#Ghost Furniture Catalogue

[billherbert23]

How Not To Do This

Driven, if not driven wild, by coincidence, I had occasion just the other day to post something by a very old friend, Martyn Crucefix, on a current website, the Ghost Furniture Catalogue, which I’m co-curating with Sophie Herxheimer. The particular coincidence in this case being that it’s Martyn’s own excellent website I always think of as a corrective contrast to this, far more occasional,…

[bobasbn]

𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐬

1.3k words | clingy Xavier x reader | intoxicated, suggestive, hair-pulling kink...

-

You’ve never seen Xavier drunk before. 

His sapphire blue eyes in two lazy slits, his pale cheeks flushed and confident stature dwindled to a slouched posture and an undeniably enervated expression. 

All because one of your coworkers insisted you have a drink despite you repeatedly turning the offer down, attempting to spare the experience of being hammered today. The brunet pushed a glass of liquor towards you, coaxing you to believe that “just one drink won’t hurt.” 

Saying that you were annoyed would be an understatement, and your eyes darted about to find some sort of an excuse to slip away from your overbearing coworker. There wasn’t anyone around at the gathering of the hunter’s association to save you, all your friends either being occupied or already drunk and slumped over at the bar. You begrudgingly wrap your fingers around the shot-glass, praying in your mind that taking this shot will brush this coworker off your back. Before you could lift up the glass, another pair of fingers encased yours.

“She doesn’t wish to drink tonight,” Xavier interjects, the rough edge of his tone apparent despite his calm demeanour. 

“Come on! It can’t possibly be that bad,” The man jeers with a roll of his eyes. Xavier’s jaw clenches and he immediately latches his lips to the rim of the glass and tilts his head back to down the shot completely before you could chime in. The man’s eyebrows quirk up, and he challenges Xavier to another shot.

From there, it only escalated. One shot turned to two, which turned to five and that’s how you ended up in the back of a cab with a drowsy Xavier nuzzling his face into your shoulder. 

You sit still, arms crossed in front of your chest. You aren’t amused at all with the fact that Xavier fell into the trap, that he kept accepting challenges and drinking more regardless of the fact that it was obviously all a ruse just to irk Xavier and get him drunk. 

“You didn’t have to drink every shot he offered you… he was just messing with you,” you scolded Xavier lightly, nudging his head away with your finger. 

He only whines in response. He’s leaned against your left shoulder, his arms encircling your body so his hands are linked by your right hip. “I- I didn’t like that guy.” 

“Like or not, you shouldn’t just fall for people’s tricks like that,” you press further. Nevertheless, you couldn’t help but Xavier to be painfully cute in this state. You watch the cab turn into your street intently and come to a halt in front of your apartment building. 

You lugged the drunk man out of the cab, he walked beside you with a contemplative pout tugging at his lips. The second you two board into the elevator and the door closes, Xavier steps in behind you and his chin immediately makes home on your shoulder. 

“You smell sweet,” he whispers. Your skin pricks with goosebumps when his breath ghosts over your neck. His fingers trail from your shoulder, to your elbow, down your forearm and grazing over your wrist until his fingers interlock with yours.

“Xavier…” You try to warn him, but the words die on your tongue when the elevator doors open and you step forward with a clingy Xavier hung around your shoulders like your own personal human backpack. 

You manage to enter his apartment, taking off your shoes and Xavier follows suit by hastily kicking off his own. His apartment looks like it always does, like nobody resides here. It’s always clean, untouched and the furniture is straight from a catalogue with barely any personality gracing the place. That’s aside from a small photo frame hung on the wall by the entrance from the time you both modelled for the Twinkle Photobooth. It was a small pop of colour against the otherwise dull white walls. 

You’re stopped from taking another step into the living room when Xavier’s hands place on your waist and pull you until your back makes contact with his broad chest. He’s more needy than usual and acting as if he’s allergic to letting you go at all. His thumbs rub tender circles into your hips, his lips pressing soft kisses along the column of your neck. When his hand snakes up dangerously close to the hem of your shirt, you immediately grab his wrist and stop him.

His eyes open, caught by surprise. 

“You don’t want-?” 

“Shouldn’t we get to bed?” You cut him off. You hate to be falling under his spell when he’s intoxicated, even if it’s becoming increasingly hellish to hold back. The moment you hold the reins of your self-control and push it down, you start to forcefully nudge him into his bedroom where you plan to leave him there when he falls asleep.

“I’m not too drunk. I feel fine enough to move on my own,” Xavier protests. He lets himself be shoved into his bedroom. He wants to convince you that he isn’t as drunk as you’re making it seem especially after noticing that you were actively ignoring his protests.

Planted by the foot of his bed, you expect Xavier to give up and go to sleep like he usually does. He starts to tug off his white jacket, swinging it off his arms and discarding it on the ground. It leaves him in a form-fitting black turtleneck that he was wearing underneath. Your eyes shamelessly rest right on the places where the fabric really accentuates the muscles he conceals most of the time. 

Xavier doesn’t relent on his show of affection towards you. He leans in and pecks your lips. You immediately step back from him, half from instinct and half from plainly wanting to mess with him. His eyebrows furrow and his pout is imminent from watching you move away. 

“Please?” He beseeched, as if a kiss equated to oxygen for him. 

You roll your eyes, trying to present yourself as annoyed but as soon as you blink his lips crash against yours again. It was a soft exchange at first but desperation was quick to consume him, his soul practically pouring into the kiss and causing you two to stumble back onto his bed. 

You find yourself not minding the faint scent of alcohol that exudes from his clothing. His warmer, larger body hovers over yours and his lips work fervently with yours. He uses one hand to steady himself over you and the other hand slides up to cup your chin, tilting your face up even more to deepen the kiss. 

Your fingers tangle into his hair, gripping at the blond locks to keep yourself sane so you don’t absolutely lose it with the way Xavier is acting like he needs this, like this is his sole purpose. Even if it was inevitable, your composure was slipping faster than sand between your fingers. You can’t help the way you suddenly tug at his hair, the action eliciting a low grunt from him, the sound guttural from surprise. The moment your lips separate and your eyes meet again, his gaze is darkened to a deep blue. 

“Do that again,” He orders. His voice breathy and teetering on a whimper. You weren’t expecting him to suddenly pause and request you tug at his hair again. Did he… like it? When you tighten your grip on the roots of his locks again, he gives a reaction similar to the last. His body shudders, a low groan escaping his lips.  

“You have no idea what you do me…” He mutters. He leans back in for more, the way his mind demands for you is enough to engulf him. He becomes lost in the sensations. Your lips, your body, you. Tonight, he plans to do nothing but show you exactly how much he appreciates you.

-

yay ☆

[rancidpancakebatter]

For Him - [P.P.]

Pairings: Peter Parker x Depressed!Reader

Summary: You were fine. He doesn’t understand. You were fine. You had been a little distant lately, but he had learned that was a pattern for you. When the months got colder and the nights got longer, you needed an adjustment period. Your space would get messy, and your naps would get longer. But you were always fine. 

Word Count: 7.0k

Content: THIS FIC IS CENTERED AROUND A DEPRESSIVE EPISODE. YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR OWN MEDIA CONSUMTION.

Depression, language, Mentions of self-harm, Mentions of suicide ideation, friends to...open to being more?, Whump comfort, No actual harm comes to the reader, Happy Ending

( Masterlist )

A/N: I'm trying to get back into writing (I know I've said that before) and while my series are on pause, I've been trying to get back into a schedule with it. This piece is very personal to me and is very much something I wrote for myself. I'm sharing this only because I hope it can bring others the comfort it brought me. Or something close to it.

“Peter- Peter, please fix it!” Peter watched you helplessly as you continued to sob. 

Your cries ripped from your chest, and you wished to reach inside the fresh gashes, grasp your heart, and grind it to dust. Anything to make it stop. It felt as if the tissue of your cardiac muscle was pulling itself apart, each painful pump shredding the fragile tissue further. You weren’t sure how much more you could take- how many beats you had left in you. You felt delirious. 

It’s common knowledge that when your body is going through immense pain, such as breaking a bone, it goes into shock. Your sympathetic nervous system shuts off momentarily because your brain makes the executive decision that you can’t handle it. You wondered how much pain you could withstand before your body tapped out. 

Everything was too much. Your brain couldn’t keep up. Neither could Peter. He watched on in horror as you screamed, clawing at the carpet, pushing your face into the ground, cradling your stomach, and rolling back and forth. 

You were fine. He doesn’t understand. You were fine. You had been a little distant lately, but he had learned that was a pattern for you. When the months got colder and the nights got longer, you needed an adjustment period. Your space would get messy, and your naps would get longer. But you were always fine. 

You had been ghosting Peter for six days (after two weeks of not seeing each other and you flaking on plans), and he had had enough. In his line of work, he tended to worry, however irrational that worry was, it was still there, palpable. You hadn’t been to class all week, he went to your job to surprise you, but you weren’t there either. He thought maybe you were upset with him, but the nagging thoughts racing through his mind couldn’t let you be. If something was wrong, he needed to know. 

Peter has had a key to your place since you moved in. He was the only person you trusted, and you knew that sometimes he hated going home, finding it hard to leave “work” at work. You loved that your apartment was a safe place for him. Somewhere, he could rest his head and forget, for a moment, about Spider-Man and return to Peter Parker.

To say your place was a mess was an understatement. You were respectfully tidy; your space consistently looked lived-in, as opposed to Harry’s place, which always looked like a catalogue. 

The smell of rotting food triggered his gag reflex momentarily. He soon got his bearings and saw dishes piled everywhere; the full plates looked almost untouched. Various fast food containers littered every surface. Clothes were draped over random furniture, and he could smell you too. He didn’t smell your strawberry shampoo and cocoa butter lotion but rather sweat and musk. 

He entered cautiously, calling out to you, but heard no response. He surveyed his surroundings, looking for any possible distress. He worried for a minute that his Spidey-Sense™ wasn’t working. Obviously, something was wrong, but his sixth sense remained dormant in his nerves. 

Then he heard it, breathing, a heartbeat. He moved in its direction, slowly approaching the couch. Curled up in a ball, you lay there, surrounded by malodorous clutter. You looked very uncomfortable slotting yourself between mounds of tupperware and dirty clothes. He called out to you again but got no response. 

He lept over the back of the couch, landing in front of you, disregarding anything in his path. He brought a hand to your face and the other to your exposed wrist, checking for a pulse. You turned your face away from him, and he felt a rush of emotions surge through him. 

Firstly, he was elated: you were alive, your pulsed drummed with the precision of a seasoned battlefield drummer, and you didn’t seem to have a fever or show any other indications of illness. 

Secondly, he was angry: he hadn’t heard from you in a week, but he sees your phone on the floor in front of him. You were trying to move away from his touch as if his hand on your face was the broccoli your mother demanded you eat before leaving the table. And when he called to you, you didn’t respond- despite very obviously being awake. 

Then, he was worried: he watched as your fingers trembled, your hand limp as he held your wrist. You looked dull, as if someone had turned down your saturation, drowning you out in the background of surrounding hues. Your eyes were glassy, seemingly unfocused as you stared ahead. You looked despondent, a husk of his dear friend. 

He called out to you again, and you let out a small whimper. He was beginning to panic. You, on the other hand, were trying to find the will. The will to care, to respond, to look at him, to live. 

“(Y/n), can you hear me?” again, you gave him nothing, and he felt panic rise in him again. 

“(Y/n), come on, you gotta give me some sign of life.” You focused all of your energy, fighting desperately against your brain, and blinked, long and slow. 

“Was that on purpose? Was that your response?” You blinked again, and Peter felt his chest tighten. 

“Are you okay? You’re freaking me out, Bubs.” You blinked twice, and Peter stopped for a moment. 

“Is two blinks a ‘no’?” You blinked again. 

Peter ran a hand through his hair, and you realised he was stressed. You wanted to care so badly. Your friend was hurting, and it was your fault, and you couldn’t even care. Some friend you are. Peter deserved someone better, someone who could be there for him, someone who didn’t completely fall apart when the world became too heavy, someone who could convince themselves that breathing was a good thing. You felt someone shaking you. 

“Hey! (Y/n), come back to me, buddy!” You blinked again, and the shaking stopped, but you could still feel his eyes boring into you. 

“I asked if you were on drugs. Are you overdosing right now?” You blinked twice. You were feeling tired again. How ridiculous that you can lay here all day, but having to blink is too exhausting? You let out a yawn, and Peter relaxes some. 

“(Y/n), can you try and talk to me? I’m freaking out here.” With a great amount of effort, you opened your mouth. 

“I’m sorry.”

It was barely audible; your voice croaked due to its inactivity. You blinked a few times, forcing yourself to look at him. His brows were furrowed, and his eyes were wet. You had done that. The ache in your bones grew and spread at the realisation. Peter just shook his head. 

“I don’t need you to be sorry; you need to tell me what’s going on.”

To anyone else, he would have sounded cold, but you knew this tone. Peter was working a case, searching for clues, answers. You were dealing with Spider-man. You felt bad that you had drawn that out of him, that he was so distressed he had to put on his suit of armour. 

How could you tell him? There was nothing going on. Not one thing, at least. It was a bunch of small things that you were handling like a baby. Your parents were upset with you, your grades were slipping, your job was stressful, you were constantly fatigued, and everything just felt like so much work. Work that you didn’t sign up for. Work that you were done doing. 

“(Y/n), what’s going on?”

He hadn’t meant to raise his voice at you, but he was growing annoyed with your crypticness. He wanted to help you- wanted to make sure you’re okay- and he couldn’t do that if you didn’t tell him.

You let out some sharp breaths that almost resembled crying, but no tears left your eyes. You wondered if you had run out; if your brain had decided you had met your quota and had cut off your supply. Or maybe you were just so dehydrated that you didn’t have enough water to spare. 

You watched as a single tear rolled down his cheek. You had made him cry. You were uncaring and cruel. You were hurting him. You were a shitty friend. He was so worried about you, and you did nothing to ease his concern. He had called you many times, and you would watch as your phone danced on the table. You would listen to his voicemails, at first light-hearted before quickly turning to panic. You stopped listening to them three days ago, unable to process his emotions as well as your own. 

“Bubba, please. What is going on with you? You haven’t answered my texts, you haven’t been to class, you haven’t been to work. I’m really worried. Please, please talk to me.” 

He was begging and the thought broke your wretched heart. You attempted to curl more into the couch, to hide away from the pain you saw in his eyes. His hand on your shoulder stopped you, and you didn’t have the strength to resist. 

“I’m sorry.” 

You watched as Peter’s face contorted wildly between emotions: anger, fear, concern, sorrow. He chewed on his lip as he looked you over again. His mouth gaped as if he was tripping over his words before they could even leave his mind. 

“Why? What-? Did you do something?”

You shrugged your shoulders.

How could he even ask that? He knows what you did. He had just listed half of your offences. How could he even stand to look at you? You were a monster, vile and vicious. 

You blinked again, and Peter frowned. You knew he wanted to hear you speak, that it would ease his worry, but you couldn’t. Saying the words is hard, flexing all those muscles to use your voice. Too much. It was all too much. 

“What did you do?”

You can hear the fear in his voice. It makes you sick to your empty stomach. The weight of his question weighed on your chest.

You knew what he was asking. It was a question you had been asked many times by your parents, by professionals, and your friends. You had lost many over the question. Some of them running away screaming at your honesty. Others have told you it’s not your fault, they just can’t carry the weight. So they leave you to carry it on your own. 

You recognised the way his eyes quickly darted to your wrist, then moved to any possible exposed skin. You saw the way he checked his surroundings, looking for anything there. You knew what he was looking for, even if he didn't.

You almost wanted to laugh at that. It was funny to your fucked up brain. They always want to know. They insist on it. They have to know if you’ve done something to yourself as if their knowledge could rewrite time and change futures. As if they know they have the special combination of words that would make you see the light and bring you back. As if they could say something-- anything --you hadn’t heard before. But that wasn’t the funny part. The funny part was being right. 

You knew that it was getting bad again. You knew if Peter saw you like this, he would get scared. You knew he would assume the worst. And here he was, doing just that. The funny part was knowing that when people see depression, they expect it to just be this, and if it’s not, you’re fine. And when it does look like this, you must be suicidal. 

And honestly, you wish you were. And you shouldn’t say that, but it’s true. At least then you could do something with it. But instead, you’re curled up on your couch, immobilised, waiting for the storm to pass. You look and feel pathetic. But for now, it’s funny. Mostly because you can’t handle how frustrating this is.

You tug your sleeve down, and Peter’s eyes track the movement, tracing over the smooth skin as it’s revealed. His body remains tense even as you stop. You move the other one, and he’s just as attentive. When both wrists are revealed to be fine, you expect him to relax, but he doesn’t. 

You watch as his chest rises and falls, not quickly but noticeably. As if he’s trying to stay calm. You appreciate that, though feeling like a bit of an ass for it. 

He takes a deep breath, his fingers coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose, “So then, why are you sorry?”

He looked at you expectantly, and you felt like crying again. It was too much. You knew what you had done, how shitty you had been. It’s all you could think about as his calls continued to go unanswered and your filth continued to pile around you. But he was asking too much. You didn’t want those words to leave your lips. You didn’t want him to hear them. 

If he did, he might realise you’re right. He’d leave you here, and you’d never hear from him again. He’d be another soul lost to your devastation. Another broken person you made by knowing you. He’d realise how you tainted him, recognise you as sickness, and cut you off. And you couldn’t be mad at him when he did it. Because he would be right. 

Or he would defend you. All that Peter Parker love pouring from him, insisting that everyone is good and deserves a chance. He would ignore all of your words, writing them off as nonsense. And maybe, maybe you’d start to believe him. You’d let him convince you that you’re okay. But soon, he would realise that he was wrong about you. 

Either way, he would leave you. So maybe if you push him now, it won’t hurt so bad later. If you don’t let him build you up, you won’t fall as far. 

So you said nothing, holding his gaze until you couldn’t anymore. His face shifted again, and you couldn’t take it. It was too much. It was your fault. You managed to roll over from your side to your stomach. You paid no mind to the various objects falling off the couch; you didn’t care that Peter had to dodge the debris. Especially when it distracted him long enough to let you hide. You buried your face into your crossed arms but didn’t close your eyes, the dark pocket you created being more than enough. 

You felt hollow. Like life had finally broken you, taken everything that you were. You weren’t yourself anymore, just a husk. One that wouldn’t eat, or change clothes, or leave the house. But you weren’t empty. No, you had been carved out, but disgust and anger filled you now. But those big feelings left you feeling tired, tired constantly. No sleep was restful, no break long enough. It was baked in, carried in your bone marrow. 

Peter was silent and you listened closely to his breathing. You couldn’t understand why he hadn’t given up yet, why he was sticking by your side. So you told him to leave. 

You waited patiently for him to shout, for his footsteps to fade away, but he didn’t. He remained there, where you could feel his eyes on you. It was pissing you off. 

“Leave!” you tried again, the sharpness of your tone muffled by the couch cushions. 

You waited again, and this time, you heard movement. You heard a piece of silverware land softly on the coffee table and trash move around the floor. Finally, you thought. But then you felt a weight lean against the couch, then soft noises coming from a phone. 

