#AND SOMEONE LEADS THE BEAST IN ON ITS CHAIN

[transgothicgenre]

in the . holding tank that i bbuilt for myself

[skufdaddyswansea]

Mouthwashing, Dual Protagonists, and Captain Curly

While the vast majority of Mouthwashing is shown from Jimmy's perspective, the events leading up to the Tulpar's crash usually follow Curly. There are several interesting reasons for this, but there's one reason in particular that I'd like to focus on.

By setting Jimmy and Curly up as dual protagonists, we're invited to draw comparisons between them. Not only are they the lenses through which we view the story, they pass the role of Captain back and forth between their chapters.

It's easy to feel sympathy for Curly, given the state he spends the larger part of the game in. It can also be easy to gloss over his more subtle shortcomings when measuring him up against Jimmy.

In this post, I want to take a closer look at Curly's character. And more specifically, how he relates to one of the game's most obvious themes.

Is Curly able to deal with the consequences of his actions? Does he realize his own failures and how they harm the people around him? What does he do with the power he's granted over others?

Does Curly take responsibility?

Jimmy's fixation here gives us a good jumping-off point. It's certainly possible that he's only really been told this once or twice, but because he's Jimmy he's blown it out of proportion out of spite. It's also possible he's entirely making it up because he's projecting, but I think the former is more likely if anything.

And, if I had to take a guess where he heard it from, I'd put my money on The Pony Express itself.

In the eyes of The Pony Express, a "great leader" isn't someone diligent or able to meet the needs of his crew. The real reason Curly was able to rise to the top of the ladder and become captain is because he gets the job done without rocking the boat.

I'm establishing all this because I think it's worth examining by what metric he's being judged. Because, while it may be Jimmy who most often digs this point up, Curly doesn't disagree with him. Even in the depths of his ennui, it's important to him that not only is he the Captain, but a good one at that.

When comparing the two, that can again seem difficult to argue against. Jimmy is quick to lash out and shift blame. His resentment and insecurities often drive him to pick fights. Curly prefers to avoid conflict, but knows his position doesn't always allow him to do so. He tries to pick his battles, but when he has to get involved he focuses on de-escalating the situation.

But although their similarities are few, they do exist. And they greatly influence the narrative. Because it is from their shared selfishness, callousness, and cowardice that the entire story is born.

It's time to address the elephant in the room. We can't draw any conclusions about Curly's nature, his character, his role in the story, and his relationship to its themes without digging into his handling of Anya's assault, and the chain of events that follow.

I find it interesting that we never see the initial conversation Anya has with Curly about the assault. We simply know that she confided in him. He is the Captain, after all. The crew is his responsibility.

The thing is, we don't really need to know the exact conversation they shared, because we can imagine it went quite similarly to their conversation about her pregnancy.

She tells him how scared she is. She fears for her life. It never even occurred to him that she was upset about anything other than losing her job. He swears to her that everything will be fine. They'll fix this. All he has to do is talk to Jimmy.

He does not talk to Jimmy.

Maybe the first time he really did intend to. He just needed time. Jimmy has always had... struggles. If we want to, we can be generous to Curly, we can assume his old problems were much less vile. Otherwise, he would have never pulled the strings to get him this job, never put him in a position of power over vulnerable people. Right? But now, this was whole new beast altogether. Because he and Jimmy go way back, he had to process this, figure out what he was even supposed to say.

But at the same time, The Pony Express had just gone gone under. He'd been struggling with dissatisfaction and indecision for so long, and now his hand has been forced. He has his own problems. And Anya seems fine, doesn't she? If she hadn't said anything, he'd never have even known there was anything wrong. It just doesn't seem that important.

Anya talks to Jimmy herself.

She's scared, she fears for her life. But now she knows now that Curly won't defend her, nor give her the means to defend herself. Still, he promises her, they'll fix this. He just has to talk to Jimmy.

Things are different now. He can't sit by and wait for things to work out anymore. After all, it's not only her problem anymore.

Now it's Curly's problem too. How is he supposed to find another job with this on his record? There's only one other person on this ship who understands what he's going through.

He talks to Jimmy.

And he understands. Not that what he did was wrong, of course. Not that he'd done something horrific, irreversible, cruel. But that it now had consequences, and that he wouldn't suffer them alone.

Curly made his decision. He chose his paper-thin illusion of peace and his eroding friendship with Jimmy over the safety and well-being of his crew. And when it all came tumbling down, he decided it was better to bury them all under the rubble than to face the struggle to rebuild.

If Jimmy hadn't been there, hadn't been his co-pilot, Curly almost certainly would not have been able to bring himself to actually follow through with something so selfish and reckless.

But Jimmy was there, and Curly made sure of that.

So, it's time to ask again. Does Curly take responsibility?

Well, yes.

But it's too little, too late.

As much as Mouthwashing is about Jimmy fighting furiously against the consequences of his actions, it is also about Curly being forced to watch them unfold anyway. His silence and inaction, once a choice, are inflicted upon him by his mangled body.

Jimmy may have crashed the ship, but Curly gave him the keys. And so it's fitting in the end that Curly is made to take the full weight of responsibility by the man who he helped avoid it so many times.

[ghostieyanyan]

Is it ok if I can ask for a yandere Rollo Flamme? I like the idea of Rollo because he’s already based off a yandere villain so it makes sense. And I think Rolli would like to get close to Yuu cuz they don’t have any magic so they’re seen as ‘pure’ in Rollo’s eyes. Maybe Rollo can be seen trying hard to control his urges at the fireplace or he captured MC and tried to burn them at the stake like in the movie? Your choice.

hehehe... why not just add salt to injure? what if mc has pyrophobia, a fear of fire?

