Since I'm Leaving Tumblr For A Bit, I Wanted To Write Something To My Favorite Authors. You Have A Very,

Since I'm leaving tumblr for a bit, I wanted to write something to my favorite authors. You have a very, very elegant style. Your stories are original and, I don't know, everything that you write seems so freaking wonderful. I hope you get better soon.

You’re such a blessing. Pls come back to tumblr soon so I can give you my love 

Spring 2020 Acceptance Post (2)

 @aiimaginesbts​ | @franklytae​ |  @jjungkookiex​ | @mimithings97​ | @ppersonna​ | @silverlightqueen​ | @staerrylights​ | @suqakoo​​ | @xjoonchildx​

Unable to tag: n/a

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Fic Concept 101

Boxer! Agust D doing his ringwalk to daechwita in all his king suit glory - scar and all 

 *spits on ground* *smirks with both arms over the ropes*  “Whos the king whos the boss, you all know my name, all shit-talk no game, off with their heads” *draws thumb across his neck and points* 

D-2 Yoongi has me thinking things ...

bangtan gif battle with @nochuie @hoshees @sugawithluv @taehyungland ↳ week 6: favourite bias performance → jungkook 150816 summer sonic 

The Jeons: Chapter 1

Summary: Meet Lyle. Lyle once liked to watch the sunset over the Seine, but now his prized possessions are his peloton bike and the cryptic crossword in his local paper.

Anne is his wife. Anne wants the best for her children, but the constant lying is putting a strain on the family dynamic. And nothing makes Anne's skin crawl like bad blood.

Noah is the youngest. Noah likes to think he's simple but he's by far the most complex. The main character syndrome really pop's off with him (albeit subconsciously), and Noah's starting to wonder why Ruby Day smells so nice.

Y/N just wants a break. Her family are dysfunctional and her hometown is starting to resemble the Simpson's Movie, but Y/N can't work out what's keeping her here. The house next door that oozes sex and bad influence has got her name on it though.

Warnings: So far none, unless you've never watched The Godfather. Then: Deceased animal corpses, mutilation, rare steaks, mentions of drug use and inherently British plot points. This will later include: sex, graphic and gory descriptions, drug use and even more goodness (unknown).

Members: Jungkook/Reader, as well as other family dynamics

Word count: 7k

P.S. Hi. Me again. This kind of functions as a prologue, but if I write that on the heading then no one would ever read this. It's less of a work of fan-fiction and more just a scribble of abstaining vampires, bad family dynamics and a deeply confused, but horny, reader. I won't promise anymore chapters as to not disappoint and this is different from anything I've written before, but enjoy all the same. Love, Mimi x

Part 1 - Lyle and the baby spork

Lyle hated summer. No. Specifically Lyle hated the sun. Heat and humidity were two factors he was well equipped to deal with and, frankly, he swore that excessively sweating through his peloton sessions was making him lose more weight than in the winter. He’d never minded the heat when he and Anne had lived in Barcelona and he didn’t mind it now as the heatwave struck its seventh day and the local newspaper displayed in bold headline lettering that the ‘HOSEPIPE BAN FOR THE EAST’ was in full swing. The heat, whilst sometimes bothersome, was not Lyle’s issue. 

“Mum, it’s not that bad”

“I’m not saying it’s bad, honey, but if you want any help with anything then me and dad are here.” 

“I’m not a charity case, mum, I’m just shit at maths.”

“But you’ve got to pass somehow, Noah. I mean-” she huffs, “Lyle, any help here.”

Lyle squints up from his bowl of cinnamon baked oats (with extra protein powder) and strains against his sun-induced headache. Both Anne and Noah look at him for answers, as though negotiating these types of discussions has ever been his strong point. 

“Just listen to your mum, Noah.” Is what he settles for. Both his wife and son sigh, and his copped out answer has done little to stop their bickering as Noah heads for the front of the house. Lyle looks back at his baked oats, contemplating the grainy, dry mouthful that he’s got balancing on his baby spork. Well, that’s what happens when you forget your adult chores like putting the dishwasher on, you only get left with the kiddy stuff. His own daughter had said that to him. The sun had only just gotten over the horizon then. Everything was much easier to deal with unlike now. 

