#I'm not even particularly fond of most of them but. there might be one in there that strikes my fancy on some random day.

[caterpillarinacave]

One thing about me is I just love names. They’re so much fun. I want to fill notebooks with names. Love census’s, books, internet, ect. I’m collecting them like bottle caps. Whenever I stumble across a new name it’s like hell yes there’s a perfect spot for it right there in the filing cabinet of my brain. Can’t wait to think of all the combinations I can make with that one. Nothing to do with people actually it’s just like woah. Look at all those letters. Look at all the sounds they’re making. Amazing. Literally so much fun. Don’t even get me started on actually getting to name things it’s like being given box full of pure joy and fun.

[darlingdreadwrites]

Healing Touches

paring: Ticci Toby x GN!Reader

Summary: You wake up and can tell that Toby is sick. He’s infuriatingly stubborn about it.

contains: fluff, sickfic, kissing, cuddling, sick toby, sassy toby

warnings: first fanfic i've ever posted (i apologize in advance), inaccurate portrayal of cipa if that's super important to you (he sweats), mention of making out, swear words, insults used affectionately

word count: 1k+

masterlist

a.n: finally decided to suck it up and post something. i was gonna post a stalker-y riddler fanfic first (i say "stalker-y" and he's literally watching you through your webcam LOL), but i'm just gonna do a fluffy one.

You stir from your slumber and your ears pick up on the deep exhale from the body holding you tightly from behind. You're warmer than how you usually wake up next to Toby. And sweatier. You stretch your back a bit to try and wiggle out of your hunched over position and feel as your shirt sticks to you stubbornly. Gross.

Pulling your outstretched hand from its laid-out position front of you, you use it to shield your eyes as you open them. It’s dark, of course, thanks to the black-out curtains, but it’s a habit you can’t put down. You blinked once, then again and try to wake yourself up enough to care what time it was. Why’d you wake up, anyway? And why were you sweating, most importantly. The scratchy clearing of your still-sleeping boyfriend’s throat seemed to make you suspicious.

You remove the hand pressed to your brow and rest it on top the forearm that tightly encircles your waist. The skin is warm and just a little clammy. Now, you’re no doctor, but you’re 50 percent sure Toby might be sick. You feel his body softly rumble as he lets out a phlegmy, wet cough. Maybe you were 90 percent sure. You rub his arm absentmindedly before grabbing a fistful of the blanket over your bodies. You toss it aside in hopes for cold air to cool both of your bodies. He doesn’t stir, thankfully, since he can’t feel the temperature change.

You rack your brain and try to think of any earlier hints of this sudden ailment until your thoughts stray to other topics. You didn’t even notice that you’d been staring, unblinking, at the wall in front of you until a groan broke the comfortable silence. You feel Toby’s lips against your shoulder blade in a lazy attempt at a kiss.

“Good-good morning,” he mumbles, and you return the sentiment. You wait a few seconds before you make your accusation, already anticipating the reaction.

You shift to your other side to face him, and he grunts in protest. Both of you settle into your new positions. He drapes an arm over your waist again, urging you to come closer. You only nudge his leg with yours since you’re not particularly fond of getting anymore of his sweat on you at the moment.

“How’d you get sick, Tobes?” You ask, half-sweetly, half-accusatory. “You’re always in layers.”

“M’not suh-sick,” he insists, his brows furrowing, and the muscle twitches ever so slightly.

“No?” You push back the hair that sticks to his forehead and press your lips onto his skin. Just to check the temperature, of course. And, Jesus, it was scorching. You could smell the slight tanginess of the sweat on his scalp.

“I don’t-don’t get sssssick.”

“You’re way hotter than usual.”

He snickers at that, “Thanks.”

You should’ve seen that coming, you sigh and suppress an eyeroll.

“I meant that you have a fever, dumbass,” you give him a deadpan expression, though his eyes stay closed.

“Nnnah,” he brushes you off and you can see his jaw clenching involuntarily when he shuts his mouth.

“You’re sick.”

“You’re suh-sick.”

“I might be. Cuz of you.”

Toby’s eyelashes flutter as he opens his eyes, his wide brown ones meet yours. He purses his lips, as if trying to gauge if he really was sick or not. Before he can say some other smartass comment, you lean forward to plant a kiss on his jaw. Your body aches in protest, but you raise yourself using your arm and trail more kisses up the side of his face. He exhales contently through his nose and smiles at your sudden affection. He hums in satisfaction when you finally decide to peck at his lips repeatedly. He closes his eyes and pushes his lips out into a pout as the kisses get slower and longer.

Settling back to rest your head against your pillow, your eyes flick over Toby, and you assess his state. His nose and cheeks are pinker than usual, and you can tell how flushed he is despite the dim lighting.

“D’you want me to get you water? Or make you some soup?” You offer and he opens his eyes only to roll them at you.

“I like you-like you here,” he says stubbornly.

“We can keep cuddling,” you chuckle and press the backs of your fingers against his heated cheek. “But I’m getting you some medicine later.”

“S’fine, I can’t ffffeel any...thing.”

“I don’t care, you could have the plague.”

“You’re dramatic,” he shot back, a sassy lilt in his voice.

“Can I help you?” You ask sarcastically. “Please?”

“Can we not-not just cuh-cuddle?” He uses the same tone you did. “I can’t fuh-feel being sick, so-so it doesn’t m-matter.”

“Toby,” you say dryly before repeating yourself and drawing out the syllables, “Toby.”

“O-kay, okay, Jesus.”

“Good,” you smile and scoot just a little closer to him. He gives you a goofy grin before opening his mouth and letting out a small, playful cough. You can still see the shit-eating grin on his face.

“You’re nasty,” you cringe and scrunch your nose. He lets out a giggle and playfully pinches at the skin of your waist. When you nudge his leg again just a little harder in response, he rubs the spot on your hip to soothe it, and you can feel his hand twitch against it.

“C…an we muh-make out?” He breaks through the wholesome moment, and you purse your lips into a thin line.

“Your breath fuckin’ reeks, my love,” you pause and a subtle smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. “And you’re sick.”

Toby rolls over, mouth falling open to let out a quick, disbelieving chuckle. “I am-am not si-sick.”

Laughing, you lean over to be partially draped over his chest, propping yourself up on your side and giving him a gentle kiss. He slowly lowers his eyelids, and you can feel the heat of his breath against your cheek as both of you surround yourself in the blissful moment.

[just-wrting]

Feeling Fangs

Title: Feeling Fangs

Pairing: Charlotte Katakuri x Wife!Reader

Word Count: 3.2k

Summary: You find out what your husband has been hiding from you after he loses against Straw Hat, but you find yourself fixating on how pretty he is without his scarf.

Master List Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

A/N: My bf won't let me read about this man because I'm not far enough in the anime so I'll just write about him instead. And read about him but my bf doesn't have to know that part yet. He's worried about spoilers but what spoilers am I gonna get from all that smut? Also I just like men with fangs.

You didn't particularly care who one this little war that broke out, as long as your husband is fine. There's no doubt in your mind that he'll survive, you just don't want to see him hurt. Sure, the two of you have never really been romantic or anything, your marriage was somewhat political, but you've grown fond of him. So when his little sister is kneeling on the street saying he lost, your heart drops.

"Brulee, get me in there," you hiss in her ear. "I need to make sure he's okay."

There's tears in her eyes as she looks at you quizzically. "How did you get here?"

"This isn't the time for that. Let me in the mirror dimension."

She nods quickly and lets you through. Her steps are hesitant as she follows behind you. You make note of the chefs slumped against a wall, curious as to who killed them. It doesn't matter to you as you stumble closer to your husband.

