#the bloody cycle au

[w3llf4ll]

Going feral over @im-a-mint ‘s swap au. GRAAAH. Long hair simmons. Meta simmons. Simmons angst. Florida being a creepy little ear whisperer (there’s more to it than that trust me.) What’s not to love???

[dvrkblooms]

In the Dark, I Like to Read His Mind (but I’m Frightened of the Things I Might Find)

Read on Ao3, Penana, Squidge, and Tumblr

Fandom: MCU

Pairing: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers

Rating: E / NC-17

A/N: A dark medieval romance set in a fantastical realm!

Tags: Achillean Romance, Age Gap, Alternate Universe - Dark Fantasy, Creature Feature, Medieval Era, Non Con, Painful Sex, Somnophilia, Underage

Summary

Bucky's realizations bring a certain amount of clarity to his situation that don't necessarily offer comfort. - Steven Grant is called back to his home in the wilds. Will he bring his new muse with him or will he leave the little one to his human fate?

Chapter 2: The Weight of Unslumbering Desolation

Bingos and Events:

@anyfandomdarkbingo - Arranged Marriage

AU Challenge - Medieval AU

@badthingshappenbingo - Was Too Hard on Them

@bloodyheartsbingo: A Vesper Bleeding on Your Lips' Card (Bloody Hearts Mini Bingo I)

High Five: Whump (Bloody) - Being raped instead of losing their virginity consensually

@darkspicyevanstan - Feminization

@dark-stucky: Bucky's Birthday Bash 2025 - Fae AU

@deaddovedec: 2024 - Week 4: Day 5 - Breathless

@deaddovekink:

AU-Gust '24 - Week 1: Free Use - Using People When They Least Expect It Monsterf*cking March '24 - Bizarre Biology: Abnormal Body Parts

@fairytalebingo - Gift of Beauty

@thefairytalebingo - Royal Blood

@fandombingo:

Neverwhere Bingo - Massacre Wonderland Bingo - Madness and Destruction

@fandom-free-bingo: Tolkien - Fae AU

@halcyonianlove - B2G: Fae

@halloweenhorrorbingo - Being Ripped Out of a Broken Window

@julybreakbingo - Gentle Rape, Kink: Intersex, Unaware They're Being Raped

Macrocest Events:

Cestember - Somnophilia Winter Bingo - Woke Up Naked

@multifandom-flash: Here There Be Monsters Bingo - Dark Hunt, Prima Nocta on Wedding Night

@secretcrypticevents: Into the Wilds Flash - Fantasy AU + Dark Hunt + Lost Prince

@stuckybingo - Free Space + March Monthly Prompt: Music

@winterbreakadvent - Week Two: Day 9 - Light Whump

@wintershieldbingo - Fae

[ Return to Main Post ]

[hyperprosexia]

cw: 18+ | omegaverse au; a/b/o dynamics; sexism; curvy/fat!reader (some physical descriptions); strangers to lovers/mates; eventual smut

pairing: omega!soap x fem!alpha!reader

part I

it all takes but one glance at you and johnny doesn't know left from right anymore.

pair that with the captain's introduction of you being his new personal assistant and the 141's secretary and being a bloody alpha and johnny's whole being is in a sudden frenzy.

a female alpha he's rarely met one in his life.

most females serving in the military are betas. female alpha's choose different careers due to the military being a male dominated field, and everyone knows that female and male alphas don't get along most of the time.

or it takes lots of work and, in some cases, lots of fights for dominance to balance out a pack order and the cycle repeats itself until someone is transferred or, in the rarest of cases, someone gets injured.

but you don't look like a typical alpha, certainly don't smell or behave like one.

you look comically tiny next to captain price, his packs alpha, his leader. you look tame, well-mannered, friendly and... warm... soft.

he can barely imagine you in some feral alpha rut, and oh there goes his heart skipping a beat that leaves him straightening his stance, rolling his broad shoulders.

and as a male omega, johnny knows the struggles; he knows how difficult it is to look a certain way, but present another.

he doesn't look like an omega, doesn't behave like one. never has.

johnny isn't dainty nor soft or small. he's not some darling docile omega that alphas go wild for. he's a large bloke, rugged and strong, and before people get a dulled whiff of his scent through his scent suppressants, they usually take him for an alpha or even a beta.

the alphas he's met have always given him an ick, left him feeling anxious, weak, and with the need to flee and rather find comfort in solitude or with other omegas he trusted, like his sisters.

johnny gets lost in his thoughts until the captain dismisses everyone from the briefing, and suddenly, he's left alone in the room while you sort out some papers at the front desk.

ever the social one, he decides to approach you directly, despite his past experiences with strange alphas.

"john mactavish," he says, holding out his gloved hand confidently, "but everyone 'round here just calls me soap."

and as you look up at him through your lashes, lips splitting into a bright smile, his knees nearly go weak.

you take his hand and shake it firmly as you give him your name personally and with the right pronunciation, not like price had butchered it previously.

"aye," he replies, eyes glinting mischievously as they drink in your supple curves underneath your neat office skirt and blouse combo.

"soap's your callsign, i take it?" you ask with a curious adorable tilt of your head as you release his hand, and goddammit, johnny hopes your scent will stick to the fabric of his gloves, so he can sniff it later while stroking his pathetic omega cock.

he licks his teeth. the buttons of your white blouse look bloody near ready to pop; the lace of your white bra faintly imprinting through the thin fabric. his instincts are buzzing to life despite suppressants, and it's taking him off guard in your presence.

and then you chuff with a chuckle. "you don't smell like soap. definitely not like the military-issued kind."

oh. so you're a playful one.

his broad back straightens. not even trying nor bothering to make him submit. you're giving him space, treating him like a normal person rather than his secondary gender. that's new.

and he fucking hates it.

are you not interested in him like that? it's his omega wailing inside him for the first time since his youth, when everything was still new and foreign, and his first heats almost made him go mad without a bloody alpha to soothe him.

"ah i " he gulps. struggles to come up with something witty as you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, causing your scent to drift to his nostrils. he inhales deeply.

it's not intrusive or sharp like alphas usually smell to him, but his breath stutters in his lungs anyway. you smell like the wildflowers one can find in the highlands, saccharine, spicy licorice schnaps, and burnt bark mulch.

his omega whines inside him, wants him to submit, to be good for you, to make you see what he could be for you. don't you want to smell him, too?

"are you okay, sergeant?"

he blinks and his dark lashes flutter as he peers down at you. fucking hell, your voice your concern. it's making his chest feel tight. what the bloody fuck is happening?

"aye, ah'm jus' "

you reach for his right hand and bring it up to your face, and johnny doesn't pull back like he usually would.

"it's fine," you reassure him as your thumb pushes the fabric of his tac glove to the side, exposing his small scent gland there. a shiver runs down his spine.

"you're just tired, hm?"

he swallows down a whine, grits his teeth to keep it together before he nods slowly.

"guess so," he rasps, sounding like he's spent the past week in the desert. thirsty... needy. "been a few tough months." years, really.

you hum understandingly. "may i?"

he nods again. john mactavish, lost for words, a bloody rarity.

he wonders if you're just doing this because of your duty as an alpha to soothe some poor, pathetic omega like him, or because you truly want to get to know him. he'd certainly prefer to believe the latter.

and then his breath hitches when your nose brushes over his scent gland the one that shouldn't feel as sensitive as it does right now. you're scenting him, getting to know him, and he almost purrs. almost.

you're absolutely gorgeous. everything he ever secretly craved in an alpha, and he's suddenly so aware of how ugly he is compared to other omegas.

an ugly scottish bugger.

his omega thrashes inside him, whines and snarls in distress, and his hand clutched in your gentle grasp, balls into a fist when his scent sours and your nose wrinkles.

you pull back, gaze up at him in question, still holding on to his wrist, but johnny doesn't have an answer for your unspoken words.

"dinnae know what ye're doin' to me."

all he knows is that he wants to be yours.

》 continue

[aithusarosekiller]

ABSOLUTELY RIDICULOUS INSANE JEGULUS AU IDEA

They meet in every life and love each other with their whole heart every time, they keep being reborn because their souls won't rest until they are able to live a long happy life and die together. But they can't do that until Tom Riddle -who is also being reborn repeatedly because his soul will not rest until he has found immortality and he cannot get that until Regulus stops trying to bloody kill him- is dead. James is completely unaware of the pattern and doesn't recall any of the past lives, he's constantly living in the dark, not knowing all the lives he's lived and all the time they'd spent loving and losing each other. Regulus remembers it all but it is in no way an advantage.

Because of the immortality thing, in every life he ends up being killed by Tom Riddle as he always ends up being a threat to Tom getting his immortality. In one life he's a king and Regulus is a jealous Lord in desire of his position. In another they are friends who are forced to fight to the death after being captured. Eventually Regulus notices the pattern and tries to purposefully kill Tom first or stay away from him entirely. Tom catches on too and begins to seek him out as quickly as possible. Tom starts becoming more obvious with his goal and Regulus decides that he'll stop him from becoming immortal no matter what it takes- especially if it means he gets to live a full life with James.

Then we reach canon, where Tom has had decades to search and wait for Regulus, allowing him to settle in and claim power before the threat arrives. Regulus is born unaware that Tom is already there, and so much stronger than him. He's so young that he assumes he won't meet Tom until much later. He has no idea Tom has assumed a new name. He loves James, then loses him for the cause. It's devastating but it's what be believes.

Until he starts to piece things together. Lord Voldemort starts talking about immortality and souls. And he starts to notice that something is wrong. He realises that he's been led into Tom's trap and Tom is closer to his goal this time than ever before. He uses Kreacher, locates the horcrux, and goes to the cave. He knows he will likely not get much further but he'll do anything to stop Tom from winning this eternal feud. He expects that he'll be personally hunted out and killed. What he did not take into account was that the inferi do not have their own souls or identities, they are full of his magic, which is a part of him, meaning Tom once again killed him before he could even leave the cave.

And when Harry kills Tom, the cycle only repeats in the next life.

[dykeadvocate]

— ellie was the Imposter.

pairing: imposter!ellie x afab!reader

summary: you're a crewmate on the ship and unfortunately stumble upon the imposter's first murder.

content: noncon, fingering (r receiving), degradation, HEAVY blood mention, dead bodies, description of murder, character death, knives, dark!ellie.

a/n: yeah, this is an among us AU, what about it??

You covered your mouth to muffle a scream and your eyes widened in fear. “Holy fuck.”

Ellie Williams, one of the crewmates on the ship, stood over Tommy Miller’s dead body holding a knife. His blood leaked from the multiple stab wounds in his back, creating a large blood puddle surrounding them. Ellie’s uniform and knife were stained with his blood.

She stepped towards you, her grip around her knife tightening. She had a sick, disgusting smile painted across her face.

“You’re going to get caught, you know that, right?” you tried to sound confident, but the shake in your voice ruined that.

“Will I?”

You weren’t going to die, not here, not now. As Ellie continued to stalk toward you, her knife leaving a trail of blood, you frantically searched for an escape. Your eyes landed on the pipe on the other side of the room. If you were able to get it, you would have a chance of fighting back.

Surprising Ellie, you shoved her to the ground and sprinted towards the pipe. You sighed in relief when your fingers wrapped it.

Ellie growled and pulled herself to her feet. “Little bitch.”

You swung the pipe at her when she tried to get closer, just merely missing her. For a few minutes, that cycle repeated, until she was able to grab onto the pipe and pull you towards her.

“I never thought you would be so irritating to kill.” she sneered.

She slammed you into the wall and held her knife to your neck, smearing Tommy’s blood onto your skin. Her other hand held your hip down, pinning you against the wall and herself. 

“I deserve to have a little fun with you before I slit your throat, don’t you think?”

“I think you’re fucking sick.”

Her hand slipped to your waistband, and you thrashed in her hold. She tsked, digging her fingernails into your skin.

“The more you fight, the longer and more painful your death will be.” she dug the tip of the knife into your skin to further her point.

Her knife dragged downwards, staining your once white suit with a red streak. With one quick motion, she sliced the seam of your pants and pushed your underwear to the side. Her bloodied fingers were warm against your skin. 

“Why?” you croaked.

Ellie pouted mockingly, “Uh, because I can?”

Typical sick, twisted answer.

Her knife pressed against your neck again and her lips ghosted yours. One finger pressed into you and your walls clamped around her. You tried not to think about how Tommy’s blood was a perfect lubricant. Her thrusts were slow and teasing; you almost wanted to beg for her to go faster. 

“What, am I not fuckin’ you right or something, baby?” Ellie questioned. “Or are you always this silent?”

“Is this how you normally fuck girls?” you smiled at how that upsetted her. “I guess you’re just bad at-” you choked on your words as Ellie found that sweet, pleasurable spot. Your knees buckled and Ellie was forced to hold you upwards as she slipped another finger inside and relentlessly drilled into you.

“Bad at sex, huh?” she shook her head in disbelief that someone would say that. “Says the bitch that can’t even hold themselves up because I’m fucking them too good.”

She grabbed onto your throat; her knife dug into your skin and she forced you to look at her. She knew you were close from how you desperately clenched around her fingers and moaned louder. 

“Please.” you begged.

“Please, what?”

Maybe if your brain wasn’t so clouded, you would’ve begged for your life. “Please, let me cum.”

Ellie shrugged and her thumb pressed against your clit. The final bit of pleasure you needed. You shuddered against her hold and your head fell against the wall. If Ellie had given you a few extra seconds, you would’ve thanked her. Unfortunately, she sliced your throat, paralysing your vocal cords and making you choke on your own blood. You collapsed to the ground and clawed at your throat. 

“Idiot,” she huffed.

[diejager]

could you maybe do more of the Phoenix series or is that discontinued? But if you're still working on it can you maybe do something like monster TF 141 use hunter as a heater? Ik if it doesn't make any sense but like monster TF 141 are on a mission and its horribly cold and they're actually cold so hunter just walks up and turns into a phoenix? and just starts heating up the room 141 is in. idk I just have had this idea in my head for a while

Cw: human heating, tell me if I missed any. Note: Nope! It’s still on going, well, at least the original Au of the Phoenix hybrid!reader spinoff.

“I’ll have a bloody word with the tosser who sent us here,” Soap hissed, body wracked with tremors as he breathed into his mittened hands, hoping that the small bit of heat would warm him just a bit more than the failing heating system of their Siberian  safehouse.

They had planed to rest and warm up their temporary residence while Price took Ghost and you to survey the area, all warmly covered but mostly immune to such cold temperature. A dragon rarely needed anything other than the beating fire in their heart, kindled and powerful; a wraith, long since dead, had no worry about feeling cold or warm, only hunger and anger; and a phoenix, whose body was stuck in a perpetual cycle of life and death, had no fear of being cold when they were an embodiment of life’s fire. 

It was only natural that Price took the only people who could withstand the harshness of Siberia for a long and careful inspection when the others would freeze and shake in their thick boots and warm coats. They safehouse looked old, surfaces covered in a thin layer of dust, shelves filled with canned food - both expired and unexpired- and walls and floors as frozen as the loud winds blowing against the thick windows. It wasn’t much of a surprise that something would malfunction, the soviet era building left to appear rotten and forgotten to fit it’s intended use, and it seemed to lack any sort of upkeep. 

“We’re freezing our arses off in here!” Soap growled out, leaning closer to Gaz’s side to steal more warmth from under his wing, the soft feathers all ruffled, “Can’t even-”

Crunch

The two perked up, hands immediately reaching for their weapons, bodies tense and ready for a fire fight until your head popped in, huffing about the melted snow soaking your clothes. They jumped to their feet, running to your side for a lick of warmth that oozed off your skin. You froze at the grabbing hands, pulling you to the cold sofa and pushed under a mass of groaning and moaning bodies, happily soaking in your fire.

“Let me- ” you squirmed between them, shuffling out from under them to stretch your arms and back.

The four watched your neck crack with a wince, flames erupting from your feet, wild and bright embers licking at your skin until it engulfed you in a fiery blaze. It was both too hot to touch and too strong to approach, a fire that would threaten to burn if they touched you. It worked to protect you from an early death while you shifted into the majestic bird you were, a gentle flame in the form of orange and yellow feathers, softer than any silk and warmer than any suns. 

In your place stood a phoenix, lashes fluttering while your flapped your wings, stretched backwards to scratch the itch from the lack of use. You cooed, preening under their awed expressions before you flew back in your prior position, body heat growing hotter and hotter, strong enough to warm up the entire room. 

“Thank you, Hunter,” Gaz smiled at you, a sweet and grateful grin that made your feathers shyly ruffle up.

Taglist: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @angelcakes-22 @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @im-making-an-effort @love-dove-noora @jinxxangel13 @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @mul-pi @danielle143 @beau-min @makayla-666 @urfavsunkissedleo @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @luvecarson @petwifed @randominstake @heartelysia @jggykhug09090 @haven-1307 @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @call-me-nyxx @sans-chara @cod-z @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @thigh-o-saur @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami @cassiecasluciluce @sobbingnshtting

[crepezinhos]

Hii! Could I please request yan! Diluc and yan! Xiao with a darling on hunger strike?(basically she refuses to eat unless freed)

Ty 4 reading my request!

Starving For Love

(REQUEST #9) POV: At the end of the day, despite all their twisted actions, words, and thoughts, you know they do it just because of the weird kind of love they feel for you. They’re cautious about everything that happens to you, to a point where you can’t have the freedom to hang out wherever you want. So why not threaten them with something they can’t control?

⚠️ WARNINGS:

— This is an angsty SFW Oneshot

— Reader is FEMALE and uses SHE/HER pronouns

— AU is: Modern for both characters

— Abusive!Yandere!Xiao + Diluc

— Contains violent themes such as: starvation, self-harm, physical harming/abuse, forced marriage, imprisonmen, mentions of SA and lots of bad words

Xiao: Being on His Shoes

Xiao was a man that went through a lot. He was abandoned by his parents in the streets, which forced to learn how to survive as a homeless, hungry kid, barely making it through every day. Then, he was recruited by a man that basically enslaved him under a manipulative contract in exchange for a stable home, food and water. Even when he was saved by Zhongli, the country’s war general, and given a real, free life, he managed to lose all that he loved once again, but this time during an event that is now called the Archon War. If only he hadn’t volunteered to participate that day… he wouldn’t have met all the friends he made in the way or have to watch them all die in brutal, bloody ways. A shot in the heart, multiple gunshots, explosions, being kidnapped by the enemy… he had seen it all with those amber eyes and he definitely wished to never witness something close to it again.

That’s why when he met you and fell in love with you, he went paranoid. He couldn’t just let you roam free in the cruel world where you two live in. He could easily lose you to some stupid, or cruel reason if he let you have freedom to walk wherever you wanted.

He couldn’t even trust his loyal companions when it came to you. Maybe they would take advantage of his trust on them to take you away from him. Xiao didn’t understand that not everyone viewed you as this heaven-sent angel as he did. He thought you naturally attracted everything to yourself with your beauty, kindness, will to work hard, including men with bad intentions, so he decided to completely censor you for the world, only to be seen by his eyes.