~Let the fire purify you~

Yan!Rollo x Pyrophobia!Mc

Warnings: Fire, burning, kidnapping, anxiety attack, chains, gag, breakdown,

~~~

Rollo hated magic... with a passion. A passion that burned so bright that hurricanes, rainstorms, floods, and tsunami together couldn't extinguish this flame of pure hatred.

How does no one sees the danger of magic? How many lives have to be taken in the hand of magic for people to understand this is a problem? He guesses that its one of humanities sin, playing dumb, playing ignorant, until it becomes someone they care about that gets hurt. its always like that... why could people just see things through his lenses BEFORE someone got hurt...

But for now, he just has to do gods work for everyone else, until they see things his ways...

He had a plan. a plan that will solve this problem before it could get worst. The plan to get rid of magic, from one of the most powerful mages in twisted wonderland, to the student "prodigies" of that sick, sinful school, to the townsfolks of Fleur city, to every inch of Twisted wonderland.

With this crazy plan, he'll make, no, he'll force everyone to see how he sees life should be. he didnt care on who got hurt-

until-

he met Night Raven College's gem in the rock, their Perfect. When all the students were introducing themselves, when it was your turn. He swore the world stopped and he would have swore on his life that he saw wings and a halo on you. You looked, spoke, and acted like an angel. you even allow these sinful... beasts... breathe the same air as you. then you have an ACTUAL beast as a familiar. don't tell grim that.

your heart and soul must be made out of pure gold. he has to protect it at all cost. he will use his own body to shield you from magical blast and then some to keep your purity in tact. he will move mountains and redivert lakes, rivers, seas, and oceans for you. Rollo Flamme will make you into his deity that he worships.

~

All the students decided to split into groups and explore Fleur City, after they got changed.

to say Rollo thought you looked breathe taking in your glorious masquerade outfit was an understatement. he was about to come up to you and compliment you, maybe even starting small talk with you but a certain lizard decided to be the first to do so...

Of course that monster would be charmed by an angel like you. Evil loves to tempt with good.

no matter, he'll just have to see you another time but if he gets too busy..? He'll make time for you.

~

Rollo lead you into his office, you didn't mind too much because he was telling you all about the school's history and art. it is a really pretty school, it gives very romantic feelings.

when you finally made it into his office, you froze at the doorway at seeing the fire place. Rollo quickly notices and puts out the flame with a very helpful near by bucket. You were grateful that Rollo was very accommodating to your fears.

you thanked him and sat down across from him while Rollo sat in his chair.

"I'm very sorry for asking you to meet me at this ungodly hour but i just needed your input on something and if i didn't ask you, i would have had a sleepless night tossing and turning." Rollo said as he got everything on his desk organized.

"hehe, its alright. I just happen to have a restless night myself.. but i don't mind the company."

"oh my that sounds awful. what seems to be troubling you?"

"w-well.."

It was really hard to tell someone you only just recently met that you had a "bad feeling" about something and how so far, in twisted wonderland, its always comes true...

"well.. i think... maybe, its just the 'sleeping at a new place' feeling and I'm just not getting use to it. but I'm sure its fine. heh.."

"hmm.."

Rollo seemed satisfied with that answer and continues, by leaning towards you on the desk.

"i know i asked you about this before, but id like to discuss it with you more in depth... hmm?"

since Rollo put out the fire place, there was only a small lamp on the desk to shine light in the room. you kind of wished that the fire place was still lit... cause everything in this scenario was telling you to run and never look back..

"o-okay..? what would you like to know..?"

Rollo smiled and leaned back into his chair.

"as a magicless student in a full school of magical.. mages, aren't you scared they might... turn and hurt you..?"

the way he worded that made you feel more unnerved.. you trusted your friends in Night Raven College. Even the ones that did try to hurt you, they still came to your defense and help and protected you when you needed them.. you trusted them with your life and having this man tell you "you shouldn't because they can use magic" was... laughable...

"no.. because they've earn my trust and I've earn theirs..!"

"Earned..?"

Rollo's face darkened as you stood up from the chair you were sitting in.

"I'm sorry Rollo. Thank you for your hospitality but i have to go."

you start walking to the door but stopped.

"with however you feel about magic, i wont sit down and let you disrespect them just because they possess a special ability and i don't. It doesn't make them less of a person. Magic or no magic."

you walked to the door but before you could even touch the doorknob, you feel a body press against your back, pinning you against the door. you couldn't even move, much less move the door.

"I'm sorry my sweet angel~... i guess.. I'll just have to show you myself then~"

you see a quick purple blur and then tightness around your throat. Rollo was using his signature purple and gold handkerchief to strangle you! you tried to struggle. you tired to jab your elbow into his chest but his uniform was too thick for it to do any good.

You started to feel light headed then everything you saw was slowly turning black. the last thing you saw was Rollo, and the insanity in his eyes.

~

you had so many questions...

why you? was it because you don't have magic so you were "easy"? aren't there other people in twisted wonderland without magic? you just happened to go to a school "for" magic users so of course you'll see it a lot.

what's so bad about magic? ya it almost killed you here and there but it also almost killed either the user or other people around you.. but afterwards everything would have been fine. Plus you didn't blame the magic for those situations. you couldn't even say you blamed the user. some deserved the blame.. but not everyone..

how did you get here..? probably from your big mouth, you should have been smart when you were talking to Rollo. he was already giving you weird vibes and you just had to make it worst

you had more questions but you knew none of them would get answered..

you started to slowly open your eyes..

where are you..? what's this sound..? why cant you move..?

you slowly looked around, you remember this place... Rollo showed you, with your friends. the big bell, the bell of Solace. you noticed that you were alone though..

you looked around some more, you looked out from where you sat on the floor. it was dark out but with an orange hue... was the sun rising..? what's going on?

you went to take a step, to look out but something stopped you. a cold hand..? no..? a chain?!

if you weren't fully awake then, now you are! the chain was short, at least 2 feet long from the floor, it was attached to both your ankles. you could only go so far out.

what happened?! what's going on?!?

you started breathing heavily, tears started to form. you felt so confused, so lost. someone, anyone, please hel-

"oh my dear! you're awake."

your blood became ice, you looked up to see an uncomfortably happy Rollo.. he had a basket of breads and fruits.

"i was so worried that you'll never wake up. I'm very happy you did~"

with a heavy chest, you spoke.

"what's going on, Rollo!? Why are we here? why am i-?"

"oh within time my dear angel~ we just have to wait for those flowers to do their miracles. in the meantime, eat. you've been sleeping for a while and-"

"flowers..? what are you-...? Rollo...."

you took a deep breathe to try to settle your nerves.

"Please, Rollo... I'm scared. please tell me what's going on."

he looks at you and sighed, placing the basket down on a near by table. He then walked over to you and sat beside you, motioning you to come closer to him.

You did. you don't really have a choice right now..

"I'm making our perfect little world my love~ our paradise~"

you looked at the man like he was crazy. he was, at this point. But he continues.

"the Crimson flowers, the one that looks like fire, the flowers i shown you when you toured the city, they have the ability to take a mage's magic until they are just magicless people.. like you."

you stared at him but he kept smiling.

"magicless.. like me..?"

"yes my dear, then everyone in this world would have to understand magic is like a poisonous weed that has to be pulled out. or it'll spread to the other crops."

you just stared. you couldn't bare to keep looking at him so you turned to look at anything else..

magicless like you... no.. this isn't right. this cant happened!

Rollo thought the conversation was over and sat up to get the basket.

"Before this started, i made sure to get some food. i thought you'll be hungry so-"

"...mon...ster..."

Rollo froze. he was facing the backet and didn't turn around.

"excuse me..?"

you stood up, leaning against the wall, as best as you could. You knew your big mouth was gonna put you in a tough situation again but- what were you suppose to do?

"you, Rollo Flamme, are a monster."

he slowly turned to you, his eyes screamed murder. even if your body is shaking, from fear, from anxiety, from anger, maybe all of them at once's, but you kept your eye contact with Rollo.

You knew a comment like that will hurt him. you knew you couldn't physically harm him but you just wanted to hurt him like he planned to do the same to everyone you cared for..

the silence was deafening.

Rollo took some slow steps to you and leaned down to your level.

"take. that. back."

"no. cause i didn't say anything wrong.."

you hear Rollo take a deep breath and he quickly snaked his hand to grab the nape of your neck. you let out a gasp, from the sudden movement. he straighten his posture and brought you to his eye level.

"it's seems that those... mages.. have filled you with their poison. I'll just have to purify you myself. don't say i didn't warn you, my angel.."

he dragged you to a window and made you look outside. the entire city was filled with those flowers but... the looks of those flowers... made it look like you were in the middle of a raging firestorm. you felt your stomach drop. you felt cold shivers, and you didn't even realized that tears were falling. when you looked more, you noticed that the "fire" was slowly climbing the tower you were in.

you were about to let out a blood curdling scream but you were stopped by Rollo tying that purple handkerchief into a makeshift gag for you.

After that, he threw you, face down into the ground. Your body was shivering from fear so intensely, to the point that it feels like you lost complete control over your body. you couldn't even fight back when Rollo tied your hands together.

"i, really, am sorry for this my sweet angel~ but i have to get rid of the poison that those mages put in you... you have to be purified."

Rollo walked off and came back holding a fireplace poker. it was glowing red and you could see smoke coming off of it. where he got that, you didn't know but your attempt to get away from him was met with a wall against your back.

you felt your head spin, you were trembling to no return, the hot tears wouldn't stop, and the makeshift gag he put on you was now soak with tears, saliva, and snot.

Rollo kept walking towards you, in an agonizing slow pace.

"don't worry, my angel love~ after this, all will be forgiven~"

when he went to grab your face, he-

"MC!!"

those are.. familiar voices.. you know those voices..

"tch.. i suppose your punishment will have to wait my love. apparently, ill have to finish these pesky mages off myself."

[whumpitisthen]

Artificial guest

Cw: mentioned torture, creepy/intimate/possessive whumper daydreaming about whumpee, captivity whump, stalking, conditioning

They are lost in a foggy forest.

They are cold. They flinch at every sound, expecting a wolf or something to jump out at them. They are lost, so utterly lost. They have no idea how they even got here, having woken up under a tree with nothing but their winter coat and a narrow path leading deep into the misty woods.

They come to a clearing, eventually. There is a pond in the middle, similarly misty and foreboding. Past that pond, past the spruce and up a hill in the distance, they see a palace. It stands tall and lonely, all slim towers and pointed roofs; it reminds them of the shadow of a terrible beast of claws and wicked teeth, perched up high and surveying its territory.

Storm clouds are congregating overhead. They decide, with nowhere else to go, to see if the intimidating looking mansion has someone there that can help them out. If they could let them stay just as long as the storm lasts, that would be enough. They could give them directions, or even a ride. Some food — they are starving...

Unbeknownst to them, the owner of the palace watches them from afar, leaning up against a tree somewhere near the clearing, hidden by the fog and grey light preceding a deluge. They follow their guest, pleased to see them walking the path they had carved for them so perfectly. They will come across a crossroads a little bit from now, and they will have to choose where to go next. They may choose wrong, and end up lost once more. The tempest may catch them outside, thirsting them into a fever, a terrible cold.

By the time they arrive at their doorstep, shivering and small and weak, the owner of the mansion will be waiting for them. They will open up their doors to the poor thing, letting the warm air and the smell of a delicious feast dizzy them into a desperate hunger, a quiet need to enter. They might play around, act like they are suspicious of the lost lamb, think it over for a good minute; — their guest will surely beg to be let in. Their voice will quiver, their eyes will widen in terror at the prospect of having to spend the night outside, and they will beg, make promises of behaving, of not taking up their time for long, that they don't need anything just a roof over their head, just a little mercy.

Standing off to the side, hidden, they feel a chill down their spine at the pleasant thought.

And they will let them inside, of course. They will help them out of their dirty, torn, wet clothes. They will offer a warm bath, lend a bed to sleep, dinner to enjoy. Their guest will find it a little scary, all alone in such a huge, strange home with a stranger, but what other choice do they have besides freezing to death in the mud outside? They will be so sweet, so timid, quiet and unobtrusive. They will feel guilt for bothering someone like this, demanding them to let them in their home like this. They will go to bed — lie their head on their pillow, in their magnificent guest room, among the softest duvets, in a bed surely ten times the size of their own back in their own home, — feeling remorse at needing help, feeling like a burden, out of place, a nuisance.

Like they don't deserve good things. Like they have to make up for being useless, have to earn their mercies.

When day comes, they will wake slowly. Their clothes will be thinner, their stomach empty. Their bed will have morphed into concrete. Their wrists will pound with the force of their pumping veins, finding chains tethering them to the floor. Their hands will clasp around a metal shackle ensnaring that beautiful, toned throat, their pupils blown wide in the near pitch black of the dungeon, and then —

Then they will know. They will know fear. They will know helplessness, vulnerability. They will get acquainted with the way the air around them turns thin sometimes. They will recognise — if not right then, then a bit later on, — but they will recognise that they are trapped; truly, completely, hopelessly trapped. They will yell, and no one will come. They will scream, and no one will hear. They will beg, and cry, and sob, and keen — and the only one who will listen will be the kind stranger that let them stay.

They will come see them, of course. They will descend the long staircase leading down to their Hell, and they will tell them, simply, that they will be hurt. They will hurt, and they will hurt, and hurt, and hurt, until they know nothing but pain. Until their entire existence becomes agony; a trembling, uncertain, exhausted, meek little life between these four unforgiving cement walls, living at the whims of their saviour, their one connection to what was once a livable, if not pleasant life, with friends and family and things they knew, things that made sense.

