#i’ve literally been in love with him for a decade

[dani-ya-dig]

Something that I really love about Sam, and have always loved since I listened to his first video, is how he entirely subverts the expectations for vampires. Not just modern day ones but the expectations that have always been there for vampires.

(And his southern accent but that’s not what this post is about)

When vampires first rose to popularity, what they represented was a fear of sexuality. They were inherently sexual creatures of the night who lured innocent people into the shadows with their powers of seduction only to drink their blood.

We even see this in most of the redacted vampires. Vincent was literally introduced as “the flirty vampire”. While later he was given some depth and we learn that he just picked up that act from Porter, it was still an integral part of him in the beginning. Even Alexis, as little from her as we have heard, she speaks in a very low, sultry tone. Even when she isn’t trying to be flirtatious.

This is a very inherent part of vampires some lore even describes it as a power that they have. (I believe this is addressed within Castle Audios lore as “the lure”)

But Sam doesn’t have that. He isn’t flirty. He isn’t seductive. Not in the traditional way anyways. (Because HOO BOY AM I SEDUCED)

Sam doesn’t try to lure Darlin in when they first meet. He doesn’t really try to lure darlin at all, really. They just naturally grew close. It was active flirtation, it was just chemistry and care.

Even when they do admit their feelings for each other Sam still doesn’t want to have sex. He hadn’t for over a decade, and the last person he had sex with stole his life away from him. Of course he didn’t feel comfortable.

And I think this all helps to portray the most important part of Sam’s backstory.

He wasn’t supposed to be a vampire.

He never planned on being turned. He didn’t want Alexis to turn him. He never wanted to be that.

The same could be said for Vincent, he didn’t wanted to be turned either. He wasn’t given a choice. However, Vincent still took on that flirty vampire persona.

I think this illustrates the difference in how Vincent and Sam grew into their turning over time. Vincent, while extremely depressed in the beginning of his turning, grew into it. He eventually learned to accept himself as a vampire, and even embrace it. I think him taking on that traditional, flirty vampire act, was his way of embracing what he now was.

Lovely’s part in Vincent’s character growth, rather than teaching him to accept himself as a vampire, was helping him to learn that he didn’t have to be someone new just because his mortal self is dead.

Sam, while he accepted the fact that he was a vampire passively, he never really embraced it as part of himself. I think this is really well illustrated by how he handled feeding before he fed from Darlin. “I’ve never been one to savor the taste. I just chug it like a supplement and pour a cup of something I actually like the taste of”. (That was paraphrased pls don’t hurt me if I got something wrong). He accepts that he needs blood to survive but he is going to incorporate it into his life passively, and focus on the things he actually likes. He accepts that he is a vampire, but he won’t take it as a part of himself.

I think this is even shown well in Sam choice to “chose morality” (as it was put in the trigger warnings of that one video, still hung up on that btw) rather than live forever. He accepts that he is immortal, but he isn’t going to embrace it.

To Sam vampirism isn’t a part of himself, it’s just something that was done to him. Like a giant scar that covers his body, his face, his eyes, even his core. It still isn’t him.

The way that Darlin plays into Sam’s character growth, I think has potential to change this and I think it’s something interesting to explore.

So far Darlin already has played a pretty big part in Sam’s character growth. Before meeting them he was closed off. Isolating himself from pretty much everyone but a few people in his clan. Darlin has brought him out of that. He now has people, he has the pack. While he does love Vincent and Lovely (and possibly Fred and Bright but we will never know what happened with them), it’s important to have people outside of the ones that you are forced to interact with by circumstance. Especially if said circumstances are horribly traumatic for you.

Blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb, and all that.

However, I think Darlin inadvertently helping Sam to embrace the vampiric aspects of himself is interesting concept. Especially now that Sam has fed from Darlin, and enjoyed it, and saw how much his mate enjoyed. I think Sam slowly accepting vampirism is absolutely a possibility in the future.

If it ever happens or not I will still adore Sam’s character all the same.

Anyways this was a really long winded way of explaining that I like how Sam subverts the typical tropes with vampires, and I appreciate how it ties into his turning being non-consensual. I like to rant if people haven’t picked up on that already lmao.

Also I miss my girlfriend. Erik bring Sam back home immediately.

[akkivee]

i really enjoy seeing fan artists i followed for hypmic become like, successful after all these years lol like an ichiro/occasional ichikuu artist i follow has gotten into animation, i saw a rosasa artist a while back advertising their published bl, and this one goated artist who casually drew kuukou for his bday a few times has been seeing a lot of success with their shounen jump serialisation ITS JUST NICE TO SEE 😭😭😭

[weirdgirlvampire]

I am going to be scream sobbing when I see hozier later this month

[oglegoggle]

Weird double emotion of lonely and longing & too mistrusting of others to really even want to attempt to date now (if ever again tbh)

[lilgynt]

oh and i finished sharp objects in like one sitting at work today bc my brother read it and we talked about it more cause i had the show he had the book and glad he didn’t. but insane he didn’t make any connections to home. like not in an emo everything sucks way but my mom has said exact lines adora has and me well…

[starlightvoid]

new dan howell slutty pics and i don’t know how to function

[murdockparker]

Mr. Bridgerton and the Baker

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

Summary: Covered in flour. It is how she usually spent her days, working hard at her family's bakery. She just hadn't expected to have met him in such a state.

Word Count: 11.8k

Warnings: pining, angst, fluff, a small assault (reader gets hit, not by Benedict!), mention of pregnancy (like, literally a line or two),

A/N: Did I write an entire fic barely based on that one scene in Camp Rock where Mitchie is covered in flour? Yes. Do I regret it? No.

With the melting of snow and the promise of new starts, the social season was nearly upon the ton, nearly upon all the potential suitors and debutantes—all waiting with bated breath to secure a match this year. Of course, those in waiting were of high status, usually tied to the aristocracy or drowning in wealth beyond compare.

The others? The ones not blessed with endless funds or pure luck of royal lineage had the privilege, nay, honor to serve those who would be so fortunate. For the many, it included servicing the estates—butlers, lady’s maids, governesses, home chefs and the like. For the patrons on Tilbury Street, it included the less sought after roles, polishers, cobblers, modistes and bakeries. One bakery in particular was the prime choice for the aristocracy, a diamond in the rough as some may say. 

—

“I just simply don’t understand why we cannot have our chefs prepare the pastries for the ball,” Eloise Bridgerton nearly groaned, her arm hooked onto her mother’s. They had been walking up and down Tilbury Street for the better part of twenty minutes, simply enjoying the fresh spring weather. “I’ve never known them to make horrid dishes.”

“It’s the first Bridgerton Ball of the season, Eloise,” the dowager viscountess murmured politely. “Along with it being the first Kate has had the pleasure of hosting, putting an order in here is a fresh foot forward, one that’ll impress our guests.”

Eloise barked back a laugh. “If it is so important, why is Kate not here to make the order herself?”

“That, dear sister, is an excellent point.” Following close behind the two Bridgerton ladies was a rather tall shadow, equally as dashing and nearly as clever—Benedict—the second eldest son of the Bridgerton brood. “Surely Anthony could spare his wife for one afternoon, I can’t imagine it being so difficult to pry them from their bedroom—”

“Benedict Bridgerton!” Violet snapped, turning hot on her heels to face her son. He could only laugh.

“Oh Mother, you must relax,” he said lovingly, patting both hands on her shoulders. “You know better than I that it could have been a far fouler thought—why, I can easily imagine three other ways I could have expressed my way of thinking.”

“Ah, ever the poet, Benedict,” Eloise smiled wryly, pushing her way to the front of their clump. No one had the heart to mention the glaring fact that it was likely she didn’t know the way in which they were headed. 

“This bakery,” Violet continued half-heartedly. “Is a prestigious supplier for the ton—you may recall their exquisite cake that we had ordered for Daphne’s wedding.”

Benedict hummed contently. “It was a good cake,” he practically nodded off at the thought. The decadent sponge nearly brought him to tears—of course, it could have very well been the relief from undue stress of Daphne’s season altogether, having nearly lost his older brother to an unnecessary duel.

“I think it was far too sweet,” Eloise said, scrunching her nose in distaste. “I had to drink nearly three cups of tea to clear out the sugar on my tongue.”

“Ah, but what’s life without a little bit of sweetness?” Benedict nearly sang.

“Perfectly fulfilling,” his younger sister quipped back.

The dowager viscountess could only sigh, her eyes reaching up to the clouds above. While she loved nothing more than being the mother of all eight of her perfect children, their endless bickering and bantering grew vexing. It merely took the Bridgerton siblings another minute of arguing before stopping in front of a quaint storefront—the sickeningly sweet aroma filling the street. “We’re here.”

“I could have told you as much,” Benedict mumbled, rubbing his temple lightly. “The scent is… overpowering.” If he were lucky, the headache that was quickly forming would dull fast.

“But Benedict,” Eloise turned hot on her heels. “What’s life without a bit of sweetness?”

Violet Bridgerton was quick to catch her second eldest's hand before it met the back of Eloise’s head. “If it’s too much for you, dear,” she released her grip. “Please feel free to wait for us out here. It should only take a moment.”

“Like a ‘moment’ at the modiste?” Benedict crossed his arms, his brow nearly touching his hairline. “If I recall, the last time I accompanied you to the dressmaker, I spent over an hour basking in the summer sun.”

“Nothing logical stopped you from coming in,” Eloise drawled. “Of course, if you wanted to managed to stay pleasant with the seamstress, one should have kept it in his trousers—”   

“We’ll only be a moment,” Violet hushed Eloise quickly, grasping the top of her arm firmly. “There seems to be little wait. We’ll be on our way shortly.”

He huffed towards the sun—while there had been little heat near the start of the English spring, the sun was warm against his skin. Benedict enjoyed being outdoors more often than not, it was usually the reason he accompanied his mother on their errands nearly every other day of the season. That, of course, and the fact it got his worrying mama off of his back to be wed. With Anthony finally securing a match, it was only fitting for Violet Bridgerton to be working her way down her list of endless children—having only two of eight married off. “It should only be a moment,” Benedict reassured himself, watching various other families and couples walk by. 

That is, until he heard a rather loud bang coming from the alley beside him. He should have known better—he was taught better—than to investigate outlandish sounds, especially in town, but Benedict Bridgerton was nothing if not curious. He peeked around the corner, holding his breath, preparing to be met with a wild animal of some kind. His view was shaky at best, hardly could see a thing around the bricks. If he wanted a better look, he’d have to take a few steps towards the unusual noise. 

A large white cloud had enveloped the small alley, it was difficult to even see a few meters ahead, let alone what could have caused the loud commotion. Benedict waved his hand through the mysterious fog, trying to clear some air. “Hello?” He heard a soft squeak. An animal, it had to have been, Benedict was sure of it now. “Is anyone there?” 

A cough rang through the alley, startling him more than rogue vermin could have. The cloud had begun to dissipate, the white settling on the stone street below. Flour, if he had to guess, given the location.

“I’m alright,” a voice murmured quietly, another soft cough following quickly after. The shape of a person came into view, the air finally clearing enough for him to make sense of the scene he came upon. It was one of a woman now covered head to toe in the white powder—she had no distinguishable features, the flour was caking every bit of her body and dress. Just striking eyes that made Benedict’s heart jump to his throat. “Just… made a mess.”

“So it seems,” Benedict hummed, stepping over a pile of powder to get closer. “Do you require any help?”

“No, no,” she laughed. “I wouldn’t want you to get dirty. I fear I’ve got quite enough of that for the both of us.”

“I don’t mind getting dirty,” Benedict said quickly, his tongue moving faster than his brain. “But… yes, I suppose it’d be for the best if I refrained from getting any flour on me. May I ask how…?”

“Clumsy,” she uttered simply, the shrug of her shoulders speaking nothing but truth. “I must have the slipperiest fingers in town—I wish I could say this was the first time…”

“Manage to cover yourself in flour often?” Benedict’s lips pulled into a jesting smirk.

“Nearly every other day,” the woman sighed. “We’ve grown accustomed to purchasing an extra sack or two just for situations like these."

“I hardly doubt you could be that clumsy,” Benedict laughed, leaning against the stone wall. “But, I am painting quite the image in my head.”

“Oh I do hope I’m decent in that image, Mr. Bridgerton,” she giggled, curtsying in a near-mocking manner.

“How do you know—”

“Everyone knows your family, Mr. Bridgerton, I’d be a fool to admit I don’t know who you are—though you and your brothers all blur together, so I am merely taking a shot in the dark in which of the four you are.”

“Oh?”

She nodded once, a flurry of powder falling from her hair. A muffled shout from the back door startled her, grabbing her attention. “Ah,” the woman waved the air in front of her face, “I suppose I should take my leave—get cleaned up.”

“Of course,” Benedict said simply. “I won’t keep you.” In nearly an instant, the mysterious dusted lady disappeared from view, diving into the back door. He was taken aback by her candidness—having addressed him so forwardly without the pleasantries of a name exchange. “Damn,” he mumbled to himself, kicking residual flour off of his polished shoe, “I never asked for her name.” Would it be too forward to knock on the back door to ask for her? Benedict Bridgerton couldn’t wrap his head around the interaction—she nearly sent him into a tizzy.

“Brother?” 

Eloise stood at the end of the alley, clutch in hand, face pinched in confusion. 

“Ah, I suppose you’re finished?”

“Hardly,” Eloise scoffed, “Mother insisted on doubling the initial order ‘just to be safe’. She’ll be out in a moment.” 

“Perhaps I should go inside to accompany her—”

“And leave your unwed sister unchaperoned in this part of town?” Eloise pressed a hand to her brother’s chest, stopping him dead in his tracks. His eyes danced quickly to the street in the distance, clearly not paying any attention to his sister. “Benedict?”

“Hm?” He glanced down. “Ah, maybe we should both go back inside—”

“You’re…” she pushed on him harder, nearly sending him backwards. “Acting strange. Not terribly long ago you wanted nothing to do with this place and now, you’re dying to jump into the building that brought you so much strife?” Eloise removed her hand from him, settling it down by her side as she glanced at him up and down. The blues of his outfit were covered slightly in a white power—not enough to really notice, but enough to give the appearance of filth. “And you’re covered in… flour?”

“I don’t wish to share every moment of my day with you, dear Sister,” Benedict said simply, sighing contently. “My business is my business.”

“Business,” Eloise parroted. “Sure.”

Violet Bridgerton had finished the order quickly, mumbling something about the higher prices this time of year—she had gotten a good deal regardless. Benedict was hardly listening, for he was already planning his next trip to this very bakery, hoping to meet the girl in flour once more. 

He never did get the chance, to go back to town. His studies took up most of his free time, any other moment he had was spent with his ever-growing family. Just recently, his sister Daphne brought over her newest addition—another daughter named Belinda—who happened to be yet another spitting image of her mother. Benedict had a theory that every new Bridgerton baby will simply just inherit all the Bridgerton features, so far he had been proven correct. 

“Damn,” Benedict mumbled, violently dabbing a paint brush into his water cup, the colors swirling from the end.

He had been in his studio for the last few hours, mixing endless pigments and oils together, trying to concoct the color in his mind’s eye. It was impossible, he theorized, to create the exact shades and hues of her eyes. It was the most striking thing he remembered about her appearance—save for the copious amount of white flour caking her form—and Benedict Bridgerton had come to the conclusion that her eyes were simply forged by God Himself, a color not meant for mortal recreation.

“Why can I not…” He sighed, slumping back in his stool, paintbrush nearly hitting his trousers. “This is impossible.”

The grand clock beside the door chimed out. It was nearly time to get ready for Anthony and Kate’s ball—an occasion he was most dreading, save for enjoying the few pastries that came from the quaint bakery down in town. Reluctantly, he began to pry himself from his studio and made his way to the washroom, preparing to soak away any remnants of her.

—

“Mother,” (Y/N) chimed out, tying the serving apron to her waist, “I don’t see the reason for my attendance this evening. Surely the hosts of the event will have their own serving staff?”

“(Y/N),” her mother exasperated, throwing a towel down. “Your brothers are ill and bedridden and have been the last few days. Your father and I are counting on you to help fulfill the order, my back isn’t what it used to be, if you recall.”  

The girl sighed, her eyes rolling right up to the cracking ceiling. “How funny, it seems your back flares up nearly in time for deliveries to be made,” the girl mumbled.

“What was that?” Her mother turned quickly towards her only daughter. “I’m sure I misheard you.”

“You must have,” (Y/N) sang. “For I said I’m willing to help with the delivery, mother.”

The older woman narrowed her brow. “Never do I hear such sass from the boys… Perhaps a bit of manual labor will refocus your priorities.” 

“I already agreed,” (Y/N) reiterated. “As if I had terribly too much of a choice…”

“No,” her mother clicked, slapping the a rather large ball of dough that resided on the floured surface. “You do not. Now come, help your mother roll this out.”

