#found writes

You moved to Greendale to establish your family business: a complete funeral home with a death positive approach towards mourning and death care.

Why Greendale? Your patron deity Hermes guided you there. That was the place you were supposed to be, as his devotee, your job was to guide lost and afraid souls to their journeys to their respective underworlds.

You had strong ties to the psychopomps, the little creatures who followed those brave enough to astral project. Four cardinals would always accompany you wherever you went, physically or astrally.

That's how you met Ambrose.

He was tasked to snoop into your business per Aunt Zelda's request and the birds warned you about the "handsome intruder" in your morgue.

She was suspicious of you after the whole Pagan mess from the past year, and wanted to make sure you were not a risk to her coven.

You laughed it off when the birds kept pestering him and told him that he could come in person, that you didn't bite. With a swish of your hand, he was back to his body, safe and sound.

Gods he was whipped. He promised himself that he wouldn't fall in love so soon after Prudence left him, that he was enjoying being single, but by the Dark Mother you were a CATCH.

He appeared in your office's door the next day, a dried flowers bouquet and a basket of muffins made for you, and you ushered him inside.

You were like soft moon glow on a bright night, he loved everything about you almost immediately. You invited him for a meeting with your colleagues under other death related deities, and your shared work in bringing a lighter feeling around death rituals.

He was fascinated while walking your facility, seeing the different approach you took in your work, and impulsively insisted on working in a partnership with you.

When shit started to hit the fan with the cosmic horrors, he would find himself closer and closer to your house and office, telling you all about the chaos bubbling just everywhere.

You two shared your first kiss after a long night fighting off the darkness, when you got home with him, both tired and exhausted. You joined in the efforts of his coven, and defeated the first cosmic horror.

You pushed the door open to your shop, the little bell ringing as you and Ambrose stepped inside, the fire rushing to life with a flick of his wand. He moved like he belonged there, plopping down the couch and groaning, wiping his face with both hands. You turned the water kettle on and sat next to him, enjoying the warmth of the flickering orange flames and the woodsy sandalwood smell emanating from him.

"Lord Hermes please bless me, so that if anyone died, they may be found tomorrow past noon" you muttered and the birds fluttered around your head "I know I know, it's a joke, don't come at me"

They seamed please and flied to their little resting spot, the two cardinal couples snuggling into the two nests. Ambrose turned his beautiful face to you and his stare didn't burn, but was just as warm as the fire.

"Everybody else gets to rest, but we may wake up tomorrow and clean up the deceased" he sighed "should I head home?"

Turning your face to him, you stared into his eyes. His eyes were so pretty, it was unfair for him to have such soft and lovely features. You let them wander, to his nose bridge, cheeks, and his mouth. He licked his lips.

"Stay" it was almost a whisper "Please" was all you could muster before wetting your lips yourself. He searched your eyes for permission and when he found your welcoming gaze, Ambrose pulled you to him, kissing you earnestly as you pulled on his leather jacket. Groaning as he brought you to straddle his thighs.

He smelled like sandalwood, books, leather and that sweet smell of embalming fluids cherry that always clung to your nose. Maybe it was a part of him as much as it was a part of you, per your duties as death's henchmen.

Foreheads connected, you two breathed in each other's bodies, basking into your souls as you two shared another kiss, less hurried, more sentimental.

"I need you" he muttered between pecks on your face "Needed you since the day we met and you were hands deep into Mr. Wallace"

A breathy chuckle left your mouth "when you saw me, I poked his spleen wrong and blood splattered in my goggles, Gods it was so gross!" you hid your face in his neck and smelled deep "I longed for someone like for so long... and now that I have you..."

Ambrose brought your face back to look at him "and now that you have me...?"

You had a loopy smile, and were feeling the exhaustion really settle in, pains everywhere, eyes drooping from sleep deprivation "I want you, but right now I really want to sleep"

He chuckled, hugged you tightly and muttered a teleportation spell, and in a blink you two were in your bedroom upstairs. You sat on the edge of your bed as he pulled your shoes and left beside his, along with your jackets. Ambrose removed any jewelry he could find and was removable, and laid beside you.

