#chapter forty five

[redux-iterum]

Charred Legacy: Chapter Forty-Five

(AO3 counterpart here.)

The Houses were quiet at night, but made up for the lack of one sense with the overabundance of another—every window blared yellow and white, accompanied by porch-lights that blasted Fireheart’s eyes when he and his friends walked past them. Every time, Greystripe grunted in irritation behind him, and he could practically feel Ravenwing’s flinches.

“Remind me where your sister’s house is?” Greystripe said after a stretch of walking in silence.

“Not too far,” Fireheart replied. “She’s on the corner of the street up ahead.”

“Her humans should be asleep by now,” Ravenwing mused. “She might be, too. Would Cloudpaw stick around there?”

Fireheart grimaced. “He’s been inside her home before. My guess is that he’s stayed with her to eat and rest. He could be there because he’s afraid to come home, but…”

“…But?” Ravenwing prompted after a pause.

Claws slipped out, clicking on the pavement. “But it’s possible that the humans took him to another house, or to the pound to look for his owner.”

“The ‘pound’,” Greystripe echoed. “I’ve heard of that. It’s a prison, right? Where a bunch of cats are trapped until humans come and get them?”

“Essentially.”

“Ugh.” An audible shiver of fur behind him. “I hope he’s still here, then.”

Fireheart said nothing. He felt eyes on the back of his head, curious and uneasy ones.

“So, if we do find him,” Ravenwing said at last, in a tone of testing waters, “what are we going to say? We should probably plan that before we actually get to him.”

“I know what I’ll say,” Fireheart said flatly. “Neither of you needs to talk.”

The stares turned unnerved. He could sense the two of them looking at each other in worry. 

“Are you sure you don’t want us to say anything?” Greystripe asked hesitantly.

“I’m sure,” was all Fireheart responded with.

The pause this time was a lot more tense; Fireheart was sure they were silently trying to figure out what to say to him. Whatever it was—a plea to go easy on Cloudpaw, a question about what he’d say, a suggestion of how to get Cloudpaw back—he had to admit that, for once, he didn’t particularly care about it. He had his words rehearsed in his head already. He just had to brace himself for the reaction to them.

The silence continued until they reached Rosy’s fence and stopped in front of it. The wood was slightly scraped and splintered on the top, paint chipped off in one or two places. Fireheart had never paid attention to these details before. Now, he scanned with his eyes, memorizing them, knowing that he would likely not get to study them again.

He took a breath, bunched up, and leaped for the top. He landed on the thin rail, perfectly balanced where he stood. Greystripe and Ravenwing followed him immediately, Greystripe nearly falling over the side and Ravenwing making a small, startled noise at how small his landing strip was.

Cloudpaw was not in the yard.

He was, however, at the glass door, staring mournfully outside. Behind him, Rosy was saying something that the glass muted. If Fireheart was judging her posture and gestures right, she was trying to calm him down. Coax him, perhaps.

Cloudpaw looked up a few moments after his uncle had arrived. He jumped to his feet and began moving his mouth eagerly, his vibrant blue eyes wild with distress. Whatever he was trying to say, the glass blocked it beyond a faint, desperate mumble.

“Well,” Greystripe said, “at least he’s here.”

“Mm.” Fireheart jumped down into the yard, his friends landing a moment later beside him.

“Don’t say anything too loudly,” Ravenwing murmured. “If the humans wake up, they might try to catch us too.”

Fireheart walked up to the door-flap beside the glass, pawing at it experimentally. It was blocked by something flat and stiff.

“They’ve closed the door,” he said. “That’s why he hasn’t come home. He can’t get out at all.”

“Well, maybe not ‘at all’…” Ravenwing looked up at the glass door, head tilted. “How do covers like this typically open?”

“Mine slid to the side,” Fireheart said, then looked at Ravenwing. “What are you thinking?”

Ravenwing hummed, eyes narrowed. “I’m thinking we should try pushing this open a bit.”

“I dunno, it’s probably really heavy,” Greystripe said. “Can’t we pry open that little one Fireheart was looking at?”

Ravenwing shook his head. “If we could, Cloudpaw and Rosy would have already done it.”

“Flap-guards tend to have a trick to them that needs humans to work them,” Fireheart agreed. He clicked his teeth as he regarded the glass door. “We may not be strong enough to open this, though, Ravenwing.”

“We might as well give it a try.”

“And if it doesn’t work?”

“We’ll find another way.”

Something in Fireheart, something like a hidden anxiety he hadn’t registered, smoothed out and eased. They’re not going to give up on him, no matter what he’s done.

“Let’s try it, then,” he said. He closed in on the glass and pressed a paw against it, testing its weight. It was heavy indeed, and his paw slipped a little as he pushed.

Ravenwing hummed again as Greystripe joined them. “Try pushing here, on this end of it. That little bump of metal can give us a grip.”

Greystripe took up position, rearing on his hind legs and leaning his weight against the metal that surrounded the glass on all sides. Fireheart crouched beneath him, and Ravenwing was closer to the middle, his paws on the small metal ridge on the bottom of the door. Looking excited, Cloudpaw mirrored Ravenwing. Rosy, after a moment of hesitation, joined up behind her son.

With a word from Ravenwing, Fireheart braced his feet on the grass and pushed as hard as he could, straining every muscle and unconsciously gritting his teeth. Above him, Greystripe half-growled with the effort, and Ravenwing groaned through a closed mouth. Greystripe had been right; it was like pushing the Great Sycamore over, and Fireheart started to doubt this would work.

Then he had to lean a little forward, and a faint squeak of a door splitting from its mooring sounded. He repositioned and pushed again, his friends copying. Ever-so-slowly, they moved a few steps forward, until Cloudpaw’s voice cried out much more clearly.

“Eparme!” he shouted.

Fireheart puffed air and dropped back down on all fours, scooting out underneath Greystripe just before he did the same. The effort of moving the behemoth door made his limbs a little shaky, but it didn’t matter when Cloudpaw’s muzzle was pushing out into the open.

“Cloudpaw,” he said, soft with relief. He met up with his nephew, touching noses with him as well as he could.

His fluffy head was pressed between the door and the wall, straining as hard as he could to squeeze out through the small gap. Rosy appeared behind him, her face somewhere between worried and excited.

“Let’s push from this side now,” Ravenwing said, gesturing with a paw to the gap. “I think that’ll be easier. Did you notice it slid open better once it left the wall?”

“In that case, let me.” Greystripe braced his paws on the open door and his back against the wall of the house. With a grunt, he shoved hard, even lifting a back foot to join the effort. Slowly, the door slid again, Greystripe only stopping when the gap was wide enough for Cloudpaw to push through. He stepped out of the way with a huff of exhaustion, letting Cloudpaw run to Fireheart and lean against his chest, purring as loud as his mother often did.

Fireheart rested his chin on Cloudpaw’s head. “Hey, little guy.”

“I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.” Cloudpaw looked up at him. “I went inside just for a moment, and, and they closed the door, and I couldn’t get it open– I thought I’d be in there forever.” He beamed. “But you came for me! I was scared you wouldn’t!”

Despite his own relief and love surging through his veins, Fireheart’s chest and mind were a little cooled. He simply blinked slowly at his nephew and nodded to the fence. “We should get out of here before the humans wake up.”

Rosy wriggled through the door gap. Being considerably thinner than her son, it was a lot easier. “You’re taking him back? What am I supposed to do while he’s—”

“You should come with us,” Fireheart said to her. “This will be important.”

Cloudpaw blinked. “Not to camp, right?”

“Just to the edge of the Houses.” Fireheart crooked his tail. “Come on.”

With him at the lead, the group crossed over the fence and loped at a steady but quick pace, not speaking until they reached the final house before the pavement turned to earth and grass. There, Fireheart turned around, lifting a paw for everyone to stop. His eyes were on Cloudpaw.

“This is the last time,” he said.

Cloudpaw’s excitement turned to meek shame. His head lowered and his paws shuffled. “I know, I—”

“This is the last time,” Fireheart continued, “that you get to decide where you stand.”

A pause. Everyone looked at him apprehensively.

“You have two choices, and this will be your final answer.” Fireheart swept his tail towards the forest. “Either you come home with me, and never set foot in the Houses again—” he jerked a nod back the way they’d come. “—or you leave the Clans forever to live with a collar around your neck.”

Cloudpaw stared at him, mouth agape.

“Fireheart…” Ravenwing started carefully, but Fireheart shook his head.

“I’m not going to make any more excuses for you, and I’m not going to allow this behavior again. You’ve put yourself in danger too many times, you’ve disrespected and neglected your Clanmates to eat kittypet food, and you’ve scared everyone, especially your sister, by disappearing like this so much.” He stared deep into his nephew’s eyes, his own slightly narrowed. “You’re either Cloudpaw of ThunderClan or Cloudy the kittypet. Make your choice.”

