#nearly ruined her sister's reputation

[sukibenders]

Anthony doesn't get enough flack from this fandom if I'm being honest, like most of it is pushed onto other female characters while he gets the "he was struggling," excuse. And while he was struggling, there's definitely validity to that, he also should not have his actions (eg. playing with Kate's feelings, putting her and Edwina in a difficult situation, etc) excused because of that.

[khattikeri]

3zun is just so funny to me. it's so tasty.

you canonically have A Guy who got murdered barely at his mid-20s bc he shoved his ex down a flight of stairs and called him a son of a whore in a fit of anger and the ex got paranoid enough to go "alright that's fucking it he HAS to die". he's right to scream about his ex obviously planning on killing him, he's just wrong to assume his ex was always a crazy evil bitch and not, y'know, paranoid and upset at being shoved down a flight of stairs. c'est la vie.

you have Other Guy, the ex in question who got het married to his own half-sister because "too little too late the wedding's tomorrow and we already have a kid on the way, shit, her reputation will be ruined forever if i abandon her now and don't publicly explain why, fuck, guess i'll lie to her the rest of our lives" and that's not even the tip of the iceberg of crimes and other unfortunate follies he's willing to commit in the name of status and personal safety. he murders and dismembers the First Guy and keeps the body's head in his fun little mirror closet. he talks to it now and then. just girly things.

you have The Final Guy, who happens to love both of these batshit individuals and refuses to 100% side with or denounce either of them, or even really investigate the shit they're claiming about each other, which pisses them both off and leaves everyone in varying levels of unhappiness and distress. he recognizes the First Guy's disembodied chest by musculature alone. he and Other Guy lovingly eye-fuck for nearly two full decades before he realizes Other Guy murdered First Guy and lied about it. he is tricked into stabbing Other Guy and goes into self-imposed indefinite solitary confinement over it while his two partners' souls and zombified bodies are trapped together in a coffin doomed to torment each other for over a century.

amazing and quirky of them, you have to admit.

[angrydemonfawnbaby]

maybe one day i will be over bridgerton season three and my hatred for penelope but that day is not today

i understand that the books are different and that book polin and penelope are not what their show counterparts are but i need book polin and penelope fans to take a step back and examine the absolute psychological horror of what show polin is.

genuinely there is something so insidious about a girl who meets a guy, believes it's love at first sight, and then befriends his sister. in fact, her ONLY friend is his sister. she spends years pining, sitting and staring out of her window so often that everyone in her life knows this is a common occurrence for her. a habit. she loves him, she wants to be with him, she wants to be a part of his family, and that family treats her well, they treat her with kindness.

and she tears them down. secretly. she uses her friendship with the daughter, her closeness to them, to prop herself up. to write vitriolic things about them, to cast shame on them, to bring their reputation into question time and time again. there is something so irredeemably manipulative about a girl who takes the secrets of those who trusts her and reveals them publicly when it best suits her--when she does not want the boy she loves to marry a girl who has been kind to her, a girl who considers her a friend, who has shared her anxieties and heartbreak. it does not matter that this girl would be a good wife, or that the boy truly cares for her, because this girl is not her. and she could've told the boy herself, but that boy is kindhearted and sensitive and good and he might still marry this other girl. and that is what is truly unacceptable, that is what can't be allowed to happen. so she destroys it, thoroughly. it does not matter who is caught in the blast.

it did not matter how this embarrassment would effect the family she claimed to love as her own, the family she wanted to be a part of. it did not matter that it would ruin marina, the only other person to consider penelope a friend. it led to marina nearly dying, it led penelope's own family being shamed and shunned. it did not matter, because to penelope, the only thing that mattered was that colin remained unmarried so that he may one day love her the way she loves him.

it did not ever matter that colin already loved her as a friend, because to penelope that was not a love worth having. not from colin, or marina, or eloise.

she does not care who she hurts. again and again. with daphne, with anthony and the sharma sisters, with her own best friend. eloise confides in penelope things that not only could destroy her reputation and that of her family, but things that could get her in trouble with the queen--views that are dangerous. and despite what she says, she does it to save herself first and foremost, to keep eloise from discovering her secret.

and when she thinks that the boy she loves will never return her interest, when he returns from his time away different from the boy she has spent years obsessing over from afar, she writes about it once more. to make herself feel better, to make him feel bad. for not loving her, for daring to try and change, for daring to be something he is not--something different from the boy she supposedly loves.

penelope actions as whistledown have shown her to be a callous, selfish, manipulative person. she understands that being whistledown means having power, admits it, and she has constantly used that power to destroy other women--regardless of how kind they were to her (marina), how much they trusted her (eloise), or if she even knew them at all (kate and edwina, the queen and her infant grandchild). she is a vicious and mean person on paper, with no loyalties to anyone but herself. her actions as whistledown are undefendable and cruel. and she is whistledown, they are one and the same.

i cannot see how anyone can look at the two and see anything to romanticize. she knows eloise would not want her in bridgerton house, rightfully so, but she goes to be close to colin, and then she invades his privacy by reading his journals. she continuously lies and crosses boundaries, but her eyes well with tears immediately after and so all is miraculously forgiven--nevermind that she will go home to write something cruel by candlelight later.

even their first kiss feels like a manipulation. a coersion. she begs, cries, pleads, claims she could die never having been kissed and she knows colin is a soft, sensitive boy. he was going to marry marina after a short courtship, convinced of love, he might've went ahead married her if he'd found out about the pregnancy privately because he is a good and kind man. so of course he will kiss her.

and then he proposes, and before they can go about it properly, before he can rethink it or back out--she publishes it in whistledown. so that the whole ton knows that she has finally won. she has succeeded in becoming a bridgerton. and she continues to lie to them all. she continues to lie to colin. she smiles and plays the role of the innocent girl next door, when she has been their primary antagonist force behind the curtains for years now.

even her declaration of love is said to distract, to protect herself, when he has discovered her secret, her true identity, and she can no longer hide. she shouts it at him, like it is meant to make everything okay, to make all of the bad things she's done go away.

and in a well written story, with well written characters, it would not. it would be seen for what it is. desperate. manipulative. but this season of bridgerton is a let down in many ways, and all of them are rooted in how the narrative has catered to washing away how horrible of a person penelope has been, instead of acknowledging it and moving forward with a true redemption arc.

so instead, we get to watch a gossiping mean girl who has spent years stalking and preying on one family in particular, manipulating her way into her happy ending with said family. and everyone just has to be gaslit into believing this is okay when it's not.

[smoooothoperator]

What Was I Made For?

04: Reputation

Charles Leclerc x driver!OC (Dafne Morelli)

childhood enemies, forced proximity, accidental pregnancy, enemies to lovers

Warnings: anxiety, social anxiety, hate, Sebastian Stan (yes, he's a warning🫣🫠)

a/n: Hiiii!!! How are you doing? Here you have a new chapter! What do you guys think that will happen next? I'll read you! Oh! And at the end of the chapter you have some surprises!!

Masterlist

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Every way of feedback is very welcomed

They always said that hair holds memories.

When I was little, I always liked to have long hair because I loved standing in front of the bathroom mirror and watching how my mom tied it up in a ponytail, pigtails, or braids. It was a moment for the two of us, watching each other through the reflection of the mirror, my eyes following the gentle movement of her hands and fingers through my hair, and seeing how she wrapped a colorful tie around it. Sometimes she even wrapped a ribbon and made a little bow.

When I started karting, I always tied my hair in two braids and wrapped them around my head, making me look like I was wearing a crown made of my own hair. It was useful, letting me be comfortable with the helmet and not worrying about tucking my hair inside the suit to keep it from going wild while I drove.

Growing up, I always took care of it, sometimes getting attention from my girl classmates who asked me for tips on how to take care of their hair, wanting to know what products I used to make my soft curls look perfect.

When I started to get a little famous, brands like Kérastase and Garnier wanted me to be their face and sponsor me.

My hair holds so many memories. It was part of my identity.

But it holds bad memories too.

Charles pulling my pigtails. Nearly ruining my hair after dyeing it during a breakdown. Charles putting gum in it. Having nightmares after watching “V for Vendetta,” thinking that someone shaved my head.

If I want to be a new version of myself, I have to cut things from the root.

New hair. New me.

“Dafne, why are people saying that you hired a lawyer and you'll file a lawsuit against Charles?”

A few days later, after the unfortunate meeting and call with Fred, my sister Erica came to help me get ready for an event in Tuscany. Something about a high society charity event.

“You are taking it too—” she stopped, turning around and looking at me as I walked out of the bathroom. “Did you cut and dye your hair?”

“Yeah,” I shrugged, grabbing my makeup bag and putting it in the suitcase.

“What? Why?” she frowned.

“Because I wanted to,” I said. “It's easier to style, easier to wash.”

“You never complained about your long hair!” she exclaimed, making me roll my eyes. “And why is it blonde?”

“Because I wanted to, Erica!” I sighed. “I wanted to try something different! Jeez!”

She frowned slightly, scanning me with her eyes. And somehow I felt so small, judged by her.

“Blonde doesn't look bad on you,” she smiled, finally. “But it will be weird, you always had long hair.”

“I know,” I sighed, touching my hair and biting my lip when I felt it barely touched my shoulders.

She looked at me, following my movements with her eyes. It’s like she was waiting for me to talk more, to explain, to break down. She waited for me to say something, to answer that first question she asked, wanting me to tell her what I had been doing the last two days.

“Well?” she frowned. “Why did you hire a lawyer?”

“Take a guess,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “A certain someone just talked shit about me some days ago, and let’s not talk about the so-called punishment he will receive.”

“Look, what he did wasn’t nice. But he was drunk,” Erica sighed, making me feel betrayed.

“So? Does that give him the right to talk shit?” I frowned. “You are my sister, and you are defending him? He won’t apologize for that, Erica!”

She took a deep breath looking at me and I looked away, clenching my jaw. I know she gets along with him, that Jules connects them and somehow they share the pain of losing him. But why is she defending him?

“I’m not defending him,” she said, her voice sounding more serious. “But this is getting out of control, Dafne. You two have to stop now before the whole team and our families get more involved.”

“Sure,” I scoffed. “I’ll make sure to stop this.”

She rolled her eyes and sighed, getting up from my bed and grabbing everything so we could leave for the event. I made sure to leave enough food for my cat and then I grabbed the keys and my bag.

The event was not far from where I live, making it easier and faster to go, just using Erica's car and then reserving a hotel room so I could get changed and ready for the event. My sister Erica always made sure to have everything ready, the makeup and hair artists would be there shortly after we arrived at the room.

“I don’t think the hair team would be necessary,” I sighed, looking out of the window, watching the landscape pass by.

“They’ll find something to do,” she sighed. “I hired them, and if it sounds bad, I won't pay them to do nothing. At least let them… I don't know, do a hairstyle or something.”

“Yeah, sure,” I sighed.

When we arrived at the hotel near the event place, I opened the door and immediately heard people calling my name.

My name and some other nasty names.

“Whore! Slut!”

I clenched my jaw, trying to focus on the people that came to me with a smile, holding notebooks and pens, signing the papers, and taking pictures with those who showed me their phones.

But at some point, the insults grew louder, making my sister walk towards me and hold my arm, pushing me inside the hotel.

“Now do you understand why I'll sue him?” I mumbled, clenching my jaw and pulling my arm away from her hold, walking towards the elevator and waiting for her to grab the room key card.

I looked down at my phone, trying my hardest not to open my social media. If they dare to call me those names in person, I don't want to know what they call me on Twitter or Instagram.

“Erase the media apps,” Erica said, getting in the elevator with me.

“I barely open them,” I lied.

“I don't care. Erase them from your phone.”

I sighed and nodded, grabbing my phone and doing what she said. I should let my manager take care of this if there was something to worry about.

“And that lawsuit…” she sighed.

“I won't give up on that,” I whispered. “He took things too far this time. I won't let him act however he wants and think he can stay innocent all the time.”

“God, if only you two acted like adults and talked things out…” she sighed, rolling her eyes.

If only she knew… All the times I tried to talk to him, he came up with another reason for me to hate him. In the end, it was easier hating him than trying to befriend him.

“I think I reached out too many times, Erica,” I sighed. “And it's time for him to see that I'm not a doll he can play with.”

“But still…”

I shook my head and sighed, walking out of the elevator and going to the room. I opened the door with the card and got inside, sitting on the bed. The stylist team will come soon, so I have to get dressed quickly.

“This time it's his turn to fix things,” I said when I saw Erica walking in. “If he wants to, of course. But I highly doubt it.”

The dress is too tight. I can barely breathe with it.

Or maybe it is because of the anxiety making my chest and stomach feel tense.

The moment I got out of the car and my feet touched the ground, hearing the clicks of the cameras and the calls of the photographers, I felt my breath hitching in my throat. My palms started to sweat, making me rub them on the material of the dress to dry them, but they started shaking the moment I walked deeper into the crowd.

“Deep breaths,” Erica whispered, placing a hand on my back.

I nodded nervously and walked towards the photoshoot zone, watching the photographers take pictures of people in front of me: actors, models, singers, other athletes.

I took a deep breath and looked at the first cross on the floor that was closer to me. I have to wait for them to call my name and place me there.

“Dafne Morelli. Formula 1 driver,” someone said, the man in charge of the photoshoot.

I took a deep breath, two, three. Chin up. Shoulders back. Straight back. Fake smile.

I stood on the cross, looking around at the cameras when the photographers called my name. I tried to focus on the people who called me, ignoring the heartbeat pounding in my ears. Someone led me to the next cross and then to the next one. And when the photoshoot ended, I looked at the people with microphones and cameras.

“It's not obligatory to do interviews,” Erica said, holding my hand. “It's just for the people who were requested for it. And you are not on the list.”

“Oh… Sure,” I nodded. “That's better, honestly.”

She smiled weakly and nodded, walking with me to the main room where everyone would be sitting at tables for the gala.

“Who are we sitting with?” I asked her, leaning closer to her.

“Other athletes,” she said. “And the table closer to us is the one with actors.”

“And they are…?” I sighed, closing my eyes and fixing my hair a little.

“Believe me, you won't believe it,” she said.

“What? Why? Who is there, Meryl Streep?” I laughed softly. “Anne Hathaway? If she's there, please remind me to take a picture with her and invite her to a race.”

“Oh, Anne is, and of course, I'll remind you to invite her,” she smirked. “But someone else.”

“Who? Emma D’Arcy?” I gasped. “I haven't watched the new season of House of the Dragon yet!”

“She won't,” Erica laughed. “It's actually someone you have a crush on…”

“Wh—” I gasped. “No way.”

“Oh yes.”

“Oh God, Erica! If I was anxious now, I'd feel even more anxious!” I groaned. “Sebastian Stan is here?”

“Yep,” she smiled. “And he'll make a speech.”

“Oh fuck,” I sighed. “I can die in peace.”

“Drama queen,” she laughed softly, rolling her eyes.

When we finally walked inside the room, I somehow felt self-conscious. People looked at me the moment I walked in, talking in low voices, hiding their mouths with their hands.

Are they talking about me? Did they hear those false accusations? Do they believe what Charles said?

I sat at our table in silence, looking at the plate and not daring to look up. They are looking at me, right? They are talking about me.

I sat at the table, grabbing the napkin and placing it in my lap. I heard a waiter on my right, asking something, probably about a drink, since he was holding a bottle that looked like white wine. Not finding my own voice, I shook my head, avoiding eye contact with the waiter and grabbing the water bottle that was in front of me, filling the glass with cold water.

Somehow, the food right in front of me doesn't look good. I'm not hungry anymore. I looked around, smiling fakely while I grabbed the glass with cold water, drinking it all and serving myself another glass. I played with the food, tried to eat something, but the knot in my stomach was so tight that I could barely eat more than two bites. The water looks fresh and makes my throat less dry. The next dish looks delicious and smells amazing, but it's too much pasta, too much, and I can't eat it. I played again with it, moving the spaghetti around the plate to make it look like I ate something. The waiter took the plate away, barely touched. My glass of water was empty, I needed more water. More water. More water. The dessert, a tiramisu. My favorite. I wanted to eat it, but…

“I need to get some fresh air,” I mumbled to my sister, grabbing the napkin from my lap and getting up, not being aware that my favorite actor was talking through the speakers.

I walked out of the room, feeling everyone's eyes on me. My chest was burning, my heart was beating too fast.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mumbled, pacing back and forth, with my hand on my chest and trying to breathe.

I don't know what I was doing. My phone was in my hand, reinstalling Twitter and logging in.

Why am I doing this?

Hundreds. Thousands of notifications. Mentions, retweets, DMs.

I installed Instagram and logged in.

Mentions, tags, DMs.

Videos of Charles at that party. Of me screaming at him. My sister Soleil and Arthur holding me by my arms and pulling me away from him.

And then flashbacks came to my mind.

Charles in my room. Charles' lips on mine. Charles kissing my neck. Charles mumbling a name that's not mine. Me trying to fight but giving up. Me taking off his shirt. Him taking off my sleeping shirt. Us in bed. Charles kissing me. Charles moaning—

“Hey, are you okay?”

I gasped, flinching and dropping my phone to the floor when I turned around surprised, being taken out of a spiral of thoughts and flashbacks.

He was standing there. Sebastian Stan was standing there.

“Yeah, yeah, I…” I swallowed thickly, gasping softly when I felt small tears blurring my vision. “I'm okay.”

“You didn't look okay some minutes ago,” he smiled weakly. “I'm…”

“Sebastian Stan, I know,” I laughed nervously. “Big fan.”

“O-oh! Well, I'm a fan of yours too,” he smiled, taking a few steps closer to me.

“Y-you are?” I whispered softly, surprised.

“Of course! The first woman to win a Formula 1 race,” he nodded. “It's impressive.”

I looked at him, surprised. Is he really talking to me? Does he know who I am? Am I dreaming?

“You… you were having an anxiety attack, right?” he smiled weakly.

“I guess so,” I sighed. “Just… Many things happened lately.”

“Oh, I understand,” he nodded. “Let me guess. Something controversial that has everyone against you on social media so you read everything and let it get into your mind?”

“How…” I frowned. How does he know?

“Believe me, I went through the same some years ago,” he sighed. “The best decision is to delete those things from your phone and ignore them.”

“Yeah, well… I did some hours ago,” I mumbled, blushing. “But I installed them again. I don't know why.”

“You were spiraling,” he nodded. “I noticed it. I was giving the speech when you walked out. As soon as I finished, I talked to who I guess is your sister.”

“Erica,” I nodded.

He smiled and nodded, walking closer to me. He knelt in front of me and grabbed my phone from the floor, smiling weakly when he looked at the broken screen.

“I'm sorry, I surprised you,” he sighed.

“No… I think it's better that way,” I smiled, looking at him.

Am I in heaven after dying? Why is he talking to me? Is this some type of game? A dream? A nightmare? Now he will just say that he thinks I'm a fraud and that I don't deserve the seat.

Just what Charles said.

“Don’t believe what they say about you,” he said suddenly. “You know your version. It's their choice to believe you or not. You don't owe them anything. Don't let those words ruin a reputation you fought to build.”

I looked at him, surprised. He knows about the rumors?

“And by the way,” he smiled. “You look amazing with blonde hair. Everyone was talking about it, you are more famous than you think, Dafne.”

I took a deep breath and looked at him, somehow feeling the air getting into my lungs and making the anxiety go away.

There are people who don’t hate me. I’m more famous, he’s right.

This is how I picture the girls

taglist

@racinggirl @elisysd @alltoomaples @ssprayberrythings @rach3164 @yvonne-dump @deliciousfestsalad @janeh22 @hc-dutch @ninifee1802 @kakorrhaphiphobia @ssararuffoni @itsjustkhaos @scaramou @tapedeck-hearts @apollosfavkiddo @sltwins @glitterquadricorn @ladystardust05 @theseerbetweenus @vizzzashley @auawdo @leah-also-known-as-creatoronwp @leptitlu

[in1-nutshell]

Hey, love your work, and my sister loves it a lot as well, so this request is manly for her. Would you be open to doing a opposite personality buddy to wheeljack, like buddy is thier little sibling or something, or thier human buddy, idk, dont do this kinda thing. Anyway, sorry for all the writing, keep up the great work.

Your and your sister's request has been fulfilled!

Hope you enjoy!

Wheeljack's younger sibling with the opposite personality

SFW, Platonic, Familial, Mention of injury but nothing graphic, Cybertronain reader

TFP

One of the greater mysteries of the universe.

How were Buddy and Wheeljack related.

Buddy was much more of a rule follower as Wheeljack broke said rules.

Now this didn’t mean that Buddy followed the rules religiously, even they knew there were times where rules did not have a reach. Same went for Wheeljack.

As a scientist, he knew that there were certain things that had to make sense to make other things make sense.

Wheeljack holding a grenade in one servo and some engex in the other.

“We can—”--Wheeljack

Buddy taking the engex and grenade out of his servos.

“But should we…”--Buddy

“Buddy, I’m a scientist. I have questions and I’m going to get answers.”--Wheeljack

“And I’m the only one of us with most common sense, and I say no.”--Buddy

“To bad, I’m the oldest.”--Wheeljack

“Hard to tell some days.”--Buddy

“What was that?”--Wheeljack

“Nothing!”--Buddy

Another difference drawn between the two was their line of work.

Buddy worked closely with the Elite Guard, basically Ultra Magnus’s second in command.

Wheeljack was a Wrecker.

Now Buddy was on relatively good terms with most of the Wrecker’s thanks to being related to Wheeljack.