You peeked your head out to see Peter sitting on the floor, his back against the couch, scrolling through Instagram. He didn’t chuckle or laugh. He wasn’t really looking at his phone. His eyes were darting over to you every few seconds. You knew he knew you were watching him. This game went on for a long time. Nearly an hour passed in silence, one watching the other. 

“I’m not leaving,” he said eventually, “not without you.”

That exhaustion was melting now, and all that left you with was anger. 

“Fuck you,” you spit, then tucked your head back into your arms.

“I don’t think you mean that.”

Oh, fuck him. You snapped up, your arms supporting your body as you glared at him from the couch. He looked surprised, but not frightened. Peter had put himself in a terrible position. You were swirling with hatred, and now he had made himself a target. You couldn’t help the words tumbling from your mouth. 

“You don’t get to tell me what I mean!” you shouted, your voice crackling like flames. “You don’t get to tell me how I feel! You don’t get to come in here where you’re not wanted and fuck with me. I don’t want you here! I don’t want to see you again!”

He winced at your words, and that made you feel a little powerful. You were hurting so much, seeing him feel a fraction of it made it feel smaller. 

“I haven’t talked to you in days and you think, ‘Oh, I’ll just pop over.’ What a fucking joke!”

You laugh, though there’s no humour in it. 

“I was worried.”

His eyes are wet again– his voice is so small –like he was seconds from breaking. 

Good. Let him break as I have. Maybe then he can see, and understand. Or maybe he’ll leave, get the hell out of dodge. Doesn’t matter.

“No, you were selfish,” You bite. “You got lonely and figured I would be there. You didn’t want to think I just didn’t want you anymore, so you showed up. Because you know no one comes looking for you. Not without the suit.”

You watch as he recoils. He’s looking at you like a monster, and he should. You are. His mouth hangs open, his eyes locked onto yours. The air feels stiff, like a sheet of glass waiting to be shattered. He sniffled a little, and suddenly you didn’t feel so powerful. The game’s not fun if he’s not yelling back. He’s not telling you that you’re right or wrong, he’s not mad. He’s just hurt. 

The anger drops from your face and now your eyes are wet too. You feel like you might vomit, but you know that’s just a bluff. You can’t remember the last time you ate something. Or more than three bites. Food doesn’t smell yummy anymore; it doesn’t taste flavorful. Your empty stomach isn’t as noticeable, and chewing is too much work for such little payoff.

Peter’s eyes soften slightly, like something’s clicked for him. His brows pull down and his lips pout.

Pity. He’s showing pity. You’ve hurt him, and he pities you.

You rise quickly, and Peter is quick to his feet to meet you there.

“I’m sorry,” you say, covering your mouth as you feel your breath quicken. You were going to break down again. “You should leave.”

You pushed past him, ignoring his calls after you. You beat him to your bedroom, where you shut and lock the door. Both hands cover your mouth as the tears begin falling and your chest starts heaving. It hurts; the muscles sore from how often this seems to happen.

You hear him jiggle the handle, calling your name through the door, begging you to open it. You sink down, your shirt bunching against the wood as you descend. But you wait. You can’t let it out now, not with him here. He shouldn’t have to see this. He shouldn’t have to put up with it.

Eventually, the knocking stops, and you hear him walk away. You wait longer still until you finally hear the front door open and close.

Then you scream.

It’s deep and guttural. A middle finger to the universe. It’s pure agony released from your throat. It’s all the words you can’t say fast enough. A battle cry from a broken soldier.

You continue to weep, crawling towards your bed, littered with clean clothes you haven’t folded, books you haven’t picked up, and various other trinkets you haven’t put away. But then the exhaustion comes back.

You curl in around yourself, crying out again in frustration.

You’re weak. You’re tired. You’re cruel. You’re pathetic. You’re fat. You’re too skinny. You’re disgusting. You’re heedless. You’re everything, but never enough.

Peter had never felt so defeated. He could see that you needed him, but you didn’t want him. That wasn’t a new feeling to Peter. He had long ago abandoned any hope that you would see him as more than a friend. Even if everyone you ever dated left much to be desired, you didn’t want him. 

But this was different. This was something he hadn’t seen before. 

He had gotten close. May had gotten pretty close herself. But it was never that. Whatever you were dealing with-- however you were dealing with it-- he didn’t know what to do with it. 

You had never looked at him like that before, so full of hate. You had ripped him to shreds on your living room floor. Your words hurt, and it looked like you wanted them to. Like you enjoyed hurting him. It was scary. But then he saw it. That glint of fear in your eyes. The regret falling on your brows. And when you looked like you might cry, he knew. 

That was something he did recognise, something he had seen in himself many years ago. The need to hurt. That primal urge to rip everything around you to ribbons. So it can look as ugly as you. 

He followed you to your door, beginning to understand the hurt you were feeling. He didn’t want that for you. He wished he could remove it like a faulty wire, but you shut yourself off. He could hear your ragged breathing on the other side of the door, even through his pounding and shouting. But you wouldn’t open up, and he couldn’t do anything until you did. 

He weighed his options and tried his best to leave. He wanted to trust that you would be okay, that you would someday unlock the door, but for now, he had to leave you be. 

He picked up his stuff, made a mental note to come back and help you clean, and stepped outside. Before he released the handle, he heard you scream. A very real scream. He moved with urgency, panic rising in him. He fumbled with the key in his hands painted with red and blue nail polish. It was chipped from the many years of hanging on his keychain. 

He called out to you but got no response. You continued to howl from the other room, and he rushed there. Trying the handle, he cursed, finding it still locked. He had never heard a noise like that before. Your guttural wailing filled his mind. He had one thought, banging and pulsing through his head: Save her. Save her. Save her. Save her. 

He didn’t want to kick down the door and frighten you, so he spun hopelessly outside it, fingers tangled in his hair as he tried to make use of his big brain. There was pounding mixing in with your cries now, and Peter felt scared that you were reaching a peak he wouldn’t be able to get you down from. 

He threw his backpack to the floor and began opening pockets. His eyes glanced over his wallet, and then he dove for it, pulling out the library card you made him get. You had drawn on it because he complained about how boring it looked. It was the spiderweb in the corner that caught his eye now. From it hung a little spider, but its abdomen was shaped like a heart. He had teased you relentlessly for it at the time, pointing out its anatomical incorrectness. You told him it was a reminder, but for what you never said. 

He pushed the thought aside, sliding the card between the door jamb and the lock latch, wiggling it until he felt it release. Your cries could be heard from the other side, so he steeled himself. You needed him, and you needed him strong. He could do that for you. He could do anything for you. 

He was taken aback, for a moment, by the display before him, his lips parting in a gasp. You thrashed about, showing rage in your despair. He felt a wave of disgust for himself. He supposed he had let this happen, let you stew too long. 

All this time, he thought you were fine. In the same way he was always ‘fine’. But every time he wasn’t, you were there. You were by his side, ready to talk him down. But him? He just waited for you to do it on your own.

He would see the signs and put his head in the sand, remembering how embarrassing it is when someone notices and asks. Remembering the rage that would boil up in him, as if this person could even begin to understand where he was coming from. But he forgot how much he needed it too. How much that small kindness meant. He forgot the value of a shoulder to cry on and an ear to hear, even if they don’t understand. 

But he couldn’t dwell on that now. He can’t focus on what he could have done, only what he can now. Because you’re here now, and he wants you around later. 

He drops to his knees, his hands coming out to hold you before he stops himself. He calls out softly instead. 

It’s apparent to him that you didn’t realise he was there, your wild eyes scanning over him, trying to decipher if he’s real. Your chest heaves as you lay on the ground, your face swollen and red. His heart breaks, for a moment, whispering an apology you don’t hear. 

It hurts to have him look at you like that– to see you like this. But this is what you were afraid of, him seeing you and running. But so far, he hasn’t. And you’re selfish, bordering on desperate. It doesn’t matter why he’s here; it just matters that he is. And as much as you desperately want him to leave, to forget you and move on, you can’t help clinging to him. 

The one ray of sunshine you have. The one who always gets it even if he doesn’t. The one that remembers to get things in your favourite colour and reminds you to change your water filter. Your rock. And you could use a rock right now, and you can't bring yourself to worry about it destroying him. 

You begin heaving again, and Peter panics, still unsure how to help you. His eyes are too much, so you roll around onto your belly, your legs curled up underneath, your forehead against the carpet. Your hands are wrapped around your gut as everything in you comes out. All the rage, and despair, and confusion leaking through your broken cries. 

Peter only intervenes when your fists start slamming down against your stomach. You can feel his hand trembling as it grabs yours, and you scream again. His hand retracts, uncertain how to move forward. 

Snot is running down your face, and you can feel some dribble on your chin. You feel like a child. You feel like a disgusting mess. He shouldn’t have to see you like this. 

It hurts, god, it hurts so much!

His name leaves your lips, broken and frayed around the consonants, and he scoots closer. 

“What?” He asks, sounding nearly as broken as you. “What can I do?”.

“Peter- Peter, please fix it!” 

You’re not sure why you asked. You weren’t sure what he could do. But you knew he would do it. That’s what he does, fix things. He fixed your laptop, and May’s stove, and your bad study habits, and your sour mood. He always did and asked for nothing in return. 

But maybe this was too big of an ask. How could he fix this- A chemical imbalance that you’ve been fighting your entire life? How could he fix what doctors hadn’t? What if you couldn’t be fixed?

You slammed your fist back into you, each hit punctuated with an insult.

Disgusting Pathetic Selfish Broken Useless Dumb Weak

But then, you felt gentle, shaking hands once again. His touch was warm but different from the fire you felt inside. It didn’t burn, but sooth. He had come up behind you and guided your arms tighter around yourself, using his to keep them there, coaxing you into sitting up and resting against him.

He was all around you now; his heart beat steadily against your back, even as yours pounded fiercely. You screamed again, but this time Peter didn’t let go. He held you tighter, hoping desperately that if he held on harder, he could keep you from slipping away. That you would feel his love on your skin. That he could shove the broken pieces back together enough to help you set them right.

Your head hurts; pressure building behind your eyes. But you felt safe, even in this pain. Because Peter was here, holding you tightly. He was here, even if he shouldn’t be. He was here. And you found yourself relaxing into his hold, melting against him.

Your sobbing fell into a quiet whimpering, letting him soothe you with gentle shushes and his forehead resting on the side of yours. He readjusted his hold on you, rubbing up and down on your arm with one hand and pulling you closer with the other. You hung loosely like you had lost the strength to hold yourself up. Peter swore you wouldn’t have to. 

“I got you,” he whispered, placing a kiss where his head once was. 

Soon, your cries became sniffles, and you turned around to face Peter. His face seemed sad, maybe even tired, but he smiled at you nonetheless. It wasn’t out of sympathy, but true and genuine. That was still too much, feeling embarrassed by your current state, so you hid. 

Peter let you wrap your arms and legs around him, trying not to shiver as your nose rubbed against his neck. He pulled you into his lap, relishing in your tight hold. You were coming back to him. 

He rubbed soothing patterns on your back, resting his head against yours while whispering encouragements. 

“Good job, sweetie, you’re breathing so well for me. That’s right, big breaths, you got it.”

The world slowly stopped spinning, and your body stopped spazzing. You got the feeling back in your fingertips, running them in circles across Peter’s back, trying to recalibrate. He breathed with you, praising for each one you took. 

Then, you were still, your eyelids heavy with exhaustion. Peter could feel your eyelashes slowly brush against his neck as you blinked.

“Hey,” he called softly. You hummed, and he was grateful. “I know you're tired, but you should take a bath first.”

You shook your head no, curling into him deeper. His heart panged, wanting desperately to hold onto you longer, but not like this.

He scooped you up, and you whined, wrapping your legs around him tighter as his arm came around to hold your hips. You knew he wouldn’t drop you, but you weren’t used to being toted around.

He let you cling to him as he began filling the bath, making sure the water was warm but wouldn’t hurt. He then travelled to the laundry room to grab some fresh towels and threw in some bubble bath he had found under the sink.

“Come on, baby,” he tried, “In the bath, you go.”

You felt your cheeks warm at the nickname and tried not to think about how much you didn’t want Peter to let go. 

It’s not him, You told yourself, he’s just here. 

But it didn’t sound very convincing, not even to you. But regardless of your wishes, you knew he wouldn't always be, and what would you do when he left? You’d probably end up on the floor again, or worse. 

“I’ll still be here when you’re done,” He said, as if he could read your thoughts, “I promise a bath will make you feel better.”

You took a deep breath, raising your head to look into his eyes. Galaxies lived there, swirling and teeming with life. Every emotion, every thought, bubbling in his irises. And one came through over all of them, ringing through the silence. 

Love.

You saw it there as he looked at you. How could this be?

Love.

Had he not seen how monstrous you could be, how depraved and insane you truly were? How could he possibly find it in him to still love you? And how could you let something like that go? He had a love for you that you didn’t have for yourself, but you needed it.

You nodded your head, pushing the thought aside, as you rose on shaking legs. Peter smiled, then left, grinning at you through the crack in the door.

“Thank you,” he said before closing it behind him.

You peeled off your sweat-soaked clothes, feeling embarrassed once again when you realised you were only in a t-shirt and a pair of underwear this entire time. Peter was a very good friend, and you couldn’t imagine why he was thanking you for anything.

You got into the water, your muscles relaxing as soon as they broke the barrier. You stretched, letting yourself sink deeper into the water. You lay there for a moment, relishing in the peace, in the momentary break in misery.

You dunk your head under the water, holding your breath and counting. You come up gasping, feeling the adrenaline coursing through your veins. You feel alive again.

You do that a few more times before actually washing your body. You try not to wince as you scrub the film from your body and hair. You took the time to pamper yourself, letting the lavender scent surround you. You even shaved so you could curl up in your fuzzy blanket later and just feel the softness. Peter was right- a bath made you feel a lot better.

You wrapped yourself up in your towel, feeling fresh and a lot less heavy, and opened the door. Peter was there sitting on your floor, thumbing through your record collection. You gasped at the vision around you, and Peter jumped up, a smile on his face.

“Hey, you’re back!” He saw your surprise and hastily apologized, “I hope you don’t mind. Just thought I’d put on some music.”

You shook your head at the man, ignoring his apology completely. You didn't care about the music. Your eyes wandered around the made bed, with fresh sheets, and the clothes that once occupied them neatly folded. The dirty clothes on your floor were gone, the hamper was empty, and when you listened carefully, you could hear the washing machine running in the other room.

“You didn’t have to clean up,” you said, embarrassment rising to your cheeks. 

“It’s all good,” he brushed off, like it was nothing. “I pulled these out for you to change into, but you can- you can wear whatever, of course. And...I don't have to tell you that.”

The way he fumbled over his words was adorable, but you remembered then that you were only in a towel, standing in front of your best friend. You clutched it tighter, and he seemed to notice then too. Redness grew from his neck to his cheeks, and he quickly turned around.

“Sorry!” He shouted. Then calmly, “Sorry, I’ll uh- I’ll let you change.”

You reached for the pyjamas he set out and slipped them on. It felt nice. I mean, the pj’s weren’t new, but wearing something Peter picked out for you, with you in mind, felt…sweet. And they were extremely comfortable. You smiled softly as you smoothed out the fabric, then opened the door. 

Peter was standing just on the other side with his back turned to it, but upon hearing the handle, he turned. His eyes quickly skated over your form before he beamed at you. You invited him into your room and turned down the record he had put on so it was softly playing in the background. 

He stood awkwardly in your room, hands in his pockets, like he didn't know what to do next. You felt a similar way, sitting back on your bed. The silence was loud; both of you stuck between wanting to ask a million questions and not sure how to make the words right. 

You figured he had done enough of the work today; you could try for him. 

“I’m sorry,” you began. 

He turned to you, worry written across his brows and a retort on his lips, but you cut him off. 

“I- I was cruel to you. You didn’t deserve that.”

His face falls as he sighs, then trudges over to sit at your side with heavy feet.

“It’s okay-” he begins. 

“Don’t say that,” You spit, some of that anger you tried to bury coming back. Peter stilled, and you felt bad, but he had to hear you. It was important. “Don’t say that how I treated you was acceptable because it wasn’t. You don’t deserve that from anyone. If I had seen someone speak to you that way– or ignore you the way I did –I would have killed them. I don’t get to lash out at you like that, okay?”

Peter’s eyes were twinkling again, and you couldn’t understand it.

“You- you shouldn’t have to put with it,” you continue shakily, “and I don’t think you should stick around.”

Peter rolled his eyes, chuckling.

“Tough luck.”

You look at him baffled, but he remains unfazed.

“You can’t get rid of me that easy,” he explains, “I spend most of my days chasing people who actually want me dead. You having a little outburst because you’re hurting and you don’t know how to say it? I can handle that.”

He grabs your hand, and you try to stop the butterflies taking flight within you.

“You disappearing for a few days? That’s nothing. Me leaving?” He laughs full-on now; it rolls through him, blooming from his chest, “That’s never gonna happen.”

“Peter-” you try, but it’s he who cuts you off now.

“No, I’m not hearing any of it. I’m not going anywhere,” he insists. “I’m not leaving you again. I will be right here, for as long as you need me, and even when you don’t.”

His hold on your hand is tighter now, as if he’s trying to press the promise into you. Placing it in your hand and hoping you never let it go. Or maybe it was more than the promise. You look into his eyes, and you see it again– love. You can’t make sense of it. Over and over again, that look. One you’ve seen so many times. Why?

“Because you shouldn’t have to do it alone.” He answers your silent question, “Because I don’t want you to do it alone, not when I’m right here.”

He lifts your hand and puts it over his heart. You can feel how fast it’s beating. Yours flutters in a similar way. It’s terrifying and thrilling, this promise he makes. You want Peter there, always. That’s why he has a key, free to pop into your life whenever he finds the time. Because you always want him there. It’s why he’s your emergency contact and the only person you trust (other than May, but you would never ask it of her) to water your plants when you’re away. 

But if he stays, you’ll grow attached. More attached, at least. He’s seen one of many battles in a war you’ve been losing for as long as you can remember. He’s crazy enough to think he can handle more when you barely can yourself. But maybe that’s what you need, someone to fight with you. Someone to fight for. 

You bring your arm around his neck, pulling him into a jarring hug. He accepts it, pulling you closer. You’re trembling ever so slightly, but you’re not fighting him anymore. He knows what this means. You’re letting him stay, and he’s so grateful. 

You allow yourself to just breathe with him- to let him be here, and hold you. You never got that before, and accepting it now is hard, but you can do it.

“Do you wanna stay the night and watch some b-horror films?” you asked.

Peter smiled against you, and your heart leapt at the action. 

“I thought you’d never ask.”

You feel a bit selfish as he steps into the bathroom to change into comfier clothes, as he crawls into bed and lets you curl into him, as he drapes his arm around you and holds you close. You can’t give him what he wants right now, what he deserves, but you want to. It’s hard, it’s terrifying, but you know that you can. You can do it for him. You're strong enough.

Tag List: @actuallypeterparker, @barbecuetiddy, @cherriescherriesred25, @heejinw0rld, @ilovemoonknight, @Isshecrazyorissheclever, @mirrorballin24, @miwagila, @negasonic-teenage-asshole, @onlyangel-444, @preciousbabypeter, @purple-amaranthe, @raajali3, @remuslupinsdocs, @rudy-the-winged-wolf, @supernerdycookietrashblrr, @wannapizzamymindposts, @whoreforklitz

[aislinrayne]

[𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱] [𝔖𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱]

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: In which Lockwood is late, and Reader ends up face-to-screaming-face with the consequences.

ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: Mature ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔦𝔰 𝔰𝔲𝔟𝔧𝔢𝔠𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢!

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: Canon typical violence, Reader is shorter than Lockwood, Lockwood & Co. are in their twenties, kind of an AU?, blood, graphic descriptions of moderate head injury, no use of y/n, strong language.

𝔄𝔲𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔯'𝔰 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢: Aaaand we're back! If you're familiar with the work this used to be, I'm begging you to let me know how you feel about the changes! Without further ado - dig in!

𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 4.08k

  She’s going to kill him.  

  The sun has long set and the blue light of dusk does no favours for the ambiance of the house in which she is the sole living visitor.  For the tenth time in half as many minutes the girl glares at the green numbers faintly glowing at her from the clock on the back of the stove.  Twenty minutes past six, and still no sign of the single most infuriating man born this millenia.  Her roommate/employer was supposed to be here almost an hour ago, having instead left her to complete a potentially deadly job all by her lonesome.     Okay, so maybe she’s being a touch dramatic.  All reports from their client indicate a Type One, but even with the weakest Visitor, one mistake can be fatal without backup.   Sighing loudly, she drains the thermos of tea clutched in cold hands and slams it down on the counter, using the motion to vent the last of her frustration.  Fighting a ghost on her own would be significantly easier if she wasn’t radiating enough negative emotion to keep it fat for a month.  

  She leaves her lamp on and resting on the counter, then hauls the heavy kit bag off of the kitchen’s marble counter and ventures into the living room with the intention of laying down a circle for when all hell inevitably breaks loose.

  Once inside the room, a quick scan of the space tells a decisive story about the occupants.  The furniture itself is uncannily clean, accents of sunshine yellow and navy blue scattered amongst a palette of white and cream that one would find between the pages of a 50’s home decor catalogue.    With more care than any other member of her agency would bother to show, she places the duffel on the floor in front of a dreadfully yellow loveseat to avoid soiling the vibrant fabric.  Iron filings had a way of working their way into the woven material of their kit bags; she'd spent enough time trying to scrub the rust stains out of her own clothes to know how dreadful it could be.  The recently widowed Mrs. Roland had more than enough to worry about without adding blemishes to an otherwise spotless space, especially one sure to see plenty of grieving guests over the next weeks.

  It becomes harder to maintain focus on her assessment of the space as the temperature in the room begins to drop, the hair on the back of her neck standing straight on end as the perverse feeling of being watched sets in.  She lifts her hand to smooth the prickling sensation, though the chill of her skin does little to soothe it.  Her attention is pulled to the closed door down the only hallway attached to the living space, something from within silently calling her to enter and discover what secrets lay beyond.     Who is she to deny the call of curiosity when it comes knocking?  Especially when it comes alongside another noticeable drop in temperature.

  With a calming breath that hangs visible in the air like a miniature stormcloud, she considers her next move.  The Fittes manual clearly states the first order of business in a situation such as this should be to prepare an iron circle so you have an avenue of escape should anything take a turn for the worst.  As such, this would be the first step of any by-the-book agent.

  Unfortunately one does not find themselves under the employ of Lockwood & Co. by behaving like a by-the-book agent, and in a streak of bad luck she’d broken both her primary and backup rapier’s on the job this week.  She’d called ahead for a new one of course, but Lockwood was supposed to be in charge of bringing it with him.  Obviously, this was proving to be a problem.

  Muttering a few choice words about ignorant manchildren with poor time management skills under her breath, she bends to unzip the kit bag and retrieve the chains.  The muttering becomes progressively more vulgar with every second the links refuse to come free, clearly caught on something else from the haphazard way they’d been tossed in after their previous job.  Lockwood had drawn the short straw and been left to stow their gear whilst her and George had set to work righting the furniture the Poltergeist had been lobbing at them all night.  Apparently he’d been displeased enough to simply pile everything in together instead of taking the time to place things properly.

  Forcing another a calming breath, she makes a mental note to explain the phrase ‘weaponized incompetence’ before bracing her foot against the rough canvas of the bag and tugging harshly on the chains.  They come unstuck abruptly, the remaining force behind the pull sending her backwards to land unceremoniously on her rear, whilst the momentum of her sliding foot shoots the bag underneath the yellow monstrosity.  It comes to a rest dead centre beneath the settee, its other contents partially spilled and glittering tauntingly at her from the shadows.

  Unable to deny herself a moment to wallow in frustration, she rolls onto her side to rub at her smarting tailbone as she contemplates what deity she must have pissed off in a past life to deserve this kind of treatment.  Whoever said the gods have no sense of humour had clearly never known anyone with luck like hers.     The shattering of glass from down the hall proves effective in disrupting her pity party, immediately on high alert as her instincts kick in with a vengeance.  Blood roars in her ears as she pushes herself to her feet, suddenly blissfully ignorant of the literal pain in her ass.

  “If there’s anyone up there I haven’t pissed off yet, please, not another bloody poltergeist…”  She mutters under her breath, sparing a few seconds to shoot a pleading look at the ceiling and bracing herself for whatever comes next.  

  Once she’s certain nothing is going to start flying across the room at her, she loops the cold links of chain into a vice grip in her left hand, letting roughly half of them fall loosely from her right as a makeshift flail.

  The floorboards creak eerily under her feet as she approaches the simple white door at the end of the hall, making her glad for the undeniably tacky runner in the middle that at least partially muffles the sound.  As an involuntary shiver wracks her frame, she curses the metaphorical pain in her ass for her lack of a proper weapon one final time before focusing her attention wholly on the matter at hand.    Although cold to the touch, the doorknob twists open easily.  Even the hinges are blessedly silent.  She wastes no time in pushing it open and crossing the threshold.  By-the-book or not, no agent worth their weight in salt would ever hesitate in a doorway.

The room on the other side is unassuming, the same shades of white and cream attempt to convey peaceful feelings, but something about them is downright unnerving tonight.  The moon outside bathes the room in white light, adding to the almost ethereal nature of the scene before her.   Her gaze is instantly drawn to the only splash of colour in the room.  A painting stands stark against the white wall on her left; shades of songbird-yellow illustrate a field of golden grass, a single leaf-bare tree standing tall and proud in the midst of it all.  When she looks closely, she can see the delicate lines of lightly fraying rope binding a low-hanging wooden board to a thick branch overhead  - a child’s swing.  The initials ‘H.R.’ are barely visible in the bottom right corner.   She can’t recall how she got close enough to see the details.   A deep yearning to return to the peace and innocence of childhood almost knocks her off her feet, knuckles white around the heavy chain as she strains against the urge to reach out and Touch it.  Losing herself in visions of the past now would be a death sentence without someone to watch over her.

  Swallowing thickly, she tears her eyes away from the painting and forces them to scan the room properly.  To the right there’s what seems to be a large window, though any view of the glass itself is obscured by the sheer white linen curtains swaying in the gentle breeze.  There’s a light layer of dust present on the surface of the bedside tables, evidence of the rooms lack of use over the past weeks.  Where had Mrs. Roland been sleeping, if not here?   Even in the dark she can see how perfectly the bed is made, each layer tucked and folded neatly to rival any upper class hotel.   Something is wrong.  She can feel it.  There’s something obvious right in front of her, a voice in her head screeches at her to figure it out before she gets herself killed.  If she wasn’t still reeling from the strength of the psychic imprint on that painting she would have already realised there should be no breeze present to disturb the curtains, no matter how light the material.

  She turns to inspect the left side of the room but in the process a flash of white in her peripheral vision has her blood running cold.  Time seems to slow around her as a series of unfortunate events occur in particularly rapid succession.   First, her eyes lock onto the shards of glass scattered across the white carpet in front of the window.  Then, her heart leaps into her throat as she realises the light they’re reflecting is coming from behind her.  Finally, she whips around to find a shapeless white shimmer in the air only inches from her face.

  In a split second she rushes through a mental checklist; no overwhelming malaise, no ectoplasm stains around the house, no ghost-fog, below freezing temperatures, delayed apparition.  The sudden flare up of bright other-light is the final piece of the puzzle.  A Changer.  Not the best possible option, but she’d take it over some of the alternatives any day.  At least she could drop a few of her mental walls to focus on physically evading the thing.

  …Strike one.

  Feeling at least partially in control of the situation again, she leaps towards the bed, tucking into herself to roll across the softness before springing to her feet on the other side.   The previously flawless bedding holds an imprint from her impact and subsequent dismount, but that’s not what she finds herself frozen staring at.  Technically she isn’t actually staring at anything, more at the absence of it.  When she tried to look back at the new shape of the Changer, she found the room completely empty.     Shit.

  If it had been a weak apparition, and that flare was it deciding it was better off without a corporeal form, then-- squeezing her eyes shut, she breathes deeply as she tries desperately to get a handle on her panic and replace the psychic defences she’d oh so foolishly abandoned.   It’s too late.  An ear piercing shriek erupts through the space, echoing off of every wall to create a cacophony of noise she only realises she’s adding to when her throat starts aching in protest of the violent treatment.  A bloody Screaming Spirit.  This is a problem - no pun intended.   A cold ache permeates her body, she can feel herself becoming more sluggish with every passing second.  If she could just lay down, cover her head with one of Mrs. Roland’s goose down pillows, surely that would block out enough noise to let her rest?

  That might have been the end of her, succumbing to ghost-lock alone in a house straight out of Home & Garden, if the front door hadn’t slammed open loud enough to wake the dead.  Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, she gathers her wits and sprints from the room.  It’s not until both feet are on the hardwood in the hallway that she notices she’s dropped the chains and is now completely unarmed.  Not the end of the world, but still not ideal.   Apparently having neglected to learn from her previous mistakes, she’s distracted enough to lose her footing and slip on the runner.  

  Strike two.

  As she slides into the living room, arms pinwheeling in an undignified manner in an attempt to stay upright, a part of her can’t help but wonder if this is revenge for mentally calling it tacky.  Regaining her balance just in time, she pivots on her heel, intending to make a beeline straight into the kitchen and out of the house to buy enough time to come up with a proper plan.  She makes it three steps into the kitchen before being stopped dead in her tracks.

  “Sorry it took me so long, darling.  Traffic was atrocious.”  An infuriatingly calm voice says behind her, making the slender arm wrapping around her waist a split second later only slightly less alarming.  He pulls her back firmly against him, his warmth enveloping her.  She curses her traitorous body for immediately relaxing into his chest.     Any verbal response she might have had to The World’s Worst Boss™ invading her personal space is cut short as he releases his hold and manoeuvres her to safety behind him, the singing of metal on metal filling the air as he draws his rapier.  

  “Anthony John Lockwood, you fucking asshole!  The sun set half an hour ago!”  She seethes, smacking the back of his shoulder to emphasise every word in an attempt to vent some of her frustration before she implodes.  He huffs an absent laugh at her theatrics, still scanning the sunny sitting room for any sign of something chasing her.

  “Any idea what kind of Visitor we’re dealing with?  Or what the Source could be?”   She gapes at him unabashedly, honestly attempting to drill holes in the back of his head with her eyes.  Was he really going to ignore her after subjecting her to this nightmare of an evening?  Lockwood looks back over his shoulder, flinching at whatever he finds in her eyes.

  “Y’know what?  Figure it out yourself.  You would have had to if you’d been a minute later anyway.”  She barely recognises her own voice without the warmth it usually carries when she speaks to him.

  “What do you mean?  What happened?”  

  It’s his genuine concern that throws her off first, second is the way he promptly turns to face her.  Her breath catches in her throat as she’s met with the undeniable fact of their proximity, face to face.  Well, face to chest, really.   He’s looking her up and down carefully for any sign of injury, a frown painted across his face as his hands hover between them, trembling gently but making no move to touch her.  

  Upon joining Lockwood & Co., she’d figured out rather quickly that he had some kind of touch aversion.  When she’d accidentally touch his hand or brush past him in Portland Row’s narrow entryway, he would jerk away from her like he’d been stung, stumbling over his words and staring at the ground before making a quick escape.  Lucy and George seemed to be safe for him by now, which made sense considering he’d known them so much longer, so she swore to herself she’d respect his space and give him whatever time he needed to open up to her.     It had been better in recent months, as long as he knew to expect contact he could stay calm.

  A shrill scream echoes across the house, jarring her from her thoughts.  She winces in pain at the sudden noise, tucking her hands beneath her hair to cover her ears.  Lockwood covers the minimal distance between them in an instant, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and pulling her against his chest to shield her the best he can from the sound.     As quickly as it started, the screaming stopped.  His arms loosen around her, allowing her enough room to pull her palms away from aching ears.  

  “You okay?”  His voice sounds farther away than it should.  

  She doesn’t have much time to worry about that though, not when his face is suddenly so close to her own.  Dark eyes find hers in the lamp light, worry overflowing within them.  Her thoughts run wild with images of closing the distance between them, each and every one making it harder to breathe.     Needing a second to compose herself, and entirely refusing to trust her tongue not to betray her, she raises her hands at him in an attempt at a placating gesture and tries to take a step back.

  His eyes sharpen, grabbing her by the wrists as she moves to lower her hands.  The movement startles her, instinct taking over as she tries in vain to pull away.  Tightening his grip, he uses his hold on her to guide her closer to the lamp.  As soon as they’re near enough the light that she can properly see every detail of his face, he releases her.  She opens her mouth to ask him what the hell he thinks he’s doing manhandling her like that, but clamps it shut when he reaches for her face.

  His skin is soft against her own as he grabs her gently by the chin, she thinks she might pass out.  He slowly turns her head so the light is on her right, then uses his other hand to tuck her hair behind her ear, and she swears to god she’s going to combust.  Breathing is a distant memory when she feels his thumb swipe gently across the skin connecting her throat to her jaw, just below her ear.  But when he looks at her, his gaze is serious.  He retreats suddenly and she’s certain he’s taken part of her heart with him.   Then he shows her the blood on his hand, and her stomach drops.  She looks down at her own hands, finding more blood smeared across her right palm.  The side closest to the painting.  

  At least there really isn’t any doubt about what the Source is.

  “Now will you tell me about it?”  It might be fairly obvious the humour in his tone isn’t entirely sincere, but she laughs nonetheless.  Grateful for something to tether her back to reality, and for his own form of reassurance, she decides then that she won’t give him hell for dragging her around.   There’s still an edge to him, something sharp just behind the eyes that she’d never seen from him before - it dawns on her.  He’s angry, and not just a little.  

  For reasons unknown to her, the words come tumbling from her lips as if they can’t get out fast enough.

  “Through the living room, down the hallway - mind the runner, it’s slippery - the primary haunting is in the bedroom.  Husband’s name was Harold Roland.  There’s a painting on the left wall, initialed ‘H.R.’, psychic imprint like I’ve never seen.  Twenty quid says that’s the Source,”  She pauses, wracking her brain to ensure she hadn’t forgotten any vital information, “Oh!  And it’s probably obvious by now, but it’s definitely a Screaming Spirit.”

  When he doesn’t reply, she looks back up at him.  She finds him already looking at her, an expression akin to a proud smirk gracing his features.  He opens his mouth to speak, then hesitates.

  “Your rapier is on the table.”  It obviously isn’t what he first wanted to say, but right now all she can bring herself to care about is the promise of not being so damn helpless anymore.

  The unassuming cloth bag makes her giddy with excitement, but it’s expectedly short lived.  A bright other-light erupts in the other room, almost blinding them.  Lockwood recovers quickly, his blade whistling through the air as it cuts through the centre mass of the plasm figure throwing itself at him.   She quickly frees her own blade, barely sparing it a glance.  It feels lighter than she’s used to, which shouldn’t be possible considering she’d ordered the precise model she’d had previously, but that’s a problem for later.  The first order of business is trying to concoct a plan to get past the ghastly form of Mr. Roland without losing their hearing, or their lives.

  Striding back across the tile to stand behind him, she flicks her gaze around the room, her head moving restlessly while she tries to piece the loose ideas rattling around in her head into an actual plan.  If she had a salt bomb, maybe she could…     One metaphorical lightbulb moment later and she’s grinning as the final piece falls into place, sliding her rapier into its sheath on her belt.  She might have felt a little guilty about this if she hadn’t still been so bloody pissed at him, but as they stood now; any plan that involved getting the job done and short circuiting her boss at the same time was an excellent plan.  

  Leaning forward and pressing her chest against Lockwood’s back is the only way to get close enough to reach the first step of her plan, but she can’t help but feel a touch of vindictive pleasure at the way he goes rigid in response to her.     Sliding her palms down his sides, over his hips, and slipping her hands under his coat, she retrieves the salt bomb he always keeps in a hidden pocket behind his back.

  She’d learned this fun fact only a few months into her employment under him, having discovered it in a bonafide witch hunt for whichever irresponsible dunce kept leaving salt bombs in their laundry and ruining her favourite clothes.  Apparently he’d found himself without his kit in enough life threatening instances to always carry a backup plan.

  “Follow my lead.”  She says, not waiting for him to reply before stepping back and hurling the bundle of mineral and cloth over his shoulder.   The apparition wails and recoils as it explodes in its face, giving her an opportunity to slip past her colleague and make a break for the silver shimmer under the obnoxious loveseat before Mr. Roland could return to his murderous state.  Dropping to the ground and rolling to shove her arm as far under the settee as possible, she hooks a finger through the silver net, launching herself upright and letting it trail behind her as she sprints down the hallway.  She’s so focused on not wiping out on the carpet runner again, she almost misses Lockwood’s warning.

  “DUCK!”  There’s a sobering panic in his voice as he bellows from behind her.  Every warning bell in her head goes off at once and she barely has time to register the ghostly arm reaching for her through the wall before she’s diving into a tight roll underneath it.  

  The muscles in her legs ache with protest at the speed with which she springs back to her feet and skids through the doorway onto the carpet.  She tears the painting off of the wall and throws it to the floor before freezing, suddenly aware of her empty hands.  

  A quick glance confirms the net’s position on the floor in the hallway where it had been dropped in her evasion of the Visitor’s touch.  

  Well shit. 

  Three strikes, you’re out.

She doesn’t even have time to unsheath her rapier before Mr. Roland appears before her and shrieks at her.  The kinetic force of the psychic blast throws her back, directly into the solid wooden bed frame.  There’s a sickening thud as her head makes contact.  

  Nausea floods her body immediately, followed closely by the pain; her back aches from the impact, but she can’t move from the warped position her body had landed in.  With the shrill whistle heralding the arrival of blood rushing in her ears, the vibrations and flickering lights she’s assuming are related to Lockwood, and the horrifying sensation of the room pitching and reeling like a ship in a storm, the whole experience feels like some kind of twisted carnival ride.     Time begins behaving strangely, as does her memory.  Has it been ten seconds, or ten minutes?  Why is her body so angry with her?   A blanket of numbness creeps over her aches, pains, and anxieties, allowing her to become too aware of the sickening dizziness.

  At first she thinks it’s the whistling in her ears that’s beginning to fade, but no such luck.  Instead, it’s her awareness as a whole, dropping bit by bit until there’s just…

  Nothing.