Lyle checks his watch. 8:35am. 

“Y/N!” Anna shouts from the front door. 

Like clockwork, his daughter comes down the stairs, his son mutters something about her having bad breath and not brushing her teeth, and the front door shuts for the 18th successive time without a goodbye from his wife. 

Part 2 - Anna and the Godfather Part I

Anna knew nothing about horses. Sure, she’d dabbled in the old Grand Nation gambling from year to year, but she wouldn’t be able to tell you a stallion from a… stallionette? What she does know, however, is that this one is a dead horse. Or was, at least, since the only remnant to be left on Jerry McCallum’s field is his horse's head. It sits limply amongst the yellow toned grass, (not the kind for grazing) and, for some reason, Anna thinks about the fact this poor horse might not have got a good last meal considering the drought. 

“And when did you say you found it?” 

“J-Just this morning, maybe around, I don’t know, nine-thirty.” Poor Jerry is stumbling through his words, still a little tear stricken, and you try to sooth him with a sympathetic look, but you doubt he can see much past his shock right now. 

A fucking horse head. 

Last night had been hot again, and equally, today was a scorcher. The blood in the surrounding grass is mostly dry but the head looks fresh enough that this wasn’t yesterday’s work. 

Anna feels a slight spark of concern in her stomach. Clad head to toe in black, she wonders if it’s the heat that is making her anxious. Lyle used to tell her she looked hot when she was sweaty - all red cheeked like you’re freshly fucked. She’s hot but certainly not red cheeked considering the circumstances. And certainly not freshly fucked she thinks, as well.

“Listen, Jerry, we’re taking this very seriously. I’ve got another couple officers on the way just to come and ask a few more routine questions, but what I’m gonna need from you is to give us a bit of space to do our job. This is a crime scene, so we’re gonna have to work on it a bit.” Edmunds asks if that’s okay with him and Jerry just nods. 

Anna briefly wonders if she should call Lyle. Half a horse corpse is something a little extraordinary, and not quite routine procedure all things considered. Because who the hell would want horse meat. Anna accidentally laughs aloud when she mentally answers Asda.

Part 3 - Noah and an extraordinary back-of-head

With maths out of the way already, Noah felt like there was a little extra wiggle room to play dead today. Chemistry hadn't put a dent in proceedings and PE wasn’t going to be an issue considering his overused medical note. 

The only thing that breathes a little extra life into Noah today is the sandwich in front of him. Leftover BBQ pork and coleslaw. His mum might nag but she’s got the whole packed lunch thing down to a science. 

It’s somewhat peaceful in his little corner. Most of the students are out basking in the sun. The year 10s and 11s are having a football tournament at the back of the field. It’s already seen two players grate their knees on the dusty terrain - grass turned to concrete considering the lack of rainfall. There’s some girls having a water fight by the big chestnut tree. And behind him, Noah can hear the drama kids dramatically arguing through their rehearsal. He thinks they’re dumb considering they literally have 6 allocated hours a week to rehearse but chose to live night and day by their scripts instead. 

Maybe he should take up a hobby, Noah briefly wonders. But as the saying goes, you should never wonder about personal hobbies when Ruby Day walks across your path and lets you watch the back of her head fade across the field. And once again, Noah has it reconfirmed that it’s the most extraordinary back-of-a-head he gets to look at. 

Noah is well versed in the back of Ruby Day’s head. Unlike maths, he is interested enough to study it well since she lets him sit behind her in both Geography and History. Sometimes it changes. Sometimes Ruby likes to tie her hair back with a scrunchie (she tends to rotate between three different coloured velvet ones, but red is her favorite), often she’ll wear it down her back, showing off its natural wave. But his favorite, and the piece de resistance of all Ruby Day hairstyles, is her Tortoiseshell Clip. Admittedly it’s all hidden away when it’s up, but that’s not what Noah is getting at. No, on Ruby’s Clip days, Noah has the perfect view of it… the swish, the raking of her hands through her scalp, the way her nails split apart certain strands and the way she delicately twists her hair before carefully and finally, fixing it in The Clip. Now don’t get it wrong, Noah is aware he is a 16 year old who loves porn just as much as the next adolescent boy, but never, ever, would he chose surfing the web for a 55 minute video of milf spreads her legs for stepson over those sweet 10 seconds he gets of Ruby Day’s back-of-head.