Bulkhead earned a sibling when they met.

Wheeljack placing a servo on Buddy’s shoulder.

“And this is Bulkhead. Bulkhead meet my little—”--Wheeljack

Buddy jabs him in the gut causing him too nearly double over.

They offer Bulkhead their servo to shake.

“I’m Buddy, Second in Command of Commander Ultra Magnus, and… Wheeljack’s younger sibling.”--Buddy

Bulkhead blinks before shaking their servo.

“Second in Command of Ultra Magnus, huh? You got your work cut out for ya.”--Bulkhead

“Magnus isn’t all bad. He’s a nice bot once you get to know him.”--Buddy

Wheeljack snorts.

“Yeah right, and Screamer is going to create an army of himself.”--Wheeljack

Buddy knew that the two mechs weren’t on the best terms, especially when Wheeljack decided to antagonize their Commander.

Buddy often tries to play the mediator between the two when Ultra Magnus becomes the Wrecker’s leader.

Buddy did as much as they could to keep Wheeljack on the team.

To say they were a bit spark broken that he left them was an understatement.

Magnus standing by the door seeing Buddy’s back trying to organize the ammunition rounds for the 5th time today.

He walks over and puts a servo on their shoulder.

Buddy freezes but knows who it is.

“…I just can’t believe he would leave… just like that… without even saying good-bye… Sorry you have to see this sir.”--Buddy

“Buddy… if you need some time to collect your thoughts, your more than welcome to do so.”--Magnus

Buddy shakes their helm taking in a shaky vent.

“I’ll be fine Commander.”--Buddy

“Very well then… I will be in the main room if you need me.”--Magnus

Magnus begins to walk away.

“Magnus—I mean—Ultra Magnus sir.”--Buddy

Magnus stops and looks at Buddy.

“Thank you for checking in Commander… it means a lot.”--Buddy

“…You’re welcome… and you have clearance to call me Magnus.”--Magnus

Buddy perks up a bit.

“But in closed quarters.”--Magnus

Buddy smiles a bit.

“I won’t ruin your reputation Magnus! Thanks!”--Buddy

Buddy stood by their Commander’s side as the war seemed to have grown longer without Wheeljack by their side.

Soon Magnus sent them on a shuttle to do some atmospheric patrolling, they got spotted by the Decepticon lookouts.

The seekers managed to follow them out into space before they started firing their long-range weapons on the shuttle.

Buddy hit their helm at one point trying to comm in Ultra Magnus.

It was a miracle that they managed to get into an escape pod and get shot out before the shuttle exploded.

Magnus was on the other line getting his shuttle ready to get his second in command when the line went dead, and all signatures went dead.

After a couple of days of searching for any remains, Buddy’s name was listed on the KIA list.

Wheeljack got noticed from the final list before Cybertron went dark.

In space they say that no one can hear you scream, tell that to Wheeljack when he nearly made himself deaf from the screaming.

The pod eventually lands on Earth but gets stuck and remains closed for a while in the woods.

Time skip after Magnus comes to Earth…

 Miko was running from the Insecticons.

Somehow one of the cons managed to take the Apex Armor from her leaving her at the mercy of the Insecticons while the rest of the Wrecker’s tried to fend them off.

Of course, a couple strays followed her into the woods.

One of the Insecticons accidentally stumbled on the abandoned pod activating its hatch.

The shaking somehow managed to get Buddy out of stasis and woke up out of their pod.

The first thing Buddy saw was a small organic creature cornered by those blasted Insecticons.

“HEY UGLIES!”--Buddy

Miko and the Insecticons look over to see Buddy aiming their blaster at them.

Buddy doesn’t hesitate and blasts them in the face.

Miko runs out of the way as the Insecticons go down.

She looks up at her savior and eyes fall on the Autobot symbol.

“You’re an Autobot!”--Miko

Buddy raises their optic.

“Yes? How do you know that…”--Buddy

“I’m Miko, I’m actually a Wrecker myself.”--Miko

“Buddy—Wait what?”--Buddy

“You’re name is Buddy?”--Miko

“That’s not important right not Miko.”--Buddy

“I feel like it should be.”--Miko

BANG!

SSSSHHHHRRRRIIIIEEEEEKKKKKK!

“Sweet Solus Prime what was that?!”--Buddy

Miko goes up to Buddy and tries to move them to the direction.

“That’s Predaking and he is going to tear them apart if we don’t get there in time!”--Miko

“Woah, woah, woah. Predaking? Them? Kid I need a little bit more information.”--Buddy

Miko throws her arms in the air.

“Big bad dragon bot is going to Tear Magnus, Bulk—”--Miko

Buddy’s optics widen.

“Magnus? Like Ultra Magnus? And Bulkhead?”--Buddy

“Yeah and—WOAH!”--Miko

Buddy grabs Miko and begins running towards the noise.

“You know them?!”--Miko

“Know them? That’s my team!”--Buddy

Miko did her best to give directions till they came to the edge of the wood.

A giant Predacon was fighting the Wreckers.

Buddy put Miko down behind some rocks and activated her blaster and shield.

This was going to be messy.

Buddy immediately charged in, jumping on a rock, and slamming Predaking in the face.

Buddy continued to shoot their blaster at the Predacon while the others momentarily hesitated before going back to the fight.

Magnus knew from the slam that it had to be his second in command.

No one did a shield slam like they did.

Bulkhead wasn’t sure who this bot was yet, but they were helping in the fight which was good enough for him.

Wheeljack focused more on the fight than the strangely familiar looking color scheme.

Finally, Predaking was called back to the Nemesis and left the Wrecker’s.

Buddy panted a bit.

They just woke up and had to dispose of two Insecticons and battle a beast… they needed a break not blaster to the face.

Miko starts running towards the group.

���THAT WAS AWESOME!”--Miko

Bulkhead looks over at Miko in relief.

Buddy turns to Ultra Magnus, straightens out and salutes.

“Ultra Magnus sir… Sorry I was a little late on patrol…”--Buddy

Magnus slips out a rare smile and places a servo on their shoulder.

“At ease soldier. Its good to hear from you Buddy.”--Magnus

“Buddy!”--Bulkhead

Buddy gets picked up from the back by Bulkhead.

Buddy laughs a bit while patting his arm a bit.

“At ease Bulkhead. I’m fine.”--Buddy

“Fine? Last we heard you name was on the list… Hey Jackie, aren’t you going to say anything?”--Bulkhead

Buddy freezes a bit looking at Wheeljack in front of them.

They both just look at each other.

One with more shock and the other with a more neutral face.

Buddy straightens their back struts more.

“Wheeljack… it looks like you’re in good health.”--Buddy

Wheeljack snaps out of it and begins running to Buddy.

Buddy instinctively slams him with their shield knocking him back a few feet away.

“OW! What was that for?”--Wheeljack

Buddy narrows their optics at him coldly.

“As instinctual as that was, I don’t regret it. You deserve more for what you put me through.”--Buddy

“Hey, Buddy, what’s your deal with Wheeljack!”—Miko

Bulkhead gently grabs Miko close to his chassis.

“Umm… Miko I think you better leave them to it…”--Bulkhead

Buddy walks over to Magnus.

“Sir. Permission to resume my position?”--Buddy

“We will discuss it with Prime.”--Magnus

“Optimus is here. I missed so much…”--Buddy

Magnus and Buddy begin walking to the groundbrigde, Wheeljack sulking right behind them and Bulkhead holding Miko.

“Is Buddy, like, his ex or something?”--Miko

“No, Buddy’s Wheeljack’s younger sibling and Magnus’s Second in Command. They had a bit of a falling out from what I heard around before Jackie left.”--Bulkhead

“Buddy…and Wheeljack… are related?”--Miko

Bulkhead shakes his helm a bit.

“Don’t try to connect the dots on this one. No one knows how their related.”--Bulkhead

[aelenavelaryon]

𝓡𝓱𝓪𝓮𝓵𝓵𝓮 𝓣𝓪𝓻𝓰𝓪𝓻𝔂𝓮𝓷 𝔁 𝓱𝓸𝓽𝓭

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓢𝓱𝓮 𝓓𝓻𝓪𝓰𝓸𝓷 𝓲𝓲

Trigger Warnings: death and childbirths. If there are more please let me know

Princess Rhaelle never let Alicent get in the way of seeing her brothers and sister. In return, the young princes and princess grew up knowing they were loved and cared for. Princess Helaena was set to marry her nephew, prince Monterys, the young boy loved his aunt as much as she loved him. The children were still young but soon enough they would marry. Lady Laena and prince Daemon left King's Landing after an argument between the young princess and her uncle. No one knew what the argument was about, not even Laena or Laenor.

The Keep was lively with all the children running around. Princess Rhaelle was expecting her seventh child, Laenor was always watching over her, he, despite having other taste loved his wife, it was odd to say the least but they did love each other yet they shared bed with others. Laenor knew this babe was to either be his child or the child of the Commander of the City watch. He didn't care though, he loved all his children, even the ones he did not sired.

"The queen has been quite as of late" Laenor said as he took a sip of his wine. Rhaelle nodded. "She has no other lies to spread. For now" she replied. "If this babe is mine she will say nothing. Your father as put her in her place and he has replace Otto with Lyonel Strong. The man keeps his son and grandsons protected no matter what" Rhaelle smile. Lyonel Strong was an honorable man and she knew it. When Harwin confessed to his father what had happened between him and the heir to the Iron Throne the man nearly collapsed where he stood.

But he knew that Jace and Luke were his blood and he had to protect them. Rhaelle made allies with other houses. House Stark was a match she had come to make. Her Visenya was to marry Cregan when she came of age as they were only two years apart. Monterys would marry Helaena. Jace would marry Nymeria Martell, Luke would marry Mariela Tyrell. Aegon would marry Baela and Aemond would marry Rhaena.

The matches were secured by Rhaelle and her hand, securing her reign with other houses. Aethan was to marry Morrigan Baratheon to strengthen the bond between the houses. Laenor had made allies with people in the Free Cities to farther support his wife.

Alicent Hightower plotted on how to end the princess. Her and Larys Strong always tried to find out ways to ruin the princess' reputation but they always failed as the princess was always one step ahead until once she wavered. When Laena was due to give birth the lady called her closest companion and friend, princess Rhaelle.

Princess Rhaelle, after hearing the news flew on dragon back to see her lover, Lady Laena. Although, pregnant and nearly her time to give birth as well, she discarded anyone's opinions and flew over to see her. "Laena!" she yelled as she tried to run. "Rhae, please!" Laenor begged as she left him behind. "She can't die on me, Laenor. Not her. Not Laena. Not my Laena" she nearly cried. Her steps echo in what seemed to be an empty hall. Rhaelle stopped and gathered herself before walking in.

Laena, smiled as she saw her lover. "Rhaelle" she began. "You came" she whispered. "You called" Rhaelle replied. She rushed to see her, she sat beside her. "I can't believe you're here"  Laena said tiredly. The woman has been in the birthing bed for hours now. Daemon waited outside, he didn't want to see Rhaelle just yet. He couldn't.

Rhaelle held Laena's hand as the two talked about what they had been doing since Daemon moved his family away. "I know my time has come, Rhae" Rhaelle shook her head. "You cannot leave me, Laena. You hear me?! I cannot do this without you" she cried.  Laena smiled at her dearest love. "I wish to ask for one last thing" Rhaelle nodded. "Anything" she told her.

Laena kissed Rhaelle's hand. "When my time comes I wish to have a dragon riders death. I don't want to be cut open. I just wish to go in peace" before Rhaelle could reply, Laena's labors pain came back but stronger. Rhaelle held her hand, she delivered Laena's son third daughter for her. "It's a girl, Laena. A beautiful baby girl" Rhaelle said with a smile as she held the baby girl in her arms. "I wish to name her" Daemon walked in. He laid eyes on his wife first before looking at Rhaelle. She simply nodded, acknowledging his presence.

She walked over to Laena first. She wanted her to get a chance at holding her child. "Here, take her" Laena seemed to be fighting to stay. "What will you name her?" Rhaelle asked. "Rhaella. In your name and honor" she replied and Rhaelle felt the sting her eyes. It wouldn't be long before the tears would come. "Oh, my sweet Laena" she said in a whisper before bending down to kiss her. "Promise me, Daemon..." Daemon walked over to her. "Promise me, that Rhaella will be loved, always. Promise that you and Rhaelle will watch over her and her sisters" Daemon nodded as did Rhaelle.

Lady Laena Velaryon passed away two hours after her daughter's birth. At Laena's funeral everyone had gathered to say their last goodbye. Rhaelle stood with her good mother, princess Rhaenys. Vaemond gave his speech and bid his goodbye to his niece. He had jabbed at Jacaerys and Lucerys blood but nothing got past Lord Corlys who glared at his brother. The funeral had ended and everyone had gathered near the beach to spend some time with the grieving family.

Princess Rhaelle sat with Ser Laenor both let the water feel them. "I miss her" he said in a hush tone. She held him by the arm. "I remember when we were little. We used to play the hiding game. We used to play that for hours" she smiled at the memory and he did too. "Do you remember when we accidentally found the secret passages because we had lost Laena?!" the two laughed at the memory of their sweet Laena.

Laenor kissed Rhaelle's hand. "Thank you" he said to her. "For what?" she asked. "For loving her as much as I did" he replied. "I love you as much as I love her" she replied before kissing him. Daemon watched her; jealousy brewing within him. Alicent watched them too, she hated the fact that Rhaelle was happy without her. It was never about the crown. It was always about her love. Rhaelle's love.

(Not Edited)

@beebeechaos

@baellabass

[hamletshoeratio]

didnt she also say something nasty about the queen when one of her kids had just died

Yeah here's part 2 of this

The way she talked about the death of Queen Charlotte's granddaughter; Princess Charlotte, who was historically only twenty-one when she died in childbirth. The Lady Whistledown commentary in QC is just outright cruel, it's clear Queen Charlotte in the off-season (QC present day timeline being set in the Winter/Early spring break between season 2 & 3) becomes Penelope's biggest target in the aftermath of her fallout with Eloise. There's no other way to describe it.

Ngl the above is really disturbing to me. She's angry at Eloise, has lost access to info from the Bridgertons because of her falling out with Eloise, and she's angry at the Queen for getting angry at Penelope's own words as LW, and trying to discover LW as a result. And so she spends the off-season insulting and attacking a grieving Queen Charlotte. I mean that's one way for a flower to bloom I guess...

Theo, one of the only working class characters in the show, nearly lost his job because of lady whistledown and may have lost it in the aftermath of the season.

A lot of her general commentary as Lady Whistledown isn't clever or witty; it's just outright cruel.

The way she talks about the Bridgerton family, a family that trusts and cares for her, is horrible. Particularly, the way she wrote about Daphne in season 1.

Betraying Eloise's trust for two entire seasons because it didn't start with the Theo situation. She listened to Eloise's frustrations about Daphne and then used LW to attack and belittle Daphne. Speaking as a sibling, I will rant about my sisters until kingdom come to my friends but the minute a so-called friend starts publicly attacking my sister, it's over. I would not be in control of my actions. Like over the course of two seasons, she's attacked and nearly destroyed the reputations of Eloise's eldest sister, two of her brothers, her first love, and the entire family as a result. Judging by the Bridgertons were born to shine line in the trailer, I doubt Francesca will make it through the season unscathed.

She hasn't felt real remorse. Despite nearly causing Marina's death (as she tried to miscarry in the aftermath of LW revealing her pregnancy), she ends season 1 smirking about being LW. Hasn't written or contacted Marina to see how she has been since, got jealous Colin went to see her and still probably hasn't written or visited her. Not to mention her "I least did something. All you did is talk" speech at the end of season 2 to Eloise. A speech that wasn't even accurate as Eloise had been to meetings, listened to speeches and debates, debated with Theo, shared and read and discussed different political leaflets with Theo, Eloise had grown intellectually from the beginning to the end of the season. It's because of Penelope that that came to an end.

Outside of rescuing Daphne from her betrothel to Berbrooke in s1, what good has her work as LW actually done? It's ruined far more lives than it's helped, and intervened countless times when it didn't have authority to. Many secrets weren't Penelope's to tell.

I could honestly keep going but I genuinely don't know how she's supposed to get redeemed in eight episodes because the character we have at the minute in no way deserves a happy ending. LW didn't really matter in the books as it wasn't as active a plot point as it is in the show. By expanding the LW concept to give Penelope a more complex arc, they've unwittingly robbed her of what made people like her book counterpart and as a result created a villain that they have no intention of trying to redeem, because they don't believe she needs to be redeemed.

[deuxcherise]

Early Birds

C/w: Unhealthy behavior, probably OOC Kamisato Ayato, yandere Kamisato Ayato, Thoma & Kamisato Ayaka friendship, tsuntsun! fem! reader, couple hijinks A/n: So it suddenly occurred to me, as I was looking up how tall the Kamisato house is in-game for the first time, that I didn’t think there was a Kamisato house in game for some reason. Like I knew there was a house, but somehow I didn’t realize that there was actually precise model of it in game for some reason. So the west wing thing and all of that, uh... imagination *makes a rainbow*. Anyway, we continue from last time in which your hubby decides to showcase some more of his yan side, like a blooming bright red spider lily. :3 Masterlist

The life of a Holy Dog from their birth is well defined. They must serve their country and play the part they've been assigned.

The sunlight shines brightly through the curtains of your window.

There was not a single day in your childhood that wasn’t subjected to the relentless forge of discipline. Every skill you've learned— honed to perfection. From the delicate crafts of diplomacy to the brutal precision of combat, not a single weakness was spared. Born to stand among them, possessing strength, beauty, and loyalty— there was no other choice than to embody excellence in every thought, every breath, and every strike you made or will make. Anything less would've been, frankly, unacceptable.

Kokekokkooo!

The rooster is especially loud. It must be morning.

You lay on your futon, staring up at the wooden ceiling of your canopy bed, with a blank expression. Just as the morning sky is starless, your mind is going horrendously rampant with mindless things.

Ah, I need to get up now, but I don't want to eat breakfast with that guy. Not because my heart keeps pounding when I’m near him or anything like that. I don’t even like him like that. But I have to, because if I don't, he'll report me to the Elders. Not that I care that much but I think I need to care because my life and reputation is on the line. For the sake of the Holy Dogs. But then I've already skipped dinner last night so that’s already ruined. And I need to eat, but I absolutely do not want to have breakfast with that guy-

But above all of that, there is one thing for certain, and that is that you will absolutely not leave your bedchamber today. For anything.

“Lady Kamisato? Permission to come in?”

You slowly but surely sit up, letting the blanket fall from your chest to your lap. You pivot your head like a haunted doll towards the door of your bedchamber. “Come in,” you command.

A maid with neatly tucked blue hair underneath a maid's headdress comes in, holding a tray of morning tea.

Your Lady-in-Waiting.

Also known as your Sister-in-Law.

“L-lady Kamisato, are you alright?” she nearly shrieks, placing down the tray on a nearby table to kneel near you, hands shaky as they reach for you.

The shock of yesterday’s revelation and last night's lack of sleep must be showcased on your face, probably in the form of dreadful dark circles under your eyes and dry lips. You give her the weakest smile you can muster with your tired doll-face while your mind is blaring her actual identity front row and center. “I am. I simply… didn't get enough sleep last night, that's all. But thank you for worrying about me.”

“I… I see. But of course! That's what girl friends do!”

Your eyes go wide.

She catches herself and taps her fingers together bashfully. “My sincerest apologies. I know we're only Lady and Lady-in-Waiting, but even so, I… I do care about you. Like a girl friend would… My apologies, I’ve overstepped myself!”

I think another high-ranking wife wouldn't take these words from a Lady-in-Waiting kindly, even from a Sister-in-Law in disguise, you think blankly, as you adore her cute personality, despite her lies.

“You can call me (Y/n), if you'd like?” you offer.

She looks up, sparkles in her eyes. “Really?”

You nod. “And I shall call you Ayami. Is that okay?”

“Yes! W-well, shall I help you get ready for the day, (Y-Y/n)?” she asks giddily, gathering the tray. “Call it a feeling but I think today’s breakfast with Lord Kamisato will be quite special, since I hear he has something planned.”

“Oh.” You snap back to reality. “Unfortunately, I must refuse,” you say, turning your head towards the window. “I do not wish to attend breakfast this morning.”

“Ehh?” She almost drops the tray. “Are you certain you’re not feeling ill?”

“I…” You turn away, unable to face her disappointment. “I simply wish to have breakfast by myself today. There are matters in my mind that I must sort out before interacting with anyone. Even my husband.”

“I see… Then, I shall have your breakfast delivered here.”

“Thank you, Ayak- Ayami.”

“Yes, La- (Y/n).”

-----🐈-----

The disguised young miss carries the tray out of your bedroom, feeling excited as she walks down various hallways. Just as the one and only esteemed housekeeper walks by, they stop, facing opposite directions.

“There is an issue,” Ayaka whispers, pinching her headdress downwards.

“With the Lady?” Thoma inquires.

“She does not wish to enjoy breakfast outside of her bedroom.”

“Did she say why?”

“She said she had things on her mind.”

“Did you try to convince her?”

“She looked ill. But I have a plan.”

“Ah. Shall I have him join her instead?”

“Good. Yes. And we shall send breakfast to her room as well.”

“Got it.”

“Mm.”

The two schemers part ways. One towards his lord and the other towards the kitchen to notify the cooks of changes.

