with Kalim*

Jamil: I knew it. They may seem reserved, but they're genuinely naive at heart.

Jamil: *reviews the document he prepared to position himself as the new dorm leader of Scarabia once Kalim leaves NRC*

Jamil: My parents can't blame me because the world is dangerous for Kalim, and I can't always protect him.

Jamil: *couldn't help but smile*

Jamil: Soon, I will be saying farewell to you, Kalim.

MC: ...

MC: *with a serious expression* It appears you believed you had this all planned out, Jamil Viper.

[sailorrhansol]

TRICK OR TREAT!!!

fuck, i love this concept.

sour skittles + ghostface + the craft, pls 🤲🏻

(smut is always welcome, although i know that is highly dependent on whatever it is i just chose, lmao)

❀ Pairing: Vernon x afab reader

❀ Summary: Vernon has been one of your best friends for years. Shy, quiet and calm, he’s always been a steady rock for you. He has no idea you’re in love with him, but that’s neither here nor there. After a strange series of events on Halloween night, Vernon seems a little… different, and the new version of him both terrifies and thrills you. 

❀ Word Count: 21,558

❀ Genre: Supernatural, Friends to Lovers, Thriller

❀ Type: Smut, Angst

❀ Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

❀ Warnings: Explicit language, recreational drinking and smoking, crude humor, some of the members of SVT are a bit of an asshole in this - it is not a reflection of how I think of them, mentions of occult practices, a NOT ACCURATE spirit summoning/ritual, mentions of a murder suicide case/event, mentions of murders, light mentions of blood, mentions of infidelity, catching someone in a sexual act (not the main couple), Vernon is a bit of an asshole at times, mentions of insecurities/confused feelings, I owe Chan and Mingyu an apology for how I wrote them, sexual tension, some angst, sexually explicit content including thigh riding, oral (f. receiving), nipple play, a lot of biting and scratching, choking/breath play, vaginal fingering, a lot of spit and cum mentioned, unprotected sex, references to sub space, Vernon takes a dom role but it is not explicitly established, Vernon gets a little bit possessive, calls reader a slut a total of one time, some light finger sucking, reader is at several points annoyed with the women in this fic which can come off a lil bitchy, general creepy scenes in woods and in some dark spooky places. 

❀ Additional Content Warning: It is implied by the end of this fic that Vernon is possessed to some degree by a spirit in this. I make zero distinction as to whether it’s Vernon or the spirit calling the shots or if there is even a difference/distinction between the two, which poses the fair question of consent in parts of this that I do not address or provide nuance to. The lack of clarification is due to the POV of this fic being entirely from reader’s perspective and she doesn’t have a clue what’s going on until the very end, and thus we are unable to unpack to what degree this character is or is not himself. If that lack of nuance bothers you, that is valid but this is not the fic for you. 

❀ A/N: This was supposed to be a drabble. This was supposed to be a drabble. THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A DRABBLE. Anyways, Jade my beloved you got Vernon + Friends to Lovers + Slasher and honestly it’s less slasher and more supernatural so I actually totally apologize but I leaned too far the other way I’m so sorry soifsdiofjdfiogj I love you love all the specific easer eggs for you and also show you to Jade because they specifically helped me write the Mingyu ‘graveyard smash’ line thanks bye

❀ A/N 2: Alternative summary for this fic is Hali repeatedly drags Chan because she loves him so much 

❀ Reader Notes: This reader is never explicitly gendered as girl/she/her etc. so I have listed them as an afab reader. 

❀ Disclaimer: Disclaimer: All members of Seventeen are faces and name claims for stories. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios. Moreover, none of my works accurately reflect, represent or take a stance on the nuances of Korean culture, cities, people etc. Seventeen members are not Seventeen culturally, intellectually, physically, or representationally in my stories, and should be considered name and face stand-ins for made up characters.

Main Masterlist ❀ Tag List Request Form ❀ Ask ❀ Haliween

Cool wind lifts the pages of your book, threatening to flip them over. You press your fingers flat to the page, fighting to keep them from flitting over and losing your place in the story. There’s not much daylight left in the sky as the afternoon dies to make way for the evening, but you’re eager to finish the chapter, craving to unravel the mystery you’ve been working your way through the past week. 

Atmospheric sounds play in your headphones as you read. Your legs are crossed, book in your lap as you sit on the concrete wall separating the quad from one of the sidewalks on campus. Now that there’s a chill in the air, you crave being outside, finding the opportunity to sit wherever you can on campus to crack open a book before the sunlight finally fades. 

Flipping the page, you only get a split second warning of the shout you hear through your headphones before something hits you in the back of the head. You yelp, dropping the book to the ground as your headphones clatter from your head to the grass from the impact. 

Scowling, you swivel around to see Mingyu jogging over, his hand over his mouth as apologies start pouring out of him. A flush creeps up your neck as he approaches, his friends and fellow fraternity brothers watching from afar. Some of them are bent over cackling, the others have their hands on their head, visibly stressed from hitting you with their football.

Again. 

“I am so sorry,” he pleads, running a hand through his sweaty hair. “Seungcheol threw wide.” 

“Maybe play on a rec field, then?” You snap, sliding from the wall, picking up your headphones and book. You kick the football toward him, irritated. “There’s literally so many other places you can play. Don’t you have a yard at your little frat house?” 

“It’s being used for float building for the Halloween parade.”

“Convenient.” 

For the most part, Mingyu isn’t so bad. He’s a little loud and obnoxious, but he’s always nice and he does seem to mean it when he picks up the football and apologizes again. It’s more than a lot of his fraternity brothers would do, though it’s not much now that they’ve managed to hit you twice with the same ball. 

Someone like Mingyu wouldn’t even pay attention to you if it weren’t for Vernon, though. As Mingyu retreats, the reason you’re even friends with Mingyu appears on the sidewalk, coming toward you with his hands in his pockets, hood pulled up on his head and headphones on. He lifts his chin in greeting to Mingyu, but Vernon’s brown eyes focus on you, his true destination. 

Vernon pulls his hood and headphones down when he’s within a few feet, jerking his thumb at Mingyu. “What did he want?” 

“He was apologizing for hitting me with the football. Again.”

“Again?” 

“Yeah. They hit me earlier.”

Vernon hums, displeased. He doesn’t say much, instead turning to lean against the wall, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets again.

The last embers of sunlight hit his side profile, stunning you to momentarily silence. In a halo of fiery light, Vernon looks like a god. His light brown eyes turn burnished gold, reflecting the dying sun. His hair is spun copper, strands dancing in the breeze as he watches the world around him. 

Not for the first time, you think that you understand why Helen of Troy inspired a thousand ships to come after her. Vernon’s face is the kind of thing you’ve read about in all of your mythologies and folktales for your Occult Studies major, so beautiful that it can’t be real.  

If Vernon notices you staring, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, his eyes watch the other members of his fraternity play football, one of them crashing into someone on a lawn chair. He shakes his head and mutters under his breath, wearing his second-hand embarrassment silently as he watches them apologize for the millionth time. 

Vernon is nothing like the rest of his fraternity. You’re still unsure why he even joined. It was something he had done his freshman year going into school, wanting to put himself out there and make friends. 

He certainly looks the part - he’s handsome and in shape from playing soccer in highschool, and he’s got good fashion sense for a college student. But he’s quiet and a little awkward, unsure how to navigate conversations with most people who aren’t in his immediate circle of friends and shy to an almost crippling point. 

It had taken Vernon seven weeks of being your lab partner before he finally spoke more than three sentences to you. For the longest time, you’d assumed it was because he thought you were beneath him. It wouldn’t have surprised you. Greek life on campus tended to stick with their own. 

Now, you know it was because he didn’t know what to say or how to start a conversation. You’d only managed to get him to talk to you when he noticed a song by Frank Ocean bleeding from your headphones, piquing his interest. 

Four years later, talking to Vernon is easy. Well, maybe not easy. You’ve got years of friendship between you now and you know what makes Vernon tick, but the butterflies you get when you’re around him and the way your heart swells when he does something so simple makes it a little harder. 

Like now, as day fades to evening and the world is awash in purple and gold, and he’s looking at the watercolor sky like it's the most fascinating thing in the world, completely unaware that while he’s in awe of the sky, you’re in awe of him. 

Vernon jerks forward, making you flinch. You have no idea what he’s doing until his hand is in front of you, smacking down the football that has been sent your direction again. You huff in frustration, watching as this time it’s Chan who jogs over to get it. 

“Are you all fucking serious?” You demand. He slows his approach, eyes darting to Vernon as though looking for help from his friend. Vernon says nothing, bending over to pick up the football and toss it to Chan. “I should shove that football up your ass.” 

“Maybe not the football,” Chan quips, catching it. He looks you up and down, head cocking to the side a little. His mouth lifts at the corner and there’s a glint in his dark eyes that makes you even angrier. “I’m open to other things, though?” 

“You’re so gross.”

“What? You’re hot when you’re mad.” 

“Go away, Chan!” You shriek, flustered and angry as you spin around to grab your things and storm off. You only get a few feet before realizing Vernon is still leaning on the wall. “Are you coming or not?”

He scrambles after you, nearly tripping over his own feet to catch up. Chan is snickering as he runs back toward where the others wait for him, yelling a trilling bye toward you and Vernon as you charge north toward the main campus parking lot. 

“He’s so annoying,” you gripe, shoving your book in your bag. Vernon hums, noncommittal. You glance at him. “Nothing more to add?” 

He lifts a shoulder. “It’s cause they think you’re hot, Lovecraft.”

You smile at the nickname, fondness sweeping through you. He’d started calling you Lovecraft your freshman year after learning about your major, deciding that it just fit. You like it - at least coming from Vernon, who understood Occult Studies was more than just spooky and magic and the metaphysical. 

“They think anything with a set of tits and a hole to stick their dick in is hot. I’m sure a blowup doll would blow their fucking mind.” 

Vernon’s mouth twitches at that. “You’d hate Chan’s room.”

“Don’t give me that visual!” 

His laugh is warm. He bumps shoulders with yours, grinning at you as the two of you walk. You feel the telltale sign of your traitorous heart beating extra hard at his closeness, your gaze shooting to the floor as you try to hide any evidence of your feelings that might lurk on the surface of your expression. 

Thankfully, Vernon never seems to notice. You’re glad that he doesn’t. You don’t think you’re very good at hiding how you feel, but he is equally bad at picking up on it, totally oblivious to the long stares and the way you fumble over your words when he gets too close. 

Vernon has that effect on a lot of people. His proximity to being attractive has always outweighed his inability to make small talk among the female population on campus. The amount of times you’ve watched girls openly flirt with him and whisper about what it would take to get him to crack was insurmountable. 

Autumn wind kicks up leaves at your feet. Neither one of you says anything as you walk, simply content to be together. It’s one of your favorite things about him, never feeling pressure to perform or to have conversation. Being with Vernon is just… easy. Natural, even. 

The parking lot is slowly emptying as the rest of the late afternoon classes end. A few unlucky evening class students pull in, slamming their car doors and rushing off to their auditoriums. Vernon’s car is easy to find and you let yourself in, sliding into the passenger seat like it’s yours - it kind of is. 

“Pizza?” he asks, engine humming to life. 

“Please.” His lips twitch in a soft smile as he nods, flipping on the radio. You hum, leaning forward and turning up the volume. “I love this song.” 

Vernon’s smile increases as you lean back, the sounds of Emotional Oranges filling the car. He rolls the windows down once he’s on the road proper, cool wind kissing your skin. You pull your feet up onto the seat, leaning toward the window as the fading twilight brushes past you. 

Outside the car, the world smells like pine. You take a deep breath in, loving the way the October air feels just right. Fall is always your favorite time of year, and with the music playing in the background, wind in your hair and Vernon drumming on the wheel, you don’t think there could be anything better in the world. 

Sal’s Pizzeria glows against the dark, a beacon of hunger and hope against the night. The giant pizza slice on the roof blinks rapidly, the neon a little bit broken. Gold light glows through the windows as you climb out the car, gravel crunching beneath your feet. 

A bell chimes as the door opens and a group of students pour out, laughing and carrying boxes. Vernon catches the lip of the door and holds it open for you, gesturing you to enter first. The smell of bread and warm air hits you in the face, your lips curving as you tell the girl at the host stand two.

College students and local residents fill the restaurant. The hostess leads you to a booth in the corner, the vinyl seats creaking under you as you hop-slide your way in. She hands you the menus, her eyes lingering on Vernon as she does, lips twitching when she asks if there’s anything else you need. When he doesn’t answer, you shake your head, shooting her a thin-lipped smile. 

She’s hesitant to leave but she does, casting one last look over her shoulder as she heads back to the stand. You look at Vernon too, studying him. He’s none the wiser, brown eyes scanning the menu even though you know he’s going to order the same thing. 

When the server comes, Vernon does as expected: orders a diablo pizza with a side of fries. You shake your head a little, asking for the white feta pizza, handing over the sticky menus. When the server is gone, Vernon leans back in the seat, sipping his coke as he drinks you in, wordless. 

You kick your feet up on his side of the booth next to him and he lets you, patting your ankle fondly when he sets his drink down. He has no idea how torturous that alone is, the simple comfort of his familiar touch enough to send your eyes averting across the room, trying to control your breathing. 

“What are the favorites and least favorites this week?” he asks, balling up the paper his straw came in. 

Favorites and least favorites is a game you like to play with him. It’s not so much of a game as it is a routine where you tell him your favorite piece of material from your classes and your least favorite. Most people dismiss your major as too peculiar for interest. No one knows what you’re supposed to do with Occult Studies but it fascinates you.

And Vernon, who has always had a keen interest in the goings on in your classes and homework. 

“We’re in the psychology of the occult module.” He nods, eyes fixed on you. “Mostly covering the psychology of community as it relates to the occult. We have sections on covens, clans, actual cults, sects and more modern mass followings.” 

“Hmm. So like… Twitter stans.”

You smile a bit. “Something like that. We covered the maenads in class today. Ever heard of them?” He shakes his head and you lean forward, elbows on the table. “They were women in Ancient Greece devoted to the god Dionysus and they were believed to be possessed by the god. They were said to have wild parties in the woods with one another where they’d do all manner of sordid things, all while under the influence.” 

“A Friday night for Chan.”

“Exactly. A lot of historians call them crazy and speculate they were raving mad, but if I was a woman under the thumb of men in Ancient Greece…”

“Shit, I’d get fucking crazy in the woods with my friends too.”

“Exactly. It was more about reveling in female companionship and being unfettered from the male-dominated societal norms.” 

The arrival of your dinner interrupts the conversation. Both of you lean backward, making room for the hot plates and Vernon’s basket of fries. You slide your feet down from his side of the booth, leaning to grab the red pepper flakes from the corner of the table. He grabs salt, immediately dusting his fries.

“Ugh, you could have at least let me have some first.” He looks up at you through his lashes, brows raised. “They’re already salted, Vernon.”

“Not enough.”

“You know, if you were haunted or possessed you’d never want the salt.” He gives a questioning hum. “Salt is used in purification rituals. It’s believed spirits hate it because it’s used in banishing spells and rituals. It’s why a line of salt keeps them out.”

“Good thing I’m hungry, not haunted.” 

You snort, taking a piece of your pizza from the tray. “Speaking of haunted, are we going to your Halloween party this weekend?”

“My halloween party?”

“You are in the fraternity, Vernon. Yes, yours.” 

He makes a face and tears into his pizza. You shake your head as he lets out a sound, huffing and tilting his head backward as he tries to deal with the too-hot food in his mouth burning him. “Ya,” he says around the slice. “I guess so.” 

“What are you going to wear?” He raises a brow at you, swallowing down the hot bite. You pout, sagging in your seat. “Dude, you have to dress up. You can’t just go in a black shirt and a baseball hat.” 

“Why not?” You kick him under the table and he winces, ducking down to rub at his shin. “Shit, fine. Okay, what do I go as?”

You grin, picking up your appropriately cooled pizza. “Leave it to me.” 

-

“This makeup itches,” Vernon mutters, looking up at you through long lashes. You hush him, putting the finishing touches on the black line down his mouth. “Couldn’t I have gone as something easier?”

“What is easier than black jeans and a jacket you already own, huh? Stop talking, I’m gonna fuck up this line and this makeup is perfect so far.” 

It’s true. You’ve outdone yourself on turning Vernon’s face into a skull, taking inspiration from American Horror Story for the costume. Vernon is a low effort kind of person, so getting him into costume is a lot easier when all it requires are clothes he already owns and makeup that you have to do anyway. 

Stepping away from him, you admire your handy work. His eyes are painted black, hollowed out for the skull. His dark hair is slicked back, the perfect skeleton. He looks… good. Painfully good, which makes you nervous and turn away quickly, heart flipping. You’re not sure what it says about you that Vernon staring at you while painted as a deadly skeleton makes your heart race but… it does. 

“How do I look?”

“Terrifying,” you admit, turning back to him. “But good.” 

He grins and if it were anyone else but Vernon, you’d be terrified. Maybe you did a little too good of a job. 

“What are you again?”

“One of the witches from American Horror Story Coven. Close your eyes, I’m going to use setting spray.” 

Darkness blankets the sky by the time you’re both scrambling down the steps and into an Uber. The driver does a double take when they see Vernon, eyes watching nervously in the rearview as you give him the address. 

“That’s at a closed down gas station.”

“Yep,” you agree, leaning back into the seat.

The driver mutters something about fucking college kids and fucking holiday but otherwise says nothing about the questionable location. He doesn’t need to know that a mile from the abandoned gas station is also an abandoned farmhouse notorious for unsanctioned parties and being distinctly haunted. 

Haunted isn’t your favorite thing in the world. You didn’t like to mess with ghosts, despite your area of study. You were infinitely more interested in the intersectionality of occult studies and modern culture and society and less enthused about the idea of drinking stale beer from a foamy tap in the middle of a murder house. 

If the driver thinks there’s anything weird about other people being dropped off at the gas station - you’re sure he does - he says nothing, ignoring the two of you as you get out of the car and dive into the night air. Vernon is close behind as you take a few steps away from the car, eyeing the old gas station.

The windows have long since been broken and cracked, foggy with time. The stations are stripped of their labels and stickers, just white residue left behind and no pumps. A few people lounge around the building smoking, dressed in a variety of halloween costumes. 

Nervous, you look up at Vernon. His smile is small and he juts his chin toward the dirt road that leads through the woods. Nodding, you both fall into step, sand and gravel crunching beneath your feet as you go. Vernon recognizes a few people associated with his fraternity and others, throwing a casual wave or a nod as you pass by people.

Music echoes down the road. It’s a little less foreboding in the dark trees when you can hear Michael Jackson’s thriller coming down the way and the dull roar of voices. The bend in the road straightens out, the line of trees giving way to flat land. 

The farmhouse is pretty, even in old age. It’s two stories, glowing from within from all of the battery lanterns and lights being used to light the party. A generator roars somewhere behind the house, light flooding the yard where people mingle and crowd the kegs. 

A chill slithers down your spine as you enter the yard, the broken gate doing a poor job at keeping trespassers out. Even with the lighting, shadows dance as you navigate through people, the strange anxiety crawling up your throat worsening as you near the house. 

Vernon pulls the sleeve of your dress so that you’re closer to him, his fingers steady and calm as he leads you up the steps where you can clearly hear Mingyu’s howling laughter inside. 

Bright light fills the house. As do a crush of people and beer pong tables, the abandoned home turned into a raucous display of drinking and debauchery. If you weren’t so distracted by the wave of people pushing you into Vernon’s arm, you might be impressed at how much you could forget the farm home was abandoned because someone had been murdered here. 

“I need a drink,” Vernon announces, continuing to pull your arm after him as he plunges toward what used to be the kitchen.

It’s where you find Mingyu dressed as a lifeguard - and loudly yelling directions. He blows his whistle shrilly when he sees you and Vernon, pointing at the two of you and spitting the whistle out of his mouth to scream, “NOT WET ENOUGH!”

“What a weird way to offer drinks,” you mutter. Chan, who seems to be on lifeguard assistant duty - while dressed in a horrid felt dinosaur costume - scrambles to get you drinks, spilling rum as he tips it over into a cup. “No ice?” 

“There’s not a fridge,” he pouts, shoving the cup in your hand. His eyes drink you in. “Are you a hot goth or?” 

Instead of answering him, you roll your eyes and turn to Mingyu, who blows the whistle again. Both you and Vernon wince, the latter throwing back his drink to chug it all before thrusting the cup back at Chan. “That’s gonna get real tiring.” 

Mingyu comes around the corner of the old island countertop, pumping his fists in the air to the music rattling through the house. “Vernon you look fucking sick!” He and Vernon do the little hand-clap-to-half-hug men do. Mingyu turns to look at you, eyes dark. “Are you like, a hot goth?” 

Your smile is plastic as the whistle around Mingyu’s neck. “Sure.” 

Mingyu, dancing and moving toward the living room, reaches out to you. “Come dance with me! This song fucks.”

“Decidedly not!” 

“Go ahead, Lovecraft!” Vernon urges, pushing you toward the obnoxious lifeguard with a shit-eating grin as he imitates Mingyu’s voice. “This song fucks.” 

Before you can chastise him for egging his fraternity brother on, Mingyu has you sucked into the dancing crowd, throwing his hands in the air as he swivels his way through the crowd. You try to knock back as much of the lukewarm drink as you can, cringing at the burn of cheap rum and not-iced coke. 

Bodies pressed in. Mingyu is close to you, a hand going to your waist. You frown and look over your shoulder, eyes scanning for Vernon. You know he’s probably lingering on the edge of the crowd, watching you with a smirk over the rim of his cup as he watches Mingyu roll his hips toward you.

“Mingyu,” you snap, turning back to him when you don’t find Vernon. “It’s the Monster Mash, it doesn’t require grinding.” 

“I mean, if you wanna graveyard smash…”

“You’re all insufferable! All of you!”

Still, you sway back and forth, trying to stomach finishing the rest of your horrid drink. It takes an effort, but shaking your head at Mingyu and judging him silently gets you most of the way through it until Soonyoung - dressed in the same tiger costume from last year - crashes through the crowd into the pair of you, thrilled when he realizes who it is he has slammed into. 

“Hot goth!” he screams, pointing at your outfit. “Where is your other half?” 

You don’t have to ask what Soonyoung means and both the drink and the accusation have you flushing. You shrug a shoulder, eyes surveying the party. Before either of you can find Vernon, Joshua appears at Soonyoung’s side, leaning to his ear to murmur something. Soongyoung’s face lights up and he grins at you, grabbing you by the wrist to yank you through the crowd. 

“Hello?” you demand, pulling your wrist from his grip. “Have you heard of asking?”

“Come on, I want to show you something.”

“The last time I heard that was promptly followed by you showing me that stupid peach tattoo on your ass.”

“First of all, that tattoo is amazing.” He heads to the stairs, which you eye warily. “Second, Vernon is already upstairs, come on. You like weird ghost shit, you’ll like this.”

Without waiting for a reply, Soonyoung thunders up the stairs. You cringe, waiting for a foot to go through a dry plank and send him falling. It doesn’t happen, though. Tentatively, you creep up the stairs after him, eyes glued to each of the steps as you go. 

It’s colder upstairs, the windows in the rooms open to the elements. You shiver, looking down the hall to Soonyoung heading into a bedroom. You tentatively follow him, stopping at the threshold of the doorway to survey the people inside.

Vernon is one of them, back pressed to the wall near the window, his eyes focused on his boots in front of him, hands tucked into his pockets. A girl next to him dressed as Red Riding Hood is leaning close, speaking to him rapidly. Nothing on his face indicates he’s listening. Then again, his expression is hard to read while painted as a skull, mystifying and dark as you follow Soonyoung down the hall. 

Soonyoung goes straight toward a pile of things on the floor next to Seungcheol’s feet in the corner of the room. The president of Vernon’s fraternity pays Soonyoung no mind, eyes totally focused on the pretty fox in front of him, bottom lip tucked between his teeth. 

Suddenly, the room feels too intimate for you, like everyone is a couple tucked away. You have half a mind to go back downstairs when Vernon looks up at you, dark eyes zeroing in. His face is ten times more intense with the skull paint, pinning you to the spot. 

Everything dulls to the background for a second. You don’t dare breathe, too afraid to shatter the moment as he stares at you, unblinking. His eyes glitter in the darkness of the room, two amber pools reflecting the moonlight. 

Joshua enters the room behind you, shattering the spell as you step out of his way. You turn back to Vernon, clearing your throat. He pulls a hand from his pocket, beckoning you over. Mouth dry, you obey, skittering over toward him quickly as you observe the materials that Soonyoung is sifting through in the corner. Candles. Matches. Salt. A bell. 

“Soonyoung,” you say sharply, slowing your step. “Why do you have ritual materials?”

He looks up at you, his grin wide. “Told you that you’d like this.” 

“What is this?” You turn back to Vernon, who shrugs one shoulder. 

Hesitantly, you take the unoccupied space next to him, casting the girl at his side a cursory glance. She observes your costume. “Are you a hot goth?” 

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, head thunking against the wall as you watch Soonyoung stand, materials in hand. Vernon coughs next to you, trying to cover his laugh. You glare at him sidelong and he says nothing, but his skeleton mouth is screwed up in a smirk. “What is he doing?”

“No clue.”

Soonyoung walks over to the bedroom door, looking down the hallway before shutting it. You fight a shiver, disliking how quiet the room becomes, cut off from the rest of the world. The window near you is the only source of light, and the only one shut on the second level of the abandoned home. 

“What time is it?” Soonyoung asks Joshua.

“11:45.” 

“Perfect.” Soonyoung spins, eyes falling on you. “Want to talk to a ghost?” 

All eyes turn to you in the room. You open and close your mouth, confused. “What?” 

“Do you want to talk to a ghost? Like someone who died?” 

Your eyes drift to the candle, bell and matches in Soonyoung’s hand. A tingle spreads over your skin and your spine stiffens. “Soonyoung that better not be to invite a spirit in.” 

His grin grows. “Come on, you are the ghost major or whatever. You should be thrilled to do this.”

“Occult Studies. And that doesn’t mean I fuck with the unknown or make a mockery of the dead. We’ve been over this.” 

“It’s basically the same thing, come on. You learn it all in class.” 

“No.” 

He pouts. “You’d be best at it, though. Rumor has it that when the veil is thinnest, you can talk to the spirit that haunts this house.” 

“The murderer? Or the murdered?” Soonyoung shrugs. “I doubt either would be very happy a bunch of drunk college kids are trying to bother them. My answer is no.” 