Tomorrow was another day, with another day, another chaotic mess to solve. But for now, you could be tangled up and listening to his soft snores as you fell asleep.

The nanny's dry cough could be heard through the walls, as they held on the handkerchief like her life depended on it, they were delirious, walking the manor as a ghostly shadow much like himself did sometimes.

They were sick, he was sure of it. Brahms heard of consumption tales from his mother, he remembered the symptoms, and one of them was a delirious fever, coughing and her sickly pale complexion, the same symptoms that took away his grandma decades ago.

His caretaker wore their day clothes and tried hard to follow the routine, only to pass out from exhaustion in the living room couch. The book they held lost on the ground, it's fancy cover facing the ceiling, and the doll laying comfortable in their lap, as if they both were taking a nap.

Brahms didn't know what he should do. It has been a long time since he got sick, and his parents never were much caring in the rare moments it happened. Ironically, usually his nannies did the job of coddling and nursing him to full health again. When he watched the nanny the whole evening, waiting for them to wake up and do something themselves.

But as the clock hit five and nothing happened, he realized he needed to do something.

Brahms faced his options:

Call a doctor? No, that would draw too much attention and could get him discovered. Besides, he didn't know many good doctors to call.

Call the delivery boy? He could call a doctor, but that probably required removing the nanny from the Heelshire's estate and as much as he wanted the nanny alive, Brahms didn't have the courage to be alone. What if they never returned?

Trying to take care of them? It could work, or he could be so bad at it that he might end up killing them accidentally and end up all alone once and for all.

He was smart enough to not let the nanny die. So he opened the painting frame door to the living room and with much reluctance, he walked to the couch to make a closer assessment. His hands trembled as he touched the nanny's forehead and felt a mild fever taking place, their forehead covered in sweating and - thank god - breathing normally.

He admired their sleeping form for a quick minute that felt like hours, and took the doll from their grasp, putting it sitting politely in the armchair, book now in hand, candid porcelain stare. He fussed and thought about what to do. Recycling old memories from his brief normal childhood, three words came to his mind: food, rest, bath.

Not being used to taking care of living - much less sick - creatures was hitting hard on him. The break in the routine made him slightly irritated and as he rushed to the kitchen and put some frozen chicken broth in the microwave, he thought to himself how the hell the nanny got sick. There's nobody here to get sickness from, and they follow his family cookbook recipes so he knows the food is good quality. It's true that it's getting colder each week as winter approaches, and nobody is allowed to use the fireplaces, so the house is quite cold, and he saw the nanny walking around in the garden wearing only light clothes out of laziness to put on something warmer.

Dumb Nanny. He would be such a brat once they felt better, just to piss them off. It was too much work, and he is a whiny bitch.

The Nanny could take a bath later. He decided as he pulled them up. His caretaker mumbling bullshit in their semi-sleep as they ascended to their bedroom. Brahms never cursed someone so much in his entire life.

{The Nanny's point of view}

You were being taken upstairs. Your mind was all messed up, groggy and with the worst headache you had in your life. Looking at your helping hand, you couldn't identify your saviour, this person didn't smell like Malcolm, because Malcolm wears that woody cologne and this person smelled different.

Like the same citric fabric softener available in the manor, dust and slight body odor that you could describe as musky. It was rather comforting to feel it around you as this person hauled you upstairs while your legs buckled under your feet. You opened your eyes and whined as you two went up another row of stairs.

You turned to face him and didn't know if you were feverish enough to be seeing weird things or there was an actual guy wearing Brahms face as a mask.

You owned a local family bakery attached to a commercial center, being neighbors with the gas station and the little musty "Sleepn'go!" hotel, you had a constant stream of (mostly) good customers. Regulars were a rarity in the "middle of nowhere" Kansas, but you enjoyed it anyway.

Especially when your favorite customer stopped by. A sight for sore eyes, he was. Broad, stylish and with that wicked smile that he always threw around with a flirty joke or two. It's been a few months that he and his brother started to hang around more often, sometimes with a stern faced man or a chaotic redhead. You appreciated them deeply, it was good to see some new faces around the area. Young, handsome and seemingly interested faces.