-----🐈-----

Unlike most dogs, most cats are known for being quite finicky creatures. Buy them a whole exquisite furniture piece worth thousands of mora, and watch them run towards the plain old box that the item arrived in.

Chirp! Chirp! Chirp!

You pet a lone birb who decided to rest upon your windowsill.

You can't quite shake off the oddest feeling after your Sister-in-Law left. She sounded like she was planning something, with that glint you spotted in her eye and the way she worded things.

Whatever may be the case, after a moment or two you decided that the room was far too stuffy for your liking. Besides, if you are going to avoid your husband, you might as well see if you can sneak into the kitchen and grab yourself something to eat.

Dressed in comfortable outside attire, you balance a foot on the windowsill, hands gripping the sides of your window as you peer down to the ground.

The Kamisato house isn’t all that tall, averaging in height as with many other houses of high-ranking clans, however only an untrained fool would dare jump from the second floor.

Fortunately, you are neither a fool nor an untrained lady. And so, you jump.

Thud.

You land with your feet on the ground without kicking up any dirt or dust. Success! you think, as you pat down your body to make sure of your physical status.

Crack.

You flinch and immediately pivot your head away in the opposite direction of the person standing just a couple of meters from you. You can practically feel those scary purple eyes. Shit.

“Is there any good reason that a wife refuses to look at her husband?” your husband inquires sternly, with a hint of strained amusement.

You lick your lips, straightening your posture as you continue to look the other direction. “I can think of plenty,” your voice clips. “Not that she is obligated to say.”

“Hm. Do you not find it pitiful?” he asks, though his voice doesn’t seem somber at all. “A husband who isn’t able to see the face of his wife in the morning can only become a late sleeper. All duties delayed.”

You suck in and gently nibble on your inner cheeks. “Yet, such a husband is up and awake now before breakfast. Therefore, it seems unnecessary to burden him with pity.”

“I suppose so. A husband, who waits by his wife’s window, only to be greeted so coldly, is already much too pitiful.”

He came to see me? This early?

Ba-dump.

“Hmph. Well, since he has seen his wife now, surely he has other duties to get to?”

“That is true,” Ayato hums. “But you are mistaken. I have yet to gaze upon my dear wife’s face, for she is turned away from me.”

You sigh and turn back around begrudgingly, meeting the terrifying darkness in his eyes, coupled with an unmatching fake smile. You replace your fearful expression with your own doll-face. “T-there.” You wince from your stutter. “You have seen it. N-now, we shall part ways. You, to your duties. And I, to mine.”

He closes his eyes, as if calculating something, and then opens back up, cleared of all darkness. Sparking like clear water. “Hm, I suppose we shall.”

You hesitantly nod and then begin walking away, only to hear soft footsteps behind you, matching yours. You look behind you.

Ayato smiles at you, innocently, at the same amount of distance as earlier.

… It couldn’t be, right? You return forward and continue for a few more steps, then you turn back.

Ayato is still innocently smiling, still at the same amount of distance behind as earlier.

Ah. “You should be attending to your duties, am I wrong?” you ask.

“That, I am.”

A small gust of winds blows past.

“And what exactly are you doing right now?”

“I am keeping my wife company, as any husband’s duty is,” he answers matter-of-factly.

What kind of crap is he talking about? Is he going to follow me all day then??? “That’s the first I’m hearing of such a thing.”

He shrugs. “For any other household, perhaps it isn’t. As for the Kamisatos, it is.”

“Ah. I see.”

You return facing forward, take a few deep breaths in preparation, and then immediately break into a run.

-----

In the future, many members of the staff and a few citizens will be able to recount the day Lord Kamisato was caught chasing after his fleeing wife around the Kamisato Estate. For what reason, they may never know. But they will say that it was quite entertaining, seeing the oddly ecstatic face of the normally recluse Ayato behind the frightened and horrified expression of a normally doll-like (Y/n).

Step step step step step step step.

“Why are you running?” Ayato asks as if taking a gentle stroll, close on your tail.

“WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?” you screech, out of breath as you continue to run as fast as you can.

Over bridges in the garden, from room to room, weaving through staff— and now even across the roofs— you somehow cannot shake him off. How does a man become so persistent???

Nearly exhausted, one of your feet accidentally slips on a loose slate of the roof, leading you to topple over.

“(Y/n)!” he calls out with panic.

Of course, while this is a little higher than earlier, you know you’ll manage to land on your feet someway or another, and you do— flipping onto a lower roof and then another and then finally landing on the ground with proper form.

You then jump through an open window of a room, enter another room, zoom across the hallway, and then finally find yourself in the kitchen, where you collapse behind some sake-filled wooden barrels in the storage room.

Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump…

Your beating heart pumps blood past your ears as you inhale and exhale deeply, silently and steadily. You rest your back against one of the barrels, letting the cool air of the kitchen dissipate your sweat.

Finally… got away… stupid Ayato…

You close your eyes and opt for a much needed nap, hoping no one finds you here for a while as you restore your energy.

-----🐈-----

“I… Did you see that…?”

“I… I did…”

The esteemed housekeeper and Shirasagi Himegimi, in her usual attire, stand out in the open, dumbfounded, mouth slightly agape.

Ayato hops down the roof, missing his wife as she slipped into the darkness by mere seconds. His face inhuman with anguish, until he spots the two individuals and replaces it with his typical fake smile in a split second.

“Did you, by any chance, see my (Y/n)?” he asks, calmly.

Thoma opens his mouth to answer, only to be elbowed in the gut by the younger Kamisato. “You mean Lady Kamisato? Unfortunately, we just got here. Although, it would be wonderful if I got to finally meet my Sister-in-Law,” Ayaka beams, giggling despite a dark aura forming behind her.

Crack.

Ayato tilts his head. “We both already know-”

“That she is not ready to meet me? Or anyone else at all. Yes, I am perfectly aware, Brother.”

Crackle.

Thoma recovers with hand on his stomach and blinks, wondering if the sight of lightning really shot through the two Kamisatos.

The weather is quite pleasantly sunny and clear in this colder season, and yet the atmosphere between the two siblings seem as turbulent as the hurricane season.

“Well, if you do,” Ayato says, “Do notify me. Right away.”

“If I do,” Ayaka replies, saluting her brother as he walks away to continue in his search.

…..

Ayaka looks towards Thoma with bloodshot eyes, grabbing his shirt. “I thought you said he liked her? The relationship between them is worse than I thought. What are we going to do? He looks like he wants to kill her!? There is no doubt I love my brother, but what is the meaning of this!? Huh? HUH?”

“C-calm down, Lady Ayaka,” Thoma assures her. “That's what I meant by his… obsession. But trust that he means no harm… I think…”

Ayaka lets go and finds serenity within her being. She closes her eyes, inhales, and exhales. She opens her eyes with newfound determination, placing her hands together. “It seems that we need to take more drastic measures,” she starts off. “We'll have to send them away from the estate.”

Thoma's eyes pop out in shock. “Lady Ayaka!? But New Years is coming soon and all the work that needs to be done-”

She holds a finger up. “Then we’ll send them shortly afterwards. Perhaps to an onsen?”

“Hot springs?”

“Yes! I read in books that couples sent to an onsen end up becoming closer after their trip. Perhaps that is what they need! And besides, those two have been stuck inside this place for much too long. They haven't had any alone time at all!”

“I… I guess so?”

Ayaka makes a fist with one hand and places the other over her chest, eyes sparkling. “If my memory serves, Brother and (Y/n) didn’t have a long courtship. That must be why they must be so awkward with each other. I’m sure that’s why she decided not to join Brother this morning for breakfast.”

“Is that… so?”

“I’m sure of it!”

Thoma plays with the back of his hair, his eyes looking towards the ground. “But…”

Ayaka looks at Thoma, curious. “What?”

Thoma shakes his head, determination filling his eyes. “Nothing.” He holds out a hand. “Let's prepare for that plan of yours.”

“Yes!” Ayaka grabs his hand in the continuation of their partnership.

-----🐈-----

The moment you open your eyes, you close them.

“Hm… I once heard of the story of a sleeping beauty… does my wife wish for a similar awakening?”

“Touch me and I’ll kill you,” you groggily mumble.

Crack.

Shit. I slipped up.

“Hm. Well, I finally found you,” Ayato says. You can hear him crouching down in front of you. “Shouldn’t I get a reward?”

You take a deep breath, allowing your eyes to crack open a bit. “What time is it?”

“It’s already night time.”

You click your tongue. “So I missed all of our meals for today?”

“You haven’t missed dinner yet.”

“I see…” you send him a glare, forgoing your doll persona entirely. “As for your question earlier, unfortunately, there are no rewards for chasing your wife to exhaustion.”

He softly laughs. “Need I remind her that it was she who started the chase?”

“Need I remind him that he didn’t need to follow her at all?” you shoot back with a frown.

He reaches out towards one of your ears and allows a piece of loose hair to drape over a curved finger. “Oh… but I am obligated to, as per our marriage vows.”

You lift an eyebrow, debating whether or not you should move your head from his hand. “Will you, in peaceful times, during sickness, love this person, respect this person, comfort this person, help this person, until death, do you promise to fulfill?” you recite from memory. “Huh. I don’t recall anything about chasing them to death.”

“But you are not dead.”

You open your eyes lazily and sarcastically respond, “I’m not?”

Crack.

“Besides,” he says, returning your hair. “I need comforting.”

…..

“From me?”

“Yes.”

All of the cogs in your head does it best to turn, but no matter what, his words seem to have crammed it all up. “Whatever for?” you ask, exasperated.

“Do I need a reason?” he mutters in a low tone.

You scoff, adjusting your sitting position and letting your head hang. “You seem to be quite comfortable already. What more can I give you?”

Crack.

He drops the fake smile. “(Y/n), be honest. Do you… hate me?”

Upon hearing this strangely direct question, you immediately sit up straight, wide-eyed. “No?”

Crack.

“Then… why do you run from me?” he asks, expression so downcast you can almost see a puppy whimpering in the middle of a downpour.

You almost want to rub your eyes. Instead, you purse your lips.

How exactly did you feel about your husband, one might wonder? To think such a question would come directly from your husband in this dark, candlelit storage room, surrounded by wooden barrels full of sake. Other than your own heartbeat and the echo of empty air, there is nothing else to fill your ears.

“I don’t know,” you honestly answer.

Crack.

I honestly don’t know, man! Stop scaring me with that weird cracking sound! Where is it even coming from???

He looks away, contemplatively, then meets your eyes, then looks away again. “You had a question earlier, of what I wanted from you?”

[“Why are you running?” Ayato asks as if taking a gentle stroll, close on your tail.

“WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?” you screech, out of breath as you continue to run as fast as you can.]

“Ah… that was…” you struggle to come up with words. “You were scaring me, so I…”

He cuts you off. “I want…”

Ba-dump.

“... to have dinner with you.”

…..

You blink. “Oh. That’s… That’s it?”

He nods, bashfully.

You keep yourself from scoffing at his strange antics. One moment he seems to want to kill you and the other he seems like the most naive man you’ve ever met. What a weirdo.

Haughtily, you poke him in the forehead. “Why don’t you ask me properly then?”

He brightens up, smiling at you genuinely while holding out a hand. “Would you like to have dinner with me?”

As if answering his question in earnest, your stomach growls, shooting heat straight into your cheeks. “S-sure. About time! ” you answer begrudgingly, taking his hand.

He chuckles lightheartedly.

-----

The surprise that was meant to accompany breakfast ended up being used for dinner.

All of your favorite dishes, all perfectly cooked, are displayed like jewels in a jewelry box across the dining table. Your favorite flowers decorate the room, hanging from garlands strung across the ceiling. The wicks of candles with your favorite scents are burning softly.

So this was what I could've enjoyed this morning… you think, as you munch on your food elegantly. Then again, I wasn't ready to see him yet…

“I believe it is about time we should discuss an important matter about our marriage.”

You look up from a bowl of marinated cucumbers on the dining table like a deer caught in headlights, the tip of chopsticks frozen in your closed mouth. “Hm?”

Ayato waits for you to take the chopsticks out of your mouth. “Our marriage,” he continues, eyes and tone eerily steady. “The matter of… marital obligations.”

Have I not been doing my duty? “I see.” You put down your chopsticks and bowl of rice neatly on the table. “What about marital obligations would you like to discuss, Husband?”

Crack.

It seems with food in your stomach, you are quite bold. And you have yet again donned your doll-face.

“It is regarding the separation of our bedchambers, (Y/n),” Ayato explains, a glint in his eye.

Your mask falters for a mere second, as an odd feeling comes about. “What about it is prompting a discussion?”

“As wife and husband,” Ayato interlaces his fingers. “I think it is about time we shared a bedchamber.”

…..

You blink, swearing all of the burning embers faltered for a moment. “Pardon?”

“Did I stutter, (Y/n)?”

“No, you did not.”

“Then you heard me?”

“I did.”

“Then?” he asks, darkness building up in his eyes.

You blink. Several times in order to not run away from this room. “I am… not refusing… nor am I entirely in agreement,” you carefully respond.

He looks away, regretfully. “Ah, my apologies. I do not wish to force this upon you as I see fit. I only wish to improve our marriage.”

You mentally release a sigh of relief. “It is the same for me. I intend to follow the wishes of my husband, should it benefit our marriage.” You then lift your cup of sake, inviting him for cheers.

He smiles brightly, lifting his own cup. “I see. Then we shall henceforth share a bedchamber. To our marriage,” he says, clinking yours before downing the shot of sake.

“T-to our marriage!” you cheer after choking down your own cup.

What have I done!?

[ashthewaterghoul]

Give us the swissyy thoughts:3333

>:)

CW - Toxic family, substance abuse, sui-attempts and self-harm tendencies.

Below the cut because you get all the yaps... And there are many...

Okay! So, I hc that Multis are very rare. Especially Swiss who is an all element Multi. His strongest elements, in order, are Fire, Quintessence, Earth, Air, Water.

Elements have to come from the bio parents of a Ghoul so with Swiss being born to a family of pure Fire Ghouls… Yeah, he’s an illegitimate child.

His mother cheated on her mate, the father of Swiss’ half-siblings, with an all-element Multi. When all-element Multi has a kit with a single element Ghoul, it’s got a like 99% chance of just being the single element. But Swiss defied all odds and came out with every element. So, his mother’s mate obviously knew something had happened and Swiss was hated by everyone in his family for ruining it.

His infernal name he was born with translates to “The heaviest burden”.

His mother and her mate, Swiss’ step-dad technically, had another kit after he was born. One of those “let’s see if a baby helps” type of things but his parents were full of hate by that point, and they lived in spite of Swiss. He wasn't allowed near his little sister in fear that he would "taint" her and ruin her too.

Swiss as a kit was always trying to do anything he could with his Fire element to prove that he was just as good as his older siblings but he was always brushed away. There was many times he would heat himself up so much, to the point his skin would start burning. His parents would simply call him weak and kick him away.

He has no clue who his bio dad even is. All he was told was that he’s “a filthy half-breed like him”.

Multi’s are very lonely and shunned in the pits. So as soon as Swiss was able to hunt and forage for himself - which he had no guidance on and made himself go a fair few accidental mushroom induced drug trips - his parents kicked him out from the family and told him to never come back. He was 14.

Been as no other clans wanted him and he couldn’t get a job or anything, he turned to what most Multis usually have to do - using their body to get by. Multis have a reputation for being the horniest Ghouls but it's because they are presented no other choice. There was some encounters he enjoyed and was treated well, but many were essentially business transactions…

He only knew how to use his body and he kept that going when he was summoned too.

Sex essentially became a self-harm tool for him. Sometimes he would ask for a Ghoul to hunt him for the rough and feral sex he'd get from it after. Sometimes he would put himself in free-use situations because he felt the mental hurt from it. There was a few other ways too, but it was mainly stuff like that.

He only actually enjoyed sex with his pack, but he always found himself with Siblings and Clergy and plenty of people he didn't actually want. In the pits, he had a habit of using what they have in the way of intoxication to cope, and he did the same on Earth too.

Been as he was always raised being told he was useless, he always tried to be useful. He does have a very sweet and caring side to him but he rarely shows it, rather he lets himself be passed around because he is helping - he's helping people blow off some steam and frustration, or helping someone discover something new and helping people learn their limits better.

He knew it was unhealthy, he knew he hated himself for it all.

As well as using sex as self-harm, he did claw himself too. In the pits, it was nearly anywhere he could reach. After being summoned. He stays on his upper arms and thighs so it never shows when he has his uniform sleeves rolled up, and tries to glamour it all away as much as he can anyway.

His really bad spirals end up with him clawing across his chest.

He's definitely had a few attempts too. There's been two times he tried, one time he contemplated but was found before he could decide either way, and a fourth time where everything once again felt hopeless and he started thinking but then there was two new summonings announced. And something in Swiss' gut told him he should stick around for that...

[allthedamnlove]

AQUAMARINE: RAFE CAMERON X SOFIA FANFICTION: Chapter 2

Previous chapter

Word Count: 3k+

Radio for this chapter:

3rd pov:

Rafe Cameron felt like he needed to snort a line of cocaine. 

It was only 8 p.m. 

He felt red-hot anger and exasperation pulsing through his veins, his forehead nearly bursting with the nerve about to bust with all his worries.

All his plans to start afresh, to grow his roots and his own dynasty went poof as the bane of his existence, the unmoving specter in his life, Ward Cameron just waltzed back into his life. And he is planning to ruin everything that Rafe worked so hard for. 

But Rafe is not letting his dad run his show this time. No, not anymore. He is tired of being the afterthought, exhausted from being a beck and call to others when they never even needed him in the first place. He has been cleaning other’s messes with no paycheck or even proper acknowledgment and he is sick of it. 

So he’s taking back what’s rightfully his. Starting from taking complete control of the gold. Gold that he successfully procured. Gold that he risked his life for by being a hostage of a nutcase in the Bahamas. He doesn’t want to go back to Gudalope where he will be stuck living under his father’s and worse, that cunning bitch, Rose’s thumb. 

He wants redemption too, but he wants to do it his way. Not as a handout from Ward Cameron. Times like this, he felt like no one actually saw him as his own person. No one actually believed him. Not even the people he loved the most. 

Does he even love them? He wondered. He killed an innocent person to cover for his dad and it gave him nothing but nightmares and his reputation and mental peace were tarnished to the point of no return. And yet the same person for who he took a gun and killed someone in cold blood couldn’t even look him in the eyes when Rafe if he would choose him or his sister. 

And Sarah, 

Sarah. 

Contrary to popular opinion, Rafe Cameron has a lot of regrets in life, and if he made a mental list of all his past mistakes he would say choking his own sister would be the first thing written in neon bold letters. He still vividly remembers Sarah’s eyes, identical to his, pleading with him not to drown her, 

“It’s me, Sarah, your sister” 

It plagues not only his dreams but during random moments too; his mind playing that night’s memories of him being a psychopath like a movie: the scenes of him nearly killing Sarah glued onto his mind like the film got stuck and couldn't ever move to the next scene. He wished he could go back in time and stop himself from doing that heinous act to his sister. 

He still held a smidge of grudge towards Sarah for giving up her family for a Pogue. And yet, she’s the apple of Father Dearest’s eyes. While he can’t even make my own money without Ward breathing down on his neck. 

This ends now. 

He is not exactly ecstatic that the biggest hindrance in his life is his own dad. In fact, Rafe wants to find his own footing ‘cuz he aspires to be like him. He wants to earn like him, build shit like him. 

Or that’s what he is trying to say to himself as he’s downing his fourth beer of the night in the middle of a random party. The glass felt cold on his nimble hands, the chill comforting the burn on his fingers. He melted the last batch of gold from the cross and since Barry, who was not usually afraid to get his hands dirty, hesitated to burn the cross so Rafe ended up doing most of the work and is feeling the residual heat right now. His arms were sore from all the heavyweight work, but his heart was content. He sold a part of it today, hauling a hefty 60K bucks under his belt.

Finally, at least something is going according to his plan. 

Yet then, he felt this vacant, gaping hole hollowing out his insides. 

He’s only twenty two and yet he felt so old. Life has aged him in ways that his past self could never even fathom. After everything life has thrusted onto him and the horrors he gave back to his life made him feel empty sometimes. The last person who ever truly listened to him and loved him was his mom. And god knows where she is now. Ward just clinically told his five-year-old self that “she just packed her stuff and left, son” with no tears, just that empty stare he’s been giving Rafe for the past fifteen years. 

Then why does he want to become like him?  Like Ward Cameron, cold cold-blooded killer who went to unspeakable lengths for greed and money but loved his family. 

Did he love him though? He should right?  Or is it just part of a facade?

“He went to jail for me, that must have meant something?” he thought to himself as he mindlessly gazed at the beach in front of him. He was accompanied by Kelce and Ian, a touron who occasionally comes to OBX for the “ladies” meaning he frequents the orgies happening in Figure 8, takes a shit ton of mushrooms, and then goes back to his corporate job. But hey, he should be the last person to judge, he’s done things that trump anyone’s rap sheet in this party. 

So there he was, listening to both of them talk about the latest “assets” of OBX, the other two shamelessly throwing flirty looks at girls who winked back at them and hollering at them. Rafe would have been interested in their conversation two years ago but now, he craves for something more than someone to warm his bed. He still would like to have the occasional hook up ‘cuz he is a man at the end of the day but he is painfully aware that after the high of the pleasure hits, all he would feel is an empty bed and no one to actually call his. 