“Ugh. I was kind of counting on you doing it.” 

“Do it yourself.”

“I don’t study ghost shit!”

“Occult! Studies!”

“Ghost shit,” Soonyoung assures the room confidently.

“I’ll do it,” Vernon sighs, pushing off the wall. “Leave her alone.” 

Soonyoung’s eyes are alight as Vernon steps toward him. You reach out to grab his wrist, pulling him back. “Don’t.” 

“It’s fine.”

“Vernon.”

His eyes are soft when he looks at you. As soft as the terrifying makeup allows, anyway. “It’s fine, Lovecraft. Let me. He’ll stop asking.”

“I’m right here.”

“We know,” you and Vernon say in unison. You feel warm, chewing the inside of your cheek before nodding. You drop his wrist and turn to Soonyoung, eyes hard. “Give me that, you’ll do it wrong. Tell me what the mythos is.”

“What math? You need math?”

“The story, Soonyoung. What is the fucking story of this house?”

“Right. Apparently some dude murdered his girlfriend in here and then hung himself in that closet.” He points to a door you didn’t see when you walked in, dark and far away from the window. “Legend says at midnight, ring the bell three times and step into the closet with a candle. If the candle blows out, the spirit is with you. If it doesn’t, it didn’t work.” 

Grabbing the items from Soonyoung’s hand, you look at Vernon. “When you’re done, ring the bell three times again and say: Thank you, I dismiss thee. Go in peace.” 

“Thank you,” Vernon repeats gently, taking the bell from your hand. “I dismiss thee. Go in peace.”

“Everyone else take candles,” you direct, voice rough with irritation. You glare at Soonyoung and Seungcheol in particular as you shove candles in their hands. “Stand in the four corners of the room. Did you bring sage, Soonyoung?”

“Bring what?”

“Of course not, why would you?” Everyone starts moving to the corner of the room, using matches to light their candles. The room feels unnaturally cold now, despite your long sleeves. Turning back to Vernon, you say, “It’s probably a stupid rumor.”

“Probably.”

“If your candle goes out, just ring the bell, say the words, and dismiss it.” 

“Right.” 

“You don’t have to do it, Vernon.”

His mouth kicks up at the corner. “I’m not worried, Lovecraft. You are.” 

Letting out a breath, you give a laugh that’s only half-there. You are nervous. You don’t like the idea of inviting a spirit into Vernon’s space, and though Soonyoung’s little ritual doesn’t really sound right, you’re not going to correct him. 

Still, you feel unsettled as you light your own candle and then Vernon’s. He cradles it in his hands as you escort him to the door. Tucked under your arm is the canister of salt. Crouching down, you pour the salt in a thick white light in front of the door, careful to ensure that there are no breaks and that it covers the entire entryway from corner to corner.

“Be careful when you step over it and when you open the door,” you instruct, standing up. The candle in your hand flickers unsteadily. “Don’t break the line. The idea is that if Soonyoung’s stupid summoning works, the spirit can’t get through the salt.”

“Banishing and all that,” Vernon recalls with a smile. Your heart flips. “I remember.” 

“Come on, you only have a minute!” Soonyoung calls eagerly. 

Shooting him a glare that silences him, you turn back to Vernon. “Ring the bell three times. Thank you, I dismiss thee. Go in peace.”

“Got it.” 

Unsettled you shuffle back from the door a little bit. You don’t go to a corner of the room like you’ve asked everyone else, unwilling to totally leave him by himself. Heart hammering, you hold your candle in front of you, cradling the warmth like a second heart. 

Vernon is unbothered. You can see it in the loose set of his shoulders and the way he sighs, already tired of Soonyoung’s antics. The party downstairs feels a million miles away as you watch Vernon stand in front of the closed closet door, looking up at it, unimpressed.

“It’s midnight,” Joshua whispers from the corner. 

Vernon doesn’t make any sound that he’s heard Joshua, but he lifts the little bell in his hand. It’s a hand bell, the wood grip worn and cracked. You wonder where Soonyoung got it from, having half a mind to ask him when the first clear ring of the bell disrupts your thoughts. 

The note sings through the air, your blood turning to ice in your veins. It feels like your pulse is throbbing in your neck as Vernon rings the bell hard a second time, the sound chasing the echo of the first. The third ring feels like a tremor in the air, warbling as Vernon quickly sets the bell on the floor, careful not to extinguish his candle flame. 

You hold your breath when he sets his hand on the doorknob. No one makes a sound as he twists it open. He pulls on the door and it comes away with a silent swing. The darkness on the other side is gaping, like there’s no back to the closet, just a wide hole of nothing. 

Vernon doesn’t seem to mind. He steps over the line of salt carefully until he’s in the middle of the closet, pivoting to face you. The orange flicker of his candle casts a haunting glow over his skull face. You swallow down a brief moment of fear before he winks and leans forward to pull the door shut.

For a long moment, there’s nothing. You feel your heart hammering in your chest, the thudthudthud so loud you swear everyone else in the room can hear it. No one moves, everyone fixated on the door. The silence is so piercing that your ears start to ring, the sound of the party completely unreachable over your mounting anxiety. 

“Well?” Soonyoung whispers somewhere behind you. “I guess it didn’t work.” 

Vernon begins pounding on the door. Someone screams behind you followed by a bunch of curses. You leap forward, heart in your throat as Vernon screams something unintelligible on the other side. You drop your candle, completely throwing caution to the wind as you grab the doorknob and twist. 

It doesn’t move.

“Vernon?” you ask, voice spiking with fear. “Let go of the doorknob, let me turn it. Vernon!”

The pounding doesn’t stop. He is screaming in a way you’ve never heard before, his fists rattling the door against the frame. You shriek his name back, yanking at the door frantically, your panic mounting as he screams and- 

When the door opens, you nearly fall backward with the force of it, stumbling over your feet. Soonyoung steadies you, to your surprise. You hadn’t realized he had left his corner of the room to help, his hand warm and firm. 

Vernon stands on the other side of the door, mouth pressed in a firm line. 

“You fucking asshole,” Soonyoung swears, throwing his unlit candle at Vernon. Vernon laughs, dodging it. “You fucking suck.”

“Yeah, well don’t ask me to do stupid shit.” Vernon steps out of the closet, eyes dropping to you. His mirth is edged with something sharp, a glint in his eyes that is wholly unfamiliar. “I was kidding.”

“You fucking asshole!” You screech at him, slamming your hands into his chest and knocking him back a little. He smirks and says nothing, letting you hit him a few times. “Why would you do that to me? What is wrong with you?” 

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, you sound really fucking sorry.” Anger sours your mouth. Turns your words to poison. Your throat tightens up and you feel the telltale sign of tears, equal parts livid, embarrassed and offended that Vernon would do such a thing. “Fuck you, Vernon.”

Someone laughs awkwardly as you storm off. Vernon calls your name but you ignore him, bolting down the hall and down the stairs. The wood creaks uncertainty under your feet but you don’t care. You want to be anywhere but here, the hot lick of embarrassment burning your heels as you go. 

You blow past Chan on your way out, his bleary eyes following you. “Nooo,” he whines. “Hot goth, come back to me!”

“Shut up, Chan!” You scream, slamming down the steps as you go.

People nearly dive out of your way, swiveling to watch the wake of your wrath as you leave the party. You ignore them, not wanting anyone to see the hot tears that spill over as you hit the dirt road, boots crunching. 

It’s hard to tell what’s worse. The fact that Vernon had played a joke on you he knew you wouldn’t like, or the way you had panicked and lost all resolve to be the one in charge. Both feel awful, but the sting of Vernon’s joke is the sharper of the two, cutting you to the quick.

Vernon has never dared to do something like that in your entire friendship. You have no idea why he did it now. Was it because he had an audience? Was he drunk? Was he actually like the members of his fraternity he associated with? 

You had no idea, which only made things worse. Above anyone else, you thought you knew Vernon best. But perhaps, you didn’t know Vernon at all, which was far worse than any sort of haunted spirit you could imagine. 

-

The next morning, you don’t hear from Vernon. It makes your blood boil, a nasty feeling forming in the pit of your stomach as you put your phone on Do Not Disturb. You put on a big set of headphones, blaring music to keep you sane as you set about cleaning your apartment furiously. 

It’s an okay distraction. The lull of clinical cleaning is nice and the music soothes the sting that nips at your heels like an incessant hound. When you run out of things to clean, though, you’re forced to face the fact that it’s nearly evening and Vernon still hasn’t said anything to you.

You don’t want to text him first. Your pride is wounded from the night before and you’re shocked he hasn’t apologized - he should apologize. The silence only makes you angrier, and with nothing left to clean in your apartment, you decide to think of all the things you’re going to say to him when he does finally reach out to you. Because you’re not saying anything first. 

Vernon’s radio silence makes it nearly impossible to sleep. You toss and turn in bed, unable to get comfortable, checking your phone and social media. It’s difficult to remember the last time you went over twenty four hours without hearing from Vernon, and the realization forms a pit in your stomach.

Maybe the silence was good. Maybe you were too reliant on his friendship, the one constant that you had grown far too fond of. Maybe he was into that girl last night, making a show of you because he wanted to make her laugh or maybe he was just putting you in your place.

The insecurity wars with your logic that Vernon wouldn’t do that. He’s never had a history of that kind of behavior before, and though he might tease you on occasion, you have never been the butt of his jokes or the target of his humor. 

Jokes like that aren’t even Vernon’s style. He doesn’t like cruelty, and that’s what pretending to be screaming for help was. It was cruel, and strange and it hurt. 

What hurts more is the silence continuing into a second day. By the late afternoon, though, the hurt has morphed into something else. You sit on your couch, staring at the phone on your coffee table. Your pride was begging you not to text him, but your worry was starting to chip away at you. 

Heaving a sigh, you pick up the phone. The tap of your nails against the glass screen is loud in your quiet apartment, the final rays of sun melting through the blinds while a candle burns on the counter. 

[You 5:14 PM]: So are we not talking? 

Setting the phone down, you immediately start making dinner. It doesn’t matter that you’re too early. You’re nervous waiting for his text back, which makes you feel ridiculous. Then you feel ridiculous for feeling ridiculous, validating yourself that it is totally okay to have feelings and be nervous.

“God,” you mutter under your breath. “I’m exhausting.” 

By the time you’ve had dinner and watched a full episode of Alice in Borderland, Vernon has said nothing. Worry eats away at the lining of your stomach. You pause the show and pick up the phone again, dialing his number.

On the other side of the line, the phone rings. And rings. And rings. 

You hang up when you get the automated voicemail, frowning. It’s all strange, and a nagging feeling tugs at your nervous system but you can’t put your finger on it.

Just as you set the dishes in the sink, your phone starts to ping. You’re grateful no one can see you in your apartment as you lurch to the phone, picking it up and unlocking it to see if it’s Vernon. It isn’t, but your heart starts to thud when your group chats with other friends and classmates in projects flood with the same rumor over and over.

A dead body had been found on campus. 

Vernon doesn’t live on campus, but it doesn’t stop you from calling him again. And again. And again. When the voicemail turns on a fourth time, you seethe into the phone, fingers gripping it so hard it feels like it’ll break. “Call me back you fucking asshole! Someone died on campus and you’re not answering and I just need to know it’s not you. Fuck!” 

Time passes and you get so desperate you do the one thing you didn’t want to do unless it was dire circumstances. You hit dial and bring your phone up to your ear, pinching the bridge of your nose to prepare yourself for when Mingyu answers the phone. 

“Am I dreaming?” he says by way of greeting. “It was the life guard costume, right?” 

“Mingyu, it wasn’t a costume. You were shirtless with board shorts.” 

“But it worked, right?”

“Have you heard from Vernon?” 

“Nah, why?” 

“Like you haven’t seen him at all since the party?” 

“Mmm. I don’t think so.” There’s a muffled sound on the phone like he’s trying to cover it when he yells, “Chan, have you seen that fuck head Vernon?” You wait impatiently, holding the phone further from your ear as Minguy yells. “Chan hasn’t seen him either.” 

“Isn’t that weird? I haven’t been able to get a hold of him.”

“Nah, I mean we never really see him. Usually he’s with you.”

“Right. And he isn’t with me, I haven’t seen him since the party.” 

“Well have you checked his apartment?” You hesitate. “Helloooo?”

“No.”

“Well. Do that. He’s probably sleeping or some shit, who knows.” 

“Great. You were so helpful,” you deadpan.

Mingyu sounds genuinely happy when he says, “I’m so glad!”

You hang up the phone before he can say anything else. 

Chewing your nail, you stare at the wall, mind racing.  Mingyu has a point that it’s normal for them to never see Vernon. He is usually with you, or he’s solitary. There is little in between. He also has a point that most of the time if you were looking for Vernon, you’d just swing by his apartment. 

The thought of seeing him again makes you want to curl in on yourself, but your concern weighs out. You get dressed and grab your keys, trying not to let your fear of what you might find there keep you from leaving. 

Opening the door to your apartment, you get one foot out the door and then slam directly into Vernon. You reel backward, eyebrows shooting up as he steadies you by the elbow, equally surprised to see you as though he wasn’t at your doorstep. 

“Easy there,” he greets, a half smile on his face.

Vernon looks totally normal. He definitely doesn’t look like he was murdered, and he’s dressed in his usual jeans, plain black shirt, and a backwards hat. For a second, you just stare at him, totally shocked and utterly relieved he isn’t dead.

Then, the anger comes. 

You slam a hand into his chest, cursing at him. “Where?” Slap. “Have?” Slap. “You?” Slap. “Been?” 

He takes the blows in stride. His chest is firm beneath your palm, heart beating steadily. Alive. And now that you’ve established he’s not dead, you feel so much anger ripple through you that you don’t let him answer before you’re pivoting on your foot and storming back into your apartment.

The sound of the door closing behind you followed by his shuffling as he takes his shoes off tells you he hasn’t left. A small part of you curls in satisfaction with the domesticity of his arrival, but it is blotted out by the hurt and rage at the surface of your emotions.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You demand. It isn’t as eloquent as your practiced rant, but it’s something. “You better explain yourself. And quickly.”

Vernon’s dark eyes connect with yours, simmering. You feel your heart lurch as he slinks over to the kitchen, never taking his gaze off you. The back of your neck tingles. Vernon never keeps this much eye contact and it’s both thrilling and unnerving. 

“I want to apologize,” he murmurs, pitching his voice low. You watch with trepidation as he reaches out to gather your hand in his. He folds your fingers under his, pulling your hand to his chest. Your breath quickens, pulse throbbing as he cradles your fist to his chest, his heartbeat steady. “I fucked up. I wanted to fuck with Soonyoung but I did it at the expense of you, and for that I’m deeply sorry.”

Warmth spreads from his hand to yours. You don’t know what to make of the apology - it’s so unlike him. Vernon has no problem apologizing when he’s wrong, but he’s usually not so confident, so well spoken. You stare and stare, that pitless gaze of his pinned on you. 

“I just…” You chew the inside of your cheek. “You really hurt my feelings, Vernon.” His hands tighten around yours and he tugs a little, pulling you closer. It’s harder to think when you’re this close, fingers wrapped in his. “You really scared me and then you vanished for nearly three days. Why did you do that?” 

“I wasn’t feeling well and I slept most of the days away. Honestly.”

“You weren’t feeling well?”

He gives you a look. “I see the skepticism. I’m serious, I just… wasn’t myself. I tried to rest and I didn’t hear my phone and I’m sorry. Really.”

Vernon’s apology settles around you like a weight. You watch him, contemplating what to do next. He doesn’t look ill, his gold skin as flawless as ever, his rosy lips tucked under his teeth as he watches you, waiting. His heart thuds under your palm, his thumb absently brushing back and forth over the top of your hand.

Breathing becomes difficult. Vernon isn’t overly affectionate, but the way he presses your hand to his chest now sends you down a dangerous path. The desire for him bubbles just below your surface and you’re terrified it’ll boil over, exposing everything you’ve ever thought about him.

“Alright,” you say softly, pulling your hand from his. He lets you. “Don’t ever do something like that to me again. It was scary and I felt stupid. And I thought you were dead.”

“Why?” 

Gesturing to the couch, the two of you plop down, seemingly back to normal. You’re still a little off kilter, but you report back to Vernon what your classmates had been saying. He grabs your remote and turns on the news, settling close enough to you that your thighs brush against one another. You shoot him a questioning look but he’s fixated on the TV, leaning forward to press his elbows into his knees.

The reporter on the news confirms the body of one of your fellow students had indeed been found on campus. Names and details were not yet available, but they were interviewing students about whether or not they felt safe on campus. By the second interview, Vernon was turning off the TV and leaning back.

“Freaky,” you murmur, tapping the arm of the couch. “Weird timing, right?”

“How so?”

“We just had a Halloween party in a weird murder house.”

Vernon goes silent. You turn to look at him, eyes searching. He stares at you, again the eye contact unsettling. Even though it feels like your Vernon sitting next to you, there is an edge to him that’s new. You don’t know what to do with it, shifting in your seat a little.

“Forget the murder house,” he says eventually, flicking his fingers in dismissal. “That party sucked and I’d rather forget it.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, eyeing him as he looks out the window. You swear he’s agitated, but you can’t pinpoint why. “Me too.”

-

Someone sitting down roughly next to you draws your attention away from your essay, barely audibly over the sound of Current Blue playing through your headphones. You raise a brow as Vernon slings his belongings on the table unceremoniously, uncaring how loud he is in the library.

You glance around, seeing that he’s attracted the attention of a few people at nearby tables, some scowling, others blushing. When you turn your gaze back to him, you see his mouth moving as he divests his bag of its contents, but you can’t hear him. 

Pulling your headphones from your head, you ask, “What?” 

“Can you help me with my organic chem assignment?” 

“I hate chemistry.” 

His mouth twitches as he opens his laptop. “Right, but you’re good at it. You’re the smartest person in school.”

Again, something nags at your instincts. You can’t pinpoint it, examining Vernon more closely. He looks totally normal, dressed in black jeans, a black shirt, and a jean jacket pulled over it. He’s without a hat today, his hair falling in messy strands over his brow as he sets up his area to study.

Sensing your gaze, he turns to look at you, eyebrow raised. “What?” 

“You seem different.”

“Different how?” He types on his computer to start bringing up his chemistry homework. “Different as in going to fail organic chem without your help?” 

“Oh shut up. I’m obviously going to help you.” 

His mouth is wicked when he grins. “Good.” 

When Vernon looks up at you, the world stops a little. His gaze today is fathomless, dark eyes smooth like the surface of a lake with no end. You tip into that gaze, letting yourself drown in it for a moment. Normally, Vernon would break eye contact by now, easily distracted or unrealizing that he’s got you stuck on him. 

Now, he doesn’t do that. He looks right back at you. Heat crawls up your neck and your breaths quicken. For the first time since you’ve known him, Vernon looks at you like he knows everything inside your locked-tight heart. 

You lick your lips and his gaze dips to your mouth. Inside your chest, your hummingbird heart hammers, threatening to break free. The corner of Vernon’s mouth tilts upward as his eyes meet yours again, and you watch, completely frozen, as he leans toward you. 

Vernon is so close you can smell the spicy cologne on his skin. It’s heady and makes you dizzy, and you watch, totally lost as he wraps his hand around the leg of your chair and tugs hard. You yelp, startling a few people around you as he yanks your chair next to his, your thighs pressed together. 

“What are you doing?” you whisper harshly at him, throwing an apologetic look at the people you���ve disturbed for a second time. 

“How are you going to help me from over there?”

“You could have asked me to move my chair.” 

The problem isn’t that he moved your chair. Not really. The problem is how close he is, leg pressed against yours and elbows touching as he shrugs and turns his computer screen toward you. The problem is how at ease he is with you nearly on top of him, his lazy smile making your thoughts tangle and your breath quicken. 

This Vernon is still the one you’re used to but there’s something about him that keeps you on edge. Keeps you looking at him when his hand brushes against yours to grab a pen, or when he leans back and puts his arm across the back of your chair, idly playing with the hood of your jacket.

It’s almost like he’s flirting, and you spend half the time stumbling through his homework, barely able to assist him in a meaningful way because you’re busy decoding the subtle touches and the light teasing. You feel yourself blush more and look the other way to collect yourself more in the hour you help him than you have your entire friendship, unsure what’s happening or how to handle it. 

Homework completed, Vernon stares off into the distance, his finger twisting in the string of your hoodie absently as you try to write the rest of your paper. It’s nearly impossible to concentrate like this, the intimacy more than you’re used to. 

“You’re very distracting today,” you comment as you reference a text to the right of your screen. “Are you aware of that?” 

He hums. “This is hardly a distraction. I could try harder, though.”

You cut a glance at him. He seems utterly serious, any sort of mirth nonexistent in his expression. There’s just that shadowed gaze, that spark of something right where you can’t reach it. You abruptly stand, surprising him as you knock his arm away from you and clear your throat. 

“I need a different text. It’s downstairs, though.” 

“I’ll come with you.” You raise your brows and he shrugs. “I’ve got nothing else to do.” 

“Sure.” 

Without another word, you pivot on your heel and nearly run for the far set of stairs that lead to the subterranean level of the library where all the old texts and books exist. Vernon follows you at a casual pace, still totally at ease despite the fact that you’re obviously unraveling.

You have no idea what his sudden interest in you is and it’s making you unspool, thoughts wild and racing as you reach the stairwell that leads down. 

Damp air greets you as you start down the steps and it smells like wet carpet. You cringe, hating every time you have to come here. It’s always poorly lit and damp, not at all what one would expect from a library trying to keep books from molding. But no one really comes down here anyway, only the history majors and people like you, who require weird books long retired from the main shelves.

It’s eerie in the old stacks. There are lamps above head casting a burnt orange glow over the green, shag carpet but otherwise it’s nearly impossible to see in the shadowy parts of the room. You certainly could never read a book down here. 

Vernon is silent behind you but you can feel him, his gaze burning into your back as you navigate toward the last set of rows. As you approach, you hear a sound, stopping you dead in your tracks. Vernon crashes into you, nearly knocking you over but his hands grab you, steadying you and holding you close to his chest. 

For the first time today, you’re able to ignore his nearness in favor of straining your ears for the sound you heard, a small whimper, perhaps. You hear it again, distinctly human. Your heart starts to pound as you remember that just the day before there was a body found on campus, mind racing with thoughts as you stand rooted to the spot, Vernon pressed against you.

Craning your head, you look up at him. His expression is unreadable as he looks at you through long lashes, face shadowed. There’s a soft bang, like someone knocking something over. He looks over your head and back at you, shrugging his shoulder as if to say your choice. 

Slowly, you move forward. Vernon keeps close, his heat radiating behind you like a furnace as you creep through the last few rows of shelving. As you near the third one, you stop and peer around the corner, eyes trying to adjust in the shitty lighting. 

What you see has you snapping back around the stack, mouth dropping open. Vernon, curious, leans around you to peer around the stack. He raises his brows and steps backward, mouth pressed in a firm line to conceal his laugh. 

In the next row over is a girl you vaguely recognize, naked from the waist down while someone who is very much not her boyfriend, pumps their fingers between her legs. Slapping Vernon’s chest you point toward the door, silently screaming at him to turn around and hightail it out of there. 

Vernon, for a second, bites his lower lip and wags his eyebrows at you, suggestive. You glare and shove his chest. He goes easily, grinning at you playfully as he turns on his heel and heads back up to the main floor. 

When you reach your table, you drop down in the chair, totally shocked. Vernon drops down next to you, laughing. “Listen, when the urge hits, I guess.”

“I guess,” you agree sharply, shaking your head. “That was not her boyfriend, though.”

“No shit?” 

“Yeah. She’s dating some dude in Sigma whatever.” 

Vernon’s gaze turns sharp and his eyes trail back toward the far side of the library, resting on the stairs. “Interesting.” 

“Not really. That seems to happen a lot among you Greek lifers.” 

“I would never do that.” The severity of his declaration has you looking up from your notebook. Vernon’s expression is cutting, his jaw flexing. “I would never participate in infidelity. Ever.” 

“I didn’t mean you, Vernon.” 

“I’m not like that.” 

You soften a little, guilt tugging at you. So often you remember that Vernon isn’t like a lot of the people around him and grouping him in is unfair and insensitive. 

“I know. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” 

He nods once, turning from you to pack up his stuff. Somehow, you can’t help but feel like you’ve said the wrong thing. 

-

“Oh shit,” Vernon mutters. You look up from where you’re flipping a grilled cheese in the pan. He holds his phone out to you from where he leans against his kitchen counter. “They found another body. Same MO or whatever as the first.” 

“No way?” 

Putting down the spatula, you grab his phone from him where he has the article pulled up. Sure enough, there’s been another murder on campus. Your eyes drink in the details, similar as before: student victim, stab wounds, message written on the wall. 

“What is the Hello Darling Murder?” you ask, more to yourself than Vernon. “It’s linked here as a reference to these being copycat murders.” He says nothing. You read out loud, “The Hello Darling Murder is a case of a murder suicide that happened in the same town in 1979. It was the town’s first violent domestic crime in years, and drew national media attention for the gruesome crime scene in which a message had been written on the wall in blood.” 

Vernon makes an amused sound. You look up at him sharply, staring. He has his arms crossed over his chest, staring at the floor with a mildly bemused expression. You kick him and he looks up at you. “What?”

“Why are you laughing? That’s not funny.”

“The way people sensationalize murder is weird.” 

“I mean, I agree. But what is funny?”

“It’s not funny as in funny ha ha,” he clarifies. “It’s funny stupid. The media is going to sensationalize this and turn it into an entire thing.” 

“Yeah, well. That’s their job.” 

Off put by his dark mirth, you turn back to the article, reading further. You skip over the old murder, more interested in the details of the two new ones. Your heart seizes in your chest when you see the name and picture of the second victim, stomach roiling. 

He sees your expression, pushing off the counter toward you, hands shooting your arms. “What? What’s wrong?” 

In any other scenario, you’d be overwhelmed by the sudden care and affection. Now, you just turn the phone toward him, showing him the photo. “It’s that girl from the library. Her name was Sidney. She’s the one I told you was cheating on her boyfriend.” 

Nothing registers in his face when he looks at the phone, his hands still resting on your arms lightly. He looks away from the screen and at you instead, a sharpness to his gaze that’s there so often you’re starting to grow used to it.

“You’re burning the grilled cheese, Lovecraft.” 

-

Mosquitos nip at your skin as you walk down the narrow path between trees. You slap your hand against your neck again, muttering under your breath. Vernon chuckles next to you, keeping his pace even as you struggle to step over a fallen tree branch. 