She had gotten ready for the ball in record time—seeing as how she’s never gotten ready for one. (Y/N) dug through her mother’s wardrobe, finding an old and somewhat outdated green dress to wear, but it did the trick just fine. It was far nicer than the frocks she had owned anyhow, a light embroidery laced the edges and was sure to be run over by her fingertips endlessly throughout the evening.   

“The carriage is here!” Her father couldn’t have shouted louder throughout the small flat. Their home resided above the bakery, a quaint little thing with only two bedrooms—(Y/N) had the pleasure of sleeping in a rather over-glorified closet. If she reached her arms out, she’d be able to touch two of the walls easily, but like everything in her life, she made do. Unexpected child? Unexpected room. 

“I’ll be right there,” (Y/N) said, tying the now-cleaned apron around her waist, checking herself in the reflection of her water pitcher. “Damned hair,” her fingers moved to tuck a loose ringlet back into position—she had spent the better part of the evening trying to style it. 

“We need to load the carriage and make way to Bridgerton House,” her father repeated, smoothing his formalwear out. He hardly had the chance to wear it, seeing as situations like this happen only once in a while. “We must make a good impression, perhaps we’ll find more business this evening.”

“That’ll be a blessing,” her mother agreed, heading down the stairs to the bakery. “We could always use more business and the dowager viscountess is well liked around the ton, surely she’ll have pleasant things to say about our work.”

“I thought we let the pastries ‘speak for themselves’,” (Y/N) chimed in, carefully picking up a parcel. Her parents simply glared at her, allowing their daughter to silently move along with the loading process. 

The silence continued throughout the lengthy ride to Bridgerton House—the bakers not uttering a word until disembarking to unload all of the sweets. True to her original thought, the Bridgertons had their staff do the bulk of the unloading, carrying each parcel and box into the grand room that was to be the heart of the ball, all that was left to move was the elegant cake specially ordered by the dowager viscountess.

“Do you need a hand?”

“Oh, that would be—” (Y/N) turned around to the mysterious voice, only to find the same Bridgerton boy from earlier in the week standing behind her. “I—Mr. Bridgerton, I’m sure I can find my father to assist, you really don’t need to—”

“I insist,” Benedict held up his hand, effectively cutting her off. “I shouldn’t allow a lady to carry such a thing on her own, it would be most improper.”

“I’m certainly no lady,” she scoffed, readjusting her apron. “I’m not a part of your ‘season’ or whatever it is you lot do during the spring and summer months.”

Benedict barked out a laugh. “Debuted into the Marriage Mart or not, you’re still a lady and I am ever the gentleman, so please, indulge me.”

A blinding heat flushed across her cheeks—she was sure it was visible from down the street. (Y/N) stepped to the side to allow Benedict to grab ahold of one side of the tray, her hands curling around the other. “Thank you… for your help.”

“It’s no bother,” Benedict said truthfully. “I’ve been practically bored out of my skull all afternoon, this is truly the highlight of my evening.”

“Helping me carry a cake?” She asked, turning a corner carefully.

“Seeing you again,” he hummed unabashedly, noting the way her grip stiffened. “Though I must say, I think I prefer you without the flour.”

“How do you know that girl was me? I was covered head to toe.”

“Your eyes,” Benedict said simply. “They’re the most expressive and exquisite eyes I’ve had the pleasure of viewing.”

Benedict Bridgerton. The man who made her speechless.

“That, and I made a bold assumption when I saw you and the pastries arrive this evening.” He laughed lightly, afraid to drop the masterpiece. “I assumed correctly, no?”

“You,” (Y/N) tried to allow her cheeks to cool before continuing.“Would be correct. Very wise you are, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“Benedict.”

“Benedict,” she repeated softly, twisting herself to set the cake down on the table. “My apologies.”

The ballroom was grand—much nicer than any place she’d dream of residing in—delicate decorations hung from the sconces, flowers covered nearly every inch of the free space. It was, in every meaning, elegant. “This is… where you live?”

“Ah,” Benedict rubbed the back of his neck. “My brother has been kind to allow me to stay here since he married, seeing as I only have my own property in the country. But yes, this is one of the homes I grew up in.”

“One of the homes,” she repeated back to him. “And here I thought I was spoiled with my broom closet.”

He turned a vibrant shade of red. “Oh! I didn't mean to—”

Her laughter filled the ballroom, the lightness practically lifting Benedict upwards. “I was merely teasing. I’m well aware of your status and wealth, Mr. Bridgerton—” 

“Benedict.”

“Ah! Sorry,” (Y/N) felt the twinge of shame hit her chest, it was small but enough to keep her in line to avoid making the mistake again. “I meant it in jest.”

“Funny girl,” Benedict clicked, waving his finger lightly. “You’ve got quite a sense of humor.”

“Growing up with nothing more than sacks of flour and parcels of sugar allows one to get creative with her jokes,” she explained carefully, treading lightly as to not make it sound completely miserable. “Though, I think they were a better audience anyhow…”

“You wound me,” a hand grabbed his heart, knees buckling towards the ground. “Oh how the lady wounds me.”

“I believe I told you, Benedict, I certainly am no lady.”

“Well, the lady has neglected to give me her name,” he peeked up from the floor—having found quite a cozy position. “So how else should I address such a fair maiden?”

“Fair maiden,” she scoffed playfully, voice barely above a whisper. “Certainly am nothing close to a maiden… but, if you must know,” she paused, “my name is (Y/N), (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

“(Y/N)…” Benedict repeated it, mostly to himself. He rose from the floor, eyes not leaving her own. “What a beautiful name.”

“I—thank you. I suppose you should give my parents such a compliment, though. I am simply the recipient of such a gift.”

“Well, when I ask your parents for permission to court their daughter, I’ll pass the message along.”

She froze. 

“Ah, what was that?”

“I hate to be so bold,” Benedict sighed, shoving a hand into his pocket. “But I feel the need to let you know of my intentions—my interest in you.”

“Oh you must be mistaken,” (Y/N) shook her head. “You’d want nothing to do with a girl like me. Surely there are other women in the ton who strike your fancy?”

“Nope,” he said simply. “Not a one. You, on the other hand, with your striking eyes and seemingly endless beauty, piqued my interest. If I may be honest, I haven’t stopped thinking about our encounter in the alley—it’s been on the forefront of my mind for days.”

She blinked, the gears in her head trying to keep up with the words Benedict was speaking. “But I am not from your world, Benedict. Even if I was interested in pursuing a courtship—”

“Are you not?” His eyes struck wide open. “I’m quite the catch, you see. Well-bred, scholarly and, if I might say so myself, I’m quite the talented artist. Easy on the eyes, too.”

“Benedict.” He stopped and looked at the woman. She was practically glowing in the candlelight. “While I’m not saying I’m… not interested, I can’t help but feel like you are infatuated with the idea of me and not… me.”

“How do you mean?”

She laughed humorlessly. “You don’t know me, truly. My likes, dislikes, how I take my tea, what weather I fancy—”

“See,” Benedict grabbed her hand, “I wish to know those things. Is that not the purpose of a courtship?”

“I am not from your world, Benedict. I have priorities, a duty to my family and our business—I can’t spend a moment thinking of the frivolity of a courtship with a man of your status.”

“But if I were, say, the butcher’s son it would be different?”

“Yes,” she removed her hand from his. “Of course it would be. I’m surprised you haven’t thought this through.”

“I have been thinking it through since we’ve met,” Benedict nearly spat, feeling anger bubble up in his chest. “I am not the type of man who wishes to court just anyone, you know.”

“So you wish to court me just because you can? Because how ever could I say no?”

“I—of course not!”

“We’re perfect strangers who shared a moment—albeit an endearing one—out in the middle of an alley. We both cleaned up and went about our lives,” she shook her head. “Nothing cosmic or magical about it.”

“I did not expect you to be so against the idea, unless… there’s another man of your affections?”

She groaned, pinching her nose. “No. No other man. Has a woman ever said no to you before, Mr. Bridgerton?”

He paused, clearly taken aback.

“Well,” she smoothed the tablecloth, the wrinkle in the bottom corner was annoying her, “let me be the first, then. No, I am not interested in a courtship, nor do I think I have any interest in a courtship—with you or anyone—so do not take it terribly too personally.” 

“Never? Don’t you plan to have a family of your own?”

“I already have a family,” she said simply. “I have no time for foolish ideas of having an adoring husband, three beautiful babies and a peaceful life out in the country.”

“That seems awfully specific—”

“No matter,” she waved. “Thank you for your interest, Mr. Bridgerton, I am flattered, truly.”

She walked away, hoping to hide in the carriage the rest of the night. Was she a fool? To turn down a courtship from such a sophisticated and notable man of the ton?

Benedict seemed to think so. True to her comment, he couldn’t recall a time in which a woman had rejected his advances—never in the name of a courtship, this would be his first—so to watch her walk away stung deeply, like a thorn to his heart. He was genuinely interested in the girl, he knew it. He just needed to prove it to her.

—

Days had passed since the Bridgerton ball and (Y/N) had successfully faked a stomach ache and ‘rested’ in the carriage until the night was over and done with. She was busy in the kitchen, working hard on a batch of fresh loaves for the storefront. Flour dusted her apron—the humor not lost on her—as she thought more and more about Benedict’s proposal. 

The bell to the shop rang out, her brother’s voice gave a muffled greeting, nothing out of the ordinary for a regular day at the bakery. It was calming, to work with the dough, taking virtually nothing and creating something delicious was soothing to her soul. She continued to knead the dough, working it like clay against her palms before the door to the back swung wide open.

“(Y/N), I do believe you have a visitor,” Harry, her second eldest brother smirked. He had finally recovered enough to help around the shop again, much to their mother’s delight. “One of the gentlemen variety, if you must know.”  

She stopped dead in her tracks.

“Did he give you a name?”

“Only asked for you,” Harry shrugged. “I figured you must’ve been expecting him,” he walked closer to her, taking over the kneading, “brought you flowers and looks rather fancy.”

She wiped her hands off on the already soiled apron, clapping her hands once for good measure. “Don’t over-work those, I’ll shove your face into the oven.”

Harry’s laugh rang out through the kitchen as she braved the door to the store. She knew it was inevitable, to expect him to come and try to woo her again, though she wasn’t expecting it so soon. The door felt rough against her palms, swinging wide open to the storefront. Sure enough, a one Benedict Bridgerton was standing by the counter, eyeing the various loaves on display. 

“Ah, Miss. (Y/L/N),” Benedict said, almost bowing. “I’m delighted you could join me.”

“Mr. Bridgerton,” (Y/N) smiled sickeningly sweet, forced beyond all measure. “What a… surprise.”

“A wonderful one, I presume?” He jested. Her eyes found the colorful bouquet quickly, she was trying her hardest to not make eye contact. It was ornate—fancy, just like her brother said—decked out in a healthy mix of wild blooms and expensive looking flowers. “Ah! My apologies, these are for you,” Benedict said, lifting the bouquet across the counter. 

She reluctantly took them, cradling the bunch as if it were a newborn babe. “Thank you, Mr. Bridgerton.”

He swallowed thickly at the formality of his name, but bit his tongue. “I must say, you looked exquisite at the ball, but I think your natural element suits you more favorably, why, you’re practically glowing.” Benedict pointed to her floured apron and messy frock, having been in the kitchen all morning. “Less flour than the first time.”

Her grip tightened around the bouquet. “Is there anything I can help you with? Perhaps another order for your mother?”

The man shook his head, laughing lightly. “No, no order. I just wished to see you.” The bluntness of his answer nearly shocked her, but the effect wore quickly.

“Perhaps I wished the opposite?”

“Oh, my dear,” Benedict practically mewled. “If that were true, you wouldn’t have come out here in the first place, now would you?”

Like a gaping trout, she had no reply. Perhaps he was right. She didn’t have to come out to the front of the store, the gnawing curiosity got the better of her and practically pulled her through that door. 

“If you are here to try to get me to change my mind—”

“I wish to spend the afternoon with you.”

She blinked.

“Just one afternoon, allow me to try and prove how serious I am about courting you,” Benedict said earnestly. “After that, if you are still of the same mind, I will never bother you again. You have my word.”

Hesitantly, she lowered the bouquet, her shoulders slumping. She was thinking so hard about his offer, Benedict swore he could see steam rising from her ears. “I… cannot just leave the bakery, it’s my family’s livelihood—”

“I’ll buy the lot,” Benedict said, pressing a handful of coins onto the counter top. “Sell me whatever it is you make in a day—a small price to pay for a moment of your time.”

“You cannot simply throw your money at things and expect it to always work out for you, Mr. Bridgerton,” she said sternly, eyeing the sack of coins longingly. She would be kidding herself if the offer didn’t sound appealing. “I am no woman on the corner, you cannot buy my time.”

“Then consider it a tip,” Benedict hummed, pushing the bag closer to her. “For your excellent service at the Bridgerton ball. Nothing nefarious, nothing expected of you. Just a man buying some bread.”

“Loads of bread,” (Y/N) mumbled, quickly calculating how many loaves he truly was willing to walk out with. The amount of money was unclear, but if she had to wager, he practically bought out the whole storefront. Her parents would be thrilled—they could even take a rare day off, just because their daughter spent the afternoon with a practical stranger. “Fine. One afternoon.”

The glee that washed across his body did not go unnoticed, he practically lit up the room with his joy.

“You won’t regret this,” he said seriously. “Trust that my intentions are pure and—”

“—honest and true,” she droned, finishing his thought. “Yes, yes, I understand.”

Benedict nodded. “Right. Well, shall we?”

“Will you allow me a moment to change? I do not think you wish to spend your day with a girl caked in flour.”

“Funny enough, I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he grinned. She was unamused. “But, if you insist.”

It didn’t take long for her to clean up, a change in her frock and a readjustment to her hair was all that was needed. She found herself staring in her mirror a bit longer than usual, taking in her features. Could he really be interested in her? He seemed so taken by her looks when she herself considered them… so plain. She shook her head, effectively jumping out of her haze and proceeded to head back downstairs to meet her suitor for the afternoon. 

“Perhaps you were right,” Benedict said softly. “This may be your best look to date.”

A heat warmed her cheeks and it wasn’t the summer sun. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Bridgerton—” 

“Ah!” Benedict waved a finger. “If we are to spend the afternoon together, I insist you call me by my given name.”

Her lips pressed together in protest. “If you insist—”

“Oh and I do, my darling,” Benedict nearly sang.

“Benedict,” she corrected. “What sorts of plans do you have for this afternoon? Surely you did not produce such a grand gesture only to leave our day up to chance.”

“I am feeling quite parched,” Benedict said, almost ignoring her comment. “Care for a spot of tea?” In their walk down the street, he had managed to stop right in front of a quaint little tea shop. She hardly noticed.

“And if I do not care for tea?”

“I hear they have excellent scones and biscuits,” Benedict countered. “Surely not sweeter than you, but delicious all the same.”

“Sweeter than my scones, you mean?”

Benedict raised a brow, puckering his lips lightly. She heard him correctly the first time. “So. Tea?”

They sat at a small table near the back of the shop, a hot pot of herbal tea sat between them. It looked entirely domestic, a pot of tea shared between lovers, any onlooker could have deduced as much.

“Pass the honey?” (Y/N) pointed to the small jar next to Benedict’s hand. He nodded and pushed it closer to her.

“You take your tea with honey?” He probed.

“Herbal tea, yes,” she confirmed, stirring a spoonful into her cup. “If it is black tea, a healthy amount of milk is entirely welcomed in my drink, no sugar.”

“Interesting,” Benedict said, watching her intently stir the honey until it dissolved into the hot liquid. “I prefer plain black tea myself, though occasionally my brother Colin will bring exquisite teas from his travels across the seas.”

“And Colin is which brother?” The question slipped out quickly, she hardly noticed she had asked.

“One of my two younger brothers,” Benedict smiled gently. “Not much younger than I, but I do have a few years on him, not as many as I have on Gregory, of course. He’s practically the babe of the family—save for sweet Hyacinth.”

“Eight children…” She thought aloud. “Were your parents working towards a record number?”

“I always jest that they wished to complete the entire alphabet,” Benedict mused. “But, alas, twenty six seems a bit much.” He took a sip of his tea, enjoying the lingering aroma. “So, you know there are eight of us?”

“Everyone knows your family,” she said simply. “Do not flatter yourself.”

“Of course,” he hummed into his cup, a smile brewing from his lips. “You have siblings, yes? I believe I met your brother earlier.”

“Two older brothers,” (Y/N) groaned lightly. “Jack and Harry, the latter being the one you met. They are… oh how do I put this? Exceptionally irritating.”

Benedict laughed into his drink. “Sounds quite a lot like my siblings.”

“My parents expect Jack to take over the bakery,” she explained quietly, her voice lowering. “But he has no desire to bake whatsoever. He can hardly make a sponge cake.”

“And a sponge cake is…?”