They will see no one but their captor. They will hear no one but their captor. They will feel no one, but their captor. They will learn soon enough, a crushing, terrifying truth. The truth that their life has become their captor.

They will only think about them; they will not be allowed to have thoughts about anything else. They will only look forward to seeing them. They will live for the little moments in-between two sessions of suffering, where they are told they did well enough to receive dinner that day, for the proud, fond words of praise that humiliate and bring tarnished, disgusting delight at the same time, at the kind touches running down long healed scars and deep-purple bruises and bubbling burns, gently promising more, admiring the carnage and letting them know that the one person in the world that matters is pleased with their pain, and that they will return again soon to see more of it.

For late nights, where they will weep, brokenly, weakly, sweetly, into the embrace of their captor, their worst nightmare, the only one that cares, the only one that matters, and they will hush them, gently rocking them back and forth, keeping them warm, pressing a loving kiss to the top of their head, hair wet with sweat and blood, and hold them.

They will remind them of the day they became theirs. How they were allowed in without issue, even though they didn't really know how to beg yet. How they were allowed food, their own bed, their own room, a fireplace, a bath. How they took it all, so flustered and nervous they barely remembered to say thank you. How later on, once their cold had really shown its ugly, feverish colours, they were given things like medicine, a blanket, tea, painkillers... And not only had they refused to thank their captor, but cursed them out, too outraged and afraid to accept their generous gifts. They will remind them of the day they saved them, and their little lamb will cringe at the memories, curl up in shame, apologising every time, earnestly, for all their stupidity and ungratefulness, forever regretting ever thinking they were anybody but their saviour's little broken toy, a sweet little pet spending all their time waiting for their owner to return and play with them so they can earn their little mercies one by one.

Theirs. Hopelessly, utterly, irreversibly theirs.

Their guest has long disappeared into the fog, climbing their way up the hill, all hope and full of life. Perhaps it's time to return home. Set the fire. Fish out the fluffiest blanket from deep within the closet. Pick out replacement clothes in their size. See how the chef is doing with dinner. Make sure the chains downstairs are holding steady, the blades are all sharpened, the collar won't cut off too much air, the cement floor won't scrape at their delicate flesh too deep. Many things to take care of before their guest arrives.

They shiver in excitement. Finally, someone new to keep the dungeon warm.

<3

Masterlist | Ko-Fi

Taglist (tagged in everything I write): @morning-star-whump @whumprince

[gryficowa]

The strangest thought came to me, related to "Islamist Terrorist Attacks", without further words: Depression

You're probably wondering what's the connection between depression and terrorist attacks? Well, depression can have many faces, including one where someone can kill someone or take other lives with them, along with the WTC, Islamophobia intensified, which led to the frequency of terrorist attacks, those who have experienced discrimination know, that one of its effects is mental problems such as depression, so yes, society has led people to a tragic mental state and washed away the guilt, instead of taking it too, because it's better to put it on the victim (Who may have done something unforgivable, but still, they created I)

Society, through its discrimination, has caused a person to have a bad mental state (And although I don't like it when people defend the torturer for this reason, the fact that people blame the Islamists themselves and deepen this problem changes the perspective, because if there was a white boy instead of the Islamist, then people to feel sorry for him and yes, white privilege… And misogyny, because in the case of women there is not as much sympathy as towards men)

Unfortunately, a chain has been created that we continue with our Islamophobia, leading the discriminated person to a critical mental state, which leads him to commit unforgivable acts, which leads to us blaming the entire group, and so it becomes a circle that does not want to end

As long as Islamophobia does not end, there will be terrorist attacks, we as people fuel it ourselves and blame God on innocent people, instead of taking some of the blame on ourselves and thinking about what to change in society to prevent it from happening (No Islamophobia, because she is guilty of it)

Islamophobia is not just a problem for Muslims, it is a problem for all of us

We must end this chain before there are even more victims

Since the WTC, people have dehumanized Muslims, which unfortunately can be seen today in what is happening in Palestine and Burma (And on the Polish-Belarusian border, yes, I will not stop mentioning it because it is sick), has shown this problem more widely (Which is ignored by people, because they must have a chochoł, because they can't live without it)

This thought reached me especially in Europe, where this shit has reached, and with it terrorist attacks, Islamophobia is a beast that lurks and then I wash my hands when something bad happens, seeing Islamophobia in my country (And being terrified by it, because even though I am an agnostic raised in Christianity, such hatred towards people is terrifying for someone who knows the history of the Holocaust)

No one deserves such hatred, and the worst thing is when this hatred comes from a group that was the victim of the same thing, yes, I'm talking about Jews, specifically Zionists, there is nothing more disgusting than a victim of discrimination that discriminates against others (Like gays discriminating against trans people, like Asians discriminating against black people etc…) and spreads propaganda itself, which is not true about a specific group

What is happening today to Islamists is not much different from what was done to Jews and it should terrify us, not be a reason to be proud, it is sick that we strive to dehumanize people and we are proud of it, it should not happen

Unfortunately, we still have constant victims of discrimination that are not new… LGBT+ people, people use Nazi rhetoric (Yes, calling gays "Unnatural" is one of them) and I see it in Poland, which is horrifying because of the context of the Holocaust, and many Poles are denied other victims than Jews and Poles, which is terrifying

We let fascism come back and it's fucking terrifying

[kawaiijohn]

Danny wakes up in PMMM and wants to murder the weird God cat that's bothering the kids

Ok I wanna write this

"Get back here you rat!"

The white rabbit-cat thing dodges another three of Danny's ecto rays as he races through the back halls of a mall under construction. He has no idea where he is, only that the thing he's chasing is bad news.

It has eyes not unlike the Observants, and a voice laced with double meanings. Danny didn't appreciate it staring into his soul- his Core, as though it could sense it.

The creature keeps running for its life, able to appear in places it shouldn't be near before Danny can strike it. The strange ring-like structures around its long ears seem to ring strangely when his blasts whiff the beast.

The short chase comes to an end when he hits a dead end. He skids to a stop, panting- somehow unable to summon his ghost form after the portal tossed him here. He's shocked he can even call upon any of his powers, stranger that the only one he can access are his ecto blasts. But it's not completely shocking- places outside of Amity tend to be less forgiving with their low ambient ectoplasm levels. The halls are dark, ominous- there's a tension in the air not unlike a ghost attack waiting to happen.

He doesn't like it.

Danny uses a ball of ectoplasm as a flashlight as he creeps through the more chained-off sections of the mall, a tingle creeping up his spine. He wants explanations, and the creature knows something- it has to with how it stares into Danny's soul. It's the only lead he has, and he's too stubborn to give up on it.

"You know, you would make an incredible magia- all it would take is making a contract with me."

Danny nearly screams as he whips around. The strange creature sits perched, not unlike a cat, on a construction barrier directly behind him. Its eyes stare once again into his soul, digging into his very essence. Danny's eyes dart around the dark, trying to find anything to use to his advantage. He comes up empty handed, so he does what he knows, and stands his ground.

Intimidation it is.

"I'm not stupid enough to do something for a creature that really shouldn't be able to talk. Especially if it involves contracts." Thank the Ancients Sam had a phase where she obsessed over Faustian tales and fae folklore. That and his firsthand experience with Desiree. Be careful what you wish for, and all that.

"You do seem to be someone who has had dealings before. You are one step away from being a Magia, after all." The creature appears directly next to him on a pile of equipment and grooms itself with a paw. "It would be rather easy on both our ends to embrace your full potential. All you would need to do is Wish for something- anything you desire. And you'd finish becoming what you were meant to be- a Magia."

Danny starts, jumping back with his hand glowing. He hadn't heard it approach.

"Jokes on you- I know how wishes work!" he exclaims, taking a fighting stance. "No matter what, you'd twist it into the opposite of what I want, and I'm not gonna fall for it." The ecto energy crackles in his palm, anxiety at being stared at by those beady, soulless eyes gathers in the back of his throat like acrid lightning. Or like the nerves before a test.

Danny bristles as the creature pads up to him from its perch and tilts its head.

"Interesting- although you have no contract written binding your soul, you are somehow more like magia than human. Tell me, Daniel Fenton, did you receive anything in return for the sacrifice you've made? Do you have a reason to fight the Witches wherever you hail from? Or were you granted this terrible responsibility without fair compensation- no benefit to your life for the amount of magic you expend fighting."

Danny stills and shudders, still unable to force a transformation in the low ectoplasmic atmosphere of this place.

"I simply wanted to offer my services. To help you fight, for protection- to make you feel... whole. Tell me," it looks once again into Danny's soul, unblinking, "Are you aware of how close you have wandered to a truly Hopeless being's lair?"

The walls around him shimmer with unreality, he can hear whispers of a bastardized, corrupted form of Ghost Speak echoing in his head. It physically pains him to listen. He slams his hands over his ears to drown out the noise, but it tickles the back of his brain, makes the space behind his eyes itch. His Core pulses in warning as the room shifts as though it were underwater.

"What is this?!? What are you doing?!"

"Nothing. The culprit to this disturbance is a Witch- a creature made of the despair that lives in the darkness of humanity. A being that wishes to spread misery and corruption upon the innocent." its eyes remain staring at him. "With how you are now- incomplete in your form, you will not survive should you be pulled in to this labyrinth you have wandered near."

Danny looks up from where he'd ducked his head. His Core pulses again. Whatever this thing messing with his mind is, it's similar to a ghost- but wrong. Corrupted. Evil. And yet... sad. He steels his face and glares back at the creature.

"Witches are creatures of pure darkness, they cause unexplained suicides, death, sickness, catastrophe. You are simply unable to unleash your full potential in your current form, but if you make a wish, sign a contract- you would be unstoppable."

"I don't need to be unstoppable. I can handle... whatever this witch thing is without your help- and it's not like I plan on getting caught in a labyrinth. I'd rather not fight another Minotaur."

Danny begins to walk away from the shimmering spots, but can't find the way he came. The chains hanging from the ceiling whisper with anguish.

The creature continues to follow with its blank expression.

"Suit yourself, Daniel Fenton. My services are only a call away. You'd be surprised how amicable I am to those who change their mind last minute- in fact, we encourage it."

And with that, the creature leaves.

Danny clamps his hands over his ears again. The padding of his sneakers through the endless maze of mall construction echoes hollowly through the otherwise silent back halls. "Sam would be pumped to find out the backrooms are real." He laughs joylessly. Danny has no idea how long he's been wandering, but he knows he's not lost. The mall is shifting around him as he wanders, and he knows he's being watched.

He scratches at his wrist idly.

It had started itching, right over his death scar, about fifteen minutes ago. The whispers make it itch more, and he grumbles. He's getting frustrated- usually by now the ghost watching him would have jumped out and attacked, but whatever the thing watching him is (the witch thingy most likely) is biding its time to piss him off.

Another wave of empty emotions waft over him from a doorway that wasn't there the last time he circled this very hallway. His wrist itches more before suddenly burning as though electricity shocked him once again. He looks down and gasps at the strange butterfly marking that's appeared on his wrist, just as his hand reaches for the door of its own volition.

Danny seethes as his body disobeys him, but is brought to stunned silence when the door opens, sending the hallway it leads to flying towards him. The next doorway barrels at him, and he closes his eyes to brace for the impact before it opens as well.

Again and again doors race forward and open, before he finds himself in a domed garden of brambles and roses.

Danny feels his Core lurch as the mark on his arm burns brightly before fading.

"That was weird..." he whispers to himself. He only takes a few moments looking around before finding a rock made of paper to hide behind. The inner sanctum of this Ancients forsaken Labyrinth is enormous- everything looks as though its made of collage paper and watercolor. There's a large chaise lounge in the center of the room, surrounded by strange creatures shaped like dandelions with mustaches.

"Okay that's even weirder..."

The dandelion beings pass roses between them, piling them on and around the lounge in the center of the room. The lighting overhead in the glass dome is dim, but it seems to be getting brighter- the light itself pinpointing on something resting on the chaise.

Danny's entire being revolts as he looks upon the strange black jewel. The bottom is needle thin, resting on a soft silk pillow without making nary a dent. A strange flash of light bursts from it- pure black as void and cold to the touch. It begins to break, forming into a disfigured shape. The shadow it becomes undulates and pulses, growing more and more gargantuan as it explodes from the jewel with a shattering scream of terror.

Danny feels his eyes involuntarily water, the tears falling freely down his cheeks as the jewel produces something similar to a Death Echo, forming into a being made of rose bushes, butterflies, and pure sorrow.

Danny witnesses the birth of something horrifying and his Core screams at him to run. This thing is dangerous, it's dangerous and wrong and will be his End. He stands to leave, but finds his legs unable to move. He struggles, panicked.

Roses appear from nothing as they quickly morph into black tendrils and ensnare him. He's lofted up, up, up to the Thing's- the Witch's 'face'. A corrupt butterfly stares back at him and howls. Danny shrieks in response, summoning an ecto ray in defense. He blasts the witch in its 'chest'. It doesn't appreciate this much, tossing him to the ground.

He shoots another few blasts at it as he falls, smirk on his face through the panic. But without access to his flight or intangibility, he plummets to the brambles below.

Danny forgets he can't summon his ghost form here. He remembers too late that his human form can't handle as much as his ghost form.