You hate the woods at night. It’s not your first time going to a bonfire deep in the woods off campus, but you don’t know why you keep coming back. Tripping over another branch, Vernon catches you by the arm and steadies you, stopping to make sure you’re okay before he lets go.

Scratch that. You do know why you keep coming back. For as long as you’ve been friends, you’ve been Vernon’s permanent plus one to all of his parties, formals and events, even if both of you hate going. It’s become a weird obligation to show up at things like this as a pair. 

They aren’t always terrible, you have to admit. When Mingyu isn’t absolutely hammered, he’s mostly tolerable to be around. Soonyoung isn’t bad either, though you’re still pissed off at him for the Halloween party incident, unwilling to talk to him. 

But nights like this where you have to trek out into the middle of the woods using your phone’s flashlight to navigate, you sort of loathe your unspoken oath to attend with Vernon. 

Instead of focusing on the distaste and the inherent anxiety the shadows of the trees give you, you let Vernon help you slide down a ditch and climb up the other side. His fingers are firm on your wrist, not quite holding your hand but keeping you connected. 

Your skin is warm and tingles when he lets go, deeming it safe enough to let you walk yourself. It’s easier to see now, too, the orange light of the massive bonfire casting a circle of orange glow that only grows as you near the party. 

Party is perhaps too strong of a word for it. There can’t be more than twenty people in the small clearing surrounding the roaring fire the Soonyoung tends to, foldable chairs and coolers arranged in a circle. Chan is trying to roast a marshmallow and failing, the white snack immediately catching fire and singing in the heat of the fire. 

Mingyu whistles when he sees you, catching your attention to wave you over to a pair of seats by him and Chan. You make your way there, navigating through groups of people clutching plastic cups and stepping over various sizes of coolers. 

The heat from Soonyoung’s inferno is nearly unbearable, making you cringe back as he adds something that cracks and pops, sending bits of orange ash floating toward the sky. 

“Jesus Christ, Soonyoung!” Seungcheol complains from his seat where a girl sits on his knee. “Enough, it’s fucking hot!” 

“Sorry,” Soonyoung answers, sheepish. 

Backing your chair away from the fire a little, you sit down and curl into the folding chair, accepting the drink Vernon hands you before moving his chair closer to yours and sitting down. A shiver ripples through you at the cool can in your hands. You crack the top and take a sip, trying to cool down from the blast of heat you’d taken while passing the fire.

Mingyu turns to you and Vernon as Chan pops a burned marshmallow in his mouth, the two of them immediately launching into discussions of the murders. You shift uncomfortably in your chair, listening as they recount the details in the news mixed with the rumors on campus. 

So far, two bodies have been discovered and linked together. The authorities don’t want to call it a serial killer, attempting to avoid a media craze and inspiring the killer to go on a spree, but denying the murders are connected is impossible.

You’re unsure what the victims have in common. The first had been a male senior who was in the business track, discovered by the dorms near the lake on campus. The second had been the girl you’d seen in the library in her apartment off campus, and Sidney had been in the education track and a junior. 

Neither of them were friends. You don’t go to a large university, but there are enough students that it’s normal to have a ton of people that you don’t know. From what anyone can tell, there was nothing the two victims had in common.

Except that they’d been murdered by someone who had left a bloody Hello Darling written at the crime scene.

A chill sweeps over you as Mingyu mentions the Hello Darling Murderer. It was the same story as before - a man had murdered his girlfriend in the 70s, a shocking and violent domestic crime that had unsettled the citizens and local university. He’d promptly killed himself after that, leaving only a bloody Hello Darling on the walls.

Authorities didn’t even know who the blood had belonged to - it took them so long to realize the couple was missing before they did a wellness check that by the time they investigated, they’d been dead a week. 

Vernon snorts at that and mutters something about the ineptitude of law enforcement. You cut your eyes at him. Though you agree, Vernon is usually the last person to make degrading comments - or comment at all really. 

Not for the first time in the last two weeks, you can’t help but sense that honed edge to him he has now. You’ve attributed it to him moving with more confidence, talking to people directly and making actual eye contact. You don’t know where the sudden swell in self-conviction has come from, but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t look good on him.

Still, it’s got you a little uneasy, trying to adjust to this version of him. 

The topic shifts to football and you find yourself tuning everyone out, sipping your cider and staring at the fire as it warms your feet. More people arrive and drag chairs up. Someone hauls a few kegs into the firelight, cheers going around the fire.

Vernon stands and holds his hand up for your empty can. You give it to him wordlessly and he heads to get you a refresh, tossing the trash into one of the trash bins.

Turning to Mingyu as he goes, you ask quietly, “Has he seemed different to you lately?” 

“Who?”

“Steve Jobs,” you deadpan. “Vernon, obviously.”

“I don’t think so? He’s around a lot more lately and actually talks to us.” Mingyu pauses, thinking as he cocks his head to the side. “I mean, I guess that is kind of weird for him. He also actually goes to places with us now.” 

“Exactly what I mean.”

“Hey! We are friends, you know?” 

You hum uncertainty, your attention trailing back to Vernon. You observe him, noticing all the little details that are different. He stands a little bit straighter, inserts himself in conversations where he didn’t before.

Now, he stands near the keg, nodding along to something the girl next to him is saying. They’re standing close - you realize it’s the same girl from the Halloween party that had been talking to him, except this time, he’s talking back. 

Vernon leans in close to her and says something, making her laugh. He bites his lower lip a little, watching her with half-lidded eyes. Your stomach turns a little, eyes glued as he brushes her arm when he reaches for the cup that Joshua hands him. 

Turning away from them, you tune yourself into Chan’s conversation, needing a distraction. You try not to count the minutes until Vernon returns. When he does, the girl is with him. He drags a chair over so she can sit on the other side of him. 

It’s close, their knees touching when he sits and hands her the drink he was holding for her. He turns and holds out your drink to you, which sloshes a little when you snatch the cup from his hand. He arches his brows but you say nothing, taking a large gulp and turning your back on him to ask Chan about football instead. 

“You watch football?” Chan asks cryptically. 

“Sure. Go Green Bay Ravens.” 

He stares. “Packers. Green Bay Packers.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Hey, I’m not arguing with you. In fact, if you want to tell me what’s what more often-”

You scoff. “Shut up, Chan!”

Stuck between Vernon flirting with the girl next to him and Chan and Mingyu being - Chan and Mingyu - sours your mood. You try to lose yourself in your cup, going mute as you stare at the fire. Vernon hardly notices the shift in your mood, leaning in to the girl as they chat. 

You can’t help but notice everything about them. It’s impossible not to see the way she leans into him, bumping shoulders when she laughs. He lets her, watching her with a gaze you can only describe as hungry. The grip on your cup tightens as he knocks their knees together when he shifts in his chair, leaving it pressed against hers. 

It reminds you of the way he’d behaved in the library with you, brushing against you on purpose, making his words come out in a playful pur instead of what you’re used to, and seeing him do it with her now makes you snap. 

You stand abruptly, drawing the attention of Chan and Mingyu but not who you want. 

“I’m going for a walk.”

“Need company?” Chan offers. It seems genuine, but you give him a sharp no before you’re walking away, sticks snapping underneath your boots as you go. 

Chill air licks your face as you get further from the fire. There are plenty of people dispersed throughout the general area, some people pulled far away for intimate conversations, others pulled away to pass a joint in a circle, the pungent smell chasing you as you pass them. 

Away from the smoke and the noise, you feel like you can breathe a little more. You find a fallen tree, thick enough to sit on. You test your weight on it first before deciding it’s safe, swinging your leg to straddle it and look off into the dark trees.

There’s just enough light from the silver moon above your head and from the distant fire to feel safe. Wrapping your arms around your middle, you hug yourself and close your eyes, breathing in deep. The fire smoke isn’t strong here, the air clean and crisp.

Opening your eyes, you look at the sky. This far out in the country, you can see the stars. Out of habit, you start mapping out all the constellations you know, eyes tracing Orion the Hunter. You skip over to Andromeda, counting each star before moving to the east to spot Cassiopeia. 

It reminds you of the time you taught Vernon all the different constellations. He’d been a silent and attentive listener, watching as you’d pointed them all out while sitting on a bench at the park. You’ve caught him drawing them more than once in his chemistry notebooks, little dots of perfect constellations memorized. 

An ache you’re familiar with fills your chest. It’s the same ache you had when you realized you had feelings for him but didn’t want to tell him. The same ache you had when he’d hurt your feelings on Halloween. The same ache as when you’d seen him actually look back at someone who's interested in him, for once. 

Crying seems silly, but suddenly you have the urge to, throat twisting as you stare at the sky and try to puzzle out the direction your friendship has gone since that night. As you sit on the tree, a prickling sense of awareness creeps up your spine, tugging at you. 

Looking around, you see nothing. You can generally see in a good circumference, but the sudden instinct that something or someone is watching you drives you to get off the branch, hitting the ground with both feet to stride back toward the fire. 

As you go, your foot gets stuck in a tangle of tree roots again, making you stumble. You curse, bending down through squinted eyes to untangle your foot. Your fingers are a little cold and shaking, anxiety creeping up slowly as you pull the weeds and roots away from your shoe. 

Something snaps behind you. Your fingers freeze, head whipping around to look for the source of the noise. Again, you see nothing but your heart is hammering. You don’t dare to breathe, holding your breath as you strain your ears to hear anything else. There’s only crickets and an owl in the distance, no more snapping branches.

In that moment, it occurs to you that you’ve decided to wander out in the woods at night and alone after two recent murders. The stupidity of your actions land like a blow.

Turning back around, you wrench your shoe free and stand up, nearly colliding with Vernon who leans backward to avoid smacking into you as you shriek in surprise, stepping backward. Vernon’s hand darts out to grab you, catching you and tugging you forward into him before you can lose your balance fully.

Heart hammering, your fingers dig into his biceps, keeping yourself standing as you hiss, “What are you doing?”

“What do you mean what am I doing? You’re wandering out in the middle of the woods while there is an active serial killer in town.” 

“Oh please, like you noticed.”

He frowns. You drop your hands and try to step away from him, eager to put some distance between you. Vernon’s grip on you tightens though, keeping you where you’re standing. “I’m here, I obviously noticed.” You snort derisively and his grip tightens a little. “Is there something you want to say?”

You open and close your mouth, scowling at him. He’s never so direct you’re unsure how to approach the question. So you try for a little bit of honesty. “I wasn’t having fun.” 

“Okay, so let’s leave.”

“You look like you were having fun.” 

Silence hangs in the air. Vernon’s face is indecipherable. Then, “Are you jealous?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Your response is so fast that it even sounds practiced and hollow to you. It’s hard not to wince, hoping that as always, he doesn’t see through your cellophane defense. Vernon’s touch drops from your biceps to your wrist, delicate. You’re afraid to look him in the eye, instead staring at the buttons on his jean jacket. 

“I noticed you were gone.” His voice is gentle, a low purr. You dart a quick glance at him to see the intensity of his gaze. It makes you squirm, unsure how to respond. “I always notice when you’re gone.”

“Alright. Well.” 

“I notice everything about you.” 

The way he says it is a soft whisper. A promise, a suggestion. Again, it feels like Vernon has discovered your loose thread, tugging lightly on it. If he tugs again, you think you might unspool all the way, showing him everything you don’t want him to see. 

It feels like he wants to, and that’s what scares you more. That suddenly he’s looking at you like he wants to see past the veneer of your words, like he’s ready to look inside. You hear the double meaning. It’s so terrifying that you look away from him, ready to hide. 

“Don’t tease me,” you whisper. 

“I’m not. If you’re not having fun, let’s go home. I came here with you.” He tugs your wrist. “Come on. You can’t be walking around out here alone with a killer on the loose, Lovecraft. I’ll be forced to fight them off.” 

The tension fades. You let out a breath and laugh, looking at him skeptically. “Yeah? You’re going to fight for me?” 

His grip on your wrist tightens. You wonder if he can feel the speed of your pulse under his thumb, the way it hammers when he smirks. “Yeah, I am.” 

-

Sal’s Pizzeria isn’t your favorite place to do school work. It’s too loud and bright, the promise of food is way too distracting for you to focus for much longer than a few minutes at a time, and usually your fingers are too slippery with pizza grease to type properly. 

You only have a narrow window to finish writing your paper before going to the bar for Jihoon’s birthday. You barely know him, but he’s someone Vernon is decently close enough too that you feel obligated to attend. More importantly, you’re finally almost done with your paper you’ve been working on for two weeks, eager to celebrate hitting submit. 

“You know that dude who was killed first was a rotten cheater?” 

The girls sitting behind you catch your attention. Your brows knit together and you turn your head a fraction to eavesdrop, eyes unfocusing on the words on your screen. There are four of them behind you that you don’t recognize but assume go to the same school as you, based on the attire and the backpacks. 

“Yeah! Sam told me about that. Apparently he was sleeping around with a bunch of freshmen. Maybe his girlfriend found out and went all psycho killer on him?” 

“Ew, how scummy. But what’s with the hello darling message shit? Can you say weird?” 

“I know, right?” 

Their words give you pause. The first victim had been someone known for his infidelity too? Turning back to your screen, you pull up your web browser and type in Hello Darling Murderer to the search. The original murder from the 70s hadn’t given you much thought beyond assuming someone was being a copycat, but now you feel something nagging at you. Something you’re missing. 

All of the top stories are of the recent murders. You amend your search to the 70s and get older articles and links to podcasts covering the initial incident. Clicking on a story from a reputable journal, you start reading in detail about the first murder and his victim, skin prickling as you go.

As an Occult Studies major, a lot of people think you’re into murder mysteries. In truth, you’re not. They have little to do with what you study, and you’ve spent countless times telling people that occult and people obsessed with true crime are two totally different things. You have no idea why they’re lumped together so often, but on more than one occasion you’ve had to explain you’re not interested in serial killers or their stories.

Except now. Chewing the inside of your cheek, you unwind the story of Thomas Ellswater, who had apparently murdered his girlfriend at the time before promptly killing himself. The initial investigation hadn’t dug up much, assuming that it was a case of domestic violence gone as bad as it could. 

But the journalist who had written the story had other details. Accounts from family friends that detailed Elsswater’s girlfriend, Maya, unhappy with their relationship. One even insinuated that she had been cheating on him for a long time, though with who, they were unsure. 

Further down in the article, you stop. Read the paragraph again. Look at the picture of the house. A sickly chill coats your skin as you lean forward, taking in the details of the house. You’ve seen it before, though your memory of it at night surrounded by floodlights and full of drunk college students makes it almost unrecognizable when you see it on the screen. 

Thomas Ellswater lived in the same house that you’d partied in on Halloween night, where Vernon had played that horrible prank in the closet. Thomas or Maya had been the haunting spirit Soonyoung had been attempting to summon.

And now someone was killing in the same exact style.. 

The server bringing you two trays of pizzas and a basket of fries breaks you from your trance. You close the article, a sick feeling in your stomach as you try to piece together the puzzle. Was it just a spurned lover who was paying homage to someone who related? Or was it a serial killer poking fun at the MO?

Vernon crashing into the seat across from you startles you. He gives you a grin, eyeing the pizza in front of him and rubbing his hands together. Rolling your eyes, you grab the red pepper flakes and salt, passing the latter over to him. 

“So I learned something weird today,” you venture, pulling a slice of pizza from the tray. 

“Tell me,” he answers over a mouthful of pizza, once again burning himself. You roll your eyes, shaking your red pepper onto your slice. “What is going on in the world of occult today?”

“Actually, not occult.” He gives you an appraising look, popping some fries into his mouth. “What, no salt today?”

He pauses, looking at the basket of fries. “Nah, I need to cut back on the sodium.”

“Good idea. Anyway, it’s about the murders.” 

“Do tell.”

“The girls behind me said the first victim was known for cheating.” 

“It’s college. Apparently there is a lot of that.” 

“But remember that day we saw Sidney in the library? She was cheating too.” 

“Right.” He rips into his pizza, gaze sharp as he looks at you. “So this town is full of a bunch of lowlife fucking cheaters.”

You flinch at his vehemence, leaning back in your seat. Vernon drops his gaze, tearing into his slice in silence. “Sorry,” he says after swallowing. “I’m hungry.”

“Right. As I was saying, I looked up that Hello Darling Murder.” 

He pauses, gaze flicking to you. “And?”

“And it was ruled as a case of domestic violence gone wrong, but there were some people who think the Maya Caravalo was cheating on Thomas Ellswater, who killed her.” 

“I’m sure cheating is the leading cause of crimes of passion.”

“In the house that we were in on Halloween.” 

Vernon frowns. “Ah. Weird.” 

He doesn’t elaborate. You watch him as he chews on more pizza, shoving fries into his mouth on occasion too. He seems totally at ease - and more normal than he’s been in weeks. You watch, mildly disgusted at the way college men eat. 

“That’s all you have to say?” You ask. “Weird.”

“It is weird.” 

“Kind of an insane coincidence.” 

He becomes still, only his eyes moving as he settles his inky gaze on you. For a second, you can’t help but think he looks a bit like the cat who ate the canary, eyes glittering. “So tell me what theory is in that pretty head of yours, Lovecraft.” 

Ignoring the way your heart leaps at him calling you pretty, you sigh, picking at the wooden table with a thumb nail. “I don’t really have one. I just think someone came across the original murder and thought I could write that at my crime scenes. I don’t study criminology, I can’t figure out motivation.”

“You’re the smartest person in school, Lovecraft. Try.” 

“I guess… I don’t know. The new killer was probably cheated on recently, came across what happened in the 70s, and has been taking out their rage on other adulterers because they feel some sort of kinship with Thomas. Maybe like finishing his work or ridding the world of a common enemy.” 

Vernon hums. “Maybe so. Do you think they deserve it?” You look at him sharply, mouth downturning. “The victims. Do you think they deserve to be killed for their infidelity?” 

“I don’t know that anyone is deserving of murder.” You chew the inside of your cheek, watching Vernon’s face for any sign of what he’s thinking. He’s totally closed off, a blank canvas. “This is why I’m in Occult Studies and not law, Vernon.” 

He gives a wolfish grin. “Touche. Come on, eat your pizza. We have a bar to go get drunk at.” 

-

The bar in question is teeming with people. You’re immediately overwhelmed, squeezing your way between chairs, tables and people as you navigate to your group of friends. Vernon keeps you close, his arm encircling your waist as pulling you to him as you go. 

He either ignores or doesn’t notice the sharp look you give him. Instead, he’s focused on keeping the two of you attached, shouldering his way through the crowd, the press of his fingers on your hip dizzying and steadying at the same time. 

At the far back of the bar, an entire section of people associated with Vernon’s fraternity crowd from wall to wall. Vernon manages to get you onto a stool at the bar top, shouldering one of the pledges off the seat with a narrow-eyed look. You raise your brows at him and he winks, leaning his elbow on the bar top to order you both drinks.

Spinning to face him in the stool, you give him a quick once over. You’d been so engrossed in your murdery mystery findings at the pizzeria that you haven't really looked at him until now. He looks good, dressed simply in dark jeans and a dark, long sleeve shirt that shows how broad he is. Has he always been that broad? 

Vernon catches you staring. “What are you looking at?” 

“Nothing.” 

He grins, accepting drinks from the bartender and sliding one over to you. You burn under the full weight of his attention as he pops his straw into his mouth. “Tell me.” 

“You look nice tonight.”

“You look nice every night.”

“Oh shut up.” 

“What?” he laughs. “I mean it.” 

“Whatever.”

Spinning in the chair again, you place your back to the bar, facing the crowd to watch people. Vernon is content to stand next to you in silence, both of you sipping your drinks as you observe the people around you. Someone jostles him a little closer, his arm shifting to lay across the bartop along your back. 

Heat creeps into your cheeks and you try to remain breathing normally. Vernon leaves his arm there, pressed against you but not exactly wrapped around you. There is a distinct difference, but this is still new. Still confusing. 

People who recognize you both come up and say hi. You keep the conversation polite and short, especially when you see the girl who has lingered at the last two parties slink toward you, her eyes only for Vernon. 

“Hi,” she yells over the crowd, totally ignoring you. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight!”

“Why wouldn’t you? I’m friends with Jihoon.”

The girl opens and closes her mouth, lips pursed at that. You sense the serrated edged to Vernon’s words, casting a glance his direction. He’s not looking at her, eyes instead scanning the crowd. Uninterested. Even you know she didn’t literally mean she wasn’t expecting to see him - it was just a conversation starter. 

Using the opportunity to sip from your straw to hide your laughter, you have to admit you’re a little relieved to see Vernon missing social cues again. It’s more him, a Vernon that you're used to. Maybe a little meaner than usual, but this is closer. 

“Right,” the girl says. Her eyes flicker to you for the first time. “It’s his birthday, right?” 

“According to the giant sign in the corner and all the balloons, yes.” 

Okay, maybe it’s not entirely normal Vernon. Usually he isn’t so callous. In this case, you don’t mind, watching as she tries to puzzle out how to keep the conversation going. Vernon decides for you, turning from her to press his mouth close to your ear. 

“I’ll be right back,” he murmurs, breath hot against you. “I’m gonna greet Jihoon really quickly.” 

All you can manage is a breathy, “Alright.” 

Vernon finishes his drink and pushes off the bar, fingers dragging against you as he goes. He ignores the girl standing and watching, her eyes darting from you to him until he vanishes in the sea of bodies. Without Vernon there, she has nothing to do. She tilts her chin up, sucking up her pride and turns on her heel to walk a direction distinctly not the same way as Vernon.

Alone at the bar, you swivel in your seat to order you both another drink. You assume Vernon is drinking a whiskey coke, hoping that’s right as you flag down the bartender. While you wait, someone slips into the spot next to you. You turn, thinking Vernon’s already back only to find someone you definitely don’t know. 

“Sorry,” he shouts over the loud voices and music. “Did not mean to get in your personal space, this spot was way smaller than I thought it was.” 

“That’s okay! Getting a spot kind of sucks.”

“No kidding.” He grins at you, turning his attention back to trying to get anyone to take his drink order. “How long do you think it’ll take for them to notice me?” 

“About seven years.”

“Yikes. I’m Seokmin, by the way.” You give him your name and he grins. “What brings you to this shit hole ass bar?”

“A friend of a friend's birthday. You?”

“A friend of a friend's birthday indeed.”

A bartender finally comes over to take Seokmin’s order. He leans forward to shout over the crowd, his shoulder knocking into yours. You don’t mind - he’s nice. He looks over at you, a question on his face. “You like tequila?”

“No!”

“Let me rephrase - want a shot of tequila?” 

“She doesn’t.”

Vernon slides behind you, his palm pressed flat to your back. You startle, looking up at him in surprise. He isn’t looking at you, his eyes zeroed in on Seokmin. You slide Vernon’s drink toward him, eager to dispel the sudden tension thrumming through him.

“Whiskey and coke?”

He looks down, eyes rounding out a little as he softens. “Mhmm. Thank you.”

Drink in hand, Seokmin turns to you both and waves. “Y’all have a good night!”

When he’s gone, Vernon leans against the counter again, his tone flat as he says, “He was nice.”

“He was, but what do you sound bothered by it?”

“Maybe I am.” 

“Why?” 

He lifts a shoulder. Instead of answering you, he picks up the lime in his drink and squeezes it, stirring it with his straw before taking a long pull straight from the rim of the glass. 

You nudge him. “I’m going to say this again: you’ve been different, lately.” 

“Different how.” 

“I don’t know. You talk more. You’re a lot more engaging. You’re a little…” 

“A little what?”

“Cockier?” He hums, eyes dropping down to your mouth. “Like that,” you point out, voice a little weaker. “You do that now, and you didn’t used to.”

“I always did. I’m just a little more obvious about it now.”

Tension crackles between the two of you. Your mouth feels dry as you watch him, reading the minute expressions of his face. Finally, when you can’t unpuzzle him, you say, “I don’t know what you’re doing.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t tell if you’re coming onto me or if it’s some sort of game to you.” That makes him frown as he sips his drink again. Your fear and frustration clash, wrestling for dominance. “It makes things confusing.”

“Why didn’t you say so? I’m happy to clear things up.” 

You grip your glass, trying to keep your fingers from quaking. This moment feels like it’s all or nothing. Vernon puts it out on the table so easily, leaving the option to you. Either you can ask for clarity, or keep playing this new game of cat and mouse. But you have to decide. 

“I would appreciate it if you did,” you say eventually. 

Vernon nods and finishes the rest of the drink. He sets the glass down before he leans forward, hand going to the underside of your chin to lightly tip your face upward with his knuckle so he can press the world’s most gentle kiss to your mouth. 

You freeze. When he doesn’t pull away, lips soft and warm, you sigh into the kiss, eyes fluttering shut. He feels you relax, mouth curling in a smile against yours. He steps into your space without breaking the kiss, finding the space between your legs as his lips press firmer to yours. 

Vernon smells like his cologne and something distinctly him. It makes you dizzy, and the way he tastes like whiskey and lime makes the room spin. When he pulls away from him, you feel like you’re going to fall from the stool, leaning toward him. 

His hands grip your thighs, squeezing generously as he leans in and drags his mouth to your ear. “Does that clear things up?” 

“Actually, no?” 

His groan is throaty, turning into laughter as he buries his face in your neck. Your hands tentatively settle on his waist, a little hesitant. “I always said you were the smartest person at school, but maybe not.”

“Hey!” 

“Come home with me.” He feels your delay, laughing. “Come home with me because I like you. Is that clearer? Because I want you to come home with me, and I don’t want anyone else here.” 

Your heart goes bolting like a rabbit, running in circles. Vernon pulls away from you to study your face. You watch him for any sign that he’s kidding, that he doesn’t mean it. You find none. In its place, you only see honesty. Hunger. Fiery desire burning at the surface. 

“Really?” Your question is small. Vulnerable. “Do you mean that?”

“I do.” He tugs on your thighs. “I’m not playing games with you. Come home with me - I’ll prove I’m serious about you. You are what I want. I just had to be sure.” 

Lightheaded and heart slamming, you let Vernon pull you from the seat and lead you out of the bar. 

-

Vernon’s apartment on the north side of town is a place you’ve been a million times. You recognize all the cars in the parking lot, and you know exactly what building and floor belongs to him. You even recognize his neighbors come in mat that you’ve always hated. 

He catches you staring at it with distaste now, laughing as he shakes his head and inserts his keys. “You and that mat.”

One hand works the keys into the door while the other is stretched behind him, fingers linked with yours. Your hand is warm and your heart is still racing as he gets the door open, pulling you inside the dark of his home. 