His heart winced at the stricken look on Cloudpaw’s face. Half of him clamored to take back that whole speech, and the other half demanded that he be stern and force Cloudpaw down the straight and narrow. He responded to both by silently standing tall, looking down at his nephew with a steady but gentle gaze.

Rosy took a step forward, her voice a little shaky, but audibly trying to be strong. “Fireheart, you can’t do that to him. He needs me, and he needs you too.”

“He doesn’t need you,” Fireheart said curtly without thinking, and regretted it the instant he saw Rosy’s eyes widen and mouth drop open. He softened his voice, trying to backpedal. “He doesn’t need me, either. It’s not about what he needs.” He returned his attention to Cloudpaw. “It’s about what you want. Do you want to be a kittypet, or do you want to be a warrior?”

“W…” Cloudpaw fidgeted, now like a kit trying to squirm their way out of punishment. “What if I just come to say hi to mira?”

The immediacy of Fireheart’s response surprised himself. “Then I will let the Clan know to chase you away from the border every time you try to come back.”

The look on Cloudpaw’s face was soul-shattering. The gawks from his friends and Rosy were not much better.

“I’m sorry,” Fireheart said quietly. “But you need to choose where your loyalty lies and stick with it. You’re hurting everyone by going like you are now—your mothers, me, your siblings, your friends, all of us.”

This seemed to reach Cloudpaw. He glanced back at Rosy, whose face had turned pleading.

“Then…” Rosy’s voice lost its attempt at strength. “Then stay with me, Cloudy. Please.”

Cloudpaw looked between her and Fireheart, his ears low. He asked his uncle, “Can… can I think about it?”

“No,” Fireheart said.

Cloudpaw balked. “Wh– I have to choose right now?!”

“Yes.”

“But—”

Fireheart simply looked down at him, trying to express sympathy and firmness together. Cloudpaw shut his mouth and looked back at Rosy.

Rosy trembled. “Don’t– don’t you dare do this to me, Fireheart. I can’t lose him. I can’t.”

“Neither can I,” Fireheart replied softly.

“No, you—” Rosy’s back-fur bristled, but she somehow looked even smaller. “You’re not his mother. You didn’t lose all of your kits to different houses. You didn’t—”

“And you didn’t raise him.” Fireheart’s voice was sharper than he intended, but he couldn’t stop his sudden spike of anger now, despite the hurt look on his sister’s face. “You didn’t protect him during the fire. You didn’t train him to protect himself in the wild. You gave him over to his Clan-mother before he could ever remember you, and she fed him and loved him as fiercely as you could ever hope to. His sister loves him. His Clan loves him. I love him.”

Cloudpaw looked up at him, eyes wide again, his expression startled, yet touched.

Fireheart spoke to him now, his voice quiet again and his anger dissipated. “But that’s not going to matter if you stay with Rosy and become a kittypet. I’ll understand if you do, and I won’t be angry – Rosy loves you too; she’ll take care of you for the rest of her life and you’ll be safe from every danger. But that means you’ll never see ThunderClan or me again. Do you understand that?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ravenwing’s eyes were wide enough to see a white ring around them and Greystripe fur fluffed out in nervousness. Fireheart disregarded them for now. This wasn’t for them to be involved in. He just turned his attention back to his nephew and sister.

Cloudpaw finally spoke, his voice so quiet Fireheart almost didn’t hear him. “…Will you miss me?”

Fireheart nodded. “Every day.”

“Cloudy, please—” Rosy stumbled a few steps forward, shaking all the way to her tail-tip. “Please, stay with me. I can take care of you, I can feed you and love you, please, I need you to be in my life. I can’t lose you again.“

Cloudpaw inhaled deeply, squeezing his eyes shut. He held his breath for a moment before letting it out at a stuttering pace. Opening his eyes again, with an acute pain in them, he turned to Rosy. Fireheart’s heart clenched, a thorn embedding itself deep in it.

“I’m sorry,” Cloudpaw said sadly. “ThunderClan needs me, too.”

Rosy stared at him, her eyes going wet and agonized. The thorn in Fireheart’s chest dug a little deeper, but course-corrected its pain to her now. Regret washed over him at the look on his sister’s face, the way that every inch of her froze over.

“We’ll take care of him,” he said. “Just like we always have. I promise.”

Cloudpaw turned around and nervously asked his uncle, “Will– will you see her, at least?”

Stars, Fireheart hadn’t wanted to approach that question. “…I don’t think so, no. I need to set an example, for you and for the Clan. I have duties, now, Cloudpaw. I have to take care of our Clan before myself.”

A small whimper escaped Rosy’s mouth. “No… you… Rusty, please—”

“I’m sorry,” Fireheart said, his voice unsteady as something in him broke. “I’m more sorry than you could ever know.”

There was a stretch of silence as the family looked at each other, Rosy’s heart visibly cracked in half and guilt and sorrow flooding Fireheart’s body. Cloudpaw was the one to stir, walking up to Rosy and gently pressing his forehead against hers.

“Bye, mira,” he murmured. “I love you.”

Rosy didn’t speak. All that came out of her were weeping breaths and mumbled attempts at words. Fireheart felt himself pulled forward to mimic the gesture when Cloudpaw was done, but Rosy flinched away from him, backing up a step and leaning away. Furious, unbearable, grieving betrayal burned in her eyes.

Fireheart didn’t push her. He simply stood back, met her eyes and nodded slightly. Anything he could say would not make this better, so he didn’t try. He just beckoned his friends and nephew with his tail, turned around, and started for the forest. After a moment, grass parted behind him, and pawsteps of varying weight followed.

He could feel Rosy’s unforgiving glare on his back all the way into the forest.

[renee-writer]

April 15th Chapter Forty-five

AO3

“I don’t  remember the explosion.” His voice is tentative and so soft, “Just one minute beside William and the others, the next on my face. That is when I saw you walking towards me. I knew I must be dead until the pain hit. It was so bad, I knew even if I didn’t make heaven that hell wouldn’t be that bad. Then I knew I was alive. Whether I wished to be or not.”

 

She makes a sound of dismay. He continues, “Not that I wished to leave you and our children. Just for a second, as I came to an awareness of it.  Then they gave me something, ether, I suppose, and I was unaware again,” he moves to rearrange them, drawing her to his chest, “They told me later that they kept me drugged through the worst of it. I don’t doubt that is true but the debriding,” He shudders and tightens himself around her, “ it was pure agony. As gentle as they tried to be.”

 

Her hands move back to his back, tracing the craters and hills. “I am sorry you went through such pain. I am glad you are back with us, though. Here and whole.”

 

“Am I?” he thinks, “here aye but whole? Not missing a limb but not the man I was before seeing war.”

 

“William, he says his name with sorrow, “he was captured by the Germans. They must have thought me dead. I don’t know what is happening to him. How am I to live with that? Safe here with you and the children while he…”

 

She swallows back her own tears. How are they to live with the uncertainty, the not knowing? Will there be a telegram? Something that puts an end to their waiting? One way or the other.

 

“We pray for him. Jamie my love, that is all we can do.”

 

She is right. If he knew where they were holding him, he would attempt a rescue. He doesn’t.

 

“Aye, it is almost Christmas. Maybe there will be a miracle.” She nods, breathing in the scent of her husband, here with her even as she petitions heaven for her brother -in-law.

[steele-soulmate]

Princess of Candy Coated Lies, Modern Royalty AU-King Peter Steele & Grifter/ Single Mother OFC, Soulmate AU

Chapter 45

SUMMARY: When single mother Molly Anne is forced into a life of heavy grifting and small time petty crime, she is mistaken for visiting dignitary Lady Bridget Barlowe. Swept into a sudden world of cruel glamour and pretty jewels, how do things work out for her when she is faced with her biggest con yet- involving King Peter of Brooklyn, her soulmate?

Soulmate AU where you never know what the first words your soulmate says to you until they say it

STORY WARNINGS: mentions of stalking (nothing serious)

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHORESS: This fic is dedicated to SkullWoggle on AO3 and @rock-a-noodle on Tumblr.

WORD COUNT: 1187

I was jerked from my peaceful nap by a resounding pattering that echoed throughout the house, and as I groggily woke up again, I found that it was now nightfall, and began to wonder what exactly was going on.

PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT

“Mommy! Daddy!” yelled Aria as she and Evie both tore into the master bedroom. “Guess what? Guess what?” She took a flying leap and bounced onto the bed before army crawling to her father’s side of the bed and draping herself across his burly chest.

“What?” grouched Peter. I knew from watching an interview that he did in the past that he was always a grumpy mess whenever he was forced out of a good sleep.

“You’re never going to guess what me and Evie got!” she giggled happily as the queen appeared in the doorway, her face growing a sweet smile at the sleepy disorientation that the king and I were currently under.