"Shit-"

"Oh so now you show up again."

Danny sits up from where his body crumpled. Thankfully, he only has a broken arm and a ton of scratches to show for it, having landed mostly in a fucked up rosebush.

"Have you given my offer more thought?" the rabbit-thing asks from its perch behind him.

"Sorry, I was too busy being jumped by a plant from my worst nightmares to think about wishing for a million bucks or whatever." Danny rolls his eyes, trying to hide the terror in his shaking body. "Seriously, do you have anything better to do than stalk me?"

"You are in no real position to ask this many questions, Daniel Fenton. This witch will kill you and devour you, and not necessarily in that order. It would be beneficial on both our ends for you to sign a contract with me."

Danny hates how right this little shit cat is. Without access to most of his powers, he's practically useless against a monster this large. And if he's useless he can't defeat, let alone escape. Not to think about what this thing will do to innocent mall-goers should it get bored of eating his corpse or whatever.

He shudders.

"They say dealing with the devil never goes well." he responds to the creature. "Although it's kind of a dick move, waiting to prey on me at my lowest point."

The creature stares at him with its infuriatingly neutral 'cute' expression. "Oh but I'm no devil. You may call me Kyubey. I am simply the familiar to all magical girls- in your case, magia. A contract with me would grant you the power to take on this witch, to embrace the potential you've already started to accumulate."

The witch watches angrily in the background, trying to seek him out amongst the brambles. Danny shudders.

"You keep mentioning potential. The hell does that mean?"

Kyubey stares at his soul with its vacant, beady eyes. "Never before have we seen someone manifest their own magic without a contract. It should be an impossibility! Bringing you to full potential could make you one of the strongest magia of all time. You could wish for nearly anything, and your potential would grant it!"

He considers it for a second as he hears the chains above them shaking. The noise blends in with the cacophonous whispers of dread.

"I..." Danny starts, another question on his lips before he feels the tug of magic on his Core, the sense of gears and hourglasses gripping everything around him. His head slowly turns as everything is frozen in place.

He blinks.

Kyubey's form fills with holes as the sound of gunfire reaches his ears.

Time resumes.

Kyubey's corpse collapses before him in a puddle of red and white viscera.

Danny screams, and the witch roars.

It wasn't supposed to happen this way.

In the near one hundred times she's done this month long song and dance, these back halls have only ever been occupied by four creatures. Herself, Miki, Kaname, and the Incubator.

So why is it there's a new presence? Why is Kyubey stalking a foreigner through the halls?

Never mind that.

She cannot fail. Her mission is clear, and she's once again ready to strike when Kyubey inevitably finds Madoka again, as it always does when this mall trip comes to pass.

Homura finds her patience wavering- it should have made its move on Madoka by now, but for some reason it's focused on a boy who clearly has no idea where he is or what he's doing. An anomaly in all these repeated timelines who won't even be able to see the incubator stalking him. She shouldn't waste her time following, but as soon as she loses sight of the damned incubator it'll strike. With her luck, it will snare Madoka in its claws in five minutes or less if she loses her nerve.

So she follows, shield in hand and ready to pounce.

It doesn't take too much longer for something to happen.

The boy, impossibly, sees Kyubey approach. Even more impossibly, he hits it with green fire when it asks for a contract. Her trigger finger itches, but it lacks a pistol for the moment.

Homura has no idea what to expect, but she did not expect for the boy to start threatening Kyubey, the same green magic being shot at it while in a fully human guise. Even stranger, the boy doesn't have any sort of indication that he's a magical gir- no a magia. He'd be a magia, she realizes.

Homura continues to follow the boy, long after Kyubey 'gives up'. With how he ignorantly walked right into a hatching witch's lair- Gertrude, one of the weaker witches to encounter she muses to herself- she doubts he's any sort of magia himself. Yet. Especially with how Kyubey is pursuing him. She wonders if this means Kyubey will leave Madoka alone for a while, with the boy catching its attention.

However, hive minded creatures can be everywhere at once.

Homura's momentary distraction causes her to stumble when a wall juts up from the floor beneath her. She curses when the labyrinth opens fully, separating herself and the boy she's investigating. There must be a reason he's shown up this loop, with how he can manipulate magic without a contract. There might even be the possibility he can help save Madoka this time, but she won't get her hopes up too high. Allies are far and few in between with how callous she must be to survive, and she doubts a normal looking foreign boy will put up with her aloof and cruel facade.

She fights her way through the labyrinth, using her magic to track the inner sanctum just as the boy witnesses the birth of a witch. There's no way he's a magia- not if he's reacting in enough fear to chill the room. No seasoned, or even new magia would dare show so much fear towards a witch. Not this openly.

Homura readies her gun as the boy is lofted in the air, almost too quickly for her to interfere.

Time pauses and he blasts the witch with his strange magic.

Wait.

How...?

Homura's brow furrows in distrust.

How is this-

Time resumes.

The blasts hit. The witch shrieks.

Homura is not close enough. She is not fast enough.

She is too surprised to stop time again.

And the boy falls.

Kyubey is a bastard. This is a fact.

The amount of times Homura has seen it approach Madoka or her friends at their lowest is astronomical, so she's not at all surprised to see it approach the boy after he takes what should have been a deadly fall. She's glad she's seen so much brutality in her short yet too long life- the sound of crunching bones is much easier to handle this way.

She wonders why Kyubey is being so persistent, but even more so, she needs to know how he was able to nullify her time stop, or at least how he was able to continue to move somewhat. She doesn't appreciate unknown variables, let alone ones that can be a threat to her mission. So she listens in- masking her presence best as she can from the Incubator.

"Oh but I'm no devil. You may call me Kyubey. I am simply the familiar to all magical girls- in your case, magia. A contract with me would grant you the power to take on this witch, to embrace the potential you've already started to accumulate."

Homura rolls her eyes. The Incubator might not look like a devil, but it is one she knows deeply.

"You keep mentioning potential. The hell does that mean?"

Homura prepares one of her more efficient guns, not liking the tone of the Incubator, nor the nervous panic in the boy's shoulders. Potential is power as a magical girl. The more potential, the stronger the magic and the more terrifying the witch. She reaches out to try feeling for the threads of potential surrounding the boy, shuddering as she does. Her eyes widen in surprise when it whispers the same tune as her own abilities- Time, but something more, something Other.

A possible ally, if she plays her cards right.

"Never before have we seen someone manifest their own magic without a contract. It should be an impossibility! Bringing you to full potential could make you one of the strongest magia of all time. You could wish for nearly anything, and your potential would grant it!"

Homura jolts to awareness then and there. The boy's eyes look resigned, his shoulders slump. He's going to do it- and she doesn't quite want to deal with either a new magia or witch with her mission on the line.

"I..."

Her decision is made. She winds up her shield and freezes everything as her gun unleashes a barrage of ammo at the Incubator.

Satisfied with the gored mess of the creature, she approaches the boy with a toss of her hair to soothe her nerves.

She's not surprised his eyes follow her despite the frozen time.

So she releases her hold on it and watches as he takes a shuddering breath and Kyubey's corpse collapses between them.

"You should not be here."

Danny snorts in response. "Believe me, I wouldn't be here even if I wanted to."

[one-and-a-half-yikes]

you've told us basic plot of the fantasy Au but how about the witch Au 👀?

Unless theres already a post about that if there is oppp- sorry

Oh the Witch AU has a plot, but I'm gonna be honest I never really figured out to integrate everything together lmao

The basic gist is that Fanny is (again) the protag. She's one of the most powerful witches there is in this universe, though she only was able to obtain this power via making a deal (it's NOT the Devil though that did cross my mind to add him). In exchange for this power she lost vision in one of her eyes, a flower sprouting from the socket, though she keeps that part hidden with bang of hair.

In universe she's known as the Iris Queen, in reference to purple irises sprouting wherever she has left devastation in her wake. Nobody has ever been able to kill her, and nobody is actually certain if she's really a mortal or not. I'm here to say she technically is but isn't. I mean you could kill her, but it'd be a complicated process. Especially when taking her familiar into account.

With the power granted to her, came a gift of sorts though Fanny cannot begin to fathom why the beast she made a deal with would do such a thing. The familiar is a massive snake, looks like a tree viper to be specific. It can camouflage itself and shrink to a normal size if it chooses to. What's odd is, well, everything about it. Can't put her finger on it but there's something wrong about it.

And she's right! Because that snake belongs to someone else! :D

Okay so originally, I never had an actual main antagonist for this AU. Maybe the cult but that was it really. Until like, a couple of months ago when I was struck with inspo via doomed yuri. There was no correlation between those two things btw it just happened that way lmao.

I haven't come up with a name or design for this antagonist yet but they are worshipped by a cult and are some kind of eldritch being of sorts with the ability to shift through memories, space, and time. They particularly love people with trauma though. And Fanny has a lot of it. Which makes her a prime target. Of course, it's not the only reason she's a prime target.

Remember the snake? Yeah that's theirs. As is the power granted to Fanny. You can imagine that would piss it off quite a lot. The cult understands this and a few years ago before the start of the story (in my head) Fanny was successfully captured by this cult. But she was able to escape though with the cuffs of the chains still on her.

She did come face to face with the villain though while escaping and had her ass handed to her quite thoroughly. Good news is she still got away.

Okay so where the story started to go to shit was that I needed Fanny to interact with the cult again, but more importantly, I needed her to interact with the other characters as well.

Because Cuphead, Holly, Boris & Bendy (Bendy is a familiar in this), and Alice were supposed to be the main ones accompanying her on her journey. Specifically I wanted her to meet them because she's trying to get these chains off which she hasn't been able to do for years. Her familiar is the only reason she's still alive alongside everything else I've mentioned. But the problem with the chains still on her is that using any amount of magic energy causes magic erosion (when the soul & body cannot contain magic anymore so it enters the physical body and starts to basically devour/decay it) so she can't use her powers as much as she'd like to.

(Also should say magic erosion looks like cracks forming on the body or single body part. At its worst stage the whole body or body part crystallizes and shatters. And yes the whole process is painful, incredibly so. Magic erosion can also lead to magic poisoning in some cases which is completely different and it's more like a disease or infection slowly spreading over the body. Sometimes you can get both!)

And where I have since left off with this plot is Fanny was recommended by pure happenchance of encountering another witch, a sea witch, who claims that a certain witch farther south could help her with her problem because they'd done something similar with her.

That witch is called by many names: the Blood Witch, Witch of Sin, the Scarlet Witch, etc.

It's Cuphead. It's just Cuphead.

And that's where the plot left off last I checked.

And yes, I have ✨️designs✨️

Though it's only Cuphead and Fanny lol never really got around to doing anyone else's

Also! Apparently I wrote the plot for this AU but I have no fucking idea what any of this was meant to be-

THIS IS WHY WE WRITE SHIT DOWN PEOPLE!!!!! 😭💀

[wthwhump]

Beneath the Moon Shines a Light Chapter 2: The Woman

Summary: Benedict, a nobleman cursed to transform into a beast every full moon, has spent years searching for a cure. The only person who knows his secret is his brother, Anthony. Together, they come across the name of a mysterious witch who may hold the key to breaking the curse— there’s just one problem: she was executed 500 years ago. Desperate for answers, he scours the town, hoping to find someone who might know of her, but every lead turns cold. In need of clarity, he takes a ride through the woods to clear his mind, only to stumble upon an isolated cottage. There lives a secluded woman, her trusted stallion at her side. Wondering if she is hiding something about the witch, he seeks her out, but quickly finds she's tight-lipped, not willing to offer any answers.He senses she is hiding something, and his determination leads him to press her for information. Despite his persistence, the woman remains silent, sending him away with little more than a warning. But Benedict, ever the stoic and proud man, finds himself in a dangerous situation soon after; In a twist of fate, the woman steps in to save him, revealing that there’s far more to her than meets the eye. word count: 2.6k warnings: painful werewolf transformation(??), exhaustion, chains Overview Song for inspiration: Enemy - Tommee Profitt

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The days that followed Benedict’s encounter with the woman in the forest were a haze of confusion and frustration. His mind constantly raced back to that moment, her words, the undeniable tension in the air when he’d asked about Sofia. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw her face, and that unnerving feeling that he had come too close to something—someone—he didn’t fully understand and it was earring him up inside. For days, he kept to himself in his study, as he always did, but this time, the isolation felt suffocating. He couldn’t shake the feeling that everything had changed, and yet he couldn’t explain how. That name. The way she had looked at him when he mentioned it. The suspicion that she knew more than she was willing to reveal gnawed at him, making his already restless nights even worse. The full moon was approaching, and as always, the dread of what was to come weighed heavily on him. He could feel the tension in his body growing with each passing hour. His muscles ached even more than before, the familiar pull of the curse drawing closer. The ritual was always the same. Anthony would chain him up in the basement, where he could thrash against the walls in safety, locked away from the world until the transformation passed so he wouldn’t go on a killing spree, which he, unfortunately, had done before Anthony discovered his curse. The only way to keep the people around him safe was by being locked up. 