Dean, was his name. He slipped his name and number on a napkin for you when you met, but when you called, the number was from someone from California. You assumed he didn't really want to give his number, otherwise he would've given you his actual real number. You brushed it off. It was mean, but he was a regular now, and as none of you made effort to remedy the situation, you decided to swallow your embarrassment and let it go.

Especially because apparently now he and his family were living nearby. And he bought a pie a week whenever he wasn't traveling for work. Good loyal customer.

You set a batch of apple pies in your industrial oven, getting ready for the thanksgiving frenzy. Even here, thanksgiving managed to become crazy with orders. Hearing the front door ring, you moved to the bar to greet the customers.

Dean waited leaning against the bar, inspecting the fall specials. He always ordered the same: a black coffee with two espresso shots and a piece of pie. And for his brother, usually a to-go matcha latte with oat milk.

He was chatting up with Sally, your barista, when he landed his eyes on you. God, you must be a disaster, because he gave you a weird look, wide eyes up and down and up again. Then quipped:

"Mornin' sunshine, miss me?"

"You disappeared for almost a month! Was almost putting your name on the lost and kidnapped!" You breathed out and dusted your hands on your floured apron "came in for your morning special?"

He moved to sit in the bar stool closer to you. Sally rolled her eyes and placed his drink in front of him, then gave you a look. Ever since the phone number incident, she took a dislike to him, BUT, along with Dean sometimes Charlie appeared, so... you know.

"I trust your judgment today" he took a sip of the coffee "also want to order ahead for next week"

"Ooooh! Spending thanksgiving home? Have family coming?" You took out your notepad and twirled a pen, clicking it open.

"My first time being the dinner's host, gotta impress them all" Dean muttered and eyed your hands playing with the pen, you noticed a kinda glazed look on his eyes, although it was as fleeting as the wind "I have around 15 people coming over, so I need dessert to cover for that and!" He leaned in "to keep me happy in the next days or so, if you close shop for the holiday"

You chuckled "I won't close shop for the holiday. You can come get it in person if you'd like" GOD that sounded weird "I think three pies would be enough to cover, what flavors would you like?"

He couldn't hide the smirk forming on the sides of his stupid face, and he would quip something back about definitely coming around on thanksgiving day, but he also could see your nervousness about it "I trust your instincts. Whatever you make, I know it will be good"

Thankful for being spared from your shame, you wrote his order, glueing it to the order board. Then, cut a piece of Seasonal Special and handed it to him.

"I have to go back to the kitchen, there's a hundred and twenty three pies waiting to be baked. You can stop by to pick up your order next week monday, okay?" You put the notepad and pen back inside the apron and started to move back to the swing doors "see you soon! Don't disappear!"

He muttered something, but his mouth was kinda full of pie, so you didn't understand.

Lucille froze as she had the dagger pressed against her sister in law's neck, a pearl of blood forming around the blade. She felt as if her victims words were pure ice, like those words had the power to make her as still as a statue.

She launched herself back as if you could burn her with your touch. Heavy breathing on both ends. You because of the poison slowly burning your insides, her because you were not supposed to say something like that.

She believed herself unlovable. Nobody could love her except for Thomas, whom she knew would do anything for her, except execute the final act of their plans. But in the end, it was always Lucille who picked the victims. Always someone who seemed alone, or on the outskirts of respected society, someone with money but not enough presence to be noticed if disappeared.

Lucille picked you.

You drove your hand to your neck, touching the drop of blood that dribbled down the skin. You looked at it and back at her.

"I married Thomas just so I could be closer to you" you spoke, now more clearly even the coughing made your voice raspy and weak "even now, as you have a blade against me, I would take it. Kill me now, and I would accept it, but only because it is you"

Lucille moved backwards, knife in hand, knuckles white from holding it too hard, the other hand bleeding from how strong her nails dig into the skin on her palm. You looked the image of consumption. Skin devoid of healthy plump, eyes a little deep in theirs sockets, your mouth still stained from coughed up blood.