It's the first time you've seen him like this. Even when it's time to sleep, he's still awake, sitting up in bed doing who knows what as you drift off. Right now, he's asleep on his back with a hat on his face. You quickly locate his scarf next to a group of people, ignoring them.

You've never seen him without his scarf, but you figure out that everyone here has. The chefs must've seen him without it, so he's the one who killed them. Everyone else must've passed out from something in the battle, but they've all seen him too.

"Brulee, tie up everyone here. It doesn't matter who they are, I want them unable to leave," you say in a low voice. "If you fail to do this, I won't forgive you."

While she follows your orders, you crouch down to rewrap his scarf. You make sure to hide his face from view as you carefully lift the hat. Biting your lip in anticipation, you do your best to not wake him. As you unveil his full face, you feel yourself get flustered.

Poking out from his lips are four shiny fangs. You do your best to not reach out and touch them, wondering how sharp they are. You expected something frightening under the scarf, but Katakuri is actually just as pretty as you thought he was. You don't know how you lucked out to get him, but you'll think about that later.

You make quick work with his scarf, noticing he's missing his jacket. You'll have to look for it later, your focus needs to be on finding Pudding. It doesn't matter that she's rude to you, what matters is her ability. You had overheard it in passing, but her ability to manipulate memories is what makes her the key.

"Let's go, I need to find Pudding."

Thankfully, you can see her hiding on the other side of the mirror you came in. It might take a moment to run and get her, but you'll put yourself through whatever you need to. The most important thing to you is wiping everyone's memory of what Katakuri looks like.

You dash through the fight, weaving your way through both enemies and the Big Mom pirates. Ducking down next to Pudding, you catch your breath for just a moment while she stares starry eyed at someone.

"Sanji..." she mumbles before glaring at you. "What do you want?"

"I need you to alter some memories for me."

She gives you an evil smile. "Why would I do that? Just because you're my big brother's wife doesn't mean I'll help you."

You frown. "I won't tell anyone that you've fallen in love with Sanji and most likely helped him escape."

"What?! You have no proof!"

You pull her up and start dragging her behind you. "I may not have concrete proof, but I'm not stupid. Besides, your reaction is my proof."

She grumbles something about you being an ass, but she follows you.

"You also need to wipe some of Brulee's memory.  If you tell anyone what you saw in them, I'll tell everyone that you helped Sanji escape. Do you understand?"

She nods. "Alright, I understand. Why what did they see?"

You set your jaw. "At the very least, they saw Katakuri without his scarf. I'm not sure what else they saw."

You watch over her shoulder as she shoves her hand into people's memories. It's a little gross, but it'll get the job done. It's better to threaten one person over a dozen.

There's a moment where Luffy slips and falls, gaining a large wound in his stomach due to being numbed. After finding out why, you watch Katakuri stab himself and pull off his scarf. It's nice to see a pirate try to have a fair fight, giving you a bit more insight as to what your husband is actually like.

"I guess it's a bit weird that he didn't want help if he couldn't defeat Straw Hat, but it doesn't make him lame. Those idiots don't realize they're the lame ones," Pudding grumbles. "Do you think Sanji has the same idea?"

You shrug. "It seems like his captain does at least so probably. Do I look like Sanji?"

Pudding scowls. "Shut up. Let me do this."

You don't miss the days when you'd have mood swings about men. That's the one good thing about having an arranged marriage, you don't have to worry about your feelings for other people.

"Mirrors, are any of you in an intact room? One with a big bed and access to water."

One a little ways away responds, and you look back at your passed out husband. You don't know how you're getting him there. Maybe you should've thought about that ahead of time, but it doesn't matter now. You can figure it out, you always do.

—-

It's been at least one day since you dragged him into bed, and Katakuri has yet to wake up. You can feel yourself dozing off every time you sit down, so you do your best to stay occupied. You prepare food, make sure you have enough water to wipe him down and let him drink, and constantly rearranging things. On one hand you want him to wake up so you know he's not in a coma, on the other hand you want him to get as much rest as he needs.

What you want doesn't matter, as you hear him wake up suddenly with a gasp. In your shock, you drop the plate you were holding.

"There's no need to wake up so aggressively, Katakuri. You're safe," you reassure as you pick up the bigger pieces of the plate. "How are you feeling?"

"How did I end up here? What did you see?" His voice is low, almost threatening.

You dump the bigger pieces in the trash and start sweeping. "We can talk about that later. You should have some water and eat. Then you should go back to sleep. I patched you up as well as I can, but I'm not a doctor."

He starts to pull the covers off, giving you a harsh look. "What did you-"

You dump the dustpan's contents into the trash before setting the broom to the side. "Like I said, it can wait. No offense, but you don't particularly scare me when you're ripping open your wounds."

His face goes a bit red as you tell him off. You want him to feel better before you deal with any other matters. That includes the talk of whether he'll choose to kill you for seeing his face.

"I made you some food, so just sit up."

Thankfully, he obeys. Katakuri doesn't even protest as you feed him. You make sure to avert your eyes, just for his comfort. He seems to be extremely hungry, eating all the food you've made. By the time it's all gone, he looks tired again.

"Get some more sleep, I'll lock the door. I wanted to be awake when you woke up, but now that that has happened, I can sleep."

He watches as you turn the lock and slide the broom handle through the loops of the door handles. You do the same with the window, shoving a fire poker through the handle before closing the curtains once more. Giving each of them a tug, you feel satisfied when nothing clatters to the ground.

"When did you sleep?" Katakuri asks, watching you intently. "You look..."

"Terrible, I know. I don't think I've slept since before the tea party, though. I'd have to think about it."

You crawl into the other side of the bed. It's a bit small, but leaning against him makes it a bit more comfortable. Despite your efforts, you find yourself dozing off before making sure he sleeps. There's no way he's getting out of the bed though, you've managed to lay on his arm.

—-

By the time you wake up, Katakuri is fast asleep. For what must be the first time ever, he's got his arm around you, holding you close. You watch him for just a moment, admiring how pretty he is. You want to reach up and play with his hair, but you ignore that feeling and try to wiggle from his grasp.

Even with how battered he is, you find it difficult to free yourself. You knew he was strong, ridiculously so, but you didn't realize he's just this strong. After freeing yourself, you feel exhausted again.

Thankfully, Pudding has left another basket of food for you, complete with an angry note about how she's not your delivery girl and if she's going to bring you stuff you need to be there. You roll your eyes and throw away the note. If she had important things to say, she can say them to your face.

You help yourself to an apple, crunching away as you try to figure out what to make. It would be nice if you could access a bigger kitchen with more ingredients, but this will have to do. Hopefully it's enough food, you've seen the size of  the food he eats.

With a sigh, you give up. Exhaustion still flows through you, so you focus on things that don't require a lot of thought. So you eat and wash the dishes, making sure to be as quiet as possible. It's better for him to wake up naturally, not due to you being a jerk.

Once there's nothing more to do, you make your way to the bed. You check the wounds, letting the smaller and scabbed ones breathe. Almost all of his injuries have stopped bleeding, you just can't check the one you're most worried about. He needs to wake up for you to take a look.

As you reach towards his head, his hand shoots up and grabs your wrist tightly. You wince in pain, surprised at how tight his grip is.

"What are you doing?"

You tug on his fingers. "Checking the scrape on your forehead. I want to make sure it closed up."

He cautiously releases you. "Don't do anything else."

You click your tongue against your teeth. "Have some more faith in me, Katakuri. I'm your wife, I have no ill intentions."

"We need to talk."