And, now, you’ve been in this repetitive cycle of practically living in a chamber in his home for months. He was completely ignorant to any protest, either ignoring them or not even noticing them, which was making you run out of ideas.

But, now that you were reminded of the man’s past, thanks to Ganyu, your old boss, you had brainstormed an idea that could finally trigger him into saying ‘yes’, and tonight, you wished to test it.

“Adeptus Xiao went through a lot. From hunger to watching his friends die… he pretty much went through all miseries of the world and refuses to help himself. I apologize for his aloof manner, Ms. Y/N…”

You dearly missed to hear her sweet voice bossing you around. When Xiao wanted to boss you, his voice didn’t have any other motivation rather than his own selfishness, he simply wanted to own your soul. And let’s not mention how war-cry-like tone in his orders were when he was angry.

“Y/N.” The door of your chamber, where you were sleeping at, was finally opened. A comforting shine of the house’s upstairs’ lights came inside the room too, lifting up your spirit a little bit. “I made this for you.” He walked up to you with a plate of your favorite food, whose smell was mouth-watering to you.

“Thank you.” You decided to not get up from your bed, or stare back at him. Watching the few, unmoving stars in the sky you could see from the room’s window was more entertaining than him and his food.

Xiao thought that maybe you just weren’t hungry in the moment, and decided to place it in the ground by your bed gently. He wasn’t satisfied with the way you acted there, but he had no option but to leave. Just to make sure you were fine, as soon as he closed the door, instead of walking upstairs, he decided to lean his body down and peek his eyes through the peephole before. You remained immobile as expected, unaware of him being invasive to your privacy, but at least you didn’t seem to be trying to put in action some another stupid plan to possibly escape from him. That’s when Xiao finally decided to let go of you for now.

.

“Y/N?” You heard his voice right above your right ear, a little sharper than usual, causing you to wake up in a shiver.

You looked upwards, meeting his eyes wide and worried. Your stomach was constantly aching and rumbling for food now, specifically your favorites ones, but you decided to keep acting like nothing was going on.

“Why didn’t you eat your dinner?” He pulled the plate with food and showed it to you. Now, the smell of it wasn’t too pleasant.

“I didn’t like the food.” You managed to tell the lie smoothly. You’ve been rehearsing that for the past hours to make sure it was spoken normally.

“It doesn’t look like you’ve taken a single bite out of it.” He sounded more stressed this time, worried about the accuracy of your words.

“It didn’t look good. I couldn’t bring myself to eat it, I’m sorry.” Xiao was surprised at your words and your nonchalant attitude, just turning around to go to sleep like you hadn’t just almost cut his heart in half. No one, not even you when you were protesting, has ever said that his cooking was bad.

His concern immediately took over him. He grabbed the fork hanging at a corner of the plate and brought it the food.

Despite the fact that it was awfully cold and a little out of date, it still didn’t really taste as bad as you described it to be. It couldn’t possibly be worse when it was still fresh and warm.

“Are you… sure?” He couldn’t even believe he was asking you such a question.

“Yeah.” You shrugged your shoulders, a little nervous about staring at him in the eyes now.

“I should get you something to eat now, then—” Xiao immediately begun walking to the kitchen before even finishing talking to you.

“No.” You murmured, slightly quiet, but he still heard you like that was a scream, and stopped to look back at you again. “I’m not hungry.” You smiled at him, knowing it’d help convincing him.

“You’re… not?” Xiao was dumbfounded.

“No.” You shrugged your shoulders again and decided to lay down at the bed again.

Sleeping was the only thing you could do to ease your hunger pains and slow it down as much as possible.

“Ok…” His eyebrows frowned, beginning to suspect that you had other things in mind.

He decided to try avoiding any possibilities of you doing something against his rules, so, for the rest of the morning, he forced you to stay around him while he worked with many documents. Leaving you alone in a room where you’d have privacy to do whatever you wished to did not seem like a smart idea to Xiao. And, of course, it comforted him to have you around, despite your hatred for him.

But, of course, his mind was quickly unsettled by your disinterest in food. Xiao would’ve probably ignored it for a longer period if it wasn’t for his own experiences with hunger.

What a trigger you pulling on him.

As a kid, sometimes he would have to eat bugs, spiders, snow… so many messed-up digestible things to survive. He knows the feeling of starvation like it was his shadow. It was slow, painful, agonizing… so he obviously want to protect you from it at all cost.

“It’s 2 in the noon. You haven’t eaten anything.” Xiao finally exploded and expressed his concern out of the blue, stopping his document-reading to pay attention at you.

“I’m not hungry.” You repeated yourself.

“I don’t care!” Xiao finally stood up, slapping the table with both hands, making you slightly shiver on your spot. “I’ll bring you lunch.” He walked out of the room in a hurry, stressed and disturbed by your behavior.

He didn’t take long to, once again, bring a plate of the food he had cooked the day before. There was no way you hated his cooking that bad. He took your words in the most offensive way possible, and now he wanted to see you eat it to make sure you actually don’t like it.

Your face remained normal as he came back and approached you with the tray of food in his hands. He sat down by your side and begun forking the food for you, expecting you to respond obediently, but instead, you just kept staring at him like he was invisible.

“Open your mouth.” He brought the fork closer to your mouth but you simply grinned in response.

“No.” Your voice was normal, but it felt like a sting to him.

“I want to see you eating the food. If I see that you really don’t like it, I’ll cook something else. You could also help me cooking if that helps you.” Xiao’s eyes were barely blinking at that point, completely desperate to see the answers of his experiment.

“I’ve been saying it this entire time, yet, you still don’t realize it.” You looked down to giggle with a little bit more of respect. “I don’t want to eat.“ You rose your head again, courageous to pro rest, but Xiao still seemed to not get it.

“Hum?” He hummed in confusion.

You don’t way to eat?

Is that really what you said right now?

You want to starve until you’re crying in pain?

“I’m hungry, but I don’t want to eat. I’m not going to eat.” You crossed both your arms and legs while doing a staring competition with him.

“What are you talking about?” Xiao lowered the fork, anxiety already beginning to accelerate his heart.

“I’m tired of this, Xiao. I’m tired of living in some shit, gray chamber every single day of my life. I want my freedom back again.” Xiao’s eyes widened with that sentence, realization starting to take him.

Is that why you don’t want to eat your meal? You want freedom first? Freedom of what? You’re free in his house.

“Are you trying to negotiate your rights in this house?” Xiao’s voice was low, yet threatening like he was a fox, preparing to attack you.

“Yes, I am.” You remained unmoved, despite his adrenaline levels raising and his tone growing more violent.

“Do you want to be locked up in that room for the next 5 days?!” Xiao immediately threatened, standing up just to grab you by the collar of your clothes, which didn’t really make you flinch. “You’re not going to get anything. You’re good where you are. Now, be a good girlfriend and open your mouth.” Although he was trying to scare you into obeying him, the way his hands were trembling with anxiety made his threat look pathetic.

No… no… you can’t be preferring to be on his old shoes instead of enjoying all the modernity he offered you in that house. You can’t be preferring to kill yourself brutally and slowly rather than being his girlfriend.

Xiao grunted as he thought of those and genuinely tried shoving the spoon closer to your mouth, but your instincts reacted first and you flinched your head to the side, using your ams to hold and push his arm back. It almost worked for Xiao, but the food still couldn’t reach inside your red flesh. Even if it did, you could just spit it out anyway.

When Xiao thought of that too, he intensified his weight on top of you. He could control so many things of you, yet, he couldn’t control what your brain chose for your interns. Perhaps locking you in a room would be better for your little plan too, so what could he do?

What could he do?

What could he do?!

WHAT COULD HE DO?!?!

“No..!” You responded, barely opening your mouth to not let him possibly hold it on place and shove food down your throat.

“You better stop with this nonsense right now, Y/N!” Xiao’s eyebrows frowned even more, looking absolutely serious about your threat.

“I won’t stop with it until I get my freedom back, and there’s nothing you can do about it! Do you know how it feels to be stuck at home 24/7 with a person that’s not worth it?! I want my freedom back right now, Xi—!” Before you could rant all your feelings out of their gates, Xiao’s hand jumped on you, making way into your mouth and holding it open.

“Shut up… SHUT UP! You don’t want to do this, Y/N, you don’t!” Xiao repeated over and over while trying to fight the strength you were putting in your jaw to bite him. “You’re gonna eat this meal… you’ll be ok… and you’ll be grateful for the rights you already have..!” He started using his other hand to aim the fork of food inside you, causing you to try fighting him even more. “You can’t hate me… not this much… you can’t..! There’s no reason for you to hate me this much! I could be acting way worse, you know?! But I am merciful to you, and only you…” You’ve never heard him talk so desperately like that while managing to shove a few crumbs of food, inside your mouth, in which you quickly started pushing out of you with your tongue.. “EAT! FOR GOD’S SAKE, JUST EAT!” Xiao started bobbing and shaking your arms, trying to possibly wake you up from your delusion. “Why are you doing this?! Why?! Why?!?! I give you everything that you need to live safely!” He finally jumped away from you so he could continue ranting with more freedom, walking in slow circles around the room.

You started hyperventilating immediately, coughing too to make sure that was absolutely no nutrients going down your throat.

“Y/N, I know what hunger feels like… you don’t want to do this over something so stupid like freedom to go outside…” Xiao covered his face with his hands due to the trigger he was getting from his own memories. “Why would you even want it..? To go shopping?! I can do that for you!” You scoffed at his words.

“There’s no point in discussing this with you.” You shook your head side-to-side. “Let me have freedom.” You insisted another time.

But, unlike what you expected from the triggered man in front of you, did not submit to your wish, and this time he made sure you’d be punished for the agony you’re making him feel for your well-being.

.

You spent the next hours just screaming and banging the door of your cell, talking about how you’d not eat until you got your freedom and for him to let you out, over, and over, and over… until you fell asleep, disappointed at yourself for not calling his attention.

But you were wrong. Of course Xiao could keep his eyes on you even when he was far. There was a single, miserably small camera in a corner of the room that could move to every angle of the room that you never spotted. As soon as he counted 10 minutes of you not moving in the bed, he decided to climb down and visit you.

Although hunger was making you fall asleep easier and harder, Xiao knew that you were alert to every touch of his due to your disgust. So he has to keep his steps smooth, his breathing calm, and his touch barely sensible.

He very slowly closed the door, the ‘bang’ noise fortunately didn’t wake you up. Then, he gently stepped around the room in soft spots until he could reach his hands on you.

It reached a loose strand of your pijama’s borders and slowly pulled them upwards until he could mire most of your chest. Although your underwear and raw skin did distract him a bit, as soon as his eyes landed on your ribs, now with visible bone curves, twisted his stomach upside down.

He remembered when he first realized his slimness when he was a famine kid. He would rub his hands around his ribs, finding the curves of his bones cool to play with, but as soon as his stomach ached for some source of energy, he curled up in agony and sobbed, praying for food to somehow appear for him.

To think of you in such situation made his grip tighten instinctively in your dress. He would’ve sheltered you or anyone in that situation immediately. But, now that he’s in love with you, he specifically belies you shouldn’t ever go through the hardships of Liyue for no good reason, even if you want to. After all, it is one of the many reasons why he keeps you stuck in one safe place with no access to harm.

But… it still failed to keep you safe from harm or simply to make you like it. You were supposed to be feeling comfortable at his home, not starving yourself to get out of it. He hated to see you doing that to yourself because of him. What a mean trick of you to use such a method of self-harm against his sensibility. One that he directly relates to, one that he directly fears and repels.

He can’t let you do that.

He can’t let you feel what it feels like to step in concrete-made streets, or in snow, with care feet.

He can’t let you feel cold enough to have your fingers and nose burning due to the heat shock of it.

He can’t let you feel hungry enough to think a beetle could be nutritious.

He can’t let you sell your dignity for some poor, soulless cheater.

He can’t let no man take advantage of you and place their dirty hands on you.

If he went through enough misery being a man, the thought of what it would be the woman he loves in his place makes him want to vomit.

He can’t let you hurt yourself.

.

“Ms. Y/N?” You heard a female voice above you.

Your body shivered in fear. It’s been a while since you’ve last been waken up by one of Xiao’s house maids.

“W-What…” The first thing you felt was a sting in your stomach and rumbling noises coming from it. Hunger was really becoming serious now.

Your eyes were aching to close again and your arms were barely handling to hold you sat in the bed due to the lack of energy in you.

“Here.” She offered you a whole pile of documents organized in a folder. “I’ll be your assigned caretaker.” She bowed to you and begun walking away from the room to let you have privacy to read the documents.

You watched the Mai’s leave in disbelief. From that sentence, you assumed that you won the game you proposed and that made your eyes open in joy.

You quickly turned to the folder, and the first thing your eyes landed on when you opened it was a small, orange sticky note.

“Please eat before beginning to read this.

I’ll be back at 8. You have until that time to enjoy the city.”

You rapidly removed the note from the white sheet in which it was glued against after reading it, desperate to dig out the context for that note and to satisfy your hopes. Your eyes were flashed by a whole pile of white sheets with multiple essays written in Arial font and in black color. You quickly ran through various pages, meeting various titles and sections for it all, like you were reading a law. Finally, you went back to the first page, and decided to finally take a look at the enormous title at the top of the page.

Your Rights of Freedom

And you could swear a tear rolled down your cheek.

Diluc: Bipolarity

Diluc was a man that had all advantages over you, and he used those to trap you in his house and control how you acted. He had money, power, influence, security… everything that you didn’t have more of.

Your life, right now, could be easily described as “depressing”, and nothing else.

You had no freedom at all. You were forced to abandon your friends, family and career dreams, to become a traditional wife. All you were left with were the maids of his home, but Diluc still restricted your relationship with them a lot, or else they’d surely suffer enormous consequences. You couldn’t ever leave the house, not even to the backyards. Diluc wasn’t even sacred of the possibility of you running away or you telling someone about your relationship with him, he just wanted to have you entirely for him and his needs. A perfect wife who was devoted to him and happy to pleasure him. But, since he couldn’t achieve that from you naturally, he used those financial advantages to force you to devote to him. The only times you’d ever get out of that house was when he wanted to bring you out with him and possibly bond with you truthfully, but since you wouldn’t demonstrate any interest, he’d rarely do so. For some reason he still believes he has the chance of making you genuinely fall in love with him. Don’t blame him! He tried making you love him for many years, ever since the beginning of college, but you never saw him as anymore than a friend! Diluc, in the other hand, was so obsessed with you and your rejection to his confession that he could barely sleep comfortably. Thoughts of you and him together filled his mind 24/7. He dreamed to have you wearing beautiful dresses for him, especially the white one, with a bouquet of flowers in your hands. The only things that ruined how Diluc processed his feelings was his father’s death. He loved his father, but never quite appreciated his efforts truly. When he died, an avalanche of guilt was thrown in Diluc, making him feel worthless for many years for not being as grateful as he should been to his dad. He was so scared of ever wasting anyone he loved again that he decided to make you his before you could ever think about getting a boyfriend, instead of simply letting you go.

And if you disobeyed his orders, he would punish you in multiple ways, either physically or mentally. But, since your fears made you submit as soon as he threatened you of punishment, you’d never actually found a reason to fear Diluc.

That phase was the worst phase of your life. Having to abandon literally everything you’ve built and have been building was a poison that only rose deeper in your blood vessels. And to submit to a toxic man, and having to act like a perfect robot that couldn’t do mistakes was truly draining. You had a soul. You had passions. Not even some passions of yours were free to you. Films with violence or sex? He won’t let you watch it. Films with female empowerment? He won’t let you watch it. Romance novels? He won’t let you even think about it. You protested, and protested, and protested… but Diluc never heard you. You were his, by law, and while you were stuck in there, there was nothing you could do about it.

Don’t get him wrong, he hated to see you staring at nothing, wondering if this mess of a ‘marriage’ will ever end. But if it meant he could make you love him, even if it was due to a Stockholm Syndrome, he didn’t see much problems in imprisoning you like that.

Once again, you were tired of it all. You wanted to regain the confidence you used to have once again. Breaking his furniture wouldn’t annoy him, harming him wouldn’t annoy him, harming other people around wouldn’t annoy him, not even if you harmed yourself would be enough.

But… what if you harmed yourself in a way he can’t control? Because if you slash your wrists or throw yourself from the home’s third floor, he could still take you to a hospital and save your life. Because he can stop you from dying pretty easily. But what if the harm was in stomach, a place his hands can’t reach?

So, you made the choice of starvation for this month’s protest.

.

“Do you not like the food?” He asked to you while you simply stared at the plate in boredom with your hands in your thighs.

“I’m not hungry, my dear.” You said despite your desperate wish to eat that delicious, juicy, medium-rare beef the cooks had made.

Every time the words ‘my dear’ has to come out of you, it felt like a stab in your heart. How many angels have lost their wings yet with every time you were forced to call him that?

“Eat.” He demanded with a more real tone this time.

“I’m feeling sick, my dear, please.” You decided to put your hands around your belly to make your lie look more real.

“What are your symptoms?” He already seemed to suspect your words.

“Nausea. A heavy one.” You covered your face with your hands and started rubbing your fingers around your forehead, as if you were trying to act more ‘sick’ to him.

He remained quiet for a few seconds, judging your argument and trying to remember if you’ve acted like that throughout the day. Perhaps you could be lying, but illnesses usually show up unexpectedly, so there was a possibility of the same really happening to you right now. Maybe one of the things you ate today were rotten and were making you feel sick like that. He could already feel some anger rising in his veins, thinking about the punishment he’d give to the cooks that let rotten food reach your beautiful pink lips.

“Ok. Go to bed.” He ordered you, this time more sweet and trustful about your claim.

Thankfully, there was a TV in his room, which was what you usually used to make free time run faster. Since you had many “wife duties”, you’d barely have time to sit on that bed and enjoy yourself with that big screen, to instead, spend an insufferable amount of time with him. Spending hours watching whatever you wanted on it, since he wasn’t there to monitor, you enjoyed yourself like never before. It was a great time, and you were glad you got to enjoy a little bit of your life again before it was absolutely crushed.

.

“What do you want for breakfast today?” He asked while leaning down to put his leather shoes on, on the right corner of the bed, and you, putting on a cozy robe in the opposite side of the bed.

“I’m not hungry, my dear.” You were short with your words, and refused to look back at him.

He remained silent, but you could sense his eyes preying at you, pausing his own shoe-putting.

“What are you trying to do, Y/N?” His voice already sounded scary to you, but you unfortunately had to swallow it all down to keep posture.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what are you talking about.” You still tried to act like everything was alright.

“You’re always hungry for breakfast, Y/N, no matter if you ate dinner or not. How are you not hungry after a whole night without eating a thing?” He finally went back to putting his shoes back on, so he could get off the bed as soon as possible to walk up to you.

His tall, menacing figure, standing close to yours, made your body harden in fear and flinch away from him. You couldn’t do it. No matter how many hours of practice and self-reassurance, you couldn’t even make eye contact with him when he was standing like that. A threat.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Y/N?” He asked, but you couldn’t find anything to answer again. “Stay right there. I’ll bring you food first.” The sudden change in his harsh tone to a more normal one, made you swallow all your saliva down your throat in relief, feeling how badly it had accumulated and stuck to your mouth during this moment of silence.