“One of the most basic cake recipes a baker can learn,” she continued. “I usually end up being the one who pulls the slack Jack creates.”

“And Harry?”

“When he isn’t galavanting across town with the ladies of the night, he is holed up in his room doing Lord knows what. Certainly nothing that helps the family business.”

“You care a lot about your family and the business,” Benedict said, stating what is clearly the obvious. “Surely your parents see it too?”

“Oh no,” she shook her head wildly. “That is the most asinine part of the ordeal! They simply do not see me as an asset to the bakery—something that should rightfully be mine should the time come.” She sighed, throwing her head into her hands. “But, I am expected to keep my head down and decorate cakes like a good girl.”

“You say that as if you are their pet,” Benedict scoffed lightly. “Do they truly expect such obedience from you?”

“I wasn’t wanted,” she said simply. “My parents merely wanted a son to take over the business—Jack, he’s the oldest. Good for nothing, as it turns out. Harry was to have an extra set of hands around the bakery, but now he’s their prodigal child. Me? I was shacked with an over glorified closet for a room because there truly was no space for me.” She sniffled. “At least they got a decorator out of it.”

Benedict tentatively put his hand on her shoulder, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “You’re more than a decorator. Surely your parents see that too?”

“They’ll see some use of me when I get home,” she said into her cup. “Seeing as you bought out our store just to spend a measly few hours with me. I’m sure that in of itself is worth having an accidental daughter.”

Benedict all but scoffed at this. “You cannot be serious.”

“Not everyone comes from loving families that wish to do nothing more than pop out babies left and right,” (Y/N) deadpanned, placing her cup back on the table. “If it were truly up to my parents, they would’ve stopped after Jack. But, much like the society you come from, an heir and a spare, I suppose.”

“And you?” Benedict almost felt afraid to ask. 

“It’s like you said,” she finished her cup of tea. “I am simply a pet.”

Benedict was never one for fights, but he suddenly had the urge to put his fist through a handful of faces in that moment. “That’s awful.” It was all he could say. 

“That’s life,” she shrugged, picking up a biscuit and examining it closely. Her nose scrunched. “If you were trying to gain my favor, perhaps you should’ve taken me somewhere with better biscuits. It’s insulting to a baker to see such poorly made ones, especially in a place like this.”

He knew she was trying to change the subject. “I shall do better next time.”

“Yes, I suppose you—” she stopped. “That was a rotten trick and you know it.”

“I am certainly no magician, (Y/N),” Benedict finished his tea, hiding the most devilish of smiles from behind the cup. “But seeing as we’re finished with our pot, perhaps we can take a turn about the park?”

“You’d risk public outcry and a scandal for being seen with a commoner in the park?” (Y/N) asked, pulling herself from her seat. “What would Lady Whistledown say?”

“You know of Lady Whistledown?”

“Everyone knows of Lady Whistledown,” she scoffs. “I may not have the pleasure to afford her column every time she publishes, but occasionally our regulars will leave their pamphlet for me once they’re finished.”

“Only read the good bits, I take it?”

“As much as I don’t understand the world you come from, Benedict, reading Whistledown helps me fill the gaps I am so obviously lacking. Truly, even if I did grow up in your society, I doubt I’d be able to understand much more than I do now anyway.”

“I reckon you’re right,” Benedict said, a laugh escaping through his nose. “I’m not one for society anyway—never cared much for it.”

“Surely news of this would cause a scandal, though?”

“News that I am simply walking in the park with a friend? Oh how the newsboys will have trouble selling that story,” Benedict mused, leaning down towards the lady. “Perhaps if we were seen doing something less proper, I suppose. Do you wish to be doing something less proper, (Y/N)?”

She didn’t dignify his question with a response, though, the rouge on her cheeks was answer enough.

—

It only took a handful of minutes to walk to the park, the tea shop was so close already. How convenient.

The other ladies in the park, the ones of a more genteel breeding, they were dressed finer than anything (Y/N) could have put on. She felt out of place. She usually did, of course, but something about her outdated frock in contrast to how striking Benedict looked and dressed? It felt rather foolish. 

Perhaps it was the notoriety of the Bridgerton walking beside her, or the self consciousness of being underdressed enough to catch the eyes of anyone walking past, but it felt like she was a spectacle—something in a museum or on display. She was holding bright light, nearly shouting at everyone that she was not enough, not worthy to be in this park, let alone with this man.

“I am tired of walking,” (Y/N) said suddenly. 

“We have only just begun,” he laughed. “But if you require a respite—”

“Let’s sit,” (Y/N) said just as quickly, practically running to the edge of the pond. Perfectly out of sight to everyone.

“How secluded,” Benedict mused. “I daresay, I never thought you’d be so agreeable—”

“Hush,” (Y/N) admonished, holding a finger up. “I am simply in need of a break—away from prying eyes.”

Benedict nodded, not daring to pry further. He watched her slump to the ground, her dress skirt billowing around her like a cloud before settling to the gravity. He continued to stand. “I rather like this park.”

“A park is a park.”

“Have you been before?”

“Here?” She shook her head. “Obviously not.”

“My family, we would come to London during the social season,” Benedict explained. “Our usual residence is out in Kent—anyhow, my father had this spectacular notion to come to the park every week as a family. Looking back, it was probably to save face and show a united Bridgerton front.”

She looked up at Benedict, who was currently plucking a few leaves off of the low hanging branches of the tree. “Sounds wise.”

“He was the wisest,” Benedict agreed. “Keeping the ever-growing number of Bridgerton children entertained became a sport. Anthony, Colin and I were always squabbling, drove my mother rightfully insane, so, my father had a bright idea.”

“Paste your lips together?” She offered. 

Benedict knelt down, close to the edge of the water. “No, but I do not doubt that idea crossed their minds,” he laughed, bringing the leaves in his hands to view, “my father suggested racing.”

“Horse racing?”

He shook his head. “We’d each pick a leaf and follow it to the other edge of the pond—kept us entertained for hours, running back and forth to reset our leaves and chase them down.”

“Smart man,” she hummed, genuinely impressed by the late viscount’s cleverness.

“So, pick your contender,” Benedict said softly, displaying the spare leaves like cards in a deck. 

“You are serious?”

“Dead serious, I’m afraid,” Benedict clicked, pushing his hand a bit closer to her. “Come on, humor me.”

She looked down at the leaves and back up at Benedict, his blue eyes rivaling the color of the pond. Taking an interest in the middle leaf—it was the longest and skinniest—she plucked it from his fingers. “This one.”

“Excellent choice,” Benedict said cheerily, dropping the other leaves. “I am more inclined to a smaller one—seems they move faster down the shore.”

“Size isn’t everything, Mr. Bridgerton,” (Y/N) crossed her arms, resting them on her knees. She would never dare to admit it out loud, but she was having a bit of fun.

“Ah, perhaps not,” Benedict jested with her, her jab not even shocking him in the slightest. “But, I reckon it will be a close match regardless.”

After insuring that the lovely lady in his company was watching his movements closely, he set the leaves down on the surface of the water. “Finish line is by that tree over there,” he pointed, finally letting go with his other hand.

“May the best leaf win,” she giggled. Giggled? Good Lord. A crooked grin cracked on his face, focused too intently at the company rather than the match at hand. “Are you not going to chase them?”

“And leave you?” He scoffed. “Perish the thought.”

“I just thought,” her gaze was caught on the leaves, still floating down the edge of the pond—slower than she anticipated, “well, I suppose I wanted to get the whole picture of your family tradition.”

“Shall I run along the coast, then?” Benedict asked playfully, rising back to his feet, thumb pushed towards the water. 

“Only to humor me,” she shrugged, not even fighting the smile on her face. 

“Well, in that case,” Benedict began to remove his jacket, throwing it beside her. With a light jog he caught up to the leaves, they hadn’t gone very far anyway, perhaps if it were a windier day he’d have a faster time to keep up with. “You are in the lead!” He called out. 

“Brilliant!” Her hands were clasped around her mouth, a cone to help amplify her shout. His smile was like the sun, warm and inviting—she wished she could spend the day in such a warmth. Benedict practically jumped for joy when the leaves made it to the final stretch, crossing to the rocks on the shore. Nearly falling into the water, he managed to scoop the leaves up and jog back to the woman in the grass. “Well?”

“Well, what?” He asked, nearly out of breath, smile still pulling his lips upward. 

“The winner?”

“Ah,” he fell to the ground, sitting comfortably next to the baker’s daughter, pocketing the leaves. “A secret.”

“So you lost?”

“Oh, I assure you, if you won I would be celebrating you until the end of our time together,” Benedict sang. “However…”

“I lost?” She scoffed. 

“A gentleman is humble in his successes,” he explained carefully. “We could go again?”

“No,” she said, humor in her voice. “I think that was more than enough excitement for one afternoon.”

“For once, we agree,” he said. “May I…? Could I ask you a question?”

“If you are proposing marriage, I am afraid I’ll have to decline—”

“No, no,” he laughed heartily. “Nothing of that sort.”

“I suppose I could find it in myself to answer a different question, then.”

“You were cold to me this morning,” Benedict noted, twirling a blade of grass between his fingers. “But not on the day we met. What changed?”

She sighed, pulling her knees to her chest, gaze locked out on the now setting sun. “I… am not entirely sure.”

“Surely it was not the leaves—”

“The leaves may have helped,” she admitted. “Humanized you, in a way.”

“Was I inhuman before?”

“Naturally,” she retorted. “I mean, is it not obvious?”

“You were protecting your feelings,” Benedict finally realized. “All this time. You did not wish to be hurt—truly afraid I was merely stringing you along as an elaborate prank or ruse? Is that right?”

“How could someone like you ever have an interest in a pauper like me? The baker’s daughter and the son of a viscount?” Tears dotted her eyes, threatening to fall. How she came so close to crying was beyond her. “It seems implausible.”

Benedict dropped the grass, fully looking at the lady beside him. She had made herself nearly as small as she felt. He had hit the nail on the head. A gust of wind blew by, bringing leaves down from the tree above. 

“I do not think less of you because of whose daughter you are,” Benedict said softly, removing a stray leaf from her hair. His fingers guided her head towards him, begging for her to look his way. “I care only about you. Getting to know you. Frankly, your father seems like a mostly alright man, but I do not wish to know him the way I wish to know you.”

“You may wish for that,” she sniffled. “But what would the rest of your world think? You, trying to court a woman below your status—”

“The only people who should be caring so deeply about my potential courtship are my intended and me,” Benedict said sharply. “The rest of the ton can frankly kiss my rear end.”

This raised a laugh out of her. It was bubbly and pure, almost like the one of a child. “You truly don’t care what people think about you?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I do not.”

“How freeing that must be,” she said. 

“Being the second son has its perks,” Benedict looked at her, really looked at her. “No one expects me to be proper all the time. I am given the freedom—financially and otherwise—to do as I please. I do not have to worry about inheriting a title, siring heirs, that is my brother’s responsibility.”

“Why me?”

His head quirked. “I do not understand?”

“You could court any girl of the ton,” she said. “And I am sure more than half of them would never turn down a chance to be courted by a Bridgerton—”

“They wished for the title,” Benedict sighed. “To be Viscountess Bridgerton, to marry my older brother and have the notoriety. That ship has already sailed, I'm afraid. You are kind in thinking that many women would be after me though.”

“You are not ugly,” she listed, “you have a great humor about you, a pleasant demeanor and a kindness in your eyes. The women of the ton must be foolish, then.”

“Perhaps the foolish one is you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You truly think those things about me?” He asked, awaiting a response. Her jaw was slack, clearly not about to give him any sort of confirmation to his question. “I believe your words, I do. But perhaps you should look at yourself with such eyes?”

“I-I don’t understand—”

“Our class differences aside,” Benedict said, as if it was easy to just ignore that, “while I was taken by your beauty at first—your eyes are something the Gods themselves forged in the fires, stars rivaling their shine—it was your continuous personality that kept my attention. Granted, it helped you were once covered head-to-toe in flour, it really brought out your features.”

Her cheeks flared at the recollection of their first meeting. “It was not my finest moment.”

“And you were vulnerable all the same,” he continued. “You cared not for who I was, yet, you showed an interest in me anyway. You may not agree with that statement, but you and I know it to be true in some shape or form. The only thing that holds you back is this notion on our classes—”

“Perhaps I am interested in you,” (Y/N) cut him off. “Perhaps I wish to be courted by you, attend balls and dress in pretty gowns, drinking expensive drinks and whispering sweet nothings. But that is all that it is—a wish. I know my place in this world, it is a right shame you have such a fantasy about yours.”

“(Y/N)…”

“No,” she stood up, brushing the blades of grass and leaves off of her skirt. “I hoped that you would understand, Benedict. I agreed to this afternoon because it felt like I had no choice in the matter—you practically bought my time, after all. What I did not expect,” she hiccuped, “I did not expect that I would enjoy such an afternoon.”

“You enjoyed yourself,” Benedict rose to his feet, desperate to match her gaze head on. “Why can you not allow yourself to have that joy? Allow your heart to follow its call?”

“I do not have such liberties to listen to my heart,” (Y/N) said softly. “I must use my head for every choice I make. An afternoon with you allowed my family to have enough money to make it through the end of the season without going hungry—”

“And an afternoon with me has brought such happiness to fill your soul for much longer—”

“Happiness has little importance,” she scoffed. “I would rather see my family healthy and surviving than even think about a notion like happiness or joy.”

“You have said yourself that your family treats you like a pet,” Benedict took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. He needn’t explode in the park. “Why do you care so much about them if they care so little for you?”

“Because it is all that I know!” The candle had finally reached its end, burning out with a sizzle. “All I have ever known is my life in the bakery, rising early to make the dough, peddling samples to those walking by and hoping—praying—that they step in our store and purchase something. Because a sale of a few loaves of bread or cakes meant we could afford to buy vegetables for a soup, something to eat with our days old bread.”

“If you were with me, you wouldn’t ever need to think about things like that again,” Benedict said, his voice wavering on a whisper. “I could support you, support your family.”

“And that is precisely why I do not wish to continue this,” she raised her finger. “I do not need an affluent man to come and save me—”

“But I could help—”

“I do not need your help!”

“You obviously do!”

She took a step back, the tears from before finally reappearing in her eyes. “O-obviously? Because I am of a lower class you believe, in that giant and empty head of yours, that you can simply win my favor by saving me? Offering riches and experiences that I should be grateful and thanking every God that will listen that you are even willing to give me?”

“You know that is not what I meant—” 

“You believe that because you are who you are, and I am who I am, that I couldn’t possibly say no to you,” her gaze flicked with anger, a fire looming. “While the ladies of the ton have their choices, I do not, so it makes it easy for you to pine over someone who simply has no choice in the matter.”

“No—(Y/N)—”  

“This afternoon has been lovely,” (Y/N) spat, looking to the skyline—the sun had finally set, “but I am afraid that the afternoon is over. I shall be taking my leave.”

“Please reconsider,” Benedict begged, willing to try anything to get her to stay. “I wish to know you.”

“A shame, then,” (Y/N) said, turning around. “Wishing for something so foolish.”

—

“Her head is in the clouds,” Jack whispered.

“No, I reckon her head is in the dough,” Harry mumbled back to his brother. 

“I can hear you, you know,” (Y/N) ground out, working hard on a rather unruly clump of dough that simply would not cooperate. “And if I can hear you, you are close enough to be helping.”

“But that is so exhausting," Harry groaned, leaning against the countertop. “Besides, how are you ever going to impress your betrothed if you do not keep such toned arms?”

She threw the dough against the counter—hard. “He is not my betrothed.”

“But you wish for him to be, no?” Jack giggled, playing with a few burnt buns—a mishap of his own creation.

“I say, Sister,” Harry said. “Why do you not pursue that Bridgerton? He clearly is interested in you, or, have you forgotten all of the flowers he has sent?”

The front of the shop was practically a florist’s dream—covering every free inch of counter space with beautiful bouquets. Her mother simply refused to throw out such lovely blooms, even going so far as to fish the first one out of the trash after her daughter made quick work to dispose of it. “How could I possibly forget about the man who continuously flaunts his wealth to get what he wants?”

“He wants you, surely that is not lost on you?”

“Of course not,” she continued to knead, a few hairs falling into her face. “But he is so insistent on getting me to agree to his whims simply because—”

“He has money, (Y/N),” Jack scoffed. “Good money. Christ, you spent half of a day with him a few weeks ago and we were able to finally purchase meat for dinner. Imagine if you married him—”

“So you want your sister to be married off for your own financial gain?”

“What else would you marry for?” Harry laughed. “Love?”

She stopped kneading. “Why do you not go and try to marry a wealthy lady, then? Hm? Surely a woman of genteel breeding would be much taken by the idea of a rugged baker—”

“That Bridgerton is already interested,” Harry shrugged. “At the very least, if you end up with child he would provide enough funds—”

“First you wish to marry me off, now you wish for me to have his bastard?” She couldn’t help but laugh, ignoring her hard work on the counter. “Why can I not make my own choice? I do not wish to be with Mr. Bridgerton, I wish to stay here at the bakery.”