You start unwrapping the dressing. "What do you want to know?"

Katakuri breaks eye contact with you. "What happened after I lost?"

"Well, we lost. I dragged you out of here with some help."

"What about the others in the mirror dimension? What happened to them?"

The blood that makes up the scab also goes into his hairline, so you make a note to bathe with him so it doesn't open. "Those chefs are dead. Your little sister and her stupid fan club on the other hand are alive."

"Where are they now?" he asks, furrowing his brow. "What about the cam-snails?"

"I have no idea where they went after they woke up. I collected the cam-snails though, they're in a bag here."

His hand makes its way to your thigh, holding you down. "What did you see? What did you do?"

"I put your scarf on, tied everyone up, and made Pudding alter their memories. Straw Hat knows, but based on how I found you, I don't think that matters."

"How did you-"

You give a small smirk. "Poor little Pudding was so against marriage, but she ended up falling in love with that Sanji boy. I told her that I would keep it a secret if she kept yours. I'm telling you in case you choose to... you know."

His other hand pulls down his scarf. "So you know. And you're still here?"

Satisfied with the head scrape, you pull back a bit. "Of course. You're injured, where else would I be?"

"Aren't you afraid?" He pulls his face into a scowl. "Don't you think-"

Your eyes flutter shut as you lean forward and kiss him. It's nothing romantic, just a quick press of your lips on his, but you pull away flustered.

"Why did you do that?" His eyes are wide.

You blink in surprise. "Why did I do that?"

"How would I know, I'm not-"

You lean forward and kiss him again. His lips are soft, and when you lick your own after pulling away, you find them sweet.

"What are you-" You cut him off again with a kiss.

"This plan isn't-" Even after a fourth kiss, you can't stop.

Before he says anymore, he grabs your face in both hands. "Stop whatever nonsense this is. What are you trying to do?"

You've never seen Katakuri look like this. His face is flushed and his eyes are wide.

"I just really wanted to do that."

It’s now his turn to blink in shock. “Why?”

“You’re just…” You look away, knowing that your face is burning up. “Katakuri, you’re so pretty.”

He doesn’t say anything, just looks at you intensely. You’re worried he’s upset, you did just keep interrupting him with kisses, but that thought is dashed within seconds as he pulls you into a kiss.

His tongue pushes past your bottom lip, pressing into your mouth. Even when you try to take control of the kiss, it takes him no effort to keep you in place. His tongue overpowering yours and exploring your mouth, filling your taste buds with sweetness.

Due to the size difference, his tongue fills your mouth, eagerly searching every part of your mouth. You can’t help the dirty thoughts that start to fill your mind, thinking of other ways he could use his tongue. All you can focus on is how sweet he tastes and how much you enjoy kissing him.

You’re completely breathless once he pulls away, panting as you try to breathe. Through half lidded eyes, you watch him recover. His face is somehow even more flushed and he’s looking at your lips. Without thinking, you blurt out the first thing to come to mind.

“Katakuri, can you bite me? Please?”

His thumb brushes softly against your cheek. “Are you sure you want that?”

You rub your cheek into his palm, letting out a soft hum. “Please?”

Titling your head to the side, you expose your neck. You have no idea why you want him to bite you so badly, you just do. If he tells you no, you won’t ask again, you just want to experience it this once.

The hand on your other cheek slides down to your shoulder. You feel his warm breath on your neck, and you bite your lip in anticipation. At first, he just presses a soft kiss to your neck, carefully holding you like you might break. Then, without warning, you feel his teeth sink into your neck.

You let out a gasp, and your hand grips his shoulder. It’s not a harsh bite, just the very tips of his fangs. The only pain you feel is the initial breaking of your skin, but once that passes, you feel flushed and warm. It’s really doing something for you, and you don’t want him to stop.

“Did that hurt?” Katakuri asks, pulling away at your gasp.

You draw a shaky breath as he licks the marks on your skin. “You drew blood. That’ll always hurt, but I’m fine.”

He hums softly as he makes sure you’re not bleeding anymore. His touch is gentle and light, and you let out a groan as he traces invisible patterns into your skin. You want more, and you lace your hand in his hair.

Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door. You pull away from Katakuri, adjusting your shirt to cover the mark. You wait for him to pull his scarf back up straight under his nose. There’s still a dusting of pink across the tips of his ears, but he doesn’t look as flustered with his scarf up.

He nods, and you open the door. Pudding stands there with her arms crossed, pouting. She pushes past you, dumping a bunch of stuff on table.

“Here’s everything you asked for, don’t ask me for stuff again. You can start getting it yourself!” She puts her hands on her hips. “I’ve done what you wanted for the past three days. I’m done!”

Katakuri moves to get out of the bed, but you wave him down. Both of the siblings deserve their rest. That’s the only thing you should focus on.

“Thank you Pudding. Go get some rest, we’ll be okay.”

She looks surprised, before huffing. “Of course I’m going to get rest. I deserve it.”

She gives you another dirty look before storming out. It’s like a whirlwind came in, scolded you, and left. You don’t really care. She did her best to help you, so you can cut her some slack.

“She shouldn’t talk to you like that.”

You close the door and lock it once more. “It’s fine. Everyone is under stress right now, including you. You should get some more sleep if you can.”

Katakuri tugs his scarf off, letting it rest on the floor. You want to go fluster him again, but you just stay still. Seeing him like this, battered and bruised, makes your heart ache.

“Are you going to sleep as well?”

You give him a soft smile. “Do you want me to come and get more sleep?”

He doesn’t meet your eyes as he answers. “It’s your choice.”

You walk over and place your hand on his cheeks, making him look at you. “Do you need me next to you for you to sleep?”

Unfortunately, you seem to have pushed him just far enough to annoy him. He gives you a stern look as he wraps his arms around you. Even though he’s annoyed, he’s gentle as he pulls you on top of him.

You squirm slightly in a halfhearted attempt to get him to let you go. His grip is iron tight, and he has no intention of letting you go. This is the first time he’s ever insisted on having you sleep next to him, and it makes you feel warm inside.

Once you stop moving, his grip looses just enough for you to get a bit more comfortable. You lay your head on his chest, closing your eyes to listen to his heart beat. It’s relaxing, and you feel yourself get drowsy. You know it’s all over, when he starts to rub your back.

There’s the sound of his saying something, but you fail to catch it as you fall asleep. You don’t even notice the soft kiss he presses to your head while you drift off.

[leclarifies]

i wish you would love me (CS55)

✰ carlos sainz x verstappen!reader ✰

summary → he would do anything to get you to love him, but he can only watch from the sidelines as you fall in love with his teammate.

genre → angst angst angst (im not sorry), self-indulgent, drabble

word count → 1.5k words

author's note → hello! this is my first iteration of breaking your heart with carlos sainz!!!!!! this is also my first time writing him so i'm sorry if things are a lil ooc, i haven't followed him as much as i do with CL16 & MV33.

carlos had always stole glances, whether he liked to admit it or not. some were lingering, but most of them were fast, quick, not wanting to linger long in case someone would catch him staring, he had grown fond of you.

you were the princess of the paddock, that was your title. some might even say that you're the queen of the paddock but you always denied the nickname, it was a silly nickname that your fans had given you and you didn't particularly feel like claiming it.

but carlos knew that you were indeed a princess, maybe the queen of his heart. he knew that with each second passing, he would slowly fall in love with you, maybe he already was. maybe he just didn't want to admit it to himself, much like the glances he stole.

you were the three time world champion's little sister and that meant that automatically by default, carlos was around you a lot. whether it was max's karting days and you attended his races, or him being on the formula one grid and you attending those races.

it didn't matter to carlos.

you were always nice to him, always smiling, always touchy but it didn't matter as you were touchy with everyone and that made carlos want to die on the inside.

why did you have to touch everyone so casually? why did you have to touch him and why did he feel like he was on top of the world when you did?