As soon as you heard his steps growing quieter and quieter, you sighed all the air you couldn’t exhale previously.

You closed your eyes and begun doing a breathing exercise, knowing you were certainly going to go through something bad, but with some hopes that at least it would be worth it.

It didn’t take Diluc long to come back with a plate of your favorite meal. Your mouth salivated to eat it, but you simply looked away instead, causing your stomach to rumble in denial.

“Here.” He sat down by your side and lifted his arm with the fork in his hand, but you refused to even look at it. “Look at me, Y/N.” His eyes were barely bruising your skin with their intensity.

“No.” You firmly stated. That was probably the only word you’d be able to mumble without stuttering.

“Excuse me?” Diluc sounded a little ironic, which triggered you into finally standing up for yourself.

“I will not eat any sort of food u-until you l-let me..!” You had to breathe in and out a deeply before managing to gather courage to finish your sentence. “Until you let me have my freedom back!” You closed your eyes and screamed. Without seeing his face, you had courage to scream whatever you wanted to him.

You proceeded to hyperventilate, waiting for him to give an initial argument for you to debunk.

Diluc suddenly threw the fork in some corner in the room. The sound of silver crashing around the floor multiple times made your body flinch back hard, completely opposite to your bravery. You saw his hands laying in the bed right after, using them as a support to stand up.

Yeah, you’re done for.

You thought that sentence to yourself over and over while looking down, preferring to listen to the eery noises of wood cranking with every step of his than staring at his poisonous eyes.

You thought that sentence to yourself over and over while looking down, preferring to listen to the eery noises of wood cranking with every step of his than staring at his poisonous eyes.

But, instead of what you expected, he simply stared down at you from a really short distance, in one of the deadliest silences ever.

“No matter what you say… I’ll not give up until I get my freedom ba—”

SLAP!

Before you could even groan from the agonizing pain of his tough hand crashing against your soft skin, he forcefully pulled your chin back with his hand until you were staring at him again. Now, you finally managed to let out some gasps and moans of pain.

“What kind of nonsense are you trying to babble right now, hum?” He whispered like everything you’ve said yet was an unfunny joke. “You’re not going to get any sort of freedom. I don’t care what you do to fight for it.” He tried breaking your confidence down, obviously not allowing you to defend yourself.

He remained quiet for some seconds again, admiring your pathetic hope to get his hand off your chin.

Diluc sighed and suddenly used a few of his force to pull you closer to him and spin the both of you around, making your feet pathetically dance in the floor to keep yourself balanced in it, and then pushed you.

You weren’t really scared of that, since you figured you’d fall in the bed, but you were terrified of his intentions. Seeing yourself in such position under him while he stared down at you with a stoic face made you wonder of what he intended to do with you.

From saying mean things to you, from threatening the well-being of anyone you loved, from harming you physically, or even… sexually.

The natural female fear of rape, which was already further intensified due to the situation he forced you to be in, took you over.

“D-Don’t…” You couldn’t even cry for him to not harm you like that, only curl up your legs and pull the bed’s sheets to censor the view he had of your body.

Diluc never really assaulted you like that. It was pretty unreasonable to expect that from him. But the way he unconsciously mired down at your legs made you absolutely certain that he’d do it, especially considering the hundreds of disadvantages you had compared to him.

“Don’t what?” He unexpectedly turned away from you, walking to the other side of the room in a normal pace.

You hated how his mood would change like a light switch. It was barely predictable. It’d always make you act contrary to his intentions, which was either annoying to him, or funny. When you were afraid of punishment, when there was no punishment, made him proud of how he tamed you. But when you acted sarcastic or unworried when there was punishment, had his blood boiling.

You heard silver noises coming from behind. Diluc was picking up the silver spoon he had previously thrown to scare you.

“N-Nothing…” You finally managed to answer his question, still too scared to leave the spot in the bed he threw tou at.

“My dear.” He completed your sentence with a sarcastic, but angry, tone, like he was tired of having to repeat that order over and over.

“M-My dear…” You repeated like a scared noise, which he luckily found cute.

You saw him coming back to you, rubbing a piece of his suit in both sides of the fork.

“I hope you don’t mind this was on the floor a few seconds ago.” He sat down by your side again, immediately focusing on the plate that was resting between you two. “Open your mouth.” He ordered again, as if nothing that you previously said even reached his ears in the first place.

You frowned your eyebrows, barely gasping at his audacity to ignore you.

“I already said I’m not eating anything!” You found courage to stand up against him again, which made Diluc sigh in annoyance.

Diluc stood up again and didn’t have any patience before fisting his hands and unexpectedly using them against your belly. It was a single hard punch that barely knocked your stomach out of your mouth. You curled your body and groaned in pain, trying to hold your will to vomit back to its place.

“Are you really going to force me into doing this?” His voice was low, contrasting the quivering woman kneeling under him.

“Y-Yes…” Your mouth barely pooled saliva in the floor as you tried to resist that punch’s pain.

“It would be better for you if you stopped this nonsense right now.” Diluc pulled your hair all the way to the back, forcing you to make eye contact with him.

But you hardened your face and nodded side-to-side, knowing that was simply a manipulative trick of his to convince you into giving up.

Diluc sighed again, and this time, he forced you to look down, immediately meeting his knee hooking hard against your face. As soon as he hears your moan, he let his grip in your hair go too, which made you immediately fall into the ground to your back, knocked down. You could already feel your nose aching from being twisted and blood drips running down from you. With trembling hands, you tried wiping them off, no matter if Diluc was already stepping closer, this time with the plate in his hands again.

“I wonder what suddenly got you so confident like that. Did you consume anything inappropriate yesterday in the TV?” He kneeled down, beginning to aim the fork to your mouth again, thinking you were already defeated.

Even if Diluc was the kind of man to worship you and your beauty in every opportunity and take all care necessary to keep your body unharmed, what he did to you right now was the complete opposite of your expectations of him. You’d never know it, but in the end of the day, Diluc secretly thought you looked even prettier when you were bleeding, especially because it was done by his hands. The contrast in the color of blood and your skin was always something that called his attention, and seeing it in your beautiful face made him delighted.

This time, you wanted to clarify your protest, and allowed him to put the food in your mouth, only for you to turn your head to the floor and spit every single crumb of it, each one that he saw falling in the woods itching his nerves.

“Tch.” He rose his body up again, immediately proceeding to punish you physically.

This time, he decided to take the opportunity of your exposed neck and cheek to barely crush your head using his foot, stepping and rubbing the leather on your cheek mercilessly.

“Why the fuck can’t you just be a normal wife like in every other couple?! WHY?!” His foot uncontrollably raised from your face and moved down, beginning to kick and hook multiple spots of your body while he screamed “Why” a million times.

.

This was probably one of the most suicidal eras of your life. To be spanked until you were put in a hospital bed and to wake up to him immediately threatening to harm your parents if you didn’t give up in your stupid plan, or told anyone in the hospital about your relationship, when you couldn’t even speak due to the breather, was definitely a gut-wrenching nightmare.

You gave up in your plan. Thankfully, neither of you made any comments about it, even if he had every opportunity to shame you for your stupidity. That’s exactly what he used to do after one of your plans failed. He mocked you, shamed you and punished you. A true torture that you would have to endure every time you failed.

“Y/N.” He called you again as you ate dinner in opposite side of the table to him.

Your whole body flinched as you heard his voice call you. It’s been a week since your latest protest attempt and it’s been a week since you’ve begun flinching to every action of his directed to you. It was inevitable. It was your first time ever being a victim of such kind of brutal abuse. You were scared for your like to make anything that would possibly trigger him into doing it again. Although you could’ve begun acting like that on pirose to make him feel guilty, this time, your fear was genuine, and he couldn’t ignore it any longer.

“Yes, my dear..?” You still had to answer to his every call with that nickname just like he taught you to.

“Do you—…” He wanted to ignore it, but he couldn’t anymore, and sighed, giving up on the idea of ignoring you again, and starting over again. “Why do you flinch every time I interact with you? Is this another trick of yours?” He dropped his fork in his plate and begun staring at you with calm eyes, trying to get you to feel comfortable with him, or threaten you if you were lying.

You wanted to scoff at him, anger barely raising to the tip of your tongue with such ingenuity, but you swallowed it down. You don’t want to die yet.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, my dear.” You looked down and proceeded to eat, trying to make yourself less nervous.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” At this point, Diluc already knew you were lying about your ‘innocence’ when you lowered your head down so frenetically like that. “Is it because of last Monday?” You didn’t move any other muscle of your body rather than your jaw, biting your food as slow as a snail, to gather some courage before answering him.

When you finally swallowed, most of the accumulated saliva went down with the food too, preparing your mouth for speech.

“Is there any other alternative, hum?” You dropped your act for a moment and immediately shoved a piece of meat in your mouth again right after, fisting hard on the fork to not demonstrate him any more anger.

Diluc didn’t say anything else and just stared at you stoically for some good minutes before deciding to unpause his eating.

.

At bedtime, Diluc hugged you from behind as usual and fell asleep. You didn’t want to move a single muscle of your body, afraid he could get angry, practically curling yourself so he could hold you how he desired to and with ease. Of course Diluc noticed it too. You’d never slept so paralyzed by his side. Sometimes you’d even turn around and unconsciously hug him during your slumber, but now, he couldn’t feel a bit of comfort in the way you slept.

“Y/N.” He whispered, causing you to shiver once again.

You failed, didn’t you?

“Relax.” His voice immediately triggered you into obeying him.

You couldn’t relax your whole body, of course, but you did enough for him there, relaxing your legs and shoulders. It was enough for him not to bother you again with it.

Diluc was pissed. And your behavior was only growing his anger more and more. He did use fear to train you as a wife most of the times, but he never intended to make you so uncomfortable like that. He intended to slave you into loving him, not to slave you as an actual slave. You were doing so well previously, obeying him and still finding a few reasons to smile at him somehow, but not even gifts were turning you on now. Everything he did was like an alert to you

Why couldn’t you be a normal wife who dearly loves their husband? Every time he went to business-related parties and took you with him, he’d always meet his companions surrounded by their wives, who were happy to be holding their arms, to be wearing their rings, to be talking about their husbands to other women, while he didn’t get any of that from you. To everyone else, you were Diluc’s shy, weird and quiet wife, and now you’ve peaked those adjectives.

.

The alarm annoyingly ticked over and over, waking you up from your slumber. You couldn’t feel any weight around you, meaning Diluc had already gotten up. You sat up in the bed, leaning forward to turn the alarm off. You begun your morning by stretching your arms as usual and rearranging your pijamas back to their normal placement around your body, since they’d sometimes twist into really bizarre angles. While you prepared yourself for another depressive day, you heard the door to the bathroom slide.

“Good morning.” Diluc stared at you while walking to the closet in the opposite side of the room.

This morning, you attempted to not answer his greeting. You just weren’t in the mood of it, although that could’ve meant you’d get punished.

“If you’d like to go out today, I’ll assign a maid and a driver to take you anywhere you want to go.” His words caught you unexpectedly, especially since he was talking so neutrally about it, not even looking at you.

“W-… What..?” You could swear your eyes were shining in excitement.

“You heard me.” He refused to repeat his previous words, shrugging his shoulders as he ran his hand through his many hanged suits.

“I can… leave..?” You could feel your eyes get slightly wet.

“Yes. You have until 7 to come back. If you come home tardy, I’ll make sure your right of freedom will be reduced to zero again. And I believe I shouldn’t need to mention the consequences what will happen in case you tell anyone about our marriage.” Diluc quickly got dressed and left the room before he got any more flustered from hearing your sighs of relief and excitement. At least he was happy he managed to bring genuine joy to his beloved wife. “Goodbye.” He greeted before closing the door.

And a tear ran down your cheek.

From the relief of knowing that all your hard work had made profit.

Taglist: @the-stinky-winky @amoyanderes @kindofshyent @shyentsfoundherink @bigmantiddys @goofy-ego @luminieee

Don’t forget to like and comment if you liked it <3

[sweeneydino]

I NEED TO KNOW MORE ABOUT YOUR WOH!AU

its the best and most creative crossover au I have read!

and i just saw the ask about the rise!turtles “can’t. At least not at the moment”

I need to know more anything i am dying to know more about the au!

Hehe

Thank you 👉👈 means alot💕

As said before, they used to be able to talk to each other before, however, either from being weapons for far too long, disarray beginning in the Hamato clan, or being used to further a bloody cycle cough cough, they've lost the ability to communicate.

It isn't until they are given to the turtles, who'll end up unlocking their ninpo, that they finally can talk to one another, and even 'see' each other.

And they've got a lot to gossip about, much to the others' mild annoyance.

Edit: Forgor to add, but 2012 turts get a break in season 3 👍 in a way...

[ultfreakme]

Just thought of Arcane S2 Act 2, and Jinx rightfully points out that Viktor's running a freaky as fuck cult. But Vi? Vi knows something is off, but she says they should settle down there despite that and it breaks my heart.

She's so tired, she's so done with fighting over and over again. Having to get her fists bloodied, and she used to be able to justify that because back then she was fighting for her family, but at that point she was fighting for nothing. There's seemingly no end to the cycle of suffering, she loses no matter what.

But in Act 2 she gets her sister back, her dad back. And there's this secret place far away from everything where people are resting. She just wants to rest. Even if the place is suspicious, she doesn't care because at least she can finally stop.

Cults target vulnerable people. It was so horrible seeing Vi get sucked into that. Powder/Jinx was right, Vi was strong because she was terrified.

(Thinking of an AU where Vi finds Viktor's cult much, much earlier and becomes a part of it and Jinx is the one to bring her back from the Arcane finally making the s2 teaser poster make any amount of sense).

[alisha-on-arcane]

It's a cliche 'cos it's true: forgiveness and the cycle of violence in Arcane

I do think a lot of Zaun-aligned Arcane fans find the themes of forgiveness quite hard, particularly forgiveness when great wrong has been done. But.... it's not really forgiveness if no wrong has been done, is it? And by season 2, there's some major forgiveness needed. Piltover's Council has done Zaun wrong, and Zaunites have committed terrorist attacks against Piltover citizens who weren't responsible for the actions of their government. The whole situation there is so messed up that any attempt to allocate justice will most likely create new aggressors out of innocent people on both sides, as Jayce's attack led to Renni's attack, and Renni's (and Jinx's) attacks led to Caitlyn's attacks, and Caitlyn's use of the Gray led to Jinx rerouting it back to Piltover's citizens...

The Jinx - Vi storyline is not really relevant to that. It's nice that the sisters reached first a sort of peace (Jinx watching Vi at the pit fights, betting on her but not coming to talk) and then finally resumed a sort of relationship. But then Jinx just died / left, so all that really happened from the forgiveness was that they both got some closure. That's a great resolution for individual people who can simply get over one another, but it doesn't work for cities that are geographically next to each other. They share a water supply! They could have different governments, but those governments would still have to work together.

The storyline relevant to that is Zaundads. I still think it's weirdly out of character to give Silco (even blissed-out and somewhat inebriated AU Silco) the line "the greatest thing we can do in life is to forgive", but it works thematically. Because what Vander did to Silco was unforgiveable (seriously, rewatch the drowning scene), and no sane person would advise Silco to resume that relationship. But we also know that main timeline Silco was miserably hung up on Vander until his dying day, while AU Silco apparently gets Vander making him cocktails every evening and doing unspeakably pleasant things with him every night. Forgiveness might not be deserved by Vander, but it certainly was the best thing for Silco to do for himself.

... and that's the way with the two populations at war, isn't it? I'm sure the Silco-Vander reconciliation was nowhere near as simple as 'Silco reads the letter, forgives' (for one thing I don't think Silco would have, or should have, simply abandoned his Shimmer plans). And the new combined Piltover-Zaun Council has huge arguments ahead of it, and will probably never reach gazing-into-one-anothers'-eyes-lovingly levels of amity. I bloody well hope their first agenda items are a huge Zaun infrastructure bill, an agreement on more equitable policing, and a joint task force to legalise medical Shimmer. It's unlikely. But I still think that like Silco and Vander, they can build a happier future by working together than apart. They don't really have any good alternatives.

[w3llf4ll]

I caved in and colored him.

[dvrkblooms]

All You Do is Tell Me Lies (I Can't Really Be Surprised Anymore)

Read chapter one on Ao3, Penana, Squidge, and Tumblr!

Fandom: MCU

Pairing: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers

Rating: E / NC-17

A/N: A dark romance set in an alternate universe!

Tags: Alternate Universe, Dark Fiction, Escort AU

Playlist

Summary

Bucky Barnes, self defense instructor for the widows, thinks it's about to be an ordinary visit when the head widow walks into his dojo. Imagine his surprise when Natasha offers him a mission he's never done before.

Chapter 1: All You Do is Tell Me Lies

Other Bingos and Events:

@anyfandomdarkbingo - Drug Addiction

@ao3tagbingo - Identity Reveal

AU Challenge - Different First Meeting

@badthingshappenbingo - Drugged

@bloodyheartsbingo: Aspen's Card (Bloody Hearts Bingo I)

Be Good: NSFW (Base) - Getting off on doing what their partner tells them and being called good

@buckybarnesbingo - U5: Reluctant Teamwork

@buckyboybingo - Free Space

@darkacademiabingo - Murder and Death

@darkspicyevanstan - Escort AU

@deaddovedec: 2024 - Week 4: Day 2 - Drugged

@thefairytalebingo - Love at first sight

@fandombingo:

Neverwhere Bingo - "Secrets are expensive." Valentine Trope Flash - A kiss on the cheek Wonderland Bingo - Ruin

@halcyonianlove - February Paramour: Red Room

@multiversebingo: Good Things Can Happen Bingo - Defeating the Aliens, Found Family, Shawarma, Team as Family

@seasonaldelightsbingo: Cozy Feels Bingo - Dehydration

@secretcrypticevents: Into the Wilds Bingo - Black Widow

@steverogersbingo - D1: Clint Barton

@stuckybingo - G2: Winter

@winterbreakadvent - Week Two: Day 11 - Nonconsensual Body Modifications

@wintershieldbingo - Nonconsensual Body Modification

[ Return to Main Post ]

[patacrepe-san]

Vaggie Carmine AU part. 1

Okay, I’ve got a lot to get through and not a lot of time so here it goes.

Right after the extermination, Clara and Odette are scouring through the streets, retrieving angelic weapons from sinner’s corpses.

In a back alley, the two sisters stumble upon an unconscious girl clad in Exorcist’s gear, missing an eye and bathing in her own golden blood.

They are puzzled by the sight, not understanding why this angel was left in hell nor how did she get hurt.

They contemplate leaving her like this, but after thinking it through the sisters ultimately decide to make it their mother’s problem and bring Vaggie back to the compound.

Having been in the weapon dealing business for a few cycles, Carmilla is no stranger to unexpected complications. Yet, even she does not know how she’s supposed to react to her daughters bringing back an angel with multiple mortal injuries to her doorstep.

While tending to her wounds, Carmilla notices how messy and bloody the base of Vaggie’s wings are. Whoever tore off this girl’s wings, they clearly enjoyed taking their time doing it.