Moreover, he hasn’t slightly shaken himself off from something that happened a week ago. Or someone. Someone with a white polo shirt and a navy blue skirt; bangs curtaining one of the prettiest eyes he’s ever seen. 

He still doesn’t know why he went up to that bartender…Sofia and flirted with her when his usual type is girls who are “conventionally” pretty, the ones who litter the porn magazines he used to buy when he was slonking coke; tall, blonde, tits so big that he knows it’s fake, big blue green eyes and would totally smoke crack with him, fuck him and then leave him eventually. And he was fine with that.  

But that night, Rafe couldn’t resist talking to her which was weird considering that she held an air of mundaneness around her. She is a Pogue, obviously, and is probably like all of the others, scraping the bottom just to get tips and pennies from Kooks. Yet when they shared that ten minutes, Rafe felt like his age after a long time; he wasn’t burdened by his reputation. In fact, when Sofia played that little game of deliberately misnaming his name, he felt boyish. At the moment, he was just a boy trying to get the attention of a pretty bartender. 

Funnily enough, he wants to experience that feeling again. He was so busy with handling the gold that he didn’t have enough time to go to the country club for a week. But that amber-eyed girl took a lodging in the deepest nook of his heart. For what reason, he can’t even make out without wanting to approach her again? He wanted to see her again, he could have gone to the country club tonight but Kelce dragged him to this party, saying “It’s been too long since I got drunk with you man. Come on, drinks on me?”  

He couldn’t shake the feeling of her.

Did she think about him too? 

And so here he is, physically present in this party yet his mind miles away from the noise. The trio was actually situated quite far away from the heart of the celebration, a throng of Tourons and Kooks taking body shots and doing headstands on keg stands. The summer house where the party was in full swing, was lit with warm fairy lights; making the beach sand look orange on the ink-blue night.  

The sea seemed untamed, almost fearless even. With the waves battling to crash into the coast; wide surges of water splintered into millions of bubbles as it kissed the wet sand. The water. Sometimes he felt like the ocean was the only entity that completely understood him. The whole strip of coastline was prohibited for swimming, that’s why the sea looked so pristine from here. The water in that area was infested with some poisonous yet endangered fish so the local government has restricted even going near the water at all times. The beach looked spotless and vacant from his view, the cool July breeze feathering over his shirt and caressing him. 

He missed Outer Banks terribly and was glad he was back even under unsavory circumstances. 

Now Kelce and Ian steered their conversation towards crypto and mining, saying that they should have invested at least in “that corny ass Doge coin man” while he was still peering at the unoccupied beach. 

Until it wasn’t 

In the dark haze from a distance, Rafe saw a silhouette jogging from the corner of his eyes. He couldn’t fully decipher the details of the shadowy figure, just a flash of white and blue running along the sealine, and the distant sound of whistles from the anonymous source. He was teeing between two choices: one, to either go up to the stranger and warn them about the blisters, poisoning and the inevitable death they would witness if they went through swimming in the ocean, or two, go about his day and let the person gloriously swim to their tragedy. However, the other two also caught onto the situation and were also standing by as the person ran close to the water. 

“Oh damn, that man doesn’t know the water is poisoned. Should we rescue them?” said Ian as he stood planted on the sand. Kelce just shook his head, “Nah man, clearly they shouldn’t swim here. There must be a sign somewhere that you can’t swim here and they would have seen it too. He is probably trying to kill himself, and I don’t wanna go near that dangerous waters, right, Rafe?”

He was still unclear on what to do, his conscience fighting in two polar opposite ways, but he just hummed a “Hmm” as he nursed his beer. 

But what he saw then completely changed his mind. 

He inspected the man closely, hoping to put a face on this “suicidal” person trying to either end his life in the most gruesome way or is an innocent tourist just dipping their feet in the water. Then he noticed the shoulder-length hair and the bangs. What sealed his suspicions were those shoes. Keds with stripes of neon orange that glimmered in the dark. The exact ones a specific honey-eyed girl wore a week ago. 

That “man” was Sofia. 

He didn’t know what possessed him to drop his beer in the sand and sprint to her at lightning speed but he was glad that he did so. He ran towards Sofia who was oblivious to any of the raucous behind her and was actually peeling her uniform off, and throwing her shoes carelessly on the coarse beach sand. She was still whistling some tune as she started to waddle near the sea; her legs immersed in the water. Rafe went quick on his feet and staggered as he neared Sofia; his hands grabbing her from behind. 

Sofia’s conscience went full alert as she felt an unknown hand creeping up her waist and seizing her body completely. She instantly screamed, her cries cutting through the staggering noise of the faraway party. 

Fuck, Rafe thought; she must have assumed that he was trying to assault her. He should have called for her before he snagged her. 

“SOFIA!” he screamed back, hoping he didn’t scare her to death. 

She turned around now, stunned by the call of her name. She looked surprised yet horrified as she recognized Rafe in the pale moonlight; surprised that out of all the places and all of the people in Outer Banks, it had to be this beach and Rafe Cameron who saw her in her bra and panties and terrified that she was caught off guard, even though her assailant might have meant no harm. 

“Rafe?” she asked, shaking as the chills hit her like a freight train. They were both quite far from hot waters, yet his hands were on her shoulders now, and he had a bewildered look on his face. “What are you doing, Sofia? Are you crazy?” 

“I just wanted to swim on the beach, why did you drag me out?” she screamed back

He pointed his hands towards the sea and told “You’re not supposed to swim here, there are deadly shit living around that water”

“Oh,” Sofia just quipped back, her face turning a burning shade of red from embarrassment now. One day she wanted to “C’est la vie” life; trying to be spontaneous and throw her usual reservations in the air, she ended up completely humiliating herself . The worst part was that the person who witnessed her tomfoolery was the guy who has been haunting Sofia’s daydreams for the past week. 

Now that she thought about it, drowning in the ocean and dying might be a better idea than the guy she was having an itsy bitsy crush on asking her if she was crazy. 

“I’ve…never properly dived into the ocean and I wanted to do it for a long time…the shift ended early and I was driving back and then I saw there was no one in this area and I-”

Her rambling was cut short by Rafe who was trying not to shamelessly ogle the brunette; her simple white lacy bra with matching underwear, and the simple bow stitched in the valley of her breasts elicited a flick of hunger in his belly. Along with the water drops resting peacefully on her supple skin, Rafe felt a pit of pure desire rushing through his veins. But somehow he kept his cool and said, “It’s alright, you missed the warning signs”

“I didn’t see any.”

“Huh?” he wondered if Sofia was not the first person to enthusiastically swim their way to their demise. Someone should put up the sign again. Thank God, he was there to save her at the last minute. 

“I didn’t see any sign board about any warning”

“Oh, you better be careful jumping in the ocean at random times. People might think you might be suicidal or sum’ shit.”

For a split second, fear flashed in her eyes; and before Rafe could discern it, she masked her discomfort by a light laugh, “Yeah, I should be looking for warning signs, I guess.” 

Rafe saw her shivering and beckoned her to come with him, “Hey, grab your clothes. It’s cold as fuck here and you may get sick if you keep standing here”  She followed suit, hastily climbing into her uniform, Rafe’s attention warming her up in the chilly weather. She took her Keds from the muddy water and followed Rafe who started to walk to the parking lot a few metres away. He could feel Kelce and Ian’s eyes drilling holes in the back of his head but he paid no attention, helping Sofia as she grimaced, feeling the wet sand between her toes. 

“Oh God, my car’s gonna get soaked from all this mud, UGH!!! why didn’t I just go home like a normal person”  

He smirked at her comical disposition, “Well, at least you are alive, so that counts right?”

“Yeah, whatever”

They reached the parking space and Rafe took out his car keys to unlock the boot space. Sofia meanwhile just stood there and called for him.  

“Hey, so thank you for… basically saving my life. Umm…I hope we stop meeting under these weird circumstances.”

The Range Rover hummed to life as he clicked his keys. Rafe turned around as he opened the trunk, hands grabbing the beach towel he stowed just in case for situations like these, and then walked over to her. As he stood in front of her, Rafe and Sofia couldn’t help but pause for a moment; momentarily staring at each other. A surge of electricity brewed between them, both forgetting their own words and just trying to see what the other was thinking. A random person hollering, “YEAH BABY” broke their unmistakable trance. Rafe broke the silence and cleared his throat.

“Don’t mention it and also, I don’t mind meeting you in weird situations. Minus you accidentally drowning yourself in poisonous water.”

“Yeah, I should just stick to going to work and back home.”

“Hey now,  you got into this mess because you don’t know this place. And you need a proper guide for you to actually…you know…see shit and enjoy this place you know?”

She was picking up what he was trying to throw, “And who do you think would be a great tour guide for me?”

“Me, obviously for a couple of reasons. One,” he held his pinkie up, “I was born here and grew up here. So I know every corner of this place and Two,” he held another finger up, “I don’t think you can trust the guides here, they all are a bunch of no-goes. So yes, I think I may be a good contender for showing you around this place, starting from…tomorrow. I know this great place to swim. It's right outside my house actually.” 

“Ohh, but umm…” Sofia was interested but still hesitant, she wanted to go see where Rafe lived but a small yet realistic part of her was skeptical about going to a guy’s house that she met only twice. 

“Look, I am throwing this killer party tomorrow at my mansion. Eats up all of this party city bullshit over here” he motioned toward the ongoing party, “And it would be great if you drop by tomorrow. I’ll show you a real party, Outer Banks style. We can even go swimming if you want.”

Rafe, in fact, didn’t even have the slightest idea of throwing a party tomorrow. He was supposed to be meeting Barry tomorrow to sell more gold nuggets. But he wanted to impress her for no reason. And might as well, throw a party for his homecoming; hey it’s Rafe Cameron’s world and everyone’s just living in it. 

Sofia bit her lip in thought and after a beat, she slowly shook her head, “Ok…I’ll drop by. See how the Kook King actually parties” 

His smile was radiant as he canted his head, “You won’t be disappointed. Hey, so lemme get you your number…” he rambled as he slyly asked for her contact, “for you know, information purposes. Like letting you know when and where’s the party, you know…”

She cut him off by raising her hand and laughed, her hair clinging to her face in artistic swirls “Very smooth, Rafe. Don’t worry, you can have my number.” she said as she waited for Rafe to open his phone. He scrambled to grab his phone from his trouser pocket, the chunky grey iPhone lighting up as he opened up the Contacts app. She easily spelled out her number with Rafe’s fingers swiftly typing up her digits on his screen. She peered up to him to check if the number he typed was correct and retracted back, her stance swaying as he pocketed the phone back in his pants. Both of them fell into a state of uncomfortable silence again.

“Umm…so…” Sofia looked around, “I guess I’ll get going then. My ma must be worried.”

“Yea, umm…hope I see you tomorrow. I’ll text you the deets soon.”

“Hmm, ok. Good night, Rafe, and…thank you, really. I owe you one.” she went to her car then, slowly waving goodbye, her car door shutting with a soft click. 

“Bye.” He had no business watching her car leave until it passed by his eyesight yet he just stared at the empty road for a good minute, mind reeling and replaying all the glances and words Sofia graced him. He’ll be dreaming of her again, he was sure. 

As he walked back to his own car, he pulled up his phone and dialed a number, a person at the other end picking up the call in a hot second. 

“Barry, we may have to move up the agenda for tomorrow. I have a party to plan”

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Me writing this chapter and all of the chapters in the future of this long ass fic:

Sooo, first of all, thank you so so so much for the love for the first chapter. You guys cant even fathom how much it means to me that you guys even take your time to read my silly little words and even love it, I am speechless. This fic is kinda my comfort thing right now, considering that rest of my life is pretty shitty rn and my mental health is an all time low, so any reblogs or comments or likes would be astronomical right now. But it's also fine if you just read it :)))

Sadly I cant tell you when's the next update cuz there's Christmas and sadly, real life shit that I need to attend to (even though I really do not want to and write AM every minute) but all I can say is that THE NEXT CHAPTER IS A VERY CRUCIAL CHAPTER AND PROBABLY WILL BE RELEASED IN TWO PARTS SO I AM SO SO EXCITED TO WRITE IT

So Merry Christmas and advanced Happy New Years :))))))) Hope the next year treats you kindly and with love.

TAGLIST: @araybiaaa @lostsyren @didddii589 @rafecameronsfavourite @rafesofiapalomo

Pls lemme know if you want to be added to the taglist

Next Chapter

[theseeingfawn]

Summary: Elain is done playing it safe - she's about to throw caution to the wind! And lucky for her, Azriel is powerless to resist.

Read on AO3

Elain

Mor sits on the couch in the sunroom and turns to me, “so, Elain, have you heard Azriel will be staying in town?” I nod hesitantly as Nesta and Feyre enter the room. “Who are we talking about?” Nesta demands. “Oh, just Azriel,” Mor says dismissively. Nesta gives Mor an annoyed glare before taking a seat as far away from her as possible. Feyre rushes over, a little too eagerly nearly spilling her wine, “So, be honest Mor, have you and Azriel ever hooked up?” Wine shoots out of Mor's nose, “Gods no, it's not like that.” She waves a hand dismissively, “Besides, I've never really been attracted to him.” Feyre’s bright blue eyes narrow suspiciously, “Never?” Her tone is one of utter disbelief as she adds, “You’re telling us that in all of these years you’ve known him you’ve never found him attractive?”  Mor shrugs, “he’s just not my type.” I blink. I’ve misread the whole situation. It seems odd since I am normally a keen observer. Then I remember all of Feyre’s comments implying Az and Mor were an item and groan. Of course she thought they were dating. I suddenly feel a pang of sympathy for them, if anyone could relate to Feyre’s wayward love schemes it's me.  Nesta scoffs, “that man is everyone’s type.” Feyre nods in agreement while Mor takes a big gulp of wine. 

Nesta clears her throat then runs a hand down her lean thigh, “So, is he single?” I feel my fingers grip my wine glass so hard my knuckles turn white. Mor smiles a small knowing smile, “He is, for now.” Feyre leans in and whispers as if someone might hear, “you know, if I thought Rhys was into it, I'd ask Azriel to join us in the bedroom.” She pumps her eyebrows at us suggestively. Now it’s my turn to snort out wine. Mor cackles and Nesta adds, “I wouldn't mind giving him a go either.” I gape at the audacity of my sisters. Mor turns to me, “what about you Elain, would you be interested?” My mouth opens then closes then opens again. Feyre and Nesta laugh in unison. “Elain and Azriel? Absolutely not,” Feyre says while giggling. Nesta unhelpfully adds, “I agree with Feyre on this one. Elain is so sweet and soft, can you imagine her with someone like Azriel? She can’t handle all of… that. He’d absolutely destroy her.” Nesta’s tone implies it would be a bad thing, but the truth it sounds more than a little appealing to me. 

“Hmmm, what do you think, Elain? Would you and Azriel be good together?” Mor asks with a devious glint in her eyes. I immediately start blushing. If I say yes, my sisters will continue to point out more reasons why Azriel and I being together isn't going to happen. I already know those reasons. I’m the town baker and he’s probably a billionaire vigilante. He does well with women while I can’t even get Lucien to sit through one date with me. I decide to skip the embarrassment, “All I want is someone who’s kind and will be there for me at the end of the day.” Nesta scoffs. 

I love my sisters. But, with them I’m reduced to sweet innocent Elain, someone who needs protecting. Someone to be handled with kid gloves. They've created this version of me that suits their needs. Someone soft and quiet, someone who won’t push back. I’ve become a docile peacekeeper. I’m not sure when it happened, maybe when our family’s reputation was ruined and my sisters were at each other’s throats. Now, it’s become the only version of me that exists to them. I guess being sandwiched between two bold personalities will do that to you. Their well intentioned coddling had stifled me. Every part of me should've had the chance to change and grow. But instead I was stilted, like a flower cut right before it was about to bloom. As a result, I keep a lot of things to myself. Keeping secrets is the only way to prevent their meddling or in the case with Nesta, downright steamrolling. 

Usually, I can brush their comments aside but I can’t seem to let them go. The truth is when Azriel made me laugh at dinner it was probably the most fun I’ve had in a long time. Which isn’t great because my sister’s are right, there is no way a man like Azriel is interested in someone like me. And I don’t know if I can trust myself to not develop feelings for him over the next few months he is in Hewn Hills. I’m already so clearly attracted to him. 

Mor gives me a sympathetic look and replies, “Azriel’s special, a marvelous man. He would be lucky to have someone like Elain who is just as wonderful.” I didn't know how badly I needed to hear that. I don't need a man. I just need to feel wanted especially after back to back rejections. Azriel makes me feel wanted whether it's his intention or not. Feyre looks a bit guilty after Mor’s comments, “She is special, our little angel Elain,” She says as she pinches my cheeks. 

I'm older than you for fucks sake. 

Nesta nods and pats my hand, “the most special. It's just that Az is probably looking for someone a little more… interesting.” I close my eyes, trying to summon patience. I can't. I just can't sit here and listen anymore. Why does everyone think I’m so boring? I make up some lame excuse about a headache and hurry out of the room. I have every intention of heading home, getting drunk and crying myself to sleep. 

Fuck . I don't have booze at home. 

I stand in the foyer, thinking about what to do when Rhysand and Cassian head down the stairs. Each plopping kisses on my cheek before saying farewell. They smell like whiskey. I love whiskey. Rhysand has the expensive stuff too. 

As soon as they are out of sight, I rush up the stairs and head to the study where I know he keeps his stash. There in the corner is a gold bar cart with an assortment of crystal decanters filled with various amber colored alcohol. I head toward my target, grabbing a glass and pouring two fingers. I swirl the liquid and inhale the rich scent and throw it back. Enjoying the burn as it slides down my throat. I’ve always enjoyed a little bit of pain with my pleasure. I pour another and mutter to myself, “ not interesting my ass .” The second glass is even better. I grip the side of the cart and wonder how much trouble I would be in if I ride my bicycle home while tipsy. I groan to myself. The last thing I want to do is see the sheriff and his stupid self righteous face. I hear a rustle of fabric and then a warm caress of a deep voice from behind, “Rough evening?” 

I suppress a shudder. Azriel. 

I turn to see him sitting in a wingback leather chair. His long legs spread wide with a half empty glass dangling from his rose hand. It rests precariously between his legs. Nope not looking there. His other hand props up his head. His pointer finger gently rubbing his temple. I wonder if chatting with his brothers was as bothersome for him as it was for me with my sisters. 

I sigh loudly and plop down on the couch across from him. “My sister's were…um… let’s just say they were being themselves.” He hums, his piercing gaze watching me intently. “What were they doing exactly?” he asks, seeing too much. I don't answer right away. I don’t want to tell him my sisters were joking about sleeping with him. How could I tell him that they thought the idea of us together was laughable? What if he agreed? I throw back the rest of my drink. 

“Elain, tell me what's wrong.” His voice sounds so sincere, his expression looks pained like he truly cares. He’s just being nice . I take a deep breath. I wish I could just open up and tell him everything. He would know just the right things to say, he always does. But, this is too humiliating and I’m at my limit. He stands. I watch as he walks over and sits next to me on the couch. He takes the empty glass from me and sits it on the coffee table. Then he takes my hand into his, so tenderly, like he is afraid his scars will hurt me. I watch our hands, marvel at how perfectly they fit together. We sit like that for a moment, just holding each other. Even though I know it is supposed to be wrong, it feels so right. He starts to speak his voice rough, “come on angel, tell me what's wrong.” 

I snap . 

Nesta’s comments, Feyre's condescending laughs. The town watching my every move. Years of snide remarks about my innocence, about belonging to some man I never asked for, an engagement ruined and now Azriel using the mocking nickname sends me over the edge. I shoot to my feet, ripping my hand away. “Don't call me that! ” I shout at him. He looks at me confused and hurt. I don't care. Whiskey Elain doesn't care about anything , never has. I start pacing and it all spills out, “I'm not some angel! I'm not some chaste innocent virgin.” I turn accusingly, pointing my finger at him. “I'm interesting godsdamn it!” I'm breathing hard, nearly panting.

“I don't care what they say. They don't know what I'm into.” I stop and point at him even harder, “you don't know what I'm into.” I huff out a breath, “How dare they think I can't handle it. I can, I can handle it so well, you'd be shocked.” I stop, I feel my hands ball up into fists. “And I… and I'm not a snoozefest. You know who is Azriel!?” I demand, not waiting for a reply as I spread my arms out wide and stomp my foot again and shout “LUCIEN!” 

I see his lip twitch just a little, like he is thinking about smiling. I continue on with my whiskey induced rant, “He thinks because he's the mayor and hangs out with the Band of Exiles he's sooooo interesting. Well, I tell you what… he’s not. Not even a little bit. Do you know what he asked me on our date?” I finally pause to take a breath. Azriel leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, “what?” he asks, riveted by my outburst.

I snarl, “he asked if I liked bread. BREAD AZRIEL! For fucks sake I own a bakery, what the hell is wrong with him!? And I'm dull?” I let out an exasperated pfffftttt. I finally stop pacing and let my head drop, “the worst part is that I feel like it doesn't matter what I want or how much I fight it, I'm stuck in this box they've put me in and I can't even be mad because I let them put me there.” 

The last thread snaps and I start to cry. He jumps up and hugs me close to his chest. I feel his warm hand rub up and down my back. “I’m sorry I called you angel, I’ll never do it again. I promise.” I make a weak little mewling noise before he adds, “You are interesting Elain.” I fight his embrace and he squeezes me tighter. “You are,” he insists. I mumble gibberish into his chest. He chuckles as pries my face off him then wipes away my tears. “You are the most interesting person I've ever met. I'm grateful they don't see it.” I gasp at his words. “I know, it's an awful thing to say. But if they knew, I'd have to share all of the interesting bits of you with them and I'd hate that because I selfishly want them all to myself.”