Touch grass, pervert, Noah thinks. And once again, the most interesting thing going on in Noah’s life is a meat sandwich. 

Part 4 - You and unsolicited pics

Mr Scotts a pedo

It’s engraved into the plastic of the desk. Never to be wiped off or erased, and certainly not to be replaced considering this school couldn't even budget working hand dryers into their finances. Instead, the legacy of Mr Scott lives on. Beyond this simple table vandalism as well, because Mr Scott was, in fact, a pedophile. Poor Jessica Harris. 

You find the etched words between your textbook and laptop, and far more eye-catching than working conditions in 19th century Siberia, however you do contend that a little ice cold tundra wind wouldn’t go amiss right now. 

“So, did Jack come over last night in the end?”

“Ha.” You laugh, “Wouldn’t touch him with a ten foot pole.” 

Pip looks at you with an eyebrow raised. 

“But you said-”

“Yehh, I know what I said.” You pause, “A momentary lapse in judgment it seems.”

“I mean you’ve already touched him so it-”

“Pip, trust me, the reminder is enough of a deterrent.” Jack is tall, facially average, and has the vocabulary of a thirteen year old Call of Duty player. He severely over uses Lynx Africa and the only reason you know this is you were unfortunate (but stupid) enough to wind up having his hand up your top on Abby Crofts trampoline. “He’s not gonna have the privilege again because I shall never speak nor see him.”

“Pff,” Pip scoffs into the chewed end of her pen, “good luck with that. Matt’s party’s on Friday and you get super horny when you drink.” 

“Hence messaging him yesterday.” You close your book, frustrated with the Russian exile system but more frustrated with your past self. Your past self was a hideous, treacherous version of who you are today and you’re adamant her only function is sabotage. 

Yesterday was a Sunday. And for whatever reason Sunday seemed to be the only day in which harmony and familial attachment showed its face within your household. Dinner is served as a collective, red wine gets drunk by the bottle, a board game or two get played, and you’re sure it’s the only day of the week your parents have sex. Gross. It’s a trivial little tradition, but without it you’re sure your family's tether would’ve snapped by now and you’d be one of those kids who participated in two christmas’ instead of one. Yesterday, then, was one of those days. And lucky Jack Springer got to be on the receiving end of a slightly misspelled drunken sext. 

You shuld come ober some time. 

You’d asked Pip if she thought it was a good idea before sending it, to which she’d said no, but alas, your past self was a saboteur.

“He just sent me a picture of his dick in reply anyways, so I’ve seen enough of him. Promise.”

“Jesus, he’s shameless.”

From above your eyeline you spot three figures halfway into the doorframe. Mrs Treby leads the charge and you almost forgot how pregnant she is. Her blouse swallows her whole and it’s a hideous enough shade of yellow that your eyes shift to the other two. An older lady and her son, presumably.

“Oh, that’s the guy I was talking about that’s starting here. Abby said he’s moved in on your road, and was gonna ask you about him.” 

You don’t recognise his face but he feels familiar. The lighting where he stands is a little botched but you can make out his features well enough. He’s Asian, you notice initially, which is rather striking considering your town demographic was whiter than bad cocaine (that shit gets riddled with talcum powder). And he’s confident. You think it’s in his stanced but then, his sight draws on yours, and you know it’s in his eyes. It’s a little annoying. It makes your eyes water. And for the first time in this class, your Russian history textbook gets all your attention. 

“Meh, he seems normal.”