𝔑𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 ⇢

𝔉𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔞𝔤𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱, 𝔱𝔞𝔭 [𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢]

[crow-stars]

❝DURING MIDNIGHT, ADVENTURES YOU AND I❞

❦summary; during the night is when the best adventures are made

♪the characters in this story; child!malleus draconia, baby!silver, lilia vanrouge

✎word count; 1,380

❀what do the ghosts say?; familial relationships, very very fluffy, malleus child kidnapping oh my gooosh, a panicked lilia

☛the author's notes; got super inspired from @ohsleepie and their malleus & silver sibling stuff, so i offer this! link to the original post. header is also from the art that inspired this piece, so i'll be putting the full picture at the bottom too. i hope you like it!

☪look at the catalogue?

Nights in Briar Valley are always strangely quiet. Sometimes, there will be the soft flutter of a summer bug or the quiet cawing of an insomniac raven. But those instances are few and far between.

It's something Malleus has grown accustomed to, although it's not something he particularly. Sometimes, he feels like some mysterious force compels all of Briar Valley to be silent during the night, permitting no noise or rustling of any kind. The only solace he finds is the fireflies that break through the night's darkness when the weather is warmer.

Malleus pushes away from the window sill, the soft bedsheets rustling as he wiggled to the edge of the bed. He feels himself sink a bit into the plush mattress, almost like it's trying to tempt him back to bed. The young fae ignores this, a destination in his mind.

The tiles are bitingly cold against his bare feet as he pads through the hallways, green light emitting only the smallest bit of luminescence as Malleus ventures through the halls.

The door to Lilia's quarters are easy to recognize, the wood of the door a light birch in comparison to the darker woods that are used for the rest of the doors. Whenever Malleus passed it, he always had the temptation to just enter and never leave Lilia's abode.

In there, it was always so warm, a welcoming orange fire always burning, smelling like freshly cut flowers and cut wood. Malleus always loved it, but time did not always allow him to be where he truly wanted. The door is unlocked when the young prince turns the handle, a smile spreading across his face as he passes through the door frame.

The room is dark as he enters, but Malleus can see the furniture as good eyes adjust to the dark. He takes a pause to look around, door clicking shut behind him as he steps in further.

He carefully walks along the wooden floors, towards the bedrooms. Lilia's bedroom is on the right, indicated by the red mahogany door, decorated immaculately and attractive to the eye, but that's not the room Malleus looks for. Instead, he aims for the room on the left, the door that is decorated in green and yellow stars and flowers, a sight that Malleus smiles at.

Turning the knob, the door creaks as he opens it and steps into the room. There's still some toys on the floor that haven't been cleaned up, but it's part of the charm of such a room, he thinks. Stepping over the forgotten toys, Malleus makes his way towards the crib, inspecting the small figure that wiggles in the crib. When he finally reaches the crib, he leans over the edge, eyes meeting with wide aurora-like eyes.

“Silver?”

Malleus gets a soft coo in response, a sound that makes him smile. He chuckles, leaning down further and hands bracing against the crib. Silver's bib lays on his chest, most likely falling from between his lips.

“Ah, I see you're awake as well.”

Reaching out to the small child, Malleus picks up Silver, arms wrapped around the child just as Lilia taught him. Smaller hands immediately rise to touch Malleus' face, chubby fingers trying to grip at the fae's cheeks.

He looks down at Silver, a hand pawing at his nose. “What trouble, neither of us being able to sleep, hm?” The only thing that Silver responds with is pinching Malleus' nose.

He laughs, humming in thought. “What say you, child? Shall we go somewhere?”

Silver turns in Malleus' hold a bit, head turning to look outside to the window. The fireflies were out tonight, illuminating the dark forest outside. It gives Malleus an idea, one that makes him smile.

“Oh, outside! Such a good idea.” Malleus makes his way to the door, leaving Lilia's home and out into the cold green halls once more. Despite this, Malleus still smiles, cradling a cooing Silver in his arms. “I'll take you to the fountain I like going to, I'm sure you'll love it.”

He hears a giggle, this only fueling Malleus' determination to get to the fountain. The soft padding of Malleus' feet echo through the corridor, following the path that he usually takes.

“I could also show you to the gardens as well.” Malleus' own voice fills up the silence, besides Silver's soft cooing, as he rocks the baby in his arms a bit, absentmindedly. “Lilia says he's been meaning to show you the gardens too. But I suppose I'll be the one showing it to you.”

He turns a corner, continuing on his journey. If he has to guess, Malleus would say that the two were only a few minutes from their destination.

“Though, I do hope you have no allergies to the flora there. I've heard Lilia worrying about you being allergic to things, child.” Malleus ponders all this aloud, head tilting left to right as if to imitate thinking. “Child, what do you think?”

When Malleus looks down, he finds no cooing child looking up at him in wonderment, but a child whose eyes have slipped shut, falling into deep sleep as he was rambling on.

“Ah, you can't fall asleep yet!” There's a pout that forms on the young fae's lips, huffing as Silver sleeps through Malleus' upset. “Could you not stay awake longer? We're almost there.”

And yet Silver still sleeps, little snores coming from the child. Malleus sighs heavily, but continues on his way, dirt sifting under his feet soon enough. It's pleasantly cool against his skin, the sound of gently running water reaching Malleus' ears.

The sight before him is truly calming, the slowly flowing water a nice background sound. There were roses that grew high above the young fae, a nice sight and perfect cover when playing games with Lilia. It also seemed like the fireflies decided to come over, floating about among the area. One even briefly rests on Silver's nose before Malleus shoos it away.

He walks to the bench swing that is tucked in a nice corner, complete with soft blankets and pillows for the occasion that Malleus might fall asleep here. Sitting down on the bench, Malleus grabs a blanket and makes sure to adjust the pillows well, leaning against them and pulling the blanket over himself and Silver.

Malleus is still sitting up, but the child rests against his chest, small hands curled around the front of his shirt tightly. He can't help but rub a few circles onto Silver's back, eyes trained onto the messy white locks that lean against his chest. He heaves a sigh, raising his head to look at the fountain. That familiar feeling of drowsiness starts to bloom throughout Malleus' body, not able to fight off the yawn that pushes past his lips.

With his grip on Silver tightening, Malleus leans back, eyes slipping closed as he finally is able to slip into sleep.

The next morning, the frantic yells of Briar Valley's best general echoes through the castle, frantic calls of his child and the young prince's names being heard in the early hours of the morning. All can hear the thundering footsteps as Lilia runs throughout the castle, checking all the places that Malleus could have run off to.

He finally stumbles on the fountain garden, kicking up dirt as he rushes in.

“Malleus-!”

Lilia stops himself, soaking in the sight before him. He can't help the tired chuckle that comes from his lips, dragging a hand down his face.

Malleus has leaned back a bit more on the swinging bench, arms still secured around Silver, who has taken to having his arms wrapped around Malleus' neck, hands still gripped around his shirt. The blanket has slipped down from where it was on top of them and a pillow looks ready to fall from the bench.

“Oh, great Seven...”

Walking over to the bench, Lilia sits next to Malleus, an arm wrapping around the young prince to hug him close. He relaxes against the seat, fixing the blanket so it properly covers the two children. Malleus immediately goes to lean against Lilia, still sleeping soundly. The sight of it all has adoration bubbling in Lilia's chest.

“Now what am I to do with you two, hm?”

[bubblegum-blackwood]

Wackiest parts about Blood Canticle:

The entirety of chapter one

But especially Lestat ending it with “It’s time to boogie!”

Lestat acknowledging Quinn’s shoe fetish

The fact that Lestat tells the ghost of Oncle Julien that he kissed Rowan Mayfair, Julien’s like “Wha???” then Lestat immediately moves on without addressing it further

When Lestat’s getting attacked by Julien’s ghost and he says “yeah, testify, how many ectoplasmic angels are on your side, give me the splendiferous images of your famous fabulous friggin’ self-created self-sustained astral plane!”

Lestat calling himself a rank materialist and challenging a fan to make a catalogue of every time he describes furniture in the Chronicles

Rowan mentioning that Tante Oscar keeps the telephone in the refrigerator

All the Taltos shit

Mona roasting Lestat so Lestat roasts her back and calls her a Power Slut (takes one to know one babe)

Lestat kissing Patsy's swamp-water-covered ghost on the mouth

Lestat opening chapter 23 by saying "Every now and then, I demand to be treated like the supernatural hero that I am" then immediately going on to be a petty bitch toward Mona

Addressing Saint Juan Diego as "Yo, Juanito" and calling him “tacky little dude with thy paper roses”

Quinn wearing a sequined tie and Lestat's three piece leather suit with purple turtleneck combo

Oberon the Taltos with his brown leather pants and red bandana and shimmery blue nail polish and his 90smth-year-old girlfriend who got surgery to make her vagina feel like a 12yo's (???)

As I read the latter half of the book I forgot to keep updating this as frequently but I’m sure there’s more occurrences of this caliber fdasfsfd

[fixfoxnox]

Ghost and Roach looking through a furniture catalogue for a new bed after their last one broke due to...activities:

Roach: *gasp* We should get a bunk bed

Ghost: What?

Roach: We should get bunk beds! Think about it! We'd each have a place for our own beds and we'd save space

Ghost:...

Ghost: Babe...we only have one bed. We're dating, not frat bros, remember?

Roach: Oh yeah :(

Ghost: ???

[fizzingwizard]

So I haven't bought Life and Death yet but I will. In the meantime I decided to torture myself by looking through the build/buy catalogue for Lovestruck.

It's soooo unfair, I want those candles!!!!!!! we never get simple single stand candles, I've wanted them forever, the only ones are the candles you can make with Eco Lifestyle but they only last a short time!

And I'm also longing for that gorgeous guitar?? WHAT?? Honestly it makes sense why this pack gets the guitar but ugh I'm so mad about it. It's beautiful.

The beaded curtains, the tiled backsplash, the little fiberoptic ceiling lights, and the hippo that looks like a Moomin... yeah I need all of these too.

Unfortunately I can't justify spending expansion pack money just for a handful of objects that don't even have gameplay (I mean the guitar does but we do have guitars already...) No matter how much I want it. Maybe someday if there's a sale... but again it's an expansion so it would have been a reeeeeeally good sale.

This is why I wish we could buy build/buy sets or even CAS sets separately. I don't want the Lovestruck gameplay. I know I'll just turn it off. TBH I don't even want the majority of the build buy (that's the other problem! The catalogue is half Latino-influenced furniture and decor aaaand half nightclub/kitschy romance/bdsm vibe... it's so bizarre to me. I can't even tell you how much I do NOT want a lip couch or a heart chair. Nothing interests me less. But THOSE CANDLES!)

Heck I will be really honest... I would be HAPPY to buy items individually even though it would totally knock up the prices for pixels. But if I could pick just what I like I'd do it.

I doubt most simmers would agree because they probable use custom content. If I could just make it work in my game I'd do that too, but it never has. I've been considering trying again, until I found out that "custom content" still counts as "mods" and can corrupt your game too. My 100% vanilla game is already so buggy, and I'd rather be able to play it than have all the issues mods/CC players seem to have.

Anyway. I'm glad there is still a lot in the Life and Death catalogue that appeals to me at least. I did think it would be mostly ornate stonework and ghost prints. Life and Death stuff does seem less usable to me personally than the handful of objects I want from Lovestruck... But on the other hand, there are also fewer objects I actively dislike (no lip chairs!), and at least we get crows.

Kits make me so frustrated because they could alleviate this issue... but they come with so little! And imo they are TOO committed to the theme. Usually in kits there's two or three objects I really like and the rest are kinda *shrug.* I'd buy the build/buy or CAS for EPs as kits in a heartbeat though. I'd even buy them as stuff packs, since the amount of objects in them is too much for kits.

[jroycethethird]

who: royce van doren iii, featuring the van doren family and staff

setting: verdant vale hall, the family’s mansion home, a day after the fire

triggers: injury tw, death tw, sexism tw, anti vampire rhetoric (sorry my vamp baddies), mentions of smoking, and pip using a whole lotta words probably incorrectly, also sad golden retriever crying in the gif below

“Honestly, is this really the right course of action? Surely he should have stayed at the hospital, at least for a little bit longer!”

“Not this again, Blythe, we’ve been through it — We can bring in the best of private home care to Verdant Vale and keep a far more watchful eye on him home! He needs rest, and the best professional care money can buy.”

The back and forth arguments echoed down the vast corridors of Verdant Vale Hall, accompanied by the rhythmic click of heels chasing down the familiar winding path to the east wing. Royce could already picture his childhood room — sage green walls and solid mahogany furniture, a perfectly preserved large room straight out of an interior design catalogue, unscathed by the annals of time. He had rarely occupied it before, JR and Blythe opting to send him off to boarding schools his whole life. He spent more time away from “home” than within it, sometimes he thought Verdant Vale in all her glory was just another stranger in his life, one that still bellowed before him as though she knew him perfectly inside and out. Maybe she and her ancestral ghosts did, and maybe they chortled at his expense.

“Sir, you ought to slow down… you’ll wear yourself thin,” an assistant murmured from beside him, her hand hovering diligently at his elbow. Royce sometimes likened them to eager vultures, ferrying their near-dead prey so they could feed off his gilded carcass. He didn’t like being doted on like this, not when it wasn’t genuine.

“Tut, tut, I’m quite fine,” Royce said, chin jutting out and high, pompous as ever. Yet each step brought a great deal of pain and inconvenience. His skin still felt aflame, boiling and scalding wherever the linen of his fine clothes touched him. Not even the bandages or medicine helped calm the lick of phantom flames against his skin, and Royce blinked hard to will the memories away. Being there in the bowels of Starlight as she went alight, nothing but red, red, red around him. You’re fine, stop being a pussy. He swatted a bandaged hand at the hovering assistant, passing the ornate cane hand from his right to left hand as he took the final corner towards his childhood bedroom. “I don’t understand why I can’t live out my misery in my own house, instead of this dreaded mausoleum. In fact — hey, you, you want to be helpful? Go start Goldie Hawn’s engine,” he referenced his beloved yellow 1973 Guila Spider Volce, so ridiculously named. “I’ll meet you down in the garage shortly,” he motioned the assistant away, and yet she didn’t falter, ushering her injured employer into his bedroom. Royce saw the way she deferred silently in reverent glances to his father, the hallowed Van Doren patriarch, who nodded sternly to her as he continued arguing with Royce’s step mother.

“Mr. Van Doren, let’s get you to bed,” she said in a soft, but firm tone, pressing her fingers into his elbow. “Perhaps I can take you for a drive sometime later, yes?”

“Traditrice,” he muttered in a perfect Italian accent to the now-smirking assistant as he begrudgingly entered the room. “So this is what hell looks like,” he hummed, looking over the shelves of first edition books, shiny model cars and hand built boats, among other knick-knacks around. Remnants of a youth he barely remembered.

The shuffle of shoes coming from the adjoining balcony caught Royce’s attention, and a smile grew over his face before the two nearly identical blonde women came in, one with a potted plant in hand. “But the devils here are such swell company, brother,” chimed Cecile Van Doren as she skipped over, a gentle kiss to her brother’s cheek given in greeting before offering up a snake plant. “A gift,” she stated and Royce snorted.

“Yes, and quite a welcome one since I see none of my plants made it since I last visited,” he let his voice raise towards the bickering adults by the door as he looked about him. There were less plants than the hobbyist florist recalled in that room. “Thank you, Cec. I’d take it off your hands, but apparently I’m oh so fragile. Don’t want to break it as much as I’ve broken myself.”

“Sweetheart, we are looking after your well being!” Blythe sighed dramatically from where she leaned against the door jam, glowering still at her husband, “And you’re needed in tip top shape… Our annual Garden Party is upon us, how could we do it without you? Your Uncle Monty will never let us hear the end of it.” Yes, because that was more pressing than anything else going on around town. Heaven forbid he not be in top form for his mother’s ridiculous high brow party.

JR sighed, in equal drama as his wife, running a large hand through sandy hair streaked in white-silver at the temples. “You know, son, if you accepted the vampire blood, then we’d be out of this mess rather quickly. You could be back to your strong, healthy self sooner, and back to doing what really matters: helping the coven and keeping that Supreme from running this dignified group into the mud.” Royce did not resist the eye roll or groan at his words, though the latter could have been his reaction to slowly easing himself (with the help of that dedicated assistant) into a large tufted arm chair.

Before he could spit out a sardonic reply to his father, another voice lifted above the chatter instead. “So it’s okay for Tripp to take vampire blood to cure what aren’t even that critical of burns, but the second our lives are threatened as repercussion of dark magic you lay down the law and deny the rest of us the chance to survive an untimely demise?” Kathryn Van Doren let out a single cynical laugh, arms crossing tighter over her chest as she set a dark glare on their father. “But of course, he’s the prodigal son, the Van Doren legacy, so of course he can cheat death while the rest of us must accept it if our time comes.”

“Kathy,” Royce admonished, but he was once more cut off by the Van Doren patriarch speaking up.

“Let me make this abundantly clear — absolutely no child of mine shall become an undead leech. We are a proud witch lineage, and I will not live to see any of my children go against what is our natural order. There is a dignity in dying, Kathryn. But the administering of blood to ensure your brother’s speedy recovery is different. It has nothing to do with cheating death, it is a modern form of medicine I would allow for him to use just to return to his real purpose: to help lead the coven. Did you not see how your brother stood up there and spoke reason at the last coven meeting? It’s clear he has an important job to do here. And on that alone, I doubt such a life would be sacrificed in recompense for what that wayward witch did. A Van Doren man, in his prime, won’t be taken down by a measly curse.” JR spoke with such devotion, Royce almost missed how absolutely crazy and off base he was. Almost.

“So my life, mom’s life, Cecile’s life — even your own life, daddy dearest,” she spoke the term of endearment with such venom, her words alone could paralyze, “all of that is fair game, but Tripp gets to defy your archaic rules just because you think he’s, what, more important than anyone else here? Do you even hear how ridiculous you sound?” Kathryn raged, eyes blazing. Royce clocked in almost instantly that this was a fight his unfortunate accident came in the middle of, one that perhaps had been going on since the news broke to the coven. And from how both his younger sister and their father stood, square shoulders and staring one another down, he could see it would not let up anytime soon.

“Would you like something to drink, sir? Perhaps a coffee, or a water?” His assistant murmured to him.

“A whiskey would be great, actually.” She gave him a look and Royce sighed, “Oolong, please. I’m afraid a commotion is about to happen, so make it quick and find cover.” His blue eyes scanned the four family members caught in a tense standstill before him, searching their minds for what he could glean.

Kathy was afraid to die, she was too young. She had potential, a whole life ahead of her, she could be so much more than this, and father’s refusal to accept this desire to save her own skin burned her deep in her stomach. Cecile, ever the good little girl, didn’t want to fight father, but she ached deep down. Half terrified in what could become of the recent dark magic usage, half wanting to so confidently and ignorantly believe their father when he said things would be okay, no matter the outcome. And Blythe, who perhaps in that moment just wanted any excuse to be away from JR for a bit. Maybe death could be the perfect vacation. Did they have country clubs and pool boys in heaven, she wondered.