I push his chest, smiling slightly, “you’re too competitive.” 

He hugs me again and I melt into it. He smells so good like cedar and mist. Does mist have a smell? Yes, I decide it does. I hum contentedly as he continues to hold me. His hand suddenly stops caressing me and he leans back, “what did you mean when you said you could handle it?” I freeze like a deer in headlights. I feel the blush rising on my cheeks. I struggle against his embrace. “ Elain .” 

I shake my head, “It's nothing. You don't want to know. Just more uninteresting things.” He chides me, “We just discussed how you are very interesting and how I want to have all of those interesting bits to myself. So. Give. Them. To. Me.” nothing but command in that voice. My throat bobs. How could I say no to that? 

“Nesta and Feyre said I wasn't interesting enough for someone… like you.” It isn't the whole truth but close enough. His brow furrows, “I just said you were.” I sigh and push away. “of course you said that, you were being nice. You're always nice.” He huffs so loudly I swear shadows fly out of his nose, “I assure you Elain, I am far from nice.” I know what he means, how others see him and maybe he is far from nice with other people but not with me. “you are always nice to me . You humor me… but you don't see me like that.” 

His eyes shoot to mine, “like what Elain?” I’m getting annoyed, “like… like… Mor.” He doesn't say anything, he just stands there. “it's the same with Lucien. I'm not interesting in that way. I'm just sweet and angelic Elain. But I know what I am. I just need to make others see.” 

An idea takes root in my head. The kind of idea that only seems good when you have too much to drink but lack the sense to know better. The kind of idea that only liquid courage can spark. “I'll make them see, I will make them all see .” He looks at me with amusement, “you're starting to sound like a cartoon villain.”

I give him a feral grin and all amusement leaves his face, taken aback by my sudden bout of insanity. “They don't think you would be with me because I'm a good girl and you're a bad boy. So… prove them wrong, date me.” 

He looks at me, eyes wide. “What?”  It all suddenly makes sense, could this be why I am drawn to Azriel? I’ve seen the movies, read the books. The good girl is always drawn to the bad boy because she can’t be bad herself. That’s the easiest explanation so I’ll go with that and ignore the little voice inside of my head that tells me I have a very real connection to Azriel.

He takes a step back, “I’m not a boy Elain but I assure you I am very bad. You deserve someone better.”  I scoff, taking a step forward, “you think I'm interesting?” Not waiting for him to answer before I pounce,  Prove it. Date me!”

Azriel

I’ve never seen Elain like this before. Her cheeks are flushed from alcohol, a devious glint in her eyes that has me feeling things I shouldn’t be feeling. “Date me,” she says as if that’s not the worst idea I’ve ever heard. I can’t date her because that’s exactly what I want. Just last night I dreamed of a scenario not too different from this one. Where Elain was begging me to take her. I nearly groan at the memory of it. She's everything I’m trying to avoid. I can’t let myself get attached to her not after what happened with Mor. I can’t go through that again, I can’t fall madly in love with someone, to obsess over her, only for it to be unrequited. Only for my heart to be broken again. I can't trust my feelings for Elain no matter how powerful they may be. 

“Were you lying to me about being interesting?” She steps toward me, all confident and determined. I feel like I’m being hunted. I would never admit it but I like it. I had all the power a minute ago and now she suddenly has the upper hand. I don’t like where this is going. 

I grind my jaw and grunt out, “ no .”  

Her smile turns positively feline like she’s winning and knows it. She takes another step forward, I take another back. “So, date me,” she adds tauntingly. I shake my head and take another step back, “I can't, I'd be no good for you.” She hums, taking another step forward, she rubs her delicate little hand slowly up my chest. Fuck me . I take another step backward, nearly tripping on an ottoman as I collide with the wall. 

She presses her curvy little body into mine, bringing those perfect lips to my ear and whispers, “then be bad with me.” I suck in a breath of air. I shake my head no and close my eyes. Fighting the erection I feel stirring. She whispers almost too quietly for me to hear, “Please Azriel, help me be interesting.”

Her words cause me pain, literal pain in the center of my chest. She shouldn't have to change herself. I open my eyes and look at her wounded expression. I want to kill Lucien slowly and any other man for that matter who made her feel less than. I don't want a single thing about her to change. If some jackass isn't willing to peel back the layers of learned propriety and shyness then he doesn't deserve her. 

I make the mistake of grabbing her shoulders, the wave of arousal that hits me is overwhelming. The warmth of her skin, the feel of her is so soft, so tempting. I feel her skin prickle beneath my touch. The proximity to her is intoxicating. This is exactly why I can't date her. I've barely touched her and I'm already salivating. I say sternly but kindly, “you don't need to prove anything.” She sighs, “I do though, you don't understand because you're you. No one would ever call you boring. I need you to show me how to be interesting. I'll never break out of this cage I'm in unless I change.” I study her for a minute, my eyes softening, “you don't need to change, you are perfect the way you are.” Gods . I can’t say shit like that if I am trying to put distance between us. I shift my tone to one of ice, “Besides, I'm not looking for a relationship. My assignment here is temporary.”

She claps excitedly, “that's perfect, I'm not looking for anything serious right now. Believe me after back to back rejections I'm this close,” she squeezes her thumb and pointer finger together  “from swearing off men. I just need someone to guide me on how to be less of a goodie goody. I need a devil on my shoulder. Come on Azriel, corrupt me.” I stifle the groan that threatens to reveal just how much her words can undo me. Be strong, you can do this. 

I cross my arms defiantly, “No,” making my tone hard as steel. She cocks her head to the side and smiles, “why are you afraid you'll fall in love with me?” I scoff and answer too quickly, “no.” She hesitates before replying, “Fine. Then I'll just have to ask someone else.” My eyes shoot to hers, “What?” She shakes her head, “If you won't help me, someone else will.” She says tapping her chin, pretending to think it over. I narrow my eyes at her suspiciously as she turns to walk away. 

“Like who,” I ask, unable to help but follow. She waves her hand dismissively as she heads toward the door, “You know someone else who is good at being bad, someone who’s sexy, who can help me be sexy.” 

“You mean, like a gigolo?” I tease her. She turns around abruptly, nearly bumping into my chest. I reach out grabbing her shoulder  to steady her. Before she can answer I add, “So, you are going to pay for sex?” She looks me dead in the eyes, completely serious as she whispers, “absolutely.” I can’t help it, I bark out a laugh. The thought of Elain hiring a male escort is hilarious. “I got to see this. I can't wait to meet him.” Instead of dispensing of this silly notion, she doubles down, “You won't because we will be too busy you know… fucking.” What a filthy little mouth she has . I should drop it, change the subject or bet yet leave but I can’t. Instead I find myself asking, “let me get this right, you'll be too busy fucking your giggolo to see me?” I can’t stop smiling at the idea of it.

Her attention drops to my mouth. I watch fascinated as she wets her lips and just like that I'm dragged right back under her spell. Is she going to kiss me? I want her to. NO! Get a grip . But then my fingers brush against hers and she brushes mine back. W hy is this so erotic? I need to do more than kiss her. I could throw her over the back of the couch and show her just how bad I am. Fuck her until she sees just how interesting she is. I'm about to kiss her when her phone rings. She pulls away from me and answers.

“Hi Lucien.” I feel my fists clench at my sides. Elain paces as he talks to her, the volume is too low for me to hear what he’s saying. I hate him, with his clever little comments and that stupid grin always on his stupid face. I hear her ask him if everything is okay. I wonder what it would be like to have someone like Elain care about me. I doubt Lucien cares that she is trying to make him feel better. I can barely hear what she is saying as the blood rushes into my ears. Over the rage building at the thought of them together. I hear her say something about the town council. I can’t stand the comradery they share. The inside knowledge they have when it comes to the nuts in this town. It’s infuriating. I despise that they have something they share. Why did she even go on a date with him? What did she see in him to even consider giving him a shot? 

Elain stops, looks at me and I know what's about to happen next. She asks with a faint smile on her lips, “Hey, while I have you, there is a question I want to ask...” I start to panic. I’m so screwed when it comes to her. I am weak against her charms. What man could say no to that smile? Kings would fall to their knees just to please her and she wants me. She can have every piece of me, destroy me, and I would beg on my knees for her to do it. I stalk toward her, nothing but sheer determination in my voice, “No.” She raises an eyebrow at me and puts the phone on mute. I feel a tugging in my chest and then I realize I've just been played. 

“I wasn't asking for your permission.” I bend down meeting her at eye level, practically growing, “I'll do it.” She gives me another one of those coy grins that has me weak in the knees, “you'll do what exactly?” I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose, quickly losing patience, “I'll be your… boyfriend . I'll prove to you that you're interesting. Fuck what everyone else thinks. I'll make you see what I see.” I brush the hair off her face, tucking it behind her ear. I bring my lips to that sweet little spot on her neck just below her ear and whisper, “we'll be bad together.” I feel the shiver run through her and smile to myself. She quickly takes the phone of mute and tells Lucien never mind, but he must be insisting because she adds, “let it go” before she ends the call.

Right, let it go Lucien, because she's mine.

[a-court-of-fics-and-errors]

A Court of Fire & Masks

Eris Vanserra x OC

Chapter 10

Summary Penelope enters the glamorous yet treacherous world of Autumn Court life, where appearances are everything, and even the slightest misstep could ruin her families reputation. As the youngest daughter of a noble family, she's expected to smile, nod, and blend in - just like her older sister. But when Penelope's curiosity about inter-court politics leads to a forbidden mention of unrest, she quickly realizes she may not have the weaponry for the brutal battle of social court, especially when she runs up against heir to the court, Eris Vanserra.

Content Warnings:

Emotional manipulation

Verbal and emotional abuse

Power imbalances

Anxiety and panic

Mentions of sexism & misogyny

Dark themes of cruelty

Word Count: 6,126

Tagged: @mrsjna @lilah-asteria @ambivalence-is-me @rcarbo1 @aaliyahmorielle  @feyrfly

A Court of Fire and Masks Master List

The room was cold–colder than Penelope had expected. She burrowed deeper beneath the quilt, its coarse fabric scratching at her cheeks as she pulled it tightly around her shoulders, her nightgown much too thin to keep the scratchy threads from plucking at her skin. Yet the chill seeped in stubbornly through the wool blanket, settling deep into her bones and making her joints ache with a dull throb. The small fire in the hearth crackled weakly, its embers flipping with faint pops and it glowed with an ominous reddened hue. Its light cast uneven shadows across the walls, flickering like ghostly hands, but it offered little warmth. The flames were too feeble to push back the creeping cold of the stone walls enclosing her. When she opened her eyes she often felt as though the walls were getting wide, the room bigger and more full of cold.

Her mind drifted to her room at home. There, the fire roared, filling the space with comforting shades of orange and yellow that danced across the polished floor and soft fabrics. Her fleece quilts were luxurious, cocooning her in their embrace, her bed felt like a sanctuary rather than an unfamiliar perch. She wondered if her mother kept the fire stoked while she was gone, if it burned tonight even in her absence. The memory brought an ache sharper than the cold–something heavier than homesickness. 

She shifted beneath the covers, rolling onto her side, then her back, then her other side, but sleep was elusive, nearly impossible. The bed, though sturdy and perfectly serviceable, was foreign. Its mattress was firm, and lumpy and she found her shoulders aching as she held her weight on them. The air carried the faint smell of wax polish and aged wood, mingling with the sharper tang of embers smoldering in the hearth, and the odd metallic scent she couldn’t get out of her nose. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was unfamiliar, and that made it worse. She wondered if that same metallic tang permeated every inch of the estate and if she was the only one who smelled it.

Odd. She had spent many months away from home before, sometimes in lodging far less prestigious than this, and yet she had never felt this hollow yearning. The image of her room, her home–the soft glow of the firelight, the way the morning sun painted the walls–kept intruding, sharp and unwelcome. Tears burned at her eyes, and she blinked them away quickly. She wouldn’t begin weeping for the home she had so desperately wanted to escape from.

Her gaze flicked to the window. The drapes she’d drawn tightly shut earlier, in a futile attempt to keep the hissing wind at bay, allowed the faintest sliver of moonlight to pierce through. It cut a thin, pale line across the floor, cold and lonely, and Penelope followed it absently with her eyes that still burned with tears. It was the same moon that hung over her home, but here, it felt sadder–distant, almost disapproving. The idea that the same moon was shining in through the sheer curtains of her childhood home did nothing to reassure her. The shifting firelight sent shadows flickering across the walls, playing tricks on her weary mind. 

Every sound in the room seemed amplified in the silence, bouncing off the stone walls. The soft creak of wooden beams as the house settled, the faint scratch of a branch on the windowpane, the distant groan of the wind as it swept through the surrounding forest. Each noise sent shivers prickling down her spine, her head snapping towards the source while she sighed disapprovingly at her unnecessary attentiveness. Even the quiet itself was different–too heavy, too deep, as though the house was holding its breath, listening. 

She rolled onto her back again, sighing softly as her eyes roamed the ceiling, tracing the cracks and grooves on the ancient wooden beams. Exhaustion tugged at her body, but her mind refused to still, flitting between thoughts she couldn’t quite hold onto. Madame Alba’s rules echoed in her head, each firmly delivered word replaying with maddening clarity: The manor has its ways. Speak carefully. Tread lightly. It was just practical advice, she told herself–nothing more. The house was old, after all, and it held the High Family, the most protected family in the Court. Of course there were rules. Of course there were warnings, and of course there were ears listening in.

And yet…the memory of the housekeeper’s sharp, knowing gaze lingered, and it came with a faint unease that refused to be reasoned away. Perhaps that was the way of this home, everything tinged with a minor unease.

Her thoughts drifted again to home, to the bright, open room she had left behind. There, the walls didn’t press so close, and the fire never faltered. She thought of Aiden’s words, his insistence that she write to him if anything felt amiss. That seemed laughable now. She wasn’t so fragile as to let a single night in an unfamiliar place unsettle her. This was just her first night–it would take time to adjust. She would adjust. 

Wouldn’t she?

A gust of wind howled outside, rattling the window panes with a sharp, uneven cadence. Penelope shrank deeper into the bed, clutching the quilt tightly around her shoulders like a child warding off a nightmare. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to sleep, forcing herself to remember why she was here. You chose this, she told herself. This house. This position. This path. 

But the house seemed to refuse to let her rest. 

The wind’s whistling seemed to shift, its pitch rising and falling until it almost resembled words–murmurs just on the edge of comprehension. Penelope’s breath caught as the faint creaks in the walls grew louder, stretching into a rhythm, each groan and pop of the wood beginning to sound eerily like footsteps. Her eyes flew open, darting toward the door, but the room remained still. 

The rustling of branches outside turned to whispers, low and deliberate, as though unseen mouths pressed against the glass. She pulled the quilt tighter, her nails digging into the fabric. It was just the house. Just the wind. But the sounds persisted. The creaks grew sharper, heavier, like the determined pound of heels against the corridor’s ancient floorboards. 

Like footsteps getting closer. 

Penelope’s breath grew shallow, her chest tightening as the rhythmic pounding seemed to reverberate through the floor, creeping up the bed frame, rattling her very bones. She squeezed her eyes shut again, her trembling lips forming silent pleas. It’s nothing. It’s just the house. 

But it wasn’t just the house. The footsteps continued, steady and unyielding, drawing nearer and nearer until they stopped–directly outside her door. 

Penelope froze, her heart hammering in her chest, each beat threatening to drown out the silence that had suddenly fallen. She peeked out from beneath the blanket, her gaze fixed on the door. The handle didn’t move. No knock came. But there was something–a shadow, faint and unmoving, pooling beneath the doorframe, illuminated by the dim light spilling down from the hall. 

Someone’s there. 

Her breath hitched as she stared at the shadow, willing it to dissolve, to move, to do anything other than stand motionless as though it too were watching, waiting. The silence pressed down on her, thick and suffocating, until it seemed the room itself was holding its breath. 

Slowly, as though fearing the noise might break whatever fragile barrier kept the figure at bay, she sat up. The bed let out a soft groan, and she clenched her fists, her body going rigid as she waited for the sound to provoke a response. But there was still nothing. The shadow remained. 

Her feet touched the icy floor, the chill seeping through her skin, but she barely noticed. Her movements were deliberate, her weight carried on the balls of her feet, her body recalling long-abandoned lessons in ballet. Each step nearly silent as she approached the door. The shadow didn’t move. No knock came. No whisper followed. The stillness was unbearable. 

She reached the door, her hand hovering just above the brass handle. The metal was dark, almost sinister, and when she finally touched it, the cold bit into her fingertips like ice. She froze, her heart pounding in her ears, and pressed an ear against the wood. 

Silence. No breathing. No shuffling of feet. Nothing. 

Summing every ounce of courage, Penelope swallowed hard and turned the handle. The door creaked softly as she opened it just enough to peer into the hallway. The silvery-blue light of the moon spilled through the tall windows, casting faint, eerie shadows on the floorboards. The corridor stretched out in both directions, empty and deathly still. 

Her breath escaped in a rush, her chest heaving as she forced herself to survey the space again. Not a soul was there. The hallway, bathed in moonlight, was quiet. And desolate. 

But her hands were still trembling. 

She closed the door carefully, pressing it shut until she heard the latch click. She took a few steps back to see if the shadows still appeared under the doorway, but they were nowhere to be found, and nothing in the hallway seemed to cause any shadow like that. She gulped and then returned to her bed silently, as though afraid to disturb whatever might have been outside just moments before. 

She climbed beneath the blankets, the warmth already fled, leaving the bed cold and unwelcoming. She pulled the covers over her head, her breathing shallow and uneven. She tried to tell herself it was nothing–just an unfamiliar house, her mind playing tricks on her, nerves heightened by exhaustion. 

But the room felt different now. Too still. Too silent.

It was as though the house had heard her reassurances, acknowledged them–and gone quiet in response. Watching. Waiting. 

Penelope wasn’t sure when she had finally drifted off. Her sleep had been shallow and restless, filled with strange half-dreams of flickering shadows. When the sound of a bell echoed down the hall, sharp and insistent, she jolted awake with a star.

The room was still dim, the fire in the hearth reduced to a faint flow of dying embers. Penelope groaned softly as she pulled herself upright, every joint in her body protesting. The cold had crept into her muscles while she slept. For how long? She did not know. She rubbed her temples, willing herself to shake off the grogginess, but her head felt thick and her eyelids heavy. 

The bell chimed again, its metallic ring clearer now, accompanied by the faint scuff of footsteps in the hall. A voice, polite but firm, followed: “Breakfast has been served.”

Penelope sighed, running a hand through her hair as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet touched the cold wooden floor, and she winced, fumbling for her slippers before standing. The quilt slipped from her shoulders, pooling on the bed, and the chill of the room bit at her skin. She moved towards the wardrobe, her movements slow and stiff, and opened its grand carved doors. 

Inside, her dresses hung neatly, arranged just as she had left them the night before. After some deliberation, she selected a deep green gown trimmed with gold accents–simple but elegant. Dressing was a tedious process in the frigid air, and her fingers fumbled with the laces and buttons as she worked and the cold buttons seemed to slip too easily from her weary fingers. At last, she pulled on her gloves, adjusted her hair into a modest updo, and wrapped her cloak tightly around her shoulders before stepping into the hall. 

The corridor was dimly lit, the sconces lining the walls casting faint pools of golden light that barely pierced the shadows. Penelope glanced down the length of the hall now much brighter and more welcoming than the depths of the night, and saw the maid who had run the bell moving methodically from door to door, her own lighted lantern swaying gently in her hand. The maid gave a quick curtsy as their paths crossed. She was a petite young female with dark hair tucked neatly beneath a white cap and a crisp ironed apron over her plain black gown. 

She was unsure where she was to go, and the maid had already passed her and was around the corner before she could ask for directions. Instead, she followed the faint hum of voices as she descended the narrow staircase, growing louder with each step. The warmth of the air was a welcome contrast to the chill of her room, carrying with it the rich aromas of roasted coffee, freshly baked breads, and savory meats. Her stomach twisted–with a mix of hunger, and the dull ache of exhaustion and uncertainty. 

When she reached the dining room, she paused in the doorway.. The room was larger than she expected, though not opulent. The oak table at its center was polished to a soft sheen, its surface lined with heavy silver candelabras and elegant tableware. Plates and goblets were already arranged at each seat, their edges subtly engraved with the Autumn Court’s crest–a vine curling around a single falling leaf. 

The walls were paneled with dark wood, each section carved with intricate patterns that climbed towards the ceiling. Above the table, an iron chandelier hung low, its dozen faelight enchanted candles flickering softly, casting a warm but uneven light. On the far side of the room, a pair of tall windows frames the pale light of the morning, their glass slightly fogged from the warmth inside. Between the windows stood a massive hearth, its flames crackling cheerfully, sending faint plumes of smoke curling up the chimney. 

At the table sat three males,engrossed in their own quiet conversations. None of them looked up when Penelope entered, their murmured words filling the air as though her presence were entirely inconsequential. 

The male at the head of the table was a thin, elderly, with a bald crown and a fringe of silver hair that gleamed faintly in the light. His face was deeply lined, his features sharp and angular, and he wore a high-collared black coat with the faintest embroidery of gold vines at the cuffs. He merely stared down to his plate, his hand bringing a trembling spoon to his lips.