But tuberculosis was not the cause, but rather poisoning was. That's how Lucille always did it. After all, she liked to take care of things, to revive how she cared for her mother, then the first, and second and third wives, how powerful she felt as she held their life threads in her hands. Killing slowly, getting the money, indulging in Thomas and his whims.

You sat up from the fluffy pillow, handkerchief in hand to clean your mouth, and extended your hand to the cup of water by the nightstand.

Lucille ran, swatted it from your hands, and looked at you as you stared at the shards around the floor.

"Even the water? That's how much you want me gone?" You asked and fell back on the pillow, coughing in the handkerchief.

Lucille looked up at you as she picked the shards, blade still in hand, glass cutting her hands as she grabbed at them from the floor. The wind howled around the house, making it moan and wail from the inside out, like she wanted to wail if she could get a sound out of herself now.

Just kill it. Kill it and it will be done, she thought to herself, hand skimming over a shard of glass. She had all the resources and opportunities, so why not kill you like the others?

Maybe it were your words, still bounding her mouth closed, that kept her from doing it. It was uninvited and unexpected, but she was still deciding if it was true. You were placating her as to extend your life, that's the logic behind it, for sure.

She was a monster.

You're monsters, you two. They all said it, mostly to her. They all seemed to view her as more monstrous than Thomas. Maybe because they all despised her more than him. She was an unwanted daughter to her parents, whom always made sure to spurge their vitriol against her. She was unwanted by Thomas wives, whom only viewed her as a nuisance and a threat. Later on, maybe they said it so much that stuck.

"Are you going to spare me of my suffering or just stare at the glass?" You dared to say with a smile.

She wanted to scrub the smile of your face in that moment.

But she just finished picking at the glass, got the tea tray and left the room.

The next day, she didn't poison the food or the tea, neither the water. She couldn't bring herself to do it.

I would take it, you said.

For the next month, she also didn't poison the food. Lucille also kept taking care of you as you miraculously recovered from your "sickness". Thomas was supposed to come back from his trip next week or so, and you were not dead. That would require some explaining and a reason.

I would take it, you said.

After that day, you didn't say it again, but you didn't stop being what you were before. You always tried to put your nose in Lucille's business, trying to appease her by showing interest in her skills and hobbies, that didn't change. Back then, she thought that you were forcing yourself to have an interest on her as a way to make Thomas happy.

But you never seemed forced. You read the books she recommended, even the hidden erotica that she showed you as an attempt to scare you away with scandalous imagery. Lucille would catch you humming her songs in the bath, in the hallways as you went through your day, and you always noted how she liked her food. She noticed how you stopped drinking wine when you noticed that she had a distaste for it.

You gifted her a blue morpho butterfly for Christmas, preserved in a fine glass cube, with a perfect view of the blue inside her wings and the fine patterns on the outside of it. She thought that was the most precious gift she ever got after Thomas himself.

Still, she still hated you. Hated how you would always be so sunny and warm even when stuck in the gloomy Allerdale Hall. How you would ask her for plans on restoring the gardens next spring, or when she would hear you and Thomas laughing at some raunchy poetry that you brought from home. She hated how you would apply a dab of perfume to your hair oils, making almost the entire house smell like you whenever you applied it.

She hated how your neck was so perfect for her hands, how they would fit so nicely there. Lucille hated how you would glow under candlelight or when you fed the fire in the living room before giving her a cup of her favorite tea, before sitting in a chair and reading a book while she strums the piano.

After all, you were here just for one thing: money. Once they got the money you would be dead.

But she had the signed paperwork from you. The fortune you inherited was entirely Sharpe's now. Why couldn't she kill you?

"Can I bother you with a question?" You asked, lowering the book you had on hand.

"I tried to kill you, and you want to know why" Lucille stated, plain and clear, hands stopping from fidgeting with the piano "We needed the money"

"Do you enjoy doing it?"

Yes. "No" Lucille answered instead "I do it because we need to"

"But I am still alive" you stated, a glint in your eyes and a small smirk hiding in your lips "Why?"

Lucille didn't have an answer for that, so she just started playing the piano again.