“Aria, you and Evie woke daddy and I up from a nap!” I scolded her. “You need to learn how to read the room!”

“Oops,” she meeped. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine, I needed to wake up, anyway,” Peter told her with a chortle. “So, what did you and Evie get today?”

The girls excitedly presented their school backpacks- pulling out fistfuls of pencils and binders with lined paper and lunchboxes and water bottles. Aria’s treasures were in bright, bold colors while Evie had feminine floral designs marking her gear. I smiled as Aria handed me their receipts, which I scanned out of habit. I frowned at the numbers and looked up to say something.

“Aria had a bit extra on her card, so she told Evie that she could use it,” the queen told me as she entered the room with a smile. “I treated them to burgers and milkshakes for lunch and then a movie- I got the BDA applicable screen for Evie.”

I smiled- Aria took her duty as Evie’s older sister very seriously at time, almost like it was a full time job.

“Well, okay then,” I chuckled as Evie showed off a box of one hundred and eighty count of colored pencils. I knew that she had splurged a little bit, and that Aria had given up some of her allowance to allow her the special treat. She had done so in the past, when I was only able to afford one meal. Aria would only eat three or four bites before telling Evie that she needed to eat and that she wasn’t hungry.

“Well, what movie did you all go out and see?” I asked them.

“Butterfly Attack,” Aria shrugged. “It was a really good movie!”

“Oh, I bet!” I said as Peter tossed his legs out of bed and stood to take his mother into his office, located just next door to our bedroom. “Well, you two had a very busy day today- why don’t you both go and take a shower and get into your pajamas and then the four of us can go watch a movie before retiring for bed?”

“Okay, mommy!” Aria and Evie both skipped out of the room, heading over to their Jack and Jill bedrooms to go get ready.

Peter came in fifteen minutes later after walking his mother out to the front, where her driver had been sitting on the couch in the front sunroom answering some emails on his cell phone.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” he greeted me as I was changing into my pajamas, way too lazy to take a shower right now. “Mom asked me if we’ll need help decorating for December tomorrow- she doesn’t mind sending us some help, but I told her that we will probably have everything covered.”

“Is tomorrow really the first of December?” I asked, wrinkling my nose. “If so, then I have completely lost track of the days!”

Peter chuckled as I disappeared into the bathroom, reemerging with my hairbrush and a hair tie. He positioned himself onto the bed and I took a seat in front of him, all but purring when he began to untangle my curls from the day’s adventures.

“I can’t wait for the girls to open their Christmas presents,” he told me, looking up as soft pattering started to sound out, indicating the return of our family bedbugs.

PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT-PAT

Then, a sudden explosion at the door, which turned out to be the twins, giggling as they barreled into the master bedroom, jumping up onto the bed and getting under the blankets.

“Hihi mommy,” Aria meeped happily. “Can me and Evie  sleep with you and daddy tonight?”

“Why can’t you sleep in your beds tonight?” I asked them, using both my voice and hands to converse with them.

I want to feel safe, Evie confessed. There was a man how I think was following us today.

My hackles went up.

What gave you the notion that he was following you? I asked her with a soft hum, finger combing her loose blonde waves.

“He was trying to appear inconspicuous, but he was doing a poor job at it,” Aria told us. “We told Grammy, but she told us that the Kings’ Guardsmen would keep us safe.”

I didn’t need to turn around to see that my kingly husband was trying not to become angry-not at the girls though, never at his girls.

“Hey daddy? Will we have pictures taken of us for Christmas?” Aria wondered, and I couldn’t help but appreciate her attempt at changing the subject. “Grammy mentioned that she would do pictures of the family and then release them.”

“I have a niece who does photography as a full time job,” Peter told me, setting my brush down into my lap before tying my curls and then draping my long braid over my shoulder. “I can text her and see if she’s free tomorrow?”

“Yeah, sure,” I hummed as the four of us fell into bed together. “Why not?”

TAGLISTS ARE OPEN/ ASK BOX IS OPEN/ REQUESTS ARE OPEN/ PLOT BUNNIES ARE WELCOMED

If you liked this, then please consider buying me a coffee HERE It only costs $3!!!

PETER STEELE TAGLIST

@rock-a-noodle

@ch3rry-c0la

@rockstarsluttt

@angelxfuckk

[kingsmoot]

had a genuinely evil commute home today due to gnarly weather and threw on the first lotr audiobook to pass the time and oh my god i fear this is.... not for me...

[singingabouthedarktimes]

well. because the universe hates me. i think i have food poisoning 🤪

[poorwhayfairingstranger]

Hello I love Super Supportive and I'm so normal about my traumatized blorbo Alden

I am also normal about him. Let us discuss.

What chapter have you read to? I don't want to spoil anything about the demon cube.

[kayzero]

if i ever inspire you to make art but you’re afraid of “stealing” from me:

(obviously don’t like. download my shit off ao3 and post it under your own name. but if you wanna make a death game story with my narrative style i wanna read it.)

[s4sharkteeth]

this was the one singular post done with my mom’s computer btw

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[jusst-you-race]

Chapter Forty

the condominium community committee

chat fic, multi-chapter, (40/?)

George Hello, welcome to a group chat we have for the Formula apartment building! There are only 18 (20 now) of us so we like to keep in contact about the building maintenance and other neighbourly orders of business. I’m George, and I liaise with the building manager on behalf of all of us when there is a building specific issue rather than an apartment issue. Welcome to the building! Lando do u copy and paste that from ur notes every time Alex I bet he has it memorised

alternatively, the ridiculous chat fic where the f1 grid all live in the same apartment building

[xarrixii]

FLASH/BURN ADVANCE WARNING

If anyone has been around here for a while, you'll know I've got this running story named FLASH/BURN. You'll know I love it and maybe you might know that I've been burning out.

This started maybe a month ago when I thought that Alph--one of FLASH/BURN's protagonists--was really boring for me to write.

It's not that Alph is a boring character to me. Alph has a lot of hobbies and a lot of passions, they speak their fucking mind and they don't back down for anything except maybe the unconscious forces of telepathy.

And I've robbed them.

I have robbed my favorite character in my own series.

For an arc and a half of FLASH/BURN, Alph has been mostly if not totally blind. Which should be way more of a problem to this hotheaded passionate firestarter. Alph's hobbies are all things that involve them seeing in some way--driving, spray painting, hand-to-hand combat. When I think long-term about Alph's future, a life of helping kids and being a damn good cop, I've made it unnecessarily difficult for them to do that.

Alph should be furious, and they're not.

The reasoning Alph became blind is rooted in real life science, they were in an acid bank for about a month to make it easier for a telepath to rearrange the thought content of what makes up their reasoning for Storm's policy. As wonderfully defined by Harlow in chapter fifty, “ 'Acids destroy proteins,' Harlow puts his head in his hands. 'Eyes are made of proteins.' ”

Which is a big problem to me. The entire body has proteins. The only thing that got damaged was Alph's eyes? And it almost completely removed their eyesight?

It feels cheap to say something now like, "Oh, it's a special acid. It only affects eye proteins because magic" or "Actually everyone is WRONG about this and I've been LEADING the reader all these chapters about what happened" or "Nobody's mentioned the other injuries but they are there."

I'd like anything without connection to kinetics to remain as similar to real life as possible, I don't want to make everyone else seem dumb for trusting the conclusions of my characters, and I don't want to pretend like Harlow's internal monologue in chapter thirty-seven wouldn't have mentioned other points of scarring.

That's just not fair to me.

When I think about it harder, there's more reasons to just not include Alph's blindness arc:

The tank program used for Alph's blindness is really cheap--it only appears the once and that's the way I've been planning the story. That's wrong because I've made it seem more significant than that.

I don't want to offend people. Most of Alph's interactions with Afyer are just incredibly boring and I have to resort to Afyer saying things like "smiling, by the way," which is nice and all but is wrong in my head.

I'm trying to learn to describe more things about my scenes. To add more than just dialogue and monologues. The viewpoint of Alph does the opposite of this for me.

Alph isn't having any fun--I want Alph to have fun. I want to portray more fucking around with Alph and Afyer. I can't think of anything for them to do together that wouldn't just make Alph upset somehow.

I want my story to be fun to read. I want more of Alph looking around their surroundings and finding the best way to wreck the shit out of someone.

I want to have fun.

So I'm going to go to sleep. I'm gonna wake up, I'm gonna attempt to make myself food, try not to get distracted by the active disco that is my house at all times, I'm going to release all of the written chapters I haven't released yet, and then I'm going to start planning out what the chapters are going to look like using what I've written already as a rough baseline for going forward.

I actually can't guarantee I'll do anything tomorrow. But I'll try. I'll listen to a different song than Breaking Benjamin - Unknown Soldier (sorry, Harlow), and I'm gonna let myself enjoy writing FLASH/BURN again.