“They could be inviting anything in,” you assert, a little breathless as he pulls you to his chest. He kicks the door shut, the frame rattling as it slams. “You should never have a doormat that just welcomes whatever shows up at your door inside. You could end up with a vampire in your home.”

“A vampire, huh?” Vernon ducks his head towards your neck, lips skimming your throat. Your fingers twist in the hem of his shirt, eyes fluttering closed as his teeth scrape against your pulse point. “Sounds scary.” 

“It is. There’s nothing to disprove that vampires exist.” 

Vernon bites down and you whine, melting into him. His laugh vibrates through his chest as his tongue presses to the bite mark, soothing the pain. His mouth closes over the spot and he sucks gently, sending a shiver through your body. 

“I promise the only thing biting you will be me.”

The full weight of his words hit you between the legs. You feel like putty in his hand as he navigates you to the island counter in his kitchen. He presses your back into it, careful not to jam you too harshly against the marble. 

Heat licks through your stomach as Vernon steals your lips in a kiss. It’s different from the gentle one he gave you at the bar. This one drinks you in, pries you open and lets you spill out into him, all the feelings and bottled thoughts you have free for the taking.

You get lost in him, hands wrapping around his neck to pull him close, fingers sliding through his hair. He moans and you respond, curling your fingers to scrape your nails against his scalp. His hips twitch forward, pinning you between him in the counter as he sucks your bottom lip harshly. 

“Be careful,” he warns, a hand drifting from your chin to your neck. He doesn’t wrap his fingers around your throat, but his hand rests there, heavy and wanting. “I’m trying to be gentle.” 

You steal a kiss, nipping his bottom lip sharply. “Don’t be.”

His resounding groan makes you dizzy. His kisses become rough and heated, using his tongue as much as his teeth. He presses you hard into the countertop now, the marble digging into your back as he nearly folds you in half with the weight of his body. 

It feels like the air has left the room. Vernon is the only thing you need to breathe in, fueled by the way his tongue licks into you, the gentle squeeze of his hand at the base of your throat. His fingers press against your pulse, not enough to cut off any airflow but enough to send a bolt of pleasure and thrill through you. 

“You have no idea,” Vernon pants, pressing sloppy, wet kisses to your jawline. “How long I’ve waited to do this. I could have had you this entire fucking time, but I held myself back.” 

His thumb presses under your jaw, angling your head to the side. With more access to your throat, he peppers you in bites and kisses, tongue soothing each sting. “I have wasted so much time,” he mutters, almost like he’s talking to himself. “Being a fucking coward.”

“Don’t say that,” you gasp as his other hand presses between your legs. The ache in your cunt is already throbbing, and he does nothing but make it worse by adding pressure but doing nothing more. “Please don’t tease me.”

“I’m not.” He pulls away from you. Before you can complain, he gives you a quick kiss, tugging you toward his room. “I shouldn’t have waited until I had a little… encouragement to do this. I’m going to give you everything you want, love.”

A quiver slithers down your spine at the shortened version of your nickname. The new endearment hits home when you see the way he looks at you, the want and desire more unrestrained than anything else you’ve ever seen on his expression. 

Hand in yours, he pulls you into the bedroom, spinning you to sit you down on the edge of his bed. You look up at him through your lashes, admiring the shape of his face and the way you can just barely see his freckles in the soft glow from the nightlight in his bathroom as he slots himself between your knees. 

“I’ll give you whatever you want,” Vernon whispers, voice like velvet. He slides a finger under your chin, tilting your gaze even higher as he watches you, eyes blown. “I’m entirely devoted to you and you only. You know that, right?” 

Vernon’s thumb pulls at your bottom lip. You open your mouth on instinct and he growls low in his throat. He pushes his thumb past your swollen lips, pressing down on your tongue. You taste the lime from earlier and the hint of salt on his skin, closing your mouth as you suck gently. 

“Fuck,” he swears, thumb pressing harder. “You really have been a little slut for me this entire time, huh?” 

Hearing Vernon say it in that deep, whispered voice of his does something to you. There’s a note in his voice you’re unfamiliar with, a dangerous edge that you want to lean into and cut yourself on. So you nod, lashes fluttering as you bat them up at him. 

“Yeah, thought so.” He pulls his thumb from your mouth, dragging it spit-slicked down your chin. “Lay back on the bed for me, love.” 

You do so immediately, shuffling backward so that you can lean back. The sheets smell like him and you tilt your head to the side, nuzzling his comforter a little. You try to ground yourself, feeling a little staticky as he kneels on the bed, mattress dipping. 

Vernon plants a knee between your legs, leaning forward to cage you in with a hand on either side of your head. His kiss is all consuming, any sense of delicacy gone. You let him devour you, your hands pulling at his belt loops to bring him closer.

He’s not close enough, never close enough. 

Having him like this is everything you’ve ever wanted and more. He’s familiar, the scent of him and the warmth of his skin and the little sounds he makes but he’s also entirely new. He is rougher than you imagined, sharper than you thought. He drags his blunt nails over your collarbone as he pulls your shirt away from your neck, giving his mouth access to litter your skin with kisses. 

Your hands slip under his shirt, curious as you press the pads of your fingers into his stomach. You feel the muscles flex and he hums low in his throat, enjoying your exploration as you slide your hands around the perfect taper of his waist to the small of his back. 

Vernon slides his knee higher, pressing it directly to your clothed cunt. You twitch against him, a questioning sound leaving your lips as you breathe in sharply. 

“Go ahead,” he mumbles against your chest, one pulling sharply at your shirt. You hear the seams rip and you don’t even care. “Take what you need, love.” 

The rawness of his words fucks you up. You do as he says, rolling your hips against his thigh for any sort of pressure and friction. It helps relieve the tension a little, but not nearly enough. Your breathing turns ragged as he harshly bites and kisses his way to your bra. 

Yanking hard, he rips the rest of your shirt. You let out a throaty laugh and he looks up at you, eyes like burning coals. “What’s so funny, hmm?”

“I did not expect you to be able to rip my shirt.” 

“Oh?”

The dangerous note in his voice makes your hips stutter and stop. He runs the tip of his tongue around the soft curve of your chest, watching you all the while and fuck. If you’d realized that this was the type of Vernon you’d get, maybe you’d have been braver sooner. Because this Vernon is something else, confident and cocky and ravenous. 

“Want me to rip this too?” He teases, teeth pulling at the cup of your bra. Your chest rises and falls as you try to catch your breath, a little overwhelmed. “Say the word.”

“Maybe salvage some of my clothing, Vernon.”

“Fine. I will not salvage you, though.”

You believe him. Nothing about the way Vernon peels your bra off of you is gentle. Nothing about the way his hand cups your breast, squeezing before he lowers his mouth to give a generous suck to your nipple feels like he has your survival in mind. 

Squeezing your eyes shut, you let Vernon have his way. It feels like he’s peeling you open layer by layer, plucking every string connected to your pleasure that he can find.

His mouth is a weapon, tongue lazily circling your pert nipple until you’re whining and squirming under him. He laughs and drags his tongue to the other side of your chest, licking his way to your peak to tease you further. 

“Shit,” you whisper, one hand leaving his back to tangle in his hair. You don’t know if you’re pulling him away or pushing him closer - maybe both. “Vernon.”

His teeth scrape your nipple and you whine. He shuts you up by closing his mouth around you, sucking sharply. When he pulls away with a loud pop, you let out a shaky breath. 

“You can barely keep it together,” he observes. He placed closed mouth kisses on your stomach as he descends, pulling his knee from between your thighs. “What are you gonna do when I eat you out, huh?”

Flushed and embarrassed, you cover your face as his tongue licks the skin above your jeans. “Cat got your tongue, love?” 

“You - you’re - ugh!”

He chuckles, popping the button of your jeans. “I’m ugh?” 

“You know what I mean.” 

Vernon tugs on your jeans. You try to lift your hips to help him, but your thighs are like jelly already, turning you useless. He coos at you, pressing a kiss to your hip gently. “I got you.” 

Unsure if he means about your inability to get out your fucking pants or he understand what you mean, you let him peel them down the rest of the way. His hands skate up your calves, squeezing and firm as he sinks to his knees on the floor. 

Bracing yourself, you brave a look between your legs where he presses your thighs open gently with his palms. Veronon’s eyes are on the apex of your thighs, entirely focused on where your underwear stick to your folds. He licks his lips, hand brushing up and down your thighs. 

His gaze flickers to you. For a moment, the two of you just stare at one another. You feel overly exposed, naked from the waist up, cool air pebbling your spit-slicked chest. The weight of his gaze presses you down like a physical thing, but it’s comforting. Warm. Reassuring. 

The air is charged between you as he keeps watching you while he drags a hand up and between your legs. He presses a thumb between your folds and you whimper, feeling the way he prods at your aching entrance, only the thin fabric keeping him out.

“Are you always this wet for me?” he asks, thumb slowly dragging up the damp patch to your clit. He digs in sharply, pressing firm enough that your pleasure spikes and your hips pop off the bed. He hisses at you and smacks your thigh, making you lower your ass to the bed again. “Everytime we were together, did you get like this?” 

It takes effort to rasp, “Sometimes.”

Vernon hooks his thumb in the side of your pants, pulling. The fabric peels back achingly slow, cool air hitting your cunt and making you whine. He hums thoughtfully, placing the fabric to the side.

“Like what times?” he questions, blowing cool air against you. You thrash and he laughs, pinning you down by the hips. “I’m curious. Elaborate for me.” 

“Umm.” 

It’s the only word you can get out before he renders you speechless, the flat of his tongue sliding slowly up your pussy. You go boneless, breath stuck in your chest as his tongue lazily circles around your clit and drags back down. He repeats the motion, the slow-soft brush of his tongue driving you insane instantly. 

“You’re not elaborating,” Vernon notes. He presses a kiss that is far too sweet for the moment to your bundle of nerves. “I wanna know all the times you were with me where you felt like this. Go on.” 

“I don’t,” you breath catches when his tongue curls through your folds. He’s soft and slow as he licks you, a lazy smoothless to it that makes you see stars. “Know how to speak when you’re doing that.” 

“Should I stop?” 

“No.”

“Try,” he murmurs, dipping his tongue in your dripping entrance. “I want to know.” 

Fuck. Trying to pull together any coherent thoughts is like wading through thick water. You’re distracted by the way Vernon’s mouth closes on you, sucking gently. He takes his time, fingers pressed into the meat of your thighs as he keeps you open, enjoying you fully. 

“I - shit - I guess sometimes when we go out,” you manage. “I like when you wear your hat backwards.” 

He flicks his tongue back and forth over your clit, making you clench, toes curling. His mouth is wet and warm, closing around your throbbing bundle and sucking gently. Your hips lift but his grip is firm, keeping his mouth to you. 

When he pulls away, the suction is audible, a string of spit and arousal connecting his lips to your pussy. “Taste so fucking good,” he whispers. You think it’s more to himself than you, his tongue carving through you again. “Tell me more.” 

“Halloween night. When you were in skull makeup.”

His tongue starts circling your clit again, the indirect stimulation driving you wild. Your hands tangle in the sheets, sweat slicking your skin as Vernon works to firmer motions. You realize he knows exactly how you like it, gentle to start, working you to firmer motions, a little hungrier. 

It makes him all the more lethal, the way he can just figure you out like that. “Yeah?” he asks, sucking harshly against you. “Wanted me to fuck you like that?” 

“God, yeah.”

“You should have asked. I’ll fuck you however you want.” 

“Didn’t think you liked me.” 

Vernon is too busy to answer, increasing the attention of his mouth. Your hands slide down to his, nails digging into the tops of his hands where he holds you. He lets go of your hips in favor of linking your fingers, pressing your clasped hands to the mattress. 

His name drips from your mouth, eyes falling shut as you sink into the pleasure deep in your stomach. He makes little sounds of pleasure, grunting and groaning as his mouth becomes more fervent. You feel yourself toeing the edge of an orgasm, so so so close.

He can tell too. He finds a harsh rhythm, pulling you closer and closer to your high with each sharp suck of his lips. You twist in his grip, fingers squeezing his so hard you think you might break his hands. You don’t, feeling your breath catch and hold as you come hard, thighs squeezing as you writhe on the bed.

You draw in a ragged breath, desperate for air as he kisses your cunt once. Twice. His slick mouth presses against your thighs, teeth dragging against soft flesh as he mouths his way to your knee. He gives you a moment, letting you pant against the sheets. 

Fabric sticks to your skin as you wiggle against the bed. He stands up, crawling up you again to find your mouth. You lean forward, catching him in an open-mouth kiss that is more tongue than anything, your taste heady in the heat of his mouth. 

“Turn over on your stomach for me,” he groans. His hands squeeze your side as he gives you room to follow his direction. You do, but not without his help, your orgasm making you a little clumsy. “Can you get on your knees for me?”

“Maybe?”

“I’ll help you in a second.”

Instead of moving, you lay slumped on the bed, fully intending to let him do the work. You turn your head to watch him pull his shirt off, revealing firm, tan skin. Vernon is beautiful, the sleek lines of his body reminding you of a painting. He kicks off his jeans before shuffling back on the bed behind you, looking down and snorting.

“Didn’t want to move like I asked?” You shake your head. He pats your ass lightly. “Come on, darling. Help me get these panties off or I will rip them off.” 

Huffing, you do as he says. He does lend you his strength hauling you up by the arm as you lean up on your knees. The room is cold, making you shiver but he presses your back to his chest, mouth dusting kisses over your shoulders. 

Vernon’s fingers dance along your sides until he’s pulling your underwear the rest of the way down your thighs, helping you kick out of them. When he’s got you full naked, he presses your back to him, crowding your space as he angles your head to kiss you slowly. Fully. 

Behind you, his cock presses firmly into your ass. You push back against him, putting pressure against his shaft. He hisses, biting your shoulder harshly. 

“Careful,” he growls, teeth at your neck. “Or I won’t be very nice.” 

“Want you, though.”

“You’ll have me when I say you can.” 

One of his hands slides up to your neck, gripping your throat lightly. He pauses, leaning to catch your gaze. His eyes are round and soft. Honest. Open. “This okay?” He questions gently. He gives a little squeeze to indicate what he means. You nod eagerly, reaching a hand to close around his, making him press harder. “Fuck you’re perfect.” 

You lean your head back against his chest as he holds you by the throat, one of your hands dropping to his elbow, the other reaching behind you to sink your fingers in his hair and tug. The sound he makes is feral, the hand he has placed on your waist dropping between your legs, fingers pressing between them. 

“Oh,” you squeak, feeling his deft tough on your clit. His movements are aided by your earlier release, fingers circling smoothly as he squeezes your throat, thumb pressed perfectly, to make it just a little harder to breathe. “Shit.” 

“Can you tell me a safe word? Not gonna go hard, just wanna know if it becomes too much.” 

“Maenad.” He snorts and you huff. “I just wrote an essay on them, don’t start.”

He laughs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Alright. Just please use it if it’s too much - any of it. If you can’t talk, pat my arm, alright? Just wanna do this right.” 

You nod, so in love with him it takes all of you to stop yourself from blurting it. 

Vernon shuffles behind you, letting you tilt forward a little. The hand between your legs leaves and he instead brings it behind you, prodding at your pussy with his fingers from behind. You let out a loud sound and you can almost feel his grin as he presses a finger into your heat. 

He’s slow at first, the same way he was with his mouth. He explores what you like, testing the way his fingers drag against your walls combined with different grip strengths on your throat. You feel light headed. The room spins as he finds a rhythm that draws the most noises from you, that makes you clench down on his finger the most. 

All of your weight is against the hand around your neck, barely able to hold yourself up as he presses another finger in. This time, his fingers prod right against that soft spot inside of you, making you see stars. He must realize he’s found it, because he starts finger fucking you in earnest. 

The grip on your throat loosens a little, careful not to keep you short of breath for too long as he works your cunt with his hand. His lips find your shoulder, peppering you with light kisses that are delicate and butterfly soft in comparison to the way his fingers fuck into you. 

“Vernon,” you whisper, only able to think of his name. “Vernon vernon vernon.”

“Doing so good, darling,” he whispers against your skin. He kisses his way to your ear, sucking the sensitive spot on your neck. “So fucking good for me.” 

His words hit below the belt. You shudder in his hold, letting him drive you toward another release. You never imagined Vernon to be talkative in bed, but he is, his voice like velvet. Just like that. Perfect for me. There you go, come on. 

Everything about him is perfect, driving you to mania. His grip on your throat tightens suddenly, sensing how close you are to your second peak. Your breath quickens until you can’t breathe, going mute against him as his fingers press hardly into that spot over and over and over.

A high-pitched ring winds in your ears. You hold and hold and hold and when Vernon lets go of your throat, a gust of air flooding your lungs, you shatter around his hand. You collapse backward against him, head knocking into his. You don’t even care, twitching and gasping against him as his hand stills. 

For a few moments, you just lean against him like that, sweaty and lost and in a dream. Slowly, you become aware of his pounding heart against your back and the slick between your thighs. Vernon’s mouth is pressed to your shoulder, waiting patiently as you blink a few times, the room swimming into view.

“Hi,” he murmurs, watching you with shadowy eyes.

“Hi,” you croak, voice rough.

“Good?”

“Very.” 

“Want to stop?”

“No. Unless you want to.”

His gaze darkens. “I don’t.” 

“I want more. I can take more.” 

He lifts his head and presses a sweet kiss to your temple. “You’re perfect for me. Do you know that?” 

Reverent hands help you lay back against the pillows. Vernon touches you like you’re something delicate - not because he thinks you’re fragile, but because you’re something important to him. Valuable. You see it in the way he looks down at you, taking a moment to drink you in. 

There’s something else there too. Something edged with a knife, a little wild. Covetous. There is something in the way Vernon grips your leg briefly, a language he’s trying to communicate to you with touch. 

Mine, it says. Mine and no one else's.

With hooded eyes, you watch him peel his briefs off. Your eyes shoot to where his cock hangs heavy, beads of precum dripping at his tip. You reach a hand up toward him but he shakes his head, careful as he shuffles toward you.

“Later,” he promises. “I like touching you.” 

“I want you to feel good.”

“You make me feel good. Seeing you unravel makes me feel good. I like seeing how much you enjoy me touching you.”

You can tell he means it. His lips are swollen and soft when he kisses you. You open your legs open for him, letting him settle between the softness of your thighs. Vernon runs the head of his cock through your messy fluids, earning a whine for you.

“Sensitive?” he asks against your lips, nose nudging yours. You nod and you feel him smile. “Sorry.”

“Feels good,” you assure him, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Want more.” 

“Greedy thing.” 

“I’m Your greedy thing.”

Your words have the desired effect. You feel a shiver ripple through him, Vernon’s grip on your leg turning to iron as he opens you up wider. He presses his cock into your entrance slowly, pausing just as the tip pops in. You throb around him, whispering his name - begging him to keep going. 

Vernon’s grin is sharp as he sinks in further, the slide tortuous and wonderful and so much as he finally finds home, hips pressed as far as he can go. He stays like that, tangling your tongue in a messy kiss as he sits there, fully seated in your heat. Your pussy spasms around him, pressed open to the max. 

“Feels so good,” he whispers, dropping his forehead to yours. “I’m going to come embarrassingly fast.”

“So do it.” You wrap a leg around his waist, your hips tilting upward. Both of you moan at the angle change, so close to breaking. “I wanna see it.” 

Instead of answering, he nods. He drags his hips backward slowly before slamming back in. He punches the breath out of your lungs with each slide home, the stroke slow but deep. Your head falls to the side, breaths rasping as he sets a steady, slow pace. 

It feels good, your legs curling around him to keep you close, hands tangle in his hair to keep him tethered to you. His hair is damp with sweat, your fingers curled in the strands, tugging a little. He seems to like it, making a needy sound in his throat that has you grinning. 

“Mine,” Vernon whispers to you, words muffled by your neck. “You are only mine, darling. You will only ever be mine. You were made for me. No one else.”

“No one else,” you agree. 

His hips move faster, a little messier. You egg him on, legs squeeze, cunt spasming around him. He lets out a feral sound, driving himself further to his orgasm. He drags you with him, another swell reaching you. Vernon can tell, chasing it like a predator, pinning you down and slamming his cock into you until you’re melting around him again, vision blotted out. 

Vernon comes to the sound of his name on your lips. His movements become sloppy until he can’t go anymore, holding himself above you, trembling. Carefully, he drops next to you, pulling his cock free. You feel your joint fluids run down your leg, but you’re too tired to care. 

Reaching for him, your hand finds his chest. He wraps his fingers around yours, holding your palm to him, his heart thudding wildly under your touch.

“For you,” he mutters. “Only for you, darling.” 

You fall asleep like that, hand pressed to his chest.

-

Waking up in Vernon’s bed is not new to you. You’ve fallen asleep numerous times at his apartment or stayed the night after going out, but you’ve always had the bed to yourself, Vernon opting to take the couch. 

The bed is empty now, but still warm. You stretch as you roll over in his sheets, groaning as you feel the soreness between your legs and mostly everywhere else. Pressing your hand to your chest and shoulders, you feel all the tender places Vernon mapped his affection with tongue and teeth. It makes you smile fondly as you lay in bed alone for a minute, breathing in the scent of his room.

Slowly, you peel yourself from his bed. With an awkward waddle, you make it to the bathroom, flicking on the light. You shield your eyes at first, going about your morning routine and washing your face to try and feel human again. 

On your way out, something catches your eye. You frown, walking back toward his laundry hamper where you see brass glinting in the light. You reach for it, pulling the bell from the tangle of his clothes. It has an old wooden handle with cracks, a little hand bell used for-

Well. Used the night of halloween. You have no idea why Vernon still has it, the memory of that night like poison in your mouth. You toss it back into the hamper on top of another shirt that catches your eye. It’s one of his dark green t-shirts, but the collar is stained dark brown.

Curious, you pull it out, shaking the shirt out in front of you. It’s mostly unmarked, save for the spatter of something dark brown and dried. You run your finger around the edge of it, puzzled. It looks like dried blood, but you can’t recall any injuries he’s suffered recently. 

You take the shirt with you into his room, tossing it on his bed as you get dressed, stealing sweatpants and a hoodie. Grabbing the shirt again, you trail out toward the kitchen where Vernon is making breakfast, the smell of bacon crackling in the pan.

You grin, leaning against the doorframe for a second to watch him. He looks so at ease, flipping pieces of bacon while he sings to some seventies song you don’t know the name of. 

Pushing off the wall, you head toward him. He catches you in his peripheral, turning his head and smiling at you. “Hello, Darling.” 

The nickname gives you pause. You slow as you come around the corner of the counter, stopping completely as the endearment pricks you sharply on the back of your neck. Vernon goes back to flipping bacon, singing along a song you vaguely know, but don’t know why Vernon does. He’s never liked music from the 1970s, and-

Your ears start to ring. Several things occur to you at once. 

The memory of Vernon screaming and banging his fists against the door, begging for help. You’d been so afraid that you ripped the door open, crashing through the line of salt. 

Vernon, sharp and confident, the new edge to him as he interacts with people, a little harsher. A little darker.

Nah need to cut back on the sodium had said when you asked about the lack of salt on his fries.

The way he’d called you darling the night before, whispering it against your skin. 

70s music that Vernon has never listened to since you’ve known him.  

The bell sitting in the hamper used to call a spirit on Halloween. 

In the house that belonged to the Hello Darling Murderer.

Brown stains - like blood - on his shirt. 

Carefully, you learn toward the middle of the counter, watching Vernon like a prey skirts a predator. With trembling hands, you gently grab the salt from where it sits next to the pepper. You hold your breath, trying not to draw his attention as you unscrew the top of it, placing the metal lid on the shirt to keep it quiet. 

With as silent steps as you can manage, you cross to the other side of the kitchen where you’re out of his line of sight. Tipping the salt over, you pour it across the tile from counter to fridge, eyes darting between the barrier of white and the man standing in the kitchen humming. 

Your heart hammers. 

Your hands shake. 

Salt shaker empty, you set it on the counter and take a few steps back. It’s an unbroken line of salt, and though it doesn’t trap him in the kitchen, at least it’s there. 

Vernon turns around with the pan of bacon. He sees you and his humming stops, cocking his head to the side. He notices the empty salt shaker. Frowns. Looks at you. Looks at the ground where you’ve drawn a line of salt. 

For a second, he just stares at it. His eyes flick back up to you, warm and brown but narrowed. 

“Why is there salt all over my floor?” 

“Cross it.” 

“Huh?”

“Step over the line of salt.” 

Silence stretches between you. He remains standing in the kitchen, pan in hand, music playing in the background.

When Vernon doesn’t move, you can see everything so clearly. 

Vernon hadn’t been joking when he slammed his hands on the door begging for help on Halloween. A sick feeling roils in your stomach as you remember the panicked screams, the way his fists hammered the door. 

Your next words come out as a hiss. “Cross the line of salt, Vernon.”

He looks at the salt and purses his lips before sighing and setting the pan down on the stove. He tosses the rag from his shoulder and shakes his head, striding over to the white line you made against his tile. He stops in front of it, looking at you with his eyebrows raised as if to say really?

“Well, do it.”

Vernon looks down at the salt. Looks back up to you. Down at the salt. 

And then he laughs. 

“Fuck, you really are the smartest person in school.” He sighs heavily, a gaze darker than anything you’ve ever seen on his face as he stares at you. “You know I can’t cross that line of salt, darling.” 

-

TAG LIST:

Tag list has not been used for this fic - there weren't enough character blocks left over for it because Tumblr sucks.