Part 5 - You, smoke spots and corner shops

Rayleigh doesn’t have much to offer considering it’s largely shadowed by Southend-on-sea. There’s the occasional tasteful BnB for couples who want to reinvigorate their relationships with a staycation, and the pubs are pretty decent too, but mostly it’s a filler town. Those ones that you’ll never have heard of but everyone seems to call quaint. (Ray-leigh. You always thought it sounded like that baby from Twilight). The bus home, then, isn’t much for window leaning. Noah takes that role and remains awfully quiet, clad in his uniform and face still oily because of the sunscreen mum was adamant on plastering him with. My foundation has spf30 in it, mum. Luckily you get to remain oil free. 

The kids who walk home from school are all gathered by The Cornershop. It’s slightly biblical how every student from Rayleigh High flocks to this central spot - and it’s not even central - some beacon of sugary goods and post lesson sausage rolls. You went on the crusade to The Cornershop once, on a day with a little drizzle and wanting to prove yourself ‘like one of the other girls’ to your new ‘boyfriend’ Callum. One packet of jaffa cakes later and you’d decided that everyone's afternoon ritual wasn’t worth the hype and neither was Callum. 

I don’t think we should be together anymore. We’ll NEVER work. 

Poor Callum. He never stood a chance.

Once the bus takes the left hand folk away from the entrance to the A20, everything becomes a bit more serene. Bricks turn to branches and cackling school children turn to gaggling geese from the roadside river. If you head under a bridge further up, there’s an almost untouched spot where the river is merely knees deep, perfectly still and harbors some of the most relaxed smoking air you’ve found. 

The trees around here were the home to your old dog walking route (and also poor Doolie’s resting place), your homemade rope swing, the old children’s park that got closed down after an unsolved murder and then your house. 

Your life. Encapsulated into one single bus journey. You tend not to dwell in the dullness of that statement but find joy in that everything you treasure can be met with just a single bus ticket. Apart from Pip’s house - she lives in Southend. 

“Do you think mum’s cheating on dad?” Noah’s head is fixed to the window but the glass steams with his speech. 

“What the fuck, Noah. I- no, of course not.” But for a brief second you contemplated it. And you have over the recent month or so. The sliver of doubt that, because children ultimately know nothing about their parents, all sorts could go on in a marriage. 

“I don’t know.” He goes silent for a minute. Then continues, “I just think, he doesn’t look at her a certain way. She still seems happy, but not with him, never really in his company.” 

“So what if he’s cheated on mum instead?” You hypothesize.

“No. Not that. He wouldn’t do that.”

You scoff. Every man cheats, it's just a case of if he gets caught. Pip’s mum had said that. But you think Noah’s right - that doesn’t seem like something your dad would have the willpower to do.

“I just wonder if he’s driven mum to look elsewhere. You know. He’s always home but never really there and a woman- or a wife, I guess, will want more than that. She deserves to be dotted over and pampered and made special-.”

“Woah woah woah, Romeo, starting to sound like an excerpt from Shakespeare in Love there.”

He blushes a little, and tilts his head down, “I don’t know.”

You look at him for a minute. And you can tell he’s nervously cowering away from your glare. “You got a girlfriend or something I don’t know about.”

“Shh- shut i-”

“Skids’ got a girlfriend! Fuck off.” You look to your right to find four boys all facing each other, two clambered on the chairs to face backwards and the other two looking over towards you. All four, skinny. All four, around Noah’s age. “No girl would touch him.”

“Nor would a guy.”

“He’s probably a gayboy anyway.” They all laugh at the ginger one with freckles. Scrawny. You could snap him in two. 

“What did you just say about my brother?” It’s the ginger twig you ask. He doesn’t seem too fazed but isn’t inclined to make any more comments.

“Y/N, please don’t!” Noah whispers, and you turn to find his gaze a pleading one. He’s stricken with embarrassment, enough so he’s trembling a little and you find it hurts your stomach. A deep gut pain.

“That’s bullying, Noah.” You don’t whisper it, but you also don’t entertain the continued jeering behind you. He’s gonna cry. Ha, we’re bullies apparently. “How can y-”

“Please just stop.” 