The night of the full moon arrived. Benedict was chained, ready for what’s to come, his thoughts turning back to the woman and the uneasy promise she had made to him. His mind couldn’t fully focus on her—he was consumed by what was coming next. The moon rose, and with it, the transformation began. The first wave of pain was unbearable, the sound of him screaming and his bones cracking and shifting into the beast, echoing the cold, empty cellar. Anthony walking back to his study, loathing the sound of his brothers torture. It was always torture, but tonight felt different—more violent, more intense. The beast inside him fought against its chains, claws scraping against the cold stone of the basement. Benedict’s body twisted and contorted, his skin burning as the change overtook him. But this time, there was something else. Images of the woman flashed through his mind. Her eyes, her tension when she’d spoken to him, her anger at being confronted about Sofia. Each image made him angrier, more feral. His transformation had always been painful, but this time it felt like it was draining him. His body was fighting the change with every ounce of strength he had left. The chains rattled and groaned under his violent movements as the wolf inside him took control. The hours stretched on, each one more agonizing than the last. The beast within him howled, thrashing against the cold metal, desperate to escape. Images of the woman, still appearing in his mind, fueled the rage that burned through him, making him thrash harder, bite down on the chains in a futile attempt to break free. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t calm the feral instinct that surged inside him. The beast wasn’t just fighting for freedom—it was fighting for revenge.

Finally, as the moon began to set, the transformation began to reverse. The change was just as painful coming back as it was going, but it was slower this time, as though the beast was reluctant to release its hold, wanting to stay this time. Benedict’s bones cracked back into place, and the last remnants of fur melted away, leaving him gasping for breath like he had been drowned, soaked in sweat, his body trembling from the exertion. The basement door creaked open, and Anthony’s familiar figure stepped inside, his gaze filled with concern as he approached the exhausted form of his brother. Benedict barely had the energy to move, but he let his brother help him to his feet, guiding him back up the stairs and into his bedroom. “Get some rest,” Anthony urged softly, his voice laced with quiet understanding. But Benedict couldn’t rest. Not today at least. The image of the woman was still surging trough his mind. Anthony helped Benedict taking of his now ruined shirt. “Get some energy, brother,” Anthony said. As he left the room, Benedict sat on the edge of the bed, his body still shaken and cold from the transformation, but his mind burning with fury. The anger he’d felt during the transformation was still alive inside him, itching. He couldn’t let go of it. Not when there was a chance that Sofia —the witch—was the key to everything.

He had to get answers.

Without a second thought, Benedict put on his ripped white shirt and slipped out of the window, careful not to alert Anthony. His boots hit the earth below with a muffled thud, and in an instant, he was on horseback, Apollo’s hooves pounding against the dirt as they raced toward the woods. The morning sun filtered through the trees as he made his way deeper into the forest. His mind was clear now, focused on one thing: finding the woman. His body still ached, but the fire within him pushed him forward. It wasn’t the curse that drove him now—it was his need to know. To understand.

The journey felt longer this time, the morning cold as he rode deeper into the woods. Finally, he saw it—the cottage, the place where he had first met her. He dismounted, his body still weak almost losing his balance, but the need for answers outweighed the fatigue. He approached the cottage cautiously, but his heart was racing. He could see her silhouette through the window, the faint light of a candle flickering within. His fists clenched as he knocked loudly on the door, the sound echoing through the stillness of the night. The door creaked open, the flickering light from inside casting an eerie glow on the dark morning. When she saw Benedict standing there, his face twisted in anger and determination, her initial shock quickly gave way to frustration. “What the hell are you doing?” she was irritated, her voice sharp, cutting through the stillness of the night. She stepped forward, her eyes flashing with a mix of surprise and irritation. “Why are you here?” Benedict stood tall, his chest heaving, still feeling the remnants of the transformation coursing through him. His hair sweaty and dark circles under his eyes, obviously exhausted. His hands holding on to the door frame as to not fall to the ground, and his voice, when it came, was low and taut with fury. “You know exactly what I want,” he growled. Her brow furrowed as she stepped back, folding her arms defensively across her chest. “I don’t know who you think you are, Benedict Bridgerton,— but there’s nothing I can do for you.” “You know something.” Benedict’s voice was sharp, his anger rising again. He couldn’t help it; the memory of her refusal to tell him anything, to even acknowledge what he had been asking, burned in his mind. “The name, Sofia Crimson. You know something about her, don’t you?” Her eyes narrowed, the tension in the air thickening. Her body stiffened, but there was something in her gaze that seemed to betray her calm exterior. “Stop saying that name.” she said, her voice forced, but her hands were tense at her sides. Benedict’s anger flared, his patience snapping. “You know her!” He took a step closer, his voice rising. “You’re hiding it. I can feel it. She is the one that can help me.” Her eyes flashed with something darker, something he couldn’t place. “She can’t help you!” She howled. But Benedict didn’t budge because he finally knew she had revealed herself of answers. They both stared at each other for a moment and her anger calmed down, knowing he wouldn’t stop coming after her. Benedict could barely stand on his two feet and the woman noticed. Then, with a frustrated sigh, she stepped aside, opening the door wider. “Fine, come in. Try not to break anything with your wobbly knees,” she muttered, a hint of anger still in her voice. Benedict, clearly offended, hesitated for only a moment before stepping inside, almost collapsing on her couch. “Based on your annoying presence, you’re obviously not gonna leave me alone. I’ve heard her name once, but don’t think you’re going to get the answers you’re looking for.” His mind raced, but the determination still burned in his chest. He needed to know the truth. Whatever it took. She followed behind him, closing the door with a soft click. “You’re obviously troubled… looking at the state of you.” She said, her voice quieter now, though there was still an edge to it. “What exactly do you think you’re going to learn here?” Benedict looked at her for a moment, her gaze meeting his. “I think you have knowledge I’m looking for.” The woman didn’t flinch at his words, but there was a brief flicker of something in her eyes. She didn’t answer immediately, and for a long moment, the only sound was the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth. Finally, she spoke, her voice low, almost regretful. “You’re on dangerous territory, Bridgerton” Benedict’s anger began to cool, replaced by a growing sense of dread. “If I don’t get what I need, I might just go crazy.” Her lips tightened. “Would you like some tea, Mr. Bridgerton?” Her demeanor shifted, which caught Benedict off guard. 

“I just want answers.” “My tea is known to be the best.…” “Don’t avoid my words.” Could he read her mind? “There is nothing that I can give you and getting involved will only make everything worse.” She said, now looking at him. Benedict clenched his jaw, his resolve hardening. “I’m already involved. I’m already cursed.” Her gaze dropped for a moment, the weight of the words settling between them. Then, looking up at him again, her eyes held a quiet sorrow. “Some curses are not meant to be touched, Benedict. Some things... should remain.”

Benedict hated this. This answer.

“Not good enough.” Benedict’s voice was quieter now, but no less fierce. His hand tightening into a fist. “I’ve seen her name. In the register. And I know in some weird way, you’re connected to her.” Her face paled slightly, but she didn’t didn’t move. Her gaze remained locked with his, cold and resolute, as if daring him to challenge her further. “You're mental.” Benedict’s frustration reached its peak. He had come for answers, for something to end the hell he’d been living in for so long, and now this woman—this stranger—was standing in his way. "You don’t know what it’s like," he hissed, voice rising in anger. “You don’t know what it is to be trapped, to be torn apart, to lose yourself to something you can’t control.” The woman flinched at the intensity of his words, the rawness in his voice cutting through her like a blade. For a brief moment, something like sympathy flickered in her eyes. But it was gone before he could see it for what it was. "I don’t owe you anything," she said, her voice shaking with barely controlled emotion. "Leave. Now." Benedict stood up, taking a step forward, making the woman take a step back. But before she could make the move, Benedict’s voice stopped her cold. “Please,” he pleaded, the word laced with an edge of desperation he rarely allowed anyone to see. "I need to know. What happened to her? What did she do? How can I not be like… this?» Gesturing to himself. Her breath got caught, her mind racing as memories from a long-forgotten past began to resurface. She could feel the pressure building in her chest, but she refused to give in. Not yet.

"Get out,"

She said through clenched teeth, her hands trembling. She didn’t want to help him. She couldn’t. Benedict stared at her for a long moment, his anger and frustration clashing with the vulnerability in his chest. But in the end, the only thing he could do was turn away, each step heavy with the weight of everything unresolved between them. As he disappeared out of the door, the woman shut the door with a soft click, leaning her back against it as her heart raced. It had been years since anyone had come this close to her. She had managed to bury it all so deeply, but tonight… tonight had changed everything. Benedict rode out of the forest, his heart pounding, his mind racing with the words of the woman echoing in his mind. Her coldness, her reluctance to speak—he couldn’t understand it. She knew something. He was certain of it. And yet, she wouldn’t tell him anything. He had to find the answers on his own. The ride back to the Bridgerton estate was a blur. Benedict barely noticed the path beneath Apollo’s hooves, his thoughts consumed by the woman in the woods. He didn’t know who she was, didn’t know why acted like this, and he hated it. When he reached the estate, he didn’t even bother with a proper greeting. He didn’t care for pleasantries, not now. All he cared about were the books. The damn books. They were his only hope.

The library was vast—floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with centuries of knowledge. Benedict pulled open every book he could find, searching through registers, journals, and ancient tomes, desperate for any clue, any mention of Sofia. He didn’t stop. He tore through the pages, muttering to himself in frustration, his hands trembling with anger and desperation. His mind swirled with unanswered questions, the pieces of the puzzle scattered and elusive. He was so close.His frustration built with every dead-end, every name that didn’t match. He wasn’t going to stop until he found something—anything—that could explain why woman in the woods kept her secrets so tight.

"Benedict!"

A voice echoed through the vast library, breaking through his frenzy. Benedict’s eyes snapped up, and he saw Anthony standing in the doorway, his face a mixture of concern and exasperation. “Benedict,” Anthony said again, his voice calm but firm. “What in the name of all that’s holy are you doing?” “I’m looking for her,” Benedict snarled, slamming another book shut with a loud thud. “She’s keeping secrets. I know it. She’s keeping something from me. I spoke to her—she… she knows what I need, and she refuses to help me.” His voice was tight with frustration, his eyes wild.“Who?” Anthony asked, stepping closer, his brows furrowing. “Her,” Benedict said, his voice lower, filled with barely-contained rage. “The woman in the woods. I don’t know who she is, but I know she’s hiding something. She’s keeping answers from me, Anthony, and I’m not stopping until I find out why.” Anthony studied him for a long moment, then sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, Ben, let’s go to the city. We’ll check the local archives. We’ll search the records. Maybe there’s something there, but We’ll do it tomorrow. You look like you just died and came back to life. Get some rest, please.” Benedict didn’t argue. He needed something—anything—to hold onto. If there was a shred of truth in what he was searching for, he had to find it.

[redlibra14-2]

My theory in regards to the loyal 3

Warning: TEAL MASK and INDIGO DISC SPOILERS

Ok so I just found out about this pokemon called Pecharunt and it looks awfully familiar. That's what I thought to myself upon hearing its name and seeing what it looks like. But upon further inspection I realized that it resembled the chains on the bodies of Okidogi Munkidori, & Fezandipiti. At the same time, a dark thought began to occur to me. I thought surely this can't be for real. But when I went to consult Bulbapedia about this pokemon, I found a bit more that supported my theory. Ladies, gentlemen, and people in between and out, I propose to you that Pecharunt is a parasite.

Yeah what we may be looking at here, may make you have 2nd thoughts and may even make you feel sorry for the Loyal 3. To start off with, as I just brought up, it looks like the chains on the bodies of the loyal 3. It's also the signature ability that all the loyal 3 members share.

Another clue that points to parasitism is how Pecharunts poison seems to enchance the abilities and desires of both people and pokemon. But it also causes them to be subjugated and controlled by it. The dex entries for the loyal 3 confirm this to be the case, as after each of them gained the chain on their bodies, it boosted their abilities and made them manipulative and aggressive. Part of Pecharunt's name according to bulbapedia comes from the word Petulant, which is defined as sulky or having bad manners according to google. Which I guess is why Pecharunt is also part ghost, as some ghosts and spirits tend to be wicked. Peacharunts own ability, poisone puppeteer and signature move, malignant chain also support this.

There's also how their categories are the Subjugator Pokemon for Pecharunt and Retainer pokemon for the loyal 3. Subjugator is defined as to bring someone or something under someone's control. Retainer is defined as something that is holding something in place. Meaning that this could possibly imply that the loyal 3 were once normal and innocent pokemon. And either they came across Pecharunt at some point before Ogerpon's story, or it found all of them and put those chains on them making them fall under its control and amplifying their abilities. Probably even causing their corruption to begin with. And this corruption would set off the CHAIN of events leading up to their encounter with Ogerpon and by extension the events of the Teal Mask as a whole. See what I did there?

The mochi also may possibly be related to the Herba Mystica somehow, as the Loyal 3 can become gigantic. Just like how the Herba Mystica made the titan pokemon that we face in the main story larger too.

So yeah, that's my theory of how the Loyal 3 maybe helpless victims of parasitism. And I can't help but feel how this parallels what happened with Nihilego and Lusamine back in sun and moon, as the poison there also similarly amplifyed Lusamine's wicked personality. But unlike Lusamine, it seems the Loyal 3 are too far gone and the chains are part of them now.

Also keep in mind that this isn't me suggesting a connection between an ultra beast and the loyal 3, just stating a parallel here nothing more.

[quinloki]

quin! I've returned, am already head over heels, and would love to hear your katakuri after hours headcanons 💕

Charlotte Katakuri

After Hours Role: Bartender / Escort

After Hours Attire: Katakuri’s attire from day to night doesn’t change much. Accessories are added to the staff attire that aren’t normally worn during the day. A spiked collar with thin chains that dangle down to his waist before looping back up to the back of the collar. Fingernails painted black, studded wrist bands, and a small array of piercings you wouldn’t have imagined him having during the day. If it wasn’t for other features of his, you’d almost think there was a twin brother of some variety working the night shift.