Then there was the illustrious patriarch, looking smart and refined in his blue linen suit and pale lemon dress shirt, a navy and yellow pocket square peeking out of his jacket’s breast pocket. His craggy face was stern, an impassive stone face that was unwilling to bend to the dark gaze coming from the petite blonde across the room. His mind was unreadable even to the telepath, ever skillfully closed off from his son unless he wanted Royce to read him. Those times when he let his dark gaze and mind fill with such powerful disappointment so as to upset Royce should he dare explore his head. But that wasn’t now. Instead he was clear and focused solely on staring, unblinkingly, back at Kathryn.

Royce sighed irritably. “Dear god, Kathy, you’re an adult — if you want to take vampire blood, just go and take it,” he waved a hand dismissively at his younger sister. “And you—” He pointed a bandaged hand at his father, standing stupidly tall in his room of all places, stirring up family drama, and when Royce had a raging headache, “—give up that silly damn notion of coven leadership. I’m not the Supreme, Poppy is, and, in case you haven’t noticed this, attack wasn’t aimed at me. In fact, it was clearly a mistake. So instead of slightly our dear leader, maybe think about the fact that an assassination attempt was clearly made towards her.”

“And yet here you are, the one broken because of it,” JR spat back.

Royce gave his father a crooked smile, “They can’t kill me that easily, pops.” He let his head lull back so as to get a clear look at Kathryn. Her mind was still simmering in rage, though her anger seemed angled at him now. Of course you’d think that, you’re the special little boy who can do whatever he wants, her mind said to him and he frowned. “That is an unfair assessment, but may I remind you it’s the 21st century. He doesn’t own you.”

Kathy just scoffed, dropping her arms to her sides. “He won’t let us.”

“You mean he’ll disown you if you do, and you’re woefully unprepared for the real world. Oh, sad, sorry, little you, Kathryn Isabelle Van Doren.” He didn’t mean to be so cruel, but dammit — wasn’t he the one with the burns all over his body? And where the hell was his oolong?

JR crossed his arms tight over his broad chest, nodding. “And he’s right — if any of you take vampire blood to escape death, I will disown you, and you’ll leave Verdant Vale immediately. If you want to be a vampire so bad, then you can go do that and be the clan’s problem. Save me a dime.”

Kathryn let out an undignified cry before storming off, blubbering a “you hypocrite,” under her breath. Blythe threw her hands in the air as the youngest Van Doren dashed past her. “Oh, excellent, that’s just wonderful, JR — she’s supposed to help me pick out the floral centerpieces for the Garden Party today! Now she won’t want to be helpful at all! Come on, Cecile, help me calm your sister down…”

Cecile gave her brother a half smile before carefully placing the potted plant down on the table beside his bed, dutifully following their mother out. “Maybe a visit to the country club, and a game of doubles at the court, will calm her? We can ask that cute instructor to play with us!” He heard Cecile’s voice echoing down the hall as the women retreated, leaving the Van Doren men to quietly stare at each other.

“Bravo, big man, you really are a testament to fatherhood, you know that?” Royce said with a cruel curl of his lip, turning the cane around in his hand as he leaned back into the velvety chair. “Can’t you see they’re terrified? Don’t need telepathy to see it. No ‘natural order’ talk can soothe the absolute all consuming fear an unexpected death can bring to a woman in her twenties. Have some compassion.”

JR scoffed, occupying himself with brushing his fingers over the spines of books on a nearby bookcase, barely glancing back at his son from steel colored eyes. “The Ancestors must be second guessing everything, after this last, what, year and some change dealing with this Catalyst? Then Silas Chamberlain…” He tutted under his breath before fully facing his son. “I’ve told you since you were a boy that you were meant for so much more than you could imagine. Seeing you up there, addressing the coven with such professionalism and grace… I’ve never been more proud of you, Tripp.” Royce’s eyes dropped at the affectionate nickname, one only his closest confidents called him.

“You mean you’ve never been proud of me at all before then,” he said lowly, digging the cane into the plush carpet beneath his feet. “It doesn’t matter — I’m not the Supreme, and I don’t want to be. Poppy’s good, she can handle all of this, she’s made to handle all of this, you’ll see. And maybe I can’t, maybe I’m not built to fight. What you’re so enthused about is my ability to memorize fancy words from a thesaurus and spin in into something not half bad.”

JR was quiet for a breath of a moment. “Someday, Tripp, you’re going to see yourself the way I do and then you’ll understand how much potential you’re letting go to waste. You’re a whole lot braver than you think.” He crossed the space between them, carefully laying a heavy hand over his son’s shoulder. “Get some rest, you need to preserve your strength for when it matters.” He paused before adding, “…Such as for that Garden Party your mother won’t let go off. We have that pickle ball tournament with Monty and your cousin Dashiell, and I’m not letting them take the title this year.” He shook Royce, perhaps too roughly before sweeping out of the room.

And finally, the Van Dorens left Royce to a calming silence. “My God, they’re idiots. The whole lot of them.”

Vrrb. Vrrb.

Just as he relaxed into the chair’s cushy back, Royce felt the vibration of his phone in his pocket. He had every right to ignore it, but he carefully pulled the offending device out of his pocket and brought it to his face. “So help me, if that’s the gallery…” His threats trailed off on his tongue as he saw the Caller ID. Am I seeing things? He swallowed thickly before tentatively answering the call. Holding the phone there for a brief moment, Royce sucked in a sharp breath before bringing the phone to his ear. “Well, well… isn’t this a surprise,” he said in his usual charming tone.

“…a pleasant one, I hope.” The voice that came on the other line was just as he remembered — low, sultry and slow. He could imagine the smoke of a cigarette curling around the vowels as she spoke.

He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “I guess that depends on you. Is this a pleasurable call? It has been a moment, though I suppose that time difference may play into it.” If not the divorce.

She was silent on the other end and he imagined her taking a drag from a cigarette while sitting in the corner table at that old pub she adored so much. The one they used to frequent, their special little haunt. Maybe that was off, he doubted she was anywhere near campus nowadays.

“You didn’t change your emergency contact. I got a voicemail yesterday saying you were in an accident? I always knew you drove too fast for your own good.”

Royce frowned, slumping in his chair. So that’s why she called — maybe as a courtesy but certainly as a warning. Get rid of my phone number. That’s what she wanted him to do. He ran his hand weakly through his mussed hair. “Is that so? Well, I think we did vow in sickness and in health, right? Till death do us part?”

“I think we chose to abolish that, unless I’m not recalling the last two years properly.” He heard the exhale of smoke and thought he could smell it through the receiver. “Do start wearing a seatbelt, darling.”

“Yeah, yeah, seatbelt, I heard you.” Royce didn’t have the heart to correct her, letting her believe it was a car accident instead of arson. “Two years and you still worry about me, huh?”

She didn’t reply, and Royce grew uncomfortable in the silence. “So is this an excuse to hear my voice, or something?” He wasn’t sure what he was trying, but the sigh that came from the other end of the line certainly wasn’t what he hoped for.

“J… Royce,” he frowned involuntarily at her correcting herself. For a second there, Royce thought the name, the one that only she called him, was about to come out. It would have been a sign, for something he didn’t realize he’d been hoping for these past two years. But it wasn’t a social call, and it wasn’t meant to last long. “I’m sorry you got hurt, it’s not what I wanted to hear, but I also didn’t want to hear anything at all,” she continued and he stayed silent as he listened. “This isn’t healthy, and I shouldn’t have even called, but listen, do me — no, do both of us a favor.”

“What’s that?” He said as he swallowed thickly, pressing his hand over his face and slightly muffling his words.

“Change your emergency contact… And lose this number, already.”

He let out a humorless chuckle as the weight of the words dawned on him, squeezing his eyes shut as he caught his breath. “Damn… Message received,” he muttered. “Nice hearing from you.”

She was silent for a short moment before saying, softer now, “Get well soon. Goodbye, Darling.” And the line cut before Royce could say anything more.

Pulling back and staring at his phone, Royce looked at the call history and her name now at the very top of it. His hand shook as emotions long since buried began to bubble up to the surface. As though those protective layers he’d grown over them had been burned away in that fire, no longer effective armor against the onslaught of hurt and turmoil just hearing her voice caused him. He swallowed and found that the lump in his throat was too strong to bypass. Curses. Damn this woman for coming back so easily into his orbit and then speeding away. And all to tell him to wear a seatbelt and lose her number… he hated it. He hated her for it.

He was so deep in thought, he missed the click of heels as his assistant rounded the corridor and found herself at his bedroom door again. “Mr. Van Doren, I apologize for the delay, we didn’t have oolong but I sent off for it. I did find a Moroccan Mint Tea inst—” her words were drowned out by a loud crash and crack as a smart phone collided with the wall on the far side of the room, glass screen shattering and pixels going dead as it fell uselessly to the ground. A dent and a crack left a remembrance of the sudden attack on the wall, and Royce’s gaze traced it as he let out a ragged breath. “S-sir?” The assistant sputtered and he turned his gaze towards her.

“…Oh, mint tea is just fine,” he said so casually, calmly, as though he hadn’t just chucked his phone across the room. He held his hand out, waiting for her to shakily deposit the cup into his grasp. Taking a slow sip, Royce’s eyes flickered up back at the assistant, clearly taken back by his actions. “Mm, yes, perfect, thank you. You can go now, but do me a favor and stop by the store and get me a new phone, won’t you? Put it on good ol’ dad’s card, too.” He waved her off before silently turning his gaze out towards the adjoining balcony, silently stewing and forever grateful to be the only telepath at Verdant Vale Hall.

[dalihdgaming]

Haunted House Renovator Demo PC Gameplay 1440p 60fps

Haunted House Renovator on Steam: https://store.steampowered.com/app/1917850/Haunted_House_Renovator/

Become a paranormal renovator! Banish ghosts and restore haunted mansions to their former glory! Explore spooky locations, catalogue paranormal events and resolve them. Complete puzzles, search for hidden objects, clean and repair old furniture. Decorate the interiors as you want and make a profit!

#hauntedhouserenovator #jimmydali #playway #imagepower #firstperson #horror

[deakyjoe]

Tag people you want to get to know better!

Thanks for the tag @honeydjarin :) I always enjoy doing these

Favourite colour: green and blue (it’s constantly switching on which one I prefer)

Currently reading: Horrorstör by Grady Hendrix (it’s a book about a haunted furniture shop like ikea that’s designed to look like a furniture catalogue)

Last movie (in theatres): Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3 (but not in theatres is Jumanji: Welcome to the Jungle)

Last series: either 911 or Abbott Elementary… I can’t remember

Last song: Mary on a Cross by Ghost I think

Craving: Noodle soup

Tea or coffee: Coffee. Always coffee.

Currently working on: the Somebody’s Watching Me epilogue

No pressure tags: ALL OF MY FOLLOWERS! Everyone who wants to do this!!

[lavendermin]

if all stars fell at once (4) | xiao

pairing | xiao/reader

word count | 3.1k

genre | fluff, light angst, developing relationship, overall domestic

warnings | light smut, eventual smut

Routine.

Defined as habitual tasks you partake in on a regular basis. These monotonous daily routines are what provided a grasp of control amid the uncontrollable and brought you order in a time of uncertainty.

The dawn of a new day started with the bittersweet greeting of the mourning doves’ songs. It gently tugged your consciousness forward, your weary limbs stretching out beneath warm covers. Your eyes would peek open and be greeted by the same dull room, bed tucked in a far corner. The sheets over old furniture still haunted you, the house inherited by past ghosts of memories.

It was a husk you resided in, perhaps a tomb you inherited. And as with every morning, you push the thought away.

A quick wash-up and breakfast helps kickstart your day before you’re off to run any errands listed off in your mind already. Fresh morning dew still glistens on the grass when you leave.

Days where errands would carry you to the harbor would have their own side routine you knew fairly well. Checking Bubu Pharmacy for any medicine pickups for the village elders, a quick chat with Ganyu as you passed her during one of her duties, a passing stop to the markets by the docks for supplies, and the occasional prolonged stay for lunch per the invitation of Zhongli and his courteous acquaintance. Every week, just like clockwork.

The busy day would wind down near the docks, watching the waves as they crashed upon rocks and taking in the scent of the sea spray that swept by you with it’s breeze. If you closed your eyes, the sounds of the sea and bustling voices of the harbor would meld together into one— a comforting cacophony of background noise to keep you grounded before the harbor’s relentless energy swept you away.

The city was a little much for you. It made you miss the tranquility of the small place you resided in tucked far back in the village.

And so everyday your heels pointed back towards home, ending with a meal in between more work you buried yourself in until odd hours of the night.

This was the routine you came to know with seldom any out-of-the-ordinary variation.

And then, curiously, slowly, the yaksha you came to befriend incorporated himself into the routine— first embedded into your routines and soon enough ever-present in your heart. Perhaps you could say that he altered your habits for the better.

Nowadays, leaving the harbor after errands is pleasant. No longer does the road back to Qingce isolate you into your thoughts. The sun that casts mesmerizing hues upon the sky as it sets leaves a pleasant warmth on your face. You look forward to his name on your tongue.

‘Xiao.’

The summon rings out clearly amidst his tumultuous headspace, bringing brief peace with the familiarity of the voice. In an instant he’s at your side, the ominous mist that enveloped him subsiding. There's a wordless question in his eyes as he shyly laces his fingers with yours.

With a light squeeze of his hand, you reply, “Let’s go home.”

There’s a pleasant silence that accompanies these walks, his hand firmly holding yours as if you might slip through his grasp at any given moment. On occasion, he would ask how your day went just to hear your voice. Though he wasn’t fond of the crowded hustle and bustle of the harbor, hearing your little enthusiastic retelling was enough to leave him with vivid imagery. Your voice was his comfort.

Arriving home has also taken on a newfound normalcy. With Xiao around, the once-empty house you inherited no longer feels foreign. Finally, with sure conviction, you can say it feels like your own.

Shelves that were once scarce with items and decor were now neatly arranged with ornaments and small handcrafts that Xiao has given you. The bookshelf that was once littered with dust and cobwebs is now rich with rows of books of all sorts. Even tables and bedside stands that were once empty are now always adorned with flowers that you and Xiao pick while out stargazing. These items are glimpses into the new pastimes you treasure to make time for.

Today was one such day where the breeze was pleasant as the sun tucked away for the night. However instead of being outside, you chose to take up comfort reading indoors. There on a pile of blankets and pillows you sat comfortably, Xiao resting his head on your lap to intently listen to you read aloud.

The adeptus reminded you of a cat that’s getting comfortable with a stranger they keep meeting. The spots he chose to rest on were getting much closer in proximity, but never directly on you. That is, until you boldly asked if he would like to rest on your lap and he settled there gratefully with your permission.

You closed the book, running your hand through his hair to get the yaksha to open one eye. “Are you sure you want to hear me read this poem book again? I’m sure you know it by heart at this point,” you pointed out with a laugh. “Why don’t you choose a book this time?”

There was a moment of contemplation before Xiao relented and went to search through the many book spines readily available. A glistening stone caught his attention again—his hand visibly hesitating for a moment.

You leaned your body over a bit from your comfortable pillow haven, curious as to what book he would select. Part of you expected him to select a random one off the bookcase, and was surprised to have a quaint little red book placed in your hands.

“I’ve been meaning to ask… about this one,” Xiao started, his face neutral but betrayed by the twinge of pink that was hidden by the dimness of the lamplight.

“This is…?”

He shrugged. “The subject of this book— is this something you like?”

Confused, you opened the cover. Inscribed on the inside in unmistakable cursive was a message from a certain librarian— a friend. Your brows creased, mouth pressed in a thin line as your eyes skimmed over the note the particular librarian left. A subtle feeling of dread crept over you.

‘Hey cutie, sent you a few goodies that were offloaded from our catalogue this season. Thought you might enjoy this one to spice things up a bit. I know how curious you were about the forbidden section, so here’s a little glimpse for you.’

Oh no… You quickly skimmed through some pages of the book that felt hot in your grip. Or perhaps it was your entire body flushed with embarrassment at the lewd imagery the story portrayed

“I–I didn’t… I d–didn’t know Lisa sent this along with the other books. This book— I haven’t read before so… um…” You anxiously bit your lip, voice growing quieter the more you went on. “I–It was a gift. I didn’t know.”

Xiao hummed, hand grazing your reddened cheeks curiously as you fanned your face. There was practically steam rolling off you.

“So,” Xiao started cautiously, “The things the book spoke of— it’s not something you like?”

If you were red before, you couldn’t possibly imagine how you looked now.

“N–No! I mean— Yes. I mean—!” You fumbled over your words, flustered over such an erotic novel unknowingly being in your possession.

“So, it makes you… happy?”

“Xiao— Stop, please— I’m going to die of embarrassment,” you squeaked into your hands.

His persistent curiosity would be the death of you at this rate. You buried your face under a pillow, too overwhelmed by the suggestive images still swirling in your head.

A little dumbfounded by your reaction, Xiao could only watch your huddled form hide away as he awkwardly rubbed your back in an attempt at reassurance.

The adeptus finally gained a bit of your attention, quietly inquiring, “Do you not wish to talk about that type of subject?”

The grip on your pillow slowly eased up, partially uncovering your face to meet his gaze. There wasn’t an ounce of discomfort on his face, and it was reassuring save for the fact that you were the one needing to explain.

“It’s not… that I don’t want to. Intimacy like— that—“ You pointed accusingly at the book now in his hands. “Is something, uhm, highly emotional— in a good way! Ah, what am I saying… It’s an act of love and bonding with a significant other, so to speak. Usually. Ah— it’s a little complicated.”

As you fumbled with your train of thought, his hand slowly placed itself over yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles. It drew your little state of panic to a close, feeling him press his lips to your forehead in a moment of soft distraction. It quickly brought a small thankful smile to your lips.

Kisses made you happy. This was a fact Xiao had learned.

“Let’s talk about it another time. Do not stress yourself over it.”

You nod timidly, choosing to hide your face in the crook of his neck. “...Okay.”

Xiao leaves not too long after, disappearing into the shadows to diligently tend to his duties. Sleep finds you quicker when he’s not around, though your mind is still tumultuous.

You had half a mind to go straight to Mondstadt and give Lisa a stern reprimand, not that she would care. If anything, it would fuel her amusement and her teasing would become more unbearable especially when your heart could barely handle Xiao boldly initiating displays of affection. That librarian was more perceptive than her languid facade let on.

For the time being you buried the cursed erotic book within cluttered closet boxes and called it a night.

Out of sight, out of mind.

—

A bead of sweat rolling down his temple caught a glimmer of the pale moon watching over him. Beasts that were affected by his karmic debt laid strewn across the battlefield. It weighed heavy on his mind, a distasteful reminder of increasing demonic activity with the Lantern Rite a few weeks away.

There was a light burning sensation that twinged Xiao’s calves and arms, and he rolled his shoulders to relieve his muscles from the fatigue of ceaseless combat. His tired muscles were just about ready to turn in for the night and make his way to Wangshu Inn.

But he paused. The voice tugged at his mind.

‘Xiao…’

There was no mistaking it. It was your voice.

The ache in his muscles was an issue for later. There was strain in your voice, evident discomfort. The reason was uncertain but as much as Xiao wanted to deny it, he was alarmed ever so slightly.

A blur of black mist was all it took and he was gone under the serene moonlight. When he found you, his guard was high with lingering confusion. An intruder was his first thought.

A quick walk around the house, footsteps lighter than the breeze that accompanied him. Nothing. No other presences detected either.