"carlos?" you soft voice had broken him out of his train of thought, he looks up to see you. your beautiful self standing in front of him, almost gracing him with your presence, "are you okay? you seem out of it."

"yeah, i'm alright. how are you doing, hermosa?" carlos' heart would not stop beating out of his chest, being in close proximity of you made his heart beat that way. you giggle and wave your hands in front of you, almost as if you were rejecting the small compliment that he gave you.

he found it cute, that you would always reject his compliments that way, whether intentional or not.

you scrunched your face up and rolled your eyes playfully, "you always flatter me with your nicknames, carlos," you giggled further and he stood up from where he was leaning against the wall, "i was going to ask you if you were coming to dinner tonight? you know, the ferrari one?"

carlos raised his eyebrow, how would you know about the ferrari dinner?

"yeah, of course. i am a ferrari driver afterall, aren't i?" carlos teased before you smile and laugh, carlos felt like his heart was going to fall out of his chest by how fast it was beating. you were near him and willing to talk to him, even though it was as simple as asking about a stupid dinner.

"yeah, i was wondering whether you'd come or not. charles invited me to the dinner just last night," your eye-smiles shone bright, even when you didn't mean them to. a pang strikes through carlos' chest, what do you mean by charles invited you?

"charles invited you? since when were you close to charles?" carlos asked, his eyebrow raised again as you were shifting feet to feet, carlos could tell that you were nervous by the question he asked, but you decided to come out clean anyway.

"me and charles have been... seeing eachother so i've been getting invited around ferrari events a lot."

maybe that was the day carlos' heart broke.

seeing you around his side of the paddock was nice, the way you smiled, the way you cheered the team on, it was exciting for carlos. he would be able to see you more often now, ever since you published your relationship with charles.

maybe he should've expected it. maybe he didn't notice it.

while he was stealing glances at you, you were stealing glances at his teammate and that stung like a little bitch.

you were always all smiles, always lovely, always polite, always touchy, and somehow he hated it. he hated the way you touched him— hated the way you touched charles.

your arms wrapped around charles' neck, holding him close as the two of you were captured kissing as charles took his win, he came second. always second best. never good enough. never good enough to win you over. never fast enough to see the signs.

he wanted you to come over to him, run up and kiss him the exact way you kissed charles, why did it have to be his teammate out of all people? why the one person that he constantly had to spend time with, whether willingly or unwillingly?

the love he had for his teammate was slowly becoming resent, becoming something he would never feel for his teammate naturally.

it sucked.

"carlos—"

"not now cha," carlos had brushed him off as he packed up his belongings from the garage, all he wanted to do was get home and sit with himself and his feelings.

"but it's important—"

"i said not now," carlos' tone was delivered with finality, which made charles stop in his tracks, not speaking another word. he was scared to, scared that he would piss off carlos more than he was right now.

what hurt the most for carlos was that he had talked about you to him multiple times, his eyes always animated when he talked about you and charles knew, he knew how much you meant to carlos but charles didn't catch on or maybe he didn't care.

"did i do something wrong?" charles asked, he was behind carlos and his shoulder tensed up when charles asked him the stupid question, carlos felt like he wanted to punch something at the moment and right now, preferably the handsome leclerc that stood behind him.

of course he did something wrong, he stole the love of carlos' life and carlos hated him for it. why did he have to do it? why did he have to take away something that made him happy? wasn't him getting kicked out of ferrari enough for charles?

why did everything have to go his way?

"it's nothing, i'm just upset about my performance today, that's all," carlos turned around to look at charles, he was starting to realize that it wasn't charles' fault. charles did nothing wrong.

the universe just hated him.

carlos had to sit in those painful dinners with ferrari, if it wasn't mandatory for him to come, he would've never showed up in the first place. he hated having to sit there and play nice, to sit there and watch you whisper into charles' ear and when he would whisper something back in your ear and then you would giggle, to sit there and to watch the love of his life slip away from his fingers.

he knew that you never held the same type of feelings that he harbored towards you, you would always be nice and polite but that was it, and maybe he took it the wrong way. it didn't matter to him now, all that mattered was you stole his heart and there was no way you were going to give it back.

with the months watching painfully from the sidelines, watching you fall in love with his teammate, you had an announcement to make tonight.

"hello everyone! thank you for coming to tonight's dinner," you had started, you looked beautiful tonight. afterall, you would always be his hermosa in his heart, "i just wanted to announce me and charles' engagement!"

charles stood up alongside with you and smiled, wrapping an arm that carlos wished were his, holding you close with a kiss on your temple.

claps erupted around the table and carlos was the only one not clapping along with the crowd.

if it wasn't possible before, carlos' heart broke for the second time tonight.

if it wasn't bad enough that charles picked carlos to be his bestman, it was the worst when he had to stand there and watch you be led along the aisle, arm hooked with jos verstappen and walking towards charles.

and yet again, he was watching from the sidelines. never the main character in your story, but always a secondary or maybe a step-in.

your smile was so bright, you looked so happy.

he wished you looked at him the same way you looked at charles.

as you finished your vows, tears escaped from carlos' eyes, not because he was happy for his teammate, not because he was happy for you but because he was upset that it wasn't him that you were marrying today. he couldn't bare to stay and watch any further after the vows, choosing to step out of the cathedral that you were getting married to charles at.

carlos was not the same man that he was before he stepped into that cathedral that day, and maybe it was for the worst.

[devilfruitwriter]

falls in love easily {Taz Skylar}

Summary: Life comes at you fast, and often in uncertain ways, at least that's what you find yourself thinking when it's almost five in the morning and you're waiting for the cast of the upcoming Live Action One Piece Netflix show in their makeup trailer, and you realise you might have finally found your people. (And the way you try not to think about how you might genuinely be falling for the actor who you've been joking about being in love with since day one.)

Need to Know: They/Them Reader. Makeup Artist!Reader. Fluff through vignettes. No use of Y/N.

A/N: 3424 words. Unedited and probably a mess but I love him your honor. Now idk if it's good, but I hope you enjoy it. There's mentions of drinking. Let me know what you think, or if you have any prompts for Taz or any of the rest of the cast! <3

Taglist is always open, please comment or message me to be added! xx

Taz has started bringing you coffee, and damn if you don't love him for it.

"Don't let it go to your head; they love everyone," Emily rolls her eyes but her expression is fond. You stick your tongue out at her, still cradling your steaming take away cup with both your hands, looking between them in the makeup trailer they share with you and Emily's makeup artist.

"Yeah but me the most," Taz sits a little higher in his chair, his smug little smile is levelled at his co-star, though you see his gaze flick to you and the grin you're trying to hide behind the rim of your cup, "that's the point of the coffee, isn't it?"

"You have a few other redeeming qualities," you chime in, struggling not to laugh at the whole situation, especially as Taz makes a show of practically preening at your decidedly backhanded praise.

"Told ya," he's outright beaming now, "loves me the most, as they should."

"As I should?" You hear the disbelief in your own voice rise as you lower your cup, crossing your free hand over your chest.

"Obviously," Taz, however, does not seem phased by your indignance, looking at you with wide, bright eyes, like it's the most simple thing in the world, "you're my makeup artist, if you loved one of them more I'd consider that a great betrayal of our bond."

Emily can no longer contain her laughter.