“Fucking stupid,” Jack scoffed. “If I were in your shoes, I would let the gentleman pay for anything my heart desires—forget about this wretched place and move on with my life.”

“And abandon our legacy?”

“You mean my legacy,” Jack corrected. “I am to inherit the bakery, it is my birthright. You? I suppose I will allow you to continue your grunt work here—” 

“Who else will do the baking?” Her voice rang throughout the kitchen. “Mother and Father are nearing the end of their career, both becoming too frail to continue with the rigorous task of this place. I am the only one—the only competent member of this family who can keep this shit afloat! And you want me to just… give that up?”

Jack stood a little straighter. “It was never your place.”

“Harry is set to inherit the bakery now, you know it. Yet someone had to fill the shoes of the family fuck-up instead, no?” 

It was a sharp pain, suddenly and all at once against her cheek. It took her only half a second later to realize what had happened, her other brother’s face was only a confirmation on the fact.

“Jack, what the hell?!” Harry practically screamed. “You hit her?”

“She insulted me!”

“You deserved it,” Harry said, pushing his older brother back. “She only spoke the truth—”

“So I am allowed to be walked over by my baby sister?” Jack scoffed, pushing Harry back. “A woman? No fucking chance, mate.”

Her hand had covered her cheek, already feeling warm to the touch. Everything was too much, too loud, too bright. She had to get out of there, had to forget all about the dough on the counter, forgetting all about the brother who had just smacked her silly. The back door wasn’t locked—no surprise as Jack was the last one to use it—making it easy for her to push into the alleyway and into the rain. 

Rain. 

Pelting like bullets, the wet drenched her clothing in a mere instant, making it harder to escape. Where had she planned to run anyway? She had nowhere to go, her entire world was contained to the four walls of the bakery, never daring to explore the rest of it, not when her world was already so encompassing, so inviting. 

In theory, anyway, it seemed.

So, she ran. A mix of running and walking, she kept moving forward. By the time she left her part of town, she knew her brothers would not bother coming for her. The rain alone was a deterrent, even Harry, the one who loved her more, wouldn’t dare to brave the elements just to reel his sister’s whims in. 

A splotch of purple entered her vision. How long had she been moving? Did she even expect to come here? Did her subconscious send her in this direction for a reason?

She knocked on the bright door before she could find out.

“Good evening, ma’am,” a butter said politely. “What business do you have?”

“I am here to call upon Benedict Bridgerton.”

—

His quill had soaked the parchment below with ink, having left the tip upon it for far too long. He had been lost in thought, contemplative, especially the last few weeks. Benedict knew he had hurt her, had insulted her very being, yet he still tried. Every other day he’d send a fresh bouquet to the bakery, a new poem attached to the stems. Perhaps she read them? He knew it was more likely that she burned them, in the ovens or otherwise. 

At the very least, he knew that the blooms were being displayed at the shop. Hope. That is what it had given him.

“Mr. Bridgerton, you have a caller,” a butler knocked, opening his door a crack wider.

“A caller? In this weather?”

“She seemed rather insistent,” the butler shrugged. “She is waiting in the drawing room—I already sent for tea and towels for the lady.”

“A lady is here to see me?” Benedict quirked his brow.

“A Miss. (Y/L/N),” the butler said. “No calling card, soaked to the bone and she seemed a bit… out of sorts.”

Benedict had already risen from his desk, practically pushing past the staff member to reach the stairs. Missing a step or two, he made it to the drawing room and shoved the door open. In the center of the blue room was (Y/N), dripping onto the wooden floor, shaking like a leaf.

“(Y/N)…” 

“I-I had nowhere else to go,” she began to explain. “I did not even realize I was here until I knocked on the door. It was foolish—”

“No,” Benedict shook his head, reaching to take her hand in his own. “It is quite alright. You are more than welcome to be here.”

His hands were warm, or perhaps she was just that cold, making them feel like a fire. “I am so sorry, Benedict.”

“For what?” He asked genuinely. 

“Everything?” She offered. “I-I am not sure of what, exactly, but I feel that I need to apologize.”

“You needn’t apologize for anything,” he said. “Not with me, not ever.”

She looked up at the ceiling, afraid to make contact with his blue stare. “I needed to get away. My brother he—Jack hit me.”

Benedict froze, his entire body went rigid. “I’ll kill him.”

“I suppose I deserved it,” she shrugged, now looking at the ground. “Talking back to him, assuming things that could never be—” 

“A man has assaulted you,” Benedict squeezed her hand tighter. “Brother or not, he put his hands on you. You did nothing of the sort to deserve such a thing.”

“I don’t think I can go back there,” (Y/N) said softly. “Perhaps this was just the moment that gave me clarity. Opened my eyes, so to speak.”

Benedict took a good look at her face, red and splotchy, whether it was from the smack or the tears, he could not tell. “Tea is on the way, I shall request a cold compress for your cheek—”

“I do not wish to impose.”

“You shall wish for nothing here,” Benedict said quietly, firmly. “You will stay until the rain lets up, or, you provide me with a suggestible plan for your next steps.”

“I cannot go back,” she finally looked up at Benedict. “As much as I would like to, I simply cannot.”

“If you do not want to go back, I will support you. If you want to leave town, the country even, I will support you,” he said seriously. “Please allow me to support you.”

“I could never ask you for that—”

“You are not asking, I am offering,” he clarified. 

“Benedict…”

The rain seemed to lessen, if the pelting against the window had anything to say about it. The noise had dimmed, not as violent as before. “To know that you are safe, that you are cared for, that is all I care about.”

So, in the center of the blue Bridgerton drawing room, soaked to the bone and dripping all over the floor, she kissed him. It was a sudden thing, pulling him down towards her lips, the contact much quicker than she had expected. He returned the favor in kind, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight, kissing her in a way he had yet to truly experience. 

If his hands were like a fire, his lips were an inferno. Fighting for dominance, it was all encompassing. How had she gone so long without a feeling such as this? The burn was coming from inside, not a superficial one atop her skin as she was quite used to, but this burn, this feeling, she could find herself craving this. 

“I-I am sorry—” she pulled away.

“Never be sorry,” Benedict shook his head. “Not for that, not ever.”

“I should not have done that…”

“No,” he agreed, a chuckle leaving his lips, “but how exhilarating it felt, regardless.”

His thumb ran lazy circles on her jaw. She leaned into the touch. “I do not know what to do, where to go…”

“But you cannot stay here…?”

She smiled sadly. “You know me scarily well, Benedict.”

He thought for a moment. “So… leave.”

“Excuse me?”

“Leave town, leave the country—”

“I do not have the means to do such a silly thing.”

“I will pay your way.”

She scoffed, trying to pull out of his embrace. He wouldn’t release his grip. “Benedict…”

“I told you, I wish to support you. Emotionally, financially, I want to be there for you,” Benedict said. “Even if we are not—if you do not want to be together romantically, I want to ensure your safety and your health, your well-being. A friend.”

She tried to find the lie in his eyes, in his tone. Coming up empty, she had no excuse to not believe him. 

“France,” he said, as if struck by lightning.

“France?”

“I hear only the expert bakers study in France—I have no doubts you could go to learn,” he explained. “I could pay for your travel, housing, you name it. Ask for it, and it is yours.”

“I doubt anyone would want to teach a woman, no matter how lovely a thought it might be.”

“I have a cousin,” Benedict explained. “Her and her husband own a café—I am quite certain that they would love to hire an expert baker to add to their inventory and menu. You could earn your own income, make your own way. A fresh start.”

“A fresh start…” she repeated. “That sounds too good to be true.”

“I shall write to her in the morning,” Benedict said, holding her hands again. 

“And you…?”

“I will only come with you if you want me to join,” Benedict said slowly. “I will not trap you. I want your happiness, your freedom.”

She nodded, understanding.

“I think France sounds nice,” she smiled. “Will you write to me?”

“Every chance I get.”

“Even if you are vexed with me?”

“Especially if I am vexed with you.”

She kissed his lips again, sweeter and softer than the first time.

“Sounds perfect.”

—

A year. An entire year had passed and she couldn’t recall a happier time in her life. The only time that something could have rivaled it was a visit to a tea shop followed by a respite by a pond—in handsome company all the while. 

They kept correspondence, just like they promised. Every week came a new letter, a new story to be told by the poetic Benedict Bridgerton. She tried to rival his words, explaining every detail about France, about her new life, but something was nagging. She missed him. They had grown close over the correspondence, leaving her heart wanting more. But, she knew when she left for France it was to fulfill her dreams, leaving a foolish notion like love on the back burner.

“(Y/N),” Marie, the Bridgerton cousin, called out behind her. “We are in need of more buns.”

“I just restocked the buns,” (Y/N) giggled, turning to the blonde. “What? Has someone mysteriously bought the lot?”

“Oui,” Marie said with a jest, heading into the storage room, “perhaps you should go bring more out?”

“You are in luck, the last batch just finished resting from the oven,” she said, carrying a tray on her shoulder, “I will bring them out with haste.”

“I am sure he will appreciate it.”

(Y/N) faltered, hand already pressed to the door leading to the front shop. A tingle ran through her spine, her heart picking up to a freeing flutter. 

Could it be?

“You know, I would buy your entire stock,” the man hummed, looking thoughtfully into the display case, “but I fear I would be recreating a rather taxing memory for the both of us.”

“Benedict,” she gasped, nearly dropping her tray. 

“You look radiant,” he mused, that wicked grin of his breaking on his face. “Much like the first time I saw you—covered in flour.”

“I am in my element,” (Y/N) said sweetly, “just as you would expect.” She had noticed that Marie and her husband were not in the café, the sign flipped to close. “You planned this.”

“Do you insinuate that I bribed my distant cousin to close her café to give you the day off, travel all the way to France, hoping I could spend the day with you?” Benedict scoffed playfully. “You truly do not know me at all.”

“I do not think Marie would take a bribe,” (Y/N) said slyly, knowing how much of a champion the cousin had been for the baker and viscount’s son to get together.

“She refused payment,” he admitted, agreeing with her notion. “But, was ever eager to see you get out of the kitchen and enjoy yourself.”

“You hadn’t written to me in two weeks,” (Y/N) said, walking around the counter. “I was worried.”

“I needed to refrain from our correspondence, I fear I would have let the surprise slip otherwise.”

“Smart man,” she hummed.

“I am known to be smart occasionally,” he shrugged.

“What are you doing here?” She finally asked. “N-not that I am not happy to see you, of course, but as you had said, this is a surprise.”

“I came to study art,” Benedict said, a hand in his coat pocket. “I felt that if I truly wanted to learn the craft, I needed to learn from the masters—many of their works are housed here in France. I even began to rent a little home in town, finding the need to stay a while.”

“That is the only reason?”

Benedict’s gaze softened. “Of course it is not the only reason.”

Her heart fluttered again.

“It is only fair that I try this again, correctly and without the prying eyes of society, this time,” Benedict said, clearing his throat and spinning around.

“Correctly?” She giggled, watching him twirl to face the door.

“Ah, good morning miss!” Benedict said, turning back to face (Y/N). “I must say, you look ever-so-pretty—tell me, do all bakers have a beauty such as your own?”

“I would wager no,” she said, trying to keep serious. “Most of the bakers around here are men.”

“Shame. Might I learn your name? It seems only fair—I fear I might just die if I do not know the sweet sound of it.”

“(Y/N),” she sang. “My name is (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

“Benedict Bridgerton,” he stretched out his hand, reaching for her own. She allowed him to take it, a soft kiss was placed on the back of her cracked hand—a working hand, one that she was proud to have. 

“You are very charming, Mr. Bridgerton,” she hummed, looking deeply into his blue eyes. “Pleased to make your company.”

“I assure you, I am more pleased to be in yours,” Benedict insisted, kissing her hand again. “Tell me, do you have plans this afternoon?”

“It seems my schedule has cleared up,” she looked to the sign on the door and sighed. “Why? Do you have any suggestions on how I should spend it?”

“Might we take a turn around the park? A friend of mine has written to me about just how lovely one nearby is, I reckon I would like to see it for myself.”

She smiled brightly at him, as if he held the world in his hands. Instead, he held two leaves between his fingers—brown and cracked, but clearly treated with such care. They had been the same ones from their time at the park the first go around, she was nearly certain. Why else would he bring dead leaves with him?

"Leaves?"

"You see, my family, we have this tradition of racing with leaves—I would very much like to share it with you. These two in particular seem to be very lucky, thought it would be best to bring them along."

His smile melted her heart, endearing and thoughtful in the same breath. She could get used to a smile like that.

“Well… what are we waiting for, Mr. Bridgerton?”

[cashmoneyyysstuff]

another childhood friends to lovers believer???? YES YES YES!!!! can i please request bakugou and reader moving in together, and reader shows him a memory box she's kept since they were kids...like photos, random trinkets he got her, pressed flowers, birthday cards...and he's like one second away from bursting into tears, because this is 2 decades worth of love (and many more to come) 😭🥹💗 thank you, mwah x 💖

memory box !

you take a trip down memory lane..

a/n : OH. MY GOD. I literally Had to write this this is genuinely adorable anon you are SMACKING. i lub this

cw: literally all fluff, CHILDHOOD FRIENDS TORAGAHAHEHG, katsuki gets emotional quickly and i live by this, lmk if i missed sum !

“oi !” katsuki calls out from behind you “do i throw this out or not ?”

you look back, only to see a little red box in his hands. your little red box.

you shoot up, dropping the clothes you were stacking in your shared dresser. “no, don’t!” you reach out and hold your arms up, katsuki looks even more confused, eyebrows furrowing harder.

he shakes your box around, bringing his ear to it to hear the rattling and clinking of the objects inside. “what the hell is in this thing ?”

“don’t shake it around like that !” you shriek, ripping the box out of your boyfriend hands and leaving him shocked. you smile to yourself, slowly sitting down on the wooden floors of your new apartment. your new apartment with katsuki.

“i never actually showed you this, huh.. ?” you watch as he follows you after a moment of looking at you like you’ve grown a second head, crouching down next to you with eyes fixed on your little shoe box. you remove the lid and immediately a sense of nostalgia shoots through you, you hadn’t looked at this for a while now.

“this is my memory box, i’ve had it for years.. i think since i was..what, seven ?” you wonder out loud, you’d definitely had it for a long, long time. katsuki sits next to you silently while you excitedly look through it.

“oh yeah, definitely seven—look this is the friendship bracelet i made for us !” you exclaim excitedly. it’s definitely more than a bit worn, that was the main reason you put it in this box, it was the first item you’d put in there.

you’d made one for you and one for katsuki, using your precious loom band box set you’d gotten for christmas. you’d used up all of your orange and black for it and worn yours until it started fraying. you almost cried when one of the bands snapped and you’d gotten too big for it, or it had just gotten too little for you. you refused to throw it away and found a random empty shoe box to put it in, and the rest was history.

“oh, and these are left over tickets from when we went to the fair, my keychain you got me from the aquarium—i remember you begged your mom for it.” you laugh, begged was an understatement. you remember how mitsuki pulled him away because he was causing a scene, you didn’t understand why he was so insistent on getting a souvenir, you had a good day as you all walked around looking at fish and katsuki dragging you around by the hand like he built the place himself. you remember how excited he got when you got to the shark exhibit.

you didn’t get it, until he stopped you when you were ready to leave with your own parents, grabbing you by the back of your shirt and avoiding your gaze as he stretched his little arms out and wordlessly offered you a little penguin keychain, mumbling something about how you looked happy when you saw them, ears pink while his mom smirked behind him, his father smiled down at you both kindly.

that was the first present he’d ever bought for you. with his mom’s money of course, you giggle at your own thoughts. but he’d still gotten it for you because he thought it’d make you happy. it was your treasure and you wore it on your bag for years until it started getting dirty, and you’d hid it in your shoebox to keep it safe.

you suddenly realize your boyfriend’s been awfully unlike himself for the past few minutes, silently blinking at the contents of your box and now at your little keychain.

you suddenly feel a bit self conscious, maybe he thought it was weird..

you blink in surprise when he reaches for your penguin chain and you offer it to him. it’s a bit brownish now, having lost its shine over the years. he runs his thumb over the fuzzy faux fur.

“thought you forgot about this..” he mumbles to himself.

your eyes shoot wide. “wha—no way ?!”

“ya stopped wearing it on your bag so i thought you got rid of it.” he doesn’t look angry, simply observing the chain, letting it dangle in the air.

“i just didn’t want it to get any dirtier than it clearly already is” you joked. you’re in deep now, shuffling around for more items in your box. katsuki joins you this time, pulling out an old picture.

“holy shit.” he breathes. you catch a peek at what he’s looking at only to see the both of you.