[kokomos]

 ✴    ⅱ.    new habits die hard     ࣭     ๋  𖥔 ݁  ˖  ‏☽

— starring    AU!  LUKE CASTELLAN !  ♆

  ⤷    ⅰ.   new habits die hard

MDNI 18+

warning : weed! luke & reader smoke together.

alternate universe : takes place in an au! where there are no gods, or demigods for that matter. luke lives with his mother, alone, and takes care of her full-time when he's not off doing odd jobs for the locals.

description : after moving several states away from his home in suburban connecticut, luke found himself in unfamiliar territory and in need of a new plug. lucky for him, you're the town's resident drug dealer.

tags : fem! reader, dealer! reader, loser! luke, au! luke; dom! reader kinda, subby! luke; luke can't handle his weed.

honey's note : somehow this got turned into a slow–burn? next part will contain more action, promise <3

it hadn't been a full week since luke castellan, new to town, stopped by your trailer to get his fix. it seemed out of the question that the plug he'd be buying from would be you. even as he neared the residence for the first time four days ago, impressions formed based on the unkept and rather disastrous front lawn, nothing would have him guessing a girl would be the one behind it all.

his neighbor's son, a permanently befuddled teen who luke deemed ‘nice enough’, offered up your contact as soon as the older boy mentioned smoking. he certainly wasn't your wisest customer, that's a given, but you know he meant well and there's no denying that he definitely did you a service despite his impetuosity.

a few messages are exchanged between you and luke prior to his arrival. you pick the time, telling him to swing by around eleven—it’s later than he cares for, his mother always advised him against driving late at night, but he’ll oblige without a second thought if you're the one asking.

in all honesty, luke didn't even need to pick up more bud—the surplus he underpaid for had only diminished by a gram or so, less than two. still, he wanted to see you again. something in his heart was telling him that it was a necessity  not a desire; that you couldn't be separated from actions taken in the name of self-preservation. though, luke wasn't dauntless enough to tell you the truth and he certainly didn't have the confidence to back it up either, so he'd keep that to himself—just for now.

his hands were trembling slightly as he hobbled up the stairs, across the makeshift porch, to reach the front door. even the very tips of his fingers couldn't conceal the fact that his heart was racing.

luke was quick to note that the steps were broken; shoddy craftsmanship combined with neglect over time—the same treatment that the rest of the property had received. for a moment his mind wandered and he thought about how he could fix them up for you; he could fix up a lot of things around this janky, old plot. there's no way he would even think to charge you for the labor, though he has a feeling you'd insist anyway. a payment from your finest stash, luke surmises. but that was neither here nor there, and he needed to prepare himself to greet you.

his right hand forms a fist before connecting with the frame of the door. he knocks twice before adding one more for good measure, a pace behind the other two in uniform.

the crooked door swings open, and there you stand. luke had already been wearing a flare on his cheeks, but it only intensified further at the sight of you in a pair of pajamas. tight short-shorts and a simple tee.

“hey,” you welcome him so casually it makes him feel like a fool for being so nervous. he has no time to properly greet you as planned, instead providing a remarkably sheepish smile as you move a bit to the side, beckoning him through the doorway. “you comin’ in?”

of course he is.

he complies in an instant, more or less meek in appearance as he glides past you. luke takes a few steps away from the entrance of your home, and plants his feet firmly into the warped hardwood of the living room, turning his attention to you in wait.

“so, you smoke a lot or did’ya have to supply your friends some?” you ask after closing the front door shut. the question is brought about with an air of nonchalance, though that does very little to calm his nerves.

he chuckles, feeling both caught off guard and put on the spot. “uh—,” he clears his throat as his eyes flicker to yours. “yeah,” he falters for a moment before finishing with forced conviction, “i kinda smoke a lot i guess.”

you shrug it off, giving him the benefit of the doubt, though there isn't much belief in your expression. “sure,” you dismiss, “come sit with me.”

there's not much room for luke to debate. your feet are already in motion and you brush right by him to cross the space, path set for the sofa. luke follows and takes the seat beside you, sinking into the cushion with visible unease. he makes an attempt to get comfortable, and fails, unable to decide where he should put his hands. after several moments and careful consideration, he decides on extending his palms to rest over the expanse of his jeans. in the same moment, you prop the heels of your feet up onto the table in front of the couch, angling your legs into view for the nervous wreck to your right. a small sigh of content draws his attention from the sleek skin of your thighs towards your rosey lips.

that smirk you've formed causes some alarm and his nerves flare up once more. “have you never seen shaved legs or something?” you enunciate each word in your query, goading him into a more playful mood.

his cheeks flush, and he feels like a fool for the second time tonight—must be a skill of yours. tearing his gaze away, he lets out a shaky breath, one that he'd been holding in since he first took that spot next to you. “sorry,” his speech stalls and his eyes warily meet yours again. “i wasn't trying to…” he staggers off, hoping you get the memo—which you do. but there's no fun in not teasing the boy, especially when he's just so easy.

“to perv on me?” you finish for him, smirk left unrestrained and etched into your face.

his eyes widen, slowly leaving yours, and his head shakes from side to side. “i would never,” he stammers quickly to plead his defense.

“i'm just fucking with you,” you reassure him, light-hearted words paired with a jaunty wink. it wouldn't be fair if you were to chastise the boy for simply looking your way, certainly not after the last time he made your acquaintance—and you were doing far more than just looking at him.

you draw your legs back, letting your heels hit the floor, before reaching for some supplies laid out on the table. you unscrew the top of the grinder, unveiling the packed chamber. a whole glut of green and purple tints. your fingers pinch some of the ground weed and you begin filling the bowl for the bong—both crafted from pink glass and marked by hearts. suddenly, your efforts cease and you turn your head to catch his eyes.

“you wanna stay to smoke, right?” you smile a bit ingratiatingly.

luke immediately nods his head; and you have to stop yourself from laughing at the sight. instead you opt for returning your focus to the task at hand, finishing up and placing the bowl in the stem.

“guests first,” you offer the bong out with a grin luke could only describe as endearing; a contrast to the mischievous curve your mouth usually carries.

there's only one thing replaying in luke’s mind as he reaches out to take the glass from your hands.

don't embarrass yourself, don't embarrass yourself, don't—

he flashes a quick, grateful smile for your hospitality. “thank you,” he mumbles, ignoring the unabated warning currently clouding his thoughts.

your pupils dilate the moment his lips wrap around the same piece you'd had your own two lips on not twenty minutes earlier. such a natural, you praise him without a word. he pulls a hit from the bong with ease, yet coughs on the exhale. the glass, with the bowl still lit and burning through the remainder of the green, is mindlessly passed towards you as he desperately tries to compose himself.

a snicker escapes your throat. instinctively, your hand reaches over the middle of his back and you pat a few beats to aid his efforts. “you okay?” amusement accompanies your concern.

by now, luke was entirely out of sorts; but your chaste touch, an attempt to soothe the discomfort from the smoke infiltrating his lungs, was enough to make him catch his breath and hold it. “luke?” you inquire, curious about his condition.

“i’m fine,” he tries to laugh it off, flustered by more than just the way his name rolls off your tongue. his head turns your direction and for the first time, he makes real eye contact with you—not just for a brief few moments before he inevitably glances away.

a smile lifts your cheeks slightly and you retract your hand from his back. much to his disappointment, you break the contact in favor of taking your own hit from the bong.

there's a few more exchanges of the glass back-and-forth before luke taps out. you hadn't realized he saw each offer of your generosity as some sort of competition between the two of you, to see how much he could handle.

he's melted into the back of your couch, eyes fluttering shut. cute. you’re feeling the effects of that friendly contest too—not as much as he is, evidently. years of smoking every day, all day, granted you a higher tolerance for the substance, and the opportunity to tease your client. “do you have something to prove?” you titter with delight.

“hm ?” luke hums, tilting his chin to view your face instead of the wall he'd been zoning out on.

“i asked if you had something to prove,” you restate plainly. “you know you didn't have to keep up with me, yeah?”

you're drinking in the look on his face by the bucketful. lips parted as his mind whirls, searching for an answer to a question he's already forgotten—“huh ?” his voice comes out more soft and airy than you've recently been accustomed to, not that you'd ever complain about that.

“nevermind, man. just, uh—” you stifle a snicker, holding back from full-on laughing in his face, “—take it easy.”

he mumbles something in confirmation, ‘okay’ it sounded like, and allows his eyes to rest once more.

“sleepy?” you coo, applying a tone one might use on a child rather than the man luke was trying to portray himself as.

he manages a faint chuckle, but barely opens his eyes to respond. “mhm ,” he murmurs, with a dopey grin on his face.

you square your shoulders, leaning against the back of the couch with your thighs flat against the cushioning. “you wanna lay your head down?” you simper.

the weed had mitigated some of luke’s anxiety, and his inhibitions were at an all-time low. “sure,” he agrees, unwavering for a change.

a couple pats drummed on the upper portion of your leg coax him closer. without delay, he kicks his feet up and stretches across the sofa until he's properly situated on his side. with his left cheek now pressed into your thigh, you can feel the soft hum of contentment contained behind his lips. your hand reaches out towards him, fingers seeking refuge in the soft curls atop his head. it doesn't take more than a few minutes for your eyelids to grow heavy, and a small yawn signals the inevitable. when the clock strikes twelve in the trailer, all is silent—apart from the snoring of you and the customer you forgot to sell to.

ᡣ𐭩   with love , honey

[sophie-hatter-jenkins]

Four Names

A microfic written for Day 5 of Jily Week 2024, run by the very lovely @sunshinemarauder and @kay-elle-cee, and inspired by the theme Matchmaker, Matchmaker - a little push for our stubborn duo!

680 words

Rated G

Albus Dumbledore has an important choice to make...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Albus Dumbledore sat at his desk, staring at the list in front of him. Four names, from which to make his choice. One by one, he considered them carefully.

Remus Lupin had the character, certainly, but Albus couldn’t help thinking that Remus had enough on his plate, what with managing the effects of the lunar cycle on his health on top of his N.E.W.T. workload. At times, Albus wondered whether his choice of Remus as a prefect had been too much; this would certainly be a step too far. 

Next, William Foster, of Hufflepuff. Albus made his decision quickly, though with more than a little regret. William would make an excellent Head Boy, but choosing a second muggleborn Head Student was more of a statement than he wanted to make, given the current political climate. 

Jonathan Corner wasn’t really a contender either. He was competent, efficient and (clearly, as the Ravenclaw prefect) extremely intelligent, but he was unfortunately somewhat abrasive, and lacking in the leadership qualities that Albus felt were so important in the role.

That only left Josiah Carrow. None of Albus’s other objections applied to the Slytherin prefect  - he didn’t have any health issues to consider, his pureblood status would satisfy the need for balance, and he was certainly the most natural leader of the group. Josiah was the obvious choice - and yet Albus hesitated. 

The problem was that Albus wasn’t supposed to know about the Carrow family’s close links to Tom Riddle. He wasn’t supposed to know that young Josiah had already been introduced to his inner circle. And he certainly wasn't supposed to know that Josiah would be taking the Dark Mark at a ceremony scheduled for some time in August, and would be a Death Eater himself by the time he returned to school in September. No, he wasn’t supposed to know any of it - but thanks to the latest intelligence received by the Order of the Phoenix, he did. And he couldn’t in all conscience pair his stand-out pick of a Head Girl, Lily Evans, with an actual Death Eater of a Head Boy.

So - what to do? Albus tapped his quill on the parchment thoughtfully, considering his options. He’d never chosen a head student from outside of his prefect group before, but perhaps, for once, it might be his best option. Was there someone else that would fit the bill? Someone who thrived on more responsibility, not less. A pureblood who wasn’t a blood fanatic. A charismatic and popular leader. When Albus thought about it like that, one name in particular suggested itself immediately; James Potter. 

Lily, of course, might have an entirely different set of objections to James as her Head Boy than she would if Albus were to appoint Josiah Carrow. Albus probably wasn’t supposed to know about that either, but wasn’t blind, and nor was he as unaware of the… less academic aspects of his student’s lives as many would have suspected. 

He’d seen their relationship change over the years, from indifference to antagonism and finally blossoming into friendship. Over the spring term, he’d noted the lingering gazes and sudden blushes and he’d wondered if he would soon hear murmurs that spring’s blossom had become summer’s blooms - but it hadn’t happened, not yet.

Albus would never, of course, appoint a pair of Head Students if he wasn’t totally confident that they were up to the job, but neither was he averse to finessing his selection if offered… other possible advantages. He generally kept it very well hidden, but the fact was that Albus Dumbledore was a hopeless romantic, and in this case, he couldn’t help but wonder if throwing the pair of them together in this way might not provide just the little push they needed. The more he thought about it, the more he warmed to the idea. 

Slowly, a smile spread across his face.  Decision made, he selected a fresh sheet or parchment, and began to write.

Dear James, Congratulations on your appointment to the position of Hogwarts Head Boy! Please find enclosed your badge…

[dicentsalve]

Hey I really love your art style it's amazing... And since we had la squadra and l'unita headcanons may i ask for zucchero & sale headcanons?

I like the direction we're going

Thank you, bb!

I haven't really thought about them as much as I'd like, but I have a couple of notes

First of all, I'd like to note that these two work quite closely with Luka, receiving possible information from him due to influence and a certain power (I will also touch on Luka a little and note that every member of Passione knows and respects him, regardless of status within the family. I mean, boy at least passed Polpo's test and was left without a stand🧍)

Buuut not always they can pay for the services provided

● Sale

As I mentioned, he's Squalo's older brother and has been working at Passione longer, but he still hasn't been able to get higher (if we don't take into account the events of Vento Aureo)

Since I gave Squalo the peculiarity of unusual teeth, Sale has them too, but less expressed and not so noticeable. His central and lateral incisors are normal, but starting with the fangs, as they approach the edges, the sharp teeth become more expressed. Btw, this pisses him off.

Has impaired water exchange up to dehydration.

Doesn't have a driver's license. Can't drive, could I say, if close communication with Mario hadn't forced him to learn it.

For some inexplicable reason, I associate Kraft Work with a cactus (that's why in one of my old sketches Squalo calls Sale a cactus ass🧍), in connection with this: Sale loves cacti. And Mario, with his ridiculous clothes, btw, resembles a cactus. Maybe that's why they're still together.

Doesn't like fish very much, but eats it to annoy Squalo.

Obviously a Tuscan, like his brother, but he has no accent or dialect in his speech. He uses dialect words only for confidentiality or out of harmfulness.

Has a stand since birth, which is why, even in childhood, having mastered the stand, he became proud and impudent And was a bully in childhood 🫵

Based on the Kraft Work ability, I like to think that Sale has a slight peculiarity of "dropping out" of a conversation/situation and just staring at one point for some time.

Like Squalo, he also has problems with his parents. But for them, this is rather a huge ground for jokes than a burdensome problem.

● Zucchero

Mario isn't only an inattentive, careless person, but also has some problems with his eyesight. Not in the sense that he needs glasses, but he has "tunnel vision", which neither Sale nor Zucchero himself knows about, believing that everyone has it. So in order to concentrate on the road, he can't look away even a millimeter. Otherwise, he is a really good driver, who has saved them from total ass more than once.

Lefty.

Very hunched over.

Despite his last name, he is rather clumsy and slow (in general, everything that, ironically, a lack of sugar in the body leads to), requires more time to process information, which also infuriates Sale.

Quite often he goes to women, cuz of which he often doesn't get in touch and gets scolded by Sale for his recklessness.

He's involuntarily acquainted with Tiziano and already doesn't have the best relationship with him, although they have only met once.

Since Soft Machine uses a blade, Zucchero is very good with bladed weapons.

He likes decorative poodles (I won't explain it)

Lives with Sale cuz it's safer and cheaper (he's just too lazy to clean the apartment)

Often takes Sale in the evening after work to see the sunset (he forgets the way home)

And original of meme

[mithrilhearts]

Maeve's 4k Follower Event

Battle of the Plot Bunnies

2024 has been a great year of finishing up fics for me, so it's time to unveil some new ones! I'm so excited to be able to do this, and have you guys help me essentially decide which fic gets tossed into the actual WIP pile next! Which is to say, THANK YOU for your continued support!

There are eight plot bunnies I've plucked from my Ideas list that I'm interested in developing further. Some of them have drabbles already, some have a little outlining attached, and some have barely even a working title.

Each fic will have a small summary and some bullets of information attached to it so you get an idea of what the plot/concept is!

✨ Feel free to ask me about any of those fic ideas for more information if you like! I will provide what I can!

First Round (Release Date: 10/27)

Battle of the "Modern" ideas

Battle of the "Erebor Never Fell" ideas

Battle of the "Based on another story" ideas

Battle of the "Maeve's Choice" ideas

Semifinals

Battle of the "Cottagecore vs Dragons" Themes

Battle of the "Soulmate vs Time Travel" Tropes

Finals

TBD

‼️Fic Summaries/Information below!‼️ All information below is subject to change as the fics develop

Modern AUs

Courtesy Call - Rated Explicit

While trying to make a most courteous call to pull his RSVP from his cousin's birthday party versus not showing at all, a misdial directs him to a particularly spicy line that's all about receiving a good time with oneself. The man on the other end is both baffled and challenged by a sudden new caller to his private line, but takes the challenge with everything his voice can provide. - Outdated Ficlet

Sweeter Than Honey - Rated Teen+

Bilbo Baggins runs a successful honey farm on the west side of the Brandywine River. His peaceful days of honey handicraft grow tense as a new logging company, owned by one Thror Oakes, draws closer to his land. It’s how he meets Thorin, a lumberjack living under the thumb of his grandfather, the owner. They should have been adversaries - the two are on opposite sides of nature, but as it is so often said: opposites attract. - Outdated Ficlet - Basic Information/Ideas via ask game

Based On Another Story

No Place Like Home - Rated Teen+

Smaug the Terrible was destined to be slain by a hero in king's armor. To prevent such a fate to pass, Smaug, an enchanter of great power, invaded the kingdoms of Erebor, Dale, and the Greenwood, stripping its citizens of their memories, and taking the throne. Banishing the three kings in an attempt to secure his safety, Smaug took the best part of each king, making them more vulnerable than ever. No one was smart enough, nor brave enough, or had enough heart to stand in his way. Until a most unlikely creature tumbles in. - Influenced by Alice in Wonderland & The Wizard of Oz - Basic Information/Ideas via ask game

Forged in Dragonfire - Rated Teen+

Durin the Deathless is a legend to every dwarf that knows the tale. A king, a dragonslayer, and one who possessed great power to do so. The blood of the dragonslayer was to pass from firstborn to firstborn, but as the war calmed, such rumors fell to myth, and those myths became lost with time, even as Smaug sought retaliation some generations later. A retaliation that was deadly, just as it was successful. Erebor had finally fallen. After many years of hardship, a wizard shows himself in Ered Luin, seeking the only dwarf who might be able to rekindle a little dragonfire in his blood to take down one of the world's deadliest creatures. One who is hellbent on claiming every kingdom in Middle Earth beneath his claws. - Influenced by Skyrim - Basic Information/Ideas via ask game

Erebor Never Fell

Heartstones - Rated Teen+

It’s believed that dwarves are blessed in one of two ways: by their heartstone, or their heartcraft, both a calling of the soul. When Thorin is convinced he has neither, a quest for his happiness takes him far beyond the Misty Mountains to the West. It’s in the West that Frerin is convinced they’ll find Thorin’s calling. Be that a happiness of the heart or the craft. - Outdated Ficlet - Basic Information/Ideas via ask game

Thief of Hearts - Rated Mature

Bilbo retired from his life of gentle burglary years ago to care for his ailing mother. With Belladonna's illness getting worse, he seeks out the aid of an enchanter, who is said to give people anything they want in exchange for a little task. Bilbo's task is to burgle one little stone from one lonely mountain under the nose of its king. Lucky for him, Erebor is preparing to host a grand party in hopes of finding a spouse for the oldest prince. It's the perfect distraction, and no one will see him coming.

Maeve's Choice

Twice In A Lifetime - Rated Mature

Just days before the siege on the Dimrill Gate, Thorin voices his guilt about his inability to keep his people safe when Smaug took the mountain. In the middle of an angry prayer to Mahal himself, the ringing of an anvil is the last thing Thorin remembers before waking up within the rolling green hills of the Shire. It’s there he’s greeted by a set of hazels he’d never forget. Not in this lifetime. - Outdated Ficlet

Wretched & Divine - Rated Explicit

After the battle, Bilbo continued to keep the Arkenstone close to his chest to protect those around him. He suspects that there’s more to this ‘Dragon Sickness’ than just the gold, and must figure out how he can save Thorin from his madness. All of this while trying to deal with the dwarf’s fascination with him with an intensity that rivals the obsession of finding the Arkenstone. Or: What if Bilbo had never given away the Arkenstone to Bard and Thranduil, and Thorin never kicked the gold sickness. - Outdated Ficlet

[emp-t-man]

okay here’s the thing— i don’t think hilbert actually killed fourier and rhea, and here’s why:

yes. he did kill lambert and hui. we know that it’s because command insisted that he continue the human decima trials after fisher’s death, and since neither lambert nor hui had received the physical and immune system training that he had gone through, their bodies weren’t able to fight it off. but fourier… she didn’t die from the virus. she disappeared. the day after she was able to figure out how to wire the vx3 into lovelace’s escape shuttle. they never found a body. and rhea? she was deactivated only three hours before running the final calculations. and lovelace was right, these were definitely not coincidences. someone didn’t want them to leave the hephaestus. but why would hilbert want them to stay? there was no reason he needed lovelace alive. the door didn’t exist during that mission, and so hilbert had no reason to believe that command wouldn’t simply provide him with more subjects after this one was met with failure. hilbert himself wanted to get off the station and go home! he says so in episode thirty-one, where he admitted to contacting command fifty days before she left and suggesting that they terminate the mission! there was no logical reason for hilbert to resort to murdering in cold blood in order to keep lovelace on that station.

but.

there is someone else that would resort to such an extreme just to keep the hephaestus crew from returning to earth. someone who, several years later, was able to bend the laws of time and space to their will by creating a loop of an entire day just to ensure something would keep them in the same place.

“doug, are you seriously suggesting that the aliens were miraculously able to remove two entire people from existence without a trace?” you bet your ass i am.

here’s the thing: these guys are able to do pretty much anything they want. they’ve created human duplicates, they’ve created time loops, they use a god damn wormhole to transport humans to a seemingly entirely different plane of existence. if someone were to figure out a way to do something they didn’t like, they could very easily just,, make them disappear! just like lovelace assumed it was for hilbert, it was a last resort for them, and last resorts make people get sloppy!

another thing that makes me think hilbert wasn’t behind this in particular? lovelace stated in her logs that command stopped responding to their calls months before the day she died. just like cutter seemingly stopped responding to minkowski’s call for help four months before he arrived on the station. he was only able to actually make it to the hephaestus after eiffel and bob have their little heart to whatever-the-hell-bob-has. that also does not sound like a coincidence to me.

the aliens causing fourier and rhea to disappear also makes sense from a learning standpoint. after they made them go away, lovelace still managed to make it off the station, even if she died shortly after. having a little run-in with the indomitable human spirit like that would make sense as to why they would elect to simply have time repeat itself until someone did something stupid rather than only dwindling their recourses and letting them continue.

as we learned from kepler, this was far from the first time the aliens had done something to interfere with a hephaestus mission in order to attempt to start their process. why would they try so hard during zhang’s (and possibly several others’) mission and leave the crew entirely alone during lovelace’s, just to try and stir the pot again during minkowski’s run?

i dunno, it’s just a theory (a space theory), but i think it would make a lot more sense as to why lovelace’s mission went the way it did rather than simply “hilbert went crazy and pulled a wadsworth on everyone”

[mychlapci]

Adult breastfeeder Springer is probably chubby as hell from all of mommy’s yummy milk. He doesn’t nurse as constantly as he did when he was a child, but on the occasion he does he really packs it away. He feels a little embarrassment for it, maybe, so he’s always telling himself that ‘this is the last time,’ and he needs to ‘make it count,’ by sucking Prowl dry. Prowl, of course, secretly relishes his time petting and stroking his baby boy’s helm and tummy. It makes him nostalgic for when Springer was small, and they don’t get to spend as much time together as they used to… If Springer needs mommy’s boobies for comfort after something really scary or traumatic, Prowl’s happy to provide milky and pats. They both love this time together and refuse to admit it. Neither of them will give it up for anything.

If Tarantulas ever caught them like this he’d be hard as a rock to be honest. Just like every other mech who’s seen Prowl’s huge tits since Springer was born. They’ve gotten even bigger over the years, after being sucked dry so many times. Prowl’s hood has just been straight up removed at this point, bumper straining to contain their warm, full weight. It’s been years since the last time he was able to fully cover them, and he’s just completely oblivious to them at this point. Sometimes his long, thick nozzles will even be leaking over the edge of his bumper without him noticing. At first he was self-conscious that he was the only one with his heavy, milky breasts out for the world to see, but after so long it’s second nature. The sky is blue, the world is round, and Prowl’s tits have to be scooped back into his open bumper every so often.

Anyone who’s willing to look suitably pathetic and ask nicely can nurse from Prowl’s tits. Springer, of course, has first dibs—but even he isn’t hungry all the time, and mommy has plenty of milk to spare. Prowl’s nozzles are thick and rubbery after years of being sucked and even chewed at, and they’re certainly long enough to fill a mouth. Nursing from Prowl means being cradled in his lap, his hand occasionally readjusting the bot or patting reassuringly at their hip or thigh. And his milk is delicious, thick and creamy and sweet. Maybe with a hint of spice, I dunno. He’s an alien, after all. Cinnamon and honey, milky and warm. It leaves mechs feeling heavy and sleepy after only a few swallows, but mommy won’t let you go until you nurse at least an equal amount from his other booby. Prowl hates feeling lopsided and *yes* he can see his tits’ capacity on his HUD down to the mL. If a bot drinks a little too much trying to even him out, he’ll switch them back and forth until they either drain him completely or get it right.

Mind you, Prowl is neither stupid nor blind. He knows how horny his big, milky titties make most mechs. He’s used this as an advantage, even. Captured enemies will do a lot for the promise that they might get to nurse, or at least drink Prowl’s pumped energon. Rumble and Frenzy have been persuaded to leave without causing trouble a handful of times for the cheap price of drinking their fill. And, of course, Prowl’s found that the Autobots are much more obedient when faced with a stern, milky mommy than some bastard cop. If the price is some exposed tits and feeling a little too full, then Prowl’s willing to pay it.

He doesn’t care if the mechs nursing from him get sexual gratification from it as long as they leave him out of it. They’re being given an opportunity, not an overload. If they’re rude enough to pop their panels uninvited, Prowl has no qualms swatting a spike out of his way or pinching a node until the message is received. You’re here to eat, not rut like an animal. As punishment, Prowl will make offenders drain him dry. Groaning as their bellies fill with his thick, sweet milk. Protoform swelling as they wiggle and whine, trying to apologize for being rude to mommy. Words turned to useless babble around the thick nozzle filling their mouths and tanks. The overfed waddle of shame is a frequent sight outside of Prowl’s office. Repeat offenders must consent to a temporary panel lock, because Prowl doesn’t have time to discipline horny idiots.