Because Alph deserves an apology for getting their life ruined.

Because if my head is telling me something is wrong--I need to listen.

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Series Masterlist (Completed)

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, Zak’s daughter OFC, forbidden romance vibes, very very slowburn romance, ableism on page, strong language, autistic meltdowns on page, eventual sexual content.

Notes — Hope you love it! Remember to check each chapter for individual warnings!

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

THE WATTPAD LINK

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

THE GROUPCHAT INTERLUDE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

EPILOGUE

[renee-writer]

April 15th Chapter Forty-five

AO3

It is cold. So cold. He shivers, his emaciated body unable to handle the temperature even with the blanket. He and his fellow prisoners get bread and thin soup, which has meat in it about every two weeks.

 

“It is almost Christmas.” One of men says.

 

“So?” another replies.

 

“So maybe we will get something special.”

 

Snorts greet his optimistic reply. William, wraps the blanket tighter around him.

 

“It is the season for miracles.” He says. His own would be to find out his brother is safe. He isn’t here so he still fights, is home, or… No! He doesn’t entertain the other thought. After that to be home himself. With Mary and his children.

 

“Fraser is right. Why can’t we have hope. Come gentlemen, let us lift up some carols. May God hear and remember us.” The highest ranked man among them says.

 

They start to sing. Silent Night has never sounded so mournful. Their captors hear. Soon the haunting melody is being sung in English and German. It spreads to the soldiers in the fields, and those they are fighting against. French and stronger accented American voices join in.

 

A Christmas truce has begun.

[salem-s]

01 ─ PLAYING THE PART UNDER THE SICILIAN SUN (18+) ── RAFE CAMERON

SYNOPSIS when your image-obsessed mother catches you and Rafe Cameron ─ your friends with benefits ─ in a compromising situation, you must lie and say you're dating. It spirals out of control when your mother invites him to your cousin's upcoming wedding in Italy, and spirals even further when he says yes. SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT PART

WARNINGS suggestive themes, nudity, swearing, graphic imagery.

WORD COUNT 5.9k. Yikes.

SONG OF THE CHAPTER forget it by blood orange

“I’m gonna hop in the shower, so here.” 

You gather each item of clothing he sporadically scattered across the room earlier, bunching it in your arms and hissing as his belt loop harshly knocks against your elbow. You plop the pile on his belly as Rafe lounges lazily, one arm resting under his head and the other skimming over his bare torso.

The act neglects to faze him as he simply watches you, the thin grey sheets bunch up dangerously low around his hips as the clothes sit – with no intention of going back on his body anytime soon – idly in his lap. 

If anything, his eyes do all the talking: come back to bed. Now.

Pushing the wordless message to the back of your mind, you notice that he makes no effort to move, instead his eyes scanning up and down your nude body. 

You scoff at his sloth. “No, by all means, take your time.”

He hums teasingly at the attempt to act tough. “You don’t want me to join you, baby?”

Rafe’s nimble fingers reach out to grab you by the waist, his sweet talk stirring something scandalous in your tummy. But you swerve his touch, knowing you'll undoubtedly give in if he gets his hands on you, and you have too much to do today to even contemplate going back to bed with him right now. 

“Nuh-uh, Cameron,” you warn seriously, waving a finger at him, trying not to grin at his ridiculous pout. He looks too comfortable on your bed, like he was made to lay there. “I need to have an everything shower.”

“And I should care because..?”

You roll your eyes, as if it’s obvious. “My everything shower time is me time. It’s forty five minutes of work. I’m sweating. I’m cleaning. I’m shaving. You don’t need to see all of that. I don’t want you to see all of that,” you say sternly.

Instead of seceding, Rafe scoffs in utter disbelief. It’s almost mean.

He sits up in bed, clothes bunching on his lap.

“So, let me get this straight. You’ll let me see your gaping asshole, but you won’t let me see you shave?”

You and Rafe have this mutual agreement where you sleep together when it’s convenient, or when someone’s bored, or after a night of drinking and smoking and one wants to lay around and have a little fun. It’s simple, no strings attached or added complications, because neither you nor Rafe have the emotional or physical capacities to even consider being in a romantic relationship in this day and age.

At least that’s what you repeat in your head over and over again, reiterating the mantra more than you do your own class notes.

But that's besides the point. 

Towards the end of freshmen year, your separate friend groups collided after a risky run in with campus police. The experience undoubtedly brought you all closer to the point where, by the end of the year, everyone was already planning shenanigans to get up to at the start of sophomore year, and it just snowballed from there. 

Your friendship with Rafe, however, started rocky. The two of you liked to quip and jab at each other – often at the expense of the other. It was more teasing on Rafe’s side and defense on yours, because a favorite past time of yours is putting cocky men in their place when they try to act up around you. And if Rafe is good at one thing, it’s being overly confident in every situation he manages to squeeze himself into. 

Months of tennis-match-bickering back and forth led to one night where Rafe accidentally found you walking back to your dorm in a state of hysteria after you got love-bombed by your three-peat situationship – a nice boy named Jeremy who simply wanted to take the next step – muttering to yourself incredulously. After making sure you literally weren't in a state of psychosis, Rafe had shrugged off his jean jacket (which wasn't very warm) to give to you and walked with you.

You had lamented on why people couldn’t just take casual sex literally, how it’s impossible to find someone who understands the meaning of casual. In his oh-so-well-mannered nature, Rafe was eager to agree on this case and point, how relationships never work in college anyway, that it’s impossible to have fun these days without the other person ruining it by expecting more.

One thing led to another and you both created the agreement: casual sex. Friends who constantly bicker who also happen to have sex. Two people who hook up when it’s convenient with no emotional repercussions whatsoever. The idea seemed much easier since you and him are neighbors in the dorm, his room being ten feet to the right where you share a concrete wall. 

While it solves the walk of shame problem, it augments the issue of when Rafe brings other partners over and the noise gets a little extreme. You often wonder if he can hear whenever you bring someone else, and a small part of you hopes so, because the girls he brings home are genuinely so fucking annoying. 

(Because it doesn’t really help when Rafe’s the best lay of your sexual career. Not that you'll ever have the gall to admit that to him.)

You bark out an unattractive laugh at his crudeness, and ignore the flip of your heartbeat when Rafe grins cockily at the noise. Taking a towel out from the drawer, you wrap it around your body and spin around to face him, still unmoving with no sense of urgency or implication that he’s leaving anytime soon. 

“You’re loitering. Go back to your room.”

Rafe tilts his head to the side, almost inviting the confrontation. “You know I can eventually fuck a yes out of you, right?”

Duh, you think. You're well aware of the effect his body has on yours even if your mind keeps telling you no, it’s nothing more than sex and it never will be.

However, he takes your silence as contemplation, a lazy smirk etching his lips.

“Sweet girl,” Rafe drones out, his saccharine tone taking a slight warning as if to say make up your mind. 

But no, you're not falling for that stupidly endearing pet name that regretfully makes your mind turn to mush. “Nice try. Get dressed.”

“Can you help me? I forgot how.”

You roll your eyes, opening your mouth to respond but three harsh knocks at the door interrupt your thoughts. And thank god, because you aren't sure how to respond to his incessant flirting without eventually giving in, since his relentless attempts at a round two, three, four are usually successful.

Despite the interruption, you stand confused, eyes darting to the mini clock on the nightstand showing the time.

“Fuck’s sake. Marianne's early, we aren’t supposed to leave until ten.” You dart your gaze from the time to the man in bed, watching you with a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Jesus. Will you get dressed?” 

Rafe doesn’t move, instead he stretches his arms up and you have to tear your gaze away. “Will you tell Mare to give us, uhhh, like, ten minutes?”

“You’re insufferable,” you huff, clutching the towel tighter as you move towards the door to look in the peephole. “I’ll have you know that I–”

You freeze when you look in the peephole, hand hovering over the doorknob. Heart dropping to your feet, you suck in a harsh breath as if the wind is knocked out of your chest, already feeling its beat thumping against your rib cage a mile a minute. 

It’s not Marianne behind the door. 

It’s your mother. 

Your mother who you've been ghosting for the past month. 

Shiiiiiiiiiiiit. 

“Know what, baby?” Rafe eggs on lazily, unbeknownst to the shit show that just began. 

His voice thrusts you back to reality, stumbling back a few steps as you suck in another harsh breath, mind racing at the premature anxiety induced encounter that’s about to happen.

Your mind reels: your overly pretentious and spectacle-driven mother is behind that piece of wood. Rafe is still naked on the bed. Your mother’s been hounding you about several issues for weeks now that you've pushed to the back of your to-do list. You doesn’t have any clothes on and–

Oh, god, neither does Rafe.