You take a moment to ponder and sip the coffee he'd brought you, mulling over his words.

"I've known Emily longer," you pointed out, though Taz shook his head, managing to keep his composure and keep up with the bit.

"And I've worked with other makeup artists in the past; what matters is the here and now," he says with an almost believable sincerity, "and here and now, I love you the most, and I buy you coffee, and I'm gonna be real sad if you don't say it back." Endeared by his antics, the words tumble from you -

"Of course I love you the mostest -"

"- the mostest! -" he echoes under his breath with a pleased kind of triumph.

"- the mostest? -" Emily, however, has her whole face scrunched up, muttering amid her laughter like she can't quite believe she'd heard you say that.

"Of course I love Taz the mostest -" you doubled down, now outright grinning, "not that it should have to be stated; this is a well established love affair we've got going on here, was that not clear?" Gesturing between yourself and Taz, who's once again looking particularly pleased with the bit, the two of you share an amused look before both turning to Emily in the makeup chair beside you both. She gives you both a thin, amused smile, her laughter having died down.

"Oh it's clear," she smirks at him, "considering that even Kiki won't swap trailers with me -" though there's no real malice behind it.

"You have not asked Kiki to swap with you," Taz rolled his eyes good-naturedly, "you love us."

"And we love you," you assured her, playing up the saccharine quality of your voice once more.

"But not as much as you love each other," she pointed out.

"Obviously," Taz nodded, right as you agreed;

"That goes without saying."

(Later, when you ask him how he takes his coffee, he cracks an eye open where he's relaxing as you're laying his wig for the day, slight smile on his lips, telling you that's not how this works.

Music fills the little trailer in the in-between moments, loud enough that Emily and her own makeup artist can't hear the specifics of your conversation. You give pause, waiting for the spirit gum to dry, echoing his words back to him as a question, amused at his apparent courteousness. He nods, now watching you, as if confused by your question.

"How am I meant to let you know I love you otherwise?" You snickered, playing off the earlier joke. It did the trick, however, as he huffed a quiet laugh of his own. Still, he tells you how he takes his coffee, and you, triumphant, turn to the counter for your next product.

"Or you could just say," he adds after a moment, and you can't help but freeze. You don't even need to be looking at him to hear him grinning - this moment is doing strange things to the affectionate feeling in your chest, but you do your best to ignore it. Turning back, his eyes are closed again, settled back in his seat, waiting as patient as ever.

"That's too easy," you hope he can tell you're smiling too.)

----

"I'm so sorry, love," Taz is leaning against the side of your trailer, cigarette in one hand, and blue, plastic lighter in the other, "my lighter's dead, you don't happen to have one?"

After being called in even earlier than usual to assist with Jeff's Buggy makeup for the shoot today, it takes you a moment to catch up. It takes you a moment, and a yawn, but you reach into one of the side pockets of your backpack.

"Yeah, gimme a sec," you mumble through your yawn.

"Fuckin' love you," Taz mutters gratefully, shoving his own, empty lighter into his back pocket, "I know it's a filthy habit but -"

"I don't judge," you shrug, finally handing over the lighter that had been buried in the bottom of the pocket. Instead of heading in, however, you joined him, leaning against the trailer, tipping your head back to look at the lilac sky as it began to turn gold.

The quiet spark, pop, sizzle of the cigarette isn't an unfamiliar sound given the industry you work in. Taz thanks you quietly as he hands back the lighter, and you give a tired smile in return; you had an energy drink and probably a coffee waiting in your trailer but you would rather take these few moments of peace where you could get them.

"I thought you vaped," you mused after a moment. Taz makes a noncommittal noise as he breathes out a lungful of smoke.

"Left it in the accommodation," he admitted. He offers the cigarette, but you shake your head, "probably smart, like its a bad habit, yeah, but also I don't exactly know where this came from, I found it in the bottom of my bag, it's..." he gives a thin, self deprecating smile, "questionable."

"Sounds like a you-problem, my guy," you tell him, shifting over to lean against his shoulder, closing your eyes for the moment. You hear him laugh and agree, and a comfortable silence stretches out between you.

"It definitely is," he agrees after a moment, "can I ask why you carry a lighter with you if you don't smoke? Not that I'm not grateful -"

"That's why."

"What?"

"In case someone needs a lighter."

"That's sweet, that's very lovely."

"I do try," you hum with a slight smile. After a moment, he wraps an arm around your shoulders, continuing to blow smoke into the wind, away from you.

"You doing alright, love?"

"Always," you sigh, leaning into him in the moment, "I'll be alright, I just need to get some caffeine into me."

"Coffee's waiting for you inside," he told you warmly, giving your shoulder a squeeze.

"Yeah," you mumbled, before admitting, "I like hanging out with you though."

You can't bring yourself to open your eyes and gauge his reaction, but he doesn't let you go.

(He keeps borrowing your lighter. Sometimes it's those early mornings, sometimes it's on set, during the few scenes where Sanji's smoking; before anyone else he'll come to you. You start carrying your lighter in your pocket just in case.

"So you've just given up on having a lighter of your own?" You teased, lighting the herbal cigarette they were using for filming.

"Why would I need one? I've got you," he smirks back, and damn he's just as charming in character as he is out of it. "Thanks, love," he wraps you up in a one-armed hug, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before the cast and crew is called to stand by for the shot.

Taz is the kind of affectionate you could really see yourself getting used to, and he's definitely taken notice.)

----

Between the wig, the makeup, and covering up his tattoos, Taz's spends just over an hour in your makeup chair, depending on how much of Sanji will be seen on any given day.

"Scenes like today might be my favourite," You're working diligently away, already a half hour into your routine and mind on autopilot as you take Taz's hand to keep it still while you added product to your brush. You hadn't even realised you'd said that out loud until he responded.

"Scenes like today?" His voice is gentle but amused; you can hear him smiling but can't bring yourself to meet his gaze, suddenly feeling flustered that you'd voiced that thought at all. "Come on, love, you can't just say that, what d' you mean by that?" And it takes you a moment of deliberation to decide if you want to answer honestly, applying concealer to his tattoos as you feel yourself grow flustered.

"I like all your scenes," you mutter dismissively, "I feel lucky that I get to see so much of the show being filmed." Which isn't a lie, you're on standby on set to touch up makeup throughout the days, and you love the production and what you've seen of the show thus far... but it's also not the whole truth, and you know Taz can tell.

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, and when you look up finally, you can see the way he's smiling, but he's thankfully not looking at you. For a moment, you're glad Emily's not filming until later in the day, her call time not for several hours, so it's just you and Taz, and his playlist to fill the silence. But you make the call to swallow your embarrassment and voice the compliment that had been idling in your mind.

"I like watching you cook on set the most," you say without a hint of hesitation, and he looks to you quickly, almost like he's surprised by your honesty, but you weren't finished, "I know you've really immersed yourself in the role and put in a lot of effort and training; it really shows, especially when you fight and when you cook." There's something in the way he's looking at you that starts to overwhelm you, and you have to break the moment, break eye contact, go back to covering his tattoos or your not sure what you might do. Even your tone shifts, a little flustered, a little awkward, a little jarring after how sure you'd just been, "I, you know, I appreciate you and stuff, but you knew that."

There was a warmth to the silence that followed. When you finally sat back to grab the colour correction pallet, you could see Taz still watching you with genuine affection in his gaze.

"You're very kind," he says softly.

"Nah, it's just true," you huffed an awkward laugh.