To the elder’s right sat a rotund man with ruddy cheeks and a thick mustache that quivered as he spoke. He leaned forward slightly, his hand gesturing animatedly as he made a point to the tall, broad-shouldered man beside him. The latter male appeared to be the youngest in the group, though his hair was already streaked with gray at the temples. His features were chiseled, his jaw square, but his expression betrayed no warmth as he nodded curtly in response to the rotund male’s words. 

Penelope hesitated in the doorway, suddenly conscious of how out of place she felt. Her gown, though carefully chosen, seemed too elegant in contrast to their rather simple coats and stiff cravats. Finally, she stepped into the room, her boots clicking softly against the stone floor. None of the males turned towards her, their conversations continued uninterrupted. 

The chair nearest the end of the table remained empty, and Penelope slid into it carefully, smoothing her skirts as she did. She glanced around, waiting for one of the males to look up, to acknowledge her presence, to say something. But their conversations carried on uninterrupted, their low, clipped voices weaving through discussions of estate manners as though she wasn’t even there. 

She considered clearing her throat, announcing herself, perhaps even offering a polite greeting to break the silence that lingered over her end of the table. But the thought of doing so felt like an imposition. She had been raised to wait–to be introduced by someone else or to remain silent until spoken to. That was the custom for a Lady of the Autumn Court. Yet, she reminded herself that this wasn’t a courtly event, nor was she confined to the limitations of her sex. She was an advisor now, her position earned and rightfully bestowed upon her by the heir of the High Lordship, she had every right to speak. 

Still, interrupting the easy rhythm of their conversation felt presumptuous, and the thought of overstepping so early on made her chest tighten with unease. Her gaze flicked downward, and she bit the inside of her lip to steady herself, her fingers folding neatly into her lap. The weight of her presence hung awkwardly in the space around her, unnoticed and unacknowledged. 

Across the room, a footman stood by the door leading to the kitchens, his hands clasped behind his back. Penelope glanced at him, offering a polite, almost tentative smile. The footman blinked, his expression briefly uncertain before he inclined his head and retreated into the kitchens, presumably to fetch her breakfast. 

One of the knots in her stomach released slightly as she let her spine relax against the back of her chair. She inhaled slowly, drawing steadiness from the simple motion, and reached for the pot of tea, its warm steam curling lazily from the spout. The porcelain felt smooth and cool beneath her fingertips. 

As she began to pour, she felt it–a shift in the air. One of the male’s eyes had finally caught on to her movement. The more rotund male, seated halfway down the table, paused mid-sentence, his ruddy face turning toward her. His gaze lingered, a faint flicker of curiosity or amusement crossing his expression as he eyed her from the side. His silence caused his companion to his right to follow his gaze, and within moments, both were watching her. 

She could feel their eyes, the weight of their scrutiny settling heavily over her like an unwelcome cloak. The silence stretched, growing heavier as they said nothing, their presence more palpable with each passing second. 

She finished pouring her tea and set the pot back on the tray with care, the faint clink of porcelain breaking the stillness. She lifted her cup to her lips, her hand steady despite the tension coiled in her shoulders, and took a slow sip. The warmth spread through her, offering little comfort, but she clung the motion as if it could shield her. 

Still, the males said nothing, their conversation forgotten as they watched her. She resisted the urge to glance their way, to meet their gazes and demand what they found so fascinating. Instead, she waited and decided they would be the ones to break the silence. 

All conversations at the table had ceased. Penelope could feel it–the oppressive weight of silence. Four sets of eyes were fixed on her now, unblinking, assessing, yet none of the males spoke. The tension in the air was sharp enough to cut. 

She kept her gaze on the teacup in front of her, her fingers curling lightly around its rim as though it could anchor her in place. Her breaths became shallow, measured.

Finally, the eldest in the group, seated at the head of the table, shifted. He drew his long fingers forwards and grasped a silver bell that sat beside his plate. Without a word, he rang it–once, twice. From one of the back halls, a footman emerged from behind a false bookshelf, his polished boots clicking faintly against the floor as he approached. He came to a halt in the doorway, his hands clasped neatly in front of him, his posture impeccably rigid. 

“Yes, my lord?” the footman inquired, his voice low and deferential. 

The eldest male at the table didn’t respond immediately. His sharp, hawk-like gaze remained fixed on Penelope, pinning her in place with an intensity that made her breath catch. His expression was unreadable, a mask of composed authority that only deepened the swirling void of her stomach. When he finally turned his head toward the footman, the gesture carried the weight of his station. 

“It seems,” he began, his voice calm but laced with quiet authority, “we have a…guest with us this morning. Yet there was no introduction.” 

His words hung in the air, heavy. His gaze flicked back to Penelope, who met his eyes for the first time. The act felt daunting, almost unnatural. He wasn’t speaking to her; he was referencing her, as though she were a curiosity rather than a being at the table. She hesitated, unsure whether to respond or wait for another to intervene. 

The footman shifted uncomfortable, his brows furrowing as he glanced at Penelope. Anxiety crept onto his face, the tension in the room unsettling him. “My apologies, my lord,” he said quickly, bowing his head. “I wasn’t made aware that anyone would be joining you this morning.” 

“And yet,” the elder male replied, his tone growing more pointed and annoyed, “a fifth place setting was on the table when we arrived. It seems as though someone in this manor knew that there would be another seated with us. And I would very much like to know who it is.” 

The footman hesitated, his face blanching slightly as his eyes darted to Penelope again. “Of course, my lord. My apologies–it was an oversight,” he stammered. 

The elder male’s expression hardened, his lips pressing into a thin line. He rolled his eyes dismissively. “Why don’t you find out who this is instead of standing there apologizing? Or must I go to the kitchens myself and do your job for you?” 

“Yes, my lord. Right away.” The footman said as he bowed and retreated swiftly through the doorway, disappearing into the shadows of the hall beyond. 

The silence that followed immediately after was stifling. Her heart pounded in her chest as she surveyed the faces around the table. Their expressions remained cool, unreadable–almost predatory. There was no sympathy in their eyes, no curiosity that wasn’t edged with something much sharper. 

“My apologies,” Penelope said at last, forcing the words past the dryness in her throat. Her voice wavered, but she steadied it with a significant amount of effort. “I should have introduced myself upon my arrival.” 

The four males continued to stare at her, their expressions unreadable, offering no response.

“I’m Lady Penelope Faerwood—”

The eldest male interrupted, his voice cutting across hers like a blade. “Why are you here?”

The abruptness of the question made her flinch, her carefully chosen words faltering on her tongue. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet his hawk-like gaze, though it felt as though it might pierce straight through her. “I was appointed by the order of Lord Eris,” she said, though her voice came out quieter than she had intended.

The rotund male to the eldest’s left let out a low, rumbling chuckle, his bushy mustache twitching with amusement. “Appointed for what, exactly?” he asked, leaning forward slightly as though this were the most entertaining conversation he’d had all week.

“As his interim advisor,” Penelope replied, her tone steadying even as the knot in her stomach twisted tighter.

The three younger men exchanged amused glances, their laughter soft but unmistakably condescending. The eldest said nothing, his sharp eyes still fixed on her, unblinking, as though he were dissecting her piece by piece.

Across the table, the younger man with chestnut hair and a perfectly tailored coat chuckled again, leaning back in his chair with an air of practiced nonchalance. “She can’t be serious,” he remarked, his tone laced with incredulity and disdain. “An advisor? To Lord Eris?”

The table erupted in soft laughter, each man’s chuckle layered with mockery. Penelope’s chest tightened, but she worked to keep her expression neutral, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing her falter.

“It would seem,” the rotund man added, a grin spreading across his ruddy face, “that our young lord has taken it upon himself to redefine the word advisor.”

The man seated next to him, thinner and more angular, looked toward the eldest with a faint smirk. “This must be some sort of jest,” he said smoothly. “A trick played by Pollard while he’s off gallivanting. It would explain the... novelty of the whole thing.” He eyed her up and down, like he was assessing cattle. 

Still, the eldest man didn’t look away from Penelope. His unflinching gaze bore into her as he spoke again, his voice calm but edged with steel. “What qualifies you, Lady Faerwood, to be appointed as an advisor? And when, exactly, did this appointment take place?”

Penelope’s fingers tightened in her lap, nails pressing into the fabric of her skirt. The heat of embarrassment crept up her neck, threatening to betray her. “It was a little over a month ago,” she said, keeping her voice as even as she could manage. “At the hunt. Lord Eris noted he was in need of an interim advisor and asked me to take on the position.”

The eldest raised a brow, his lip curling faintly as though unimpressed. “And your qualifications?” he pressed.

Penelope took a steadying breath. “I will admit, my lord,” she said, forcing her voice to remain firm despite the tremor in her chest, “that I don’t have years of experience. However, I was chosen by Lord Eris because he saw value in my abilities, and I intend to prove his judgment correct.”

The rotund man smirked, his grin widening as he turned to the eldest. “Value in her abilities,” he repeated, his tone thick with mockery. “Well, that’s one way to phrase it. Though I daresay it’s not her mind that caught his attention.”

Another ripple of laughter passed through the table. Elias, the chestnut-haired man, leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he looked at Penelope with faint amusement. “Let’s not be too harsh,” he said, his voice deceptively smooth. “It’s not uncommon for a lord to make... unconventional decisions. Perhaps Lord Eris sees this as an opportunity to nurture raw talent.” His lips twitched. “Or perhaps raw potential.”

The angular man beside Gregor snorted softly, shaking his head. “Raw potential,” he murmured. “What an elegant way to phrase it.”

Penelope’s chest burned with indignation, but she forced herself to lift her chin. “I assure you, my lords,” she said, her tone calm though her hands trembled slightly in her lap, “that I am here to serve this house and contribute meaningfully to its affairs.”

“Contribute meaningfully?” Gregor repeated, his laughter booming. “Tell me, my lady, what affairs have you contributed to before? Do balls and attending hunting viewings prepare one for trade negotiations? For military logistics? Enlighten us.”

She felt herself shrinking into her seat, the walls of the dining room seeming to press closer with every second. Her heartbeat pounded relentlessly in her ears, drowning out the crackle of the fire. Penelope hadn’t expected to be questioned so immediately. She had been asking herself the same questions for the past four weeks–and had yet to come up with any answer that truly satisfied. 

She cleared her throat, forcing herself to straighten in her seat, though her hands remained tightly clasped in her lap. “I believe,” she began, “that Lord Eris is looking for someone who could help navigate the more nuanced elements of court life. He wants to know more about how the citizens he oversees truly feel. The social elements. He seems to think that while the advisors hold great value in their traditional understanding of inter-court politics, there’s little understanding of the more internal dynamics. So I assume,” she continued, her gaze flickering briefly between each male, “the heir wanted someone who could provide that more…unique, perspective.”

A silence fell over the table, heavy and suffocating. The entire room held a thick air. 

The males sat frozen, some of their brows furrowing slightly as if they hadn’t expected her to string together a coherent thought, let alone one with weight. One of them blinked in what might have been surprise, their mouths hanging slightly open as if caught mid-thought. But the others showed no regard for her words at all, their expressions unchanged, their stares as cold and intense as they had been before she spoke.

She had expected blatant dismissal–mockery, even–but the mixture of shock and indifference unsettled her more than anything. It was as if they hadn’t heard her, or worse, had already decided that whatever she said wouldn’t matter. 

The eldest male finally spoke, reaching out for another piece of bread. His old, decrepit hand shaking as he did so. “So,” he said, leaning back and pulling the roll apart, slathering it with jam, “Lord Eris has appointed you as a…social commentator? A voice on the dynamics of court life?” 

His eyes held skepticism as he peered over the roll he shoved into his too small mouth. A dab of jam sat in the corner while he chewed and it made Penelope feel sick. 

Gregor chuckled lowly, the sound rumbling from deep within him. “Ah, yes,” he said, leaning forward, his grin too wide and mocking. “Because what this table has truly been missing all these years is commentary on which lords smile at which ladies.” 

Laughter rippled around the table. Penelope’s hands tightened into fists beneath the table, her nails pressing into her palms. 

“I was appointed to offer insight where it’s lacking while my predecessor is away,” she said as she glared down the table. “If you don’t see the value in understanding what is happening within the walls of your own court–among your neighbors–perhaps it’s because you’ve been too long removed from the court’s internal workings to notice the cracks forming beneath you.” 

The room fell into another taut silence. Gregors laughter, which had been rumbling, faltered and then died out entirely. His smirk twitched, his ruddy complexion darkening slightly as he leaned back in his chair. 

At the head of the table, the oldest male froze mid bite, his bread hovering inches from his mouth. Slowly, he lowered it to his plate, his haw-like eyes narrowing into a venomous glare that pierced through her. The lines on his face deepening, his expression hardening into something both cold and curious. 

The pit in Penelope’s stomach seemed to widen, threatening to swallow her whole, and she was acutely aware of a small bead of sweat trickling down her spin, chilling her skin as it reached her lower back. She forced herself to keep her gaze steady, though her palms grew clammy beneath the table. 

Elias, seated across from Gregor, tilted his head slightly, his lips moving to resemble something of amusement, or perhaps disbelief. “Well,” he said after a beat, “she certainly has candor.” 

“Candor,” Gregor echoed through a chuff. “Bold words for a little girl who’s barely lost all her baby teeth.” 

“And entirely misplaced,” the eldest interjected. He leaned forwards slightly, and the jam on the corner of his mouth still caused Penelope’s stomach to gurgle. He leaned forwards slightly, resting his too-small forearms on the table. “Do you presume to lecture us on the workings of this court? On the inner dynamics of a system you’ve barely had the time–or the capacity–to comprehend?” 

Her throat tightened. “I’m not lecturing, my lord,” she replied. “I’m offering a perspective that while may not align with your own, doesn’t make it any less valuable.”

The eldest male scoffed, his expression twisting into one of disdain as he rolled his greyed eyes. “Value,” he echoed. “Your perspective has yet to prove any worth at all, Lady Faerwood. Let us hope, for your sake, that Lord Eris’s unfortunate gamble does not come at too great a cost.” 

Her chest tightened but she summoned what was left of her resolve, “I plan to serve the court with the utmost respect and–” 

He cut her off before she could finish, his voice colder now, laced with a sharpness that made her breath hitch. “Do not mistake my meaning, Lady Faerwood,” he said. “I am not insinuating that anything you do would cost the court.” 

The pause that followed was deliberate, a calculated moment of silence meant to underscore his words before he delivered the final blow. His voice lowered, “I merely hope that it doesn’t come at the cost of your status—or your father’s or sister’s already teetering standing.” 

The pit in Penelope’s stomach seemed to drop even further as she felt her feet grow cold and numb. He did know of her, and he knew of her family and yet he let her hang out over the hot coals.

The rotund male to his left chuckled softly, shaking his head as though amused by the eldest barely veiled warning. “Well said,” he murmured. “After all, it wouldn’t be the first time a female’s ambition has…outpaced her grasp.” 

Another soft rippled of laughter spread across the table, the males exchanging smirks. 

“With all due respect, my lords,” she noted, “I am not here to discuss my status or my family. I was appointed to serve the court and the heir to the High Lordship and that is exactly what I intend to do.” 

The eldest male’s lips curled faintly, though whether it was approval or disdain, she couldn’t tell. “Intentions,” he said coolly, “are one thing. Results, Lady Faerwood, are quite another.”

The false door behind the eldest male shuddered slightly, drawing Penelope’s eyes. From behind it emerged Madame Alba, a plate of steaming food balanced on one hand. She crossed the threshold with a brisk efficiency, seemingly oblivious to the heavy silence that hung in the room. The polished clicks of her boots against the stone floor echoed in the stillness, the only sound beyond the relentless pounding on Penelope’s heartbeat in her ears. 

She approached without hesitation, placing the plate before Penelope with a polite, guarded smile. “Good morning, Lady Penelope,” she said cooly. She didn’t spare a glance to the males at the end of the table. “I trust your first night in the manor was adequate.” 

For a fleeting moment, Penelope considered mentioning the footsteps in the hall, the whispers she’d imagined–or hoped she’d imagined–and the oppressive unease that had clung to her through the night. But she stopped herself. The last thing she needed was to invite further scrutiny or give these males more ammunition against her.

Instead, she returned Madame Alba’s guarded smile with one of her own, careful to keep it light and untroubled. “Yes, Madame,” she replied softly.

Madame Alba’s brow arched slightly, a faint flicker of curiosity or concern crossing her otherwise composed face. Her sharp gaze shifted briefly to the other end of the table, where the males had resumed their meals in a strained silence, though their movements were slower, less natural. 

Turning back to Penelope, Madame Alba spoke again, her tone crisp. “Lord Eris sends his apologies. He wished me to inform you that he will not be returning to the manor for a few days. He has been detained in a neighboring court and will need to extend his stay.”

Penelope felt her stomach churn. While Eris was by no means a reassurance, he was the only familiar face, and the one who had summoned her in the first place. She had been appointed to advise someone who wasn’t even present. 

Madame Alba continued, seemingly unfazed by Penelope’s visible discomfort. “He has, however, left some documents for you to review in his absence and encouraged me to inform you that the library in his study is at your disposal. Should you have any questions, you may find answers there.”

She nodded slowly, already trying to consider how she would fill the next few days with her advisee across court borders. 

“Thank you, Madame,” she said finally despite her yearning desperation to ask more questions.

The housekeeper inclined her head, her sharp eyes lingering on Penelope for a moment longer before she turned to leave. The rhythmic clicks of her boots faded into the distance, the false door closing behind her with a faint thud. 

Penelope stared down at her plate, the warmth rising in soft curls of steam. The food was meticulously prepared, it’s presentation stunning, but she couldn’t bring herself to lift her fork. Her appetite had abandoned her entirely. 

The faint scrape of chairs against the floor reached her eyes, followed by the thud of footsteps moving past her. She didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge the movement around her. 

Time stretched, slow and unyielding and the room was swallowed by silence. The warmth of her plate dwindled until only the faintest trace of steam remained, curling into the air before vanishing completely. She sat frozen. 

Finally, after what felt like eternity, she looked up. The dining room was empty now, the long table stretching before her like a desolate landscape. The fire in the hearth crackled faintly. 

She was alone.

A Court of Fire and Masks Master List

[khywren]

Adrift : Chapter 2 - First Blood

pairing: Astarion/f!Tav | Astarion/f!OC rating: 18+ MDNI word count: 4.6k tags/warnings: friends to lovers, angst with a happy ending, smut specific warnings for this chapter: mentions of trauma/abuse ────────── chapter summary: It's so obvious now that she has the opportunity to get a good look at him in the firelight as the flames swell in the evening breeze. She meets Astarion's ruby eyes again, searching for the answer she suspects she's already found. Her gaze narrows when she finally summons the courage ro ask him, “You're starving, aren't you, Astarion?” AO3 ┊ masterlist | series masterlist

The swamp is stifling. The air is full of the sound of buzzing insects, overwhelmed only by the stench of decaying plant matter. A thick haze obscures the way forward, and with each step Astarion takes, his boots squelch as they sink into the mud, utterly ruined.

Perhaps he'll feed them to the wizard, he thinks, chuckling to himself behind a sly smirk.

Ysera is at the head of their little scouting party, robes gathered above her knees as she treads through the muck. Her boot catches in a particularly deep patch of mud, and she nearly tumbles face first into the water, flailing helplessly until Gale has the sense to catch her by the shoulder.

When she turns to thank him, her golden eyes catch a glimpse of Astarion, who waves his fingers playfully at her. 

They've been exchanging awkward glances all afternoon, neither willing to broach the subject of last night's entanglement but both too curious not to continue dwelling on it. 

“Watch your step, darling,” he says, barely bothering to hide the mischief in his voice. “I hardly imagine the hag will appreciate you showing up for our little playdate covered in filth. We have a reputation to maintain, after all.”

He turns his attention to Gale, effortlessly deflecting the glare Ysera throws his way. “If only we were in the company of an illustrious wizard who could cast some sort of–” Astarion waves his hands dramatically in the air “–flying spell. Alas, all we have is Gale of Waterdeep.” He emphasizes Gale's name with a certain theatrical flair, embellishing each syllable.

Having drawn the ire of both of the party's mages, Astarion holds back a laugh, eyes gleaming as his expression grows even more smug. Oh, he is enjoying this.

Beside them, Karlach snorts and covers her mouth, exchanging apologetic glances with both Gale and Ysera.

Astarion's senses are keen enough to hear the soft sigh Gale makes, the way a disappointed parent might scold their wayward child. 

“Complain if you must,” Gale says diplomatically, “but I would remind you that stealth should be our utmost priority. Those poor lads have entrusted us to return their sister safely to them, a task much more easily accomplished if we maintain the element of surprise.” 

Astarion, for his part, is utterly delighted. He stopped paying attention partway though Gale's monologue, preferring instead to examine his nails. He lifts his gaze lazily, brows rising as he regards the wizard. “Well then, by all means,” he says with a wave of his hands, “do carry on. Far be it from me to tell you the right way to bumble blindly through a swamp.”

“If the rest of you are finished bickering,” Shadowheart calls out wearily, “I think we've found what we're looking for.” She's already gone ahead with Lae’zel and Wyll, the three of whom have managed to scramble onto what might be the only dry patch of ground in the entire swamp.