“woah, we were so small !” you giggle. it was a picture of your grade school entrance ceremony. you remember katsuki stubbornly refusing to take it and it took his mom about ten minutes to get him to stay put and take the shot. you’re all smiles, waving at the camera like you’d been instructed to and gripping katsuki’s hand. said little boy had an angry, angry frown on his face, sticking his tongue out at the camera.

“you’re cheeks were huge.” you laugh, katsuki sits down properly to nudge your shoulder with a huff. “shaddup,” he says, though there was no real bite to his words. “you weren’t any better than me.” you laugh some more and continue to pull things out. “where’d you even get this ?” he asks.

“your mom gave me a copy.”

“fuckin—of course she did.”

there’s a blurry picture you’d managed to take of katsuki when you’d gotten your first polaroid camera, and some pictures from when you’d convinced him to get in a photo-booth from your first date at the fair. dozens of birthday cards he’d written for you, you’re tempted to read them all right now but you worry katsuki might get embarrassed and actually throw the box out, so you’ll do that later.

the flowers he’d plucked out of the ground one random afternoon at his house, a rock he'd given you because it looked cool, a couple of seashells you found at the beach together, a dried up four leaf clover he claimed would bring you good luck, the container of the lip balm you were wearing when he kissed you for the first time. years worth of memories all in your little shoebox.

“fuck, you really kept all this stuff..” you hear katsuki mutter. you turn to see him still with that elementary school picture in hand, staring at it thoughtfully.

“course i did.” you hum, leaning against his side. “i spent all of my childhood with you suki, that’s unforgettable to me. i wanted to make sure i wouldn’t ever forget how much you mean to me.” katsuki’s eyes fix yours as you continue talking. and you realize how they slowly turn glossier. he realizes when you do and quickly ducks his head, scoffing to himself but a sniffle slips out.

“hey..” he shakes his head, you don’t continue, only reaching to hold him in your palms. he shoves his cheek against one, chuckling to himself.

“shush.” he mutters, voice cracking, his eyes remain shut to not let anything slip. he presses a kiss to your skin, grabbing at your wrist. "you're gonna be the fuckin' end of me, y'know ?" you laugh, rubbing your thumb against his skin, you feel him sigh against your palm.

"love you."

you smile "i love you too" you whisper back. "so, you still wanna throw it out ?" you joke, katsuki's eyebrows furrow.

"fuck, no." he asserts "it's staying here, an' i'll give you more shit to fill it up with."

and you truly couldn't be more excited, starting a new chapter of your life with the boy that had shared it all with you. you want your shoe box to be filled to the brim with more and more memories of you both, all of them just as close to your heart as the last.

"hmm," you hum "can't wait."

taglist :

@napbatata @andysdrafts @queenpiranhadon @jastoo46 @cecelia77

@katszumi @m-inluv @monchurie @the-hangry-otter @starlostlaiba

@moonshuul @erenstitanweave @katsus-mistress @dondeh-zedonutqueen @liluvtojineteyam

@aspiringwriter1111 @sugurusmoon @redvelvetstan1

@niktwazny303 @nemisimp @kit-katsukii @alphasage @milktea-academia

[theemporium]

[4.4k] upon meeting their captain's new girlfriend, some of the devils are convinced there is something supernatural about her. others aren't. jack deems it his job to prove it.

[find other fright night specials here]

.

“She is hiding something.”

Jonas watched the way Jack slumped onto the couch, wiggling his way between himself and Timo. He also watched the way Timo took a long sip from his beer, pretending like he hadn’t heard what Jack just said despite the boy staring at him expectantly. 

“Who’s hiding something?” Jonas asked, despite knowing he would regret even opening his mouth. Which was confirmed even more when Jack’s head snapped around, a glint in his eyes that made Jonas a little uncomfortable.

“Cap’s new girl.” 

Jonas blinked before raising brows. “You mean the girl we just met for the first time half an hour ago?” 

“Yes, her,” Jack confirmed with a nod, frowning. “Geez, you think Nico would two time someone? God, Siegs, he’s a Capricorn, not a monster.” 

Jonas’ nose scrunched. “I have not drunk enough for you to start talking nonsense. Where’s Luke, I need a translator.”

Jack jabbed his side with his obscenely pointy elbows in response.

“Ouch,” Jonas hissed. 

“But I’m telling you,” Jack insisted, leaning back against the couch. “She’s weird.” 

“Dude,” Dawson muttered from the armchair beside them. “Not cool.” 

“You literally don’t know her,” Jonas pointed out. “And you’re also the last person to call someone weird.”

“Not like bad weird,” Jack huffed. “Just…suspicious weird.” 

Timo groaned. “Someone make him stop.”

“Suspicious weird?” Nate repeated, his brows raised like he was thoroughly amused by the whole conversation. “Suspicious how?” 

Jack lifted his chin. “Suspicious in the supernatural way.” 

Nate let out a boisterous laugh in response.

“Jack,” Jonas sighed deeply, pressing his fingers against his temples like it would rid him of the thumping pain that had nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with the boy next to him. “What in loving fuck are you talking about?”

“Ignore him,” Luke piped up as he appeared from thin air, moving around the gangle of stretched out legs before settling down on the armrest of Dawson’s armchair. “He’s been watching loads of Vampire Diaries right now. He is delusional.” 

“It’s a seasonal show,” Jack grumbled.

“It’s giving you stupid ideas,” Timo retorted. “What, you think Cap is shacking it up with some vampire chick?”

“Well, nobody said vampire. I haven’t narrowed it down yet. Feels rude to assume, you know?” Jack said. “But she’s something.”

“She’s Nico’s girlfriend,” Jonas stated bluntly. “And this is probably why he waited so long to introduce her to us. Because you’re insane.”

“Or because she knows we will find out what she’s hiding,” Jack insisted, his eyes narrowed at the scene across the room. 

Jonas turned his head to catch a glimpse of what Jack was looking at, just to find Nico tucked away in the corner of the room with one arm around you. He kept you plastered to his side, a fond smile on his lips and a look of pure adoration in his eyes as he listened to you whisper something to him. It was a sweet sight, and very lacking in the supernatural aspect. 

“On the very slim chance she is,” Nate started. 

Jonas groaned. “Don’t encourage him.”

“What are you gonna do about it?” Nate finished, his eyes fixed on Jack’s pondering expression.

“Well,” Jack shrugged. “I’m his A. I gotta make sure he’s safe.” 

“He’s a big boy, he can handle himself,” Timo waved him off.

“Not if she’s a siren. I’ve seen what those things can do—”

“In a TV show made over a decade ago.”

“Shut up, Luke.”

…

All in all, no one had given much thought into Jack’s insane theory. 

Over the course of the next few weeks, there had been a few more interactions between you and the team but Jonas had assumed Jack had realised how delusional he was being and dropped it. That was his mistake for thinking Jack was anything close to self aware. But in Jonas’ humble opinion, every interaction with you had been completely normal and completely human.

And Jack had seemed to think so too until the Devils Family Skate Day came up. 

“Big day, huh?” Nate teased as he walked into the locker room, giving Nico a playful nudge as he walked past his stall. 

Nico lifted his head, brows furrowing together a little but he smiled nonetheless. “I mean, yeah, I guess.” 

Nate raised his brows. “Wow, Cap, pretty sure you are meant to be a bit more hyped about your girl meeting your family for the first time. Your folks flew over, didn’t they?” 

“Well, yeah,” Nico smiled but shrugged his shoulders. “But uh, they aren’t meeting her today.” 

Jonas paused what he was doing, somewhat surprised. “She isn’t coming today?”

Nico shook his head but Jack opened his mouth before he could say anything. 

“What? How come? I thought you two were serious now,” Jack questioned, a weird glint in his eyes that Jonas didn’t like the look of at all. “You know, she hasn’t been to any games either, has she? Is she not a hockey fan?” 

“Stop interrogating,” Jonas grumbled. 

“No, she is but,” Nico paused, waving his hand like the motion meant something. “She’s not feeling great today so she is staying home.” 

“She’s sick?” Jack asked. 

“Probably Nico’s cooking,” Timo snorted.  

“She just feels a bit…uh, what’s the word…sensitive?” Nico answered, his brows furrowed together like he was thinking hard about his response. “She’ll be better for the dinner at Pally’s house though, don’t worry.” 

Jack’s face lit up. “The dinner at Pally’s?” 

Nico shot him a weird look. “Yes, Jack, the one you know about too because you’re in the group chat.”

Jack didn’t seem fazed. “The one on Thursday?” 

“Yes?” 

“Thursday night?”

“Is there a joke I’m missing?” Nico retorted but nodded. “Yes, the one on Thursday night. It’s nothing contagious, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s not,” Jack responded, absolutely gleeful. 

But Nico decided not to question it further—because he was a smart man—and instead continued to gear up before he made his way out onto the ice, stepping up as captain to be the first one on the ice for the cameras.

It took less than thirty seconds after Nico walked out before Jack broke.

“I fucking knew it!” 

Heads turned in the locker room, a mix of confused and baffled faces staring at the boy but it was Jonas who sighed deeply and took one for the team, instead of ignoring Jack like his conscience was telling him to do. 

“Knew what?” 

“She’s a vampire!” 

Jonas blinked. “Excuse me?” 

“Cap’s girl!” Jack insisted, almost giddy in his seat. “She’s a vampire!”

“I thought you didn’t want to make any assumptions,” Jonas deadpanned. 

“Well, I’ve assumed now and my assumption is right,” Jack replied, a little snotty when he did. “She’s a vampire. It’s so obvious.”

“I am gonna regret asking this but,” Jonas paused, taking a deep breath like he was preparing himself. “How is it obvious?” 

Jack shot him a look. “Dude.”

Jonas raised his brows in response. 

“We never see her during the day,” Jack stated, as if that made his way of thinking any clearer to Jonas. 

“Oh shit,” Nate murmured, nodding. “Hughesy has a point.”

“No, he does not. Stop encouraging this,” Jonas sighed before turning back to Jack. “What the fuck are you on about?” 

“How many times have we met her?” Jack questioned, that odd glint in his eyes shining brighter than before. It was very disconcerting. 

“Uh, like five?” 

“Uh huh,” Jack nodded, grinning. “And what’s the common denominator with each of those meetings?” 

Jonas didn’t bother to hide his surprise. “You know what denominator means?” 

“Shut up and answer the question.” 

Jonas huffed. “I don’t know, you were watching her like a creep?” 

“Observing in the name of science,” Jack corrected before leaning over to smack Jonas’ arm. “Dude, we only ever saw her at night. We have never met her during the day. Nico has only brought her for dinners.” 

Jonas blinked. “So that makes her a vampire?” 

“Nico said so himself!” Jack exclaimed. “He said she was feeling sensitive!” 

“You feel sensitive after one rum and coke,” Nate countered. 

“Low blow, Bas.” 

“This is ridiculous,” Jonas grumbled, shifting his attention back to lacing his skates and getting the rest of his gear on before one of the media staff came in to yell at them, “She isn’t a vampire, Jack. Drop it.”

“I’m gonna prove it.”

“Please don’t.”

“Just wait and see, Siegs.”

…

Jack’s first attempt at proving that his assumption was correct actually happened at Pally’s dinner that Thursday. 

It was a laidback get-together, something to keep team morale high with not as much effort, considering hitting restaurants around Jersey wouldn’t be the most relaxing or lowkey environment most of the team desired on their off days. Every once in a while, one of the older guys with the bigger houses offered their place up and everyone brought something for the table. 

Jonas made the mistake of assuming Luke would keep his older brother in line. 

Because Luke did not, in fact, keep his brother in line. If anything, half of the team were encouraging his snooping and theorising. Well, mostly Nate who kept sending Jack bullshit articles that Jonas was pretty sure were just Twilight fan websites. 

“Ready to eat dirt?”

Jonas frowned. “Don’t tell me that’s what you brought with you, Pally’s kids are eating with us.” 

“I—” Jack sighed, shaking his head. “No, I didn’t bring dirt, Jonas. It’s an expression. I’m asking if you are ready to accept that you are wrong.”

“Is this about the vampire thing?” Jonas questioned.

“Glad to know you think there are multiple options of things I can prove you wrong on,” Jack retorted, grinning boyishly. “Listen, this is foolproof. Trust me.”

Jonas did not trust him a single bit. 

He also made the mistake of taking his eyes off Jack for longer than thirty seconds—to have a very nice conversation with Pally’s wife about the lasagna dish she made—when he realised the boy was heading straight towards where you and Nico were sitting on one of the couches in the living room. 

“Oh fuck,” Jonas muttered, his feet already moving in that direction.

“You guys have to try this, it’s my mother’s recipe,” Jack announced as soon as he was in front of you both, extending the plate towards you and ripping the foil off the plate. 

Nico blinked. “Garlic bread?” 

“Yup,” Jack answered happily, popping the ‘p’ a little more because he was obnoxious like that.

“It looks like garlic bread from the store,” Jonas commented, standing by Jack’s side with his hand on his elbow, like he was ready to yank the boy away.

“Rude,” Jack sniffled. “It’s been passed down in my family for years.” 

Somewhere from the other couch, Luke snorted loudly. 

“Try a bit,” Jack insisted, pushing the plate closer towards you. “It’ll taste great with the lasagna. Promise.” 

You looked at the plate of garlic bread with weary eyes before flashing an apologetic smile. “I’ll have to pass this time round, sorry.” 

Jack downright beamed in response. “Is that so?” 

“Don’t want to eat anything too heavy,” you explained, lifting your plate to show the few appetisers you had nibbled on. “You’ll have to bring it to the next dinner though, it smells great.” 

“I am sure it does,” Jack grinned, not getting a chance to say much more before Jonas took pity on himself and Nico’s discombobulated face, dragging the younger boy away from everyone else. 

“Garlic? Really?” Jonas deadpanned once they were far enough away.

“Two-zero, team vampire,” Jack said smugly, picking up a piece of garlic bread and taking a large bite from it. “Just admit I’m right.”

“You need help.” 

…

The next attempt happened a week later. 

You had finally managed to make it to a game—a late game, much to Jack’s delight—and the excitement was clear on Nico’s face. Along with the hint of nerves. But the boys were more focused on the shock of seeing Nico walking into the locker room in a fucking turtleneck. 

“What?”

“What the fuck are you wearing?” Jesper managed to ask, considering the rest of the guys were staring at their captain like he had grown another head.

“It’s stylish,” Nico huffed, rolling his eyes as he ran his fingers along the collar of his turtleneck. “Thought I’d switch it up from the shirt and ties.” 

Timo raised his brows in amusement. “Did your missus get it for you?” 

“Why does that matter? I wanted to wear it,” Nico retorted.

Jack smacked Jonas’ thigh to gain his attention. “Aha!” 

Jonas turned his head. “Aha?” 

“Aha!” Jack repeated, keeping his voice low as he watched Nico from the other side of the locker room. “You know why he’s really wearing it, right?” 

“Because he is whipped?” Nate supplied from the other stall beside Jonas.

“Well, maybe,” Jack murmured, shrugging his shoulders. “Or maybe because he is hiding something.” 

“You need to get a hobby,” Jonas grumbled. 

“Like what?” Nate questioned.

“A bite mark,” Jack whispered with wide eyes.

“Shit, you think she’s making Cap one of her own?” Nate murmured, letting out a breath of disbelief. 

“Or she is feeding from him,” Jack added.

“You both need to get a hobby,” Jonas decided, shoving both of them back to get ready for warmups. 

For what it’s worth, none of them manage to catch a proper glimpse of Nico’s neck before they leave the locker room or even after the game.

…

During a small break between games where the boys were in Jersey for longer than three days, Nico had invited the whole team over for a housewarming party in his new place—the one he was sharing with you.

Jonas had mostly forgotten about the vampire nonsense because Jack hadn’t brought it up in the last few weeks, most of the boys far more focused on the games as they approached the end of the year. They wanted the best chances running into the new year and into playoffs, they wanted to utilise these games whilst their bodies didn’t feel too wrecked and tired. 

It was his own mistake for assuming the season would preoccupy the boy enough to forget it completely.

“Just a heads up, you should probably babysit Jack tonight.”

Jonas’ shoulders tensed slightly as he turned to look at Dawson with a frown. “Why? What is he planning?”

Dawson just flashed him a sheepish smile, shrugging before he quickly went to hide in the corner where Luke and Simon were sitting. 

Jonas let out a deep sigh, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling like some higher being would explain how in loving fuck he managed to be the one to babysit Jack’s vampire shenanigans before he pushed himself off the couch he was sitting on. He gripped the beer bottle in his hand, wondering if it would be worth grabbing another bottle before he started his hunt.

All things considered, it didn’t take long to find Jack considering the apartment itself wasn’t very big. For a second, Jonas thought maybe Dawson was trying to wind him up (it would not be the first time Luke had put the boy up to it). Until he saw Jack thrusting a gift bag towards you.

“Here we go,” Jonas grumbled.