"Don't hit me with that 'nah, it's just true' shit," he snorted, shaking his head, "you're being very kind and I appreciate that," he told you with firm honesty, matching the tone you'd addressed him with just moments ago, "lemme cook you dinner some time, 'cos I have been practicing," he agrees with pride, "and I'd take any excuse to show off, 'specially to you."

"Thought we established that I already love you, you don't have to prove anything to me," you ducked your head as you loaded your brush with product, unable to keep the grin from your face.

"Yeah, but this love-bit is a two way street."

"Okay," you said after a pause, finally meeting his gaze once more, and your smile grows wider.

"Okay?" Matching your excited energy, Taz grins widely at you, and you nod.

"Yeah, dinner, eventually," you laughed, "whenever we both are up for it. I'd really like that."

Something is... different now. Something has changed. Taz can't help but mention, as you're securing his wig, that it's going to be hard for him to think of anything but your kind words during filming today. Sheepishly you apologise, but he waves you off quickly - nothing to apologise for, he assured you.

But something is different.

(The silly, little fantasies you've been having on occasion, or more accurately, have been trying to ignore on occasion, have only gotten worse.

And more domestic.

They leave you feeling that kind of giddy-sick and unprofessional, the kind of daydreams that remind you at two in the morning that you should be sleeping and really shouldn't have a crush on your coworker.

Except you can't stop picturing small moments, like a sunlit, mid-morning, music playing on your laptop, the two of you moving around each other to make breakfast together on your day off. Or sharing quiet conversations and laughter while making dinner and -

When you both finally have a night off, he mentions how he's invited some of the other cast members to join you both. You've never been so relieved and disappointed all at once.)

----

Lines and jokes get messy and blurry; late nights on set, Taz almost falling asleep in your makeup chair as you're removing his wig for the day, nights out that both he and Emily invite you to, and a burgeoning friendship with the rest of the cast, and quiet moments spent in the back of Ubers lamenting how early you all have to get up the next day.

Usually you're the first one to bail, considering you're usually getting calling in even earlier than the cast, but some of the more responsible ones, or the other members of crew who have been roped into these various shenanigans, will split the Uber bill with you. The others all seem to understand why you have to leave early, but still, they're sad to see you leave.

What you tell absolutely none of them is that your self restraint is wearing incredibly thin when it comes to Taz already, and you know you're so close to doing something you can't take back.

Because he gets somehow more tactile when you're all out together; his arm around you, kisses your temple, your cheek, elated to see you whenever you meet up again after any amount of time. The way he laughs, the way he just talks to you, making you feel like you're the most important person in the world in the moment he gives you his focus and attention, and your brain gets all giddy and foggy when he calls you 'my love'.

So you need to leave, before you do too much, or say too much... well, too much more.

("My love -" and there it is again, his voice above the music, cutting through the crowd where he's spotted you.

"Yes, my darling Taz," you greet him with a sunny smile and open arms as an invitation to join you. Beside you in the booth, Emily and Inaki are playing slaps, and somehow neither are doing well, but thankfully they're both enjoying themselves.

Taz slides seamlessly into the booth beside you, pressed up to your side. Immediately his focus is stolen by his castmates' various yells and shrieks and slaps, and he half drapes himself across you and the table in front of you to get closer to their game. You don't even really mind, simply enjoying the moment, his proximity, and trying to figure out how long before you should head home. These three have the day off tomorrow, but you've been called in to assist with the hair and makeup for Mihawk.

"You're thinking very hard," Taz muses, as if remembering on whom he was leaning. Giving him a nudge, you grin.

"Just got work tomorrow unfortunately -"

Emily pats you sympathetically on the shoulder, Inaki immediately shouts that she's cheating, his eyes bright and wide. You push Taz back so he's no longer half-leaning over you to instead offer your shoulder to Inaki; he gives a decisive pat and declares he and Emily even, while you lament that you should probably hit the hay.

Emily and Inaki put their game on hold to say goodbye, Emily hugging you tightly and telling you to message when you got back to your accommodation, before they returned their focus to each other, and trying to pick a new game. Taz slides from the booth, giving you room to get out, and walks with you to the door.

"Surely you're not leaving," you grinned, but he's already shaking his head, throwing an arm around your shoulders as you get out onto the street.

"Making sure you make it to your taxi, or Uber, or whatever, okay."

"My hero," you teased, but still pulled out your phone to order your ride back to the hotel. Taz is humming something to himself that you can't quite pick all the while, "should be here in three minutes," you say softly, turning your attention back to him for the moment. The sight of his affectionate, smiling face has something softening in your heart - "you don't need to stay out here, I'll be fine, the bouncer's -"

"I work hard to my top ranking with you," Taz tried to muster up as much seriousness as he could, but it only served to endear you further, "no way I'm letting something happen in these three minutes and you end up liking some fuckin' bouncer more than me."

What you want to say is 'that will never happen'.

What you actually do is kiss him.)

----

It's not nothing.

This thing between you both is something, but you're not quite sure what. Because at first neither of you talk about what happens on those nights out, or how it keeps happening, but it never feels strange when you see each other at work. Still you tease each other endlessly, and there's something about the way he tries not to laugh when you're doing some kind of nonsense bit while doing his makeup, and how you'd fallen asleep against each other when Inaki invited people over to hang out and watch movies together.

Somehow after the wrap party, you, the main cast, and a few other members of the crew all ended up back at your accommodation. Most had left in the wee hours of the morning, but Inaki's passed out on your sofa, and a few of the other makeup artists had decided to squeeze into your bed like sardines, while you and Taz haven't moved from the wicker armchair on your balcony for hours.

The sunrise paints him golden in this moment you never want to end.

He's halfway through telling a story that has you practically wheezing, and you want to tell him that you'll miss him, miss these moments, miss whatever it is the two of you are, that you might actually love him, but instead what comes out is -

"You bastard, you know you've ruined me for other actors," you're beaming from ear to ear, watching the sun rise, and you hear him practically giggling as he leans against you.

"My grand plan has succeeded then."

"Grand plan?"

"Grand plan," he confirmed with a slight nod, "since I met you and you pointed at me," he points out to the horizon for emphasis, "and you said I was going to do great things with this role, even though you'd barely even met me; I've been gone for you ever since," he admitted with a snort of laughter, as if embarrassed by the recollection.

"You what?" You shifted back, eyes wide with surprise, only to be met with Taz's confused smile, like obviously.

"You've been nothing but a support this entire time, how is this a surprise?" He chuckled; seeing how obviously flustered you were becoming, his smile softened to something endeared, "you make yourself very easy to love, you know that, right?"

So much is running through your head at once, a million things you'd like to say, questions you have, what-ifs you could dwell on, but you don't.

"Oh thank god," you breathe, wrapping your arms around him, "I love you too," you're beaming until you're kissing him, this moment golden and absolutely perfect.

----

Taglist: @annssell @deadsnothere @hobbitsnapes @notdaninotfound @uncertainturquoise

[chlorinecake]

If it's possible, could you make a yandere enhypen story, where the reader usually goes out late at night to a convenience store for some late night snacks, but some pervert tries her, but one of the members had been following her and help her, I'm sorry if it doesnt make any sense but yeah...😀 (recently my delusions have been getting to me)

“convenient chances” 🎱 

pairing: stalker!yandere!enhypen x afab!reader

cw: harassment, violence, mentions of smoking, paranoia/anxiety, language, kidnapping, bad-ish ending lol

wc: 3.1k — read part ll and lll here

LIKE A DUNGEON with fear cementing every corner, you struggle to savor the silence in your waking life.

Doubting all and believing none, your close friend Sunoo convinced you that your nervous aches and night sweats were a mere result of paranoia. He always judged the way you’d peek over your shoulder in public as if waiting to be attacked.