There are… more than a few chubby young autobots these days. And the decepticons can’t help but notice plush afts and big, warm bellies…

Oh, Springer is absolutely a chubby bot. Drinking rich milk his whole life turned him into a big, strong bot that most other mecha wouldn't trifle with. If a bot wanted milk but they walk in on Springer feeding, they know to turn around and come back tomorrow. Of course, there's plenty milk left for the army <33 Prowl is more than willing to keep the entire autobot army fat and obedient with his milk, and keep any intruding decepticons at bay by promising them a few sips...

Prowl has no patience for horny bots. He's not an easy bot. If someone's spike pops out during a feeding, that's on them! They better get that thing off of his thigh and take care of it later. How presumptuous of them to think he'd let them spike him just because he's graciously allowed them to suck on his milk... He's just making sure that the autobots are fat and healthy enough for the battles.

The Decepticons definitely realize that the autobots begin to look bigger... It's hard to ignore juicy afts jiggling and cute tummies poking out from behind their armour <3

[saintsenara]

I feel like I'm slowly being sucked into rooting for the throuple from Hell (Harry x Voldemort x Bellatrix) but I did have the thought the other day that Harry probably would have been a much better 'lord' to Bellatrix than Voldemort ended up being. Not that she would experience buyers' regret because she's insanely devoted to Voldemort, but TBH Harry probably would have done a better job looking out for her overall.

It opens up nice possibilities for her to actually receive some of the romantic attention that she seems to genuinely crave from Voldemort but he was never interested in providing while not having to feel like she's betraying her vows to the man because their relationship is still active.

Actually, now that I'm writing this I have to ask -- what do you think is up with Rudolphus?? How does he fit in with Bella and Voldemort's... thing, in canon?

thank you very much for the ask, anon! I'm delighted to see you inching ever closer to the border of hellamort nation - and you are one hundred percent correct that harry would provide an enormous improvement to poor bella's quality of life by being a man she could actually leave the house with.

when it comes to rodolphus, as much as i love the idea both of him being an active participant in one of the most toxic triads in history and him sobbing from the cuck chair while voldemort demonstrates that nagini isn't the only snake he has mastery over...

[which you're not the only person to have spotted the potential in:]

... my preferred interpretation of his and bellatrix's marriage is that it's all just quite lonely and sad.

i think it was an arranged-bordering-on-forced match, which took place when they were both still very young [pureblood marriage conventions seem to be that everyone gets hitched when they're barely out of school] and which neither would have gone through with were it not for familial pressure and the sense that they were "supposed to".

this isn't to say that they don't get on - i think they're cordial with each other, and i think that being fanatical death eaters [the only thing they have in common] brings them closer together across the course of the 1970s - but i think there's no attraction there, nor any desire to share domesticity with each other, and i think they live essentially separate lives the moment the rings are exchanged.

[indeed, when i'm really deep in bellamort delusion i think that the marriage is never consummated, and the only man bellatrix ever has a sexual relationship with is voldemort.]

which is to say... he knows his missus is getting railed by the dark lord. and he's glad that means he doesn't have to do it himself.

[thecrayonindisguise]

Chapter 4: Unspoken Bonds || Bonds and Barriers

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Original Female Character

Masterpost || << prev || next >>

Word Count: 9.4k

Warnings: no particular warnings

Authors Note: And here we are at Aubrey Hall people!! just a little note, some scenes here were inspired by some from the second season, obviously, I changed something, we don’t like to copy and paste. We are getting to know Caterina a little more... and I loved writing Teresa and Caterina's relationship here, they are my favorite!

Dearest gentle readers,  

It appears that the winds of fortune have once again swept favor upon the Medici family, though perhaps a bit sooner than expected. In an unusual twist, the illustrious Miss Caterina Medici and her sister Miss Teresa Medici were extended a private invitation to Aubrey Hall, before the rest of the ton, no less. Some might wonder what could inspire such a gesture from none other than Lord Ducker, especially given that the entire ton has yet to receive their own summons to the Bridgerton family estate. It seems some are destined to arrive at the party early. I would venture a guess, dear readers, that romantic interests are afoot. But, Miss Medici is the true object of Lord Ducker’s favor?  

On another note, last night’s ball provided more than just invitations and dance sets. One might have heard a certain Mr. Paxton’s pride shatter as he found himself unexpectedly sprawled on the floor, courtesy of a certain Miss Medici. What caused such an ungraceful display, you ask? Let’s just say that Mr. Paxton should be more mindful of his tongue when speaking about women, especially in Miss Medici’s presence. She has proven, once again, that her wit is as sharp as any sword.  

Until next time, my dear readers. It seems the Medici sisters have much to look forward to in the coming days. Aubrey Hall awaits, and who knows what further intrigues might unfold behind those grand doors? I, for one, will be watching with great interest.  

Yours in gossip,  

Lady Whistledown

─────────

The Medici carriage slowed as it approached the grand entrance of Aubrey Hall. 

The sprawling estate, with its expansive gardens and towering manor, rose before them like a testament to the Bridgerton family’s wealth and legacy. Sunlight bathed the honey-colored stone in a soft golden glow, while the breeze stirred the trees that lined the long drive. 

Caterina leaned slightly toward the window, her sharp eyes taking in the details, impeccably manicured lawns, ivy creeping up the walls of the estate, and the grand stone steps that led to the entrance. 

Beside her, Teresa practically hummed with excitement, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her gloves.

“ Dio mio , it’s even more beautiful than I imagined,” Teresa whispered, her voice full of awe.

Caterina merely nodded, her expression unreadable but betraying a flicker of admiration. “Yes, the Bridgertons certainly know how to make an impression.”

The carriage came to a halt, and before the Medici sisters could compose themselves fully, the door swung open.

Footmen, dressed in the Bridgerton livery, stepped forward to assist them down. As Caterina alighted gracefully from the carriage, her gaze immediately fell on the figures waiting at the top of the stairs.

The entire Bridgerton family stood assembled to welcome them.

Lady Violet Bridgerton stood at the forefront, beaming warmly, with her children gathered around her in a welcoming line.

Daphne and Simon stood close by, as did Benedict, Colin, Eloise, and Anthony. But joining them this time were the younger Bridgertons, Francesca, Gregory, and Hyacinth, whom neither Caterina nor Teresa had yet met.

“Lady Medici, Miss Caterina, Miss Teresa!” Violet greeted them with her usual enthusiasm, stepping forward. “We are so thrilled to welcome you to Aubrey Hall.”

Lady Medici inclined her head politely, her soft smile belying her regal composure. “Thank you, Lady Bridgerton. Your home is even more beautiful than I imagined.”

As the Medici family exchanged pleasantries with Lady Bridgerton, Teresa's wide eyes lingered on the grand entrance of Aubrey Hall, her lips parted in awe. 

Caterina, though poised and regal, couldn’t help but admire the lively scene before her, a family so intertwined in each other's lives, filled with an undeniable warmth.

Violet waved away the compliment with a gentle laugh. “It’s an old home, but it’s filled with love. Now, allow me to introduce you to the rest of the family.” She gestured to the three younger Bridgertons. “This is Francesca, Gregory, and Hyacinth. They were eagerly awaiting your arrival. and of course my lovely daughter Daphne.”

"Lady Medici, Miss Caterina, Miss Teresa," Daphne greeted them, stepping forward, her face aglow with kindness. The Duchess of Hastings was radiant, her hand resting lightly on Simon’s arm. "I hope the journey wasn’t too tiring for you?"

Caterina smiled softly, inclining her head, her gaze briefly flicking over Simon’s tall, imposing figure before settling on Daphne. "Not at all, Your Grace. The journey was pleasant enough, though I must say, arriving at Aubrey Hall makes the journey feel worthwhile."

Simon nodded, his expression serious yet warm. "We are pleased to finally welcome you both here”

Teresa, unable to hide her excitement, stepped forward with a grin, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm. "Your Grace, I’ve been looking forward to seeing Aubrey Hall. It’s even more magnificent than I imagined."

Daphne laughed lightly, exchanging a quick glance with her husband. "I’m glad to hear that, Miss Teresa. We hope you will both find your stay as pleasant as possible."

As the conversation continued, Lady Medici and Violet shared a quiet exchange. "You have raised a fine family, Lady Bridgerton," Lady Medici said with sincerity, her regal tone softening slightly. "It is easy to see the bond between all of you."

Violet smiled proudly. "Thank you. Family is everything to us, and I believe that’s something we share in common, Lady Medici."

Before they could exchange further words, the familiar figure of Lord Ducker stepped forward, his presence commanding attention. 

He had been lingering toward the back, but now his eyes were fixed on Teresa, his lips quirking into a small, appreciative smile.

"Ah Edward," Violet greeted with warmth, "I see you've come to greet our guests as well."

Edward offered a low bow, his eyes never leaving Teresa’s as he straightened. "Indeed, dear aunt. It would be quite improper of me not to welcome the Medici family." He turned his full attention to Teresa, his voice softening. "Miss Medici, I trust your journey was pleasant?"

Teresa blushed slightly, her fidgeting hands stilled as she met his gaze. "Very pleasant, my lord. Thank you for asking."

Caterina observed the exchange with quiet interest, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. 

Edward’s admiration for her sister was unmistakable, and it filled her with a sense of quiet relief. 

Despite all the complications that had arisen since their arrival in London, this was falling into place.

"Lord Ducker, you’ve been quite the gracious host in London," Caterina added, her tone smooth and measured. "It’s been a pleasure getting to know your family during our stay."

Edward’s gaze flicked briefly to Caterina before returning to Teresa. "The pleasure has been mine, Miss Caterina. But if I’m honest, I am always particularly looking forward to this visit to Aubrey Hall. The countryside, the fresh air… it offers a welcome respite from the chaos of London."

Daphne, watching the exchange with amusement, chimed in, "Indeed, Aubrey Hall has that effect on everyone. And I daresay a few days in the countryside will be just what we all need to clear our heads."

Just then, Benedict approached from the side, his expression unreadable as he met Caterina’s gaze briefly before bowing slightly to the group. "Lady Medici, Miss Caterina, Miss Teresa," he greeted formally, though there was an edge to his voice that only Caterina noticed. "I hope you find the estate to your liking."

Caterina met his gaze steadily, though the tension between them was palpable. She inclined her head, keeping her voice cool and measured. "It’s lovely, Mr. Bridgerton. A home filled with history and charm."

Before anything more could be said, Anthony stepped forward with a broad smile. "Right then, we’ve gathered enough in the courtyard, haven’t we? Let’s not keep the ladies standing any longer. Let us show you to your rooms, and afterward, perhaps we can all enjoy a walk through the gardens before dinner."

Violet nodded in agreement, her eyes sparkling. "Yes, please. You must be tired after your travels. Come, we’ll show you to your chambers so you can rest."

As they made their way inside Aubrey Hall, Teresa, still flush with excitement, fell into step beside Edward.

The two exchanged quiet words, their conversation flowing naturally, while Caterina found herself walking next to Benedict, though the silence between them stretched uncomfortably.

Until the little Hyacinth, with her eyes twinkling with curiosity, stepped forward, eager to meet the new guests. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Medici,” she said, her words directed at Teresa. "Mother says we’ll be playing Pall-Mall later, and I do hope you're ready. We Bridgertons take it very seriously.”

Teresa smiled brightly, her excitement matching Hyacinth’s. “I think I’m more than ready,” she replied, casting a playful glance at Caterina, who stood back with a raised eyebrow.

Gregory, looking ever the mischievous younger brother, grinned and added, “Just don’t let Benedict put you off, he’s notorious for bending the rules.”

Benedict, who was standing to the side, raised an eyebrow at the jab. “Notorious? Gregory, I’m wounded by your lack of faith.”

“And here I thought it was part of your charm,” Caterina chimed in, her voice laced with dry humor, her eyes glinting. 

Benedict smiled, clearly amused. “I’m afraid I can’t deny it. A good strategy, bending the rules, especially in Pall-Mall.”

Caterina gave him a sidelong glance, her lips curving into a knowing smile. “And here I was, thinking you were the noble one in the family.”

Benedict let out a soft laugh. “Noble? In this family? You wound me, Miss Medici.”

Caterina laughed, her posture relaxed as she teased him further. “Let’s hope that charm of yours isn’t the only weapon you bring to the field.”

Benedict leaned in slightly, his smile widening. “Oh, I don’t doubt that. But I should warn you, if you thought the ballroom was a battlefield, you’ve yet to witness the chaos of a Bridgerton Pall-Mall match.”

As the playful exchange between Caterina and Benedict unfolded, Lady Bridgerton cleared her throat, smiling at the pair. “Now, now, let’s leave the game talk for later. Why don’t we settle you into your rooms first?”

Teresa glanced at Caterina, excitement bubbling in her voice as they followed the family inside. “I think I might actually enjoy this weekend,” she whispered.

Caterina smirked, eyes still dancing with amusement from her banter with Benedict. “Oh, I’m sure it will be interesting, at the very least.”

Inside the manor, the atmosphere was as welcoming as the family themselves. 

The grand foyer was filled with warmth, chandeliers glittering above, and family portraits adorning the walls. 

As the Medici family took in the grandeur of Aubrey Hall, Caterina couldn’t help but admire the subtle elegance.

As they were shown to their rooms, Benedict lingered near Caterina. “I’m glad you decided to come,” he said softly.

“Are you?” Caterina responded her tone teasing but with a curious undertone.

Benedict chuckled, leaning in slightly as they walked. “Of course. Who else would I spar with during our matches? You keep me on my toes.”

Caterina met his gaze, eyes glinting with both challenge and amusement. “Then I suppose I’ll have to keep you guessing, won’t I?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he replied, his voice low and playful.

As they continued up the staircase, the light banter between Caterina and Benedict didn’t go unnoticed by the rest of the Bridgertons, or by Teresa, who shot a quick smile toward her sister. 

It seemed Aubrey Hall was already full of intrigue, and the weekend had only just begun.

─────────

The sun was beginning to dip lower in the sky, casting a golden hue over the sprawling grounds of Aubrey Hall, as the Bridgertons and their guests made their way to the garden where the Pall Mall course had been set up. 

Lush green hedges framed the open field, and the wicket posts stood ready, gleaming in the sunlight. Flowerbeds burst with color along the path, their vibrant hues reflecting the competitive but playful mood hanging in the air.

Daphne, always graceful, stood with Teresa and Caterina Medici in the shade of a large oak tree.

The sisters, ever poised but clearly eager for the challenge ahead, listened attentively as Daphne outlined the game’s nuances. 

Teresa leaned in, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Can I ask the rules, Your Grace?” she prompted, though it was clear she was already picking up on the tone of the game.

"Pall Mall is less about the rules," Daphne began with a small, knowing smile, "and more about the goal." she chuckled softly. "The goal is simple, hit your ball through each wicket. The first player to reach the last wicket wins. But," she added, her eyes glinting with mischief, "if you’re feeling particularly wicked, you can use your turn to knock an opponent’s ball as far from their next wicket as possible."

Caterina's lips curled into a devilish smile, exchanging a glance with Teresa. “I believe we will enjoy this game very much,” she said, her tone laced with anticipation.

Daphne continued, her voice filled with amusement, as though she was letting the sisters in on a Bridgerton family secret. “The real trick is knowing your opponents. Colin is crafty, he’ll strike when you least expect it, so always be on your guard. Eloise,” she glanced toward her younger sister, “focuses entirely on beating her brothers. She’s so absorbed in her rivalry with them that she often forgets about the rest of us.”

Teresa raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. “And Lord Bridgerton?”

Daphne laughed. “Anthony is ruthless. He plays to win and doesn’t care who he steps over to do it.”

Caterina, ever observant, leaned in slightly. “And your other brother your Grace?”

“Benedict?” Daphne smirked. “he is a solid shot. He avoids conflict, mostly. But don’t underestimate him, he’s full of surprises.”

Caterina’s eyes sparkled at the mention of Benedict, already plotting her next teasing exchange. 

Before she could say more, Anthony approached, carrying the Pall Mall mallets with his usual air of authority.

“Ladies, gentlemen,” Anthony announced, his voice carrying over the group, “I regret to inform you that we are one mallet short.”

“Oh, no need to worry!” Teresa interjected, her voice full of enthusiasm. “Caterina and I will share. Besides, it’s better that way, we wouldn’t want the garden to turn into a serious battlefield.”

Caterina smiled, watching her sister defuse the tension with her light-hearted tone. 

But before she could step forward, Benedict appeared at her side, his tall frame almost casting a shadow over her.

"Ready to be defeated, Miss Medici?" Benedict’s voice was low but teasing, the corners of his mouth curling into a grin.

Caterina looked up at him, her expression playful but challenging. "It’s far too early to declare victory, Mr. Bridgerton," she countered, her tone dripping with mock confidence.

Benedict feigned a deep sigh, placing a hand over his heart as if wounded. "Wounded already," he said dramatically, "and we haven’t even started."

Their playful exchange didn’t go unnoticed. Daphne, standing a few steps away, smiled quietly to herself. She had seen many Pall Mall matches over the years, but the way Benedict and Caterina exchanged banter hinted that this game might be more intriguing than most.

As the others gathered to begin the game, Colin suggested tossing a coin to decide the first pick of mallets. Eloise quickly reminded everyone of a promise made the year before to let the youngest choose first, while Anthony insisted they follow alphabetical order. 

The Medici sisters stood back, enjoying the friendly bickering that ensued among the siblings.

Teresa leaned in to whisper to her sister, “You already know which one?”

Caterina nodded. “Of course.”

Just then, Daphne cleared her throat, bringing order back to the group. “The only fair thing to do is let our invited guests choose first,” she announced, gesturing toward Teresa and Caterina.

Edward, standing nearby, smiled graciously. “Ladies, please. Choose your mallets.”

Teresa strode forward confidently and picked up the green mallet, holding it up as though inspecting it. 

Anthony chuckled, looking at Benedict out of the corner of his eye. “An excellent choice,” he said, his tone light but teasing.

Caterina, catching the glance between Anthony and Benedict, couldn’t resist. She sidled up to Benedict, her voice low and teasing. “Is this yours?” she asked innocently, the faintest smile tugging at her lips.

Benedict blinked, then shook his head, a faint frown of concern flickering across his face. 

“Thankfully, no,” he muttered, though he couldn’t hide the amusement in his eyes.

Caterina’s soft laugh reached his ears, and she leaned in closer. “I wish you the best of luck, Mr. Bridgerton. You’ll need it,” she whispered before moving away to rejoin her sister.

The group assembled on the lawn, ready to begin. Daphne, standing at the head, raised her mallet with a flourish. “To the field of combat!” she declared with dramatic flair.

The Medici sisters grinned wickedly at each other as they stepped forward to take their place in the game.

“Ladies!” Their mother’s voice echoed from the terrace, where she was seated with Lady Bridgerton and Lady Ducker. “Remember, you are guests! This is not a war zone!”

Caterina and Teresa exchanged a glance and burst into laughter before hurrying to join the rest of the players.

The game began with the usual chaos and laughter. 

Teresa and Caterina, always one step ahead, worked seamlessly as a team. They whispered to each other between turns, their strategy becoming clear as the game progressed. 

Their movements were calculated, but subtle enough to go unnoticed by the other players.

“They’re too quiet, don’t you think?” Lord Ducker mused, watching the twins closely. He stood next to Benedict and Colin, who were equally absorbed in observing the sisters.

“They’re up to something,” Benedict agreed, his gaze flickering over to Caterina, who was laughing softly with her sister.

As the game progressed, the usual chaos of a Bridgerton Pall Mall match erupted. Eloise accused Anthony of cheating, her voice rising in frustration. “Anthony, you clearly cheated! My ball wasn’t there!”

“I did not cheat!” Anthony retorted, crossing his arms defensively. “How could I?”

Eloise pointed angrily at the lawn. “Your ball was right next to mine, and now look where it is!”

The Medici sisters exchanged sly grins as they stood off to the side, watching the Bridgerton siblings argue. Their strategy was working perfectly. With each turn, the Bridgertons were becoming more distracted, allowing the sisters to move ahead unnoticed.

Meanwhile, Colin sidled up to Benedict, who was watching Caterina with a distant smile. “Your head is clearly elsewhere, brother,” Colin teased, nudging him with his elbow. “Otherwise, you never would have given me such a shot.”

Benedict sighed, his gaze lingering on Caterina, who was now in a deep conversation with Eloise. “I admit,” he said, “my thoughts are far from the game.”

Colin raised an eyebrow, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. “You fancy her, don’t you?”

Benedict let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. “I can’t stop thinking about her. It’s frustrating.”

Colin clapped him on the shoulder. “Frustrating? It sounds more like you’re in trouble, brother.”

Back on the field, the Medici sisters were edging closer to victory. They had expertly dodged every attempt to knock their balls off course, while the Bridgerton siblings continued to bicker amongst themselves. 

Their mother, watching from the terrace, exchanged a glance with Violet Bridgerton and Lady Ducker.

The soft murmur of conversation drifted across the terrace as the ladies sat comfortably under the shade of a large pergola, watching the lively game unfold in the garden below. 

Lady Marie Medici sat beside Lady Bridgerton and Lady Ducker, her expression a mix of pride and nostalgia as her eyes followed her twin daughters, Caterina and Teresa, who were now fully immersed in the chaotic fun of Pall Mall.

The game had brought out both their competitive spirits and infectious joy, and it warmed Marie’s heart to see them so carefree.

Edward’s mother, Lady Ducker, leaned in with a smile, her voice full of warmth and admiration. “Oh, I must compliment you on your daughters, Lady Medici. They are a credit to you. So poised and full of charm.”

Marie turned her head, her eyes twinkling as she glanced at her daughters. 

They were laughing with the Bridgerton siblings, their movements graceful yet determined as they played. 

“Thank you, Lady Ducker,” Marie replied, her voice soft yet touched with pride. “They are my greatest blessing indeed.”

Violet Bridgerton, always one to appreciate a well-timed remark, chuckled lightly from her seat beside Marie. “And perhaps our greatest challenge too,” she teased, exchanging a knowing look with Marie. “Especially during the marriage mart, wouldn’t you agree?”

All three women laughed at that, the sound light and easy, floating in the soft breeze. 

The season’s trials and tribulations were well-known to all of them, and there was a shared understanding of just how daunting it could be for mothers trying to secure good matches for their daughters.

Marie sighed, leaning back slightly as she looked out over the vast, beautiful grounds of Aubrey Hall. “Yes, I never imagined the season could be quite so… cutthroat,” she admitted with a wry smile. “Even in Italy, it is not quite the same. here, everything feels more intense.”

Lady Ducker nodded in agreement. “Oh, it can be quite an ordeal,” she said with a knowing look. “But your daughters are handling it beautifully, Lady Medici. They’ve already made such an impression.”

“It is kind of you to say so,” Marie replied graciously, though her tone held a hint of wistfulness. “It’s their first season here in England, and yes, our first time on English soil as well.” She paused, her gaze softening as her thoughts seemed to drift. “We needed a change… a fresh start after my husband, well passed away..”

Both Violet and Lady Ducker exchanged quiet, understanding glances, the atmosphere shifting to something more tender. 

Marie’s voice wavered slightly, but she kept her composure, her eyes still on her daughters. “It was a tough and painful time for all of us,” she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. “Especially for Caterina. She shared so much with her father. Not just his looks…” She chuckled softly, though it was laced with sorrow. “But also his spirit.”

There was a moment of silence as the other women let her words hang in the air, fully understanding the weight of what she had just shared. Grief was a familiar presence in all their lives, but it was never an easy topic to discuss.

“I quite understand,” Violet said quietly, her tone full of sympathy. 

Her gaze turned from the game below to the familiar surroundings of Aubrey Hall, the home where she had raised her eight children, the home where her own late husband’s memory was deeply embedded. “Aubrey Hall holds many such memories for me as well.”

Lady Ducker placed a gentle hand on Violet’s, her face soft with affection. “Violet, dear,” she said warmly, her tone rich with comfort.

It was clear that the bond between these women was strengthened not just by shared experiences but by their ability to support one another through their grief and their joys.

Marie smiled, though it was tinged with sadness. She understood Violet’s words deeply and felt the same sense of longing and loss. 

Aubrey Hall may have been Violet’s sanctuary of memories, but for Marie, England represented a fresh chapter.

─────────

As the lively game of Pall Mall raged on, with Bridgerton siblings arguing and shouting at each other from every corner of the field, Lord Ducker quietly approached the Medici twins. 

Teresa and Caterina stood side by side, eyes gleaming with quiet amusement as they exchanged secretive glances. 

Their strategy had been working perfectly, and no one had even realized what they were up to.

But Edward, ever observant, was not one to be fooled so easily. 

With a sly smirk, he sidled up to the sisters, causing them both to jump slightly in surprise. 

His voice was calm but knowing as he spoke, “Was this your intention from the beginning, is it not?”

The twins exchanged a quick, guilty look, but Teresa recovered first, raising an eyebrow at Edward. “Whatever do you mean, my lord?” she asked, feigning innocence.

Edward chuckled, the knowing smile never leaving his face. “Making the Bridgerton siblings fight amongst themselves so they forget about you and leave you unhindered. Very clever, I must admit.”

Both sisters blushed faintly under the scrutiny, their earlier confidence faltering slightly under Edward’s perceptive gaze. 

Caterina bit her lip to suppress a smile, while Teresa straightened her posture, her chin lifted in quiet pride.

“Well, I suppose we can’t take full credit for that,” Teresa replied, her voice smooth, though a hint of mischief danced in her eyes. “After all, it’s not so difficult to distract them. They seem to enjoy bickering with each other quite naturally.”

Edward laughed, nodding in agreement. “True, very true. Still, I must say, I feel fortunate to have avoided your clever trap. I don’t usually play Pall Mall with the Bridgertons, so I assume I was a little more difficult to figure out, wasn’t I?”

His tone was teasing, but his smile was genuine, his dark eyes twinkling with amusement as he regarded the sisters.

Teresa gave him a polite smile, bowing her head slightly in acknowledgment. “I believe you’ve sussed us out, my lord. My congratulations.”

Caterina, who had remained quiet during the exchange, now stepped forward with a teasing glint in her eye. “It’s true, Lord Ducker. That’s exactly why we chose to play together,” she added with a chuckle. “We needed to be left alone, you see. To avoid any... hindrances.”

Teresa laughed softly, picking up on her sister’s meaning, while Edward raised an eyebrow in confusion. “Hinder whom, exactly?” he asked, his brow furrowing.

“To hinder you, of course, Lord Ducker,” Teresa said smoothly, flashing him a dazzling smile before turning away.

Before Edward could respond, Daphne’s voice rang out from across the field. “Miss Medici! It’s your turn!” She sounded slightly exasperated, likely from trying to manage her bickering siblings, who continued arguing about their balls' placement.