“Oh, you didn’t have to,” you said with a smile, looking so genuinely surprised and touched by Jack’s thoughtfulness.

“It’s just a little something,” Jack shrugged. “Living with a hockey player and all that sweaty gear can be gross sometimes, I thought a candle would be something acceptable and useful.”

Jonas frowned at his wording.

“Oh,” you let out a noise of surprise as you pulled the candle from the bag, blinking a few times too many. “That’s really sweet of you. I’ll just go put this somewhere for safekeeping.”

“Nonsense!” Jack grinned as he reached into the bag, pulling out a box of matches. “We can light it now.”

You let out a slightly nervous laugh. “There’s really no need—” 

“Plus there’s a high chance someone will set their clothes on fire if we have an open flame,” Jonas jumped in, pausing for a moment before he frowned. “Again.”

“You could barely notice,” Jack scoffed.

“Jesper had no pants for the rest of the night,” Jonas retorted before flashing you a smile. “You should probably hide the matches too.”

“On it,” you said with a smile, rushing out the room like you couldn’t leave fast enough.

Jonas shifted his attention to the younger boy. “Really?”

“Vampires hate fire,” Jack explained with a casual shrug. “She’s just proving that I’m right.” 

“You are proving shit,” Jonas grumbled in response, shaking his head. “Stop scaring the poor girl before she gets a restraining order on you.”

“You know I’m right!” 

“I literally can’t think of something I disagree with more.” 

…

Jack Hughes was determined to prove that his captain was dating a vampire. 

He wasn’t like…anti-supernatural or anything like that. He just couldn’t quite seem to understand how some of his other teammates (or well, mostly Jonas) couldn’t see the obvious signs. He didn’t understand how those signs could be so easily ignored. 

Jack wasn’t against vampires by any means, but he watched enough movies and shows to know that not all of them were friendly. He just wanted to make sure you were one of the good ones. Surely, Jonas could see that. 

But instead, Jack found himself trying to prove you were a vampire to Jonas rather than figure out if you were one of the good ones.

In Jack’s humble opinion, the daylight coincidences, the garlic bread situation, the turtleneck fiasco and the candle incident were more than enough to prove his point. There were too many instances where the clues pointed to the obvious for Jack to ignore. 

Jonas seemed to think otherwise. 

And if he was being honest, Jack was tired of the constant doubt. If Jonas wanted proof, then Jack was going to give him proof he couldn’t deny with one of the most well-known facts about vampires. 

They do not show up in photographs. 

It was an old legend, possibly a myth, but one that Jack was banking on being true just to shove it in Jonas’ face—for purely selfish reasons. He had even gone as far as buying an old polaroid camera, gripping the device in his hands as he wandered around Curtis’ house, hoping to find the couple for a quick photo. 

It was New Years, the house was full of people Jack both knew and had never met before in his life and he was thoroughly buzzed from the countless glasses of champagne that had been shoved in his hands since he walked through the door. 

So obviously he was in the perfect condition to expose a vampire. 

Jack stumbled his way up the stairs, muttering a soft ‘fuck’ under his breath when he almost dropped the camera. The music was a little more muffled upstairs, the party a distant thought as he began walking around in hopes of finding you and Nico. 

He was passing by one of the guest rooms when he heard muffled voices and quickly skidded to a stop. He pressed his ear against the door, only to pause when he saw it was slightly ajar. And against his better judgement, he found himself peaking through the small crack. 

Nico was sitting on the edge of the bed, his head hanging as he seemed far more interested in the carpet than anything else. You were stood between his legs, your lips turned downwards as you let out a sigh. 

“C’mon, say it again.” 

“I don’t wanna.” 

“Nico,” you said in a pointed voice, running your hands through his hair before tugging his head back. You tilted your head, watching him closely before he spoke. “Say it again.” 

“I’m your boyfriend and you love me,” Nico murmured.

You raised your brows. “Say it like you mean it.”

Nico huffed out a small laugh but his eyes didn’t look away from you. “I’m your boyfriend and you love me.”

“Atta boy,” you grinned in response. 

However, the moment was ruined by the sound of Jack dropping the camera. Both of your heads snapped around and Jack’s feet didn’t seem to catch the memo to move before he landed flat on his ass, surrounded by pieces of his camera that were completely shattered. 

“Jack?”

Jack let out a shriek, lifting his hands over his head whilst the words tumbled past his drunken lips before he could stop himself. “Please don’t suck my blood!” 

You stood in the doorway, staring at the boy with a confused frown. “What?” 

“I’m sorry! I didn’t see you compel him! Don’t eat me!” Jack continued to ramble, his eyes clenched shut like he was waiting for a hit he knew was already coming, like he was prepared for it.

Nico shifted to stand behind you, also frowning down at Jack. “Compel what?” 

Jack slowly blinked his eyes open to find you both staring down at him with mixed expressions of amusement and concern. He gulped, his logic and common sense thrown out the window in his inebriated state. 

“Uh, her,” Jack stated dumbly as he glanced at you. “She compelled you.”

You blinked. “I what?” 

“Because you’re a vampire,” Jack said, a little bolder than before. 

Your lips parted. “I’m a what?” 

“Jack,” Nico sighed, all captainy and authoritative in a way that made Jack squirm a little in his seat, like he disappointed someone he shouldn’t have. “Why would you think my girlfriend is a vampire?” 

“Because it was obvious!” Jack insisted, scrambling to finally stand up—with the help of Nico reaching out to balance him when he began to sway. 

Nico, who now looked more amused than disappointed, only raised his brows in response. “And how was it obvious?” 

“We never saw her during the day!” Jack blurted out. “It was always at dinners or other night events. Never during the day.”

“Jack,” you said in a soft voice. “I work during the day. I don’t get off until six, and that’s on early days.” 

“Oh,” Jack murmured with a frown. “What about the garlic?”

“You mean the day you tried to shove store bought garlic bread in our faces?” Nico mused, shaking his head. “I told you she wasn’t feeling well. The garlic bread was too heavy, it would’ve upset her stomach.”

“And I’d rather not puke all over my boyfriend’s teammate’s house the first time I’m invited,” you added with a snort.

“The turtleneck?” Jack questioned.

“Like I said, a fashion choice,” Nico huffed, but his cheeks burned a little as he quickly pressed a kiss to your forehead. “And I loved the turtleneck, baby. One of my favourite outfits.”

You snorted in response. 

“What about the candle?” Jack insisted, his brows furrowing together. “You were so against me lighting it!” 

“Because I’m just sensitive to most smells,” you explained with a sheepish smile. “Most candles give me a headache but I didn’t want to hurt your feelings because it was very thoughtful.”

“Oh,” Jack repeated, feeling stupid for what felt like the millionth time in the last few minutes.

“It’s sweet that you were so concerned about Nico dating a vampire that you did all of this,” you added, giving his shoulder a soft squeeze. “Even if you did just wreck your camera.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Jack murmured, his cheeks burning hot and pink. 

“Anything else you wanna get off your chest?” Nico questioned, watching as the boy blushed even more—if that was even possible.

“Maybe don’t mention this to Jonas?” 

Nico’s lips twitched. “My lips are sealed.” 

“Okay, good,” Jack nodded, swallowing harshly. “Now, if you excuse me, I need to go either sober up or get even more drunk.” 

You snorted in response.

“Sorry once again,” Jack added with a sheepish smile.

You waved him off. “Water under the bridge, Hughes.” 

This was definitely something Jonas would never let him forget when he found out.

…

“Be honest: was that your attempt of causing a distraction so I would forget why we came up here?” 

Nico couldn’t help but let out a laugh as he turned his head to look at you, smiling fondly when he found you already grinning back at him. He shook his head, winding his arms around your waist to tug you closer once he was sure Jack had disappeared back downstairs where the party was.

“You think I had anything to do with that?” Nico teased. “Please, I would know better.”

Your nose scrunched up a little. “I mean, a vampire? Come on!” 

“You would make the cutest vampire ever,” Nico said, laughing when you pinched his hip in retaliation. “Kidding, baby, I would never think you were one of those bloodsuckers.” 

“Damn right,” you huffed before your gaze softened. “Seriously though, before all the Jack stuff, you know it’s true, right? I love you and nothing will change that.” 

“Even your parents prefer your ex-boyfriend over a ‘measly human’?” Nico questioned, trying and failing to keep his voice lighthearted and playful as he repeated your parents’ hurtful words.

“Nico, baby,” you lifted your hands to cup his face, your voice honest and genuine as you spoke. “You’re it for me. I don’t care what anyone says, whether it's my parents being disapproving of me dating a human or your teammates thinking I’m a vampire. I want to be with you, no matter what. It’s you and me, Hischier.” 

Nico didn’t even bother to bite back the grin taking over his face as he leaned in, pressing his lips against yours and letting the tension slip away from his shoulders. “You and me,” he murmured between kisses. 

“Even if I was a bloodsucker?” You teased, something in your chest tightening at the way he smiled against your lips.

“Even then,” Nico mused before pulling away, a completely fond expression on his face. “Lucky for me, my girlfriend is way too pretty to be a bloodsucker.” 

You raised your brows. “Buttering me up, Hishcier?” 

“Just stating the truth,” Nico shrugged, still smiling down at you. “I always thought the werewolves were way cooler when Jack made me watch Twilight.” 

You snorted, shaking your head. “I’m much cooler than those wolves.” 

“Much cuter too,” Nico added, pressing his lips to the crown of your head and beaming when your eyes flashed yellow in response, something like a pleased purr leaving your lips when he pulled you closer.

.

[wilwheaton]

Clooney wrote of the "profound moment" the country is currently in, noting how just last month he hosted the "single largest fundraiser supporting any Democratic candidate ever, for President Biden's re-election." "I love Joe Biden," Clooney wrote. "As a senator. As a vice president and as president. I consider him a friend, and I believe in him. Believe in his character. Believe in his morals. In the last four years, he’s won many of the battles he’s faced." "But the one battle he cannot win is the fight against time," he continued. "None of us can. It’s devastating to say it, but the Joe Biden I was with three weeks ago at the fund-raiser was not the Joe “big F—ing deal” Biden of 2010. He wasn’t even the Joe Biden of 2020. He was the same man we all witnessed at the debate." Regarding the debate, in which the 81-year-old President stumbled continually, Clooney wrote that "our party leaders need to stop telling us that 51 million people didn’t see what we just saw." "We’re all so terrified by the prospect of a second Trump term that we’ve opted to ignore every warning sign. The George Stephanopoulos interview only reinforced what we saw the week before. As Democrats, we collectively hold our breath or turn down the volume whenever we see the president, who we respect, walk off Air Force One or walk back to a mic to answer an unscripted question," he wrote.

George Clooney calls on Biden to drop out to "save democracy" — just weeks after hosting fundraiser

George Clooney has nothing to gain and everything to lose, by telling the truth right now. Politicians and their supporters hold grudges for eternity. He’s speaking up and saying this now, knowing exactly what the stakes are for him, and for our country.

This is what I’ve been wanting to know. This is what the campaign has been hiding from us: WE all saw that President Biden had a bad night. The question the demands an answer is: was it a bad night? Or has time and age caught up with the president? Are we going to believe our lying eyes, or clap louder?

We don’t vote for just a president; we vote for an administration. For the most part, this administration has been fantastic, more progressive than I ever dreamed, to say nothing of rebuilding a nation out of the wreckage of four years of Trump.

And all of that is going to be burned to ash if President Biden can’t mount an effective campaign to defeat fascism and its leader. Since the debate, the campaign has kept him behind teleprompters and away from unscripted interactions. That’s alarming, and a tacit admission that he can’t fight like he once did, that the person we saw at the debate is the person he is most of the time.

If we lose this election, America will be plunged into decades of authoritarian, theocratic, christian nationalist fascism. The stakes will never be higher, and President Biden and his team need to do what is best for the country.

We will not win this election by clapping louder and gaslighting ourselves. We need — this crisis demands — a candidate who can clearly and easily refute Trump’s lies, and simply and clearly explain to voters what the stakes of this election are. The 2020 Joe Biden could do that; the 2024 Joe Biden doesn't seem to be capable of that, anymore, and that puts our entire nation and way of life at risk. George Clooney is telling us that he literally just saw, privately, what we all saw in public, and it was not a one-off. He also reveals that every single elected Democrat he talks to agrees with him, but they are too afraid to speak up. That’s horrifying, and I desperately hope it isn’t true.

But if George Clooney is telling us a hard truth, risking the wrath of countless powerful political players, and we should listen to him; not because he is rich and famous, but because he was literally in a room with President Biden and his supporters, and is now on the record that the President Biden we saw at the debate is not a guy with a cold or whatever, and now journalists can follow up with other people who were there to confirm or deny George Clooney’s observations.

These are tough questions that demand answers, now, because we are four months out and this shouldn’t be close, at all. America hates Trump, and he has lost every election since 2018 as a result.

President Biden and the Democrats need to run up huge margins in Michigan, Georgia, Nevada, Arizona, and Ohio, to overcome the inevitable MAGA fuckery. We need a candidate who is fifteen points ahead of Trump, not someone who has been in the margin of error for his entire presidency -- which is fucking insane when you look at all of Trump’s felonies, judgments, impending trials, and all of his corrupt criminality that the SCOTUS MAGA Majority twisted itself into knots to protect.

This should be a landslide against Trump and MAGA. It’s close because the candidate running against him isn’t -- likely can’t -- be out there, every day, banging the podium and forcing a change in the narrative. 

Did you see my governor after the debate disaster? He was on fire. That guy would destroy Trump in a debate. Vice President Harris would be laser focused on prosecuting the case against him. President Biden is the only candidate who Trump could drag into a fucking dick waving contest about golf scores when the fucking future of American Democracy is at stake. There is not a single other credible candidate who would take that bait. My god.

President Biden has done so much more than I ever thought possible. He doesn’t get credit for all his progressive achievements, for pulling America out of a economic calamity (caused by Trump and his allies), forgiving student debt, his appointments to the FCC, FTC, and other regulatory agencies that had been captured by industry during the Trump regime.

All of that will be wiped out in a matter of days, if Trump seizes power again.

George Clooney is warning us that President Biden doesn’t have the stamina and focus to win reelection and secure not just his legacy but the future of our country. He is saying out loud and as publicly as possible that we are not crazy, that we really did see what we saw.

This is DEFCON 1 for Democracy. This isn’t politics as usual. This is a moment of tremendous existential danger that only gets worse with each passing day. IF President Biden remains the candidate, I will vote for him, obviously. But I hope that he will fire everyone involved in preparing him for the debate, because they failed him, they failed America, and if Biden is going to take the fight to Trump and MAGA the way he needs to, it he needs a team who understand who they are fighting against, how to punch Trump in the nose, and what the stakes are.

[milfsloverblog]

Good Luck, Babe! (NSFW)

Larissa Weems x fem!reader

A/N: I know, I know. I’ve got series waiting for an update blah blah blah. But when something sparks your inspiration, you just got to get to work!! This one’s - obviously - inspired by the Chappell Roan song. This is full on ANGST, HURT NOT COMFORT, you’ve been warned! One shot, no second chapter to fix it all. We love the pain. Hope you’ll enjoy my darlings and don’t forget to like and reblog if you do!! <3

Larissa had been startled awake by a sudden loud noise, her heart pounding in her chest as her eyes adjusted to the darkness of the bedroom she shared with the banshee that slept next to her.

Not a literal one - although that might have been a better choice, Larissa thought as she turned her head towards the man she’d been sharing a bed with for over a decade and nearly two. Ha, there it was again. That loud snoring that kept her awake for nights on end. A banshee, that’s what he sounded like.

She sat up, carefully swinging her legs on the side of the bed and trying her best not to wake him up - somehow the snoring was still more bearable than his incessant yapping when he was awake.

Larissa took a deep breath, rubbing her hands on her face as she contemplated what to do with the rest of her night. She had a little over four hours left of sleep before her alarm would go off, signifying the beginning of her working day. She brushed her fingers through her silver hair, holding back a whine when some of it got stuck in her wedding ring.

Oh bitter irony, she thought as she pulled away to inspect the golden ring on her left hand.

The banshee snored again, pulling Larissa out of her thoughts and nearly making her consider squeezing a pillow on her husband’s face. Instead, she quietly got out of bed, throwing a silky robe on her silkier shoulders and tying it close as a shiver ran down her spine.

Things could have been so different.

As her hand brushed down the wooden handrails of the main stairs, Larissa couldn’t help but reminisce about her younger days. She thought of Nevermore when she was only a student there and not in charge of it. The Poe cup, the Rave’N, the feeling of soft hands on her skin. Larissa stopped dead in her tracks. She could have sworn that she had felt it, right there in the middle of the staircase, the ghost of soft hands on her midriff. She took a deep breath and hurried down the stairs on the tip of her toes, still not wanting to wake up the banshee that rested upstairs.