You spin around as three more knocks make you jump out of your skin, locking eyes with him as you gesture to his clothes urgently. 

“You need to leave.”

The complete 180 in behavior makes Rafe furrow his brows. “Wh–?”

You run over to him, grabbing his shirt and forcefully shoving it over his head and messing up his already tousled hair. “I’m not fucking around. Get dressed. Now,” you hiss stern-fully, ignoring his confused gaze because it just increasingly pisses you off more. 

“Mare will live if she sees a sliver of skin,” he begins to defend, grabbing at your waist like a toddler and frowning when you swat him off. 

“Yeah, well, it’s not Marianne at the door, it’s my fucking mom. So. Get. Dressed. Now.” 

Rafe has the audacity to laugh in your face. 

It only makes your stomach bubble in anxiety as you huff and throw the sheet off of his legs, messily pushing his legs through the holes of his boxers and jeans to urgently usher him to do what you're asking of him. Again, he makes absolutely no effort to move, instead watching you with an amused look.

“Why are you panicking?” he asks nonchalantly as if the whole situation isn’t an anxiety attack waiting to happen. “I’m great with parents.”

“No,” you immediately warn. 

“I’m, like, the parent-whisperer.”

You continue to try (and fail) at dressing him. “Not while you’re my fuck buddy. She cannot know about this.” Your head whips back and forth between the door and the boy lazily lounging, chest heaving.

It’s infuriating how relaxed he is. Rafe reaches up and pushes some hair out of your face as three more knocks break the sound barrier. “Well, baby, I’m already here.”

“Fuck,” you mutter, pressing the heels of your palm to your forehead. “Fuck. I’m not screwing around, Rafe. Get dressed.” Then, pathetically, you add, “Please.”

Three more knocks, more like pounds, snap you out of your millisecond pity party. Stepping away from Rafe, you exhale shakily and push back the same strand of hair he attempted to brush away. Your brows furrow in thought, eyes trained on the ground as you calculate your plan of attack as a silence falls between you both.

Rafe manages to stand, pulling his jeans up the rest of the way and buckling his belt. The whole time he’s obeying your command he’s frowning, unable to discern if he’s frowning at the fact that you're so worked up over a parent (or how you used his real name) or how he’s actually listening to you.

“Okay,” you say sternly after a moment, mind made up as you slowly walk towards the door with your eyes trained on him. “You’re gay.”

“What?”

“It’s the only explanation that won’t get me viscerally berated. That, or you pretend to be my boyfriend.”

“You’d rather me be gay than be your boyfriend?”

You laugh humorlessly and it makes him frown deeper. The way you don't elaborate – nor stop laughing – makes his irritation bubble out of thin air, hands clenching at his fists at the fact that you think it’s so funny for the latter to be true, as if he could never provide that for you, as if the concept is a fantasy. 

But the laugh dissipates as quickly as it came, your hand ghosting over the doorknob as you point to him with a shaky finger. “Don’t play.”

Then, you open the door a crack to reveal your mother. 

Paulette is the living, breathing epitome of a trophy-wife-turned-emotionless-mother. Whatever concept a PTO mom has, it’s Paulette in a nutshell.

She drips heavily in subtle designer that, undoubtedly, looks flawless and effortless, but unfathomably performative as it simply flashes people on how much money she likes to flaunt. She donates to various charities but not without announcing the act with the specific amount coat-tailed to the sob story. She likes to doll you up into her perfect mold model child, while viscerally berating you behind the curtain and nitpicking all of the things you do wrong. She likes to make fun of your style and independence and blame it on the lack of male attention in your life.

Long story short? The two of you don’t get along. 

Paulette curtly says your name in greeting and it’s hardly friendly. “I’ve been standing here for ages.”

You put your body in the small crack of the door frame, doing your best to shield your mother from seeing Rafe.

“Hi. This couldn’t have been a phone call?” you ask hurriedly, sheepishly, cheeks already flaming at the periculousness of the situation.

Paulette narrows her gaze like a hawk. “Apparently not. You haven’t answered a single one of my calls.” Then, she sighs as if being here is an inconvenience. “I’m done standing here, angel. It reeks of skunk. Let me in. We need to talk.”

“But–”

“Enough,” she snaps, not giving you the chance to think before she puts a perfectly manicured hand on the door, pushing it open with such force that it causes you to stumble. “I do everything for you and you can’t even–”

Paulette pauses when she steps into the dorm room, taking in the sight of Rafe, who stands tall and lean at the edge of the bed, thankfully fully dressed. 

The silence engulfs the room as the door clicks shut, you clutch your towel with a pained expression etched on your face at the scandalous scene unfolding. Paulette’s stern gaze shifts from Rafe, to the unmade bed, to your basically naked body, and back to Rafe. 

You shift uncomfortably after a beat. “Uh, mom, this is–”

“Rafe,” he suddenly introduces himself, flashing Paulette a charming smile that has you frowning in confusion. Since when does he have that kind of smile on the back burner? You nearly roll your eyes when he takes a step forward, politely offering Paulette his hand to shake. “Rafe Cameron.”

“Rafe,” Paulette repeats slowly, as if phonetically sounding it out, "Cameron."

You cough awkwardly at his outstretched hand. “He’s my f–”

“I’m her boyfriend.”

Your blood runs cold as you whip your head around to stare at him. The audacity of him–

But Paulette takes his hand and shakes it firmly, making a small hum of contemplation that has you holding your breath in anticipation, in anxiety. Silence engulfs them once more. 

Retracting her polished hand, Paulette studies Rafe with a curious look.

“Boyfriend?” she hums cautiously. You nearly puke. Rafe nods. Your mother says your name again accusatorially. “You didn’t tell me about this.”

Rafe doesn’t falter. Instead, he beams and dials the charm to an eleven. “I asked her a few weeks ago, so it’s pretty new. And private. We haven’t even told some of our friends yet.”

You reel. How is he this calm? How is he making this up on the spot as if it’s been rehearsed? Why does he look so damn happy? Why is your heart in your throat? Can he stop smiling like that? Because it’s making you think that he–

“Weeks?” Paulette shoots you a look. “Is that so?”

You shrink under your mother’s gaze, not trusting words so you simply nod instead.

Paulette huffs at the response, putting her hands on her hips as she glares at you with an incredulous look. “You could’ve saved me the time and patience, if you just told me.” Paulette rubs out a growing migraine. 

Your irritation suddenly spikes. The condescending tone in your mother’s voice, the way Rafe’s fake smile slowly starts to fade as he further discovers the dynamic between mother and daughter, the way you're is still standing in your too-short towel– it’s all too much. 

“Okay, as much as I love the reunion, what exactly are you doing here?”

Paulette looks at you as if you have two heads. Exasperated, she throws her hands up in a really? gesture, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world for you to be able to read your mother’s mind. You reciprocate the motion sarcastically.

“The wedding?”

You furrow your brows. “Wh– Jessa’s? What about it?”

Paulette then proceeds to ignore you, turning her full attention to Rafe, who’s been watching the entire conversation like a tennis match. “Has she told you about the wedding?”

Rafe’s gaze darts to you, cautiously shaking his head at your widening eyes. “Uh, no.”

You know where this is going, and panic surges to your throat. 

You quickly jump to step in between your mother and Rafe. 

“He’s not coming!” 

The panicked tone startles all three of you, as you blink a few times and then clear your throat. You take a step back to gather yourself at the sudden outburst, but nearly jump as you bump against Rafe’s chest. There’s no escape with him right behind you and your mother right in front of you. 

You've never felt more trapped. And underdressed.

Paulette raises her brow in offense at the tone of voice, at her daughter’s manic behavior, almost egging you on to continue embarrassing yourself. 

Although you take a deep breath and remember the situation, finding your cool and taking a long, deep breath. That cool almost goes out the window when Rafe takes a particularly deep breath that makes his chest gently graze your back.

“Uh, well, we haven’t talked about it yet," you defend shakily, the tone so unlike your normal demeanor. "But it’s over Thanksgiving, I assume he has plans with his family.”

Then Rafe does the one thing you don't want him to do. 

He fucking shrugs and opens his mouth. “I don’t have plans.”

(Actually, he does. But those plans entail trekking the long drive home, enduring a week of arguing with his dad and step-mom about ridiculous shit, drinking with his home-town friends, and spending Thanksgiving with his family where they all either pretend to like each other for one night or fight so violently that the kitchen is covered in thrown food. It’s a plan he’s been dreading, honestly.)

Paulette huffs as you feverishly blink, thinking of all the ways you can kill Rafe before you let this whole ordeal happen. Strangulation, maybe.

Your mother hums your name. “See? This all could’ve been avoided if you asked him and answered the phone.”

“Mom,” you say without thinking, voice threatening to shake with anger, “did you really come all this way to interrogate me about a date?”