Often times he’ll lose the shirt portion of his uniform and just wear the vest, showing off an impressive array of tattoos.

After Hours Vibe: Gentle Giant might be the phrase he hears during the day, but at night he’s more of a beast. Katakuri’s services stay almost entirely behind the bar for the most part, but he is available as an escort for the evening. He doesn’t have many clients in that regard, at most he’ll be absent from the bar maybe once or twice a month. It’s not surprising, the man doesn’t really put himself out there in the first place, so all of his clients come to him.

Kata is, honestly, someone you work up to – not someone you start with. (Unless you’re comparable in size, of course.)

Tag Line: “Relax, I promise this deep stretch will leave everything in its proper place by morning.”

Dom/Sub/Top/Bottom: More Sub than dom, but pretty even on that top/bottom vibe - Kata will often take the lead with new clients, at least the first few times, to be sure they don’t rush things and cause themselves an injury.

Kink Preferences: Food Play, Sensory play, Body Worship, Praise, over-stimulation, Shibari

Host Club AU Head Canon Event

[blackjackkent]

OK, so Rakha is getting really pissed off about everyone in Moonrise knowing her history except her, and maybe killing the Warden wasn't actually the best choice, but she does definitely feel a little better afterwards.

It actually didn't go too badly - Lae'zel was able to destroy both scrying eyes before they could summon additional reinforcements. And frankly (at least so Rakha rationalizes, after the fact) they were never going to be able to finish the upcoming prison break without eliminating the immediate guards to prevent them from raising a wider alarm as soon as they noticed the cells were empty. So this had to happen regardless.

It just also happened because she was really fucking pissed off.

Looting the Warden's office gets a couple of useful magical items and, more immediately important, Wulbren's rock hammer, which she can give to him to complete his plan.

"Your feet fly fast, my friend. Any luck with those tools?"

"Here. I found this hammer. Is it yours?"

"Blessed Gaerdal... I never thought I'd see it again. Thank you." He takes the hammer, spins it in the air. Rakha can see at once that he's used to its weight, like it's a natural extension of his arm. "The plan is to wait for a quiet moment, then bust out the back wall. We'll grab the tieflings along the way; we'll need 'em if it comes to a fight."

He stabs a finger in Rakha's direction. "You, however, are the clincher. Once we move, keep the patrols busy. If the bastards spot us, all of bloody Moonrise will come down on us."

-----

Rakha considers this for a while. Keep the patrols busy could mean a lot of things, and not all of them involve killing everyone else on this level. But that is the easiest way, and (as she already considered) the one most likely to prevent someone from alerting the rest of the tower.

She doesn't like the way the beast purrs excitedly at the decision, but there's no help for that. So ultimately, Rakha and her team clear the place out, and then return to Wulbren ready to get things started.

The gnomes smash out the walls on their prison and the tieflings', and they find their way to a small pier on an arm of the lake that butts into the prison area.

"Boat's good to go," Wulbren says eagerly as the others begin to cut through the chains holding the small vessel in place. "All that's left is to ship off. My plan, for now, is to hide out on the water - unless you have a better idea."

"Look to the east for the Last Light Inn," Rakha says firmly. "You'll be welcome there." Barcus is waiting there for him, so it's best for him to go there at once.

(A/N: It's definitely way north as well as east, but whatever. :P )

Wulbren's eyes narrow with a flash of irritation, quickly masked. "Something survived in this hellscape? You should've lead with that." He leaps into the boat, gesturing the others to follow him. "See you there."

Rakha watches silently as the boat drifts off into the dark. One thing done right, at least. Barcus will get his friend back. No sign of any of the people Wyll needs, or of Mol, or of any possible way to attack Ketheric... but at least one thing is done, however much blood spilled it took to manage it.

[tildeathiwillwrite]

Nightmares (Magician's Bait, Part 3)

WoW Birthday Whump Event Day 5: Scream / Captivity / "NO!"

Whumpril Day 2 (Sweat), Day 11 (Can't Sleep), Day 18 (Broken Glass)

WoW Whump Event Prompts List

Whumpril Prompts List

Tales from Valaria Masterpost

TW: captivity, chains, broken glass, monster, guns, death, knife, magic whump, nightmare, kidnapping mention, arguing

first part | <- previous part | next part ->

Context: It's been four years since Reese's life first went to shit. Although everything's settled down, she still has nightmares about the experience. An old friend and a bitchy magician visit her, seeking aid in the case of Damian's abduction.

-----

She was back in the cell.

The chains on her wrists, the bruises on her arms, the clear, tempered glass that allowed her captors to observe as her life force was stolen from her.

The cold, glass cell.

Reese’s voice bounced off the walls as she screamed for help. The vibrations shook her to the core, echoing from every direction, amplified and distorted. But she didn’t stop.

Not until the answering roar came from above.

Her heart jumped into her throat.

No.

Not the—

The monster barreled past her cell, claws scraping and gouging the floor in its haste for prey. Her.

Reese clamped her hands over her mouth, but it was too late. The monster noticed her somehow, by sight or sound or scent, and charged.

The force of the first blow cracked the glass. Strong as it was, the cell was never meant to hold a creature like that. A werewolf? Werebear?

It didn’t matter what sort of creature it was. As it backed up for a second strike, Reese made herself as small as possible, raising her forearms to protect her face.

The glass shattered at the second blow. The tiny, sharp pieces slashed at the exposed skin of Reese's arms, and something warm and wet ran down her arms, dripping onto the floor. A stray shard sliced through the skin below her left eye.

The monster roared, an ear-splitting cry echoing throughout the entire manor.

And the answering gunshot was just as loud.

Crack! Crack-crack! Crack-crack!

It took five bullets before the creature finally fell. Reese stared at the beast in shock as her savior stepped over its corpse, gun in hand, the glass crunching under his feet. She scrambled back, broken glass digging into the palms of her hands.

“It’s okay,” the guard said, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

A strange noise came from above. A sound simultaneously like a hiss and a yowl.

The guard unlocked Reese’s chains and pulled her to her feet. “The experiment has failed,” he said, “you need to get away now!”

“But—” Reese protested, “you—”

The guard led her around the monster's corpse and down the corridor, shrugging off his mottled jacket as he did so. He thrust the coat at her, and she numbly put it on. 

“I’ll be okay,” he said. The voice had changed, and his face became Draven’s. Then Octavian’s. “You need to stay safe.”

They reached the door. The one leading out of the manor and into the forest. “NO!” Reese shouted, pulling away from him. “No… don’t leave me alone!”

“But you’re not alone,” Octavian said softly. When had the gun become a knife? “You have—”

A sharp voice cut through the air, speaking a word Reese did not understand. A rune. Octavian froze mid-word, eyes wide, before crumpling to the ground. Reese screamed, falling to her knees beside him, trying to find a pulse.

“Oh, child,” someone said behind her, “you can’t save him.”

Reese stiffened. She knew that voice!

Kaira snatched her by the arm and yanked her away from Octavian, turning her around. The woman’s face was contorted in rage. “Let’s see if you’re immune to knives too,” she hissed, rune-inscribed dagger raised high.

Reese watched, helpless, as it plunged towards her heart and—

She snapped awake, chest heaving, hot tears rolling down her cheeks. Her skin was slick with sweat, and at some point, she'd kicked off her blankets. Curling up into a ball, Reese started to sob.

---------------------------

Barely an hour later, Reese was sitting at the dining table, wrapped in a blanket and sipping coffee, when a knock sounded from the door. She didn’t need to check a clock to know it was still early in the morning. The first hints of the sunrise had yet to leak over the horizon.

Grabbing her rune-inscribed knife from where she’d left it on the table, Reese silently crept to the door. She paused in front of it, listening.

“...you sure your contact can help us?” a woman’s voice.

“Yes.” The response was short, almost snappish, but recognizable enough.

Reese opened the door, keeping the dagger out of view. “This is early, even for you, Luc.”

Luc jumped, reaching for his akinaka blade before he realized what he was doing. He at least had the sense to look somewhat sheepish. “‘Morning, Reese. Sorry to wake you up.”

Reese eyed the person behind him. Her face was hidden beneath a gray cowl. “I wasn’t asleep. Who’s your friend?”

Luc glanced back at the woman. “She’s why we’re here at such an inconvenient hour. May we come in, please?”

Reese popped her head out the door and checked down the hallway. The lamps had burned low and wouldn’t be lit until after sunrise. Everyone else in the apartment complex was asleep, and the halls were deserted. She nodded and opened the door the rest of the way, leading them to the dining room.

“Coffee?” She motioned to the pot.

“Reese…” Luc’s tone was scolding, but she ignored it as she returned to her seat, setting her knife back on the table in full view of everyone. 

Thankfully, he let the matter drop, pulling out a chair for the woman before seating himself. “What I’m about to tell you is classified information and does not leave this room. Is that clear?”

Reese rolled her eyes. “You know who you’re talking to, right?”

“I need a better confirmation than that.”

“Yes. Understood. Point taken. Clear as glass.” She winced at the metaphor. Too soon.

Luc sighed. “Are you aware of the recent rumors pertaining to the prince?”

“You mean the ones claiming that he was sent to the north as ambassador to the elves? That he’s sick with the plague? Or that he abdicated the throne and the king just hasn’t announced it yet? Or—”

“Yes,” Luc interrupted before she could go on, “those. All those are speculating why the prince hasn’t made a public appearance in over a week. Well… I was just informed of the truth.”

He took a deep breath before continuing. “Prince Damian has been kidnapped.”

Reese blinked. “...okay…” she said slowly.

“Luc,” the woman said, speaking for the first time since she entered Reese’s home, “how is this child supposed to help us?”

“Caiya…” Luc warned softly as Reese’s hands curled into fists. “Don’t. She is exactly the right person to help. Probably the only person who can help.” 

He returned his attention to Reese. “We—Caiya, some detectives, and I—have determined that the abduction was… well… it was impossible unless the person who did it was a magician, or—”

“Or a Stalker,” Reese cut him off, thinking quickly. “One who Caiya can find, but is too much of a coward to fight.”

Caiya inhaled sharply, but Reese affixed her with a glare. “Save it. I might be young, but I’ve seen a lot of shit.” Her eyes flicked to Luc. “I’ll help, but only because I’m the only one who can, and only if I’m properly compensated.”

“Of course,” Luc agreed, a bit too eagerly. His chair scraped roughly against the floor as he stood. “I know it’s inconvenient, but could you return with us to my office? From there we can figure out our next move and you can speak with His Majesty yourself.”

“Excuse me, Luc,” Caiya interjected as Reese rose, “shouldn’t we let her parents know where she’s going?”

“My parents are visiting relatives across the ocean,” Reese snapped, “and they know I can handle myself.” She snatched her knife off the table and stalked out of the room to change. Responsibility or no responsibility, she was not going to get belittled by a self-righteous magician like Caiya Ebony. She’d faced far worse than the magician had imagined.

When Reese returned to the dining room, knife strapped to her thigh, a bag of essentials slung over her shoulder, and the familiar mottled jacket replacing the blanket, she arrived in the midst of an argument.

“Listen here,” Luc hissed, hands firmly planted on the table. “Magician or not, if you duel her, you will lose. Badly. She won that dagger, and she’d rather be cast into the depths than lose it. And if you challenge her to a duel, I will personally see to it that you face the prince’s captor by yourself. Are. We. Understood?”

“Did I miss something?” Reese asked softly.

Luc flinched and whirled around. His expression was neutral, but his cheeks were red from anger. “No,” he lied, shooting a glare at Caiya.

Reese’s eyes darted between Watcher and magician as she fought to keep the surge of pride from showing on her face. She made a mental note to thank Luc later when the magician wasn’t around. “Well… are we going then?”

“Yes,” Luc affirmed quickly. Too quickly. “Right now.”

@fourwingedsnake @whumperofworlds

[opheliajupiter99]

A Word to the Wise Pt.4

Things were truly getting grim for the gaggle of carnies at this point. Gricko was still near catatonic from trauma, Hootsie dead, and now, Gideon missing in the dead of night, his chain marks leading into the forest the only evidence of him left behind. They of course followed the trail, to try and see where it led, but quickly found that after a few feet, the trail stopped, as if the Genasi had been lifted into the air, or somehow vanished mid-drag.

Even stranger was that there were no footprints, to indicate somehow had physically dragged the Genasi, despite the fact the trail clearly indicated that. How would someone even drag him in the first place? The man was immense, not to mention how violently he'd no doubt react to someone trying to capture him, all things considered.

The camp is in shambles at this point, Kremy trying to keep his wits and calm everyone down, even as tears flowed down his cheeks, flowing too freely for him to effectively hide them. Torbek was on the verge of a panic attack, which only elevated the others anxiety, considering what could potentially be unleashed if he felt too threatened, which was only doubled by Twig beginning to crack as well.

Frost, as expected, showed the least response visually. Unlike Kremy, he didn't actively try to show little emotion, it just kind of happened. Yes, he was taught to control his emotions and do his best to not let them get out of hand, but even with that, he had what many might dub a 'resting bitch face' - or at least what Gideon might dub it. Inside though, his mind was only little above the others in terms of cracking.

He was of the highest magical prowess among them, and yet despite that, despite the kind of responsibility that came with, despite his constant efforts to keep them all safe, his found family was crumbling at the seams. In truth, most of the damage thus far was already caused when he peered into Gricko's mind and beheld Hootsie's fate. The sound of her last little hoot still echoed in his ears, as he quietly stared off into the fire while the others bickered and sobbed.

He was growing worried that they couldn't best whatever was going on - but he was rather ashamed that, that wasn't even what scared him most. What scared him most, was the idea that whatever had come to butcher them all one by one...would leave him for last. That he'd have to watch each and every one of his family die horribly, before his own time came. Or even worse...perhaps the beast wouldn't kill him at all; simply leave him all alone, as he begged to be reunited with his lost kin.

This thought couldn't help but consume him as he drifted off to sleep. After everything that had happened, he fully anticipated a gruesome nightmare, but...he didn't expect what happened instead*

He slept remarkably peacefully, and awoke sometime the next morning, sitting up in his cot and rubbing his eyes, before opening them. His eyes widened, and his face was stricken with panic-*

Every single cot around him was empty. Kremy's was torn slightly, stuffing poking out from claw marks, as if he'd tried in vain to fight back, Torbek's was coated in splatters of Witchlight, along with shards of shattered glass, Gricko's left with little struggle at all, which was somehow more chilling, like he'd simply surrendered to be with his dearest daughter, and Twig's was torn apart so violently that it was little more than shreds of scattered fabric and stuffing, Pigtunia nowhere to be seen either.