There, through the trees, they can make out the profile of some sort of structure, though it's hard to see clearly from this distance. Before long, the party emerges into the clearing, staring up the mossy wooden stairs at what must be the teahouse the old hag calls home.

Lae’zel is the first to unsheathe her blade, swift strides carrying her forward.

“Hold on,” Ysera cautions. “Shouldn't we… I don't know, have some sort of plan before we go charging in there?”

“We're here to save the girl, are we not?” Lae’zel says sharply, eyes narrowed as she spins on her heels. “The longer we wait, the less likely she is to survive. This was a fool’s errand to begin with, and I will not have my time wasted.”

“I know,” Ysera admits, “but we should still be smart about this.”

“Smart?” Lae'zel counters. “Inaction is the mark of a coward.”

Ysera glowers back, but as she opens her mouth to say something, Wyll steps between them. “Easy now,” he says, placating them both with raised hands. “Let's not forget who the real enemy is here.”

Ysera nods her head quietly, but Lae’zel merely scoffs and rolls her eyes. 

“Listen, I'm all up for going in there and raising hell,” Karlach concedes, “but Ysera's right. It won't do us any good to –”

Karlach’s attention is drawn suddenly to the figure of a man making his way down the hill towards them. He waves politely as he approaches.

“Greetings,” he says, smiling warmly. “Have you also come to bargain with the hag?” He casts a glance through the fog towards the teahouse, then back towards Ysera as she steps forward to address him.

“Maybe,” she says warily. “What can you tell us about her?”

“Not much, I'm afraid,” the man says. “But I'm hoping she can help me catch my quarry. If I can afford her blood price.”

Ysera lifts a brow. The man takes it as an invitation to continue. “My name is Gandrel. I'm a monster hunter, and right now I'm hunting for a vampire spawn,” he explains. “His name is Astarion.”

Ysera doesn't have to look at Astarion; she feels him flinch beside her, eyes flicking between her and Gandrel. The rest of the party exchange looks with one another, but no one says a word.

Tension ripples through the space between them, but when Ysera tries to reach out to Astarion with her tadpole, he shuts her out completely. For once, he's actually speechless.

“And when you find this ‘Astarion’?” she asks Gandrel instead. “You'll kill him?”

Astarion’s hand slips behind his back, unsheathing his dagger with a subtle flick of his wrist. Ysera catches the movement as the blade glints off what little sunlight penetrates the fog.

Gandrel shakes his head. “Not this time. My orders were to capture him and bring him back to Baldur's Gate. My people wait for me there.”

Ysera impulsively throws her arm out in front of Astarion, though whether she's protecting him or Gandrel is unclear. “No,” she says firmly, “you can't have him.”

Gandrel’s eyes widen in recognition as he scrutinizes Astarion's face. “Astarion? It can't be.”

“Just go,” Ysera says. Astarion tenses like a coiled spring, ready to strike. She doesn't know how much longer she can hold him back. “Please.”

“I'm afraid I can't do that,” Gandrel says solemnly, reaching for his crossbow. “I must take him with me.”

Astarion produces his dagger with a flourish. “Darling.” He addresses her with that sultry tone of his, but when she glances at his face, his expression is devoid of any of its characteristic charm, and for the first time she catches a glimpse of his fangs as he bares his teeth in warning. His voice drops into an almost feral growl. “Let me handle this.”

Let me kill him, she knows he's asking.

The arm she holds in front of Astarion wavers but does not fall. Ysera looks from Gandrel to Astarion and back again, biting back the urge she feels to panic.

“Hold on a second,” Karlach intervenes, about to reach for Astarion before she thinks better of it. “We're not seriously going to kill him, are we?”

“Stay out of this!” Astarion snarls, bristling from the feel of so many eyes upon him. “It has nothing to do with you.”

Yaera realizes then that there is no other way this will end than with bloodshed. Even if Gandrel were to survive, he'd find them eventually. Lae’zel was right – perhaps she really is nothing more than a coward, but she can't stand the thought of anything happening to Astarion, one of their own.

And so, slowly, she lowers her arm, and in doing so seals Gandrel's fate.

——————————————

Ysera starts awake as Gale nudges her on the shoulder and passes a bowl of piping hot stew into her hands. The warmth is greatly welcome as it seeps into her weary bones. The six of them sit around the fire, recovering from the battles with both Gandrel and the hag. Everyone is present save for Astarion, who's been missing from camp since they returned at sundown after reuniting Mayrina with her brothers.

Her golden eyes glance around anxiously, a twinge of fear surging through her when she realizes Astarion has still yet to return. Gale is the first to notice her distress.

“I'm certain that Astarion is fine,” he says reassuringly around a mouthful of stew. “He likely just needs time to himself is all. What happened in the swamp was quite the turn of events, especially for Astarion.”

“That, or he's drinking every animal in the forest,” Shadowheart adds, but her attempt at humor does little to lift Ysera's spirits. She stares contemplatively at her meal, too ashamed to look at any of her companions.

“We should have just walked away,” Ysera mutters. “I should never have said anything. It's my fault that man is dead.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself, Soldier,” Karlach says, helping herself to seconds. “That Gandrel fellow was ready to risk his life if it meant capturing Astarion. He probably would have found out about him eventually, one way or another.”

“I guess so,” Ysera reluctantly agrees, “but I still didn't want him to die.”

“Me either, but there's no helping it,” Karlach counters. “It was either him or Astarion. And we've all grown fond of him.”

The comment causes Wyll to arch a brow, and Lae’zel scoffs audibly. “Okay… some of us have grown fond of him,” Karlach amends. “Point is, he's one of us, and we look out for our own, bloodsucking vampire spawn or no.”

“And I suppose that does explain why he's never joined us for supper,” Gale notes, stroking his beard. “I'm glad to know it's not my cooking that’s repulsed him; at least, not unless the rumors about garlic have any truth to them.”

A soft smile graces Ysera's lips; Gale is quite fond of that particular seasoning, something they've found in no small supply during their travels.

They finish the rest of their meal in relative silence, too exhausted to waste what little energy they have left on idle chatter. Once everyone disbands for the night, Ysera remains beside the fire. Waiting. Every stray sound she hears immediately commands her attention, and each time she's met with dismay when she realizes none of them are Astarion making his way back to camp.

She's too tired to care how embarrassing she must look. What if he never comes back?

At least an hour passes before she finally hears his familiar footfalls on the edge of camp, whirling to face Astarion as he saunters into camp, taking a seat across from her with the fire between them. 

He sits gracefully on his own log with little fanfare and says nothing, only glancing at her from time to time, his expression impossible to read. If he's as nervous as she is, he's much better at hiding it.

“So…” Ysera says awkwardly, hands bunched in her robes. “A vampire, huh?”

“Vampire spawn ,” Astarion corrects, as if the distinction matters. It's all the same to Ysera. “But I'm afraid so. Before you stake me, you should know that –”

“Gods, don't be so dramatic, Astarion.” Ysera huffs and rolls her eyes at him, but she can't hide the faint smile that plays on her lips. She much prefers him this way, dramatic if not charming. A far cry from the Astarion she had witnessed last night.

“It doesn't bother me,” she says truthfully. “I don't think any of the others care much about that either. Well, as long as you don't try to eat anyone, at least.”

Astarion grins wickedly at her across the fire. The flames lend an extra air of mischief to his expression.

“Oh, there’s still time. Which one of them would you prefer to slake my thirst? Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

He's thinking about it again – drinking from one of them. The sound of Ysera's blood rings in his ears as it thrums through her veins, drawing him in like a siren song. Astarion grimaces inwardly, but it's a simple enough task to control the movements of his face.

He remains calm, smiling with practiced ease as he pushes the thought aside. Ysera is none the wiser.

“It isn't too late to change my mind about staking you, you know,” she grumbles.

“You're more than welcome to try, darling.”

Ysera waves him off dismissively, making a point of yawning loudly.

“Can’t be bothered,” she complains. “Too much work.”

They settle into a comfortable silence, for a time. Ysera is busy stargazing when Astarion finally breaks it.

“Thank you, by the way.” There's none of his usual sarcasm in his tone, which has grown almost melancholy.

“For what?” Ysera asks, tipping her head to the side as she appraises him.

“For defending me.”

Ysera grins stupidly at him, despite herself.

“Am I hearing that correctly? I didn't think you had it in you, Astarion.”

Astarion huffs a quiet laugh and holds up his palms in submission. He shakes his head as if he can't quite believe it himself.

“I'm not happy about it either, darling.”

Ysera watches him for a moment, drinking in the sight of him. She feels a growing connection with him, and it settles like a nascent flame in her chest. Her eyes crinkle, the smile on her lips genuine.

“Don’t mention it. That monster hunter was probably going to kill you at some point, or worse; we didn't have much of a choice.” She gives him a laugh of her own, an embarrassed little thing, before she tells him: “I hate to admit it, but I think I'd actually miss you if you were gone.”

“Perish the thought.”

“What did he want with you, anyway?” Ysera asks suddenly, broaching the subject with all the grace of a rampaging owlbear.

Astarion leans back, hands braced on either side of his thighs as he gives her a nonchalant shrug.

“Who knows? I'm a vampire spawn, I'm certain there are plenty of people who would want to see me dead. My kind aren't exactly welcomed in most places.”

He's playing with the truth again, telling her only as much as she needs to know. Astarion had seen Gandrel for what he truly was: a Gur, no doubt sent by Cazador as a warning that even this far from the city, he still wasn't far enough to be safe from his influence.

The whole thing makes him uneasy. He needs to make sense of it all before he decides what to do about it. But perhaps he can trust these people – or at the very least, Ysera. He'll need allies if Cazador plans to claim him.

He had never expected any of them, let alone Ysera, to defend him, especially not after they learned what he was.

“I guess that's true enough,” Ysera says presently, apparently satisfied with his reasoning.

She looks at him again, and their eyes meet. Ysera holds his gaze, but she's too lost in thought to realize she's openly staring at him.

She doesn't even realize it until the sound of Astarion's voice drags her from her reverie mid-thought. He looks absolutely delighted by whatever snarky little quip is inevitably on his lips, and Ysera braces herself accordingly.

It isn't her fault she hasn't had any meaningful social interaction in gods know how long. Has it always been this difficult? She doesn't remember it being this difficult.

“Tressym got your tongue, darling?” 

Ysera's cheeks burn, her tail swishing erratically behind her.

“I was just thinking… you're awfully pale,” she blurts out, realizing the absurdity of her statement the moment it leaves her mouth. Astarion quirks a brow in amusement.

“Well, I know vampires are – what I mean is –” Ysera grows increasingly frantic with embarrassment as she grapples for the right words. The arch of Astarion's brow makes her feel even more pathetic, but she can't stop the words from tumbling out. “You seem exceptionally pale, even for – Gods,” she groans, “I'm making an ass of myself, aren't I?” 

Ysera buries her face in her hands and exhales a pathetic little sigh. She peeks at Astarion between her fingers, mortified by the glee that's reflected across every inch of his face.

“Oh, spectacularly so,” Astarion agrees, smirking deviously at her. “But by all means, do continue. I suppose next you'll tell me that my teeth are unexpectedly sharp as well?”

“Very funny,” Ysera huffs, rolling her eyes and pursuing her lips at him.

In the silence that follows, Ysera lets herself really study the angled planes of Astarion's face. His gaze is steady, watching her with curious intent as she scrutinizes him. He still smiles at her, but even in the darkness she can see the faintest hint of sorrow in his eyes. The way he doesn't quite look at her so much as through her.

It's so obvious now that she has the opportunity to get a good look at him in the firelight as the flames swell in the evening breeze. She meets Astarion's ruby eyes again, searching for the answer she suspects she's already found. Her gaze narrows when she finally summons the courage ro ask him, “You're starving, aren't you, Astarion?”

Something flashes across his face, and Astarion's expression hardens. Fear, perhaps? Or is it rage she sees when he sets his jaw? Ysera blinks again and it's gone, his features smoothed into his characteristic nonchalance.

It's almost frightening how quickly it all happens. She almost questions if she actually saw anything at all.

“I'll have you know,” Astarion deflects a little too casually with a dismissive wave of his hand, “I found myself a lovely little fawn out in the forest. Drained it dry – not a drop left.” He makes a show out of it by licking his lips.

It doesn't matter to Astarion whether she believes him, so long as she stops poking her nose where it doesn't belong. The feeling he has of slowly being suffocated recedes as Ysera's expression softens, and she considers what he's said.

It dawns on her suddenly: “I thought vampires fed on… well, people,” she remarks, innocently enough.

“Most would prefer to, I'm sure,” Astarion agrees. There's no point in hiding everything from her, the insufferably nosy little thing that she is. He would admire her eye for detail if it was focused on anyone else.

“My old master never fed his spawn anything other than rats,” he sneers, voice dripping with revulsion at the recollection. “We were forbidden from drinking the blood of thinking creatures.” He remembers the stench of their fur and the way they screamed and writhed when he sank his teeth into their flesh. The vile way the blood always coagulated in his stomach.

And how still he was always, maddeningly, ravenous.

Ysera's brows knit together. Astarion bristles under the piteous look she casts his way but says nothing.

“You've never…?” She asks quietly. “That’s… surely you must be curious about what it's like. To feed on some one instead of some thing. ”

Astarion becomes increasingly aware of the enticing rhythm of her heart, the way her pulse quickens when he narrows his eyes and passes them purposely slowly across her form. He wears an equally sly smile to match, letting her catch a glimpse of his fangs in the firelight behind the curve of his lips. It's a relief that he no longer needs to worry about concealing them.

But, gods, she smells positively divine. It's not the first time he's noticed, but at this distance the scent of her practically ensnares him, a subtle floral smell that's reminiscent of roses. And then there's the arcane undercurrent to the aroma of her blood, one that makes his fangs ache as he imagines the way it would feel pouring down his throat, spilling over his lips as he drinks his fill of her.

Astarion swallows thickly, parched as a man stranded in the desert who's just found the salvation of an oasis. The sudden realization occurs to him that he wants, no, needs to taste her.

“Why do you ask, darling?” he drawls. It's taking every ounce of strength to maintain his composure, but his resolve is fading far more quickly than he would like. “Are you volunteering?”

Ysera's face is impassive as she stares back at him before, slowly, the corners of her lips quirk upwards. She leans forward, hands on her knees.

“What if I am?”

She practically whispers the question, but Astarion hears her as clearly as if she had spoken directly into his ear, his brows nearly disappearing behind his curls as he registers her words.

His mouth falls slack, saliva pooling on his tongue. A veritable feast awaits him – could it have always been this easy?

And why would she even –?

None of it matters. Not if it means he gets to taste her.

“Then I’d say you're wasting time, darling,” Astarion murmurs, feigning nonchalance. “Come here, won't you?”

Ysera stands, walking towards Astarion as though pulled by an invisible thread. She stops before him, wide-eyed and filled with an almost anxious excitement as he tilts his head back to catch her gaze.

“Sit.”

Pink stains Ysera's cheeks and she whips her head around as though someone might be watching them.

“Here?” she asks. “Right now?”

“Yes, darling.” He says it so casually, gesturing to the extra bedroll at his feet beside the fire. “Unless you'd rather kneel in the dirt, of course.”

“I… I figured we would–” Ysera stammers, flustered. “I mean, there's plenty of room in my tent.”

“Embarrassed?” Astarion teases. He has to admit, seeing her like this is rather amusing. He enjoys how easy it is to rile her up, the way he can hear her heart racing like a rabbit beneath her ribs.

It's… fun. The most fun he's had in… well, too long, at least.

“No,” Ysera lies. She says it too quickly, and Astarion can see right through her façade, but she settles stubbornly on her knees before him nevertheless, sitting neatly between his legs.

“Let's just get this over with,” she adds, worrying at her lip. “Before I have second thoughts.” She pulls a strand of ribbon from her robes, tying her hair back in a high ponytail behind her head. A few loose strands of pink frame her face.

With the curve of her throat bared to him, Astarion can barely stop himself from groaning at the sight of it.

“Gladly.”

His fingers are cool and light as they skate across Ysera's chin, gently tipping her head to the side as he appraises her like a jewel. From the corner of her eye, Ysera watches as Astarion runs his tongue over his fangs, the action sending a sudden bolt of heat straight to her core.

“Are you ready, my dear?” Astarion croons, voice husky with hunger. He leans forward, bending his head so his lips can find her throat. His mouth works over her skin, eagerly searching for her pulse point. When he finds it, his fangs press tentatively against her, and she can feel him practically trembling with anticipation. He slips one hand behind her back, while the other threads through the hair at the nape of her neck as he cradles the back of her head.

“Yes,” she whispers, eyes fluttering closed.

Astarion's fangs sink into her neck like twin shards of ice, causing her to cry out in pain. Her body stiffens before it goes limp, and when Ysera slumps against him, Astarion holds her firmly against his chest.

The moment the first drops of her blood hit his tongue, Astarion nearly loses himself. He groans loudly, the sound muffled by the line of her neck, encouraging Ysera's blood to flow more freely as he passes his tongue over the wound.

Whatever he had imagined she would taste like pales in comparison to the real thing. He drinks greedily from her, taking deep pulls of her blood in time with the rhythm of her heart. The warmth is almost as good as the taste, metallic and sweet as it floods both his mouth and his senses.

The pain in Ysera's neck gradually begins to fade, replaced by a pulsing heat that radiates from the place his fangs pierced her flesh. She sighs softly, hands reaching for his shirt, uncertain when or how she should ask him to stop.

She's not entirely sure she wants him to.

It feels… good, in a way, a heavy sleepiness slowly overcoming her with each passing second. Her mind stops racing, and whatever hesitation she felt just moments ago seems like the distant past.

For a moment, she feels at peace. She had almost forgotten what that was like, doesn't want it to end.

And Astarion shows no sighs of stopping. He clings tightly to her, blood spilling over the edges of his mouth as his feeding becomes increasingly sloppy but no less ravenous.

Somewhere, through the haze of her delirium, Ysera understands that he will kill her if he doesn't stop. Not intentionally of course, but she only has so much blood to spare.

Her hands flatten against his chest and she shoves at him with what strength she has remaining, relieved when Astarion seems to snap out of whatever reverie he's been lost in. He releases her and sits upright. Blood trickles over his chin, a few drops of crimson splashing onto his pants as he sways slightly, almost drunkenly before her.

Ysera notices the change in him immediately: the color returning to his skin, the way the tips of his ears are flushed pink behind the mess of his curls. The way his eyes almost seem to shimmer, half-lidded but brighter than she's ever seen them before.

“That…” Astarion sighs, running the back of his hand over his mouth. “That was amazing. And how sweet you are, darling.” His eyes linger on the marks he's left on her neck, blood still weeping freely from the spot where he bit her. He reaches out to gather some of the blood from her neck onto the tips of his fingers and brings them to his mouth to lick them clean.

He feels much warmer than before, but his touch still makes her shiver.

“Had I only known, I would have tasted you sooner.”

Ysera is too exhausted even to roll her eyes at him, but she gives him a curious look, flinching as she presses her hand to the side of her neck. The bleeding has stopped, but she can feel the twin marks he left there, a strange but not unwelcome sensation.

“Satisfied?” she asks, not unkindly. Astarion helps her to her feet, his face tantalizingly close to hers when he murmurs, “Oh, yes.”

He follows her across camp to her tent, an effort made all the more difficult as she struggles to hold herself upright. She's lost too much blood, but it's nothing a little sleep and a few healing potions can't fix. Whatever will spare her the embarrassment of asking Shadowheart for assistance in the morning.

Ysera bids Astarion good night and slips halfway through the tent flap before Astarion clears his throat behind her. His mouth is pressed into a thin line when she manages to turn towards him, her silence beckoning him to speak.

“This is a gift, you know,” he says soberly, eyes not quite meeting hers. “I won't forget it.”

He's gone before Ysera's muddled mind can process the words. But this time, the distance between them feels less tangible, some thread connecting them that grows taut but does not break.

She's been adrift for so long, lost and alone, and Astarion might just be the anchor she needs to survive. 

[curlsandsnakes]

AU POLIN FANFIC

Courting Penelope Featherington

It’s raining the day he comes home.

Dark, moody weather that sets the tone wonderfully for the rather lackluster greeting he gets from his preoccupied siblings and absolutely rung dry mother. With two girls out in society, 1 pair of newly weds, 2 youngsters, and a Benedict, he can’t quite blame his mothers half hearted declarations and wandering eyes. He’s fully aware they’re happy to see him, Hyacinth even cries, but they all have their own dramas going on and have no time to entertain his stories of travel.

It doesn’t matter any, there really is only person he’s desperate to talk too, desperate to thrill with detailed accounts and sketched photographs.

It’s a shame Penelope Featherington wants absolutely nothing to do with him.

Eloise is the only sibling who never responded to a letter he sent. It’s clear she’s fully aware of the horrible things he’d spoken in a drunken haze nearly five months ago , and in true Eloise fashion she has no intention of betraying her best friend. She doesn’t even speak to him until he drops into the chaise beside her.

“Eloise. I missed you.”

Her bored expression never falters.

“Lovely to have you home, colin.” It’s so formal he nearly snorts at his rebellious little sister.

“I understand you are still displeased with me about my error last season.”

That does it.

“Error?! You call what you did an error?” Her body twists towards him and she fixes him with an outraged glare.

“Well yes, it’s was uncalled for and I…”

“Uncalled for?! I’ve never known you to be a fool but I find I do not know you at all. You nearly ruined her , Colin! She was wiped from the marriage market by your comments alone! If even her best friend couldn’t imagine being with her, why would anyone else? You have no idea what you accomplished!” Eloise pants, her face alarmingly red. “And then, when the damage was done you ran off to travel the world leaving Penelope to fix her reputation entirely on her own! And the audacity to write to her.”