Turning the light on as she made her way to the kitchen, Larissa walked straight to the sink and knelt to access the cupboard below it. She didn’t even look at the bottles, grabbing the first one that met her hand and pulling it out of the cupboard. It would be a good one anyway, her darling husband always made sure of it. Grand wine, grand house (that she had been against buying), grand life, grand wife. The thought left a bitter taste in Larissa’s mouth and she hurried to open the bottle, eager to replace the bitterness of a wasted life with the bitter taste of an aged Chianti.

As she sipped on her freshly poured wine, Larissa’s mind transported her back to a night twenty years ago.

“They’ll catch us!” Larissa half-whispered as her hand squeezed yours.

“Everyone’s at the Rave’N, they won’t even notice we’re gone. Come on, even if they did, Nevermore’s brightest student and its biggest weirdo? No one would speculate that we’re together. They’ll think that you went to bed early, as a bright student should, and that I’m hiding in some dark corner all alone like a loser.” You joked, pushing the door to your room open.

“I’m not Nevermore’s brightest student, Morticia is,” Larissa said, her crimson-painted lips falling in a soft pout.

“Ha, so nothing about me not being a weirdo or a loser?” You feigned being hurt before letting out a chuckle. “Morticia doesn’t have half of your intelligence nor a quarter of your beauty. She’s got a big pair of tits, that’s all.” You shrugged, closing the door behind you.

Something churned inside Larissa’s stomach, the early stirrings of jealousy making her face grow hot at the mere thought of you finding Morticia somewhat attractive.

“Kiss me,” she demanded.

“Wait, I’ve got something-“You didn’t have time to finish your sentence as Larissa's lips crashed against yours, bruising and demanding.

Larissa opened her mouth and you quickly followed, allowing her to thrust her tongue against yours in a dance you two had been rehearsing for months. Her lips moved down your chin and up your jaw, leaving a trail of red marks that you’d have to scrub at in the morning.

“Riss-“ you whined when she nipped at the thin skin of your neck, gently pulling away from her. “Wait, wait-“

Larissa reluctantly let go of you, wiping the corner of her mouth with her thumb and clearing her throat.

“I want to take my time,” you explained. “We always do this so quickly, most of the time I can’t even get you fully naked. Let’s take our time, everyone will be busy downstairs for another couple of hours.”

Larissa pushed a small smile and nodded. She sat down on your bed and watched as you pulled something from underneath it.

“How on earth did you get that?!” She squealed, nearly ripping the green bottle from your hand.

“Borrowed it from the kitchen,” you shrugged.

“You know that borrowing means you’ll give it back at some point, right?” Larissa mumbled as she read the tag on the bottle.

“Yeah, whatever. I’ll buy some cheap bottle from the supermarket downtown and put it back in the kitchen.”

Larissa let out a snorting laugh and shook her head.

“Do you even know how much this is worth?” She said, gesturing with the bottle in her hand.

“Now don’t be rude,” you raised an eyebrow. “You’re the one that comes from a rich family, not me.”

“Shut up and pour us a glass, if you have anything to open the bottle with!” Larissa pouted. You knew she hated being reminded that she came from money, but it simply was the truth.

“Who do you take me for, a rookie?” You huffed as you opened your bedside table only to pull out a bottle opener and wave it victoriously in Larissa’s face, making her laugh.

What happened next was a little blurry in Larissa’s mind. She remembered sharing the wine, drinking straight from the bottle as you laughed about everything and nothing. She remembered spilling wine on the awfully expensive gown her father had bought her for the Rave’N, and then soft hands helping her out of it. Her head between your thighs, yours between hers. She remembered falling asleep in your arms and waking up still in your arms the next morning. And that had been the breaking point for Larissa. Her parents would never agree to this, to her having this sort of feelings for women, for you. She had to nip this in the bud before it went too far. And so she did.

Larissa made sure to avoid you like the plague after that night, going as far as becoming friends with Morticia Frump and her clique even though she knew how much you disliked them. And then came Henry. He wasn’t Larissa’s type, obviously. But he would please her parents and so she let him court her until they officially became a thing. Then everything had gone so fast, her final year at Nevermore, the graduation, Henry proposing.

“Larissa!” You ran after her inside Nevermore after witnessing Henry’s proposal in the yard. What a dick move, proposing right after she had graduated. Nice way to steal her spotlight.

Larissa spun on her heels, fidgeting with the new ring that felt unfamiliar on her left hand.

“What do you want?” She sighed, trying her best to keep her eyes off of you.

“You can’t do that,” you said, shaking your head. “You can’t marry him, you don’t even love him! Larissa, please…”

“Please what?” Larissa snapped. “What did you think? That this fling we had would turn into more than it was? Don’t be ridiculous.”

You swallowed your pain, refusing to let your heart burst at the seam.

“When you wake up next to him in a decade or two,” you said, fighting against the lump in your throat. “And you’ll realise that you’re nothing more than his wife, you’ll think of me. You’ll think of everything we shared all of those years ago.“

It was Larissa’s turn to swallow thickly as she took in your words. Marrying him meant security, a normal life. But it also meant losing her freedom, Larissa knew that.

“Say something,” you pleaded, hoping that it would be enough for your ex-lover to change her mind.

“I’m sorry,” she simply replied, holding her head high as she always did in any situation - good or bad. “You knew this would come to an end.” She added before giving a small nod and walking past you, the sound of her kitten heels echoing down the corridor.

She hadn’t seen you since. You hadn’t replied to the wedding invite she had sent. She had hoped you’d show up, she’d hoped to prove to you that she had made the right choice. That she was happy in the life she had picked for herself. That she had moved on. But she hadn’t really moved on, had she? Drinking herself half-blind almost two decades after she’d last seen you. Maybe you had moved on. Surely you had.

When Larissa was pulled back to reality, to the empty kitchen and the emptier glass of wine in her hand, tears had started running down her cheeks which she hastily wiped away.

She had thought about reaching out more times than she would ever admit. But she never dared. Not when she had found your Facebook and you seemed so happy with that woman on your profile picture. She would never dare reach out to you for she knew that you would tell her what you always did whenever she had to deal with the consequences of her actions.

I told you so, Larissa. You know I hate to say it but I told you so.

And Larissa wished, she wished she had listened to you. She wished she could go back in time and she wished she could forget you.

But Larissa knew - she would have to stop the world to stop the feeling.

————————————————————————

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[pandorem]

Genuinely find it fascinating from a writing perspective that Edwin’s propensity for playing trauma olympics is a well established trait of his that plays so interestingly into his relationships with Crystal and Charles and Simon especially, and how it works in his character arc and how it both plays into and CONTRASTS his incredible capacity for forgiveness. How it’s a flaw that makes so much sense with how much he’s suffered that it’s hard not to be sympathetic towards it or even agree with him sometimes, but that it IS a flaw and comes up at times that are less fair as well. Im not sure I have a real point to this yet, it’s just something I want to chew on for a while.

for one: Edwin’s tendency to put his trauma as worse than others’ (no matter how literally correct he might be) is set up directly to parallel Crystal’s own self centered tendencies and her character arc. They BOTH have a tendency to not consider other people’s feelings and pain until someone points out to them that they are being dismissive. They are mirrors of each other and I love them so much. I also wanted to push back a bit on some things I’ve seen about how Edwin’s reaction to her yelling at him in episode one was completely justified (“what she’s been through? I spent 70 years in hell!”) because of how their traumas interact and how she let David in the first time that feel too dismissive of Crystal’s trauma. Yes, their trauma’s with demons interact in ways that it makes PERFECT SENSE that Edwin reacted the way he did, and I even sympathize with him, but something being sympathetic does not mean it’s justified. Taking away the metaphor of the Demonic nature of it all, Crystal was just cornered and threatened by her abusive ex boyfriend who has succeeded in isolating her from her entire social circle/any safety net she might have had before the boys. And uh. We don’t say about people getting out of abusive relationships that it’s justified that people were mad at them for getting into the relationship willingly. So.

Also. While Edwin’s measuring of their traumas is more sympathetic in the first episode, the moment in a later episode where Edwin (nearly lightheartedly) dismisses Crystal’s nightmare about her abusive demon ex because “the living know nothing about true nightmares” is less so, and I think is there to confirm that this is a genuine, deliberately written character flaw that he needs to grow out of, just like Crystal needs to grow.

And that brings us to Simon. The character who Edwin is THE MOST justified to be angry at, to blame and to compare their punishments. When he rages that Simon damned him to decades of being ripped apart while Simon sits quietly crying in a room, getting paper cuts from tearing pages out of books, it’s honestly difficult not to agree with him, to not feel that same righteous indignation. But then despair lays it out for him: he was about to gloat over another’s torture. And even without yet knowing more about Simon, Edwin is horrified by the idea. I think it says so much about Edwin’s GOODNESS that the time this character flaw of his feels the most justified and right is also the time he works through and past it to empathize with the pain of the real person on the other side of that. It is after he comes back, needing Simon to know that he didn’t mean to gloat, that he is then able to see Simon as a real person, as someone he shares pain with, the pain of being closeted and terrified in the 1910s. Simon was a kid, same as Edwin, who was terrified of his own nature and let that fear and humiliation lead him to cruelty that ended in consequences that he never intended. And it says so, so much about Edwin’s goodness that once he is able to see past his own pain and empathize with someone else’s, he feels for and maybe even forgives the one person that he would be most justified in NOT forgiving. That connecting with him is literally what saved Simon’s soul in the end.

(It’s also worth noting- Simon thinks that Edwin is “another trick” when he first sees him. He says that “the headmaster will be angry”. In keeping with the theme that we shouldn’t compare traumas or decide that we know what other people are going through, it seems clear to me that what we saw- sitting alone and getting paper cuts- was NOT the entirety of Simon’s hell.)

And then there’s Charles. Now. Edwin has a lot of 1910s sensibilities that make him connecting the dots on what Charles went through a bit difficult for him. But Edwin never, ever suggests that his trauma is less or isn’t worth getting upset about. Because it’s Charles, and Charles deserves no amount of pain ever, in the world. I don’t think it would ever occur to Edwin if I’m honest. Of course it’s because he loves him and Charles is his favourite person in the universe, but also I wonder at the fact that their very first meeting, so soon after Edwin had escaped hell, was one of complete empathy and compassion. Maybe seeing the bullies made him see himself in Charles but it sort of circles the point I think I’m making- Edwin’s very real flaws contrast against and thus highlight his INCREDIBLE kindness and goodness.

[xztloux]

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿

↳˗ˏˋYandere/Dark Percy Jacksonˊˎ˗ ↴

▸ content warnings: kidnapping, injury, swearing, my shitty writing 🫶

▸ summary: Percy, a lonely god finds you injured in his temple and decides to keep you..

▸ A/N: this is my first time writing something yandere or dark or anything like that so sorry if it’s bad. No spell checks so stupid my be spelt wrong.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿

Perseus, son of Poseidon hero of Olympus, god of loyalty. Well, at least thats what camp taught you.

Percy accepted godhood many, many, years ago. Now the days blur together and as the days blurred together Percy stopped looking after his temple. He has outlived everyone he loved, his mother, his friends, everyone.

He locked himself in his temple letting years, decades, pass not caring for mankind, he became selfish like the rest of the gods. That was until one day, you, stumbled into his temple, an injured demigod. His temple was overgrown with vines and the smell of sea water lingered in the air.

You felt so happy to find a place to shelter in for the night until the rain passed, and to patch up your injuries, the place looked and felt abandoned so you just stepped right in. Yet you didn’t know how much you’d regret finding this temple in the future..

You stumbled through the doors wincing in pain as you held your side, that had been badly injured from a monster. Throwing down your backpack you slid down the wall, quickly searching for the bandages. The wound caused sharp and stinging jolts of pain but you powered through.

"The rain must be rather inconvenient for you."

Percy spoke as his voice carried through the entire temple, he had been woken up from his sleep when you stumbled in. He seemed rather calm for someone who had just been awoken from their slumber. Although, his voice was rather cold and detached, lacking any emotion."You're a demigod I presume."

Not expecting to have company you practically jumped out of your skin.

“Shit!” You yelled quickly grabbing your weapon (which really hurt your side) before you realised who or rather what he was, a god.

“Sorry—sorry you just made me jump..” you muttered looking up at him while holding your side trying to make the pain go away, you had this..weird feeling about him but you didn’t know what..

“Come here.”

You were in not position to refuse such help, especially from a literal god. So, you walked up to his throne and sat down, it was a bit cramped. Percy started to look at your injuries, analyzing them as he grabbed your wrists to pull your sleeves back and get a better look. He seemed to be rather interested in the way your injuries looked. His grip was also rather tight causing you to wince in uncomfortable pain. Yet the he seemed to completely ignore your flinch.

“I’ve heeled your minor injuries but the one on your side will take another week or two, to heal fully.” He stayed almost as if he was talking past you and not to you. You nodded in response getting off his throne and picking up your bag. It was a bit pathetic really you could hardly walk.

"You should probably rest a bit more."

He spoke bluntly as he watched you struggle with walking, his tone of voice was still cold. Which is weird seeing as he was talking to you. Usually the gods have a more.. friendly tone when speaking to demigods. It was all strange. He seemed to want you to stay here.. for a reason he hasn't told you yet..

“I don’t wanna cause any trouble..” you chuckled awkwardly “like you said my side will take about a week or two to heal..”

He raised a brow as he tilted his head to the side. The blank stare was growing more prominent in his eyes now. It was as if he couldn't understand why you'd want to leave, especially while you were still injured.

"Rest."

He spoke once again as he gave a firm nod. He was telling you to stay put.

“Okay..thanks..” yoh said smiling slightly before you put your bag down he led you to one of the bedrooms in the temple for you to sleep in. It was a nice place really considering the temple Was overflowing with vines.

Percy watched you as you made yourself a bed. His gaze was still focused on you as you got yourself comfortable enough to rest. He watched you settle for a while longer. He was rather silent as he continued to stare at you. When he finally spoke up he was still stoic and expressionless.

"You're staying here."

He spoke firmly and clearly. He was ordering you to stay here... not asking you.

You nodded slightly “till I’m better yeah.” yawning slightly your energy had been drained from his healing.. your head hit the pillow and immediately you fell asleep. Percy on the other hand..continued to watch you. He wasn't planning on letting you leave his temple until you were healed. As you laid down he just stared you down.. his eyes following you as you turned to your side.. he was.. fixated on you.. even while you slept.. he continued to watch you for what must have been hours..

finally two weeks had passed, you could finally leave and make your way back to camp, over those two weeks he’d warmed to you slightly but that bad feeling was still present. Packing up your stuff into the bag getting ready to leave.

“thank you again” you smiled at him as he sat on his throne, you were great full that he had helped you.

He had crossed his legs as he spoke monotone as always..

"It was no issue."

Although his response had been short and rather emotionless, he spoke with rather clear.. authority. He sat there watching you now. Watching you pack up as you got ready to leave.

"Are you sure you are well enough to leave?"

“Yeah.” You smiled at him before walked towards the doors of the temple. you tried to push open the doors but they wouldn’t move? You’d opened them easily before but now they wouldn’t budge..

“hey um..i think there locked or something..?” You asked awkward the bad feeling grew and grew..

He looked at you as you tried to open the doors and noticed that they were.. locked.

Percy then tilted his head to the side as he spoke.

"I locked them."

For some reason his response caused your bad feeling to grow further. He didn't say anything else other than that.. He seemed to wait for you to ask why he locked the doors.

“Well could you open them for me?” You asked him tilting your head slightly, you hoped he forgot to unlock them..

"No."

His voice seemed to have gotten more monotone as soon as he spoke, his stare was still cold as ever. His response just further added to your bad feeling.. you didn't know how much longer you could stay locked in here with him.. for some reason he seemed to want to keep you here.. before you could speak he spoke again.

"I do not want you to leave the temple."

He spoke rather bluntly as he leaned back onto his throne. He didn't elaborate on that response, though.. He didn't really seem to want you to know why he didn't want you to leave.. he just seems to want to keep you locked in here with him for some odd reason.

“B—but..” you tried to argue as you looked at him sitting on his bloody throne “but—“

He cut you off before you could even properly argue by speaking once again.

"Do not argue with me.

He stated plainly as the god spoke he looked down at you as he straightened out his legs that were crossed. He seemed rather serious, almost to serious when it came to you.

His expressionless stare was still fixated on you as he continued to speak.

"You will stay here, with me.”

You were trapped with a god who’s loneliness had driven him mad.. and there was no escape..

[babygirlnicohischier]

Bookstore boy - Matt Rempe x gender neutral reader

Warnings: 18+ smut, mutual masturbation, sexting, sex toys

Summary: Matt, your bookstore regular, finally gets your number. What happens when he gathers the courage to message you first?