When she wakes up, Vaggie is confused to see that her injuries have been treated, and she was definitely sure that she lost consciousness in a street and not inside a lavish apartment…

And her ponderings stop when she notices the demon standing in the room, observing her with a cold gaze.

She wants to flee, but she is still way too weak from her injuries and fall flat on the floor as soon as she tries to stand up.

Carmilla makes Vaggie sit on a chair before her desk and boy she has questions!

Vaggie avoids giving too much information, answering Carmilla with short answers like “Yes” or “No”, both out of distrust of the overlord and of lingering loyalty towards Heaven.

Still, Vaggie lets it slip that she can’t go back to Heaven.

Carmilla can feel a headache as she thinks about the situation. If the angel is left alone in hell, she’d forever be a potential threat for all of Hell.

And should an overlord manage to make a deal with her, they’d gain an invincible soldier at their disposal.

After weighing the pros and cons for a few minutes, Carmilla comes up to Vaggie with an ultimatum.

“You have two paths in front of you. The first one, the easy one, is where I kill you here and now. A swift shot through the head with one of my angelic weapons, it will be quick and painless for you. Or you can choose the painful one, and make a deal with me.”

Carmilla snaps her fingers, and a golden contract appears before her.

Carmilla will keep Vaggie’s true nature secret, and provide her with shelter and food for as long as she stays in hell. In exchange, Vaggie will have to work for her and will not be able to go against Carmilla’s commands. Those are the terms of the deal.

Vaggie knows better than making a deal with a demon, but what choice does she have? She picks up the pen.

So at this point Vaggie and Carmilla aren’t exactly fond of each other. They’ll be family one day, but it’ll get worse before it gets better though.

[moociaoafterdark]

Traitor!Ferrus in the role swap AU being a mechanical prophet and being really good at corrupting the members of Adeptus Mechanicus.

Traitor!Ferrus being offered blessings of flesh, but rejecting them, as absurd as it was. He didn't need flesh. Flesh is weak. Instead, he asks for secrets of the era long passed, the Dark Age of Technology, where a line between a human and a machine was practically non-existent, in the way that not even Mechanicus dreamed of. Ferrus granted with knowledge, with his sons and Dark Mechanicum by his side, creating the most unholy mechanical abominations the Galaxy has never seen before. Even the Traitors are afraid of what this mad man can do. They keep a close eye on him.

Traitor!Ferrus indulging in self-augmentation. Just a little here and there couldn't hurt, right? One more piece added to him. His inventions will never become more important than he is. He is his own magnum opus. One step closer to perfection, reveling in brief triumph before moving on to another augmentation in the never ending cycle.

Traitor!Ferrus being there and his daemonic technology weakening Loyalist!Magnus, so that Russ can finish him off. Ferrus was alerted of Father's plans for him. He tried to warn Magnus too, but, the scarlet fool refused to listen, refused to listen, still thinking their Father thinks of him as special. A mercy kill it is.

Traitor!Ferrus shedding tears, tears he thought he will never shed, when Fulgrim, dear beautiful Fulgrim, still held onto hope. Had this been the other way around, Ferrus was sure he would be livid and striking at Fulgrim with recklessness born of rage. But he holds back. Fulgrim always had a way with words, always knew a way to talk Ferrus into doing or not doing something. And even now, after everything that happened, he still clings onto hope he can change things. He can save Ferrus. Even as they fight, as Ferrus gets the upper hand, he never shuts up. He tries every manipulation in the book, tries every logical and sound argument. The perfect Fulgrim is reduced to tears and anguished cries when none of them work. When Ferrus breaks his legs, Fulgrim starts to beg. This isn't him. He can't do this. To this day Ferrus wonders if Fulgrim finally gave up on him the moment his skull has been smashed in two, or did he cling onto hope until his last breath?

Traitor!Ferrus never sleeping once in the past 10000 years. He changed himself so that he'll never have to, will never be able to. He can't handle the most persistent nightmare. Fulgrim's once beautiful face being smashed into a bloody porridge, with skin, bone, teeth, brains and teeth mixing into one single substance. This image replaced Fulgrim's face in his mind. No matter how hard he tries - he can't remember how Fulgrim used to look like while he was still alive.

Traitor!Ferrus being responsible for countless casualties in the Heresy. Feeling immense pride when the weak fell under him and his sons, especially when it is another Loyalist ship or planet. The only exception being what was once his home. Medusa's people were born for struggle, struggle that lead to strength. This is what Ferrus learned from it. So... Why did it fall so easily? It didn't even take a day for the planet to fall and get reduced to space dust.

[knivestothroats]

The Professionals - One Of Those Days

In which Fletcher has one of those days when they don't wanna wake up. Everything is fucked, everybody sucks. They don't really know why but they wanna justify rippin' someone's head off.

The Professionals is a crossover AU of In The Woods Somewhere and Professional//Victim cowritten with @victimeyez CW: violent whumper, long term captivity, PTSD nightmares, a bunch of annoyances, unfair punishment

It was the fourth night in a row Fletcher had woken up from a nightmare.

There was a scale to their dreams, going from unnotable, to bad, to nightmares. A log that won’t split and an ax that’s too heavy to swing. Losing control of the truck and hitting a tree. A gun that won’t fire no matter how many times they check that it’s loaded and unjammed. Being in a fistfight where their arms feel leadened and weak, unable to put force behind a punch. Dealing a deadly blow to Petrova but she won’t stay down. Trying to warn Tommy - their Tommy, real Tommy - that Boa will betray them and him not believing it. Tommy being at the warehouse that night without them, trying to race there to save him, and knowing they won’t make it. The true events of that night playing out just as they happened. 

This night’s version was close to the real one.

They were kneeling over Tommy’s body, his throat torn through and bloody. They could feel the pain of their own wound, knew they were losing too much blood, but were trying to help their friend. He blinked at them, green eyes unfocused. He was still alive, but he looked so dead, and they didn’t know how to save him, they didn’t even know how to save themself, they didn’t want to be there, they didn’t want this to be happening, they didn’t want this to be real.

And then they woke up.

Fletcher blinked in the darkness a couple times, grounding themself in reality. They looked at the clock. 4:12 am. Too early to get up - they would crash later if they didn’t get more sleep. At least a couple hours. 

But, fuck, sleeping was the last thing they wanted to do. Fletcher sat up in bed and, as their eyes adjusted, looked over at the sleeping form of the other Tommy. 

Fletcher had invited him - ordered him - to sleep in their room this time, desperate to break the cycle. Would another warm body beside them help that much? They were willing to try. 

But now he was tethering them to the bed; they couldn’t leave him alone in their room, even though they wanted to get up and… do anything. Watch a movie on the couch. Make coffee. Wait for dawn and watch the sun rise.

It wasn’t really fair to rouse him from his sleep and kick him out. Fletcher laid back down and stared at the ceiling. They tried closing their eyes for a few moments. They opened them again and sat up. 

Whatever, fuck this guy. They didn’t owe him staying and being uncomfortable in their own bed. He was lucky to be here at all. So he has to go back to his own room? He’ll survive. 

“Hey.” Fletcher gave Tommy’s arm a shove.

Tommy awoke with a gasp and recoiled, nearly falling off the bed.

“Fucking relax,” Fletcher snapped, as if they had not just woken up from their own nightmare. “I’m getting up. Go back to your room.”

Tommy peered around groggily in the darkness.

“What time is it?” he croaked.

“4:15,” Fletcher answered, tossing the covers off of both of them. “You can go sleep in your own room.”

“Okay,” Tommy agreed, slowly rising to his feet and shambling out the door, Fletcher on his heels. Before he reached his room he turned back and asked, “Am I in trouble?”

“No,” Fletcher answered. “I can’t sleep so I’m getting up. You know the rules.”

“Right,” Tommy yawned. “Can’t be in your room without you.” He opened his door. “Goodnight - err…”

“Uh huh.” Fletcher walked away.

Fletcher skimmed over their DVD collection and picked something light, something they’d seen many times. Although at this point, they’d seen everything in their collection multiple times.

They settled into the couch cushions and pulled on a throw blanket. Maybe they would drift off to sleep a little easier here. But, they made it through the movie, and put on another before they noticed the room beginning to lighten naturally.

It wasn’t much - no streaming sunbeams coming through the window. Just a dull ambient illumination. Fletcher rose from the couch and headed to the kitchen to make coffee. They slipped on boots, draping the blanket over their shoulders, and carried their mug onto the back deck. 

The air was damp and the sky was a tumultuous gray. Fletcher watched the clouds flow swiftly across the sky. They could feel the pressure in their head. Their old wounds began to ache.

The lack of sleep probably wouldn’t help. They lifted the mug, breathed in the aroma, and took a sip, flinching slightly. Too hot.  

Fletcher usually enjoyed the process of chopping vegetables, but right now, prep work before breakfast felt tedious. 

They laid out all their ingredients and turned on the burner, measuring the heat by way of melting a pad of butter. As they scraped the diced peppers and onions from their cutting board with the back of their knife, Barlowe ambled into the kitchen. 

“Morning,” they yawned, reaching past Fletcher for the coffee pot.

“Morning,” Fletcher grumbled back. They didn’t want another person in their space while they were cooking. 

Barlowe pulled the toaster toward themself and began to slice a bagel.

Fuck, Fletcher needed to make toast to go with their eggs. And the bread had to toast while the eggs were cooking, because they had to be done and still hot at the same time. Of the two, Fletcher would rather the bread be done first and sitting in the toaster, rather than the eggs getting overcooked in a hot pan or growing cold on a plate. Cold eggs were not worth eating.

It was a four slot toaster, but one side stopped working, and Fletcher had never gotten around to replacing it. Or fixing it, although that was not one of their talents. They just hadn’t wanted to throw it out when it was still the equivalent of an average working toaster.

They couldn’t fault Barlowe for making their own breakfast, so they would just let the vegetables saute a little longer to kill time. They wouldn’t get too soft.

After stalling a minute or two, Fletcher cracked an egg into the pan. They dropped the shell into a container for compost, and cracked another. Fuck, a couple little pieces of shell went in. Fletcher tried to fish them out with the corner of the spatula, but they had embedded themselves into the egg whites, which were starting to match their name as they went from transparent to opaque. They had let the pan get too hot when they were stalling. Fletcher turned the burner down and tried again to dig the pieces out, but they kept slipping away, and it was becoming harder to distinguish them from the whites. 

Fletcher was going to need to start scrambling soon or the consistency would be fucked.

In a moment of frustration, they thought about dumping the pan, but they would lose the vegetables too, and they didn’t want to start over. Instead, they chopped off a large section where the shell pieces had been and scraped it into the trash. They cracked another egg on the side of the pan to make up for the loss. The shell splintered like a broken window, but didn’t form a clean crack across for them to easily pull apart. They dug their thumbs in carefully and split the shell, dumping the egg in. 

A larger piece of shell went with it.

Fletcher clenched their jaw and breathed deep through their nose.

It was big enough to pick out, at least. They had to start scrambling now or the edges of the first egg would start to crisp. 

Am I losing my steady hands? Fletcher wondered as they stirred the eggs with their spatula. Is it because my shoulder is bugging me? I’m already in my 30s, it can only go downhill from here. Am I gonna end up like Miller; an old injury getting worse with age until I need to use a cane? What’s the equivalent of a cane for your arm? I should get some practice shooting in today to reassure myself. Maybe without the trainees around. Before it rains.

Fletcher moved the pan off the heat and reached over to… empty counter space. Their eyes scanned the area before landing on Barlowe, carrying the cream cheese away to the refrigerator.

“Hey!” Fletcher snapped, causing Barlowe to jump. “Don’t move my shit!”

They snatched the cream cheese out of Barlowe’s hand and began to hack chunks off into the pan.

“Jesus, sorry,” Barlowe grumbled.

Fletcher huffed out a sigh. “I just - I have a system,” they said, putting up a hand. Their head shot up suddenly. “Fuck - the toast.”

Barlowe took their breakfast and absconded to the couch as Fletcher hurriedly grabbed two pieces of bread and dropped them into the toaster. They turned the burner down low and replaced the pan, folding in crumbled feta. The eggs smeared across the bottom. Okay, too low. They turned the heat back up to medium and continued to fold, the eggs now solidifying into clumps. Better.

“Fletcher?” Tommy had awoken again, and was doing his nervous little dance on the edge of Fletcher’s personal space. “Do you need any help?”

The toast popped up. Fletcher thought about telling Tommy to butter it and set a plate on top of the toaster to warm up, but they were half frantic at this point and felt it better to do it all themself.

“Uh… no,” Fletcher brushed him off, removing the pan from the heat and addressing the toast situation. 

“Okay, if you’re sure,” Tommy said.

The fuck was that supposed to mean?

“Can I have some coffee?” he asked.

“You know you can,” Fletcher snapped, sick of always having to reassure him that, yes, you can help yourself in the kitchen, for real, for real. 

“Thank you,” Tommy said. “Can I get you a cup?”

“I have one,” Fletcher said, suddenly remembering that they did, in fact, have one. They picked up the mug and took a sip. It was beginning to move past hot and into warm. Goddamn was their timing off today. 

Fletcher examined the target, noise blocking earmuffs hanging around their neck. The holes were all in or around center. It was good, but… not their best. The spread was too wide for their own standards. They had once shot Boa in the eyeball while bleeding out on the floor, for fuck’s sake. Some of these shots would have just zipped past his ear. 

It was an off day.

They can’t afford to have off days. Fate, luck, the universe, whatever - it doesn’t wait for you to be on your A-game. Shit can come for you at any time. 

Fletcher replaced the paper and walked back to the table they had set up. They opened up their case and pulled out a new box of ammo. It lifted far too easily.

Fletcher shook the box. Empty. 

Who the fuck put an empty box back?

They skimmed through the other boxes in the case, but none of them were the right size. Shit. They were going to have to contact Sanders and schedule a meet up. 

They heard the door slide open and a wavering voice call out, “Fletcher?”

Fletcher raised their head just enough to get a look at Tommy, who was cautiously poking his head out from around the doorway. They had a cap pulled low to keep their hair from blowing in their face. The bill shadowed their eyes, and judging by Tommy’s nervous expression, they looked just as intimidating as they intended to be. Although it didn’t take much to scare Tommy.

“Everything good?” he asked.

“Well, I’m out of nines because someone put an empty box back,” Fletcher growled. “We’re going to have to go into to town to restock.”

“Now?”

“No, not now,” Fletcher snapped, like Tommy was stupid for asking. “Probably tomorrow, if I can set up a meeting.”

“Oh, okay.” Tommy said. He hesitated. “You just shootin’ for fun?”

“Practice,” Fletcher said. 

Tommy nodded and drummed his fingers against the doorframe, still hiding halfway inside.

“You know, I used to carry a gun,” he said.

Fletcher raised their eyebrows at him, mouth remaining in a tight line.

“Maybe I could… shoot sometime, too.”

“No,” Fletcher shot him down with finality. “God, you and Buck…” Fletcher shook their head as they began to pack up. “Here, prisoner, take a loaded gun! The fuck…”

“Sorry,” Tommy ducked his head. “D’you need… do you need any help..?”

“Look,” Fletcher clapped their hands together once, holding them in a prayerful manner. “I need you to leave me alone. I’m having a bad day, I’m in a shit mood, I’m getting pissed off at everything, and I will take it out on you if you’re around. So, fair warning.”

“Okay,” Tommy said in a small voice before slinking back inside and shutting the door, leaving Fletcher alone once more.

Fletcher’s anger consumed them. It always had. Anger turned their blood to magma, coursing hot rage through their body, burning up their insides. 

They were trying to whittle. The air outside was cold, damp, and windy, so they had pulled the coffee table up close to the couch and carved away at the little block of wood. But they were too angry. Their grip was too tight, their movements too forceful. A large chunk fell off the block, ruining their design. 

Fletcher stared at the remaining wood in one hand and the carving knife in the other. They didn’t know what to do with all the anger. 

Tommy entered the living room.

“Uh, hey, Fletcher.”

Fletcher didn’t glare at him when they looked up. Their eyes were almost widened, ablaze with fury. Tommy was pinned under their gaze, frozen with his mouth ajar like he was caught mid breath.

“Coffee,” he finally managed to squeak, holding up a mug.

Now Fletcher glared. 

“I told you a million fucking times you can have coffee,” Fletcher roared, whipping the carving knife past his head. It bounced off the wall and clattered loudly to the floor. “Stop fucking asking me!”

“It’s for you!” he said, voice and hand trembling, cowering where he stood. “Because you didn’t sleep.”

Fletcher’s hateful expression dropped somewhat as they looked at the mug in a new light.

“Oh.” They put their hand out. “Thanks.” 

Tommy relaxed his stance after a beat, uncoiling his shoulders. His smile was both nervous and relieved as he brought the coffee over. 

Fletcher had skewed the rug when they pulled the table across the floor, and it caused Tommy to trip. 

He stopped himself from falling but couldn’t stop the coffee from sloshing over the edge of the mug. It landed mostly on the table, splashing droplets onto Fletcher’s pants and shoes. The puddle spread, soaking up into the pages of one of Fletcher’s books and running in rivulets over the edge onto the rug. 

“I’m sorry!” Tommy cried as he rushed to undo the damage. He set the mug down and picked up the book, trying to catch the drips with his other hand.

Fletcher had a brief moment of resigned stillness, a feeling of, of course this happened, before doing something about it and smacking Tommy hard across the face. He tipped sideways before scrambling to his feet. Fletcher stood from the couch and stalked after Tommy as he backed away, spewing “sorry”s like a broken record.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll clean it, I’m sorry about the book, I was just trying to help-”

Fletcher grabbed Tommy by the throat and shoved him against the wall. Tommy’s eyes went wide. His hands flew to Fletcher’s wrist, but he didn’t pull - just held on for dear life.

“I told you to leave me alone.” Fletcher didn’t yell, but their voice was raised and pronounced. “I get it, alright? I do. You want to be a good boy because it keeps you out of trouble, so you trail around after me looking for things to do like it’s going to win you brownie points, when I told you…” 

They leaned into their grip, applying pressure against Tommy’s windpipe. He grimaced and gasped, truly struggling now for air.

“That you need to stay they fuck away from me if you don’t want to get hurt and what do you do? Follow me around anyway like a fucking imprinted duckling!”

Fletcher released their grasp, allowing Tommy to bow forward and gasp for air, bracing himself against the wall. 

“You know what?” Fletcher said. “Yeah. You can help me.”

Fletcher grabbed the front of Tommy’s shirt and hauled him up straight so they had an easier target when they punched him in the face.

Tommy staggered back and tumbled to the floor. Fletcher slammed their boot into his stomach, causing him to curl up like a pillbug, teetering onto his side. 

“Thanks,” Fletcher spat venomously as they stormed off. “I feel a little bit better.”

Fletcher laid awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, hands folded over their abdomen. The darkness was alleviated for the barest instant. A murmur of thunder sounded a few moments after. About fucking time the weather broke. 

The downpour was sudden. It started as a couple plink plinks on the window before a cacophony of rain battered down on the house. The next strike of lightning was brighter, and the accompanying thunder was louder.