The twins exchanged one last amused glance before both laughed and dashed off toward their ball, leaving a bemused Edward standing there, shaking his head in disbelief.

As Caterina passed the mallet to her sister, Teresa positioned herself carefully and gave a decisive swing.

The ball connected with a loud crack, and to everyone’s surprise and delight, it soared high through the air, far beyond anyone’s expectation. The target? Lord Ducker’s ball, which flew off the field entirely, disappearing into the bushes.

The remaining players gasped in shock, but none more loudly than Edward himself, whose jaw dropped as he watched his ball vanish.

Colin, ever the enthusiastic cheerleader, clapped his hands and let out a whoop of delight. “Woo! That was amazing, Miss Medici!” he shouted, grinning widely.

Teresa flushed with victory, and smiled proudly, her eyes gleaming as she gave a small curtsy toward Colin and the rest of the group. 

Caterina, watching the scene unfold, couldn’t suppress her own laughter as she turned to face her sister.

Edward, finally regaining his composure, couldn’t help but chuckle as well, though he shot Teresa an exaggerated look of wounded pride. “You are more ruthless than I anticipated, Miss Medici.”

Teresa tilted her head, her smile turning wicked. “A necessary skill, I’m afraid, when playing a game like this. No hard feelings, I hope?”

Edward shook his head, still smiling despite his ball having been sent to oblivion. “None whatsoever. I must say, though, I am impressed. I will not underestimate you again”

Caterina, still grinning, nudged her sister playfully. “Well, sister, it seems we’ve made quite the impression.”

Teresa giggled, clearly enjoying her triumph as they both turned their attention back to the game, while Edward, with a rueful smile, prepared to fetch his lost ball.

───────── The dinner at Aubrey Hall was a lively affair, the long dining table illuminated by soft candlelight as the Bridgertons and the Medici family gathered for the evening. 

The air was filled with the scent of freshly prepared food, and the clinking of glasses and cutlery harmonized with the conversation flowing easily between the guests.

Daphne, seated next to Teresa, turned toward her with a warm smile. “Are you enjoying your time, Miss Medici?”

Teresa, whose cheeks were slightly flushed from the excitement of the day, returned the smile. “I am, very much. The buzz of the city is thrilling indeed, but I must admit that I always enjoy the peace of the country. There’s something so calming about it.”

Anthony, sitting further down the table, chuckled dryly as he leaned back in his chair. “Though I dare say, it is not quite so peaceful with my entire family in residence,” he said, casting a mock-exasperated look at his siblings.

Teresa’s eyes sparkled as she met his gaze. “I understand, my lord. While I cannot compare my family with your brothers and sisters, my sister and I were known to be quite a pair of troublemakers ourselves. So, we quite adore it as well,” she replied, her voice playful.

Edward, sitting beside Teresa, couldn’t help but smirk. “I can perfectly imagine that after today's match,” he teased, glancing at Teresa with a knowing smile.

The color in Teresa’s cheeks deepened, though she laughed softly, brushing off the compliment.

 “What about it?” Daphne asked, curious, her eyes flicking between Teresa and Edward.

Teresa chuckled, her gaze dropping to her plate before lifting again to meet Daphne’s. “Well, I think it’s time to reveal our little secret about today,” she said, casting a quick look at Caterina, who was seated opposite her.

Lord Ducker grinned, leaning forward slightly in his chair. “I must say, they were perfect in their intent. So much so that even you, Anthony, were unaware of their cunning,” he said, his tone light yet filled with admiration.

Anthony frowned slightly, his curiosity piqued. “What do you mean?”

The sisters exchanged amused glances, clearly enjoying the moment of intrigue they had created. 

Teresa, sitting tall with an air of confidence, arched an eyebrow. “I believe there’s a hint of resentment in your voice, my lord,” she said playfully.

A ripple of laughter spread around the table, and even Anthony cracked a grin. “Perhaps a little,” he admitted, shaking his head as he chuckled along with the others.

“Well, the truth is, Lord Bridgerton,” Teresa began, glancing at her sister for support, “that it was us who managed to pit you all against one another. We examined your personalities and… well, thanks to your guidance, Your Grace,” she said, nodding toward Daphne, “we were able to discern which sibling was most likely to trick the others.”

The room went still for a moment as everyone processed what she had said, and then Colin, who had been sipping his wine, nearly choked in surprise. “Wait - what?”

Caterina smiled, joining in with a glint of amusement in her eyes. “Miss Eloise, for instance,” she continued, “was far more likely to bicker with one of her older brothers, especially if she believed her ball had been tampered with. So, we made sure her ball was just slightly out of place, enough to cause suspicion but not enough to give us away.”

“And Lord Bridgerton,” Teresa added, her eyes flicking toward the viscount, “was so focused on ensuring no one else cheated that he didn’t notice his own ball had mysteriously moved further away. You were, of course, too busy defending your honor to realize what was happening.”

Daphne, listening with rapt attention, suddenly laughed, shaking her head in disbelief. “You two are far more clever than I gave you credit for,” she said, clearly impressed. “I didn’t even realize you were strategizing all along!”

Colin, who had been listening in silence, raised his eyebrows. “Wait, so you were using all of us to win? That’s brilliant.”

Caterina and Teresa exchanged a smug glance, clearly enjoying the admiration. “It was all part of the plan,” Caterina said lightly. “We observed everyone’s habits and tendencies and played accordingly.”

Almost everyone at the table was stunned by the revelation. Eloise, shaking her head in disbelief, chuckled. “I’m stunned. Did you figure it out all by yourselves?”

Violet, sitting at the far end of the table with Lady Medici and Edward’s mother, leaned in slightly, her expression one of surprise. “My goodness,” she said softly.

Marie Medici, however, didn’t seem as surprised as the others. She sighed and then chuckled fondly, shaking her head as she glanced at her daughters. “When they were younger, they were often called the ‘Daughters of Hermes,” she said with a nostalgic smile.

Benedict, who had been quietly observing the exchange from across the table, looked up, his gaze catching Caterina’s. “The god of mischief?” he asked with an amused quirk on his brow.

Caterina met his eyes, raising her glass to her lips. “Precisely,” she replied, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Teresa, unable to contain her laughter, nodded in agreement. “We had quite the reputation growing up, I’m afraid,” she admitted, her voice warm with amusement.

Eloise, still marveling at the sisters’ cleverness, leaned back in her chair, her eyes wide with admiration. “It’s amazing,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ve never seen anyone manipulate my brothers quite so effectively!”

The entire table erupted into laughter, the mood light and playful as the conversation continued, filled with admiration and teasing remarks. Especially Benedict who could not stop looking at her.

─────────

It was a bright and crisp morning at Aubrey Hall, the golden sunlight streaming through the large windows and casting warm glows across the estate. 

The sounds of birds chirping and the distant rustle of leaves in the soft breeze filled the air, signaling the start of another busy day.

Inside, the house bustled with quiet activity as the Bridgerton family and their guests began their morning routines.

Violet Bridgerton could be found in the morning room, sipping tea and quietly chatting with Lady Medici and Lady Ducker about the upcoming balls.

They spoke of fabrics and guest lists, of marriage prospects and social expectations, their voices low and measured, the easy familiarity of experienced women who had long understood the importance of such gatherings.

Daphne and Simon were enjoying the fresh air in the gardens, their quiet conversation peppered with shared laughter as they watched their sons toddling about, chasing after butterflies with wild enthusiasm.

Anthony was already dressed for the day, out on the estate grounds with Colin, discussing matters of land management, both men appearing engaged in a serious conversation, though Colin's intermittent jests broke through the formality. He was always able to lift the mood, even in discussions of responsibility.

Meanwhile, Eloise had retreated to the library, searching for a particular volume of political essays that had piqued her interest the night before. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she ran her fingers along the spines of the books, seeking distraction from the relentless talk of balls, marriage, and societal expectations that seemed to consume the household. 

And then there was Benedict, who had slipped away from the others. 

Ever the solitary artist, he found solace in the quiet corners of the house, drawn to the makeshift studio he’d set up within the estate. While others were preoccupied with the duties of the day, he had retreated to the one place where he could lose himself, where the pressures of family and society could momentarily fade.

As for Caterina Medici, she had taken to wandering the hallways that morning, her steps light and thoughtful. 

She had woken early, before the house had fully stirred to life, needing space to breathe and think. 

Aubrey Hall, with its grand corridors and quiet elegance, offered her an escape from the complexities that weighed on her heart.

It was during this quiet wander that she found herself drawn to a room she had never entered before.

The door was ajar, revealing a sliver of light that beckoned her curiosity forward. 

Pausing for a moment, she glanced over her shoulder, making sure no one had seen her before slipping quietly inside. 

The faint scent of oil paints and the musky, earthy smell of worn canvases filled the air, a stark contrast to the fresh lavender scent that drifted through the rest of the house.

The room, though cluttered with artistic remnants, exuded a serene stillness. 

Unfinished canvases leaned against the walls, their images frozen in the midst of creation, half-formed figures and landscapes that seemed to tell a story, though none were yet complete. 

Charcoal sketches covered the walls in a disorganized but somehow intentional arrangement, capturing fleeting moments and emotions in rough, bold strokes. 

Caterina’s gaze flitted over each of them, drawn in by the raw emotion embedded within the lines.

Her fingers grazed one of the pinned sketches, the rough texture of the paper grounding her. 

It reminded her of the days spent in her father’s studio, her hands smudged with charcoal as he taught her how to capture the essence of a subject with just a few strokes.

The thought of him lingered like a ghost in the room, unspoken yet present in every detail around her.

As she continued to explore, her eyes were drawn to a particular canvas in the corner, its colors muted yet striking. 

Something about it called to her. It was a portrait of a woman, but her face was incomplete. 

The strokes that formed her features were delicate, almost hesitant as if the artist had been unsure whether to commit fully to her image. 

But it was the eyes, those partially painted, haunting eyes, that held Caterina captive. 

Though unfinished, they seemed to look right through her, and for a moment, she felt as though the woman in the painting was a reflection of herself, half-formed, caught between worlds, unsure of where she truly belonged.

Her hand hovered over the canvas, her fingertips barely grazing the surface of the drying paint. 

The warmth of the room seemed to wrap around her, and she found herself lost in thought. A bittersweet smile tugged at her lips, but it was tinged with the sharp edge of loss.

Just as she was about to turn away, a voice cut through the stillness, shattering the fragile moment of reverie.

"It's still unfinished," came the quiet, familiar voice of Benedict Bridgerton. 

Caterina jumped, her hand retracting from the canvas as though she had been caught doing something forbidden. 

She turned to face him, her eyes wide with surprise and a flicker of embarrassment. 

Benedict stood by the door, his presence calm but unmistakable, as if he had been observing her for longer than she realized.

"Mr. Bridgerton," she stammered, struggling to regain her composure. "I—I hadn’t realized, anyone was here. I—"

Benedict's lips curved into a gentle smile, one that was neither mocking nor accusatory.

"There's nothing to apologize for," he reassured her, stepping further into the room. "I often forget this place exists myself. It’s easy to get lost in it, isn’t it?"

Caterina’s heart raced, not just from the surprise of being caught but from the intimacy of the moment. 

Something about the way he looked at her made her feel vulnerable, as though he could see the thoughts she had tried so hard to hide. She took a deep breath, her eyes drifting back to the unfinished painting. "So you paint too…" 

"I do," he admitted, his gaze following hers to the canvas. "Though recently, it seems I have more unfinished pieces than completed ones. But it’s a passion I can't seem to let go of. you?" he asked, his voice gentle. "Do you paint?" in hoping, this time, for a response.

For a moment, Caterina hesitated. She hadn’t openly spoken about her love for art in years, not since her father passed. 

The words felt foreign on her tongue as she nodded. "I used to… paint and draw," she admitted softly. "It was my greatest passion."

Benedict’s curiosity deepened. He could hear the weight behind her words, the unspoken story that lay between them. "Why did you stop?"

The question hit her harder than she expected, and for a moment, Caterina was silent, the memories pressing down on her. 

When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter, tinged with sorrow. "My father, as you heard at the exhibition, was an artist as well.  He passed on his passion for art to me… but when he passed away, years ago, it felt like my love for painting died with him." 

She paused, her eyes glistening slightly as she glanced up at Benedict. "It felt like my love died with him. I couldn’t bring myself to pick up a brush after that."

Memories of her father, of the countless afternoons they’d spent in his studio, the way his hands moved so fluidly over the canvas, teaching her how to see the world through color and light. It felt like a lifetime ago. 

When he had passed, too hard was her desire to create. She hadn’t picked up a brush since.

Benedict’s expression softened, genuine sorrow in his voice. "I’m so sorry… about your father."

Caterina smiled, but it was tinged with sadness. "It’s been a long time, It doesn’t hurt as much as was before" she murmured, her fingers absentmindedly trailing near the painting’s edge again. "But sometimes… sometimes it’s as if I see him in every painting I look at."

Benedict’s gaze softened, his expression one of genuine empathy, and watched her closely, his mind turning over her words. 

There was something about her, the way she carried her grief, the way she guarded herself so fiercely, that both intrigued and moved him. 

For a long moment, they stood in silence, the unfinished paintings surrounding them like silent witnesses to their conversation.

Caterina could feel the vulnerability in the air between them, the shared understanding of loss and creativity, and it unnerved her. 

She wasn’t used to revealing so much of herself, especially to someone she had only just begun to know.

"O god, I don’t know why I told you all this," she said abruptly, her tone shifting as she pulled herself back behind the walls she had so carefully built. "It was inappropriate of me. You must excuse me."

Without waiting for his response, she turned and moved quickly toward the door, her movements graceful but hurried, as if she needed to escape before she revealed any more of her.

Benedict remained where he stood, watching her retreat.

He didn’t try to stop her, though part of him wanted to. 

As the door clicked shut behind her, he turned back to the unfinished painting, his thoughts lingering on her words, on the sorrow that seemed to haunt her eyes.

There was something about her that he couldn’t quite put into words, a complexity, a depth of feeling that resonated with him in a way he hadn’t expected. 

She was like one of his paintings, half-finished, a mystery waiting to be unraveled. 

And as he stared at the canvas before him, he realized with a start that the woman in the painting, the one with the haunting, unfinished eyes, looked startlingly like her.

─────────

The rest of the day at Aubrey Hall unfolded like the delicate pages of a novel, each scene filled with small interactions and moments that brought the family and their guests closer together. 

After a morning of quiet pursuits, the day slowly shifted into an afternoon of lively company and playful activities.

In the late morning, Violet suggested a light stroll through the gardens, encouraging the women to take in the fresh air before luncheon. 

The afternoon was spent leisurely, with some guests opting for quiet pursuits while others engaged in lighthearted games or conversation.

Eloise had retreated once again to the library, where she sat, books in hand.

In the drawing room, Daphne and Simon entertained their children, with Teresa and Lord Ducker joining them to play with the toddlers. Teresa watched him carefully, taking note of the gentle way he interacted with the children. 

The scene only solidified the feelings growing within her.

─────────

The dining room at Aubrey Hall was bathed in the soft glow of candlelight as the Medici family sat down with the Bridgertons for dinner. 

The long table, adorned with fine china and silverware, was set impeccably, the rich aromas of roasted meats and seasonal vegetables filling the air. 

The chatter of conversation rose as the family members began to exchange pleasantries, but amidst the warmth and lively atmosphere, Caterina felt a knot of tension tightening in her chest.

Seated directly across from Benedict, she could feel his presence even without looking at him. 

Every time he spoke, her ears seemed to prick up, her pulse quickening. 

She was acutely aware of how their conversation from that morning in the studio hung between them like an unspoken weight. 

The vulnerability she had exposed, telling him about, her feelings, her confession, made her feel exposed in ways she had never anticipated. 

Now, beneath the watchful eyes of both families, she was doing everything in her power to avoid his gaze.

Teresa, seated beside her, seemed oblivious to her sister’s inner turmoil. 

She was in lively conversation with Lord Ducker, their easy laughter mingling with the conversation of the others. 

Lady Violet spoke warmly with Lady Medici and Lady Ducker, discussing family and the countryside, while Colin and Anthony debated something jovial about the hunting season.

Caterina, on the other hand, found herself barely able to focus on the food in front of her. 

She picked at the delicate portions on her plate, her eyes steadfastly avoiding the direction of Benedict, who was seated a few chairs down. 

Once or twice, she caught herself glancing in his direction, only to quickly avert her gaze when she saw him looking back.

Benedict, for his part, seemed equally distracted. 

Though he participated in the conversation, his eyes kept straying toward Caterina, studying her in the flickering light of the candles. 

There was a quiet intensity in his gaze, something that made her heart skip when she could feel him watching her.

At one point, Eloise, seated nearby, seemed to notice the tension. "Miss Caterina, are you enjoying your time at Aubrey Hall?" Eloise asked, her bright voice breaking through Caterina’s haze of thoughts.

Caterina forced a smile, grateful for the distraction. "Yes, very much so. It’s a beautiful estate, and the hospitality has been wonderful."

Eloise, always observant, seemed to sense there was something more but didn’t press. 

Instead, she turned the conversation back to a lighter topic, involving Hyacinth and Gregory in a humorous exchange that earned a ripple of laughter from around the table.

Despite the pleasant atmosphere, Caterina’s mind remained on Benedict, and the words they had shared that morning.

His silence afterward had left her unsure, and now the uncertainty gnawed at her. She wished she could simply enjoy the evening, but with Benedict so near, every stolen glance sent her mind reeling back to their conversation in the studio.

As the courses continued and the evening unfolded, Caterina’s resolve to keep her distance weakened.

 She wondered if there would ever be a moment where she could face him without feeling the weight of her own vulnerability, or if the dinner would pass with this tension left unresolved.

Her hands tightened slightly around her napkin, reminding herself to focus on the present, to stay composed despite the whirlwind inside her. 

But even as she tried to remain steady, she couldn’t help but wonder what Benedict was thinking and whether the silence between them could last much longer.

─────────

Caterina and Teresa shared a room at Aubrey Hall, the soft glow of the moon filtering in through the large windows, casting gentle shadows across the room. The house was quiet now, the day's activities finally settling into the background. 

But sleep seemed far from the minds of the Medici sisters.

Caterina lay sprawled on her bed, her head dangling off the edge, her long hair spilling onto the floor. 

“You know what could help me sleep?” she asked, her voice lilting with mischief, a glimmer of amusement lighting her green eyes.

Across the room, Teresa sat at the vanity, brushing her hair before bed.

She paused and turned toward her sister, a playful smirk on her lips. “Why do I have the distinct impression that you’re plotting something? And that I will, as usual, be dragged into it?” she teased her tone light, but her eyes were filled with excitement.

“Maybe because we’re twins, and you know me too well,” Caterina replied, sitting up and smoothing her nightgown. She grinned at her sister, her mind already racing with ideas.

Teresa put down her brush and turned fully in her chair, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow. “I had no doubts you were scheming. Speak, sister.”

Caterina’s grin widened, her mischievous nature fully on display. “Well, I may have overheard where the kitchen is…” she began, her voice low and conspiratorial.

“And?” Teresa asked her curiosity now fully piqued as she leaned forward in her chair.

“And where they keep the exquisite whisky we had tonight.” Caterina finished, her grin growing as the two sisters exchanged a knowing look, both of them practically vibrating with excitement at the prospect.

Within moments, the sisters were creeping down the grand staircase of Aubrey Hall, their bare feet making barely a sound on the polished wood. 

Caterina led the way, her hand wrapped around Teresa’s wrist as they stifled giggles. “This way,” Caterina whispered, peeking around the corner to make sure the coast was clear.

“I missed doing this,” Teresa whispered back, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “It’s been too long since we snuck around like this.”

“Tess, we do this all the time at the Langston's house!” Caterina reminded her, her voice barely above a whisper as they made their way through the hallway.

“Yes, but that was family. This is different. This is Bridgerton’s house,” Teresa replied, her smile widening as the thrill of sneaking around in someone else’s home, especially one as grand as this, only added to the excitement.

They made their way down another hallway when suddenly, the sound of muffled laughter and the faint clinking of glasses made them freeze. 

The sisters exchanged a quick glance before they crept toward the source of the noise. 

They reached the door, which was slightly ajar, and peered inside, holding their breath to avoid making any sound. 

“Who’s still awake at this hour?” Teresa whispered, her eyes wide with surprise.

Caterina shrugged, motioning for her sister to be quiet as they continued eavesdropping from either side of the door.

The room beyond was a billiards room, and inside, the Bridgerton brothers, Anthony, Benedict, and Colin, along with their cousin, Lord Edward Ducker, were gathered around the table, the sound of billiard balls clacking together filling the room.

Inside, the men were laughing and exchanging jests, their conversation seemingly lighthearted until Anthony’s voice cut through the noise. 

“And what about the twins that are our guests, cousin?” Anthony asked, his tone casual but laced with curiosity. “Which one caught your attention?”

Teresa and Caterina looked at each other, their eyes widening in surprise. They could feel their hearts pounding as they listened more intently.

“It’s clearly the sweetest one, brother,” Colin said with a laugh, and the men burst into laughter once again.

“Stop laughing at me!” Edward chuckled. “you all already know the answer.” There was a pause, followed by more laughter.

“Miss Teresa Medici caught my eye from the very first moment,” Edward admitted, his voice softer but filled with certainty.

Caterina’s mouth dropped open, and Teresa’s cheeks flushed a deep crimson as they both stared at each other in shock. 

Teresa brought a hand to her mouth, her breath catching as the reality of Edward’s confession hit her.

“And you, brother?” Colin’s voice rang out again, his teasing tone directed at Benedict. “You seem to have taken a liking to the other sister. You couldn’t keep your eyes off her today or any other day before today. May I say that she’s beyond your abilities? Too beautiful and too clever, even for you.”

“She seems to have a certain temper too,” said Anthony  “A very attractive minx I may add,” added Colin laughing. again “with those malicious eyes”

There was a round of laughter, but Teresa could see Caterina’s face tighten, her mouth pressed into a thin line.

Benedict’s voice, normally so lighthearted, was stern when he spoke. “That’s enough, I don’t like the way you’re speaking,” he said sharply, cutting through the room's joviality.

There was a moment of silence, followed by Anthony’s surprised exclamation. “Benedict Bridgerton, this is not like you! You’ve always adored such talk,” Anthony teased, though his voice was filled with confusion.

“I think our brother is starting to develop an affection for the naughty twin,” Colin added with a laugh, clearly enjoying himself.

The sisters stifled their giggles, trying desperately not to make any noise.

“Oh, he doesn’t,” Anthony said, his tone suddenly mischievous. “He’s still visiting the modiste regularly, or perhaps he’s taken a fancy to one of his models again.”

Caterina’s cheeks burned with embarrassment, and Teresa whispered something to her sister that was drowned out by the men’s continued laughter. 

Realizing they were about to be discovered, Teresa gestured for them to move. 

Caterina nodded quickly, and the two of them crept away from the door, their hands covering their mouths to stifle their laughter.

Once safely inside the kitchen, they let out a breath they hadn’t realized they’d been holding. 

The sisters burst into laughter, their hands clutching their sides as they tried to catch their breath.

“Oh. My. God! Tess, you’re going to get married!” Caterina exclaimed, holding a bottle of whisky she had snatched from the pantry. Her face was flushed with excitement as she poured herself a glass.

Teresa, still laughing, took a swig from another bottle she had grabbed. “I can’t believe we actually had the chance to listen to them talking about us!” she exclaimed, her voice filled with disbelief.

Caterina nodded as she downed her drink. “So… will you accept him?” she asked, her eyebrow raised as she leaned against the kitchen table, swirling the whisky in her glass.

Teresa’s face softened, and she smiled as she paced the kitchen. “I think I will. I really like him, Kitty. Everything I’ve told you about him over these past days has only grown stronger,” she said, her eyes glowing with happiness. “Do you think I’m in love?” she asked, looking over at her sister with wide eyes.

Caterina laughed, shaking her head. “Why are you asking me that? I’m not the expert on love.”

Teresa sighed, taking another sip. “I am. I’m in love, Kitty. I love Lord Edward Ducker!” she declared, her voice almost giddy as she lifted her bottle and glass in a triumphant toast. 

Caterina laughed and joined her, both of them cheering as they clinked their glasses together.

“But what about you, sister?” Teresa asked, her words starting to slur from the alcohol. “Didn’t you hear what Benedict said about you?”

Caterina rolled her eyes, not as far gone as her sister. “He didn’t say anything. It was just assumptions made by his brothers,” she said, trying to downplay the moment as she took her sister’s arm.

They both laughed again, the alcohol making them feel carefree and light as they began to sing drunkenly, recalling old songs from their childhood.

By the time they reached the stairs, they were barely able to hold back their laughter. 

Caterina nearly tripped as they ascended, and Teresa had to pull her up to keep her from falling.

“Do you remember the fairy tale we used to perform?” Teresa asked, her eyes shining with nostalgia as they reached their room.

Caterina grinned, nodding as she flopped onto her bed. “The one about the dumb prince?”

Teresa jumped excitedly. “Yes! That one!” she exclaimed.

And so, the night continued with the two sisters reenacting their favorite childhood tales, laughing and playing well into the early hours of the morning. 

[whatgaviiformes]

Fic: Grannies - Part 4 (Finale)

Summary: Gordon's committed to the bit. The bit just happens to be an obnoxious amount of granny squares.

A/N- In the finale: warning for a bit of whump. Whole lotta love though. Words for this part come to 2K.

Part 1 here | Part 2 here | Part 3 here | AO3

Thank yous: craftyfam, patient readers, my yarn stash for inspiration, Kat for the read through and assuring me this was post ready. FFXIV I can't thank you because you are a menace and a distraction no matter how much I love you.

*****

Part 4: Finale

Because Gordon never goes half-assed into anything, Virgil is still finding granny squares. 

He has to keep reminding himself that he appreciates Gordon’s dedication. He actually relies on this part of his brother’s character. Frequently, in fact. 

But as he pries a stray granny square out of his sock drawer and tosses it into the project basket housing its companions, Virgil has to roll his eyes. Fondly of course. In the project management world, they call this scope creep - with no real end in sight, the project keeps getting bigger and more involved, and it’s all too easy for it to just keep living on indefinitely. But then, Gordon is one big Scope Creep anyway since he was never one for boundaries in the first place. 

His definition of an appropriate time to stop was very different from Virgil’s. 

At this point, the new square isn’t anything Virgil hasn’t seen before. He knows by now what to expect from Gordon’s work. And, honestly, it’s just like Gordon to somehow manage to desensitize Virgil away from everything he knows about color theory, however briefly. So, neither the presence of the piece of fabric nor the color combination provides any shock value anymore. 