Poison could be easiest, you think. It is a woman’s weapon, after all. No one would suspect if he all of a sudden had food poisoning, maybe from the dining hall or from all the food service he greedily orders. Remember when Arya–

“Interrogate is a strong word, angel,” Paulette pffts, almost mockingly. “You were the only one at Mariano’s wedding last summer without a date. Do you know how many excuses I had to make for you?”

You can’t help but scoff. Needle between the toes. “I doubt people really cared about the nuances of my love life.”

A slight ping of pain pokes your heart, knowing deep down that your mother has to hand out excuses for your lack of respect for tradition, never having a good enough suitor to bring home to the family and kickstart a life with, which is an aspect of the women’s lives that seem to matter most to these people. 

It makes you want to puke. 

“But now I do,” her mother retorts, gesturing to Rafe. “This time, it’ll be far less embarrassing for us.”

Stab wounds. A hundred of them. 

All you can do is sigh. 

Pushing him off a cliff. Cutting his dick off and leaving him to bleed out in this room. Strapping him to the roof of a car and driving it off a mountain. 

As you daydream, Paulette sighs in content and claps her hands. “That settles that. Now, angel, I booked a reservation at the Hilton before Ronaldo drives me back. We need to go over your dress fitting alterations before I go since you’ve neglected to tell me your measurements. They have a good vinaigrette dressing we should try.”

“Sounds delicious,” you deadpan, but her mother either doesn’t pick up on the sarcasm or flat out ignores it. The thought of sitting alone at lunch with your mother settles a kettlebell in your gut. “Let me get dressed quick.”

“Oh, angel. You’re doing your hair and makeup too, right?” Paulette asks, the thought of you walking out in a nice outfit without doing anything to fix up your appearance being downright appalling. 

You reel, this type of behavior being nothing new. Instead of snapping, you simply nod and bite her tongue. Silence is better than whatever fight a backhanded comment will cause.

Paulette exhales in relief. “I’ll wait in the car for you, it’s the Mercedes out front.” She turns towards the door then stops, offering Rafe a curt nod. “It’s nice to meet you, Rafe. I’ll see you in Italy.” Then she remembers something. “I hope you have a passport.”

Then with that, she’s out the door, leaving you and Rafe to stand in silence. 

Beat. 

You feel him behind you, inches away. You don't even know if you can turn around and look at him without grabbing the nearest sharpest object and shoving it in his throat or twisting and pulling his balls off like an apple off a tree.

There’s a reason you told him to avoid the whole boyfriend alias, and this being the reason. 

You mother has always been keen on appearances, embracing the rather traditional gender roles in society. The women in your family thrive on the concept of a strong man to provide for his partner, for his family, and you have yet to express favor of that drastically sexist and outdated notion. The thought of pursuing a career, a life outside of relationships, is seen as selfish. 

To bring someone home to meet the family means being someone who is sought after, yearned for, loved. It’s an embarrassment to be older than twenty and not introduce a partner, for whatever stupid reason, because most of the women in your family marry young, having taken advantage of their youth and sinking their talons into men who either inherit generational wealth or did the bulk of the schooling to be in the well-off positions they’re in today. Last summer, you showed up to a wedding dateless, and – according to your mother – there’s never been a more embarrassing feat for the familial image. 

Once in high school, Paulette paid off a boy in your grade to go out with you for a few months so you'd have a date to her upcoming charity gala. It was your first ever boyfriend, if you can even call him that, so safe to say you have a hard time trusting people – specifically men – when it comes to dating. 

Real dating.

Which is something you know Rafe cannot provide. 

It doesn’t help that Rafe is a conventionally attractive man – who you have repeatedly pushed down your feelings for – who realistically is a perfect candidate in Paulette’s eyes. He’ll only fuel your mother’s instinct to flaunt her daughter’s ability to reign in someone like him: charming, rich, handsome. 

Boy, Paulette will have a field day introducing someone like him to the rest of the family. It makes you want to kill him with a gun. 

Breaking you from her violent thoughts, Rafe chuckles nervously behind you. “I feel like you’re mad.”

Understatement of the century there.

You scoff. “Mad? You think I’m mad?”

“Well, yeah–”

You spin around, facing him with a twitch in your eye and a quivering lip. “I’m not mad, Rafe. I’m fucking furious. I’m seconds away from throttling you right now.”

“Whoa,” he says in surprise, throwing his hands up in surrender with wide eyes, “I just did you a favor. I got her off your back.”

Rolling your eyes so hard it kickstarts a migraine, you can’t help but laugh darkly.

“Off my back,” you scoff in disbelief. Then you shake your head and walk over to the dresser, shimmying out of the towel and slipping on underwear. “Off my– You opened the biggest, grossest, evilest can of worms you could even imagine.” You clip on a bra and move towards throwing on a casual dress. 

All Rafe can do is watch and attempt to defend himself, teetering between irritation and wanting to joke about the whole ordeal. “Okay, well, you didn’t really give me much of a script to go along with.”

You shimmy on the dress, looking at him incredulously. “Yes, I did!”

“I wasn’t about to play gay!”

You throw your head back, groaning. Slipping on a pair of heels he’s never seen before, your face burns incredibly hot, and it feels like your skin is on fire as his eyes don’t leave your figure.

“You had one job, Cameron. One!”

“No, it’s not–” Rafe huffs in exasperation, throwing his head back in frustration as well. The words don’t seem to come for a moment, but then he looks back at you, softer, more hesitant. “You don’t…You don’t think I can do it?”

“Do…what?”

“Be one? A boyfriend?”

Oh, the laugh you let out is audacious, as if the entire concept is the biggest comedic joke on planet earth. Apparently, the thought of it is hysterical because it makes you double over, damn near clutching your pearls as you howl. 

The sound pisses him off, and he can’t help but scoff at the utter display of mockery. “What the fuck is so funny?”

Is he kidding?

“Rafe,” you spat incrediously as you come down from your laughter, “zoom out for a second. There’s no way you’re going to convince anybody, and it’s not like I’m gonna be any better.”

There’s a pause between the two of you, and you can practically see the smoke coming out of his ears as he clenches his jaw, looking at you as if you've just offended his entire bloodline. No matter how hard he pouts or if he really snaps his jaw, he has to know that’s the gospel truth, otherwise he’d be an idiot.

Although the sight makes you confused, but you blame your sudden dizziness on the previous interaction with your mother because there’s no way he’s getting upset about this right now. He has to know this is hilarious, right?

It’s only the truth: Rafe Cameron has repeatedly told you that he doesn’t do relationships, only holding short-term girlfriends back home when it was all the rage, that he can’t picture himself being tied to one girl forever. The thought was completely unheard of for him. 

Maybe after college, is what he told you one day as you both lounged lazily, I’ll really start thinking about it. He had said that right before kissing you. 

Rafe unclenches his jaw and narrows his gaze at you in calculation, either soaking in your words or coming up with his next rebuttal. Whatever it is, he thinks about it very carefully so that it leaves you waiting in anticipation. 

“I could convince people,” he says cautiously, more to himself. “Totally. I could.” Rafe unclenches his fists, then whispers, “You really think I’d be that bad at it?”

The slight hesitation in his voice halts your movements, and you put your hands on your hips. “Give me a break. That’s not what this is about.”

Rafe’s shoulders sag. “Then what?” The sudden disposition makes you want to scream.

Why does he care so much?

“You’re… You’re just not coming.”

“Wh–” Rafe starts, reeling in confusion. 

You shush him with a pointed finger. “No. You’re not. You’re gonna have the flu, or something. Maybe an incurable disease. I haven’t decided yet.” You sit down at your desk and hurriedly curl your eyelashes. “Whatever it is, it’ll be so badly…bad that you won’t be able to go, or even lift a finger.”

Rafe can’t help the twitch of his lip curling up into a smirk. “Is that a threat, baby?”

“Don’t baby me, right now. I’m not your baby.”

“Sorry, baby.”

“Seriously, Cameron. I’m about to twist and pull your balls off.”

Fully grinning, Rafe finds himself moving from his vantage point, sauntering over to the desk and resting his hands on your shoulders as he leans down close to her ear. You ignore the thump of your heartbeat, figuring it’s the aftermath of such an anxiety inducing conversation with its best kickstarter: your mother. 

“Like an apple,” you emphasize with a gesture of plucking an apple off a tree in an attempt to regulate your dizziness from his close proximity, “just twist and pull them right off.”

Rafe rubs gentle circles in your muscle tensions, clearly finding the whole thing amusing. Prick. “You done?”

The relaxed tone makes you roll your eyes. “On second thought? You’d probably be into that. Freak.”

“You know me so well, hm, baby?”

“Nice try.” The honey in his voice almost makes you falter. Almost. “You’re still not coming.”

His thumbs massage the knots as he shrugs nonchalantly. “I dunno. It seems like it’ll be fun.”