‘You called me, but why?’ Xiao questioned.

The bed gently dipped with quiet creaks where he sat next to you, brushing his thumb over your cheek. Your peaceful sleep was broken as your brows slightly furrowed, breathing slightly labored with small whimpers you let out.

“...X–Xiao,” you quietly whimpered amidst your sleep.

Ah, you had summoned him in your sleep then. How odd. It was a first, to say the least, but he couldn’t be upset with you.

‘Another nightmare…?’

Just how bad could a nightmare be that you would desperately call his name in your sleep, he wondered? But a promise was a promise. He was determined to rid you of your ailments if it was within his power.

The yaksha took in a deep breath, focusing himself fully before slowly exhaling a puff of dark mist. The aches in his body went ignored.

Dearest dream eater, won’t you save her?

—

The sound of his footsteps pacing a dark corridor— humid, stuffy as he pressed forward following the muffled sound of your voice. It’s something he will never forget though he feels he should.

To feel haunted by a dream’s fragments that refuse to vanish is something he should laugh at. It’s not real.

Then why?

Bits and pieces are burned into his memory. Perhaps in a torturously pleasant way he never really imagined. Blame it on him never finding someone he considered such private feelings with.

Xiao did not stay that night after consuming the dream, nor did he come back to check on you come morning as he usually did. On the tiled roof of Wangshu Inn he lays, brows furrowed and a strange warmth pooling throughout his lower torso.

The memory is unlike others that plague him, though it causes him inner turmoil with the increased bodily frustration.

Those eyes… haunt him. The smugness on the face that stared back at him then was enough to piss him off. The reasons festering in his tightened chest he couldn’t quite explain. The fragments would rewind and play, rewind and play, over and over since that night.

‘So,’ the familiar red stranger began with an amused smirk. ‘Looks like the yaksha really will answer any call of his name.’

They made it a point to maintain eye contact as they pressed their lips to your temple, arms holding your back flush against his chest.

Those piercing jade eyes— a mockingly similar exterior. It was like Xiao stared at a twisted reflection of himself conjured by your dream, the red accents in his hair and clothes a fiery scarlet akin to the bubbling anger he felt upon seeing the illusion lay its hands on you. The fact that they spoke in his same voice was enough to raise a rumbling growl within Xiao’s chest.

Quiet huffs left your parted lips as your chest heaved, a scarlet sash tied over your eyes like a blindfold.

‘Xiao, I–‘ Your body shivered at the feeling of his hands gliding over the inside of your thighs. It made you let out an involuntary whimper, cheeks aflame with arousal.

‘That’s enough,’ Xiao commanded the dream illusion of himself through gritted teeth.

The scarlet-hued Xiao shifted you in his lap, his lips set in a mocking smirk as his hand slipped between your legs to elicit sweet mewls from your parted lips. What Xiao wouldn’t give to conjure his spear then and there to wipe that irksome grin off his own face.

The illusion hummed, making it a point to place a kiss to the swell of your exposed chest. ‘Surely you don’t mean to ignore our person’s feelings? Or our own, for that matter. How crude of you, adeptus, to try and stop something she begged me for— something our body clearly begs for, as well.’

‘Quiet.’

The silence was deafening, though the illusion only seemed to stop momentarily out of amusement in seeing how long the real Xiao could uphold such a serious facade. Internally, he battles with two new emotions he hadn’t experienced before— jealousy and arousal. Somehow, because he could channel a warrior's rage through jealousy, the other warm feeling seemed to be drowned out. For now.

‘Silence me all you’d like. Deny your desires until you grow numb, for all I care. But for your human, these desires are your bond,’ the illusion persuaded, unbothered by the icy daggers Xiao glared through him. ‘Isn’t that right, my love?’

His fingers slowly working at the sweet, throbbing ache between your legs left you unable to form any coherent thoughts. Perhaps it was deliberate so your mind was elsewhere, drowning in a hazy pleasure. The gasps and mewls leaving your shaking body were slowly getting to the adeptus. Ironic, just how similar to that stupid book this was.

Xiao scoffed, and prepared himself to finish what he had sought out to do. ‘I don’t concern myself with desires. I’ve had enough of you.’

As Xiao unraveled and crumbled the dreamscape around him, the illusion remained smiling with sly intention.

‘Dishonesty will get you nowhere, Adeptus Xiao. She will be forced to forget this dream, but these feelings you both harbor cannot be erased so easily.’ The illusion lifted the ribbon from your eyes, leaving Xiao momentarily frozen.

Eyes are the windows to the soul, and what he saw in those misty eyes left his body aflame— confused. His tongue darts out to lick his lips, and he swallows thickly.

Once you get a taste, a dormant desire will begin to flourish.

The sly illusion holds their hand out invitingly, jade eyes unreadable as they scrutinize Xiao’s movements. It’s hesitant— the small step forward he takes.

‘What are you waiting for, adeptus?’

—

There’s a harsh gust of wind that blows through, the skies of Liyue harbor a dull grey with the rolling storm. The crashing sounds of waves upon the rocks below the docks resonate with your tempestuous heart. Weary eyes scan the horizon of the uneven sea, looking past the peaks of Guyun Stone Forest in the distance. You cling onto the hope of catching a glimpse of something— something to ease your worrisome heart.

“It’s been a few weeks,” you note quietly, the door of the balcony clicking shut as you walk back into the warm home office.

Yanfei answers without looking up, her hands still furiously scribbling on the parchments that have slowly accumulated into a towering pile. “He’s probably busy. With what exactly, I wouldn’t know— but I’m sure you have a better idea.” She sighs, regretting the coldness of her blunt tone. She adds in a softer tone, finally looking up, “Sorry, I’m not much help if it’s not consultation involving the law.”

The legal adviser can only watch helplessly as your eyes drift back to the window to gaze out beyond the sea’s horizon.

“He’s going to the Lantern Rite festivities with you, right?”

You turn back enough to meet her hopeful gaze with a sad smile. The silence is all the answer she needs.

“Was that a stupid question to ask?”

You shake your head, and turn your face back to the window so she can’t look further into the feelings you try to conceal.

The Lantern Rite was in a few days, and Xiao was nowhere to be seen. Though there've been occasions where you hardly saw him, this… this time was different. It was a feeling you couldn’t shake off and it filled you with uneasiness.

The thought of calling his name and receiving no answer terrified you. Doubt was quick to grip your mind in a vice.

“I think I’m the stupid one.”

[sunflowershouto]

crisis - shouto todoroki x fem!reader

a/n: enjoy! my requests are open, so if you liked this fic, please feel free to drop me an ask -leo

warnings: marital issues, mentions of parental neglect and abuse (in relation to todoroki's backstory), mild angst

because i write from a third person point of view, i recommend using the interactivefics extension! it replaces y/n, l/n, etc, with whatever you insert into the extension, and helps to make fics super immersive! it's a chrome extension, and you can find it in the chrome store.

[the song that inspired this fic is Crisis by Annie Eve]

𝑫𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒈 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒚. . . 𝑰'𝒎 𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖. . . 𝑰'𝒎 𝒓𝒖𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒚 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏, 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖. . .

𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐒

Y/N's keys chimed together softly as she dug them out of her coat pocket, her gloved hands struggling for a moment to take hold of the cool metal. Her face still stung from the cold of the snow outside, and she hurried to unlock the door to the apartment, stepping inside and letting her shoulders slump as soon as the door was shut behind her.

The place was silent, but a glance towards the kitchen, where a light shone dimly through the doorway, told her that Shouto was home.

Without announcing her presence, she slid her coat off, then removed her boots and placed them on the shoe rack, where they stood alone. The coat hanger in the entryway was the same way—her coat was the only one there, looking lonely as it hung in solitude from the rack.

"I'm hom—I'm here," Y/N called tentatively, catching herself before she could say the word 'home.' She lingered awkwardly by the front door, as though afraid to enter. "I'll get started on dinner soon."

There was a long silence as she crossed the hall into the living room, which was pristinely clean, but looked more like a picture from a catalogue than anywhere actually inhabited. The sofa cushions were uncreased, the table spotless and uncluttered. She stared at the room blankly, and realized that she felt like a stranger.

"I've already eaten."

There was no surprise, only a dull sting as she let out a soft sigh, pressing her eyes shut. "Alright. That's fine."

It had been a month of this already, and Y/N knew that most husbands, most couples, would have already worked a way around something like this—at the very least, they would have found a way to sweep it under the rug for a few more months, pretend that it didn't exist. But Shouto wasn't most husbands, and they were not most couples.

When Shouto wanted to hold onto something, he could take it to his grave; how else could he have gone for years without using an entire half of his quirk? She had always loved his stubbornness, admired him for his tenacity, but now when she looked at him, all she could see was a wall that she didn't know how to scale.

It was her fault, this whole argument. She had been the one to bring up the idea of having kids, she had been the one to press him on it, to try to have the conversation before he was ready.

They had been happy. If she had just left well enough alone. . .

Another long sigh drew itself from her chest, and she turned towards the kitchen, footsteps soft against polished hardwood. "Sho. . . Can we at least talk? Please?"

He was sitting at the kitchen table, staring down at an untouched mug of tea that Y/N could only assume had already gone cold. His dual-toned gaze flickered up towards hers for just an instant, and for a moment she thought she saw a spark of progress. Then the ice took over again, and he cast his gaze back down, his mouth bent into an uncomfortable grimace.

Y/N wasn't used to not knowing what to say to him; part of the reason that they had worked so well as a couple was their ability to practice utter candor with one another. This feeling of words being stuck on her tongue. . . It was foreign to her, daunting. Temptation to indulge in her anger sparked in her chest; it would be so easy to snap at him, to remind him with vicious fervor how badly he was hurting her, but those sparks died down as she took another look at his face. She knew that he was hurting too, that he was just as lost for words as she was. "Shou," she tried again, leaning against the doorway, her voice gentle. "We can't do this forever."

His grimace settled deeper into his features, and she saw his shoulders tense, his hands tightening around the ceramic mug. "What can we do?" he finally asked, brow creasing.

"We can talk about this. I know what you're scared of, Shou." Y/N crossed the kitchen to be at his side, her hand coming carefully up to the side of his face, fingertips skimming the red, rough skin over his scar. "You won't be like him. You won't be like your fath—"

"Don't."

Her breath caught in her throat at the feeling of his grip around her wrist, pulling her hand away from his face. His eyes were burning with something that rested in the valley between grief and rage.

His grip tightened again before he let her go, his chair wailing as he shoved it away from the table, his gait hurried as he rushed away from her.

Y/N could only watch as he left the kitchen and disappeared up the stairs like a ghost, drifting farther and farther away. Her eyes stung and a lump burned in her throat, and she fell into the seat that he had been occupying just a moment ago, burying her face in her arms.

She sat in silence under the dim kitchen light until her joints began to ache and her eyelids felt heavy. Eventually, she pulled herself up and padded slowly up the stairs, careful not to walk too loudly. The door to the bedroom felt heavier than usual, and the sight of Shouto lying with his back to her brought her pause. She didn't know if he was awake, if he knew that she was there or not, and part of her didn't care. He didn't move as she retrieved her pillow from her side of the bed and left the room, heading back down the stairs and finding a restless sleep on their barely-used sofa.

The events of that night had alienated her even further, and if there had been a wedge between them before, it now felt like a chasm.

Weeks passed with little change, and though they shared a space, Y/N could hardly say that it felt like they lived together. After the first few nights, Shouto had told her that she could have their bedroom—he would sleep on the couch.

Part of her was angry with him for it; even when he was being infuriating, he still found a way to remind her why she loved him. One kind gesture, however, wasn't enough to make up for almost two months of dysfunction. Y/N realized that she couldn't take this. Not for much longer, at any rate. She got home from work one cold evening, and found him as she usually did, sitting at his desk, handling paperwork for the agency.

"Shouto." Her voice was even, steady because she'd rehearsed this conversation in all its permutations before she'd even made it to their front door. She needed to be ready, or else she knew that she would break.

His hand tightened around his pen, and he froze for a moment, before setting it down and turning in his chair, not quite meeting her eyes. "Yes?"

"Look. . . I love you, but I can't do this. I can't stay here if you're going to act like I don't exist. If avoiding one conversation is worth our marriage, then fine. I'll accept that, but I won't stay. Do you understand?"

His eyes snapped to hers, widening ever so slightly. In that moment, he looked more attentive, more alert than he had in months. "Y/N. . ." His eyes fell shut and he leaned forward against the desk, raking his hands through his hair and drawing in a shaking breath. "I just- I need time. Don't go."

"I've given you time, Shouto," she shot back quickly, raising her voice slightly. "I need you to give me answers."

He fell silent again, staring down at the desk, his hands still tangled in his hair as he realized that he was stuck within an ultimatum.

She was deafened by his silence, and she looked to the side, jaw tightening before she began to step away and out of the room. "I'm going, Shouto." "Y/N—" "Don't."

As soon as she had packed her things, she left the apartment without sparing him another glance.

A week passed, and Y/N quickly realized how accustomed she had grown to living with Shouto; even when they had been sleeping in different rooms for weeks, it felt odd to live somewhere where he wasn't. She found it difficult to sleep in her friend's apartment, and even more difficult to eat with the growing uncertainty that was gnawing a pit in her stomach.

She knew that forgetting her notebook was a weak excuse to go back to the apartment, but she didn't have a better one, and part of her was too prideful to admit that she had simply missed him, that she was starting to feel like it was better to struggle with him than to try to move on without him. At the very least, she wanted to see him again, and maybe there was a little part of her that was hoping that he wanted to see her too.

It was late on a Friday night when Y/N drove back to their apartment, hoping that maybe he'd be asleep, and that she could sneak past him and he'd never have to know that she was thinking about coming back to him.

She tried to muffle the sound of her keys, but they rang loudly as she unlocked the door, trying to remain silent as she slipped back into the apartment. In her absence it had hardly changed; the furniture still looked unused, the kitchen was still perfectly clean. Shouto had never been the type to let his internal turmoil leak out into his surroundings, and Y/N didn't suppose that he was spending much time outside of his office.

She slipped off her shoes, then crept up the stairs without turning on the lights, navigating the dark apartment by memory as she made her way to the bedroom. The door was shut and the light was out, and a feeling of relief washed over her as she realized that he must have been asleep. Slowly, she pushed the door open, and stepped into their room.

Even in the dark, the room was achingly familiar; the colors that she and Shouto had picked out together stood out vaguely in the darkness, and it was all she could do not to succumb to the lump in her throat. She pressed forward, moving towards her nightstand and trying to ignore Shouto, who seemed restless as he slept alone.

When she realized that he was whimpering, she stopped dead in her tracks, her gut twisting. Nightmares were rare for him, but Y/N had always been the one who was there to pull him out of them; now he had no one, and guilt burned at her chest at the idea of leaving him there like that, forsaking him to the demons in his head.

Against her better judgment, she reached forward and flipped the switch on her nightstand lamp, washing the room in a dull, warm glow. In the light, she could see the sheen of sweat on his face, the way his muscles tensed and his face twisted in discomfort. Her heart ached, and she stepped toward him, her own heart pounding in her chest as she did.

This was a bad idea.

He wouldn't want to see her.

She should turn around and let him think that she had never been there.

God, if it wasn't hard to remember why she'd left him at all.

"Shouto," Y/N whispered, moving to his side of the bed and placing her hand lightly on his shoulder. "Shou, wake up. Please, wake up."

The way he started awake made her heart ache—his eyes were wild, ringed with dark circles, his face drained of all color. He searched the room frantically until his eyes fell on her, and his face softened immediately, his hand coming up to her face as though against his will. "Y/N. . ."

She gave him a bittersweet smile, compassion glimmering in her gaze. "You're okay, love. I'm here now." Tears welled up in her eyes as she took him in, took in how exhausted he looked, took in how much he was revealing as he stared at her.

He looked dazed by his swell of emotion, and he didn't hesitate to pull her into his arms, burying his face in the crook of her neck as the tension went out of his shoulders, his breaths coming out in ragged gasps. "I'm sorry, Y/N," Shouto whispered, his arms tightening around her. "All of this. . . All of this was because I was scared. I didn't think I could give you what you wanted, and you payed the price. And- And my mother-"

"It's okay, Shou," Y/N murmured, running a gentle hand through his hair. "You don't have to explain."

"No, Y/N. Listen. Please." He drew in another breath before he continued. "After you asked me about having kids, my father came to mind. I didn't—don't—ever want to be like him. But my mother. . . I would go to see her, Y/N, after we had that talk. And when I looked at her, and thought about what my father did. . . All I could see when I looked at her was you. You don't—you don't understand how badly that scared me, Y/N. And I felt, stupidly, that if I said anything about it, that it would make it real. I was too scared to take that risk." His voice was trembling now, vulnerable in a way you'd never heard from him. "Do you understand? I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

"God, Shou," Y/N choked out, tears spilling freely down the sides of her face as she clung to him. "You should have told me. I could have- I could have helped you."

"I know, love," he murmured, and Y/N remembered for the first time in months how good it felt to hear him call her 'love.' "I'm still just. . . Learning."

"I'm sorry too. Walking out on you like that, I. . ."

"No, Y/N." He pulled back to stare at her intently, meeting her eyes directly. "You did what you had to do. You were right. You gave me every chance to talk, and I didn't take it. That's on me. I won't let you blame yourself for my mistakes—that's what he would have done."

She knew better than to argue with him, so she merely nodded before burying her face in his shoulder again, relishing in the feeling of having his arms back around her, of finally having broken through the walls that had been built between them.

Shouto was lying on his back with her draped over his chest, dancing on the verge of sleep when her voice broke the silence.

"For what it's worth. . . You would make an amazing father."

He didn't reply, but Y/N could feel his hold on her tighten, could hear his breath catching in her throat—and if she really listened closely, she could hear quiet sniffles as she drifted off to sleep, happy again in her husband's arms.

[avaritia-apotheosis]

Phantom Children [DP x Batman Crossover] Ch. 1

Disclaimer: It's been a while since I watched DP and the only Batman/DC stuff I've interacted with are B:TAS, the JL cartoons, and what I got from fandom osmosis so don't expect any sort of canon compliance.

In Which: the author takes advantage of the passage of time in Nanda Parbat being wonky and Danny doesn't give up, per se, but is sort of resigned to being stuck with the League of Assassins until further notice.

AO3 | Prologue | [ 1 ] | 2 |

CW for descriptions of non-consensual drug use (if there's anything you guys would like me to tag, please tell me)

-----

WHEN SOMETHING WENT WRONG WITH DANNY’S LIFE, it was usually because of one or two things: Ghosts or Vlad. And considering their truce and how even Vlad wouldn’t go this far (at least, Danny hoped), Danny was kidnapped because of ghosts. Or his association with ghosts.

Though how an organization of ninja-assassins got wind of his ‘unique’ circumstance was beyond him. The shackles they slapped on his wrists were more a formality than anything after the second time he tried to escape them with intangibility. The only reason they managed to get him contained the entire trip from Amity Park to wherever the fuck Nanda Parbat lay was because of the cocktail of drugs they pumped into his system spiked with blood blossoms.

Danny had to give it to them. The League of Assassins might not have any anti-ecto weaponry, but they did their homework.

He barely remembered the trip. He catches flashes—blurry figures and words he couldn’t comprehend. A warm hand holding his, a thumb rubbing smooth circles on the back of his palm and calloused fingers running through his hair.