Word count: 2.9k

It’s hard to be subtle when you’re standing literally head and shoulders above the top of the bookcases. Matt loves shopping at tiny little bookstores or small secondhand book shops but this is always the drawback; he was like a bull in a China shop bumbling around the tight corners and too close together shelves. Turning another corner he was at least glad that no one else was in the aisle. Grinding the wobbly shelf is one thing but he hated having to try to move his arms, legs, and body awkwardly around while trying to avoid contact with a stranger in public. Luckily for him he was alone…well it was him, the shop cat (there was always a shop cat in small stores, and it was another reason Matt liked coming to them. Hockey guys always had dogs and he was never much of a dog person) and the bored, presumably nonbinary college aged cashier scrolling on their phone at the front register.

He pulled a worn book down from the shelf in front of him, the smell of dust and decades-old paper wafting as he opened the front cover and prayed silently that it wouldn’t crack off in his hands. He was flipping pages, reading through small passages to see if he wanted to add it to his growing collection of random paperbacks when he heard the front doorbell ring as another body entered the shop.

“Hey Lilly,” the new voice said, “you can head on break I’ll grab the register.” Matt pretended to keep reading as he peeked over the shelves across the store to see the new cashier who now took their post at the front of the shop. The two employees discussed a few work matters before the first cashier, who he now knew was Lilly, asked their coworker for their lunch order (“nah I'm good just grab me one of those white sugar-free monsters, ok?”) before the tinkling of the bell on the door marked the return of just two bodies in the shop. He thought he was being inconspicuous when he heard a voice call out in his direction.

“You know I can see you, right? It's sort of hard not to when you’re the tallest thing in the shop.” At first Matt still tried his rouse of pretending to read before realizing it was futile and he pulled the book away from his face. “At least tell me your name if you’re going to gawk at me,” the cashier continued.

“Uhhh Matt.” (Shit my voice is cracking. Try it again.) “My name is Matt,” he said after clearing his throat.

“What are you reading there, Matt?”

He began briefly summarizing what he had gleaned from the pages of the fantasy book in his hand when he realized he didn't know this person’s name. “Sorry, I didn’t ask your name, did I?”

“Y/N. My name is Y/N.”

Matt would appear at the small New Jersey shop every few weeks when the Rangers were back home. He liked the anonymity of it (as anonymous as a few jeers from the local hockey fans and lots of stares at his size could be) and he especially liked talking to you. You talked about books you both read and were going to read (“You know if it has a map of the land printed in the title pages it's going to be a good one”), hockey (“Matt, I just don’t like your team. You guys suck.” “But we’re first in the league! How can you even say we’re bad?” “Because you just are!” “Yeah, rich coming from a Devils fan”), and even life in general (“yeah I mean sometimes it gets lonely being so far from my mom back home but I’ve been making friends with the guys especially since I’ve been living with Quick.” “What about your love life? That has to be helping.” “…What love life?”)

As the season wore on his visits became more and more spaced out; Matt had been getting more ice time and therefore had to be practicing even harder to keep his spot in the lineup, but he would pop in whenever he had some free time and some patience to deal with New Jersey Transit. It wasn’t all bad though; as time wore on he was even closer with his teammates and about two months after meeting you for the first time Matt finally got your number. “You know, in case you want to talk about books or whatever when you’re out of town,” you said as you scribbled the ten digits onto a post it and attached it to Matt’s latest purchase.

Later that night, Matt agonized over hitting the send button. He thought texting seemed like too much, too serious for this, so he decided to use your phone number to find your Snapchat (as if this made the act less weird). All the text said was, “Hey, it’s Matt,” but it still felt weird. What if he seemed like a loser texting so soon? What if you just gave your number to talk about books and not because there was some weird…tension between you two whenever he was in the shop? What if this was a joke and it wasn’t even a real number? “Ughhh fine,” he said to himself, hitting “add friend” and pressing send on his message before tossing his phone to the foot of his bed so he didn’t sit and wait and watch eagerly for a response. A few minutes went by and Matt still didn’t see that you had opened his message. Admitting defeat, he stripped off his jeans and sweatshirt and gathered up his things for a shower.

When he got back to his room a half hour later he saw three notifications on his phone.

“Hey, nice to hear from you :) Not that I was waiting, that would be really weird.

Ok now that sounded weird. Anyway, hi Matt. What are you up to? How is that book you grabbed today?”

Matt smiled to himself and read and reread the messages when another notification popped in: a picture. He took a deep breath and opened it embarrassingly fast. Staring back at him was a selfie of you, this time without the glasses and work clothes from earlier, replaced with a bare face and an oversized Devils hoodie. He could see that from this angle you made it clear that he wanted to show off your legs, your supple thighs peeking out from the bottom of the clothing. Not so casually, Matt imagined this would be what you looked like wearing one of his hoodies and then immediately tried to erase the image from his mind. Matt sat up in bed, taking in the image from top to bottom. He was so thankful you forgot to change the time settings so he had all the time in the world.

He couldn’t stop staring, knowing he was smiling like an idiot at the phone. It’s not weird, everyone gets a little excited when their new friend texts them though, and obviously everyone thinks about hanging out with their friend when they’re at work, or in bed before they sleep, or in the shower when they’re jacking off. Ok, maybe not that last one but was it his fault you were so cute and your lips looked so kissable and your ass filled out your jeans so well? And fuck, those thighs looked delicious.

Matt felt that familiar blood-rushing feeling as he kept looking at you and thinking about your eyes and how your eyeliner would run when he fucked you senseless, how big his cock would look in your cute little hands as you jerked him off, and your smile and how it would look so much cuter sucking around his head and taking him into the back of your throat. “Shit,” Matt said quietly as he slipped his hands into his sweats to relieve some of the pressure. He pumped himself, slowly at first as he languished in the feeling but speeding up as flashes of you riding him in nothing but that hoodie came into his head. The thoughts kept flooding his mind and soon enough he felt his sticky release into his hand. Cleaning himself off he realized he’d left you on read, like an asshole.

“Hey,” he typed once he threw on a new pair of shorts, “I haven’t even started it yet honestly. I’ve been busy tonight.” You didn’t need to know what he was busy with, but seeing as the reply was going out after midnight Matt couldn’t help but feel like maybe he could be caught. He felt like a high school kid again, hard at the very thought of someone cute giving him attention and needing to get off as soon as possible. He was sheepish as he laid back in bed, a slight blush on his cheeks. What the fuck was going on here?

The sound of his phone alerting him to a new message tore Matt from his thoughts. He jumped to open the message embarrassingly quickly, knowing that with the read receipts, he was about to look desperate. “Oooh late night business? I won’t even ask LMAO. Well, good thing you have a road trip coming up, more than enough time to catch up on some reading.”

Matt smiled, thinking it was sweet that you knew his schedule even when he only mentioned the upcoming trip in passing. Then he remembered he was in the NHL and everyone could technically know his schedule, and he felt the embarrassment creep up his neck.

“True. I haven’t been sleeping too well lately anyway, so even more time to read.”

Another picture came in, this time of you in bed. Your hair was messy and your bare shoulders and neck hinted at the rest of your bare skin below the blanket not so carefully pulled up to your chest. ‘Two can play at that game,’ Matt thought. He laid back in bed, putting a hand behind his head so his bicep was flexed and you could see his pecs. He hoped at this angle his bedhead looked sexy rather than messy and before he could overthink it he hit send.

“So that’s what an NHL player has got in terms of ]game? Just a bare arm huh? No wonder you have so many people in line begging for dates.”

Ouch, that one stung a little bit but maybe he just needed to be a little bolder to shut you up. Padding down the hall to the bathroom, Matt closed the door behind him and stood in front of the mirror. He pulled his shorts down just enough to show off his v-lines and the full expanse of his tight abs; trapped in his basketball shorts was just enough of his growing hardness to show off but not too much to technically be lewd. Flexing just so, he snapped a pic in the mirror and typed “Nah, this is why they’re lining up” and quickly sent it before he could pick it apart and decide not to go through with it.

“Now that’s a good boy,” the response said. “you look absolutely fuckable.” Matt felt a growl rise up in his throat, knowing you felt about him and how he felt about you. “I only wish I could see more.”

“Not without something in return,” Matt sent back. He saw you start to type and then stop and he held his breath for what seemed like days. This could be it, he was explicitly crossing the friend line now and you would either shut him down and never text him again, or he was about to see something beautiful. A few minutes later a video came through, and Matt braced himself for you telling him off and saying you hated him. But, when he opened the message it was you in bed propping your phone up against the wall before you moved back to slowly strip off the hoodie you were now wearing. His eyes followed your fingers as they trailed your body, up and down your chest, over your nipples, down your stomach, to the band of the tiny shorts you were wearing. Your fingers looped under the fabric and began to inch them down to your hips and Matt was practically willing you to remove the final piece of clothing when you winked to the camera and leaned in to end the video.

Suddenly, his phone began to ring and he realized you were calling him through Snapchat. “Matt,” you whispered, voice raspy. “What are you doing right now?”

His brain was numb. “I…I’m in bed. Looking at how gorgeous you are.”

“Did you like my video?”

“Of course, I did,” he did his best to sound cool and collected but he wasn’t quite sure it was working. He heard the smirk in your voice as you asked, “Are you hard right now?” He gulped, pausing a moment, not sure if this was still a test and you would laugh and hang up. “How could I not be? Your body is amazing.”

There was a pause on your end. “Matty, I want you to touch yourself for me. Imagine I was there with you.” Oh fuck, this is really happening. “Stroke yourself nice and slow.” Matt did what he was told without a second thought. The desire in your voice was palpable and he could faintly hear the buzzing of a vibrator in the background. “Now show me. I want to see how big you are, babe.”

Matt immediately pulled the phone from his ear and angled it towards his dick. He held it in his hand and sent a video with the other as he jerked himself for you. Eight inches (which, considering his height, he felt wasn’t too bad), and a fierce pink at the tip being revealed as the foreskin went up and down with his movements. In the dim light of his phone, he could see the precum glistening on his head and he groaned your name into the phone before he ended his own video.

“Fuck, Matt that’s so hot. I wish I was there to taste you,” you whispered into the phone. Matt could hear the vibrator increase in speed and it just made him harder as he thought of you pleasuring yourself to the sight of him. Him, all him, making you cum. He couldn’t help but moan softly as he kept his movements going. “Tell me about it, baby,” he whispered back. “Tell me what you’d want me to do to you.”

“Well,” you started, “right now I’m thinking of you bending me over your bed and fucking me from behind. I can practically feel you in my stomach with how deep you’d be inside of me.”

“Oh fuuuuck,” he groaned, having to drop his cock to avoid cumming too soon. He wanted more of this, so he teased you in the only way he could now. “You’d like that wouldn’t you, being filled up with my dick.” You choked on a moan of your own, “Yes, Matt. Please stuff me full of your cock. Fuck me so hard I forget my own name.” Another stifled groan came from your end of the phone.

“So dirty, teasing me like this without being here. When I get you I’ll have to punish you for this. Maybe I won’t touch you at all.”

“No Matt, please.” Oh god, he loved how you sounded begging for him. “I want you to touch me all over. Play with my nipples, finger me, fuck my face, use me however you want but please just touch me.” Matt couldn’t help but pick up his dick again, feeling it twitch in his hand with longing. He wished it was you clenched around his dick instead of his own hand.

“Oh baby, I’m gonna cum if you talk like that.”

“Good, Matty, that’s just what I want. I want you to cum thinking of me just like I’m thinking of you. You fucking me senseless, toying with me while you’re inside just to add to the pleasure. You cumming inside of me leaving me a dripping mess.”

And that was enough, Matt was spilling into his hand again repeating your name like a prayer into the phone receiver. He could hear you echoing his name as a response and he knew you were cumming too. The sound of faint vibrations ended and all that could be heard was each of you panting into the phone. “Damn, Matt, if you could rile me up like that over the phone I can’t wait to see what you do to me in person.”

Matt smiled, wiping himself off with his t-shirt and stopping himself just short of telling you he loved you. He knew it was true but at this point, it would sound like a post-nut confession rather than the truth. There would be a time for that, anyway. “So is that you asking me on a date?” he laughed into the phone. “Hmmmm I guess,” you replied and he could hear your smile over the other end of the line. “Next time you’re in Jersey we can talk about it. Now, I hope this helped you and your insomnia.”

He blushed slightly, once again feeling sheepish but also worn out enough to finally sleep. “Oh is that what this was? You helping me sleep?”

“Well,” you said, “I was having trouble sleeping too so I figured we could both help each other out. Now you gotta get to bed since you have a plane to catch in the morning. I’ll call you tomorrow for real, and not just to jack off.”

He smiled, feeling the drowsiness wash over him. “I’ll hold you to that then. Goodnight, babe.”

“Sweet dreams, Matt.”

[221-apt-b]

Nobody will ever understand just how much I value House and Wilson’s relationship. House, for the entirety of the show stressed how important interesting and complex puzzles were to him as a human being. Always needed stimulation, always needed to be doing something that wasn’t boring and he found that within medicine and within prodding the inner workings of people. He gave up his entire life, the very pillar of who he was for more than a decade to spend the last of Wilson’s life with him. Whether it be romantic or platonic (up to interpretation), THAT’S love. True pure love. He gave up EVERYTHING that made him Dr. House, but he did it because he knew none of it mattered without Wilson there. That was his ultimate unselfish sacrifice (you can argue it’s selfish in other ways but regardless of that, this act was done against his instinctual desire to practice medicine).

This has become my absolute favorite example of the phrase “to be loved is to be changed”. I’m aware House’s philosophy is that people don’t change but the entire show has shown that he has been fundamentally altered by those around him and all he’s experienced (you could argue he was always caring in this way but something had to change for him to get there). He couldn’t be there for Cuddy when he thought she was dying but, due to the importance of his relationship with Wilson and likely the fact that he was aware this time he had was it with him, he was there for Wilson quite literally the entire time. He has been changed by love.

Wilson and House are soulmates. I will always believe that. I believe in both romantic and platonic soulmates so I’m unsure which applies here but the line is blurred I suppose.

I feel there’s more for me to say and this doesn’t encompass how I feel about it all completely but this is what I’ve deduced to the best of my ability.

TLDR; There is no Dr. House without Dr. Wilson.

[wqnwoos]

“vernon, we need to talk.”

your arms are crossed. your brows are furrowed. your lips are set in a dead straight line. you mean serious business.

he blinks at you, confused, but shifts so he’s sitting upright on the sofa. “okay,” vernon agrees, apprehensive. he pats the space next to him.

you take it, uncrossing your arms and looking him dead in the eye, so seriously that his mind short circuits for a second — he starts panicking internally, and that means he almost misses your next words;

“vernon, we need a cat.”

before he even fully registers your words and processes his relief, you’re begging. “i’m serious, okay! i know you’re busy and i can get busy sometimes, but i really — really — really think we should get a cat.”

“o—”

“from the rescue centre! you know, the one we visit all the time. pleeeease don’t say no.”

“i mean — ”

“and i need someone to keep me company when you’re away for tour and stuff too, you know.”

“is this… emotional blackmail?”

“no! i just think we’d be great parents! we can afford it! and we’d do a really good job, especially you, ‘cause you’re so awesome and handsome and cool a—”

“alright, okay, hold on.” he snorts, holding up a hand to stop you. “you don’t have to resort to flattery.”

“so… we can get the cat?” you gaze at him with pleading, rounded eyes, and he blinks.

“i literally don’t know how you got to that conclusion from what i said,” he says dryly.

your pout is instantaneous. “vernon!”

“baby!”

“please. please please please pleeeeaase.”

his smile is borderlining a smirk by now, as he pinches your cheeks. “you’re so cute.”

“i’m not cute. i’m desperate.”

“you’re still cute.”

“usually i’d say thank you, but right now i don’t care. can we get the cat?”

vernon chuckles, looping arm around you. “of course we can get the cat. you didn’t even have to beg, you know. i was sold the moment you said it.”

your delighted beam, he notices quickly, is turning more and more sheepish as you slip out from under his arm, sidling over to a cardboard box he hadn’t even noticed before.

“so, uh… about that cat,” you begin.

“baby.”

“yes?”

“what’s in the box?”

you glance between him and the box. “what box? this box? oh! haha. nothing. nothing crazy. ha.”

“it wouldn’t happen to be… i don’t know, a cat?”

“whaaat?” you scoff at him, waving a hand disbelievingly. “a cat? a cat! pshh. what a craazy thought. imagine that.”

the silence that follows is broken by one very small, very quiet meow.

“okay, okay!” you throw your hands up guiltily. “i’m sorry, she was just looking at me with those big big eyes and i couldn’t just say no, could i?”

far from being mad, or even surprised, vernon is just entertained. “and what if i had said no?”

“i would’ve cried. do you want that on your conscience?”

“never.” he stands, opening his hands to you with a boyish smile. “now. hand me my child.”

an / thought of this idea after many many cat pics (thank you sammy perla is the love of my life). and then i sat and wrote it out in 15 mins. (could alternatively be used as a very accurate depiction of me begging my mother for a cat, except i’ve been doing that for over a decade and she only says no.)