He....was alone. Nothing but the faint embers of the dying fire, and utter, deafening silence. His heart pounded, as his panicked gaze darted around, trying in desperation to find any sign of them, but to no avail. In fact, gazing around only enhanced his dread, as his eyes caught on Hootsie's cot, which was now in front of his own, despite its usual placement beside Gricko's.

He let out a sob, putting his paws over his eyes, bursting into tears. Who even -was- he without his family?! Just some pompous, sagely fool that had only to offer the world knowledge nobody gave a flying fuck about! Facts and wisdom that meant his only true friends would be some dusty library or wizard's tower, damned to be interacted with only out of sheer necessity, those that finding him searching for any excuse to leave as quickly as they had arrived.

He sobbed violently, clutching his head so tightly his claws began to dig into the sides of his head. He sobbed - then the sobs turned to deranged cackling, letting his head go as his arms hung limply at his sides, fingers-stained crimson, as both tears and blood flowed freely down his face as he stared up at the sky, bellowing, humorless laughs filling the air around him, as the weight of his fate fully fell upon him.

As his mind unraveled, he saw the cot before him twitch out of the corner of his eye. He looked towards it, still softy giggling under his breath as he stared. The cot, now that he looked closer at it, didn't look empty at all...and then-

The lumpy cot began to heave, up and down, as if something was breathing beneath the blanket, and he heard a tiny, hooting voice sobbing, muffled beneath the blanket. This sent him into another fit of giggling sobs, hugging himself tightly as tears flowed anew; he knew what was happening now. He was losing his mind; he could feel it. He pondered if his friends were even gone at all, or if they were clustered around him right now, watching him giggle-cry at nothing.

Then suddenly, with a sharp tear as fabric split apart, sending a puff of stuffing into the air, the cot split open, like oversized prey bursting forth from a snake's stomach. A tall, slim figure pulled itself free from the remnants of the cot, tuffs of fluff falling from its form as it stood to its full height.

A clown.

A tall, slender clown stood before the broken Tabaxi, his arms and legs almost comically long, like a stilt entertainer at a circus, while his middle was somewhat rounded, poofy like a clown suit. His form was white, with multicolored polka dots dotted all over, what appeared to be just a suit so firmly clung to his form, that it looked more like its flesh than an actual costume. Its hands were clown gloves, puffy and bright white, but the fingers were long, coming to a clawed point, looking almost like the spindly legs of a spider, as the beast clacked them together.

It knelt down, getting its painted face, with wide, pupilless eyes, and a lipsticked mouth full of razor-sharp teeth, right up to his own. Frost just stared back, breathlessly giggling as his reddened eyes stared right back into its; its gaze so empty, so soulless, and yet somehow, also filled with immersible glee.

"J-Just...j-just do it!" The poor sorcerer says between mad giggling. The clown giggled in return, the sound shrill, like the feral cackle of a hyena. He grabbed the back of Frost's head tightly, leaning in further, to the point Frost could see nothing but the clown's horrid visage.

"No, no, silly Frosty! We're not done playing our game yet! There's so much more FUN to be had!!"

The carnies woke in the morning once more, but this time, Frost remained his cot. However, they were unable to wake him, no matter how much they begged from tears. While Gricko was traumatized but conscious, Frost was now, full blown catatonic, unclear if he was even registering everything that was happening around him, just lying there, his slowly rising and falling chest the only indication he was alive at all.

After all, killing him now would spoil the fun.

[randomvarious]

Today's compilation:

Unrehearsed Perfection 1998 Jazz / Bop / Hard Bop / Smooth Jazz / Post-Bop

Some of you folks may find this a bit hard to believe, but as someone who never drinks any coffee themselves, I can probably count on one hand the amount of times in my life that I've actually stepped foot inside of a Starbucks. And yet, through some kind of osmosis, I was still somehow ambiently aware of just how integral music had become to their own business model and brand in the 90s, as they pumped out a constant stream of exclusively-sold CDs that matched what was in rotation over their very own speakers at the time.

And it'd all apparently started at some point in the late 80s, when they were still just a small Seattle chain, and had hired a former record store owner named Timothy Jones, who'd just decided that he needed a change in his own life and was then given the keys to manage his own favorite nearby coffee spot across the way from his old record shop. By the time Jones had arrived, each Starbucks was being sent a different four-hour cassette tape of classical music each month to play, and as someone who'd spent his entire life around music himself, he became the store's curator for those tapes. Without anyone's knowledge, though, Jones proceeded to diversify Starbucks' musical programming, and eventually expanded into jazz, reggae, and blues too. And with this change then came the inevitable question from customers, "do you guys sell any of this music that you play here?"

And at first they didn't, but by 1995, they had started to, with their first ever release, Blue Note Blend, which had initiated their original run of jazz compilations too. Within less than a month, this album had managed to sell 50,000 copies across Starbucks' 500 stores, which then naturally led to the vast expansion of their own serious music hustle that saw them releasing CDs on a consistent basis well into the 2010s.

And there were certainly bumps along the way too. At a certain point, beyond just selling nicely curated compilations of classy coffeehouse ambiance, they'd decided to take things a step or two further, and haphazardly got themselves more directly involved in the record business, which ended up resulting in a lot of anodyne, exclusive, unwanted, contemporary crap from beloved legends who should've known better. Even Sonic Youth put out a song exclusively through Starbucks once 😆.

And eventually, as the returns on CDs continued to diminish, and streaming became peoples' typical avenue for listening consumption, Starbucks dropped their CD-selling angle and their record label antics altogether and decided to partner with Spotify in the mid-2010s.

But as we now go back in time to their late 90s musical heyday, here's one of the greatest classic jazz compilations that they had apparently ever put out, Unrehearsed Perfection, which may've come off as a somewhat random assortment to the casual listener, but as its title indicates, was actually pretty uniquely thematic, as it consisted solely of recordings from the catalog of the legendary Impulse! Records that'd somehow been made in only one, single, miraculous take.

So on here, we've got a whole host of legends: Duke Ellington, John Coltrane, twice—who himself played an integral role in the early success of Impulse! with A Love Supreme—Coleman Hawkins, Benny Carter, Milt Jackson, McCoy Tyner, and Charles Mingus.

And while most of these selections seem to match that idyllically cozy, warm, and familial 90s Starbucks aesthetic, it's Mingus' own "II B.S.," off of his classic 1964 album, Mingus Mingus Mingus Mingus Mingus, that serves as the big exception here, as it starts from just Mingus' own lonely double-bassline, but progressively expands into a beast of its own making, with sharp, addled lead horn action among an actively large backing band that is surely to take every coffee drinker's focus off of whatever else they're doing and tune their ears to this masterpiece instead 😌.

So, you may not really think about it, but with people digging the ambiance that Starbucks had provided as they rapidly expanded all across the US throughout the 90s and 2000s, they also sort of somewhat quietly managed to become kind of a big pop cultural music staple with their varied litany of CD offerings too. And before today, I had never listened to any of the many compilations that they had put out over the years, but if this CD itself is any indication, then it's easy to see why music became such a focal point of their business, because the selection job that was done by their very own former-Seattle-record-shop-owner-turned-store-manager here, Timothy Jones, was definitely top-tier👏.

Starbucks has kind of grown into a gross, impersonal behemoth like all large, ubiquitous chains more or less inevitably seem to do, but their idea to sell more than just coffee and pastries in that pivotal mid-90s moment definitely went a long way towards endearing themselves to folks in more lasting ways than just being a dime-a-dozen coffee shop ever could. People deriving pleasure from a restaurant business in a way that doesn't actually involve food or drink is not something that seems to organically happen very often, but you have to think that Starbucks' CD venture was akin to what a business like McDonald's had managed to pull off by putting collectable toys in their very own Happy Meals. Get people to think fondly of your business beyond your main selling point, and you've got some serious loyalty!

OK, that's more than enough positive big business spin from me today 😅. Shop local whenever you can so that the money you spend can circulate within your own community for a longer period of time, but don't hate something good that a big business might incidentally end up doing, like putting out quality CDs like this one! ✌️

Highlights:

McCoy Tyner - "Caravan" Duke Ellington - "Limbo Jazz" Johnny Hartman - "Ain't Misbehavin'" Oliver Nelson - "Stolen Moments" Diana Krall - "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" John Coltrane - "Acknowledgement" J.J. Johnson & Kai Winding - "I Concentrate On You" Benny Carter & His Orchestra - "Body and Soul" Charles Mingus - "II B.S." Milt Jackson Quartet - "Paris Blues" Sonny Rollins - "Blue Room"

[voidtouched-blue]

@altosk asked: [𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐦 ] : sender has killed someone who threatened the receiver. (From Schwann)

It wasn't a conscious choice to travel on her own. The prospect of spending time on the open sea terrified her after the last time she had been on a boat. Nearly drowning after their ship had been attacked by pirates had left her with a new fear to nurture in her heart. It was that same fear that lead her to jump from the ship right as it set sail from the port. With a leap and a tumble, she came to rest on the dock.

Her heart stopped in her chest the moment she recognized a foreign emotion in a familiar face.

The confusion and worry that painted Schwann's face had allowed the glimmer of that carefree man to peer through the hard shell of the knight. Her violet eyes caught the way his armored fingers gripped the wooden railing with a worry she had never witnessed in him before. She stood still on the dock, her hair flicking wildly in the breeze as she stared in guilt at the result of her impulsive choice.

She saw him move his arms in a way she didn't understand, watching him as he ran as far as he could towards her on the ship gesturing wildly towards his head. It wasn't until he had been nothing more than an orange speck in her vision that she realized her hood had fallen in her tumble. Cyra looked around at the people backing away from her in fear as the recognition of the beast before them lit up in their eyes.

The creature she was had sent people into a panic before. It was the very reason why she layered herself in clothes, even forced herself to walk on her heels rather than her toes and made the choice to wrap her tail around her waist as a belt. As their voices rose, so did her own, the instinct within her rippled as she lowered herself. Guards came running, quick to protect the people as they began to scream and scatter like rats. Without another thought, Cyra made the choice to run.

She had only made it so far as the city limits before running into the blockade of militia and imperial knights.

That was the last thing she remembered.

Voices came in muffled, and the world spun with every throb ripping through her skull. The hiss that escaped her lips had been met with the tug of a chain or a rope wrapped firmly around her neck. She choked, coughing and shifting to move her hands to grasp at her throat and chest for air. The chorus of chuckling from the figure closest to her. Her vision hadn't quite cleared from the mess of colors that pulsed with the headache, but she heard him quite clearly.

She stilled, realizing her hands had been tied together behind her back, leather bags wrapped firmly around her fingers to prevent the use of her claws. Her legs still seemed to be free, but the weight around her neck told her that it was more than rope wrapped around her throat. It was then that she recognized the man as a bounty hunter, and the other voices with him as members of his guild. She had heard Raven speak of them before, suggesting for her to err on the side of caution when dealing with members of guilds that tended to travel in service of their clients. It wasn't uncommon for wealthy individuals to pay a high price for the more prominent beasts of the world. It was to her misfortune that she had been perceived as just another monster.

Cyra tried to shift to a more seated position, pressing her face into the dirt as she squirmed. The movement made her wince. She gasped at the sting on her forehead, unable to realize the full extent of the damage without a mirror. Blood had painted the side of her face, and judging by the ache in her neck and the tenderness in her side, something had happened between the town and wherever they had taken her.

Right as she had begun to assess the damage, the jingle of the chain signaled the violent tug on the shackle around her neck. Sent sputtering again into the dirt, gasping and coughing like a dog pulling against its leash. The shout of the man had alerted her in her struggle to breathe had told her enough. Something had startled the hunters, and rather than stay to fight, they were looking to run. Her captor didn't hesitate to drag the small woman through the dirt as they began to run from the clash of metal behind them.

"You can 'ave the horn, mate. But you ain't gettin' the whole prize, guild business-"

The explanation had been cut short with a gurgling cry.

Still being dragged by her neck in the mud, she managed to roll over only to choke herself more as she stared up at the sky. Rain blotted out her vision, but as the man continued to pull her across the ground, one of the leather covers on her hands had come loose. Feeling this, she risked injury to her hand hitting on branches and stones to cut herself free from the rope binding her arms behind her.

Her sore hands wrapped around the metal of the shackled collar, tugging to give herself some room to breathe, only realizing too late the man had slowed to face the approaching footsteps behind them. She heard the weight of the chain drop to the mud, the hunter sputtering out some fearful excuse as he turned to flee. A true coward making a grave mistake to turn his back to his fate.

She had managed to scramble to her hands and knees with just enough energy to make a run for the underbrush. Cyra only needed enough time to catch her breath. If it was another rival guild seeking to take the bounty for their own, she wanted to be prepared to defend herself from the next threat. She wheezed, trying her best to keep her coughing low enough to be drowned out by the downpour of rain. Yet, as she listened to the lighter footprints approaching, a spark of familiarity struck her at her core.

Why would she recognize such a light cadence?

Is that-?

Cyra reached out her bleeding hand to shift the wet leaves and branches out of her view of the battle. Still her vision hadn't fully returned, warping between a blur of colors and the sharpened images of the warring men before her. The flash of orange had danced through the rain, a glimmer of red arced out from the larger man. He staggered backward, and that same crimson point sunk through his chest. She heard the final gurgling cries of the dying hunter as liquid rubies seeped into the mud below.