You lifted yourself from your chair and strutted towards her "Why did you pick me?"

She breathed in, impatient "Your parents are dead, you had no other choices in marriage and a good inheritance, but also, you're forgettable" simple and plain, that's what was practiced "Nobody would notice if you stopped sending letters"

Now you were sitting in the piano stool by her side, your smell crowding her nose and throat "Well, I am assuming that you did your research on me and my family. So you know that I have quite the connections, but that's not the point."

Lucille could not look at you. But she felt her cheeks burn and told herself it was from rage "Are you not satisfied for being alive?"

You dared to scooch closer "Why am I still alive?"

"I won't take back what I said that night. If you were to kill me, I would take it with a smile" you stated, hands on your lap "not that I am not fond of life, but I wouldn't care to be murdered by such beautiful hands"

Lucille hands were not beautiful. They were covered in scars from beatings, from burns and from dirty jobs. They held no beauty, even the music she played was tainted by blood and sins. And yet, you extended your pinky to touch hers.

She flinched, you pulled back.

"You are a monster" Lucille barked, standing up, vitriolic and sour.

"So, just like you then" You didn't move, but looked at her, deep in her eyes "This is not about the murders, it's about you and Thomas, just to be clear"

"Don't you dare compare yourself to us!" Lucille spat out.

You laughed and stood up yourself "If we compare sins, which one goes to hell first if we die at the same time?" Your hands touched the piano, and Lucille felt a shiver run down her spine "You call me a monster, but aren't you just looking at me like I am a mirror?"

"I am here because you planned it. I am not dead because you didn't kill me. But you treat me like I am made of rotting wood, you poisoned me and you nursed me back to health. Why? Why not kill me?"

She pushed away from the piano, the stool making a screeching sound against the floor, and walked away "You want to die that much? Fine! I can do it now and spare us both of this dreadful conversation!" Lucille shouted, as she went down the elevator, you pushing yourself inside before she could close the gate.

You fell against her as the machinery steamed and clunked, you two descended to the mines while Lucille was trying to decide if she wanted to help you up or to push you away.

She opted for the second as she pushed your body hands first on the mud covered floor, your hands scraping on the rock and burning from the scratches. You turned around quickly enough to see Lucille run to her hiding place, unraveling the enormous meat cleaver and running back to you, kicking you back to the floor and plowing the blade into the ground with so much power that it tore through your robe and got stuck on the cracks of the rock.

She slipped on the mud, and fell face first into you with a thud, your smell overflowing her senses and your bloody and muddy hands catching her as she tried to steady herself again, trying to get the meat cleaver out of the rock.

Your hands pulled her intricate hairstyle loose, hair falling in cascades of pitch black around you, only her face being visible in between the long tresses. Her hand still was pulling the meat cleaver, and your hand was still holding the scruff of her neck.

Summertime in Santa Carla was always chaotic and full of bugs and tourists. Bustling music, adrenaline filled rides, delicious food and that forever fever dream state that the scorching heat and a dangerous amount of beach could provide. During modern times, millennia-old creatures and legends adapted very well in the so-called "murder capital of the world" and basked in the benefits of the newfound diversity of humans, blending well with many different styles and ways of life.

It is known of the exceptional vampire clan lead by an unseemly video shop owner and it's unnatural offspring, as they keep the first place in manslaughter, but humans usually tend to choose to see what they want to see, and blame it on other humans, substances or any convenient cause that would put vampires as an option. They thrive on human blissful ignorance, just like you.

You've been to many places in the world, and many years you lived disguised between other sharks and humans. Changing between a tail and legs at will, seeking as much if not the same blood lust of vampires, you lured people to the sea like you were the brightest light a moth could fly into only to eat them and leave only bones buried in the depths.

Humans see things as they wish to see. And they see the beauty you carry around, even if you think of yourself as having mundane or common appearance, there's just a glamorous and mysterious allure to you, and when you sing, all is damned for them.

That's how you end up in manipulating your way into singing in the boardwalk stage itself, driving the usually loud and boisterous crowd to it's complete opposite: silent and attentive.