Theres pain in his gut, crushing and turning everything in his stomach until he’s left nauseous and weak. What had he done? Was he truly that blind to see how fragile Pen was already? If anyone knew how desperately she wanted a husband, a family, it was him. And he had spoken so callously, degraded the one decent woman in the entirety of the ton.

“But you needn’t worry, penelope is no longer the Insipid wallflower you once knew. She has blossomed quite beautifully, I myself was astonished by her transformation.” Kate calls from her place at the head desk in the drawing room, a knowing sparkle in her eye.

“It’s true! She’s the prettiest one at all of the festivals.” Gregory is fussing with his gift while he speaks but makes sure to keep eye contact with Colin when he continues “and everyone says so.” It feels strangely like a warning from the 12 year old.

“Do we speak of Penelope?” Violet Bridgerton waltzes back into the room “I’ve heard from a reputable source that Lord Debling and Master Anderson both have plans to begin a courtship with our beautiful friend. I’m so intrigued to see who she will choose to marry.”

“Marry?!” His voice carry’s over the deafening crack of thunder “she can’t marry! She would need at-least a season of courting and this one’s nearly over. If they haven’t begun courting her yet, it would be wise to wait until next year to begin!” He feels hot, sweaty, his heart beating so fast it’s bound to give way to his mania any moment now.

“Not in Penelope’s case. This is her third season with no matches, she’s more than welcome to accept whomever she chooses at whatever time.” Violet is perched on Simons lap.

“I quite like Debling. I believe he would make a good addition to the family.” The duke tickles his wife’s ribs.

“As do I. We all get on quite well and since Penelope is essentially a sixth Bridgerton sister it will be nice to have someone we can all tolerate.” Anthony adds.

“She is not marrying Debling!” Colin’s voice is firm and slightly frantic, panic rising up the back of his neck. “She will not marry this season.”

“And who are you to decide what she does brother? Have you not done enough. Your opinion is inconsequential and it would do best for you to keep it to yourself, lest you scare any more suitors off.” Eloise has her hands on her hips and it’s almost intimidating enough for him to stop speaking but God himself could not save Colin Bridgerton now.

“There will be no more suitors and she will not be marrying any of these men!” He barks, firm and unmoving.

“Why do you keep saying that?!” Eloise shouts.

“Because she will marry me!” The words pour out of him in a roar, his chest heaves and his hands ball his neatly pressed pants. “She will marry me when I am done courting her, she deserves the full courting experience. I had intended to come home at the start of the Season so I could do it properly but my boat went down at a shipping port and I didn’t make it out of Greece for weeks.

Violet claps her hands, a watery smile on her lips

“These are your intentions, dear?”

He has never seen his mother so proud, joy shining in her eyes.

“Yes. They have been since I left All those months ago. I regret the words I spoke instantly and I needed to figure out why. It didn’t take me long to realize Penelope is the one I desire, I crave, I need her in every humanly way.” It feels like a weight has been lifted off my chest

… until of course, Eloise speaks.

“We’ll best of luck on that journey, brother. Penelope Featherington absolutely loathes you.” She takes too much pleasure from his pain.

“All will work out as it should.” Violet pats his shoulder gently before walking back out.

He needs to fix this before someone else takes his place.

He needs to court Penelope Featherington, and he needs to court her right now.

[roanofarcc]

PROJECT SUNSHINE CHAPTER FORTY → FAMILY MATTERS

summary: steve harrington x oc | on ao3

when another product of Hawkins National Laboratory escaped a long-survived nightmare alongside her sister, she crashed into one unsuspecting teenage boy and dragged him deeper into the dark mysteries that made up their hometown.

word count. 3.7k || masterlist

warnings: cannon typical violence, child abuse, horror, gore, and depictions of mental illness. parts of this story were written pre-season 4 release. cannon divergence.

a/n: sad steve hours :( I don't think we'll ever get the harrington's lore so I'm creating my own.

previous chapter ← → next chapter

A constant tension hummed through the Harrington household whenever Steve’s parents were home, which wasn’t often. But, when they were, Steve tried to avoid his house as much as he could.

They had arrived home two days prior and were set to leave that morning for another business trip. Steve managed to avoid them for most of their stay; he used the excuse of work to get out of family dinners and small talk that almost always ended in some kind of argument. The tension between his mom and dad was bad enough without him entering the mix. 

The bitterness between his parents had been brewing since Steve was little. They tried to save face for a long time, but as he grew older, they dropped the act while at home. His dad was getting sloppier hiding the fact that he was sleeping with his revolving door of secretaries, or maybe he didn’t care to hide it anymore. And his mom was getting worse at pretending she didn’t know exactly what he was doing. Steve had no idea why they stayed together; it wasn’t for his sake.

If given the choice, he’d love to move somewhere with his mom and forget all about his dad. She used to be his favorite person in the entire world, but something changed in her. She became cold and poured all of her time and energy into work. Maybe she wanted to prove to her husband that, while she may be replaceable as a partner, she couldn’t be replaced in the office. Because of that, she stopped coddling Steve and nearly stopped paying attention to time altogether. They had a reputation to uphold, though, and all of them had gotten a little too good at putting on a believable act while in public. His parents didn’t want a divorce to ruin their squeaky clean image while outside their home. 

Steve sat at their kitchen island, eating a bowl of cereal before his shift at Scoop Ahoy. His parents had busied themselves packing, and he thought he’d be in the clear of them. They’d bid him goodbye as they walked out the door and that would be that. Unfortunately, luck was not on his side that morning. 

Heavy footsteps from his dad echoed from down the hall before he entered the kitchen. Out of habit, Steve sunk back in his seat, thinking maybe his dad would miss him entirely. But, as the gray-haired man poured himself a mug of coffee, he turned to look at Steve with his usual, stoic expression. 

“Your mother and I won’t be back until after the holiday,” he said. “Can you manage to keep the house in one piece until then?” Every word out of his dad’s mouth was wrapped in a patronizing tone. He thought Steve was an idiot and like he hadn’t been left home alone since he was ten years old.

“I always do,” Steve replied, suddenly not interested in his breakfast and more ready to get to work than he had been all summer. He stood up and headed to the sink. 

“You know,” his dad began, before taking a long sip of his black coffee. Steve inwardly groaned as he washed his bowl. “If you had put any effort at all into your college application, you could have joined us on this trip and gained real-world experience. I could have secured you an internship for the fall.”

It was the same lecture since he graduated at the end of spring. It was phrased slightly different each time, but it carried the same message: Steve was the family's disappointment, and he should feel bad about it. He turned out nothing like his dad, and that was an issue. Hell, in his dad’s eyes, it was the end of the world that Steve wasn’t accepted into every Ivy League school in the country, and he wasn’t the strongest candidate to work at the company that employed three generations of Harrington men. He was supposed to be the fourth and after he married some dull housewife, his son was supposed to be the fifth. But he had spent too much time “screwing around” and his dad would rather have been caught dead than bring Steve anywhere near his place of work with his less-than-average GPA and a handful of unsubmitted college applications. 

“Maybe next year,” Steve muttered, begging his dad to drop it. He avoided the daggers the man stared into the back of his head as he placed his bowl and spoon on the drying rack and moved to retreat to his car. He didn’t make it halfway across the kitchen, though, before his dad started speaking again. 

“That’s your problem. You see everything as an issue for later. You put everything off because you are too goddamn lazy to take any responsibility for yourself.”

With a quiet sigh, Steve stopped in his tracks and turned to meet the cold gaze of his dad. “I got the job you wanted me to. And I already started filling out applications for next year.” Irritation itched under his skin, and he had the urge to scratch it. “I don’t know what else you want me to do.” He knew his words were leading him into a winless fight, but his parents' lack of understanding of the hell he had been through over the last two years was eating away at him. It became harder and harder to stand his dad’s constant jabs about how “lazy” and “childish” he was. 

It wasn’t like he wasn’t trying. In his parents' eyes, he was nothing more than an irresponsible kid who had no clue what he was doing with his life. They thought he didn’t know how the real world worked, but Steve knew a hell of a lot more about the “real” world than they did. He couldn’t tell them that, though, no matter how badly he wanted to. The truth burned like acid in his throat, but he was forced to swallow it down every time he was lectured. 

His dad scoffed. “What I want is for you to think about the future of this family and of the company. You’re not a child anymore. You are an adult and it's about damn time you start acting like it.” He sat down his mug and set his jaw before he continued; Steve knew he was really into it now. “It’s time you stop running around with that Torres girl and those kids you babysit and start doing something with your life.” 

Steve wanted to laugh. He wanted to scream. He wanted to tell his dad how he had done more with his life in the past two years than what was even comprehensible. Steve fought monsters, met the smartest kids in Indiana, and helped save their shitty hometown from certain doom. That was all thanks to “that Torres girl” and the kids he “babysat.” If it weren’t for them, he probably would be starting his miserable journey down the same path as his dad. 

“Right, because your life looks like a blast,” he mumbled under his breath, but in the quiet house it was easy to hear. Steve didn’t wake up looking for a fight that morning, but he inched closer and closer to the end of his rope when it came to his dad. It was a fight he knew he’d lose, but he didn’t care. 

“Excuse me?” 

Steve swallowed down his creeping childhood fear of his dad that told him to stop and back down. He rolled his shoulders back and tried to look a little taller. “Maybe I don’t want to be miserable like you and mom. I don’t want to work for you. Have you ever thought about that?” A small surge of confidence filled his chest, and he didn’t want to waste it. “Not that you or Mom have ever cared to ask me what I want. In fact, I don’t remember the last time either one of you asked me about anything!” 

“You better lower your voice, boy,” his dad warned in a cold and low tone. He stepped toward Steve, sizing him up, before he said, “I don’t care what you want. If you had shown us that you were capable of making your own decisions, maybe we could have talked about it, but any conversation we could have had is long out of the question now. That ship sailed when you decided to waste your high school education by doing God only knows what. You don’t get the luxury of a choice, son.” The way he called Steve ‘son’ wasn’t loving but mocking. 

Steve’s jaw clenched in a mix of anger and frustration. He felt the ghost of hand cramps from all the paperwork he had to sign over the past two years to ensure that everything he saw and knew stayed buried, but at that moment, he wanted to shove it all back in his dad’s face. He wanted the man to feel bad. He wanted him to care. He wanted him to feel guilty.

“You never even asked me why I didn’t turn in my applications on time or why my grades slipped! You don’t care about anything other than our family’s reputation. Who gives a shit?!” 

That was the breaking point for both Steve and his dad. The anger and resentment tumbled from his lips and were met with instant regret. He knew where raising his voice at his dad would get him, and he didn���t bother to apologize. A small, sick part of him wanted to make his dad angry. 

With his back pressed against the counter, he watched as his dad quickly crossed the short distance between them. His hand latched onto Steve’s wrist, pulling it off of the edge of the counter before he twisted it in an unnatural fashion that caused Steve to hiss out in pain.

“I told you to lower your fucking voice,” his dad spit. “I don’t know what the hell has gotten into you or why you think you can speak to me like that, but you’ll knock it off if you know what’s good for you.”

Steve bit in tongue and stared at his dad. His eyes were darker than Steve’s and his mother’s. They resembled bitter black coffee and were almost always narrowed into thin slits, constantly in a state of anger or displeasure. The man’s face glowed red in the warm morning light, and the vein in his forehead became visible. Fingernails dug into Steve’s skin, but that pain was overshadowed by the way his wrist was bent downwards. The pain intensified by the second, and Steve found himself feeling incredibly small as if he was still a child being scolded. In his dad’s eyes, that was exactly what he was. 

“I don’t care why you screwed up,” his dad continued. He didn’t care about the monsters Steve faced or the fights he lost two years in a row. “But you will fix it. You will get your shit together or so help me God, I’ll beat the sense into you. Understand?” 

A short beat of silence stretched between them as Steve's last attempt at defiance. But then his dad twisted his wrist even harder, and pain shot up the length of Steve’s arm, forcing him to give in. “Yes,” he muttered. His dad held onto his wrist for a moment longer before the soft click of heels neared the kitchen and Steve’s mom entered. 

“We’re all ready to go,” his mom said, smoothing out the fabric of her blazer. There was never anything out of place on her. Every hair on her head was combed into place and every outfit was creaseless. “You know the rules, Steve. No guests. There’s money in the envelope on the counter for groceries, and we’ll call before our flight back home. All right?” 

Steve just nodded before his mom looked expectantly at her husband. They exchanged short goodbyes with him and wheeled their suitcases out to the car. He watched out the living room window as they pulled out of the driveway and disappeared down the road. 

Once their car was out of sight, Steve collapsed onto the couch, clutching his wrist to his chest and laughing bitterly as tears welled up in his eyes. He felt pathetic and like a child who cried every time he was scolded. It used to drive his dad crazy when he was a little boy. Steve would do something stupid, he’d get yelled at, and then he’d cry into his mom’s arms as she stroked his hair. Then, something shifted inside their home. His dad started doing more than yelling and his mom stopped running to aid. So, Steve took to different ways of taking out the emotions that raged inside his chest. It started with cigarettes and then that was paired with beers Tommy H. took from his cousin.

But he didn’t have those things anymore because the smell of cigarette smoke made Sunshine cough and Dustin wouldn’t stop rattling off the health risks. He wasn’t friends with Tommy H. and Hawkins was too small for him to buy beer illegally from the liquor store. So, Steve restored to his old ways of coping when he was little and his house began to feel colder and lonelier than normal. He sat on the couch and let a few tears roll down his cheeks as he iced his wrist, praying the bruises left behind wouldn’t be too bad until he had to leave for work. He’d spend the rest of his day pretending like he didn’t have the constant fear that he’d screw everything up like his dad wholeheartedly believed. 

...

The lamp on Sunshine’s bedside journal illuminated the pages of her journal. She sat curled up in a pile of soft blankets and pillows while she jotted down the strings of thoughts inside her head. Beside her bed, the window was cracked, allowing the summer evening breeze to fill the room with the hum of crickets and the smell of July. Her peace was interrupted by a knock at her door. 

“Come in,” she said. Her parents stood at her doorway, looking a bit uneasy which caused instant panic to spread through Sunshine. She closed her journal and tossed it onto her bedside table. “Is everything okay?” 

Her mom smiled softly. “Everything’s fine, sweetie.” She exchanged a glance with her husband before the two entered the room. “Your dad and I just want to talk to you. Is that all right?”

Sunshine nodded and made a space at the end of her bed for them to sit. “Talk about what?” 

“We want to help you,” Mary-Jane began, talking carefully like she had rehearsed what she was going to say beforehand. “But, you know, we can’t do that if you don’t talk to us.”

She was confused. All things considered, Sunshine was in a much better place than she thought she’d ever be in. There were days when nightmares ruled her brain and sadness ached deep in her bones from old wounds that never healed properly, but the monsters were defeated and almost everyone she’d ever cared for was safe and without arms reach. Things were better in Hawkins. They weren’t perfect, but they were better than she expected they’d be. 

“Help me?” 

Her mom reached out and placed a warm hand on Sunshine’s knee. She tried to fake a reassuring look, but it came off to Sunshine as more worried. That look alone caused guilt to creep up on Sunshine. 

“We want to understand what happened to you. We want you to feel like you can trust us with that information, and we want to help you through it. Whatever you’ve gone through, whatever you’re still dealing with, you know you don’t have to suffer through it alone now,” her dad said. Sunshine felt her face pale. She felt backed into a corner all of a sudden, with her parents on either side of her staring with looks of concern that became suffocating. 

Even if Sunshine was allowed to tell her parents the truth, she wouldn’t burden them with the truth. She also couldn’t bear to tell them the things she had done inside the Lab. The truth of the Lab and the Upside down were not easy things for people’s minds to comprehend. But she was also selfish; she worried that if her parents heard the full story, they wouldn’t see her as their little girl anymore and that was all Sunshine had ever wanted to be. She wanted to be cared for and doted on like a child should be. What if she told them and they gave up on her? What if they wished she had never come back at all? The last thing Sunshine wanted was to be seen as Seven, not Sunshine or Danielle. 

Swallowing thickly, Sunshine’s gaze fell onto her hands in her lap. “I know that,” she said. “But I’m okay. Really, I’m fine.”

Walter sighed, rubbing the worry lines on his forehead that Sunshine probably caused. “You don’t have to lie to us. We understand that it’s not easy for you.” 

Her mom added, “We thought if we gave you enough time, you’d come to us and talk. But we can’t keep avoiding this conversation. We want to understand what you went through so that we can help you.” 

Nothing they could do or say could “fix” Sunshine. No amount of recanting her time inside the Lab would ease her mind or reverse the strange glow she could create in her palms. There was nothing that could scrub her mind clean of the doctors, the dead kids, or the monsters she faced. It all would be a part of her forever. 

“I’m doing a lot better,” she pushed, trying to get them to stop, but they were adamant. 

“If that were true, you wouldn’t wake up in the middle of the night screaming and calling out names we don’t know. Your nightmares haven’t gone away; it’s been almost three years.” Her mom’s eyes became glossy and rose red. Sunshine didn’t want her to cry; she couldn’t handle it. The guilt squeezed her heart and skin hot as her mom continued, “If you just talk to us about them, about your nightmares at least, that’s a start. We can help you, but not if you don’t talk to us. Please, sweetheart. We just want to understand.” 

The crack in her mom’s voice and the similar glassy-eyed look on her dad's face nearly sent Sunshine over the edge. She had to lie to them. She had to in order to protect them, to protect herself, and to protect her parents from herself. 

“I promise, I’m okay. I just…I really don’t want to talk about it, okay?” Her mom hung her head, her dad sighed, and Sunshine’s stomach twisted in awful knots. 

There was a brief pause before her dad steadied himself and reeled in his emotions a little bit more than her mom. “Are you protecting someone?” he asked. “The names you say in your sleep, were there other people with you, wherever you were?” 

There were so many people, but only a few that she could still protect. There were kids, with their sad little faces pressed against windows and skinny fingers moving game pieces inside the Rainbow Room. There were doctors and scientists who poked and prodded her until her skin was bruised and brain manipulated in more ways than one.

“No,” Sunshine sighed. “They’re just nightmares. I don’t even remember what happens in them after I wake up. But if there was something wrong, I’d tell you. Right now, I just want to forget about what happened. I want to move on.” 

Mary-Jane pulled her hand away from Sunshine’s knee and sat in tense silence for a moment. She twisted the fabric of her skin in between her fingers, a nervous habit Sunshine had noticed. “If you don’t want to talk to us, maybe we could take you to speak to a professional, someone more versed in this kind of thing? I know there are good doctors in Chicago. Maybe they-” 

“No doctors,” Sunshine rushed out. “I don’t need to talk to a professional. If you guys want to help me, just treat me like a normal teenager. I want to feel normal. That’s how I’m going to move on.” 

Her mom and dad shared a look Sunshine could read before Walter nodded with slight dejection. “All right,” he said. “If that’s what you think will help, then I think we can manage that. But if things get worse, if these nightmares get worse, we’ll have to take you to see a professional, okay?” 

Sunshine fiddled with her necklace as her mom added, “We need you to understand that we only want what is best for you. And we know you want to work past what happened. We’ll work with you, sweetheart, but you’ve got to be honest with us. Keeping everyone bottled up inside is not healthy.” She wished it were that simple. She wished all she had to do was tell her parents the truth and all of her nightmares would stop. If all she had to do was tell the truth to fix herself, she would have already done it. The truth wouldn’t erase the monsters or bad men. 

Looking between her parents, Sunshine found her voice. “And I need you guys to trust me."

“And we need you to be safe. We need you to feel safe here, and safe with yourself,” her mom said. But Hawkins wasn’t safe, not really. It never had been and it probably would never fully be. But, as long as Sunshine was there, she could keep it safe for the people whom she cared about inside the town. 

“I am. I do,” said Sunshine. “I promise.” A small yawn escaped her lips, and she prayed it was enough to get her parents to give up. To her luck, it was. They stood up from her bed and took turns pressing a kiss to the crown of her head before they bid her goodnight. She sank back into her pile of pillows and muffled a groan into a blanket she pulled over her head. Before her mind could attack her with more “what-ifs” and guilt, she squeezed her eyes shut and let sleep overtake her.

Tagged. @sattlersquarry , @leptitlu , @drunkengodsofslaughter

[hamletshoeratio]

Am I supposed to care that Penelope ruined Eloise's reputation when Eloise had spent the entire second season chasing away all her potential suitors?

I mean, what Penelope did was wrong, but I can't find myself to care so much because Eloise is getting exactly what she has always wanted: spinsterhood.

Eloise doesn't want to confirm to society's expectations for her, yes that's true.

BUT

What Penelope did affects more than Eloise herself. It affects the rest of her family, especially her two younger sisters. Her simply becoming a spinster wouldn't affect Francesca and Hyacinth's prospects, this would and may well do so this season with Francesca debuting on the social scene.

Plus, Penelope should have known better considering she nearly suffered the same consequences after revealing Marina's secret. Had Daphne not invited herself, Portia & her sisters personally to the ball in s1 ep 8 and had Marina not opted to marry for the sake of her babies, not only would Penelope & her sisters' prospects been ruined, they would've likely been shunned for the rest of their lives.

It also limits Eloise's ability to further engage in political discussions and with wider society.