What it does do is remind him that he’s got his own project balancing to do. That of actually… you know… finishing the damn thing. And figuring out what to do with the rest of the squares, he reminds himself as he slides on his socks and laces up his boots for the day. 

The newest acquisition - two rounds of golden yellow followed by two rounds of aubergine purple and a final in white - doesn’t look as visually discordant alongside its peers, the scrambled rainbow they are.  They are all the ones that didn’t make the cut for Gordon’s afghan, the  squares Virgil keeps finding anew, and inevitably the future ones Gordon will continue to make until he receives another lightning strike of an idea.

Right beside it is a second project basket. Gordon likes a big blanket, so enough squares to fit a king sized bed are already packed up and labeled in their sequential order. As he’s had time, Virgil has started sewing them together based on the design Scott helped with. There’s enough space still for him to store the bolt of fabric John helped him find too, once it finally arrives. 

Virgil’s grateful for their help, and their part in the project has made it just that bit more special. He hopes Gordon feels that way too. It took Scott reminding him that it wasn’t his own aesthetic he was trying to please for the design to come together. Otherwise, Virgil has no doubt what he would’ve designed would’ve been lesser for his own misery trying to force order into chaos. 

Somehow, with the power of math, Scott’s perspective on patterns and probability and randomization had been just the ticket. Gordon also probably hadn’t realized just how many squares he’d made that started with the shade of yellow or orange or his typical bright shades. Just that little bit of consistency was all he and Scott needed to figure the rest out as they laid out the squares. It wasn’t a pattern, a fade, or even entirely randomized. But a couple edits later, they had the final layout, the squares numbered, and Virgil had gotten to work joining his own granny stitches into his brother’s work in the only color Gordon considered “neutral” - yellow. 

Unable to resist the smile it brings, Virgil tugs the blanket out of the basket and unfolds the two rows he’s finished, with the third halfway complete. It doesn’t bother him that his connecting yarn is still live - the hook has his last loop stabbed into the working skein, and even if it does come unraveled a little, crochet is not so difficult to start again. 

It had taken a few tries to find the right hook to help him match Gordon’s stitches. Even though Virgil taught him a few years ago, no two makers’ work was exactly alike. And Gordon was as carefree with his gauge as he was in the rest of his life. 

Excitement thrums through him; it’s morning, the birds are chirping, and he’s feeling motivated and productive. The crochet work is soft in his hands, the next square in the sequence visible in the project basket below but hiding the rest of the queue for the third row. It’s the perfect day to grab some coffee, hide away in his studio for a few hours, and let the project surprise him. 

That’s the way a WIP should work: it should inspire along the way. 

Virgil has just thrown a towel over the basket to make it seem like it could be laundry - just in case he runs into a wayward squid - when the alarm in his room sounds and John’s voice comes over comms. 

They have a rescue. 

~*~

Virgil awakes to the smell of antiseptic and the uncomfortable feeling that his mouth tastes like cotton. 

Something about that makes him want to giggle, except he can’t actually do that. 

“Easy, Virg.” Hands, soothing, graze his hairline. “They’ve got you on the good stuff.”

He can tell. He hasn’t opened his eyes yet to know if he’s in a hospital or the infirmary, nor does he know what happened to land him there.

Based on the cotton in his throat and in his head and in his lungs, maybe he ate Gordon’s blanket. 

The giggle turns into a groan. 

“You’re okay now. Rest, Virgil.” 

Since the voice is Scott, he does so.

~*~

The next time he remembers waking, he’s in the infirmary on the island. Again, this he knows not because he’s opened his eyes to figure it out, but because his senses tell him so. Only one brother knows sea shanties enough to be familiar with that one and, if Gordon is here humming it, they’re both definitely not in a hospital.

The words he wants to say trudge through the molasses on their way out.

“Wha’ happ’n?” 

“Virgil!” It’s surprise, and excitement, and relief all rolled into one, but Gordon has the good sense to keep his voice low once the original shock of him waking settles.  

Gordon knows the drill well, his voice barely above a whisper as he closes the blinds and scoops some ice chips into a cup. Virgil’s grateful for the gentle way he moves about the room; he can hear him shuffling around, dictating as he goes. By the time Gordon returns with the cup of blessed relief for the feeling in his esophagus, Virgil has managed to tearily blink his eyes half-open. 

Beneath his brother’s brushed fringe hides a bruise the size of a fist, purpling so harshly at his hairline that Virgil ignores the ice chip Gordon offers him in favor of reaching up to check the injury out for himself. Immediately, his body protests the movement, and Gordon urges him to lower his arm back to the support of the bed.

“Yeah, maybe don’t try that?” Gordon waves him off. “I’m fine. What do you remember?” 

Through the pain in his lower half and the color of Gordon’s face, the memories of the rescue come back clearer. Unfortunately, of all things, they’d been called out to a mudslide. He’d checked Gordon out in the field, he remembers. A panicked civilian with a wayward right hook while Gordon was calming his husband. The man had been incredibly apologetic, and Gordon assured him no harm was done, but Virgil pulled him off duty as a concussion risk and left him in Two with  Grandma talking to him.

Then, when Virgil went after a lifesign in a toppling two-story… 

“A house hit me.” 

“Well, more mud than house. You’re ok though. You were buried from the waist up. Had some compartment syndrome. Everything you’re feeling - or not - is temporary.”  

“You came to get me.” Virgil could argue that grounded meant grounded, that Gordon should never’ve gone after him in such dangerous conditions, that he’s the big brother and Gordon’s the little one and he should keep himself safe when he’s told to do so. But there’s a challenge in his little brother’s warm honey eyes already, and he remembers faintly words spoken in worry and fear, assurances that tighten in a coil around his heart.

“I did. There wasn’t anyone else.”  

He owes Gordon everything.

Virgil hums, “Thank you.”

Between the pain medication and water soothing the grittiness in his throat, he feels more aware by the minute and ready to try sitting up for a time. Gordon helps him settle a few pillows into position and raises the head of the infirmary bed to the appropriate level. He’s got to let Scott know he’s awake - and Grandma -  Gordon tells him. Before either of them decide to have scolded Squid for dinner. 

Virgil doesn’t have the energy to chuckle, but it does as he knows Gordon intended: leave him with a smile for the few moments Gordon needs to step away to communicate Virgil’s situation. 

His heart is music, his soul is color. Where sound is oversaturated with the wisps and hums of machinery tracking his vitals, his heartbeat in rhythm, color becomes his touchstone. Outside the window will be the cerulean of the sky and sea. Green, which he thinks in its most basic form because it’s every combination of the hue throughout the robust plant-life of their Island. Dandelion yellow - the sun and safety and Gordon’s baldric. 

Past the shut blinds, it’s all just a sliver. More prominently, there’s just white and infirmary clean grey.  He has to blink away the dullness, as he tears his gaze away from the window and finally musters the strength to glance at himself and especially at his lower half past the pain where Gordon promised his lack of feeling, muted through painkillers, was temporary. 

Color, so much of it that it’s blinding, greets him with the neon of signage amidst the Las Vegas cityscape and the celebration of the New York Pride parade they attend each year. The blanket draped across his lap is authentic Gordon through and through, in familiar squares assembled in a chaos true to their variety. No rhyme, no reason. 

So much care. 

“Grandma will be in shortly.” Gordon plops into the chair at his side, wiggling in the armchair to reacquire the work he’d placed on the seat cushion. He catches him looking, wide-eyed. “It’s not your project, promise. Though I did bring it in for you to work on when you’re feeling better. It’s over by the holoscreen whenever you want me to bring it over. You’ll be here for a bit healing, so I figured…” He shrugs, trailing off. 

“Gordon?” He slides his fingers between the stitches and curls them gratefully into soft, comforting colors. “What are you doing?” 

“I’m - uh -” Gordon flushes in dim light. “I’m weaving in my ends finally,” he admits, holding up the darning needle. “Sorry if you had another idea for the squares, but once I finished putting yours together, I realized we had enough still to donate some more blankets and those really should be finished.” Gordon weaves a red tail end back and forth between the strands the way Virgil taught him, and the way their mom taught Virgil. “I really did go a little overboard on granny squares didn’t I? I just figured it would be okay for me to help you along. So you could finish what you were working on. Was that ok?”

“More than.” 

It also tells him a significant amount about how serious his injuries were and how long he might have been out of commission, if Gordon’s found the time to finish as much as he has. The concern for what he’s put his family through spikes his heartbeat again, and his younger brother glances up to check on him, the monitors, back at him.

Virgil gives him a weary smile, tugging the blanket further up his chest. “I’m ok,” he assures him. “Thanks to you.” 

“Don’t do it again,” he admonishes, shaking his head.

Neither of them can promise the other, not in their line of work, and they both know it. 

The words go unspoken, but they are woven delicately in the strands of their gifts to each other. Virgil feels the care against his skin, in colors that chase away greys, and soft cotton that sifts fear and worry out through openwork patterning. And when Grandma finally makes her way in to check in on him, his heart is so full with the chance he’s been given, the support he’s always had by the people he cares for, that the love hits him with a wave of exhaustion. 

Into sleep he falls, deeply into dreamless rest by the time Grandma finishes her checks and  Gordon tucks him in with a thankful salute to the stars above.

The End

[lady-of-the-english]

Tommy and Grace and Marriage Part 4

As his key antagonist of season 2, Campbell demonstrates how he thinks Grace is Tommy's weaknesses - a pain that he can keep poking at to distract him and make him off-kilter in their exchanges. It's a tactic Tommy uses himself, so he understands perfectly how effective it is.

It is only this danger that forces Tommy to consider truly forgetting Grace and leaving her behind burning her letter just as the Garrison, where they fell in love, burns due to Campbell's bombing.

Most seasons of Peaky Blinders begin with visually showing the audience Tommy's status. The opening of season 2 lets us clearly understand how financially better off the Shelbys are. To do this, we have both transformed locations and new locations.

With their financial success, the need to diversify their portfolio, and hide money, Tommy buys his family homes, especially the women that he loves, Polly, Ada, and their sons - a clear parallel to how the season ends with Grace pregnant with their son and the next opens with their wedding.

Tommy tells Polly he bought her a house to bring her family home to. Polly is haunted by the loss of Anna and Michael, and Tommy's depth of empathy comes from shared experience as he dedicates himself to finding what happened to them and if he can return them home. Like Polly, Tommy also longs for the family he dreamed of having with Grace but feeling that Grace is out of reach (married and living an ocean away), he'll give Polly and Ada what he fanatasied about providing Grace - all the warmth, comfort, security, and love a home typically symbolizes.

While season 1 showed his flashbacks of the war, season 2's are mostly centered around Grace. He tells Arthur, who is spinning out of control due to his own PTSD, to "shut the door" on the war, like he did. However, Tommy sees his own hypocrisy; neither the war nor Grace are gone from his thoughts. He just hides it better, and even that is cracking, especially in relation to Grace as both Polly and Campbell have pointed out their knowledge of how much he still loves her.

At the reopening of the Garrison, Tommy leaves his family to celebrate and retreats to the renovated snug to brood over Grace's letter that he's been carrying around in his pocket since he received it as a perfect representation of his internal struggle of wanting to hold onto her but feeling like he must let her go.

With the Garrison physically changed, he possibly thinks that moving on from her is possible for the first time. The reminders of her physical presence have been literally burned away, and with that, maybe he won't be so haunted by the memories and how they almost had everything they wanted together. With the changes, maybe he won't look for her at the bar or in the doorway anymore.

He tries to follow his own advice to Arthur to "shut the door" on his feelings and he burns her letter without reading it. The burning is juxtaposed with their love scene as he holds it in front of himself a moment to gather his courage before lighting the match and then holds the match for another moment before taking it to the letter.

The first visualization of Grace this season - outside of the season 1 recap at the start of 2x01 - is of Tommy remembering their love scene and especially the most intimate moments of it. Tommy remembers their gentle kisses, how they reached for each other, him burying his face in her neck, wanting to be as close to her as possible.

He tries to burn these memories away and once again turns to sex as an escape but in a new way. He knows the controlled, dispassionate sex with Lizzie doesn't help. So this time, he parties (just as Arthur does for the rest of the season with similar failed results). The next scene is Tommy awake from his threesome which is the antithesis of the scene he remembers with Grace. He is awake, sitting up and disconnected from his partners. He is unhappy and lacking any of the peace and intimacy of his memories. Recognizing that it didn't help at all, he gets out of bed and starts working - the only escape that works at least temporarily.

This realization and the true stakes of his assassination assignment from Campbell help Tommy accept and embrace the fact that his feelings for Grace will never go away.

Tommy, in quick succession in 2x4, is told he'll receive no help from the police or intelligence agency, realizes that there are spies in Campbell's plans, and how tight the security is on his target.

And with this, Tommy starts to "prepare" and "get his affairs in order" for failure and his death and, in doing so, accepts his feelings for Grace openly, which is intertwined with commentary on marriage and family. While he buys Polly and Ada each a home to raise their sons in, Tommy recognizes his own lack of immediate family. Johnny Dogs tells Tommy, "I hate to see you not even married yet," and he has Ada sign a trust to leave everything behind to John and Ada's kids as he acknowledges that "I don't have any children."

As Tommy gives away what he has and prepares to do that fully, he buys one thing for himself - Grace's Secret. While this race horse is interwoven in his business plans (gaining him access to the owners' enclosure), it is also a deeply personal choice. Tommy's love of horses was well established in the first season and is tied to the beginning of Tommy and Grace's relationship. It is after the death of his other horse that he asks Grace to sing for him.

Charlie connects the horse to the idea of Tommy returning to and embracing his true self. While Tommy repeatedly tells the family that cars are the future of the Shelby Company (both legitimate and illegitimate), Charlie asks him to think about when was the last time he rode a horse - when did he last choose something he truly loved and wanted? Tommy walks away without answering but the literal next shot is of a picture of Grace.

And thus, he goes off to buy this horse, creating a concrete connection to Grace. He tells Polly it's a good "investment" and equates it to the family homes he just bought them. While he plans to buy the horse for $1,000, as May drives up the auction, he doubles it as he tells Charlie, "I'm having that horse" who he later affectionately calls "my girl." A horse he then tells May, as he hires her to train the horse for Epsom Derby, "will be called Grace's Secret."

In the first episode of the season, both Tommy and Polly avoided speaking Grace's name when talking explicitly about her. With this choice, Tommy will confront her name continuously. There would be a decent amount of paperwork for Tommy to read and sign to officially register, train, and sign up the horse for Epsom. With each piece of paper, meeting, and visit to May, he anchors Grace into his thoughts and the thoughts of his family.

I would have loved for a scene for his brothers, Ada, or Polly to reckon with his naming and what it reveals - and doesn't. They'd probably think the "secret" is Grace's undercover work and betraying Tommy. But as we are again shown in this episode that they are still in contact two years later, it is clear that Grace's secret is Tommy himself and the love they still share.

Through this, Tommy accepts the reality of their feelings for each other and that they'll never go away even if he'd never see her again. Even in starting an affair with May, it is centered around shared grief rather than affection for each other.

May recognizes that she is a "small diversion" to Tommy, just as he is for her. As they consider him staying the night, she cries over her own lost husband, admitting, "I put all his photos in a draw and locked it. As if that was going to make a difference," just as Tommy burning Grace's letter made no difference for him. He enters this exchange, knowing neither is the person they really want to be with.

And once he has the opportunity, he chooses Grace. By the end of the episode, he returns to the office to find a telegram from Grace, letting him know she's returned to England for the first time since she left.

While he previously burned her letter, he now reads it and willingly picks up the phone to be the one to call and reach out to her. It is presented with the same purposefulness as any choice Tommy makes. Just as he waited a moment to burn the letter, he thinks for a moment if he is willing to open himself open to Grace fully, to be truly vulnerable and have an honest emotional connection with someone else. With possibly limited time left, he aims to spend it with the person he truly loves. He is no longer hiding and repressing his feelings but embracing openly what and who he truly wants.

He reaches out to Grace and while they don't get to speak on this phone call (as Grace's husband answers the phone), we are set up perfectly for their reunion in 2x05 - a parallel to how much 1x05 was a turning point in their relationship.

And more on that in Part 5!

[milfuen]

fallen stardust, fearful gazes

synopsis: the reader comforts xiao as he doubts himself of being deserving of her love.

pairings: xiao x fem!reader

word count: 1.5k

warnings: present tense used in writing; hurt/comfort.

You go ahead, I’ll be waiting for you here. These were words he said to her. In the veil of the loud night, he provides comfort and assurance to her.

"Hey." Xiao looks at her. A kind smile is on her face—too kind for someone like him to be receiving. He trails over her as she moves to sit beside him on the balcony in Wangshu Inn. "Can I—"

"Am I deserving of your love?" Xiao doesn't like the way her eyes widened in disbelief and surprise. He averts his gaze to her lap, where her fingers are clenched in a fist. At the end of the day, his insecurities reign over his life. (Y/N) clicks her tongue, something Xiao misunderstands as annoyance as his nose scrunches in hurt.

Then, she laughs mirthlessly. “Xiao.” (Y/N) pulls Xiao down to her level, nose close enough to his in a very confrontational way. The adeptus feels her fingers wrap around his forearm slowly. “Haven’t I shown you enough of me?” she whispers.

His eyes widen, breaths growing shallow as he meets her eyes. “I—” Xiao disappears in a flurry of Anemo. He finds himself face-to-face with the Traveler, cuts on their skin as they try to fight off a lawachurl. Shock is written on his face for a moment before he’s donning his Yaksha mask and preventing any more injury to come to the Traveler, his element whizzing through the air.

Paimon’s circling around the Traveler as soon as the threat has been eliminated, nagging words bouncing off Xiao’s attention as they scold the Traveler for going into danger like that. “Thank you,” the Traveler whispers amidst Paimon’s loud berating of them. A second passes, and Xiao nods, not mentioning the trouble they’ve caused him. It is his duty, after all, he can’t complain, nor does he have the intention to.

Xiao waits for Paimon to finish, somewhat used to such occurrences during the rare times the Traveler would summon him. Paimon protests loudly as the Traveler saunters over to Xiao, apologetic for taking up his time to which Xiao responds with a nonchalant shake of his head. The Traveler receives this with a smile as they obtain a plate of Almond Tofu seemingly out of nowhere. 

The last time, the Traveler had given Xiao something he didn't need—an Onikabuto from Inazuma—yet he hoped they would do the same this time around. It might seem selfish to give (Y/N) his favorite food rather than hers. Nonetheless, he accepts the Traveler’s gift and disappears. To Wangshu Inn once again.

Verr Goldet smiles kindly at Xiao as he takes slow and silent steps ascending the stairs. He stops at a step, but persists ultimately. (Y/N) is still waiting for him where he usually is. Xiao’s name is on her lips as soon as he steps on the floor. “You’re back.” She’s not mad at him, he’s silently relieved. But he knows well that she won’t get mad at him.

“I’m sorry.” (Y/N) takes the plate of Almond Tofu that he offers her and sighs at his regret. She beckons him to sit beside her and feeds him a spoonful of the dish he oh so adores. “I’m sorry,” he says again through him chewing on the Almond Tofu.

(Y/N) speaks after Xiao swallows his Almond Tofu. “Be quiet.” (Y/N)’s not Rex Lapis, but her words compel Xiao’s submission. They slowly reduce the Almond Tofu in their possession, neither discussing what had transpired just before Xiao’s quick fulfillment of his duty.

She stares silently at Xiao. It's unsettling. (Y/N) might be angry at him. Xiao feels like apologizing again. He follows her gaze however barely it moves across his features. (Y/N) ends on his eyes. To Xiao, she seems disappointed but the way she looks at him is almost too endearing for it to seem like so.

"Xiao, haven't I shown you enough of me?" she repeats her question from earlier. Xiao anxiously gazes at her. He doesn't know what he should say because she's shown him everything. They both know that. Yet he can't get himself to speak or tell her anything. Her hand rests on his bicep. Xiao's breath hitches, and he hesitantly glances at her hand on him.

"You—" Xiao speaks shakily. "You have." Perhaps she's only playing with him. Perhaps she legitimately wants to help him. Perhaps she's actually angry at him. Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps she wants him to see something.

(Y/N) searches his eyes for a message only she can see. Xiao is left ignorant of what it is even though he's aware of everything she's doing. "Xiao." He melts at the way she articulates his name. "I love you. That’s my reason." The wind is the only witness as for the first time in his lifetime, he feels warmth against his lips.

(Y/N) is slow, Xiao is inexperienced. His cheeks are red as her fingers tighten on him. Xiao feels anxious. He pushes her away in panic, something he regrets right after as he finds himself chasing her again. (Y/N) chuckles, wrapping her arms around him to avoid his lips. She hides her face in his chest, counting every rise and fall with his breathing.

The stars wave across the painting of the night sky, a flurry of art and beauty presenting before Xiao’s eyes. He hesitantly pushes (Y/N) closer to him. It vibrates against his skin, her voice sighing into him. Xiao sighs too.

“How was the Almond Tofu?” Her voice is muffled.

“Good,” Xiao responds stiffly. 

(Y/N) caresses him carefully, smiling. “I’ll be sure to relay your thanks to the Traveler.” He shivers under her touch. A breeze passes by, cold from the silent moon which sends Xiao’s partner into cuddling closer into him. Right. He hasn’t forgotten. (Y/N) is mortal. “Unless other people have the privilege of summoning you.”

Xiao’s lips press together in a straight line. “It’s late, (Y/N).”

She hums absentmindedly. “I don’t want you to wait for me.” Xiao has always told her to go to sleep, regardless of his own. (Y/N) knows that adepti don’t exactly need any sleep, but she wants him to spend a night of peace, for once.

(Y/N) doesn’t know whether or not Xiao gets any nightmares from his karmic debt, but it won’t matter if she can do something about it. It’s childish to think that her presence will help him sleep, yet she believes anyway.

“I have no choice but to do that.”

“You forget that your duty is already over, Xiao.”

“What purpose do I have without this?”

“You can be mine.”

Xiao takes her by the shoulders to look her in the eyes, desperation in his eyes. “Don’t do this to me.” Although Rex Lapis no longer rules over Liyue, Xiao still cannot ignore his contract with the archon. It’s been the only thing he knows for centuries.

“I want you to be selfish for once. You’ve stared at me for too long, choosing to abstain from desire.” She takes hold of his wrist. “What does that bring you? Control? You can never hurt me, Xiao, no matter how much you think that you can.”

“I can,” he declares, despite his wavering voice.

“Try, Xiao.”

(Y/N)’s stare is steeled as Xiao grips on her shoulder, left arm rising to the air slowly. She doesn’t even have to wait as Xiao breaks down in front of her, shaking and heaving. Tears all too quickly escape his eyes at the fear of hurting her. With killing as his forte, he’s all too scared to hurt the person he loves with all his heart.

She embraces him quickly, deeming that she’s done enough. “I’m sorry—I went too far.” (Y/N) has to focus on Xiao to stop herself from crying for his sake. She knows what he has gone through, yet she commits this mistake. She forgets that Xiao is new to emotions. She forgets that he is not used to human experiences.

“Don’t be sorry,” Xiao mumbles, hands still shaking beside him. “I don’t care what you do wrong.”

“I made you cry, Xiao.” This was not what (Y/N) intended to do. She fully thought he wouldn’t default to hurting, but that is something she blames herself for. She overlooked what Xiao’s used to.

“That’s my fault, entirely. Please, don’t feel sorry.” 

“I really am sorry.” Xiao can feel her pulse, thrumming intensely within her skin. Along with that, he can feel her fear. It’s something he doesn’t want to sense from her. He can never protect her if she is scared of him.

Xiao doesn’t want her to feel scared or sorry. That’s not what he wants while loving her. Xiao only wants her to smile and to feel loved. It is his only knowledge of love, so he wants to give her all of him to achieve that. 

Don’t blame yourself. 

“Let’s rest for tonight, you’re right. ” Xiao stands up, eyes red from the tears he shed. (Y/N) takes the hand Xiao offers, looking worse than him though she wasn’t the one who cried. Light on their feet, they lead each other to the bed they shared more than once. He kisses her again under the sheets, and again, and again, and again.

Don’t ever forget that I love you so.

[shreddedleopard]

More Sherliam thoughts/headcanons:

I present to you;

Sherlock Holmes who is averse to physical displays of affection/ fondness, who has spent his life avoiding the typical family hugs, elbow and back touches, shoulder bumps, even the playful shoving and back and forth of teenage boys. It gets on his nerves.

Then along comes Liam, and Sherlock is suddenly gripped with this need to touch, in any way shape or form — the urge to tease and shove and poke and throw an arm around shoulders or guide by the elbow or steady at the small of the back or shoulder barge playfully or grab a hand or or or —

And it’s so new and terrifying and exhilarating all at once and he cannot control the way it all spills over when they’re together in New York and he fucking knows Billy is watching him and smirking but bugger it.

Is this what normal people do? Is this the result of pointless but typical human urges?

Liam doesn’t seem to mind. Does he? Or does he? He’d push back if he did, wouldn’t he?

How the hell is Sherlock meant to know how all this works when he’s never given a rat’s ass about any of it before??

UGH.

And then, Liam:

The boy who was the rock from such a young age, who never received gestures of physical affection, only gave them when needed to his baby brother, but never asked or expected anything for himself, even at the nice orphanages, even from the kindest sisters.

Who avoided typical rough-housing child’s play because he had bigger things to worry about and plans to see through their end and adults to impress with his mind so that he could provide for Louis.

The touch starved man who now, suddenly, finds himself on the receiving end of frequent, fleeting body contact from his newfound friend and intellectual soul mate; who is absolutely acutely aware of each and every brush of an arm or tug on a sleeve or elbow to the ribs or arm around a back or forehead against a shoulder or toe to a shin beneath the kitchen table or or or —

And it’s so new and terrifying and exhilarating all at once and he cannot control the way he aches for every touch to come more frequently; for the contact to last longer; for the gesture to become more.

But he’s taught himself not to want and not to ask and not to be any trouble to anyone, because that’s how you get by in life and make acquaintances who feel like they need you, so he doesn’t voice any of this aloud. He just grins softly and accepts the gestures gracefully and contains the spontaneous combustion he feels inwardly, in case it might burn Sherlock or put him off continuing to be so physically present with him.

Billy, however, is neither touch-repellent nor touch-starved and can see through the both of them and if they don’t snap the goddamn tension soon he’s gonna snap it for them.