You would always disappear after your little displays of magical talent, and snatch away one or two per week, feeding of human food whenever you didn't feel so much hunger, and snacking on hidden parts you hid for later.

Tonight was no different. A mershark can live off fast food and sugary drinks for so long before feeling blood lust again, and fight with other sharks or other merfolk for whale remains is always more tiring than fun.

Quickly scanning your usual spot on the beach for privacy, you changed in the water from tail to legs, a slight ache in your lungs from the transformation that faded as you breathed the air of the sky. You squished the water out of your hair and walked to the hiding spot you kept your human stuff such as clothes, accessories and mementos of decades ago.

The moon was full and your power to the maximum. Tonight is your night.

Star's pov (IN PROGRESS):

She could say her life was fun as a half-vampire, and it was mostly true. But being bait became boring night after night, and Star started to resent becoming a vampire. Until she noticed you dancing to a street artist cover of some song from Fleetwood Mac. You hummed along the lyrics and she suddenly wanted to become whatever you were, because deep down she knew you weren't human.

Paul's pov (IN PROGRESS):

He was about to go into Max's store to mess around but then he saw a glimpse of something in the crowd. That was enough to pull him away from the boys and go search for it. The person wearing a stupid 81's Walkman, humming to the tape they were currently listening to. As you walk past him to the main stage, he follows you like his life depends on it.

Marko's pov (IN PROGRESS):

Sharing a body isn't his usual trait, but seeing you covered in it mesmerized him to a point it feels weird to talk about. He pulls you in for a deep kiss, tasting metallic in your mouth and basking in your bloodied body. He wants to share everything with you, do things for you, eat you up too. You would eat each other if David didn't pull you apart.

Dwayne's pov (IN PROGRESS):

Nothing phases him so much at this point in his life, and having you sing to him songs he thought he would never hear again did things in his usually down to earth mind that made him actually wary of you. He could see how much you were alluring, and how big the grasp you had on his non-beating heart, how dangerous it was, but he was willing to risk it all for having you sit on his lap and sing to him again.

David's pov (IN PROGRESS):

He hated trying to thread control with you. He hated how you were trying to steal everyone from him. He hated the grasp you had on him every time you traded sharp looks and fought for control, only to give to you willingly. You fight, you run away, and he begs to you to come back.

Your week was a mess, your life in the last four days ascending into chaos. At home, your air conditioner stopped working, the sink clogged and the last storm messed up your roof so now you were living in a hot, nasty smelling wet house. Not fun.

So you thought to yourself “thank god this week’s appointments are simple” ha, your mistake.

It seemed that every single client was trying to pick a fight with you:

Mrs Wilbur brought in her dog to have a spa day with her, and the little thing kept running around, scratching your legs, biting your shoes and yapping in everyone’s ears. When confronted, all she said was “oh, he’s just playing around!”

Old man Darcy kept flirting with you, talking about your figure in very inappropriate ways, downing coffee from the client’s pot like vodka shots, he even slapped your ass hard when he was leaving, startling you and making you burn yourself with the flat iron in your hands.

Everything led to a mind splitting headache. And then you found out that you forgot lunch at home and wouldn’t have time to go out to buy some.

On top of all that, your colleague said to your face that you should be kinder with the clients or you wouldn’t have any besides your “little freaks” as he said.

Well, you had to pull yourself together. It was Friday Fright after all, and you knew that the boys would come in at any moment after dark. You went to the bathroom and washed your face, trained your smile in the mirror, and stretched a bit. Your boss left by eight, leaving you alone to wait until around ten. Uncaring for the consequences, you snatched a biscuit or two from the client’s snack table and sat on your styling chair staring at nothing, listening to the oddly cheery music on the radio.

The doorbell chimed in after a while, and the four familiar faces got in.

Paul was smiling widely and pestering David who wore a black hat that saw better days, Marko went straight to the radio to change the music and Dwayne sat on a waiting couch and took a magazine with a photograph of Cindy Lauper.

You were doing great pretending that everything was alright, until you were in the middle of preparing David for his usual root touch-up and he saw the unusual thin angry-red line on your arm, and of course, he asked about it, bringing Paul’s attention to it too.