“No, I-”

“Y/N, please,” he bargains. He then turns away after one last slightly tearful look. His shoulders rise and fall with a single gulf of air, and then he’s turning, reaching across you, and pressing the STOP button on the bus. 

Ding.

Part 6 - Noah and the case of the skidmark

Noah isn’t one to live in the past or contemplate past events. He began theorizing years ago that people who live to regret past mistakes can become withdrawn, unforgiving of themselves and others, and ultimately become a little ghostly. Noah tends to live by life in its most simple form - what he can see, hear, smell, feel and taste. He finds joy in the multitude of tree types around his house, listening to Solomon Burke sing Cry to Me on a vintage record player, the smell of roast beef, how Ruby Day’s hair feels in his dreams and the taste of lemon sherbets. Noah tries to live in the physical, not the emotional. He feels like a zombie sometimes because of it, but at least he doesn’t end up crying about people and society like his mum and sister do. 

Noah is simple like that. But right now, what he’s feeling is entirely too complex. Noah is recollecting. 

“Oh my god, Noah left a skidder!” 

Noah had always hated swimming lessons. His arms weren’t long enough to do him any good and the salty water irritated his skin no end. All the boys got really over excited about seeing the girls in their swimming costumes but Noah just worried that people got to see him in his. 

It was after Tuesday's swim session that Noah truly understood his hatred for swimming lessons. 

“Ewwww.”

“That’s so gross.”

“Bet he doesn’t wipe his bum.”

Noah was still in the showers when this took place. Everyone always dashed to use the hot water before it ran out, and all the boys wanted to be the first ones at the back of the bus also. So Noah was last again. 

When he got into the changing rooms, all the boys looked at him. Some laughed, some ran away, one clogged their nose and wretched at the sight of him. Noah had always been invisible. Sometimes he wished people would take notice of him, maybe chat and laugh with him once in a while, but then, Noah was sure invisibility was the best superpower. 

“Go wipe the toilet, skidder.” Sebastian had said. In the middle of the changing rooms was a single cubicle. There was no urinal, but a small box with a bowl and a flush in the middle. It had rust around the edges and no lock on the door, and once Noah was pushed through the frame of the cubicle, there, trailing down the white porcelain, was a brown skidmark. 

He hadn’t done it of course. Noah was too nervous to go into cubicle toilets apart from at home anyways. But the boys behind him, chanting his new nickname, had made him feel five shades of guilty. He went to wipe it away. 

“Not with that, skidder. Use these considering you probably poo in them anyway.” Sebastian was a sadistic child.

And with his gresh, folded underwear, Noah knelt down and wiped the toilet clean. 

He’d be lying if he said that moment didn’t nauseate him. That it was about the only story he couldn’t stomach and wished was completely erased from his memory. Unfortunately that day had meant Noah’s invisibility cloak was torn from him and the next 7 years were nothing but a torturous cycle of nicknames and one-way verbal encounters. 

Deep in the forest behind his house, though, Noah felt a little more protected. His breathing had just about evened out after running from the bus stop to here. His trainers had scuffed from the protruding tree roots and he’d dragged his backpack along the ground most of the way, But now Noah was unwatched, admiring the greenery and he could faintly hear the river trickling a couple hundred meters away. 

On his 7th birthday, his dad brought him out here. About a five minutes walk away from the gate at the back of their garden, right on the edge of the riverbank was a blue and yellow bench, perched upon a shaded, muddy surface and right next to a rope. Attached to the rope was a metal bar. For the next two years, Noah didn’t mind being the center of attention whenever he’d grip the metal with two hands, pull himself three or four steps backwards and hear his family cheer when he went soaring through the air before the splash. 

The bench is a little sad now, but he sits on it anyways. There’s a spot on the edge which is speckled with paint and it's where his fingers pick at now, chipping away at the brownish material which was once a canary yellow. 