When he awoke, it was in a room bigger than his bedroom. His ankle was shackled to a bedpost, and the only door leading out was locked. There was a separate room for the bathroom off to the side and a shelf stacked with books decorating the otherwise bare walls, but other than that there wasn’t much else. Not even windows.

Intangibility, he learned, wasn’t an option. The blood blossoms in his bloodstream were still in circulation, rendering his transformation useless. If his nose was right, his captors were pumping blood blossoms from the vents. The sickly sweet of the flower was faint in the cool air, but the slight red haze that persisted in the room was unmistakable.

He tried, regardless. The rings barely made it half-way before his knees buckled and he started retching all over the floor. At least his stomach was empty.

-------

Danny doesn’t know how long he’s been in Nanda Parbat. Time moved differently here. Faster, he thought. He doesn’t really understand how or why, though sometimes he wondered what Clockwork thought of all of this.

(There are times, in the darkness and solitude of his cell, when Danny would call for Clockwork to rescue him. Quietly, so quietly, it was barely even a whisper. But Clockwork would hear it—Danny was sure he would. Clockwork helped him out before, so this time shouldn’t be all that different. But at the end of the night, nothingness would answer him. And Danny had to learn over and over again that even the Ghost of Time had his own rules to follow.)

It had taken a few days and Talia nearly biting the head off of the League’s physician for them to realize that blood blossoms would be an awful way to contain him. Effective at immobilizing him, yes, but the flowers left him about as helpless as Superman in a kryptonite cave.

“It all works out in the end,” Talia would say. “The blossoms were never going to become a long-term solution; you might end up developing an immunity to them given enough exposure.”

Though knowing now what Talia’s ‘long-term plan’ was for making sure Danny didn’t slip through the walls of the headquarters and fly across the ocean, Danny would rather take his chances with the blood blossoms.

Danny might not have been as smart as Vlad, but he was tricky and creative when he needed to be. He knows he’s powerful. And sure, he might forget some of his own abilities every now and then, but that doesn’t mean he can’t use them. In the time he’s been stuck in the Leage’s lair (and coherent), Danny had thought of a dozen escape plans, each one with a high chance of success. If he made an attempt, he could guarantee the League wouldn’t notice until he was a quarter-way across the globe.

Escaping wasn’t the problem. That would be the easy part.

His core burned at the thought of it. And it hurt—as if his entire being was dunked in a vat of dry ice and left to freeze. He hated how he was here and everything that he was protecting was far. Away.

Danny wanted to go home. Wanted to read comic books in his bed, play Doom with Tucker and Sam, sleep in class and make fun of the Box Ghost. He wants to eat his mom’s food, even if there’s a fifty-fifty chance that it would come alive and try to eat him instead. He wants to listen to Jazz try to psychoanalyze his problems. Wants to go fishing with his dad and eat his famous chocolate fudge. Wants to fly above the skies of Amity Park and touch what little he can of the universe before he’s called down again.

Amity Park is his haunt. His Home. The soft hum of the Ghost Portal in the basement a lullaby he’s listened to for so long that sleeping without it was next to impossible. Every fiber of his being craved to go back because how is he supposed to protect Amity if he isn’t there?

But to go back meant sacrificing everyone.

Danny doesn’t risk it.

(The—the last time was an accident. If Danny isn’t—if he isn’t careful, this time it may be an assassination. He refused to have his family’s death on his hands again.)

He has faith in Sam, Tucker, and Jazz to hold down the fort until he could find a way to escape. They’re smart. Smarter than him. They’ll work something out and—in a worst-case scenario, they’ll find a way to shut down the Ghost Portal to stop the ghosts from coming through.

Logic meant nothing to his ghost core, though. The next best thing to do was to drown out his worries with the League’s rigorous education.

Hand-to-hand and weapons combat. Geography. History. Dozens of foreign languages. Poisons and herbology and basic first-aid. His days are packed with new things to learn and to repeat until it’s drilled into his skull so deep he could recite the information in his sleep. (Hyosycamus niger, aka Henbane. Every part is highly toxic and can cause dizziness, stupor, insanity, and eventual death. It’s medicinal uses range from--)

The League demanded perfection. The Demon’s Head demanded even more than that.

Talia oversaw his education. Sometimes, there would be another, older, man by her side, observing his regimen with cold calculation. Whenever that man arrived, Danny’s instructors were always stricter.

His teachers made little effort to interact with him outside of their set schedule, and during his lessons they only ever answer pertinent questions. He supposed there would be other students of the League in Nanda Parbat, but he’s seen neither hide nor hair of them. His rooms (a bedroom + bathroom combo that led out into a large indoor space for training) are separate from everything else.

Danny slept alone, ate alone, and trained alone. And for a boy who has had his two best friends stuck to his side like glue for as long as he could remember, it’s a terribly lonely experience.

His shadow guards don’t count. They might as well be another piece of furniture. Another stone in the wall.

-------

Talia was the only one that broke his new mundane routine, as much as she was the cause of it. She was his only source of companionship in this hell hole; the only one who would really speak to him. And yeah, he knew why that was. Jazz had rambled on enough about Stockholm syndrome to know that this ‘arrangement’ was Talia’s attempts at forging a bond between them. But godit’s just so hard to be stuck inside your own mind all day when. It made him think too much. Worry. (Whatifwhatifwhatifwhatif).

And then—

And then.

Danny had asked Talia a multitude of questions, but only two did she ever answer. Both asked when he was still trying to flush the drug cocktail and the blood blossoms from his system.

The first was when he asked, “Why am I here?” She answered that it was because Ra’s al Ghul, her father, wanted him. He had knowledge the Demon’s Head wanted; powers that Ra’s could only ever dream of. The man was curious—though Talia assured him over and over again that Danny wouldn’t be vivisected and studied for science.

The second answer came right after when Danny asked her “How could you be so sure?”

Talia smiled. Lacquered fingers coming up to brush away the dark strands that fell over his face. Her hands traced the curve of his jaw, cupping his cheeks to raise his eyes to hers. “Because you are my son,” she said, voice honey sweet.

He jerked from her hold.

Burned by it.

“You’re lying,” he spat. “I’m already someone else’s son. Try again.”

Talia let her hands drop to her sides. “You are my son.” She took a step closer towards him. Steady. Firm. “That is why you are here.”

“I don’t believe you.”

A pitying smile. “Be that as it may, you cannot change the truth.” She approached him, slowly backing him against the wall before she reached out to tilt his chin upwards. Some traitorous part of Danny’s mind catalogued her features. Made connections that shouldn’t exist. “I have carried you in my womb, Daniel. You were a part of me for so very long and I loved you more with each passing day. You are of my body and of my blood—not matter how much you may deny it.”

“No.” He pushed her hands away and raked his hands over his hair. “You’re lying.” She must be. They don’t look alike. Not at all. Everyone always said he was his dad’s—Jack Fenton’s—exact copy. Black haired and blue eyed and sharp-jawed. Awkward but well-meaning and with a heart of gold, his mother said. It was once of the facts of life; Danny took after his dad, and Jazz took after their mom. Simple as that.

(There is a memory resurfacing from his early childhood that Danny is desperately trying to repress again. Memories of kids teasing him on the playground, innocently cruel in the way only children can be as they tried to convince him he was adopted. That his skin looked nothing like his parents’. Dusky where his parents and sister were fair. He went home crying to his parents that same day, and they soothed away his worries with hushed words and a well-timed distraction.)

He asked no more questions after that. Talia was lying to him for some reason, and no answer she could give would be trustworthy anyways. What little of him he could see in her was only a figment of his own imagination. His mind playing cruel tricks.

Then his hopes were dashed aside when Talia showed him a picture of his father a day later.

The man in the photo looked like him. Black haired and eyes the same shade of too-bright blue. There were differences, of course. The man in the photograph was fairer, unlike Danny. He was taller and broader where Danny was lean and lanky. But despite this and all the other minute differences, this man who was supposed to be Danny’s biological father looked like him.

The same slant of the brow. The same shape of the eyes. The way the man held himself with this sense of gravitas and power that Danny couldn’t yet do in his awkward teenage years but had seen before. In a monster another man.

Danny’s future self was terrifying in its inhumanity, but it didn’t take that much of an imagination to know that he looked almost exactly like the man in the picture.

[ssson-of-sparda]

WHAT FORTUNE GAVE - Prologue (Vergil x Nero's Mother)

Summary: Turmoil has engulfed the small Island of Fortuna, shaken now more than ever by a never-ending civil war opposing the religious Order of the Sword to a group of rebels named the Guard of Sparda. As he tries to unveil his father's secret past and achieve some hidden dark purpose, Vergil crosses path with Elissa, a young lady whose thirst for vengeance and blood is as red as the dress she's wearing. He doesn't want to care and he especially doesn't want to get involved but you don't choose your fate in Fortuna. That's the story Nero is about to discover.

Tags: Romance / Angst / Fluff / Explicit Sexual Content / Explicit Language / Canon-Typical Violence / Blood and Gore / Religion / The Order of The Sword / Civil War / Rebellion / Demons / Action and Adventure / Sparda's past

Author’s note: This is one hell of an ambitious project I put myself into, but I hope you will follow me in this journey which is basically another fan fiction about Vergil and Nero's mother. Probably not the best (I've read some prreeety good ones) but one that should be (hopefully) different from what was previously posted.I worked a lot on this story, made a lot of research and used many artistic references that I catalogued at the end of each chapter for the curious ones among you. Since English is not my mother tongue, feel free to let me know if there's any grammar mistake or if some sentences don't make any sense. Anyway, enjoy your reading.

In twenty-five years, Aifric’s Alehouse hadn’t changed even just a tiny bit. Same hefty old furniture. Same mucky walls and filthy floor covered in layers of dry alcohol that stick your shoes to the wooden slats each time you take a step. Same lamentable drunkards in search of more alcohol to drown their sorrows in, their arms around women that would pretend to adore them for a night in exchange for a bit of money. And, now that Vergil dared breathe a little, same foul stench of humidity, staleness and sweat, typical of this kind of underground bars from the no-go areas of the Castle Town of Fortuna. And the music … Don’t let him think about the music.          Never thought he would come back here one day.                   His firm gloved hand grabbed the backrest of a wobbly stool that scratched the old wooden floor with an unpleasant creak as he pulled it to sit on it, revealing his presence to the brown-skinned man sipping his beer in silence next to him, his defeated pockmarked face hidden under a thick dirty white cloak that hadn’t been washed in probably years and that had lost almost all its glorious golden embroideries.     Vergil eyed at him for a second, the same way the Moor had eyed at him when, more than two decades ago, he had sit on this very same stool, his then young frame hidden under a cloak similar to his and yet less odorous, a young wanderer looking for stories and answers. Strange how things seems to move in circle.          “You’re too late. You know that?” The man’s voice was thickly and hoarse, due to the long years of alcohol abuse and contempt towards the world, towards that silver-haired ghost back from a distant past but especially towards himself. “Twenty-five fucking years too late to be more precise.” He got no answer to that reproach, not a word, just a nod and a pregnant silence that made him scoff. But his laugh, once so hearty and alive, held today nothing but melancholy and despise. “But at least she was right. You did come back.”           Vergil peeped at the man again from the corner of his icy blue eyes, longer this time, but still with that eternal impassibility he was known for, hiding his slight surprise and his judgemental thoughts he knew deep down he shouldn’t have. But the barfly next to him was nothing like the man he had met years ago. This man was just the broken shadow of the one everyone in Fortuna once called Adel the Honourable¹ , Captain of the Guard of Sparda.           “What the fuck are you doing here … Vergil?” He spat on his name, literally, not caring about what the solemn Son of Sparda would think of him, would do to him. He spat to show him his disgust, his hatred, even though he knew that a bit of saliva wasn’t enough to show the extent of his feelings. “Where is she?” Vergil asked with a calm voice that made Adel grimace (that voice was as nasally and annoying as he remembered) and finally glare at him, allowing Vergil to see how the years and the pain had marked and scared his once-handsome face. “You got some nerve to ask that now.”           “ I need to see her.”Adel firmly hit the counter with his empty glass before turning around to stare at Vergil, giving him a long disdainful look he thought he could only give himself. “Sure, I’ll bring you to her. But you might want to give me that damn sword of yours so that I shove it deep in your stone-cold heart first.” Vergil smirked. This was way too reminiscent of old foolish squabbles he once found very amusing … though quite pathetic and most of the time one-sided.       “Why don’t you use that crossbow² of yours instead?” The taunt wasn’t meant to defy him if one could read through Vergil’s phlegmatic voice. But the Moor³ interpreted it that way and yet refused to react to it, knowing how vain it would be.   “I don’t have it anymore.” Adel opened his cloak to reveal a leather sling with no weapon attached to it. “I don’t have anything anymore. And we know full well that it wouldn’t have done shit to you.”        “Trust me, Adel. I know what it’s like to lose everything.” Was it an attempt at sounding

sympathetic? Probably. After all, Vergil still felt somewhat confused by the occasional waves of humanity surging up from inside of him.        “Do you?” He laughed with bitterness, not believing him for one second. “Bullshit! And you know why? Cause you never had anything!”  If Vergil took this as a personal attack he didn’t let his body show it, but he nevertheless let out one simple sentence, a boast he knew would displease the brown-skinned man, a display of his pride and superiority he always thought he had over that mere human. “I had her.”        Quite expectedly, Adel jumped from his stool and before falling back against the bar, tried to grab Vergil by his blue collar. But it looked too pathetic and clumsy to be considered menacing or dangerous. “Fucking stop talking about her!” He pointed his finger at him in defiance while tears formed in his dull black eyes that had long lost their charming spark. “She fucking loved you! She loved you so damn much and you never cared, not a damn second. So don’t come to me with all your ceremony and shit, pretending you care now?” He sobbed loudly and wiped his eyes with his fists, a gesture that only made Vergil frown. How low had that man sunk! And how wrong he was.       “Nero needs to know.” The silver-haired man finally said, not very willing to continue this conversation due to a growing lack of patience. “He needs to know about his mother.”There was a new brief silence that could only be filled with glasses clinking, noisy hubbub and prostitutes giggles. Both men gauged each other, wondering who should talk first and what to say after the name of the boy the woman they both loved had given birth to was brought into the discussion. “So you finally know.” The Moor finally said as he crossed his arms over his broad chest. “How does it feel?” Vergil didn’t want to talk about his feelings, especially not with a man he hadn’t seen in years and that would be too eager to judge him. His feelings were his to ponder and only his.             “My feelings are none of your concern.” The brevity of Vergil’s sentences was annoying to Adel who had almost forgotten how it was to have a conversation with the stoic Son of Sparda. And when some people would call it introversion he would call it self-importance, despicable self-importance. “Do you ever think of her?”           New intended silence. But yes, there were times when Vergil did think of her because that’s what happens when someone as special as her shares even just a tiny bit of his life. He thought of her when he was at his best and when he was at his lowest. And he had been thinking of her even more lately, each time he would look at Nero or think of him, each time he would remember his journey in Fortuna. She was a part of his past he would never be able to cast away. But again, none of Adel’s business. “Look, you don’t need to talk to me about her. Just tell Nero. I bet you know how to find him.”Glad to finally leave, Vergil stood up and dusted his long dark coat he felt had been soiled by such a dirty place. But right after he turned around to walk away, his old acquaintance spoke again with disarming heartfelt honesty. “It feels like hell to me.” Vergil stopped and slightly looked back at him from the corner of his eyes, at his defeated look staring deep in his empty glass again. “Like fucking hell actually. Seeing that kid of yours growing up to be just like her but at the same time just like you right under my nose. That smug smirk he got from you on the lips he inherited from her. Everything about that child makes me want to vomit or plug my eyes out because that makes me realise all I lost, all I could have had if you had never stepped a foot in Fortuna. You took her away from me, away from everyone, and when you finally got out from my life, you dared leave behind you a living reminder of your victory over me to torture me for the rest of my miserable days.” Vergil stood still, withstanding the man’s rancour without batting an eyelash.    “The fact you considered her love a victory maybe is the reason why you

never had her.” Vergil replied and before pushing the double-leaf door of the bar, waited for an instant as if he was expecting something to come in, but Adel was stubborn and not keen on accepting defeat. “You took her away from your son!” He shouted and smiled when Vergil froze again on his way out.       “ If that’s true, go tell him that then.”

***

Nico was pissed. Nero could tell it by the way she was furiously trying to fix the neon blue sign of their van. But what could he do about it? It wasn’t his fault if a starving empusa had decided to snack on the E while Nico was parked waiting for her friend to come back from his demon ass kicking routine. “D vil May Cry” Nero read out loud with a pout. “I don’t know, Nico. Works for me.” And yet, he had a feeling being angry because of a damn light was just a pretext to let out some pent up frustration due to god knew what. “Really? Is that how you gonna treat your family heritage now?” The black-haired woman harrumphed, threatening to hit her friend with a monkey wrench. “Is that how you gonna treat my precious Minotaurus after all he did for ya? After he followed you right into that hellish ficus?”          “Qliphoth.” He corrected with a smile.          “Yeah whatever.” Nero had a brief laugh but eventually shrugged, not seeing the problem as he read the neon sign on the van again. “The E doesn’t light up anymore. So what? We still know it’s Devil May Cry.”           “When your deadbeat dad tore your arm out from its socket, didn’t I give ya a new one?”   Nero grumbled, not finding the comparison funny or admissible. “That’s not the same! You can’t compare my arm to a damn neon letter. I needed my arm!”            “And Devil May Cry needs its E! So stop complainin’ and pass me the stillson.” She ordered as she kept on adjusting the colourful wires hidden in the dented bodywork of the van. Nero sighed but handed her the tool anyway. “I thought you were tired of being my pet mechanic.”          “ I am but like I said, I can’t let you treat my baby like that.”     And then, he dared say it. “Seriously. I thought you would be busy reading those new files you found in your father’s old stuff? You didn’t say anything about what they were.” And, as Nico dropped the wrench on the hood, he immediately knew he maybe shouldn’t have asked that.           “Cause they were not interesting. Just pieces of diaries he wrote when he was young, explainin’ how he started working for the Order and why he didn’t want me or my mother in his life anymore.” Nero frowned, not believing Nico for an instant. Her sentence didn’t make any sense to him cause he was sure any child who had grown up without a parent would be even just a tiny bit interested in knowing who they were or what they did. He knew he was.             God! What he would give to know even a just of small piece of information about his mother, about who she was, how she looked like. But unfortunately for him, the only person who had all the answers to his questions was never prompt to give them, acting more like a vault than a chatterbox. “And that doesn’t interest you? Raaah come on, Nico!” He clicked his tongue.            “I’m interested in his work. Nothing else. I couldn’t care less about his adventure with that other chick which is FYI apparently one of the reason why that asshole left my mother and me.”            “ You father left your mother for someone else?” Nico glared at Nero, catching a judgment in his voice that never was there.      “ Well I least I know why my father left my mother… No, actually, I know my mum, period.” Nero hadn’t heard that kind of words in years but the burn was as painful as he remembered. How many times he had heard the kids in Fortuna disrespecting him, disrespecting his mother, claiming she was a prostitute⁴ from the ill repute places of Fortuna. How many horrors he had to listen to. And how many punches he had received, and given, because of them. “Damn! I’m sorry, Nero. I didn’t mean.” Nico declared, horrified by her unusual behaviour and by the sudden sadness Nero tried to conceal in his blue eyes.  “Forget it. I’m used to it.” He gestured her to let go and went rummaging in the toolbox for no particular reason but to occupy his mind with something else. But Nico wasn’t willing to end their conversation like that, the feeling of guilt eating at her. “I’m sure your mother was someone fantastic, Nero.” She had a soft comforting smile.