Clicking sounds from your window startled your rest during the night, with nightmares of seven tall hooded strangers blinding your judgement.

You're sure everyone's experienced the phenomenon of “gaze perception” at least once in their lives, in which a person might sense or assume that a pair of predatory eyes are stalking them from afar.

You didn’t like to use the word trauma to define your past experiences, but this wasn’t your first time feeling like a cloud of trouble waited to pour down on you. At this point, all you could do was hope that your intuition wasn’t right this time.

It was only a few months ago when you broke up with your abusive ex-boyfriend, Jay. The memories still linger as if they occurred yesterday, freshly cryptic in your mind. From your point of view, he started off as a charming casual acquaintance, which soon developed into a crush and then a toxic relationship. He outlined a list of rules for you to follow when he was away, ordering you around like a child. Anytime you even came close to breaking one of his orders, he’d beat the shit out of you, saying that his rage was out of love.

From Jay’s point of view, you weren’t just an obsession, but a belonging—his favorite humanoid toy to play with. He threatened that if you ever left him, he’d come back for you one day, saying that he’d never stop watching you.

And so, you moved. Not far, but a good distance away. You didn’t feel protected anymore in your usual environment. Though, there was one place in which you felt completely safe—free from watchful eyes and hostile hands. It was the tatty old convenience store a few blocks from where you live. The place hadn’t developed much since what appeared to be a decade or two ago, but they always supplied the most tasty, high quality snacks you could get your hands on.

As silly as it may sound, the fallout shop was your haven, and you grew particularly fond of shopping there late at night when it was less crowded.

You walked passed the familiar electronic doors, the fluorescent ceiling lights sparkling off of the bleach-mopped tiles. The usually uplifting radio station was replaced with the chilling whoosh of air circulating through the vents.

“Hello! Welcome to Goldman’s 24-hour convenience,” a friendly accented voice chimed. “Hello,” you returned with a nod, a bit confused by the new face. The usual cashier was an elder women by the name of Mandy. Her laughter alone could make some of your darkest nights glimmer again.

The young man wore a name tag on his dark blue collared shirt: Jake. You couldn’t help but wonder why Mandy wasn’t working her usual night shift, but you didn’t care enough to interrogate the seemingly content boy.

Picking up a hand basket, you explored the aisle's shelves in search for something savory or sweet to snack on. Your gaze swiveled ahead of you before landing on the sight of two hooded strangers blocking your path. This time, a bit of their faces showed, revealing the devious smirks that spoke so many silent words through their sealed lips:

You can run, but you can’t hide from us, ____. For as long as we live, you’re not allowed to feel safe anywhere.

Goosebumps sprouted on the surface of your skin, nerves dancing around in your fingers until they became wobbling rods. It’s almost like you forgot to breathe due to the overwhelming terror, feeling frozen from within as the plastic basket slipped from your grasp, a loud clatter echoing throughout the store.

You remembered all of the horrible things Jay said he would do to you once he found you again. The bruises you concealed with makeup that Jay referred to as his "strawberry kisses” would have nothing on what you felt was coming your way.

“Are you okay, miss?” A kind male voice asked, snatching you from your trance and back to reality. You turned to meet the man behind you, revealing his concerned yet warm features. He picked up the basket you dropped, still processing that your mind successfully tricked you into seeing something that wasn’t actually there.

“Yes, I’m alright, t-thank you,” you smiled but it didn’t reach your eyes, looking more awkward than reassuring.

He pressed three finger's against your forehead, “I don’t think you’re being honest with me,” he frowned, your hot and damp forehead telling him that something was wrong. “I’m sorry, I haven’t even introduced myself yet,” he stuck out one hand for you to shake and the other to pass you back your basket. “My name is Heeseung,” he smiled, “I’m new in town with an affinity for convenience stores.”

“____, with an affinity to drop flimsy baskets in public,” you replied, suddenly feeling at ease from the humor. You started trailing to the ramen section and Heeseung was walking behind you. If it wasn’t for his kindness earlier, you’d probably be freaking out about how close he was. You reached for a spicy udon noodle pack that came with dehydrated tofu and seaweed sheets. Meanwhile, Heeseung grabbed a can of Spam and chicken flavored ramen.

“Speaking of your liking for convenience stores, I come here almost every night and I’ve never seen you before.“

“Well, yeah, I’m usually here earlier in the day. I just happened to need some gas and got hungry while waiting, so I decided to stop by for my favorites,” he peered into your basket, "You might wanna get some milk with those, too. It's ungodly how spicy they are!"

"I know, right? They're just so delicious, I can't resist them..."

"Still, Sapporo Ichiban instant noodles are the best! They always cook perfectly. Never too soft or too firm. It's my comfort food, honestly. I wanna hug the person who created them," he replied passionately.

"Eh, you're just gonna ruin 'em anyways."

He gave you a double look, "Are you passively judging my cooking skills or fat shaming me?"

"Neither. I'm shaming that pink block of salt you're gonna punish your organs with."

He scoffed, "This anti-Spam movement is outrageous! I'm starting an online protest where you'll be the number one convert."

"As if I'd ever try that...stuff," you rejected.

"Welp. More for me, I guess," he mumbled, digging into his jacket pocket.

“Dammit, I forgot my wallet in my car,” he said, placing his basket high up on the shelf. “If you see anyone try to take my stuff, kick ‘em in the shin for me,” he said before running out of the shop.

Analyzing your surroundings, you noticed that a few groups of shoppers and some solo snackers began raiding the bread aisle. You distracted yourself by heading to the refrigerator section, considering Heeseung’s recommendation of getting a smooth beverage to accompany your spicy noodles, tossing in a pack of strawberry flavored Pocky's on your way.

That’s when you felt an arm wrap around your waist, pulling you in before giving your head a sniff, his nose was wet and cold like a dog as he inhaled your scent. “What the hell are you doing?” You barked, pushing the creepy stranger away.

He was a middle aged man with a receding hairline and a few scars decorating his thin chapped lips. You wondered how many of those scares came from women he tried that “arm around the waist” shit on.

“Sorry, doll. I’m a hugger and figured you might've needed one,” he grinned, revealing the gnarly set of teeth that lined his grey gums. You couldn't tell if it was his foul breath or filthy clothes that smelled more like smoke. Either way, you were thoroughly disgusted by him.

“Well, you should learn to ask before throwing yourself on people,” you retorted, reaching for a container of banana milk.

“You like swallowing bananas, cutie? I bet I could force four of 'em down that pretty mouth of yours,” he slithered while adjusting himself in his pants.

What the hell is wrong with this guy, you thought to yourself.

You tried to ignore his lunacy, only for him to grip your ass like a stress ball, landing a harsh slap across the curve of your jeans. You yelped at the sting, your own words being caught in your throat from the shocking act. You couldn’t believe that this freak actually just did that to you.

He met your eyes with a wink, smelling his hand as if you just provided him with an expensive perfume sample, "You got a lover at home, sweetheart?"

Tears dared to pour from your rage-ridden eyes as you balled your fists so tight, your bones might break. That's when a protective figure filled your blurry peripheral vision, stepping in front of you to block the man off as he tried grabbing you again, pushing him with such a force that he lost his balance.

“The hell do you think you’re doing, y'scrawny mother fucker,” he growled, pulling up is pants.

“You can’t do that kind of sick shit to people, pervert! Now get the hell outta here or I'll call the police,” the younger boy fought back.

“I was just trying to have some fun, kiddo. Ain’t nothin' wrong with that. I bet honey doll misses me already,” the older man went on, licking at his lower lip.