Fletcher drummed their fingers against the back of their other hand. It was too loud and discordant to lull them to sleep. The bed suddenly felt so… uncozy. 

Fletcher pulled back the blankets and swung their legs over the edge of the bed. They padded down the hallway and cracked open the door to Tommy’s room.

Tommy had both turned the light on, and buried himself into a cocoon of blankets. It seemed counterintuitive to Fletcher. They approached softly, footsteps muffled by a long roll of thunder, and nudged the lump under the comforter. 

Tommy gasped loudly and threw himself back against the wall, ripping the covers off himself, his hair sticking out every which way. Fletcher put up their hands in a peaceful gesture as Tommy blinked at them against the light, breathing fast. A dark bruise had already formed under his eye.

“D’you call down the rain, Thunderbird?” Fletcher asked in a soft voice, half whispering.

“Y-Yeah…” Tommy played along, beginning to calm down. “I thought the crops could use it.”

Fletcher nodded. “You wanna sleep in my room tonight?”

Tommy hesitated to answer.

“I’m inviting you,” Fletcher added.

“Sure, if - if you want me to,” Tommy said, rising from the bed, blanket still wrapped over his shoulders. “Can I, um… can I bring my bear?”

“The more the merrier,” Fletcher said, heading toward the door.

Tommy picked up his bear but remained where he stood, shifting his weight.

“You’re not… mad at me anymore?”

Fletcher shrugged. “I wasn’t really mad at you. I mean, I was, but I was mad in general. You were just around.”

“And you’re not mad… now?”

“Now I’m just tired.”

“Okay,” Tommy hugged his bear to his chest and followed Fletcher. “Let’s go to bed.”

@suspicious-whumping-egg @whumpyourdamnpears @generic-whumperz @lonesome--hunter

@whumplr-reader @theelvishcowgirl @sunshiline-writes @dont-be-gentle-please @galesgallery

@2in1whump @sparrowsage @apokolyps @whumpinggrounds

@morning-star-whump @leviiio @alexmundaythrufriday

@defire @jumpywhumpywriter @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

@light-me-on-pyre @slightlydisturbedbeans @dislexiher @paperprinxe @desert-dyke

@just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @burtlederp @whatwasmyprevioususername @cursedandtired

@whump-only @misspelledwitch @redstainedsocks @thehopelessopus @im-just-here-for-the-whump

@thatsthewhump @utopian819 @pretty-face-breaker @thesuffererrrr @technicallydeliciousdeer

@notactuallyluska

[f14fun]

Where the Asphalt Ends (oc x ob87)

synopsis: in which case morgan, an introverted girl with too many bruises, too many words trapped in the margins of her notebooks, and not enough escape routes, crosses paths with oliver, a reckless boy with oil-stained hands and a grin that makes trouble look like fun.

prose au (14.9K words) ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ profile | masterlist ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────

1986

Autumn. Winter. Spring. Summer.

I've gone months upon months, seasons upon seasons, years upon years, from seeing you. Each cycle feels like a lifetime, the weight of time pressing against my chest as though the seasons themselves conspire to remind me of your absence. The sense of longing envelops me like a small ember slowly engulfing a fragile piece of parchment, curling its edges until there's nothing left but the ash of what once was whole.

Faith keeps me alive, keeps me tethered here, waiting for you, even as the years pile on like heavy snowdrifts, threatening to bury me.

Surely, an alternative reality will bloom for us, one where we break free from the endless cycle of yearning. One day, past the colors that the seasons paint, fiery autumn golds, icy winter whites, tender spring greens, and sun-soaked summer yellows, my eyes will meet yours again, and in that moment, the world will thaw. Time will stop, the seasons will collapse, and everything I’ve waited for will finally take root in—

"Morgan. Morgan Chapman! Morgan Chapman, answer me this instant!"

The sinister click-clack of our teacher's heels—or rather the devil reincarnated (but also known as Mrs. Tillet)— echoed across the room, each step a sharp punctuation against the dull hum of the overhead fluorescent lights.

Unblinking, they watched the scene fold as well. Like me, we were all terrified.

The sound sliced through the air, growing louder, more deliberate, like a predator circling its prey. It was the kind of sound that made your spine stiffen and your stomach churn, as if you could feel the judgment creeping closer with every step.

She stood at the edge of my desk now, the shadow of her towering figure casting a foreboding veil over my scattered notebook pages. Her fingers, pale and skeletal, drummed against the edge of the desk in a rhythm that matched the tap of her heels moments before. Her sharp gaze bore into me, eyes like twin shards of ice, piercing through my feeble attempts to avoid her scrutiny.

"Morgan Chapman," she repeated, her voice a venomous drawl that oozed with the kind of authority only a seasoned teacher could wield. "I will not tolerate silence. Speak. What the bloody hell are you doing writing nonsensical things in my class?"

I stared at her, eyes unblinking.

I stared at her, eyes unblinking, my throat constricted as though an invisible frost had wrapped itself around my neck, freezing my words before they could surface.

"Are you mute? Are you dumb, girl?" Her sharp words sliced through the air, a biting wind that left me raw. The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in as every pair of eyes in the class zeroed in on me. I could feel their gazes, heavy and smothering, like the oppressive heat of summer when the sun hangs too close to the earth.

Before I could muster even a semblance of a response, she snatched the paper from my desk with a swift, deliberate motion. The edges of the sheet fluttered for a brief second, a bird caught mid-flight, before she held it aloft. My blood ran cold.

"Ah, let’s see what we have here, shall we?" Her lips curled into a cruel smile as her eyes darted over the page. "What sort of drivel has Miss Little Morgan Chapman been conjuring in her little daydreams this time?"

She cleared her throat dramatically, the sound reverberating like the last crackle of brittle autumn leaves before winter’s frost claims them. Then, with exaggerated emphasis, she began to read aloud, her tongue slicing across the words on the paper like Excalibur.

"'Autumn. Winter. Spring. Summer. I've gone for months after months, seasons after seasons, years after years, from seeing you. The sense of longing envelops me like a small ember engulfing a piece of parchment...'" Her voice dripped with mockery, stretching each word until it felt foreign and unrecognizable.

The room erupted into muffled giggles, the cruel kind that stung like icy sleet against bare skin. My cheeks burned, a furious mix of humiliation and helplessness, as though summer’s scorching heat had collided with winter’s relentless chill.

She slammed the paper down on her desk with theatrical disdain, her expression one of exaggerated disappointment. "And this," she sneered, "is what you choose to waste your time on in my classroom? Silly little romance novels? Yearning and longing and all that nonsense? Writing this sort of rubbish isn’t going to get you anywhere, girl."

She turned her gaze to the class, addressing them all now, though her eyes never left me. "Ladies, take note: this is precisely what happens when you let your minds wander to frivolous pursuits instead of focusing on what matters. A woman’s place is to think practically, not to indulge in flights of fancy."

Her hand darted out suddenly, clutching the paper again. With a sharp, deliberate motion, she tore it cleanly in half, the sound of ripping paper as jagged and violent as a winter gale. Another tear followed, and then another, until the pieces fell like broken petals onto the desk.

I bit my tongue hard enough to taste copper, willing myself not to cry, but the sting behind my eyes was relentless. My chest felt tight, the humiliation a growing knot that made it hard to breathe. My fingers clenched around the pen in my hand, and I realized with a jolt that it was shaking, trembling against the weight of everything I was holding in.

A single tear betrayed me, sliding down my cheek before I could stop it. It fell silently, splashing onto the remnants of my torn paper, the ink beginning to bleed where the water touched it. I stared at the stain, a dark bloom spreading across the parchment, as though it were absorbing all the emotions I couldn’t let out.

My pen faltered, the tip hovering just above the desk, leaving faint, uneven lines where it quivered. I clenched my jaw, desperate to keep my composure, but every suppressed sob threatened to break free, rising in my throat like the first gust of wind before a storm.

Mrs. Tillet glanced at me briefly, her expression impassive, as though my silent struggle was nothing more than an afterthought. The room felt colder, the collective stares of my classmates piercing through me like icicles. Some were amused, others awkwardly looked away, but none of it mattered. I was utterly, completely exposed.

With an exasperated sigh that seemed to echo louder than the bell ever could, Mrs. Tillet straightened, smoothing the front of her charcoal skirt. Her heels clicked against the floor with a precision that made the sound even more menacing as she turned and strode to her desk. For a fleeting moment, I thought it was over—that she might let me gather what little dignity I had left and slip away into the crowd. But then I heard it. The unmistakable scrape of the ruler being pulled from the drawer.

The tension in the room thickened, sharp as the icy wind of winter. I froze, my breath hitching as she held the ruler in her hand, its polished wood gleaming under the harsh fluorescent light. It seemed absurdly long and heavier than I remembered, its edges worn smooth from years of discipline. She turned it in her hand, her movements slow and deliberate, like an executioner savoring the moment before delivering the blow.

"Three times this week, Miss Chapman," she said, her tone deceptively calm but undercut with a razor’s edge. She tapped the ruler against her palm, the sound crisp and deliberate, like the tick of a clock counting down. "Three times you've brought this nonsense into my classroom, wasting not just your own time, but mine. Do you think I’m here to entertain your fantasies?"

She approached, ruler in hand, and the whole room seemed to hold its breath. "Hands out," she barked, her voice cracking through the silence like the first thunder of an impending storm. I hesitated, the trembling pen still clutched in my fingers. "Now, Morgan."

I slowly extended my hand, fingers splayed and trembling, as though reaching out to grasp something that would never come. The first strike landed with a sharp sting that rippled through my skin, the sound cracking through the air like a brittle branch snapping in autumn. I flinched, but kept my hand steady. The second blow followed, harsher than the first, leaving a dull, throbbing ache in its wake. The third strike hit with the finality of winter’s frost, biting deep and unforgiving.

My breath came in shallow bursts, but I refused to cry again. I clenched my jaw so tightly it ached, keeping my head down as I pulled my hand back, fingers curling instinctively into a fist. Mrs. Tillet was not finished.

She reached for the pen still trembling in my other hand. "This," she said, snatching it with the same disdain she had for my torn paper, "is the very tool of your absurdity. A pen! You treat it like a wand, as though it will summon something meaningful out of the air."

Before I could react, she gripped it tightly in both hands and, with a startling crack, snapped it in half. Ink splattered onto her fingers and the desk, the bright blue pooling like fresh rain against the drab wood. My mouth fell open in silent shock. It seemed impossible, like watching someone twist the seasons out of order, and yet here it was—my pen, broken, its remains scattered before me like shards of glass.

"Let this be a lesson," she said coldly, dropping the pieces onto my desk as though they were trash. "Romantic nonsense won’t get you anywhere in life, Morgan. The sooner you realize that, the better off you’ll be."

I can't believe this fucking tramp is married.

The screeching ring of the school bell pierced through the suffocating tension, its sharpness a cruel imitation of relief. Like the first sip of water after a drought, it should have been comforting—but it wasn’t. It only marked the end of one torment and the beginning of another. I had never been so glad to hear that disgusting sound, yet it felt hollow, as though it rang only to mock me.

The shuffle of feet and scrape of chairs filled the room as my classmates gathered their things, their movements sluggish with boredom but fueled by the thrill of escape. Whispers trailed behind them like cigarette smoke in the cold, clinging to the stale classroom air.

"She’s mental, isn’t she? It's bloody cuckoo up there." "Thinks she’s some kind of poet or something." "Bet she fancies herself the next Barbara Cartland."

The giggles that followed were sharp and biting.

I kept my head down, willing the stinging in my eyes to stop. My hand twitched toward the scattered remains of my paper, but I hesitated. Each torn piece was an extension of myself, exposed and humiliated for everyone to see.

As the last of the girls filed out, I dropped to my knees, frantically gathering the scraps of paper from the floor. My fingers worked quickly, trembling as they clutched at the shredded pieces. The inked words bled together, blurred by the damp stain of my earlier tears. My breath hitched as I reached for a fragment near the desk leg, only to feel a sharp pain shoot through my hand.

I looked up, startled, to see the scuffed sole of a black leather Mary Jane pressing down on my fingers. Fuck, it hurt.

"Oops," the girl said with mock sweetness, her face twisted into a smirk. It was Harriet Price, one of Mrs. Tillet’s favorites, the kind of girl who always wore her skirt a perfect inch below the knee and still managed to seem untouchably rebellious.

Her blonde curls bounced as she leaned down slightly, her voice dripping with venom. "Didn’t see you there, Morgan. Funny how you’re always crawling around like a little mouse."

Her friends snickered, standing in a semi-circle just far enough away to pretend they weren’t involved. Harriet stepped off my hand, and I recoiled, cradling it as the dull ache spread through my knuckles.

"Come on, Harriet," one of them said, feigning innocence. "You don’t want to get ink on your shoes."

They turned and left, their laughter trailing behind them, echoing down the corridor like a cruel taunt. I remained there for a moment, kneeling on the cold linoleum floor, my chest tightening with each shallow breath.

I forced myself to stand, clutching the crumpled pieces of my paper like a lifeline. My vision blurred again, but I blinked rapidly, refusing to let more tears fall. I had to get out of there.

The walk to the exit felt endless, the corridors eerily quiet now that the chatter of students had moved outside. The school smelled faintly of damp wool, chalk dust, and leftover custard from lunch—a scent that normally went unnoticed but now clung to me, suffocating. The dull posters on the walls—warnings about the dangers of truancy, the importance of abstinence, or reminders to study hard for O-levels—blurred as I passed, their bright colors mocking in their cheerfulness.

Hah. I had no problem with abstinence. No man, nonetheless even a boy, wanted to come near me. I was boy repellent. The only boys that got near me were my fictional ones that I wrote. The ones who said the perfect things at the perfect times, who leaned against doorframes with a devil-may-care grin, who held your hand as if the world might end if they didn’t. Boys who existed solely in the confines of my ink-stained notebooks, far removed from the awkward silences and sidelong glances of real life.

I allowed myself a bitter smirk at the thought, the corners of my mouth curling in a way that felt foreign and fleeting. Even if the world outside my head seemed intent on tearing me apart, at least I had that. My worlds. My words. They couldn’t take that from me—not completely.

But the thought soured as quickly as it came. Mrs. Tillet’s voice echoed in my mind, sharp and dismissive: “Romantic nonsense won’t get you anywhere, Morgan.” The words felt like grit beneath my nails, impossible to scrub clean. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was delusional, clinging to my daydreams like a child clutching a threadbare teddy.

Delusion got me fucking somewhere for all it counts, I'm bloody telling you I—

"OW!" My muttered ramblings were cut short as something—a force, a blur of motion—collided with me. The next moment, I was sprawled on the cold, uneven pavement of Clemsford’s High Street, my bag tipped over, its contents scattered across the ground like debris after a storm. A textbook flopped open, a pen rolled into the gutter, and my torn papers fluttered like fallen leaves.

"Shit! Are you alright?" a voice called out, jolting me from the daze.

I blinked up, startled, to see a boy hopping off a clunky red bike that was now lying on its side, its wheels spinning lazily. He pulled off his Walkman headphones—silver and bulky, with a tape that was still playing faintly—and crouched down, his face suddenly inches from mine.

It was the kind of face you’d expect to see on a cassette tape cover, all cheeky charm and easy confidence. His dark hair was slightly tousled, curling at the edges in a way that seemed both deliberate and careless, as if he’d just stepped off a football pitch or out of a record store. His uneven smile was what caught my attention most: crooked at one corner, as though it couldn’t decide between cheeky confidence and genuine warmth. And then there were his eyes—soft yet sharp, holding the kind of easy light that could shift between mischief and sincerity in an instant. I’d never seen him before, and that was saying something in a town as small as Clemsford.

"Bloody hell," I muttered, scrambling to sit up, my cheeks already burning.

"I didn’t see you! I’m so sorry," he said quickly, brushing a hand through his hair. His accent was softer, less clipped than the posh girls at school. "Are you okay? That was a bit of a nasty tumble."

I glanced down at my scraped palms and knees, wincing as I spotted a tear in my tights. "Yeah, I’m fine," I mumbled, even though my pride felt more bruised than my body.

He crouched lower, scooping up a few of my things—a battered notebook, my pencil case, and the cassette I’d forgotten I’d even packed that morning. "Here," he said, holding them out. His fingers brushed mine as I took them, and I nearly dropped the lot.

"Thanks," I muttered, looking anywhere but at his face.

"You’re sure you’re alright?" He tilted his head, his grin softening. "I didn’t mean to run you over. Thought I could zip past before the light changed, but..." He motioned vaguely to his bike, as if that explained his lack of control.

"It’s fine," I said, hurriedly gathering the rest of my things. My hands were still shaking, and I cursed myself for it. Of all the people in the world, why did the first boy to talk to me outside of school have to look like he belonged in a Duran Duran video?

"Good thing I didn’t break anything—your bones, I mean," he added, laughing.

I forced a weak laugh in return, still hyper-aware of the way his eyes lingered on me.

"Where were you off to, anyway?" he asked, leaning back on his heels. "You looked miles away. Daydreaming about something good, I hope?"

I shook my head quickly, clutching my things like a lifeline. "No, just… school stuff."

He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he extended a hand to help me up, his fingers warm against my cold ones.

"I'm Oliver, by the way," He said, squeezing my hand . A mutual sign of respect. "Oliver Bearman."

The name suited him—solid, grounded, and somehow larger than life, as though it belonged to someone who could navigate the world with ease while the rest of us stumbled over loose paving stones. It rolled off his tongue with the kind of effortless confidence that made me painfully aware of my own awkwardness.

"Bearman," I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper, tasting the name like it might explain the way my pulse quickened.

"Hah! Yeah, like a bear and a man, but I think of my self less scary than those two things combined," He chucked.

"Scary," I quietly echoed, more to myself than to him, my eyes stubbornly focused on the ground instead of his face.

"Are you just going to repeat everything I say? That's no way to make conversation," he teased, his voice laced with amusement.

I glanced up for the briefest moment, catching the playful spark in his blue eyes before my gaze darted away again. My cheeks burned as I scrambled for a response, but the words caught somewhere in my throat. "I—I wasn’t…" I stammered, my voice trailing off as I heard him laugh softly again.

"You know," he said, leaning slightly closer, "it’s alright to talk back. I don’t bite. Well, not unless I’m really hungry."

His grin widened, and I felt my heart stutter in response. He was teasing me, sure, but there was no malice in it—just an easy charm that made me feel even more self-conscious. My mind raced, but all I could think about was how absurd this moment felt, standing here with my scraped knees and torn papers, talking to a boy like him.

"Sorry," I finally mumbled, clutching my books tighter to my chest. "I’m not great at… talking."

"No kidding," he said, but his tone was light, his expression softening. "Lucky for you, I’m pretty good at it. Guess that balances us out, yeah?"

I noded, but I couldn't get a sound to come out. My throat tightened. This was almost a worse case scenario for me.

Nearly doomsday, even.

Talking with new people was quite frankly, new. And weird. And sometimes (most of the time) unpleasant. But strangely, this one was, how can I put this, okay…

Oliver crouched beside me, gathering up a forgotten possession that was still resting on the ground. He picked it up in one sweepingly smooth motion. His fingers brushed against the edge of my notebook, and he paused, tilting his head as he glanced down at it.