Brushing it off as a simple accident wasn’t cutting it. David stared the mark and then looked right into your eyes for what seemed to be an eternity and asked you “Tough week?”

“Nothing too serious, I’m fine“ you said with a small smile, but when you tried to remove your hand from his grasp, he tightened it and gave you a more pointed look, calling the others with a somewhat loud “Boys!“

Dwayne dropped the magazine, Paul stopped playing with the chair and Marko paused the music dramatically. Everybody was looking at David and you, eyes lingering on the burn on your arm.

“How are you doing?” His gaze was pointed “Don’t be shy now, tell me“

You gulped as everybody kept staring at you, expecting an answer. Your face was burning hot from shame and you felt your face contort into a massive frown, breaking down crying. Only then, David let go of your arm, and removed the plastic cape from his body “Tell us who did it”

Paul rushed to your side and pushed you to sit close to Dwayne, who had an arm draped around you as soon as you sat by his side. Paul was cleaning your teary face with a warm towel while Marko kept asking for names, saying that he’s the only one that can mess with you.

You couldn’t talk for a while, and you ended up crying for almost thirty minutes. Every minute Dwayne pushed you further into his side, his low voice shushing you into calming down from your little outburst.

David insisted on making you talk so they could take care of it for you, turning your face to him with his gloved fingers just so you would keep your eyes on his baby blue ones.

They canceled the appointments for the night and offered to take you home so you could rest properly.

You hopped on the back of David’s bike after closing the saloon, and he and Marko took you to your house while Paul and Dwayne were going out to get “food and supplies” as they said.

After taking a cold shower to freshen up, you heard loud noises and bickering coming from your ceiling, and when you questioned, David plainly explained that “They are fixing the roof for you, y/n” as he ate from a box of noodles “Or trying!” Marko interjected with a mischievous grin as he gave a box to you and sat by your side, his legs splayed on the coffee table.

You were still processing everything as you played with the food in your hands.

“Stop thinking too much, relax“ and suddenly a wave of calm washed over you, like David just ordered your body to not be tense. You took a deep breath and started to eat.

“So, who did it?“ Marko asked once again, earning a un-calm look from you “C’mon, Nugget, we just wanna help“

“What are you gonna do if I tell you?“ you asked, earnings sly laughs from Marko and David.

David leaned into your side, into your personal space, raising his eyebrows, eyes looking innocent but the question far from it “What do you want us to do?“ He was dead serious “We could make their life a living hell, terrorize them at night and make sure they were just as afraid during the day“

You were speechless, why would they do that to you? Why were you relevant?

Again, just like many times that David seemed to hear your thoughts, he answered with a dark look in his eyes, a false layer of innocence as he tilted his head to the side “How could we let our favorite little human suffer the inconveniences of life?”

What the fuck?

“Let us do it, let me make them suffer for what they did“

“Yeah, they’ll have what they deserve“ Marko grinned, very excited. His arm on your shoulders as he traced his fingers on your neck.

“Why?“ it was all you could muster when Dwayne and Paul came in laughing through your window, hands and boots dirty with roof grime.

“Sweet cheeks!“ Paul cheered and pulled a chair near the sofa “Leave it to us, we swear we won’t hurt them“ he gave you his signature toothy grin and bit his lower lip.

“Talk for yourself, Paul“ Dwayne checked your fridge and got a soda bottle out, popping it open with his finger, David and Marko laughed darkly at the comment.

“Why are you offering it to me?“ you asked, genuine confusion in your head even though David’s magic spell kept you from escalating too much.

They fell silent, eyeing each other and grinning.

“Because you’re our little nugget“ Marko said, pinching your cheek “and everyone who messes with our lil nugget deserves to pay, that’s why“

“You are our stylist, because of you, all eyes on Santa Clara turn toward us“ David brushed your face with his gloved hand “You keep us impeccable, isn’t it true boys?“

Mutual agreements murmured in your small living room, and expectant looks turned to you once again “Let us do it, they won’t bother you anymore” Dwayne sat on your countertop, drinking the cherry red beverage and eyeing you.