You pause putting on mascara, looking at him through the mini mirror in disbelief. “Fun?” He shrugs again which makes you raise a brow. That's not the word you'd use, frankly. “You haven’t met my family.”

“I can totally woo them over. We already have so much chemistry.”

“The only time we’re not arguing is when we’re fucking.”

“I’ve never been to Italy,” he sighs dreamily, straying away from the point. “Been to Spain, Greece, France. But never Italy. I’ve always wanted to go.”

“No.”

“The food, the girls, the history.”

“No.”

“You’re really depriving me of my dream?”

“Yes,” you hiss, finishing your touches to your requested makeup. “Besides, I doubt you’ll be able to find a flight for next week.”

Rafe furrows his brows in confusion. “Jesus. The celebration’s a week long?”

You sigh irritatedly, moving to brush through your hair. He frowns at how aggressively you rip through the snarls. “No. The wedding’s two days after Thanksgiving.”

“Why are you going so early?”

A flicker of panic rises in your throat as you pause, moving to say something but stopping yourself. The last thing you want is Rafe Cameron weaseling himself into your life. It feels intrusive and oddly personal, and it suddenly dawns on you that you don't even know his middle name. Or if he even has one.

The thought of knowing more about him makes you nervous. But the thought of him knowing more about you makes your stomach churn queasily.

So you simply settle on a nonchalant shrug. “I just am.”

The tone makes him frown. “So, what? You’re just gonna dick around Italy for a week beforehand? Alone?”

“No.” You hate that he’s staring at you with those bright blue eyes, waiting for more, and you hate providing more. 

Rafe notices your apprehension, squeezing your shoulders. “Hey,” he says firmly, slightly irritated that he has to beg but refusing to say please. “Stop deflecting.”

“You’re pushy when you don’t get what you want.”

“Sweet girl,” he warns, thumbs massaging circles.

You sigh, knowing he won’t let up until you give him what he wants. Fucking brat, you think. “I’m staying with my nonna,” you admit softly. “Well, she’s not technically my grandmother but she practically raised my dad, so, she basically acts like his mother. She lives in the countryside.”

Rafe pauses his movements, studying your face in the small mirror where you refuse to meet his eye, that one snippet of her personal life taking out a chunk of her dignity. Your gaze is hard, purposefully focused on doing your hair.

He finds himself frowning at the notion that you found it difficult to tell him such a simple thing. More often than not, wants to shake you like a tree to make the fruit fall, to make you tell him more snippets of your life, information he’s been yearning to know but too afraid to ask about. 

Well, for fucks sake, you've been sleeping together for three months. God forbid he wants to know a little about you. 

“That’s…nice,” he whispers cautiously. 

You notice his sullen expression in the mirror, finishing up your hair so you can spin around in the chair and face him. His hands go to rest on the top of the chair as his piercing blues meet your eyes. He looks so fucking pretty right now that you grip the chair to refrain from forgetting the past ten minutes and dragging him back in bed. 

Instead, you furrow your brows to try and mask you appreciation for his annoyingly pretty face, studying his expression, trying to look deeper in his eyes to search for anything other than honesty but coming up short. 

You both stare at each other for a few moments, trying to gauge the other before you tap out, blinking out of whatever daze you were trapped in.

“Why don’t you have any Thanksgiving plans?”

Rafe shrugs. “I do.”

“Then why–?” 

“If you had to choose between hanging out in Italy or having a week-long screaming match with your entire family, what’d you pick?”

That shuts you up. 

Fuck. You look up at him with determined curiosity, trying to read between the lines of if he’s doing all of this simply to escape the horrors of his own family, or if he feels compelled to because your mother was standing five feet in front of him, or if he truly loves getting off on torturing you. Whatever the real reasoning is, the anger slowly starts fizzling out of your fiery chest and instead is replaced with calculation. 

There is some potential for his presence. He could provide a shield for Paulette’s usual torture. Then, again, he could also fuel it.

“If I let you come,” you start slowly, which makes him stand straighter, “you’ll have to convince them and you need to behave. Especially in front of my nonna.”

Rafe nods, pathetically obedient. 

You raise a brow. “I mean it.” 

He manages a small smirk. “Did I mention I’m great with grandparents, too?”

You rolls your eyes so hard it hurts. You sit up straight and put a hand over his to make sure he understands what he’s getting himself into. “Excluding her, my family is fucking horrible, Cameron. Like, White Lotus pretentious. They’re rich and obnoxious, can’t mind their fucking business, painfully sexist, and can be everything under the sun that is synonymous to that. I need you to know what you’re getting yourself into. This isn’t a fucking playdate.” 

And I’m probably going to be miserable the whole time I’m with them, you want to add, but refrain. 

But Rafe only snorts at the irony. He’s been putting up with people like that his entire life.

“And my nonna is gonna put you to work,” you add with raised brows. “She’s going to make you carry shit around, tend to her garden, do a bunch of stuff to prove to her that you’re good for me. She doesn’t play around with me.”

“Baby,” he says, running his tongue over his bottom lip, “I’m about to be the best boyfriend you’ve ever had.”

You snort, turning back to the mirror to last minute check over your features, hoping the results will suffice your mother's high expectations. “Yeah, that’s not gonna be hard,” you mutter, not seeing the way he frowns. 

Standing, you smooth over your dress and grab your purse and jacket with a deep breath. Truly, you need to calm yourself down before you crashes out in front of him. 

You don't want to admit it, but having him parade around the wedding pretending to be your boyfriend will probably make your life a little easier.

It’ll most likely stop making you feel like a constant disappointment to your mother for a good week, probably the only week of your life where you'll feel an ounce of your mother’s approval. It’s pathetic, you already know, to seek out affection through a lie, and the thought of telling this reasoning to Rafe will not only embarrass you further, but will give him fuel to make fun of you.

It's despicable that you probably can't earn your mother’s love and respect on your own – without a man – but frankly you're sick and tired of feeling like a constant outcast. Perhaps this will finally get your mother to start being proud of your other feats now that the boyfriend question is out of the picture, like for starters, your academic career.

Whilst you wallow in your scheming pity party, Rafe follows you to the door like a puppy, a newfound sense of determination glossed over his features. 

“No, you just wait, sweet girl,” he murmurs to no one in particular. “I’m going to be the best fucking boyfriend anyone’s ever seen, show all those other assholes up. I’m gonna hold doors open for you and shit.”

(There’s a tiny part of him that, also, wants to make this experience for you as easy as it can be, because after seeing the tumultuous tension between you and your mother based off of one brief encounter, Rafe can already tell that you were originally going to have a hard time at the wedding all alone. If he can offer even an ounce of consolation or support for you, he’ll take it.) 

“Sure, Cameron. Now be a good boyfriend and walk me to the car.”

Rafe fights a smile, excited to start proving himself.

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work without permission. mdni.

note this is my first time ever posting on tumblr and i still don't really understand the site (i.e. requests and communities and things like that). hope you enjoyed!

[juyeoz]

˙ㅤ۪ 𓂋 FOR THE PLOT! — AN 02z SMAU

∿ THE PLOT IN QUESTION 📁 A crush from kindergarten, a classmate from second to fifth grade who you refused to admit you liked (even with a blushing face), and a childhood friend you never saw in any other way surrounded your school life. What if, the three boys you had forgotten about return to your life, and you can’t help but fall for all of them? Also, what if your feelings for these boys all existed at the same time?

∿ 📢 CASTING ≋ childhood-crush!jay, childhood-crush!jake, childhood-friend!sunghoon x fem!reader (ft. 02z + niki from enhypen, chaewon and yunjin from le sserafim, karina from aespa, juyeon and sunwoo from tbz, sohee from riize, nayeon from twice, rei from ive, seoyeon from fromis_9, belle from kiof, zhanghao from zb1, taehyun from txt, taeyoung from cravity, jaemin from nct dream, mingi from ateez, choi yena, and includes mention of other idols too)

∿ GENRES 🔗 › smau + written, childhood crushes/friends to lovers, highschool au, nonidol au, reverse but not so reverse harem, fluff, angst, and crack.

∿ CONTAINS 🔍 profanity, 02z aren’t the same age, random timestamps, kys/kms jokes, joking threats, no official faceclaim but images may be used, y/n goes on dates w all three boys (diff days), and y/n is lwk leading them on but they don’t get heartbroken (??).

∿ SCHEDULE 📰 completed (dec 27th, 2024 - mar 4th, 2025)

TAGLIST IS CLOSED!

PROFILES › ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR

CHAPTER ONE — let you break my heart again

CHAPTER TWO — WHAT THE FUCK IS TRIPLE BALL

CHAPTER THREE — chronicles of narnia 2 (0.6k words)

CHAPTER FOUR — jake?????? like nerdy boy jake?????