"Well, well," he mused, picking it up and turning it over in his hands. "Morgan Chapman."

My breath caught in my throat.

I hadn’t even realized my notebook had fallen out—hadn’t noticed it lying there, open, with my messy scrawl bleeding across the pages. But Oliver had. And now he was holding it, his fingers casually skimming the edge as if he were about to flip it open.

My stomach plummeted.

Oh no. No, no, no.

That wasn’t just any notebook—it was the notebook. The one filled with half-finished stories, private musings, and embarrassingly dramatic confessions to fictional men who didn’t even exist. The one that, if opened, would expose every corner of my ridiculous, yearning imagination.

I swear the universe was playing one large comical joke on me, and I, Morgan Chapman, just fell right into the tip of Lord's karma sword.

Panic surged through me, and before I could think, before I could even register what I was doing, I lunged.

"Wait—!"

The force of my movement knocked me forward, my knee scraping against the pavement as I collided into Oliver’s chest. He let out a surprised oof as I practically threw myself at him, one arm instinctively wrapping around my waist to steady me as I crashed into him.

For a second, neither of us moved.

His warmth seeped through his jacket, his hand firm against my lower back, steadying me as if I hadn’t just flung myself at him like an unhinged lunatic. I could feel the rise and fall of his breath, the faint scent of something vaguely cinamonny and warm clinging to his hoodie.

Oh my god.

Oh my god.

My face burned, heat crawling up my neck, scorching my ears. I had just thrown myself at a boy. A boy I didn’t know. A boy who now had my notebook.

Oliver blinked down at me, his expression somewhere between amusement and curiosity. "Well," he said, after a beat, his voice light and teasing, "that was dramatic."

I made a strangled noise that barely qualified as human.

His lips quirked up at the corner. "Didn’t realize my touching your notebook was such a crime. Do you write about the MI6 in here or something?"

I scrambled, half-tripping over my own feet as I grabbed for the notebook, but he held it just out of reach, his grip infuriatingly firm.

Yes, how dare he use his height advantage to get an edge over me?!

"Oliver," I hissed, my fingers closing around the edge as I tugged desperately.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained by my frantic reaction. "Alright, alright, keep your secrets," he said, finally letting go.

I snatched it back, clutching it to my chest like it was a lifeline, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Oliver rocked back on his heels, watching me with a knowing smirk. "Must be some very interesting stories in there," he mused, tilting his head.

I stiffened. "It’s nothing," I blurted, too quickly.

He grinned, eyes gleaming. "Right. And you just threw yourself at me because you don’t care about me reading it?"

I opened my mouth, then closed it. There was no winning this.

Oliver squinted at me, his expression full of exaggerated contemplation. "Yeah, you totally either write about some super top-secret MI6 government conspiracy that you don't want anyone to know about…" He stroked his chin dramatically, then his entire demeanor shifted. His smirk widened into something almost devious, his blue eyes glinting with unrestrained mischief.

"Or," he dragged out, his voice dropping just a fraction, "you write about good 'ole sex."

My brain short-circuited.

I went completely still, the words hanging in the air like an anvil poised to drop on my head.

And then—heat. A wave of it, roaring up my neck, flooding my face in an instant. My skin burned so fiercely I thought I might spontaneously combust right there on the pavement.

Oliver saw it. Of course he saw it. His smirk deepened, like a cat who had just cornered a very, very flustered mouse.

"Oh," he said slowly, dragging out the syllable like he had just unearthed the world’s greatest treasure. "So that’s what it is."

"No!" I practically squeaked, gripping my notebook even tighter, as if I could somehow strangle the entire conversation to death. "It’s not—I don’t—oh my God."

Oliver full-on laughed, tilting his head back in delight. "Morgan Chapman, you are so red right now."

"Shut up!" I groaned, covering my face with one hand while clutching my cursed notebook with the other.

I needed to burn this cursed thing in a firepit, throw it in a deep lake with all sorts of brain eating amobeas or bacteria, or blow torch it. This notebook was bringing me all sorts of shit luck.

"Hey, no shame in it," he continued, clearly enjoying my agony. "You’re, what? Sixteen? Seventeen? I’d be more surprised if you weren’t writing steamy little romance novels in your free time."

I whipped my head up to glare at him, my humiliation morphing into full-blown outrage. "I do not write romance novels!"

Oliver shrugged, completely unfazed. "Uh-huh. And I suppose your face is is just a coincidence? It totally is telling a different story than what you allegedly are saying…"

I groaned, my fingers tightening around the edges of my cursed notebook like I could somehow crush it into oblivion. "My face is not," I lied, feeling the heat still crawling up my face.

He just smirked. "Sure you’re not."

I exhaled sharply, willing myself to focus on anything else, because if I let him run with this conversation any longer, I might actually keel over from sheer mortification. "I’m eighteen, by the way," I blurted out, as if that was at all relevant.

Oliver raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," I huffed. "I just look young."

He made a thoughtful humming noise, tilting his head. "Right. And I’m nineteen."

I squinted at him, studying his face like I could somehow see if he was lying. "Are you?"

His smirk deepened. "What do you think, Chapman?"

I frowned. "I think you’re full of shit."

Oliver let out a loud, obnoxious laugh, shaking his head. "God, you’re fun."

I bristled. "I’m not fun, I’m—"

"—thoroughly embarrassed that I found your secret romance novel?"

"I-," sputtered. He got me.

Oliver’s smirk widened, eyes practically glowing with amusement. "I-?" he echoed, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. "What’s that, Chapman? You were saying something?"

I clamped my mouth shut, my entire body locking up. My brain was screaming at me to say something—anything that would wipe that smug look off his face—but my mouth betrayed me, working uselessly around half-formed words that refused to come out.

Oliver chuckled, shaking his head. "Wow. Speechless. That’s a first."

I hated that he was enjoying this. I hated that he was right. And I really hated that my face was still burning hot, my hands nervously gripping the edges of my cursed notebook like it might somehow anchor me back to reality.

"I-It’s not—" I tried again, but my voice wobbled like a newborn fawn, and I wanted to die.

"It’s not…?" Oliver prompted, leaning ever so slightly forward, his grin all-too-knowing.

I swallowed thickly. "It’s not—" I squeaked again. Oh God. Oh my God.

His grin stretched even wider, and I immediately looked away, staring very intently at the pavement. Anywhere but at him.

"Chapman," he drawled, his voice teasing, playful. "You do realize that blushing this much is basically an admission of guilt, right?"

I groaned, squeezing my eyes shut for half a second. "I am not—"

"Blushing?" He finished for me, sounding obnoxiously delighted.

I exhaled sharply, forcing myself to do something before he actually made me explode from sheer mortification. Without thinking, I hugged my notebook even tighter to my chest and spun on my heel, determined to walk away from this absolute disaster of a conversation.

But before I could take more than three steps—

"Oh, come on," Oliver called after me, his voice still bubbling with laughter. "Now you’re just running away!"

I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. My legs were moving on their own, carrying me as far from him as possible before my dignity suffered any more casualties.

"Not running away!" I choked out, mortified beyond belief.

"Uh-huh," he called back. "So if I read one of those stories of yours, would it be purely academic? Not even a little bit swoony?"

I whimpered. I actually whimpered.

"You are the worst person I have ever met!" I shouted over my shoulder, my voice much too high-pitched to be taken seriously.

"Surely not!" his voice called out in the distance as I rounded a corner. Speedwalking up a hill—which proved to be more difficult than normal as I was already quite winded from that previous spat— I couldn't see him or hear him anymore.

Per usual, I was running away from my problems, and running towards my bedroom at home where I could write my silly little stories and disappear from my reality.

Three left turns, one long downhill stroll, and two rights later, I had arrived at home.

The small, weathered house sat tucked between two others, its faded brick exterior worn down by time and neglect. The white paint along the window frames was chipped, curling at the edges like dried petals, and the front steps creaked under even the lightest step, betraying any late-night attempts to sneak in unnoticed. The front door stuck when the weather was humid, and even in the cold, it needed a good shove to open.

The tiny front yard was more weeds than grass, stubborn green pushing through cracks in the pavement. Our mailbox leaned slightly to the right, rust creeping up its edges. I had long since given up trying to fix it. The roof slanted awkwardly, the shingles old and cracked, some missing altogether, exposing bits of the underlayer like a wound half-covered by a makeshift bandage.

But this was home.

I had never known anything else.

Inside, the air was familiar—stale but tinged with the faintest scent of detergent and whatever had been last cooked in the kitchen. The walls were an odd mix of pale yellow and peeling wallpaper, remnants of an attempted home improvement project that had never quite been finished. The floor creaked in specific spots, and I knew exactly where to step to avoid making too much noise.

The living room was cluttered but lived-in. A coffee table with one wobbly leg sat in front of an old, sagging couch, the cushions sunken from years of use. A pile of newspapers and unopened bills and letters gathered at the far end, half-forgotten and half-paid. The TV, an old bulky thing with a remote that barely worked, sat on a stand that had once been a proper bookshelf before the bottom shelf gave out under the weight of too many library discards. A single lamp flickered faintly in the corner, its shade slightly askew.

I looked down at my shoes, as I stood quietly in the doorway.

No shoes by the door except mine. No coat slung over the chair.

Mum wasn’t home.

Not that she ever really was.

I exhaled, pressing my back against the door for a moment, my fingers still curled tightly around my cursed notebook. The heat in my face had cooled, but my nerves still crackled from the encounter. If I let my mind wander, I could still hear his voice—teasing, smug, all too knowing.

I shoved the thought aside and made my way up the narrow staircase, two steps at a time. My bedroom door creaked as I nudged it open, the familiarity of my small, slightly cluttered sanctuary swallowing me whole.

This was where I escaped.

My desk was a mess of scattered notebooks, a few uncapped pens bleeding ink into their pages. Books I had yet to finish reading were stacked haphazardly on my nightstand, and the tiny corkboard above my bed was covered in pinned-up scraps of writing—half-finished sentences, phrases that had once felt important but now sat there, waiting.

I threw my bag onto my bed, dragging a hand down my face. God. That whole interaction was going to haunt me for weeks. Months. Possibly years.

Before I could dwell on it further, the front door downstairs slammed open.

Then came the voice.

"MORGANNNN!"

I tensed instinctively. Here we go. I was going to have to pretend to give a shit at my job as a therapist where no one was paying me to listen.

A few seconds later, I heard the unmistakable stomp of Janine’s shoes as she barreled into the house like a one-girl hurricane.

The whining began before I could even brace myself.

"Oh my God, you would not believe the day I just had," she announced, her voice reaching the very top of its dramatics.

I barely had time to turn around before she threw herself onto my bed with all the grace of a collapsing sandbag.

I blinked. "Hi, Janine. Nice to see you too."

She ignored me, sprawled out like she’d just finished running a marathon. Her school uniform was wrinkled beyond recognition, her backpack half-zipped, and her dark hair a little frizzier than usual—probably from whatever dramatics she had put herself through today.

"Miss Greene is actually evil," she declared, rolling onto her stomach. "She made us redo the entire maths worksheet just because, apparently, half the class did it wrong. And, of course, I had already thrown mine away, so I had to dig through the trash like an animal to find it!"

I tried to suppress my smile. "That sounds... traumatic."

"It was traumatic," she huffed, turning to glare at me. Then, just as suddenly, her expression shifted into something sharper, something vaguely mean. Her eyes scanned me up and down, her nose scrunching in distaste.

"Wow," she said bluntly. "You look like shit."

I inhaled slowly, schooling my expression into something neutral. I was used to this. Janine had a gift for making casual cruelty sound effortless, as if it was just another part of normal conversation.

"Thanks," I muttered, sitting down at my desk, pretending to be deeply interested in an uncapped pen.

"No, seriously," she continued, propping herself up on her elbows. "What happened to you? You look like you just lost a fight. Did you finally get bullied?"

I clenched my jaw, tapping my fingers against the desk. "No, Janine. I did not get bullied."

"Could’ve fooled me," she muttered, flopping back onto the pillows.

I exhaled through my nose. Don’t let it get to you. She didn’t mean it. Mostly.

Janine was like this. Always had been. There were times when her teasing was just that—harmless, annoying, the kind of back-and-forth that siblings had. But then there were other times, like now, when she wasn’t just being cheeky. She meant it, even if she pretended not to. Maybe she was just a normal thirteen year old girl who had a knack for being quite the bitch.

I didn’t bother arguing. It never helped.

Instead, I changed the subject. "Did you eat yet?"

She huffed dramatically, rolling onto her back again. "No. And Mom’s obviously not home, again."

A small pang hit my chest. Not unexpected, but still.

"She left some food in the fridge," I offered. "Probably leftovers."

Janine groaned. "I swear, we’re like stray dogs at this point. Just fending for ourselves, rummaging through whatever scraps she leaves behind."

My stomach twisted uncomfortably.

She said it like a joke. Like a complaint.

But I knew she felt it.

I did too.

Still, I forced a small smile, standing up from my desk. "Alright, stray dog. I’ll heat something up."

She made a sound of reluctant approval, flopping dramatically onto my bed once more.

As I walked downstairs, the house felt heavier. Quieter. The same kind of quiet it always was.

Janine trailed behind me down the stairs, her footsteps lighter than mine, but still deliberately obnoxious. She fiddled with her Walkman, adjusting the chunky headphones over her ears, pressing buttons as if she were about to unearth some hidden sonic masterpiece. The soft click of the cassette rolling into place filled the silence between us, the quiet hum of the tape player spinning in the background.

I made my way into the kitchen, not even needing to check the fridge before I resigned myself to my fate. There was no “leftovers” in the way people meant it—only the usual sad collection of things that barely passed as a meal. I grabbed the bread, flipping through the slices until I found two that weren’t slightly stiff at the edges, then reached for the nearly-expired mayo, a sad-looking pack of ham, and a head of lettuce that looked like it had survived some sort of traumatic event.

The Sad Sandwich™ was coming together beautifully.

As I spread the mayo across the bread, trying to ignore the way it smelled just a little off, I glanced at Janine, who was still wrapped up in her own world, occasionally nodding along to whatever she was listening to.

"What’s playing?" I asked, if only to break the silence.

She barely acknowledged me, eyes flicking up for the briefest second before returning to the invisible spot she was staring at on the table. "ABBA. Andante, Andante."

I paused for a second, then smirked. "What, feeling romantic?"

She scoffed, rolling her eyes. "I like the melody, duh." She was acting like it was I, who was the fool… What irony have I stumbled upon.

I snorted, adding the world’s saddest piece of lettuce onto her sandwich, the edges limp, its vibrancy long since faded. "You know, it’s kind of funny," I mused, pressing the slices of bread together. "A song about taking things slow, savoring every moment. But time never really slows down, does it? You just get older, and suddenly, you’re looking back, wondering when it all started moving so fast."

Janine pulled off one side of her headphones, blinking at me like I had just sprouted a second head. "What?"

I shrugged, placing her sandwich on the table in front of her. "Andante, andante. It means 'slowly, gently.' But life doesn’t wait for us, does it?" I exhaled, wiping the remnants of mayo off my fingers. "You blink, and everything changes. You barely get a chance to catch up before it’s all different again."

Janine squinted at me, unimpressed. "Shut up," she said, ripping her sandwich in half like it had personally wronged her. "Can’t you just let me listen to ABBA in peace without making it all philosophical?"

I smirked, grabbing my own pathetic excuse for a sandwich. "Nope."

Janine groaned again, throwing herself against the back of the chair like I had just personally exhausted her entire will to live. "You’re so annoying," she mumbled, taking an aggressive bite of her sandwich. "Like, actually, why are you like this?"

I shrugged, taking a significantly less enthusiastic bite of my own sad sandwich. "I have no idea. Must be a genetic thing. Guess that means you’re doomed too."

Janine made a dramatic gagging sound. "Ew. Don’t lump me in with your weird existential crisis nonsense." She waved a hand vaguely in my direction. "You’re, like, so much worse than normal today."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what’s my normal level of 'worse'?"

She smirked, licking a stray glob of mayo off her thumb. "Usually, it’s more like mildly irritating older sister levels. Today, though? You’ve graduated to full-on poet with a drinking problem vibes."

I rolled my eyes. "Good to know I’m evolving."

Janine snorted, tossing her crust onto the plate like it had personally offended her. "Speaking of drinking," she said, stretching her arms overhead in an exaggerated yawn, "can I have a beer?"

I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly saw the back of my skull. "No."

She sighed dramatically, slumping even further into her chair. "You always say no."

"Because you always ask," I shot back, grabbing our plates and stacking them haphazardly.

Janine shrugged, completely unbothered. "One day, you’ll crack."

"Unlikely," I muttered, heading toward the sink.

The thing was, she wasn’t really serious. Not really. It had started as a joke, some dumb throwaway comment she made a few months ago when she saw me grabbing a bottle from the fridge—*"Gimme one"—*and I had shut it down immediately, obviously. But since then, it had become some kind of weekly bit, an ongoing test of patience where she’d casually drop it into conversation just to see if I’d finally get tired and say fine, here, drink yourself into oblivion, you little menace.

I hadn’t cracked yet.

Janine, of course, took this as an invitation to try harder.

"Whatever," she drawled, swinging her legs over the side of the chair. "I’ll just find my own."

I froze for half a second, turning just in time to watch her actually start rummaging through the cabinets.

I narrowed my eyes. "Janine."

She ignored me.

"Janine, no."

"Janine, yes," she sang, standing on her tiptoes to dig through one of the higher shelves.

I set the plates down a little too hard in the sink. "There’s nothing in there."

She turned her head just enough to smirk at me. "Oh? Then you won’t mind if I check."

I let out a slow, measured breath. "You’re thirteen."

"And yet," she grunted, stretching onto the tips of her toes, "I’m the only one with any sense of fun in this household."

"You," I said flatly, "*have no idea what to do with beer."

"Oh, please," she scoffed. "You don’t even know what to do with beer."

I opened my mouth, then shut it.

She wasn’t wrong.

Before I could tell her to cut it out, her fingers closed around something. Her entire face lit up as she yanked her arm back, turning on her heel with a flourish.

"A-ha!"

And there it was.

A single, lukewarm can of beer.

Where had she even found that?

Janine looked entirely too pleased with herself, holding the can aloft like she had just unearthed some kind of mythical treasure.

I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. "Are you kidding me?"

She grinned. "I don’t kid about important things, Morgan."

I snatched it out of her hands before she could so much as think about cracking it open.

"Hey!" she yelped, jumping up to grab it back. "What the hell!"

"You are thirteen," I repeated, placing the can firmly on the counter, far out of her reach.

She scowled, crossing her arms. "Barely."

I shot her a look. "That is not how that works."

Janine stared at me, then at the can. Then back at me. Then at the can again.

And before I could even process what was about to happen—

She lunged.

"Janine,—"

Too late.

With the speed and agility of a raccoon stealing a piece of bread, she snatched the can off the counter, popped the tab, and chugged.

Not a sip. Not a taste. A full-blown, unhinged, humongous swig, like she was some weathered sailor downing grog after a long voyage.