It wasn’t that Noah grew out of his rope swing. That was part of it. But mostly the rope swing turned over in possession to the walkers, families and school children who ‘discovered’ it once the riverbank path was forged. From his house, Noah would be able to hear squealing and music when teenagers threw parties there. Or he’d look from his window and see children with wet hair, towels and big smiles on their way up to the road, parents in tow. But now, the path lies derelict and the rope swing out of commission. Following the unsolved murder of a student years back, no one seems to come this way anymore.

It’s just for Noah now. 

Beyond the river and in the overgrown field, he spots a figure. People don’t frequent this area, so Noah briefly wonders if it’s a scarecrow he’s never noticed or perhaps a large animal. As it moves towards a spot several hundred yards down the river though, Noah makes the figure out. A man, shirtless and hunched, carries a deer on his back. The animal must be a female, because it’s not too large and there’s no antlers that Noah can see but he wonders how heavy that dead weight must be. The man, now wading through the river, makes it out like lightwork. He throws the deer up the bank on the other side before hoisting himself out and picking the corpse back up in a bridal hold. Before entering the treeline, the man turns, faces Noah and nods his head. 

Whilst Noah shivers at a sudden brisk wind, he can’t help but think about one thing he observed just then. 

Where was the man's gun. 

Part 7 - Anne and Anne’s one, underwire bra

In between, the Yellow Tail Shiraz and Sainsbury’s Taste the Difference merlot is a gap. It’s one bottle wide and about eight bottles deep. Anne sighs. The day has been particularly long (it is the summer solstice) and particularly draining. A little pick me up would’ve done her nicely, but it turns out, for whatever reason, the drought is making people panic buy red wine of all things - and Georges Duboeuf Fleurie always gets terrible reviews for its floral aroma anyways.

Anne looks down at her basket. It’s awfully empty now that the designated section for her bottle is barren. She heads for the fruit and veg aisle, deciding that grilled peppers will go nicely with the steaks and potatoes. She picks them up quickly and leaves quicker once she gets a waft of the garlic further up the aisle - vile stuff. 

On her journey to the self checkout, Anne detours through the own-brand clothing, looking for a white blouse mostly, but never impartial to something more colorful - most things match her pale complexion and dark hair anyways. She notices a particularly nice underwear set, however. It steals her attention away from the workwear. The bra is baby blue, with a navy lace trim and scalloped underwiring. Anne looks down at her chest and then back up at the bra. Her breast would look nice sitting in those cups, dare she say attractive. She runs the thong through her fingers and it’s a little coarse, pretty impractical for underneath her trousers. Anne laughs at herself and retracts her hand. If she ever wore something like that again, it wouldn’t be for going under trousers. All she budgets for now are high waisted, Bridget-Jones knickers and sports bras. Anne decides she’s going to throw out that one underwire bra she still has in her bottom drawer and heads for the checkout. 

At home it’s peaceful. Anne checked on Y/N once she’d set the shopping away, to find her on the phone to Philippa, nattering about some kind of trampoline incident. The office door was closed, too, when she looked, and Anne had released a breath of relief at realizing she could go another few hours without making marital small talk with Lyle. 

She focuses on peeling potatoes now. Good. That’s easy enough. Mundane, routine tasks were all Anne planned around these days. It kept balance in her life and lessened her anxiety about things that were out of her control. She goes to unpacking the steaks, peeling back the vacuumed plastic before placing four sirloins onto a chopping board. She licks the residue off her fingers and looks down at each piece. They make her think about the horse head. Earlier she’d mostly worked logistics between the on scene officers and the crime team that came in from Grays Central Station, but in the back of Anne’s mind was the head itself. The vertebrae were snapped in two and muscle and ligaments were torn apart. A pure act of force. She looks at the steaks a final time before heading upstairs. 

In the home office, Anne’s husband is standing above several sheets of paper strewn haphazardly across the carpet. He peers above his glasses when she closes the door behind her. 

“Oh, you’re home.” He says with monotony. 

“Got home about an hour ago.” 

Lyle looks at his watch as though it’ll save him from looking like a bad husband who forgot his wife’s finishing time. He grimicases when faced with 6:48pm.