She coughed, feeling her head spin from the struggle for air and watching as the orange-clad knight looked down at the broken horn in his hand. Gasping, she clutched at her chest yelping weakly at the way her fingers on her left hand protested at the action. Warmth blurred her vision. Watching the way the knight held the trophy of the hunters in his hand as though it were a precious heirloom. It wasn't until her sight sharpened enough for her to recognize the familiar emerald gaze of the man under the nutmeg locks that clung to his face in rain and blood.

It was then that she crawled forward, ignoring the throb in her throat and the burning in her lungs. She made a move to stand and walk towards him. Each step betraying her commands from the shock of being dragged as far as she had been by her neck, she collapsed back to her knees just before she had reached the road.

"Ra....ven... I'm-" She cried. The words came out as a croak. Chest heaving, and shoulders shaking as welcomed tears mixed with the chilling rain that blanketed her in relief.

"I'm...sorry..."

[quillsareswords]

hii, for #QFWW could you do a romantic ghost hunting with the demonologist!reader and damian bc i miss those freaks

A/N: thank you sm for requesting them I love them so fucking much

WARNINGS: language, ghost, mentions of eating/drinking

MASTER LIST in BIO

"You can hold my hand if you get scared."

   Damian snorts. "You watched me punch an eight foot lizard monster in the face on Friday night. I think I'll be alright." He accepts the maglight you hold out and shoves it into the backpack you handed him first.

   You bend at the waist and dive back into your arsenal-slash-trunk of your car. It's a glorified pile of miscellaneous weapons, tools, and occult paraphernalia, and he has no idea how you find anything as quickly as you do.

   "Okay, firstly," you start, rifling through another bag you've dredged up from the back, "Croc is nine feet tall. Easy. Secondly, you screamed like a nine year old when we watched Insidious." You produce an unopened canister of iodized salt and blindly extend it toward him.

   He drops it into the bag with a scowl. "Okay, fine, he's technically eight and a half. And I did not scream."

   You turn over your shoulder with raised eyebrows. "Oh? No? Timestamp forty-six minutes, five seconds. The Red Faced Demon is standing behind the husband–"

   "It was the sound effects–"

   "–in seven years I have never heard you make that noise–"

   "If you wouldn't have cranked the volume up–"

   "–you made me stop the movie–"

   "Okay! Yes, I was startled. It was a jumpscare. And I live with someone who fights them for a living—I'm one of the few people to watch that movie and actually know how dangerous a demon attachment can be." He huffs.

   You roll your eyes, but you go back to digging around your stash. "I didn't scream. Do you want a knife?"

   "You summon a few to play poker bi-weekly. And yes."

   You slide a bowie knife into the sheath on the back of your belt, pull out another, and stand up and slam your trunk closed. You trade him the knife for the backpack. "Constantine plays poker, I play Uno. I hate poker."

   He looks down at the knife in his hand, weighs it absently. He's seen it around before, somewhere in your office, maybe in your glove box, probably on the floor at some point. "Of course you do."

   You sling your bag over your shoulder and grab the bolt cutters from the roof of the car.

   He cocks an eyebrow and follows you toward the door. "I thought you said we had permission to be here? Why do you need those?"

   "We do," you assure him. "The owner paid me to come. He wants me to prove it's haunted so he can rent it out to shows and internet personalities." You lead him around the front of the building, out of the last strips of dusk and into the shadow the beast of brick casts. "Unfortunately, he couldn't fine the key to the chain on the door, so, you know. Bolt cutters."

   There's another door waiting for you between some overgrown hedges. He focuses mostly on his footing and allows your footsteps ahead to guide him. Between the debris and the vanishing concrete, it'd be too easy to trip.

   You clip the blades onto one link of the chain looped through the door handles and start squeezing. He stands at your back, subconsciously keeping watch while you're busy. The chain hits the cement, and you wedge the blades between the doors to help wrench them open.

   The interior is in much better shape than the exterior. Where outside, it's easy to see that all four stories of the office has been empty for several years, inside, the only thing to suggest its vacancy is the film of dust covering everything and the lack of electricity.

   You pull the first maglight put and click it on while Damian hauls the door mostly shut. The side entrance opens into a hallway that probably leads back around to the front door and the security desk.

   Damian's tiny flashlight beams cleaner and whiter beside yours, skimming down the doors lining the corridor. "What are we looking for, again?"

   "We hate-watch Ghost Adventures; it's just like that but without Zac fuckface Bagans. And, you know. We aren’t huge babies and this isn’t staged.”

   “Of course not. You’d never be satisfied with a safe, staged film set.”

   You nudge a door open and shine your light inside. An empty room with one, very depressing desk. “No, absolutely not. I had to go and solve a paranormal murder at age twelve and here we are.”

   He chuckles.

   The first floor is as barren as it can be. It looks like it was cleaned out pretty efficiently when the doors finally closed. The only interesting thing to be found is a heavy pen with the name of some paper company printed in sharp gold letters. The second floor is more of the same, save for a conference room with a projector and screen left behind. Damian talks you out of going back to the car for your computer to find out if it works.

   “If we don’t see an activity up here, I’ll just run through the next two with the K2 and call it.” You use your shoulder to convince the stair access to the third floor to open. “If it spikes, I’ll just send Jerry over tomorrow or something.” It squeals open easily once the latch is unstuck.

   He follows you into the main room. There are still some desks scattered around, and one of the fluorescent light covers is hanging open from the ceiling. “This entire endeavor seemed like more of an assistant’s errand. Why didn’t you send him to begin with?”

   There’s no bite to the question. He’s not accusing you or insinuating anything–he’s just curious. You look away guiltily anyway, because in your mind, you hear, why, this week of all weeks, did you have to do this?

   Valentine’s Day is only in a few days, and he blocked out almost his whole week to spend with you. You’d try to do the same, bumping clients around and turning phone calls into emails until you were nearly free. Unfortunately, it’s just not enough. You’ve had somewhere to be every day. He claims he isn’t irritated, that he understands, but you know it isn’t fair. 

   “I wasn’t sure if the place was haunted or not, and Jerry hasn’t exactly gotten the whole some spirits want to eat your eyeballs thing through his head yet. I didn’t want to risk him coming face to face with a poltergeist without me around,” you explain, the beam of your light sweeping across the personal offices on the farthest wall. “I’m sorry, again.”

   He nudges an old, empty file box with his shoe. “For what?”

   You sneak a glance over your shoulder at him as he wanders toward an alcove boxed in by an extra wall. “I feel bad I had to work, I guess. I know you’d rather be at home, enjoying your time off for once.” You move forward, checking between the abandoned desks for any crouching figures or lucky finds. “You really didn’t have to come.”

   You can hear him turning around, and the beam of his light reaches toward your feet. “I wanted to come,” he corrects you quickly. “And you don’t have to apologize, my love. You made as much time as you could. I know your career isn’t exactly the most forgiving. Speaking from experience.”

   You snort. “Well, sure, but–”

   “Don’t. How many dates or events have I missed?” His long legs carry him across the room a little quicker than you anticipate. “We’ve been able to spend more time together in the last few days than we have in weeks. I’m more than content with that.” His palm is warm, flattened in the small of your back. “Besides, I enjoy accompanying you. Especially when there aren’t any demons flying around swinging swords or firing flaming arrows at us.”

   “Don’t jinx it, you ass,” you swat jokingly at him with a smile. “But thank you. I like it when you come with me. Makes it a lot less boring," you chuckle. "And–"

   Bang!

   You whip around toward the sound, dominant hand curling around the handle of your knife while your light finds the source.

   Nothing's seems to have been touched except for–

   "The stairs," Damian whispers. Sure enough, the door you just had to ram open is now firmly closed. 

   You take a step closer to Damian. "Somebody there?" you call. You trade your grip on your knife to unclip the K2 meter from your belt. It ticks quietly at the lowest level.

   You didn't feel any wind that might've closed it. You don't smell sulfur or smoke. The air still feels light, if dusty, and not as oppressive as the atmosphere would be with something evil in the building. You aren't necessarily surprised by that, though. The buildings history was clean as a whistle when you looked into it—which was surprising, considering it stands in Gotham City, murder capital of the world.

   By process of elimination and lack of evidence, you're confident that any entity living here is probably a human spirit that's either wandering in from the metaphorical street, or someone who worked here for so long that it was more familiar than home was when they died.

   There's always a chance you're wrong, though. Definitely wouldn't be the first time.

   Beside you, Damian is keeping an eye on the rest of the room so you can focus on your senses. You're better at picking up on things than he is in these situations.

   "If you want to talk, we'd really like to hear what you've got to say," you announce. "Might even be able to offer you something."

   The meter ticks up a level. You slowly move it side-to-side, checking for an environmental interference. It stays steady.

   "Do you think you can talk to me? That door was really heavy, and you closed it by yourself, so you must be pretty strong."

   Damian bumps his elbow into yours. You turn to see him, hoping you aren't about to find something that will haunt your dreams for the next few months. He points his flashlight at a puddle of papers on the floor between two desks. The edges of two of them are lifting and falling like they're being caught by a breeze. There aren't any open windows, no holes in the ceiling. None of the other papers move.

   You bump his shoulder and smile proudly. "Okay, I'll tell you what." You sling your backpack on top of one of the empty desks and jerk the zipper open. You dig past the short-nose shotgun with its rock salt rounds, the box of banishing bullets, your demonic identifier keys. Out comes the spirit box. "I'm gonna set this on the table and turn it on. It's gonna flip through a ton of radio stations really fast. You just need to focus on the word you want to say, and the radio will say it for you."

   Damian watches you set it out on the table. His eyebrows furrow. It looks…familiar. "Is that the old police scanner from the Cave?"

   You pause. You look over at him sheepishly. "Tim said I could have it. He helped me rework it."

   He closes his eyes. "You took a four thousand dollar piece of equipment that could scan any radio frequency in a twenty mile radius and made it into a ghost translator?"

   You pull out the antenna and shrug. "Technically, your brother made it into a ghost translator. And it's called a spirit box, thank you very much." You flick the switch for emphasis.

   It crackles static for a moment, sputters broken words from different shows and songs, and then some talk show somewhere says, "Asshole," clear as a bell.

   You burst into laughter. Damian's eyes narrow. "Even the ghost thinks you're a dick," you wheeze. A woman's laughter coughs through the continuous static.

   "Don't you have a proposition for it, oh great and powerful sorcerer?" He rolls his eyes.

   "She," the radio corrects.

   You get a grip on your composure, tucking away comments you're definitely going to make about this later. Damian Wayne, trans-dimensional asshole. Damian Wayne: even the afterlife hates him! You fake wiping a tear away just to annoy him a little more.

   "Yeah, actually, I do." You straighten yourself back out. "I'm gonna talk to the box since I don't know where you are, okay?"

   "Sure."

   Damian leans against the desk behind the one you're using, just within your line of sight. He's naturally very quiet, and he knows it makes you uneasy when you don't know exactly where he is in places like this.

   "Great. Well, we should start by introducing ourselves." You give it your nickname freely (you never use your real name—something about how names have powers and a bunch of other magical nonsense that went over his head. He gets the gist, at least. She tells you her name is Bethany. "Well, Bethany, it's nice to meet you. Do another spirits live here?"

   "A few," she crackles. "They're—nice."

   You explain the situation to her and trust that she'll relay the information on to the others. You tell her about the landlord wanting to rent the place out, that he'd be willing to trade favors for a good show. Things like leaving a television or two on to chase off the boredom of being stuck in an office building as a weak human spirit. She thinks it's funny, but she likes the idea. She tells you that she used to watch ghost hunting shows all the time when she was alive.

   Damian keeps an eye out for any other activity, but for the most part, he just wants to watch you. You sit on the desk with the box, negotiating casually with a dead woman like it's just some other Sunday night.

   He knows better. As sick of your career as you get some days, for as many problems it's caused you over the years, despite all the things it's taken from you and held you back from—you love these parts. Even though this is just another Sunday night for you, you're still fascinated by the afterlife, by how thin the veil between worlds is.

   It's what you were born to do. You're in your element in this empty building, laughing at a bad joke told by someone you can't see. This is your purpose. Bridging the wide gap between the living and the dead; protecting people from things they never even knew existed. 

   Your job is trying at best, for both of you. It strains your relationship at times, just the same as his heroic duties. His opinion of your work is best described as a love-hate relationship. He hates it for what it does to you, for the trials it puts you through; but he loves it for what it does for you, the purpose it gives you. 

   His opinion doesn't matter there, though. It's your passion, and he'll support you in that until the day finally comes that you turn your back on it. He'll be here to pick you up when it knocks you down. He'll be waiting at home when you drag yourself through the door. He'll go ghost hunting with you for Valentine's Day.

   "Hey, Dams?"

   "Hm? Yes?"

   You're already looking at him, gently packing the spirit box back into your bag. "Ready to go?"

   "Of course." He picks himself up from the desk and waits for you to reach him. "Does this mean we're going home?"

   You fall in step with him back toward the stairs. Hopefully the door wasn't jammed by your new friend. "Oh, I don't know. I thought we might stop for food. Usually we're covered in dirt or worse when we finish up, but we're clean this time. Might as well take advantage of it."

   He grabs the door's handle and yanks it open for you with relative ease. "What did you have in mind, Love?"

   You cock a shoulder. "Insomnia Cookies is open. That tea house on Ballet Street is, too. I don't care, you pick. My treat." You step out to the stairs.

   He follows you with a scoff. "That's hilarious. I pay."

   You chuckle, "Sweetheart, you just helped me make two grand. I'm paying."

   You stop abruptly, turn, grab him by the collar, and pull him down to meet you halfway. You kiss him there, on the stairs of an abandoned office building, where three or more ghosts are probably watching. "Happy Valentine's Day, by the way."