I stood there, utterly paralyzed, watching as my thirteen-year-old sister took an entire gulp of lukewarm beer like it was the best decision she had ever made.

She smacked her lips, lowering the can with the dramatic flair of someone who absolutely thought they were about to look cool.

And then.

It hit.

Janine’s entire body convulsed.

She gagged, her face contorting like she’d just swallowed a mouthful of expired lemonade and battery acid at the same time.

Janine staggered back like she had just been struck down by divine punishment, her arms flailing dramatically. "Oh my God, the holy spirit!" she gasped, as if expecting Gabriel himself to descend from the heavens and cleanse her of her sins. "My tongue is on fire. This is Satan’s piss. This is the drink of demons. Morgan, I have been cursed."

I rolled my eyes, completely unbothered. "Yep. And you brought it on yourself, Judas."

She groaned, gripping the edge of the counter like she was about to crumple to her knees. "Oh, Lord in heaven above, I repent. I have walked in sin, and I have suffered." She clutched her stomach dramatically. "Smite me where I stand, oh merciful one. Deliver me from this agony."

"God is busy, Janine," I deadpanned. "And even if He weren’t, I think He’d have better things to do than smite a thirteen-year-old for drinking one sip of warm beer."

"ONE sip?" she shrieked, slamming a hand over her chest like a televangelist about to collapse into a faint. "ONE sip?! I think my soul just left my body, Morgan. I saw the pearly gates. And St. Peter slammed them in my face. He said,* and I quote*, ‘Ew, no. Go back.’"

"Pearly gates? You are definitely going to Hell, but nice try," I muttered, tossing the half-empty can into the sink, letting it clang against the metal. "Maybe now you’ll stop asking me for one every week."

Janine ignored me, still mid-breakdown. "This," she rasped, "is what people willingly drink? This is what grown men write sonnets about? They fight wars over this! They DIE in pubs for this!"

I shrugged. "Well, Jesus turned water into wine, so—"

"Wine," she snapped, still hunched over like she was about to perish on the kitchen floor. "Wine, Morgan. Not whatever hellish concoction this is. This is not what He had in mind. This is—this is like—" she waved a hand wildly, searching for the words—"—the blood of Pontius Pilate."

I barked out a laugh. "Pontius Pilate?"

"YES!" she hissed, marching toward the sink and turning the faucet on full blast. "Betrayal in a can. The affliction of the masses. And my stomach—oh my God, I think I’m being punished. This is worse than the plagues of Egypt."

I leaned against the counter, thoroughly entertained. "Well, I did warn you."

Janine made a sound somewhere between a gag and a groan, clutching her stomach like she was a dying soldier on the battlefield. "Morgan," she wheezed, "I think my intestines are dissolving."

I rolled my eyes. "You took one sip, drama queen."

"One sip too many!" she cried, still doubled over the sink. "This is what Judas must have felt like at the Last Supper. Betrayed. Slandered. Poisoned by the wicked!"

"Judas betrayed Jesus," I reminded her, grabbing a paper towel and shoving it in her direction. "You're not the victim here."

"I beg to differ!" she wailed, wiping at her mouth like she was scrubbing away the sins of mankind. "My stomach feels like the ninth circle of hell."

And then, like the horror had just dawned on her, she snapped her head up, eyes wide with absolute panic. "Morgan, I drank on an empty stomach."

I froze. "Oh my God."

"Oh my God."

I lunged for the plate on the table, grabbed the half-eaten remains of her Sad Sandwich™, and shoved it into her hands. "Eat. Now."

Janine blinked at me, still reeling. "What?"

"The bread will soak it up!" I snapped, pushing the plate further into her chest. "Jesus Christ, Janine, do you want to die a gruesome death by booze?"

Boy did I love absolutely scaring the shit out of her. Maybe this might teach her a lesson.

She gasped, gripping the sandwich like it was a sacred relic. "Oh my God, you’re right."

And then—like she was a starving prisoner who had just been granted her final meal—she shoved the entire thing into her mouth in two unholy, horrifying bites.

It was grotesque. I had never seen someone eat that fast in my entire life.

"Chew," I commanded, watching in horror as she barely made an effort to comply, just stuffing the bread into her cheeks like a damn hamster.

She nodded aggressively, eyes darting wildly, still chewing like she was racing against time itself.

"Breathe," I added, half-expecting her to choke and add actual murder to my list of daily stressors.

She lifted a single finger, telling me to wait as she gulped it all down in a single, borderline inhuman swallow.

And then—silence.

We both stood there, unmoving. Janine stared at me. I stared at her.

Slowly, she touched her stomach. Paused. Waited.

Then—"I LIVE."

I groaned, pressing my fingers against my temples. "You are actually insufferable."

She let out a deep, exaggerated sigh of relief, dramatically patting her chest. "Blessed be the name of the Lord. The devil tried me, but I have PREVAILED."

I rubbed my temples harder. "Oh my God, just go to your room."

"With pleasure," she huffed, grabbing her Walkman from the table. "And for the record," she added, stepping dramatically toward the hallway, "this was your fault."

I whipped my head up. "MY fault?!"

"If you had just given me a beer weeks ago, I wouldn’t have had to steal one and suffer like this!"

I let out a strangled noise, resisting the urge to throw something at her as she disappeared up the stairs.

I listened for her door slamming, counted the seconds until she was gone.

Then, finally, I leaned against the counter, exhaling.

The house was quiet again.

For a moment, I just stood there, staring blankly at the chipped kitchen counter, letting the silence settle in around me like dust. The only sound was the faint hum of the fridge, the occasional creak of the house settling. The lingering smell of stale beer and cheap mayo clung to the air, reminding me that I should probably clean up the mess before Mum got home—if she got home at all tonight.

But I didn’t move.

Instead, I sighed, turned on my heel, and headed back upstairs to my bedroom, my body dragging with exhaustion with my sandwhich in hand.

I tossed my bag onto the bed and pulled out my arithmetic book, the thick spine of Linear Algebra & Calculus: A Comprehensive Approach landing with a dull thud on the wooden surface.

I cracked my knuckles, rolled my shoulders, and flipped to where I had last left off—somewhere deep in the trenches of eigenvalues, vector spaces, and transformations. Numbers were easier than people. They made sense, followed rules, didn’t shift unpredictably like everything else in my life.

So I worked.

And I worked.

The numbers blurred together, symbols morphing into something less concrete the longer I stared. I scribbled in the margins, erased, rewrote, checked my notes, tried again. Pages flipped. The clock on my nightstand ticked, eating away the hours as the evening bled into night.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I registered the dull ache in my stomach, the hollow emptiness that had been there since dinner—if you could even call that dinner. The Sad Sandwich™ had barely been enough to hold me over, and now, after hours hunched over my desk, my hunger gnawed at me again, a quiet, persistent reminder.

I ignored it.

I was so close to solving this problem—just one more step, just one more equation, just one—

I stopped.

I stared at the page.

I had hit a wall.

My pencil hovered over the problem, my brain refusing to find the next step, like a door slammed shut in my face. I furrowed my brows, running through every possible solution, but my thoughts were muddled, slipping through my fingers like sand.

I sighed, rubbing my eyes. The hunger was worse now, creeping up my ribs, making my limbs feel heavier, my mind slower. I should eat something. Anything.

But getting up felt impossible.

So I didn’t.

Instead, I let my head fall against the open textbook, the paper cool against my forehead.

I told myself I would rest just for a second.

Just long enough for my brain to reset.

Just long enough to push past this problem.

But sleep crept in before I could stop it, pulling me under, the hunger still lingering, unanswered, as the numbers faded into the darkness.

A sharp clack rang through the house, jolting me awake.

I blinked, disoriented, my face still pressed against the open pages of my textbook. My body was stiff from being hunched over for too long, my hand still limply gripping a pencil that had long since stopped moving.

Then I heard it again—the familiar sound of the screen door smacking against the main door. A telltale thud, slightly muffled but unmistakable.

Mom.

My stomach clenched.

I peeled my forehead off the paper, my eyes groggy as I squinted toward the wall. The old analog clock, its hands barely visible in the dim light, read midnight. No—one in the morning.

I sighed through my nose, automatically adding an hour to account for the fact that the damn thing was wrong. It had been like that for months, ever since daylight savings had messed it up, but it was too high up for me to fix, and, honestly, I was too lazy to bother.

My ears sharpened, listening for movement downstairs. A rustle. Keys dropped onto the table. The faint shuffle of tired steps.

I moved.

Quick, quiet.

I tiptoed toward my bed, careful not to step on the spots in the floor that creaked. My body was still heavy with sleep, my limbs sluggish, but my urgency overrode the exhaustion. I knew what would happen if she saw me awake.

She’d yell.

She’d berate me.

She’d demand to know why I was up, why I wasn’t in bed, why I was wasting my life away with my nose buried in books instead of being useful, why I wasn’t doing something real.

I had made the mistake before—being caught in the glow of my desk lamp, eyes still bleary from equations, my pencil slipping in my fingers. And she had let me have it.

So I wasn’t going to give her the chance tonight.

I reached my bed, lifted the covers, and jumped in, flipping onto my side and squeezing my eyes shut just as I heard the faint click of her heels being kicked off near the door.

My breathing slowed. I forced my shoulders to relax.

Footsteps on the stairs.

I lay still, forcing my face into a neutral expression, willing my chest to rise and fall in the slow rhythm of deep sleep.

The footsteps didn’t stop outside my door.

They passed.

She didn’t check.

I stayed frozen anyway, just in case.

The air was thick, the silence stretching.

Then, a door shutting.

I exhaled.

Slowly.

Carefully.

The tension in my limbs barely eased, my heartbeat still too fast in my chest. I let my fingers curl into the blankets, my body still coiled tight beneath them.

I didn’t move.

I wouldn’t move.

Not until I was sure she wouldn’t come back out.

I stayed still, my body curled beneath the blankets, listening for any sound that might betray her still being awake.

Seconds stretched into minutes. The house was still.

She wasn’t coming back out.

I exhaled slowly, cautiously, like even breathing too loud might summon her. My body remained rigid for another few minutes—just in case—until I finally reached out, fumbling in the dark for my alarm clock.

The cheap plastic felt cold under my fingers. It was a clunky thing, slightly cracked at the edges, the numbers on the screen glowing faintly red. It had been discarded in a dumpster behind the pharmacy two months ago, tossed away like trash, and for reasons I didn’t fully understand, I had taken it home. Fixed it. Given it purpose again.

At least something in this house deserved a second chance.

I pressed the buttons mechanically, setting the alarm for 8:00 AM. The beep was sharp, intrusive in the quiet.

I turned onto my side, facing the wall.

Tried to sleep.

Tried to let go.

But the weight in my chest didn’t fade. My heartbeat was still too fast, a dull, uneven rhythm that felt wrong.

My limbs felt stiff, too aware of the blankets pressing down on me, of the air in the room that suddenly felt too thick. I swallowed, my throat dry, my jaw clenched without me realizing.

I turned over. Then turned again.

My body ached with exhaustion, but my mind refused to shut off.

Every sound in the house became a reason to stay awake. The faint hum of the fridge downstairs. The occasional creak of the walls. The wind pressing against the windows. The lingering possibility that she might come back out, open my door, catch me—just because.

The thought sat heavy in my chest.

I curled in on myself, wrapping my arms tighter around my body, my fingers digging into the fabric of my sleeves.

I needed to sleep.

I needed to sleep.

I closed my eyes, but the dark behind my lids wasn’t quiet. It was loud, restless. The remnants of the day replayed behind my eyelids—Janine’s dramatics, the *Sad Sandwich™, the feel of Oliver’s stupid smirk still lingering somewhere in my brain. The feeling of running, of the screen door slamming, of knowing that at any moment, I could be—

I forced myself to breathe.

Slower.

Calmer.

Even if it didn’t work.

Eventually, exhaustion won. My thoughts didn’t fade, they just blurred, softening into something hazy and restless.

I didn’t fall asleep.

I drifted.

A sleepless slumber. The kind where you close your eyes, but you don’t feel rested. The kind where the weight in your chest never quite leaves.

─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────

The thing about being half of something is that people always expect you to feel whole. Like you can take two separate, mismatched pieces and press them together to form a perfect, seamless image. A puzzle that fits cleanly. A line drawn neatly down the center, where neither side bleeds into the other. But that’s not how it works. Not for me, anyway.

My mother is white. Painfully white. The kind of woman who wears neutral tones and calls dinner "supper," whose side of the family is speckled with sunburn-prone cousins and blue-eyed aunts who all have the same thin-lipped smile. The kind who doesn’t talk much about my father—doesn’t need to, because he was never really here to begin with.

I don’t think of him often. Not because I don’t want to. Not because I’ve made some conscious choice to erase him. But because there’s nothing to think about.

He exists in fragments. Fleeting memories that might not even be real. A deep voice I can’t fully remember. A presence that feels more like a ghost than a man.

And what does that make me? Some days, I feel like a half-finished sketch. A painting where the colors never fully set. I look in the mirror, and my features don’t fit neatly into a single frame. My skin is too light to be fully Black, but too dark to be fully white. My hair is a mess of curls that never quite listen, never quite fall into the kind of clean, brushed-out waves my mother’s does.

It’s an in-between existence. And it’s lonely. Because the world doesn’t like in-between things. It likes categories, labels, boxes. It likes when you fit neatly. I don’t.

At school, the white girls don’t see me as one of them. At best, I’m interesting. At worst, I’m an outsider—something different, something "exotic" in a way that makes my skin crawl.

With Black girls, it’s not much better. Maybe it’s my voice, the way I talk. Maybe it’s the way my mother raised me, or barely raised her. Maybe it’s the fact that I don’t even know how to braid my own damn hair.

Either way, I always feel like I’m not quite enough to belong anywhere.

I exist in the cracks. The spaces between.

Half of one thing. Half of another.

But some days, it feels like I’m not half of anything at all.

Just missing pieces.

I remember the first time I noticed it—the difference.

I’ve lived in this town my whole life.

Stockbridge Village, formerly known as Cantril Farm, is a small community in Merseyside, England. Built in the 1960s to rehouse families from inner-city Liverpool, it was intended to be a fresh start—a new beginning. But by the 1980s, it had become a place where everyone knew everyone, and everyone knew me.

In a community that was predominantly white, I stood out.

This was the kind of place where everyone knows everyone. Where people smile at you in the streets, not because they like you, but because that’s just what people do here. Where the shopkeepers remember your name, your mother’s name, and what kind of milk you usually buy.

But the thing is—no matter how many times I walk down the same roads, past the same butcher shop, the same post office, the same old church with its half-crumbling bell tower—I have never quite felt like I belonged here.

Because in a town like Stockbridge, people notice things.

And they notice me.

It happens in the grocery store. The lingering glances, the subtle shift in body language when I walk past an aisle. The way an older woman might clutch her purse just a little tighter, the way a man might glance twice, not out of recognition, but out of curiosity. The cashier at the till, the same one who’s been working there since I was old enough to count change, hesitates before handing me my receipt. The briefest flicker of something—confusion? Mistrust? Pity?

I never know.

I tell myself I’m imagining it. That it’s all in my head.

But then, sometimes, I hear it.

Not often. Never loud. Never to my face.

But in passing. Whispered.

"Who’s that girl again?" "Not from ‘round here, is she?" "Her Mum’s that blonde woman, isn’t she? Wonder where her dad is."

I don’t answer them. I don’t correct them.

What would I even say? "I’m from here. I always have been." "I know these streets better than you do." "My dad isn’t here. He never was."

But words don’t change the way people look at you. They don’t stop the shift in their eyes when you walk past, the way their attention lingers a second longer than necessary. They don’t change the fact that every time I step outside, I am reminded—subtly, quietly, constantly—that I do not belong the way they do.

Like now.

The morning air is crisp, biting at my exposed skin as I walk down the narrow pavement, my breath curling in faint wisps against the chill. The sky is a pale gray, the kind that threatens rain but never quite follows through. It’s too early to be out, and too late to feel like I’ve beaten the morning rush. The grocery store opened thirty minutes ago, and I’m walking toward it with an empty stomach and the one twenty-pound note clutched tightly in my hand.

The money had been saved, not given. That was an important distinction. I had tucked it away in the safest place I could think of—between the books under my bed, wrapped in old, crinkled orange paper from God knows how long ago. I never spent unless I had to. But this morning, I had to.

Janine had eaten the last slice of bread. The milk had gone sour two days ago. I was pretty sure the lettuce in the fridge was evolving into something that could speak.

So here I was.

My stomach twisted—not from hunger, but from the quiet, familiar tension that always settled in my bones when I had to go into town alone.

The road to the shop was always the same. Past the small butcher’s shop, where Mr. Whitmore stood outside chatting to an older man, both of them wrapped in their tweed coats like they had stepped out of a Visit England poster. Past the post office, where a queue of pensioners waited with envelopes tucked under their arms, some clutching their purses so tightly their knuckles had gone pale. Past the church—the same old church with its crumbling bell tower, its doors propped open by a brick, where someone had already laid fresh flowers outside on the steps.

Everything in Stockbridge was predictable. Routine. Except me.

A passing car slowed—just slightly—as it rolled by. A woman in a beige coat turned her head when I passed her on the pavement. An older man sitting on a bench lowered his newspaper, eyes flicking up for a second too long before turning the page.

It was always like this. A quiet, unspoken reminder: I was noticed. I tugged the sleeves of my sweater down over my fingers, gripping the money tighter in my palm. The coins in my pocket rattled with each step, an uneven weight I was suddenly very aware of.

I reached the store. The automatic doors slid open with a mechanical hiss, the warm scent of stale bread and disinfectant washing over me. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright, too sterile.

A woman at the entrance glanced at me, then away. I exhaled, shaking off the stiffness in my shoulders, and grabbed a basket (not a trolley, they were big, bulky, and made god-awful noises when pushed). It was just groceries. Just food.

I moved through the aisles with quiet precision, keeping my head down, my steps light. The store wasn’t too crowded yet—mostly older women with their baskets, a few men flipping through newspapers at the front. It smelled like disinfectant and aging produce, with a faint, lingering trace of something fried from the little hot food counter near the back.

I clutched my shopping list in one hand, the twenty-pound notes in my pocket pressing against my leg like a reminder. Three apples. Probably about 35p each. I hovered near the fruit section, selecting three that looked decent enough. £1.05 so far.

Tomatoes. Maybe 50p for a few decent ones. I picked up a bag and weighed it in my palm, my mind automatically rounding the total up to £1.55. Eggs. A dozen should be around 60p. I added them carefully to my basket. £2.15.

Meat. I hesitated near the butcher’s counter. I usually skipped this part, but today, I had a little extra to spare. Something cheap. I scanned the options and settled on a small pack of minced beef. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. The price tag read £1.90.

£4.05 total.

I moved toward the bread aisle, the soft hum of the store’s radio filling the silence. Bread was usually one of the last things I grabbed—it was an easy choice, no need to overthink. I reached for a loaf, the familiar texture of plastic packaging crinkling under my fingers.

And then, I took a step back. Right onto someone’s foot.