“I mean, she had to be, you know … to stand your father.”            Nero chuckled but there was still that hint of misery, that very particular misery he only felt when thinking of his mother. A mix of bitterness, void and love. “Maybe she never really had to stand him. Maybe she was … a prostitute like everybody said.” Nico frowned; refusing to believe Nero would go for such bullshit. Didn’t he know how close-minded and rumour-hungry the people in Fortuna were?    “Nah, I don’t think so.” She declared as she funnily wrinkled her nose. “No money in the world would be enough to accept to spend a night with your dad. Your mother had to veeeery nice and patient and ooooh so in love with him.” Nero spared a glance at Nico, deeply moved by her attempt at comforting him and hoping she was right. “Damn, I beg that poor woman was a saint, ‘cause Vergil might look yummy to most people’s standards but he ain’t fun.” Her lips pinched together, she had a sort of deep serious frown that wrinkled her entire forehead, a somewhat amusing grimace Nero was sure was meant to emulate his father characteristic impenetrability. She kinda nailed it but …         “ Did you just say my father looks yummy?” Nero asked, quite disgusted. A crush on Lady, that he could get, but on his father … It made him shiver and want to throw up. “Huh, to most people standards!” She repeating, clapping her hands between each syllables. “I’m not most people.” Nero’s eyes widened when he heard familiar slow and steady footsteps coming from behind the door of the garage. “I mean, do you really think I could feel even just a tiny bit attracted to ‘Power! I need more power!’?” She imitated with a cavernous voice and Nero tried not to laugh. But it wasn’t Nico’s new impersonation of Vergil that was making him want to do so. It was actually his father standing on top of the stairs, stoic and still like a marble statue staring impassibly at Nico making a fool of him. Maybe he should warn her of his presence. Yes, maybe he should.            He timidly pointed at his father standing right behind her; still unsure he wanted this scene to stop. But he couldn’t wait to see Nico’s face when she would notice Vergil. And oh god, how priceless it was.    Nico was an intrepid, loud and lovely person but when her dark eyes took a small glance of Vergil, she froze and cleared her throat, definitely uncomfortable and … yeah a tiny bit scared. “But it has its charm. You’ve got some charm. That’s undeniable.” She rectified, looking at Vergil who eventually nodded, a faint smile on his face that meant more ‘yeah right’ than ‘how funny’ in Vergil language. He didn’t find this funny at all.            “Good evening to you too, Nicoletta. Nero.” He nodded once again, casting his aura of solemnity all over the garage. “Nico. Just Nico … nevermind.” Nico mumbled in a whisper that Vergil heard but chose to ignore. Nicknames were not his thing… They had never been his thing.He went down the stairs, his hand resting on the hilt of his precious Yamato as always and looked at the van with a new frown. “You two are busy working on some repairs, perhaps.” He asked in an effort to be as familial as possible, something that wasn’t his forte at all. It made the two friends exchange a curious glance. “ Yes … I mean, no, we were done.” Nero replied, wondering what his father was doing here. After all, unexpected visits were not in Vergil’s habits.         “ No, we were not. Gotta fix that E, remember?” Nico tapped at the letter with insistence.             “ That again?” The young man sighed. “Is Dante here?” That could explain Vergil’s presence in Fortuna. But as 90% of the time – or more – the Son of Sparda evicted an answer, changing the subject – or ignoring it – with a destabilizing yet infuriating indifference.           “ Miss Goldstein is right, a E is important.” He spoke, his icy blue eyes looking towards a distant past, towards memories he held in his heart he was rediscovering more and more with each day spent with his family, with his son.         “ Thank you! See, I told you!” Nico

shouted, proud to be right.  “ What are you doing here?” Nero finally questioned, impatient to finally know the truth behind his father’s presence. “I was in Fortuna visiting an old acquaintance.” Vergil weighed his words with smoothness as he paced in the garage looking at his surroundings without no real interest in them.         “ You … got acquaintances?” The slight frown of disbelief on Nero’s face made him suddenly look so much like his father but Vergil didn’t notice, too busy staring at the extinguished E that looked so dull surrounded by such neon blue lights when it should have shone as brightly as them if not more. “Hopefully, he should visit you soon.”         “ Wait! What? Why?” Nero always saw his father as an impenetrable mystery, even when he was just V, but right now he couldn’t tolerate him being so evasive.      “To give you the answers you want.” And he couldn’t not tolerate him being a stolid piece of shit either. “About my mother?” Or a mute one. But with Vergil, silence often meant a lot. “Hey! You can’t just leave me like that!” Nero caught his father’s right arm with a violent strength, a vision that stirred a new one, an old one, one Vergil regretted. “Plus, why would you send a stranger in my house to talk to me about my mother? Why don’t you do it yourself?” God! If she knew what he had done to their son. What would she say? What would she do? “Silence. I thought so. You don’t even have the courage to tell me her name so why should I expect more from you.”    In his lifetime, only a few persons had been able to defeat Vergil, one of them being his son. So, after looking down at his boots for a second, he walked away, not keen on riling up Nero even more, not today.“Elissa.⁵” The name, left unpronounced for so many years, burnt Vergil's tongue when each blazing letter, probably angry to have been reduced to dormant embers for so long, managed to escape the barrier of his tight lips. But Vergil welcomed this fiery pain without blinking and even dared say it again, embracing the ignition once more with a soft melancholic smile. He was part demon. Fire couldn't hurt him. So why being afraid of it? “Your mother’s name was Elissa.” Plus there was no danger in saying her name, just liberation. It was a beautiful name, after all. And for a second, he felt like his young self again. “Now fix it, would you?” That E meant a lot to Vergil.

REFERENCES: ¹ Adel The Honourable: Adel is a Persian name derived from the Arabic عَدَلَ meaning "to act justly". I added the title "the Honourable" to reinforce the idea his character was made to be fair, honest and just. Adel also belongs to the House of Montefeltro, a name you will discover later. ² crossbow: I intended to give Adel a simple bow as it is the weapon of righteousness (ndlr: Robin Hood) but then I chose to give him a crossbow because I thought the addition of the word "cross" was giving a religious connotation that suited his character. The fact that he lost the weapon is of course meaningful. ³ The Moor: reference to Shakespeare's Othello. ⁴ claiming she was a prostitute: This idea of Nero's mother being a prostitute was directly taken from Devil May Cry: Deadly Fortune. In the novel, we learn that Nero was often bullied by the other kids claiming his mother was a whore. ⁵ Elissa: Elissa is the other name that was given to Dido, first queen of Carthage and lover of the demi-god Aeneas, in Virgil's Aeneid. Her name is composed of the Punic reflex of "El-" meaning "god", and "‐issa" that means "fire", hence why her name burns Vergil's lips when he says it. Her name carrying the word "fire" also echoes the red colour of her dress and her hair as well as her affiliation to the House of Minos you will read about later. In a nutshell, this girl is on fire! ;-)

[goldemas1244]

Heyyyy I have a question :3

Do you have any headcanon/s for these character : Scraptrap, Scrap Baby, Lady Dimistrecu, the three daughter of Lady D, Heisenberg and/or Molten Freddy ? :3

You don't have to do all the proposition, you can choose what character you want to do :3

Have a good day/evening and stay safe ! :3

*Cracks knuckles* \(^v^)/

You already know I'm doing all of them! Thank you for the ask! Headcanons under the cut!

FNaF6

Scraptrap

He loves rice and would do anything to get his paws on it. Fortunately, the pizzeria is quite close to a Chinese restaurant so rice is easy to get.

He orders a rice-based menu at least three times a week, so the owners aren't at all that surprised to see a tuxedo-clad zombie-rabbit come in and ask for their signature fried rice with buttered lobster on the side.

Since he like to dine-in there, he usually asks Michael to give him a bath in exchange for pizzeria improvements. Michael usually shrugs and gives him a well-deserved bubble bath and his tuxedo.

He likes it when Michael gives him head pats and rubs. It makes him feel loved and appreciated.

He has a pet pigeon named Fernando Buschmann. It's German and likes to listen to the violin.

He likes ASMR and memes. ASMR makes him go feral with murderous intent while memes make him question the modern generation.

He has social media accounts, all named "Willton-Moldover". He usually posts cosplays and furry art on them and has 93 followers on his Reddit profile, 1.5 million followers on his Instagram, 550 followers on his Tumblr, 35 on his Snapchat, and 3.95 million on his TikTok.

He also has a YouTube channel with 10.784 million subscribers called "Willton-Gameover". He plays videogames one-handed and roasts popular YouTubers and famous people. He would never roast Keanu Reeves though, because Keanu Reeves is precious bean.

Due to his popularity he gets a lot of hate mail and private pics. He doesn't like them at all so he blackmails the people who post them. And if the media and police are involved? Well, he has a strong fanbase that's not going down as well as a good alibi so that works out well for him.

Yes, his fanbase also knows of the Fazbear Murders, and he admits to it but frankly, he's shown them the approving ghost kids (who've bonded and gamed with him) so that's no big deal. Only Cassidy hates him, but it's usually constipated anger.

He's bisexual and has an ENORMOUS crush on one of his favourite game characters, Karl Heisenberg. Something about that man reminds him of himself and Henry, although he's not sure what. Still, don't let that distract you from the fact that he owns a nude Karl Heisenberg body pillow, CAPCOM official.

Scrap Baby

Her favourite Monster High doll is Draculaura. She doesn't understand how pink goes well with black but oh boy, pink goes so well with black.

She knows how to skateboard like a pro. Despite her weight, her trusty skateboard still stands and, if she falls, she's always got her skates to spare. She likes to impress the boys at the skatepark with her ability to perform even the most difficult of moves with ease.

She's subscribed to fifteen different tabloid subscriptions. She likes to read them and criticize the stupidity of the human race, like her father. Hey, it's hereditary.

The lights in her boobies glow in the dark. They also glow whenever she gets tired.

She likes reading furniture and gardening catalogues. She's judgy of the prices though and usually becomes a full-on critic with Lefty listening.

She owns a crab named Mr. Tootie. No I will not elaborate on the name. I'll only tell you that it's taken a liking to kazoos and party favours.

She's listed as the No. 1 Best Fan of her father's social media accounts. Michael's in nineteenth place but don't worry, he's as emotionless as a mushroom.

She likes to make origami lotuses. She's such a pro at it that she's even got a mini-stall at the pizzeria: 1 lotus for 50 cents. It's a lucrative business, and it's still growing. Oh, and she switches to other origami works of art every week such as origami guns and origami nine-tailed foxes.

She's the Restaurant Rescue manager. Usually she saves kids from trouble. For this reason, yes, she's commonly seen in the pizzeria itself. Kids love her though the claw worries the more irksome parents.

She's a professional Karen dealer. Karen comes to see the manager? She's hypnotically talented in weaving her words through the toughest of craniums so don't be surprised if a Karen walks out with a new viewpoint of life.

She performs on stage on the occasion, which usually gets her a lot of fan love. She cherishes everything good they give but ignores the problematic everythings. Problematic stuff? Oh, she's good friends with the police chief.

Molten Freddy

He loves noodles. Give him a bowl of ramen and he'll shut up for the entire night. Enter him in a noodle-eating competition and his high metabolism rate means absolutely non-stop spaghetti.

He misses Bon-Bon very much. To the point where he's even tried to make a scrap version of him. Sadly, it doesn't work. He cried that day.

He dies inside whenever he finds out there's a spaghetti shortage in Utah. Poor Molten.

He's a bit wonky, but if he tries to play with you or get into your personal space, don't get mad at him! He's just lonely and wants someone to talk to and play with.

He likes to play Exploding Kittens. It's the only card game he's good at. It's also the only card game he owns.

He sees Helpy as a little brother and boops his nose on a daily basis. He also likes to reenact The Lion King with him (It's the ciiiiiircle of liiiiiife~). Hopefully Helpy doesn't mind.

He knows a lot of jokes in a lot of languages. So German-speaking Molten Freddy wouldn't be too far away from expectation. His favourite jokes are in French though; the wordplay is just immaculate.

He's good in French, English, German, Russian, and Malay. He's currently learning Japanese because he's a mega weeb.

His favourite cartoon is Charlie and Lola. He just likes to see the sibling shenanigans as it somehow reminds him of the good old days.

His favourite shows would be prankster shows. He especially loves the ones that give him new and creative ideas. He doesn't like the scary ones though. They make him feel unsafe and give him anxiety.

Surprisingly, he has a distinct taste for opera. He can modulate the remnants of his voice box to perfectly sing I Am The Very Model Of A Modern Major-General. This both pisses off and impresses Henry to an extent.

Resident Evil 8

Lady Dimitrescu

She might act like the opposite but she really loves Heisenberg as her little brother. His determination, strength, speed, dexterity, and workaholic nature impresses her, who can't even fit through a doorway. She sometimes wishes she's as short as him too.

She's an avid collector of glass, porcelain, and anything fragile. It's a good reason to always be careful where you tread in her lair. She'll make you swallow every last shard if you don't.

She's an avid romance fanatic and is very loving towards the romance novels she owns. All those books you see in the in-game library? They're her collection of lesbian romances that she's collected over the past decades.

She doesn't like hats and prefers to stick to the one she wears in-game. She DOES have a collection of hats though. Last anyone counted, there were over fifty, one or two for each decade she's lived through.

She files her nails on a constant basis and owns an ornately decorated nail-clipper. Hygeine is of the utmost importance. She doesn't want to be compared to that filthy Heisenberg.

Despite her size and carefulness she keeps losing her stuff. Over the course of a week she could misplace three wine glasses, two reading glasses, and fifteen bottles of wine.

She's an expert at dodgeball and golf and even owns a lifetime access to the most prolific Country Club in Romania. With permission from Mother Miranda she goes there every year for the yearly party. It's one of the times she gets to see modernity (and Ed Sheeran) at its finest.

She loves bands from the 1920s and 1940s. However, she gets bored of them occasionally and switches them to something more modern, like Ed Sheeran. Seriously though, what is up with mums and Ed?

She's into executions and torture methods. So it's no surprise that she's a HUGE fan of Horrible Histories; even if she can't watch the show, she'll binge-read the books over and over again. She's even had the chance to encounter (and receive an autograph from) Terry Deary. They have sworn a bond not to tell anybody about this.

She loves exotic animals like anacondas and jaguars. She may or may not have owned a 10ft long Saltwater Crocodile (which was also about 5ft wide).

She's an incredible physicist and mathematician. She's also created many original formulae but unsurprisingly, she doesn't tell anyone about them, for fear that either more people may know of her, or that she may be wrong.

Dimitrescu Babes

They can devour an entire human being in mere seconds as flies. It's sort of like the scarab beetles in The Mummy movies. However, unlike the beetles, they are able to strip the bones as well. They leave nothing behind.

They all know how to play the piano with varying levels of success. Daniela can already play professionally while Bela is still stuck on Grade 5.

They love to listen to their mother when she tells them stories. Gotta hand it to 'em, when you're a fly, you know how to enjoy life in its most simple of moments.

They all love being around the hunky Soldats of Uncle Karl. Fortunately, they don't know of the rebellious plan to conquer Miranda.

Bela is bisexual, Cassandra is asexual and pansexual, and Daniela is demisexual.

It gets hard when you're a fly during the summer. If it's not the lizards, spiders, and other predators, it's the heat. Because of this, despite the material waste, they have invented the world's first blood-powered air conditioner.

The three girls have never ever ever touched a stove or oven in their life. They HAVE touched the hot end of an iron though. A good reason to not touch a bloody oven. Alcina has though, but doesn't tell them that.

They love puppies! Uncle Karl brought them a baby labrador. For the rest of the week Alcina had lost quite a bit of favour from them. Not that they minded of course. IT'S A PUPPY.

They don't like snow one bit. Not just because it's cold, but because it's too white. Too bright. Too shiny. They just can't focus on their prey!

They like to go over to Auntie Donna to play with Angie. Well, you know what they say, crazies attract the crazies, and the crazy has attracted the crazies.

They also like to go to Uncle Moreau's because he's the only one in the village with a PS4. Usually they'd spend about three-quarters of a day playing his games and eating his cheese.

Karl Heisenberg

He owns a dark blue armchair named Junkyard. Despite the name, he loves it dearly because it was a gift from Alcina for his twenty-first birthday. It became part of his final transformation too. Right under the hat.

He's a little blind in the right eye, much to his annoyance. It was a minor accident with Sturm; another reason for him to hate the uncontrollable wretch. He'll never live that day down.

Somehow, he sees better in the dark, which is why he wears such tinted glasses. He also wears them to hide his expressions, since, more often than not, he tends to end up wearing his heart on his sleeve, and his emotions in his eyes.

He's under a lot of pressure so it's no surprise that he breaks down in his factory when he knows he's alone. And by break down I mean crumple into an exhausted heap on the floor. Not even his Soldat Jet squad can wake him up until he's had a reasonable eight hours of rest.

He bathes once a day, every evening, but only three times a week. Perfume, tobacco, and cologne keep care of the rest.

He's the only Lord with a daily contact with the outside world due to his electrical abilities. Don't tell Miranda, but he can electrically CONNECT TO GOOGLE AND THE ENTIRE INTERNET IN GENERAL. He likes to play funny YouTube cat videos in his head when Miranda's having a boring meeting. It's also how he finds out that Chris is a boulder-punching asshole.

He does stimming! He likes to tap his fingers on his desk and the metal rails in his factory. He also buys stim toys from the Duke and keeps them in a well-kept box. His favourite is a non-ripping squishable toy duck. He also sings to chill out.

He's absolutely in the Five Nights at Freddy's franchise, and may have once believed in the pizzeria's existence. Come on, he's a mutated Overlord with magical magnet powers. Children souls stuck inside animatronics isn't too far-fetched of an idea. His favourite characters are the Funtimes and the Scraps, mainly because of the blueprint complexity. He HAS tried to replicate the animatronics in his spare time, but he's usually too busy with his Soldats so the project gets scrapped. He loves The Living Tombstone's songs and remixes though.

He doesn't like William Afton at all (though he marvels at his survivability). William's nature and habits remind him of Mother Miranda. He DOES however enjoy Michael Afton and often thinks how it would be absolutely amazing to have that resilient being in his Soldat army.

He's scared of what lurks below the watery depths and fire. Ironic because his brother is a literal fish and he works in one of the most hazardous fire-conducting environments. He's also scared of heights, though he doesn't get airsick.

He once died due to a killing electric shock whilst working on Sturm. It's the only time he's felt that sort of pulsing agony and also the first time he's had the confirmation that yes, Hell is real and yes, he'll end up in quite a dark pit in it. Or it could've been an electric dream, who knows? Anyways his soul apparently ran towards the opposite direction of the flames and he woke up alive after the passing of FIVE ENTIRE WEEKS. Oh boy did Alcina get worried when she couldn't find him.

Thank you for the ask! I hope you enjoy!