“Christ, sorry. Day ran away from me.” Anne can see through his damage control. Part of her wants to berate how he’s using his office as a place to distance himself as much as he can from the family, but she knows now is not the right time. She knows there’ll probably never be a right time.

She settles for a sigh. “I need to talk to you.” 

Lyle pushes his glasses further up his nose. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

“Okay.” Does he think I’m going to ask for a divorse? An intrusive thought she has often. 

“At work today, we got a call in from Jerry McCallum. The guy who owns the stable’s up near Breach Farm.” 

Lyle nods in understanding.

“He found one of his horse's heads this morning. No body, just the head.”

“And what was the wound like?” His tone lilts between concern and indifference.

“More of a tear than anything, but it was forceful.”

Lyle squints and puts his hands in his pockets. “It’s probably nothing, Anne.” 

“It’s looking awfully not like nothing. The body has completely vanished. And who leaves the head behind anyways, it could be a sign or warning of some sort, Lyle,” he huffs, “Lyle, this could be serious.”

“I’m not saying don’t worry about it, I just think we keep our nose out of this.”

Anne’s frustrated now. “And how do I do that, huh? I have to stick my nose directly into this kind of thing - it’s my fucking job.”

“Language.”

She’s angry now. “Oh, jesus.” In an attempt to get some grip on the conversation, Anne pauses. “Lyle, it could be a body next. A person. And I’m not equipped to deal with that. I’ll have to call the VPU.”

“No. No VPU.”

“What d-”

“Listen, I’ll call Owen and see what’s been happening in the area. We look into this quietly before making any assumptions.” 

“And the kids?” Anne asks.

“What about the kids?”

“Do we tell them that it could be dangerous out at the moment. No going out after dark?”

Lyle contemplates for a second. “No. Like I said, just let me talk to Owen. You know what happens when Y/N hears this kind of stuff, she goes all… journalist and stuff.” 

“We’ll be lying, Lyle. Again.”

“No.” For the first time Anne’s husband looks her truely  in the eye. “We’re just not telling them the truth.”

Again.

Part 8 - Lyle and 1980s Paris

In 1982, Lyle traveled to Paris for the first time ever. One of his old university mates had his flat up for a short term lease and Lyle was in between jobs - so, it made sense. What Lyle learnt in Paris is that English people are ignorant. Well, one of the many things, but that was the first. Whilst everyone around him spoke perfect conversational English, Lyle could not speak French, and many, if not all, could use this against him. 

So Lyle was ignorant. Well, moreso oblivious, when the French girl across from him at Otto’s dinner party - the same girl he’d been fawning over and cursing he couldn’t speak to - was actually English. She held her wine glass with a sturdy hand and she had a cropped haircut that showed off her sultry blue brown eyes. She handled herself like a Frenchwoman, he thought. Whatever that meant. And whilst he’d been throwing around his cockney accent and inappropriate jokes, Lyle was oblivious that the woman across from him was completely in the loop.

He’d had sex with her that night after he drank enough wine to have the courage to say the three french words he spoke to her. She laughed and told him all about her upbringing in Carlisle and how she was in Paris studying art history. They bonded over that. Art history and both art and history separately. They talked, he’d blush and they’d kissed and she’d make him blush again. She was rather crude actually. 

He spent every day with her for the next 6 weeks before his new job in London. They drank, partied and had sex. Lyle introduced her to his way of life, and at the end of their time together, he knew she was coming to London with him. 

Lyle tried not to think about those days. They were self indulgent and dangerous. He looked across the dinner table at her now, and then looked down at his steak. And he tried not to think about how the steak made him far more happy than she did these days. 

“The family next door is all moved in now. I heard the boy’s your age, Y/N.” 

Silence.

“Noah’s getting bullied.”

“You bitch, you swore you wouldn’t tell.”

“Don’t call your sister a bitch, you know I hate that word.”