"Oh, hell—"

I whipped around so fast I nearly knocked my own basket over. "I’m so sorry, I—" And then I saw who I had stepped on.

Him. Oliver.

I blinked. Then blinked again. What the—

"You!" I blurted out, my voice somehow both sharp and flat at the same time.

His mouth curled into a lopsided grin, the kind that immediately put me on edge. "Call me Ollie. We’re practically friends now."

I rolled my eyes to mask the fact that my brain was currently short-circuiting. "We are not friends."

His grin widened, like he could hear the lie in my voice. "Practically," he repeated, leaning against the shelf like he had all the time in the world.

I crossed my arms, my heart still hammering from the shock. "What are you doing here?"

He cleared his throat, shifting slightly. "I—uh—" He scratched the back of his neck. "I totally didn’t follow you here, if that’s what you’re thinking."

I squinted. "I was not thinking that." (I was now, though.)

"Good! Because that would be weird,*" he added quickly. "And I am absolutely not weird."

I gave him a look. "Debatable."

Oliver—Ollie—straightened up, clearing his throat again, as if he’d just remembered what his actual excuse was supposed to be. "I work here."

I frowned. "Huh?"

"Yeah," he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Started last week. Part-time."

I raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Because money exists, Morgan. And people need money to buy things."

I ignored the way my stomach flipped when he said my name.

"You—" I hesitated, eyeing him carefully. "You work here."

Ollie tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering in his gaze. "That is what I just said."

And I should have just left it at that.

I should have rolled my eyes, muttered something dismissive, grabbed my stupid loaf of bread, and walked away like he didn’t affect me at all.

But instead, my eyes flickered—just for a second—to his mouth.

It wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t planned. But once I looked, I couldn’t seem to unlook.

His lips curved into the beginnings of another smirk, the kind that sent a sharp little thrill down my spine before I could stop it. They were pinker than I expected, softer, like the kind of lips that would probably be really good at—

Oh my God.

My breath caught, a sudden rush of heat prickling at the back of my neck.

Had I just—?

Had I seriously just thought about—?

My entire body tensed, my fingers tightening instinctively around the handle of my basket.

No. No, no, no, absolutely not. Not happening.

I blinked rapidly, tearing my gaze away, my heart hammering so hard I was convinced he could hear it.

Ollie was still talking—something about nepotism and barely working and customer service—but I couldn’t focus. Not when my own brain had just betrayed me like that.

What was wrong with me?

This was Oliver Bearman. The same boy who had run me over with his bike, who had rummaged through my notebook, who had followed me here (okay, fine, maybe that last part wasn’t confirmed—but still).

He was a nuisance.

A smug, infuriating, insufferable nuisance.

So why—

Why had my brain, in the middle of a perfectly normal conversation, decided to briefly entertain the thought of what it would be like to—

I swallowed hard.

I needed to leave.

I needed to grab my damn loaf of bread, pay, and pretend this—whatever this was—never happened.

So that’s exactly what I did.

I turned sharply on my heel, grabbed the first loaf I could reach, and marched toward the till like I had somewhere very important to be.

Ollie chuckled behind me, low and knowing.

"Where are you going?" he called, voice laced with amusement.

I clenched my jaw. "Away from you," I shot back, my tone indignant but kept to a hushed whisper because, unlike him, I had some concept of volume control in a public setting.

But of course, Ollie, being Ollie, took that as a personal challenge.

"Away from me?" he repeated, deliberately raising his voice, eyebrows shooting up in exaggerated offense. "Morgan, I’m hurt. Truly. You wound me."

Heads turned.

I panicked.

Before I could think twice about it, I grabbed his arm, my fingers wrapping around the sleeve of his shirt, and dragged him down an aisle, maneuvering him behind one of the taller shelves where fewer people would see.

Ollie stumbled slightly but let me pull him along, clearly enjoying this far too much. As soon as we were tucked between rows of canned goods and breakfast cereals, he turned to me with that same boyish grin, eyes bright, breathless from my sudden ambush.

"Oliver, shush yourself," I hissed, glancing over my shoulder, making sure no one had followed.

Ollie, of course, didn’t shush himself.

Instead, he leaned against the shelf with that ridiculous kind of casual ease—one arm propped up as he pushed his tousled hair away from his face, like he was posing for some imaginary camera.

"This is very suspicious behavior, Morgan," he mused, voice dipped in mock conspiracy. "Dragging me into a hidden aisle? All very intimate, very secretive. Should I be concerned?”

I glared at him. "You should be concerned about me throwing a can of beans at your head."

He let out a huff of laughter, looking far too pleased with himself.

I turned away, inhaling through my nose, pretending like the heat crawling up my neck wasn’t happening. My basket was still half empty, and I refused to let Ollie derail my entire morning.

I focused on the shelves, scanning the prices.

Eggs, bread, apples—those were covered. I still needed—

"Shouldn’t you be doing something?" I muttered, grabbing a can of canned corn and tucking it into my basket.

"I am," he said simply.

I frowned, glancing at him. "What?"

Ollie grinned. "Watching you."

My entire body tensed.

Heat bloomed across my cheeks, and I hated how immediate it was. I could feel him watching me, his gaze trailing as I reached for another item, as if my very existence was now entertainment for him.

I ignored him, setting my focus back on my mental math.

Canned corn—probably 30p each. That brought my total up to £4.35.

I reached for a tin of beans—around 20p.

Ollie shifted slightly, still leaning lazily against the shelf, arms crossed now. "You’re really serious about this whole shopping thing, huh?"

I scoffed, plopping the can into my basket. "Yes, Oliver. That’s generally how grocery shopping works."

"Ollie," he corrected smoothly.

I ignored him.

"See, I just figured you’d be the type to wander around, daydreaming about something dramatic," he continued, voice teasing. "But no—look at you. All business. Calculating costs like a real grown-up."

I rolled my eyes, grabbing a bag of pasta. "Yes, imagine that. Being financially responsible."

Ollie smirked, shifting his weight onto one foot. "Hot."

My fingers fumbled around the pasta bag.

I turned to glare at him, heart hammering in my chest. "Do you ever shut up?"

"Not when I’m enjoying myself," he said, flashing that insufferable grin.

I exhaled sharply, forcing myself to focus only on the basket, only on the numbers in my head.

Pasta—around 50p.

Total: £5.05.

I exhaled slowly, forcing my shoulders to stay relaxed as I moved toward the meat section. Chicken. That was next.

I scanned the shelves carefully, my fingers tightening slightly around the handle of my basket. The cheapest cut I could find—a small pack of chicken thighs, nothing fancy, just enough to stretch across a few meals—£2.50. I hesitated, weighing the cost in my mind, but eventually added it to my basket.

Bananas. A safe choice. Cheap, versatile. I grabbed a small bunch, about 40p, estimating the weight in my palm before placing them inside.

Next was ham—a small roll, nothing extravagant, but enough to make sandwiches for Janine. £1.30.

And then—tilapia.

I shouldn’t.

I shouldn’t.

Fish wasn’t a necessity, wasn’t part of the list, wasn’t safe. But for some reason, I reached for the fillet anyway, my fingers grazing over the cool plastic. It wasn’t the most expensive choice—£2.00, hardly anything outrageous.

But still, the moment it landed in my basket, a pit settled in my stomach.

I stood still for a moment, mentally stacking the numbers, adding them up again and again to make sure I hadn’t miscalculated.

Apples, tomatoes, eggs, minced beef, bread, canned tomatoes, beans, pasta, chicken, bananas, ham, tilapia.

I swallowed.

£10.25.

Too much.

The realization made my stomach churn.

I reached into my coat pockets first, fingers blindly searching for anything—anything—that might push me over the limit. I patted down my jeans next, then dug into my purse, moving through the worn fabric with urgency.

Nothing.

No loose coins, no hidden extras.

My chest tightened as heat crawled up the back of my neck.

I hated this.

I hated this feeling.

Just as I was about to resign myself to putting something back, I caught movement from the corner of my eye.

"Here."

I turned, and my stomach dropped.

Ollie stood there, holding out a few coins in his palm.

I froze.

My jaw clenched as something hot and uncomfortable curled inside me.

"I don’t want your charity," I muttered, voice quieter than I intended but sharp nonetheless.

His brows lifted slightly, taken aback, but only for a second. Then, something in his face shifted—not into pity (thank God, because I could not handle pity), but something softer. Something… understanding.

"It’s not charity," he said, tilting his head slightly. "It’s called being a decent person. I know, shocking concept."

I wanted to scoff. I wanted to roll my eyes, to shake him off and prove that I was fine—that I could handle this, like I always did.

But my fingers twitched.

The idea of putting something back made my stomach turn.

Ollie must’ve seen the hesitation on my face because his smirk came back, this time more playful than smug.

"Alright, look," he started, shifting slightly on his feet. "If it makes you feel better, think of it as an investment. One day, when you’re rich and famous from your ridiculous romance novels, you can pay me back with interest."*

My head snapped up.

"I don’t write romance novels."

"Mhm." He grinned like he knew something I didn’t. "Sure you don’t."

I hated how fast my face heated up.

I glanced at his hand again, at the coins, at the easy way he held them out—like it wasn’t a big deal.

Like it wasn’t humiliating.

My jaw tightened. My pride screamed at me to refuse.

But I also wasn’t about to let my stomach growl all night over a stupid fifty pence.

I grabbed the coins before I could overthink it, shoving them into my pocket so fast it was like I had been burned.

"This doesn’t mean we’re friends," I muttered.

Ollie’s grin stretched.

"Oh, obviously." His voice was all lighthearted amusement. "But if it did, I’d be your favorite friend, wouldn’t I?"

I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt.

He laughed, stepping back, rocking slightly on his heels like he had won something.

And—against my better judgment—my lips twitched. Just a little. Barely there.

But I refused to let him see it.

I tucked the coins into my pocket, exhaling through my nose as if that would somehow steady the weird, jittery feeling curling in my stomach. It’s just some change. Nothing more. Get over it.

Ollie, however, did not get over it.

"So," he started, still grinning like he had all the time in the world. "Now that you’re officially in my debt—"

I whipped my head toward him. "I am not in your debt."

"Sure you are," he said breezily. "Fifty pence is no small sum, Morgan. That’s, like—"

"Not even worth one of your fancy coffees," I muttered, grabbing another can from the shelf, trying to focus on the numbers in my head instead of him.

"Exactly," he said, as if I had just made his point for him. "Which means you owe me, and since you seem so set against paying me back financially, I’ll settle for information instead."

I gave him a look. "Information?"

"Yep." He leaned against the shelf again, arms crossed, eyes sharp with mischief. "Who is Morgan Chapman?"

I blinked.

My fingers tensed slightly against the can in my hand.

"I—what?"

"You heard me," he said, tilting his head slightly. "You’re a mystery, and I like solving mysteries."

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, come on. There’s nothing mysterious about me."

"Mhm."

"Stop making that noise."

"What noise?"

"That—" I waved vaguely. "That smug little noise."

"Ah, that one." His grin widened.

I exhaled sharply, very close to just leaving my basket and walking out of the store altogether.

"Why are you like this?" I muttered, my voice half exasperation, half genuine confusion. "Why are you bothering me?"

Ollie just shrugged.

"Because."

That was it. No reason. No explanation. Just a simple, infuriating, because.

I stared at him.

"You are—" I stopped myself before I could say something rude and instead reached for another item, willing my face to not heat up. "—ugh."

"See! You have nothing to say!" he quipped back cheekily.

"Because you won’t leave me alone," I shot back.

"True," he admitted, completely unapologetic.

I pressed my lips together, shaking my head as I focused back on my shopping. I was not going to entertain whatever this was.

As Mrs. Tillet said (also can't believe I would fucking reference that goddamnned wench but here we are), pure hogwash. Learn to ignore the silly stuff.

"So, how long have you lived here?" he asked, switching tactics.

"My whole life."

"Huh. Must be nice, knowing everyone."

I let out a soft, dry laugh. "Not really."

"Really?" He raised an eyebrow. "Because I just got here, and I’m having a great time."

I shot him a look. "That’s because you don’t know any better yet."

"Ouch." He pressed a hand to his chest like I had personally wounded him. "What makes you think I won’t love it here?"

"Because it’s Stockbridge," I said flatly, shoving a bag of rice into my basket.

Ollie laughed. "Alright, fair point. But I don’t really have a choice."

"What do you mean?"

His grin wavered slightly—not disappearing, but softening. He glanced away for a second, running a hand through his hair.

"My parents split up," he said after a beat. "A couple months ago. It was messy. Too much arguing. So my Mum sent me here to live with my aunt until I turn twenty and can get my own place."

I blinked.

"Oh," I said quietly.

I didn’t know what else to say.

I knew what divorce looked like from the outside, but I had never been close enough to it to understand it. And hearing him say it so casually, like it was just another fact, made something in my chest twinge.

Ollie must have noticed my discomfort because, within seconds, he bounced back, his smirk returning like he had flipped some internal switch.

"So now, I get to spend my days working at this fine establishment, helping lovely customers such as yourself."

I arched an eyebrow. "You mean your aunt’s store."

"Yep."

"Wait—your aunt?"

"Aunt Sarah," he confirmed.

I blinked again.

"Sarah Davies?"

"The very same."

That made way too much sense.

Mrs. Davies—his Aunt Sarah—had always been the type to hover behind the counter, keeping an eye on customers like she was waiting for them to try something. She was sharp, observant, no-nonsense, but I could see it now—the similar curve of their noses, the way their eyes flickered with humor when they spoke.

I scolded myself for noticing that much about him.

"Huh," I muttered. "That actually explains a lot."

"What, my natural charm and work ethic?"

"More like your ability to slack off and still have a job."

"Hey," he said, feigning offense. "I stock things. Occasionally. When I feel like it."

I shook my head, turning back to my basket.

"Alright, then," I said, shifting topics. "What do you want to do after this? After you turn twenty and don’t have to work for your aunt anymore?"

Ollie brightened. "I want to build cars."

That caught me off guard.

"Like—" I tilted my head. "Fixing them? Or—?"

"No, like, engineering them. Designing them. I love how they work, how everything fits together, how every part has a purpose. It’s like—" he gestured wildly with his hands, "—a massive puzzle, except the puzzle can go 200 miles per hour if you do it right."

I blinked at the sudden energy shift.

"Oh."

"Oh?" He looked almost offended. "Morgan, cars are incredible. They’re a mix of art and engineering and physics all in one. Have you ever actually looked under the hood of a car? It’s brilliant. The way the pistons fire, the way the cooling system regulates everything—it’s like clockwork but a thousand times more complex."

I stared at him.

"I don’t know how to drive."

"That is devastating information."

"Well, excuse me for not having a car lying around."

Ollie gasped dramatically. "How do you even get around for long distances?"

I shot him a look. "I walk."

His face twisted like I had just told him I fought wild animals for sport. "You walk?"

"Or I take the bus," I added, grabbing a tin of beans from the shelf.

Ollie blinked, processing. "That’s… tragic."

I rolled my eyes. "It’s called public transport, Oliver. Most people use it."

"Yeah, and most people hate it." He paused, shifting on his feet, a spark of thought flickering across his face. Then, suddenly, he perked up. "Oh! I actually found something the other day."

I glanced at him warily. "That’s never a good way to start a sentence."

"No, no, hear me out." His voice dipped into something conspiratorial, and I immediately regretted engaging. "So, there’s this old junkyard, right? Just outside of town. It’s filled with tons of abandoned cars. Some of them are still in decent shape."

I blinked. "And?"

His grin stretched. "And we should go."

I stared at him like he had just grown a second head. "Go where?"

"To the junkyard!" He gestured wildly, like this was obvious. "Think about it! A midnight adventure, surrounded by forgotten machines, peeling paint, and cracked windshields—like walking through history! And if—hypothetically—we manage to find one that still works…" He wiggled his eyebrows.

My stomach dropped. "Oh, absolutely not."

"C’mon," he pressed. "Just picture it. The two of us, sneaking out in the dead of night, dodging security guards, hotwiring some old car—"

"I'm going to be so honest, I don't think this little town has security guards," I cut in.

"—peeling out onto the open road, wind in our hair, not a single care in the world—"

"Oliver."

"—a total Bonnie and Clyde moment, but without the murder, obviously—"

I shot him a sharp glare. "Do you hear yourself right now?"

He only grinned wider. "Morgan, this could be the plot for your next novel! Two enemies forced together by fate—"

I groaned, gripping my basket tighter.

"—an old car, a midnight escape, forbidden tension—"

I gave him a look.

He snapped his fingers. "Call it Driven by Desire. You should pen this idea down right this instant Morgan. I've given you a millionaire man's idea!" He threw his hands up, voice increasing in decibel by the second.

I stared at him, deadpan. "I hate you."

"You don’t," he said smoothly. "But it’s okay, take your time realizing it."

I let out a slow, long exhale. "There is no way I’m sneaking into a junkyard with you in the middle of the night."

Ollie clasped his hands together like he was in prayer. "Morgan. Morgan. Think about the narrative. Think about the adventure."

I shook my head, shifting my basket. "Not happening."

"Eleven-thirty," he said as if I hadn’t spoken, his voice dropping to a hushed tone, full of exaggerated secrecy. "Back gate of the old scrapyard, just off Holloway Road. You can’t miss it—big, ugly rusted sign, looks like it’s been there since the Holy Roman Empire, which by the way, was neither holy, nor Roman, nor an empire, which quite frankly, is odd," He trailed off, lost in thought. Regaining his senses, he continued to speak, "Meet me there."

I squinted at him. "You are seriously asking me to meet you at some abandoned lot at night."

"Yes," he said, sliding closer. Before I could react, he deftly slipped a piece of paper into my basket, right between a can of tomatoes and a bag of rice.

I stared at it like it had personally offended me.

"Did you just—"

"Consider it an invitation," he cut in smoothly.

I picked up the crumpled scrap of receipt paper, unimpressed. "You wrote it down?"

He grinned. "Didn’t want you to forget."

I groaned, stuffing the paper into my coat pocket without looking at it. "You are actually the most ridiculous person I’ve ever met."

"Uh huh, sure," He rolled his eyes.

"My life was never this messy and chaotic before I met you," I said.

"Silly, silly, Morgan. You never even had a life before you met me, that's why," He let out a huge grin.

"Oh you bastard," The corners of my lips were inching up in a smile.

"You are showing up Morgan, I hypnotize you," He waved his hands in front of my face in a silly motion. His slender pale fingers waving in front of my face so closely, I could see the individual calluses on his hands.

A boy of hard work.

I scoffed. "You think I’m actually showing up?"

"Absolutely," he said, no hesitation.

I huffed, shaking my head, determined to ignore him as I made my way toward the checkout.

But three hours later, standing in my bedroom, staring at that stupid crumpled receipt, I realized—

I was going.

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taglist: @thatsnotaddy @schumacherluvr

author's note: this chapter was originally 22K words but then tumblr said i exceeded the number of line blocks (it apparently is 1000 lines and i had 2552 lines 😭 i didn't realize how many lines dialogue actually takes up) let me know what you enjoyed about this fic and any pieces feedback if you have any :) anyways, comment to be added to the taglist!