CHAPTER FIVE — #ResortToDominican

CHAPTER SIX — clock it

CHAPTER SEVEN — so basically diva down

CHAPTER EIGHT — cute 😊

CHAPTER NINE — need him miss him want him 💔💔

CHAPTER TEN — calm luh facial structure (0.4k words)

CHAPTER ELEVEN — MONTHLY REUNION (0.4k words)

CHAPTER TWELVE — for the 𝖕𝖑𝖚𝖍

CHAPTER THIRTEEN — a date?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN — “nah id win” ahh reply 😭🙏

CHAPTER FIFTEEN — panda enthusiast

CHAPTER SIXTEEN — keep laughing.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN — blue icing cupcakes (0.6k words)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN — keep yourself on ur toenails

CHAPTER NINETEEN — SIKEEE YOU THOUGHT 😂😂🫵

CHAPTER TWENTY — because i know i did

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE — cute ay eff!

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO — even as a joke

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE — my fave soccer play

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR — #ourbad

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE — white roses (1.2k words)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX — i’m sorry (1.0k words)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN — start running hoon!!!!!

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT — FUCK YOU MR LEE

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE — death of him (1.2k words)

CHAPTER THIRTY — don’t hit him up 😆

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE — loving you from a distance

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO — mabagal (1.3k words)

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE — U DOWNBAD FREAK

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR — Join me.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE — UNSTOPPABLE FR 😂😂😂

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX — single and NOT able to mingle

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN — in love or mentally ill

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT — gave a fuck

CHAPTER THIRY-NINE — i’m going to reply to

ENDINGS (FORTY) — SUNGHOON JAKE JAY

COMPLETED!

© JUYEOZ

[sugary-strawberry-shortcake]

"Both Ways“ (Yandere! Older Brothers! Dick Grayson& Damian Wayne x Poison Ivy‘s Daughter! Reader!)

A/N: oki I lowkey fell in love with this duo when writing the chapter 4, so I thought why not! it’s more fluff this time, because I‘m just editing the new chapters and only now realise how much more angsty its going to get. btw still unedited!!

The front door of the manor creaked open, and YN blinked in confusion.

She’d expected the usual.

Alfred handing her toast. Damian already halfway to the car. Maybe a last-minute text from someone claiming traffic would delay the drop-off.

But instead, she found her eldest brother Dick Grayson standing by the front steps, arms crossed, blue jacket zipped, and the faintest too-bright smile on his face.

“Morning, Little Flower,” he chirped, eyes crinkling. “Ready to go?”

She tilted her head confused. “Wait… where’s the car?”

“No car,” he said. “We’re walking.”

Her brows pinched. “But—it’s, like, a forty-minute walk.”

“Exactly.” He stepped forward and ruffled her hair. “Perfect amount of time to stretch your legs, get some sun, and let your big brother enjoy some peace and quiet with his two favorite people.”

Damian appeared behind her with a grunt, backpack slung over one shoulder.

“She’s wearing flats,” he muttered. “She doesn’t walk fast in those.”

“Then we’ll go slow,” Dick said brightly.

Y/N looked between them.

Both of them were smiling.

Not normal smiles.

Those smiles.

The kind that meant they weren’t asking.

They made it to the sidewalk five minutes later.

The cold bit gently at her cheeks, and the morning sun glinted off the tops of nearby buildings. It would’ve been peaceful—if she weren’t sandwiched between two of the most overbearing boys she’d ever known.

Damian took her left hand. Dick took her right.

Not a question.

Just—grab, hold, walk.

“Guys—” she started, but they were already setting the pace.

They walked her down the path like she was made of spun glass and Gotham itself might lurch out of the pavement to snatch her.

⸻

At the first crosswalk, Dick came to a full stop, arm snapping out in front of her like a parental seatbelt.

“Both ways,” he said, nodding toward the road.

YN blinked. “…What?”

“Look both ways before crossing. Say it out loud.”

“Dick—”

“Say it.”

She sighed. “Left. Right.”

Damian cut in, monotone: “Again.”

“Left. Right.”

Dick nodded with satisfaction. “Good girl. Let’s go.”

They didn’t let her walk. They guided her.

A step ahead. A step behind. Like bodyguards, like walls.

She was 14.

She’d crossed streets her entire life.

But that didn’t seem to matter anymore.

By the time they reached the front gate of Gotham Academy, Y/N’s face was flushed—not just from the cold anymore.

Students were everywhere.

Some were still filing in, others hanging around in groups by the fountain. A few heads had already turned, whispering when they spotted him—Richard Grayson in broad daylight, all blue eyes and casual charm like he belonged in a magazine, not in front of a prep school.

God, she thought, please don’t draw more attention.

No such luck.

Dick stopped just short of the entry arch and gave her that familiar, too bright grin.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he said, brushing invisible lint off her sleeve, “you remember what I told you, yeah?”

Y/N let out a sigh through her nose. “Yes, Dick. If anything happens, I text or call.”

“Immediately,” he added.

“They don’t even allow phones in class—”

“Don’t care,” he cut in, suddenly serious. “Doesn’t matter. You text if something feels off. You call if someone breathes too close. I’ll break every law in Gotham if I have to.”

She blinked at him. “…Okay.”

He nodded once.

Then turned to Damian.

“You’re keeping an eye on her?”

Damian rolled his eyes but didn’t hesitate. “Of course. She knows to come to me if something happens.”

“Which it won’t,” Y/N muttered, rubbing her temple. “Because I’m literally just going to school.”

Neither of them seemed to hear her.

She shifted her backpack, already angling toward the entrance.

“Okay, bye—”

“Wait.”

Dick’s voice stopped her in her tracks.

She turned slowly, warily.

And there it was—that damn grin again, softer now, eyes crinkled with something too tender, too protective.

“Don’t I get a goodbye hug?” he asked, spreading his arms.

Her stomach dropped.

“Dick—”

"C’mon. Just a quick one. Your big brother came all this way just to walk you.”

“People are staring,” she hissed, glancing around. A couple of her classmates were definitely watching.

“Exactly,” he said with a wink. “Let ’em see how much I love my Little Flower.”

“Dick!”

“Do it,” Damian said blandly. “He won’t stop otherwise.”

Y/N groaned, cheeks burning.

But she stepped forward.

And very quickly—very quickly—hugged him.

He squeezed her tighter than he needed to, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“You smell like garden soap,” he muttered.

“I wonder why.”.

He laughed.

She wriggled out of his arms and turned to go, trying to disappear into the flood of students.

Behind her, Dick waved cheerfully like a proud parent on the first day of kindergarten.

Damian watched her a beat longer, eyes narrowed.

And neither of them moved until she was out of sight.

[bread-crum206]

A Game of Hearts

Series master list:

Summary: Y/N’s father is a VIP for the games, he makes a deal with the Frontman that if he marries his only daughter that he will continue to sponsor the games. However, Y/N is not fond of this decision as she loathes the games and in turn, loathes the Frontman as well. Will she grow to love him? Will he let his walls down?

!!COMPLETE!!

Chapter one: Ultimatum

Chapter two: Separate Worlds

Chapter three: A Stormy Prison

Chapter four: Beneath the Surface

Chapter five: A Dance of Silence

Chapter six: In the Quiet of the Storm

Chapter seven: Closer Than Before

Chapter eight: Cracks in the Armor

Chapter nine: Under Pressure

Chapter ten: Unmasked Tension

Chapter eleven: The Hunt Begins

Chapter twelve: Under Watchful Eyes

Chapter thirteen: Behind Closed Doors

Chapter fourteen: Eyes on the Game

Chapter fifteen: The Game, the Silence, and the Weight of the World

Chapter sixteen: A Moment of Vulnerability

Chapter seventeen: The Panthers Eyes

Chapter eighteen: The Panthers Threat

Chapter nineteen: A Dangerous Encounter

Chapter twenty: Walls and Tension

Chapter twenty-one: The Distance Between Us

Chapter twenty-two: Power not Pity

Chapter twenty-three: Beneath the Mask

Chapter twenty-four: Fractured Walls

Chapter twenty-five: The Invitation

Chapter twenty-six: Fight

Chapter twenty-seven: Disappear Without a Trace

Chapter twenty-eight: The Weight of Silence

Chapter twenty-nine: Unspoken Promises

Chapter thirty: Fractured Lines

Chapter thirty-one: Behind the Walls

Chapter thirty-two: A Line in the Sand

Chapter thirty-three: What He Left Behind

Chapter thirty-four: Lines Crossed

Chapter thirty-five: Fractures In The Mask

Chapter thirty-six: Unfinished Conversations

Chapter thirty-seven: Something to Hold on to

Chapter thirty-eight: Closer Together

Chapter thirty-nine: A step forward

Chapter forty: Uncharted Territory

———————

Thank you!