Lyle often finds his life passing like this. He’ll let his mind travel to different moments in his past life, often the most defining ones before someone around him starts speaking. They’ll remind him that this isn’t the past, he’s here, now - married, with children, working a 9 to 5 and it tends to make him feel hollow from the inside out. Even this medium rare steak can’t fill that void within. 

Noah’s getting bullied.

Statements like this don’t alarm Lyle. They should. Of course they should. He’s a father well aware of his families increasing dysfunctionality but it’s like he’s living without air and everyone’s asking him to just take a fucking breath and keep on walking. It feels hard. Draining. He often wonders if every father feels this way - completely helpless to their surroundings and as though they can do no right - but then Lyle tries to remind himself he’s no ordinary father. 

“Mum, that little ginger rat from Noah’s class was saying vulgar things, and it was clearly bullying.”

“Why don’t you liste-”

“Noah.” Anne levels. As she always does. Is this the same show I watched yesterday? That’s what Lyle thinks. That maybe his life is some pre-recorded video of a boring, argumentative family that he gets sat down to watch every breakfast and dinner. “Honey, you don’t have to be embarrassed if something’s happened, but me and your dad need to know if anyone’s giving you trouble.”

“Mummmm.” Noah groans. 

“Lyle.” Anne prompts. And once again Lyle’s cast front and center in his regularly scheduled programme.

“Yeh, mate, we’re here for you. We know it’s a hard time so don’t hesitate to talk to us.” Lyle thinks he’s genuine. 

He notices Noah cover his eyes and play with the potato on his fork. 

The next five minutes go a little like this. Anne asks if the steak is too dry, Y/N says it’s perfect. Noah hasn’t touched that potato on his fork and Lyle can’t seem to understand why his eyes have been on the front door for the last 130 seconds. He’s counted. As though waiting for something to happen. It’s dark out. The automated porch light has stayed off, but Lyle’s sure the bulb blew a couple of weeks ago anyway. For the first time in weeks, there’s a little bit of a gust outside that whistles in through the living room fireplace. Lyle doesn’t like the blood red colour of the inside of his front door anymore. Because he can’t stop looking at it. 

“I saw some man carrying a great big dead deer earlier.”

Lyle faces his son, but the door screams in his ear from afar. Look at me.

“What the hell, that’s so gross, who still hunts and eats deer.” Y/N says, outraged.

Anne is looking at Lyle. He can feel it out of the corner of his eye, but the door is blood red and screaming. 

“No, he didn’t hunt it for food I don’t think. It looked like he kind of did it for fun.”

“Noah, now I’m sure…” Anne is sputtering out some excuses. She has done for several years now as crazy events have slowly become coincidences, have become regularities. Lyle thinks back to the conversation he and his wife had earlier, then looks at the blood red front door. He needs to call Owen. 

Taste me.

“Where did you see this, Noah?” Lyle’s voice speaks for him. Because as he looks out to the blood red front door he now sees several figures between the tinted glass. They bleed into the darkness around them as Noah answers:

Just behind the house.

Lyle has the sudden urge to itch his insides. To pull his brain out with a pair of tweezers. Anne is fidgeting with his sleeve, but Lyle is waiting. From beyond the blood red door, someone’s screaming. 

And then the doorbell goes. 

Anne rises to answer, Noah forgets about his potato and Y/N mutters about Tories and deer hunting. Lyle figure’s out in the ten seconds between the sound of his doorbell and Anne turning the latch that the screaming is inside his head. It’s his voice. Take me. 

From beyond the blood red door, three people stand. 

They’re all in danger but Lyle can’t seem to move. 

“Oh, hello. You must be the new neighbors, I’m Anne.”

She used to call herself Annabelle in those six weeks before they moved to London. She was pink cheeked with blood and mortality coursing through her. Lyle thinks Anne has grown more and more naive through the decades because when the three figures speak, Anne says yes. 

They had said. 

“Hello, Anne. We’re the Jeon’s, may we come inside?”

And everyone knows, vampires never come in without an invite. 

Hope youre doin well🤙 all the love 💛💛💛💛

all the love to you too. Have the best day <3