“I’ll knock every last rotting tooth from your mouth if you don’t leave in the next five seconds-"

“Hey, what’s going on over here?” Jake asked in the middle of the commotion, the older man already fleeing the scene. Jake looked at the younger boy first before eventually meeting your eyes. You wish you could hide how shaken up you felt. The container of milk was bleeding out its strong banana scent on the once spotless floor, tears finally streaming down your cheeks.

“Oh my God, Jungwon, what happened,” Heeseung came running over, asking the boy who defended you. “It was nothing,” you interrupted before Jungwon could answer, the three boys standing dumbfounded around you in a puddle of banana milk. “Do you need a ride-" “Don’t worry about me,” your voice cracked in embarrassment.

Is there any way to explain how the world made you ashamed of your own tears?

You left your basket behind, apologizing to Jake who had to clean up the sticky mess. You didn’t wanna leave just yet, afraid that the older guy might be waiting for you outside, so you went to the ladies restroom instead to call your friend Sunoo.

“____?”

You cleared the lump in your throat before answering, “Sunoo,” you began shakily, “I need you to come and pick me up from Goldman's.”

“You sound terrible, is everything okay? You’re worrying me, what happened?”

“I’m sorry, Sun. Everything’s okay, I just really need you right now.”

“____,” he sighed. You suddenly felt guilty for even calling him.

“Sunoo, if you can’t make it, I won’t be mad at you,” you said in between the silence, trying to encourage him to make a choice.

“I-I can’t, well, I can, but, not soon, at least. I’m only an hour away, if you’re willing to wait that long.” The pity in his voice made you wanna cry all over again. Looking at the time on your phone, it was six minutes til midnight, and you refused to haul your best friend out on the road this late. “No, that’s alright, Sunoo. I’ll just call an Uber.”

His side of the phone fell quiet for a moment. “____, I know how much you hate Uber's. Don't do that to yourself because of me."

"I'll be okay, Sun, just get yourself some rest."

He paused before asking, "Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Of course! Call me when you get home!”

You finished up in the bathroom, mentally preparing yourself to face the strangers beyond the not-so-comforting walls of the restroom. To your surprise, Heeseung and Jungwon were still in the store. Huddled around Jake at the checkout counter, the three of them took loud sips from steaming cups of ramen. “Hey, ____,” Heeseung began, resting his snack on the counter. “We could help you file a report against that guy, if you want.”

Jungwon met your eyes with his own sincere ones, “He should pay for the way he treated you.” Jake put your basket from earlier on the counter, dry items taking the place of the previously wet ones.

“Do you still want these," he asked shyly. After everything that happened, you felt empty in more than one way. Some warm broth and noodles is exactly what your body needed at the moment. You nodded, handing Jake a $20 bill. Beeping sounds immediately met your ears as he scanned your items with a strange haste. You looked back to Heeseung and Jungwon.

“Getting the police involved will only make it harder for me to forget this ever even happened. Thank you for your concern, though,” you smile at the humble pair before they took the final gulps from their ramen cups before discarding them.

“Here’s your change,” Jake chirped, handing you the plastic bag of goodies. “Thank you,” you bowed, heading to the exit.

“Y'sure you don't need a ride?” Jungwon asked. You flashed him your phone screen. “Uber,” was all you said before walking into the black of the night, the sliding doors closing behind you.

According to your smartphone, you should expect your chauffeur, Sunghoon, to arrive shortly in a black truck with tinted windows. The vehicle came speeding through the parking lot, a chill wind hitting your features. The truck was so dark, that it almost blended into the night. He rolled down the window, looking you up and down.

"Name?"

"Uh, ____," you said, his blunt question catching you off guard.

"Get in," he replied, directing a thumb to the back seat, unlocking the door as you slid in, bumping into another passenger. Immediately caught by his dark eyes, the boy waved slightly, muttering a deep “Welcome aboard,” before fixing his gaze out the window again. The truck sat idly as Sunghoon delayed taking off, exchanging a few hushed words to the guy sitting in the front passenger's seat.

Click.

The backseat doors opened from both ends, Heeseung, Jungwon, and Jake joining you in the black vehicle. "Scoot over, Niki," Jungwon complained, trying to get comfortable in the crammed space. That's when you saw one last person join you all in the truck, his face capturing the moonlight like a thief.

"Sunoo?! W-what are you doing here? I thought you were an hour away!" All he did was frown in response. He always made that face whenever he was hiding something from you. "Sunoo," you pressed, nudging his shoulder.

"Oh please, would you just shut the hell up already," the hostile driver growled at you.

You screwed your eyes brows in confusion, "What's going on here," you inquired, now feeling anxiety start to creep up on you.

"The very thing I warned you about before you abandoned me," the front passenger bit back.

That voice. You knew exactly who it belonged to.

It was Jay, your looney ex-lover, sitting right in front of you. An angry yet pitiful scowl contaminated his handsome features.

You pushed through Heeseung, reaching for the door handle, only for Niki, the quietest yet scariest one, to snatch your wrist, pulling you into his tantalizing grip. "Let me go," you yelped, only for Jungwon to harshly cover your mouth.

Screech.

Sunghoon pulled off at a dangerous speed, causing your bodies to shake in the truck. Heeseung crossed his legs cooly as if he wasn't just casually talking with you in the store, “So when do we get to have fun with her, again? It’s not like she did any good entertaining me through conversation.”

Jake rolled his eyes at Heeseung, “I could’ve used your enthusiasm when I had to stuff that fat old chick in the freezer. Alone. On top of that, I had to mop the floor quintillion times before the blood stains got out.”

“At least you’d make a good house husband,” Sunghoon joked.

You felt your heart sink to the pit of your stomach at Jake’s confession: He killed Mandy.

"I'm sorry, ____," Sunoo whispered, fighting back tears as he hid his face from you.

Everything was starting to make sense now.

The visions of seven hooded boys.

The clicking sounds you'd hear from outside your window at night.

The way you could never shake the feeling that you were being watched.

Jay’s past words echoed in the back of your mind:

"If you ever decide to leave me, don't ever think that you'll get very far before I catch up. I'll always be watching you."

You bit Jungwon's hand, causing him to retreat his palm from your flushed face. "Sunoo, you betrayed me! You told me that I was paranoid when you knew exactly what was going on behind my back! I felt safe with you...I trusted you! And you fucking lied to me!"

"God, I've had just about enough of her nagging," Niki said, landing a fisted blow across your face. As you faded out of consciousness, Jay tried to soothe your daze.

“Even though I betrayed you and beat you, it was only my funny way of expressing how much I love you. Can’t you see that I did all of that out of love?”

You could still hear Sunoo pleading for your forgiveness in the background as you held onto the last strand of your consciousness.

"I've been watching you for a long time, love. You always try to escape me and I never understood why you just wouldn't listen to me. All I've ever done is love you and try to protect you. This time, I’ll make sure you’ve learned your lesson.”

And that was the last thing you heard before retreating to the vacancy of your mind, floating around in the silence of your oblivion. Left in the hands of seven reckless boys who’d successfully lured you into their cat trap, you didn’t know what to expect once you’d open your eyes, but you knew it wouldn’t be anything good.

In that time, you came to the unsettling conclusion that broken toys were Jay’s favorite, and if you weren’t already broken upon being found, you would be by time he’s done playing with you.

☆ ᴀ/ɴ: in no way, shape, or form does this fanfic intend to romanticize unhealthy relationships or abusive behaviors. i simply write for entertainment and creative purposes. thus, reader discretion is always advised.

☆ ᴘ.ꜱ: special thanks to the fabulous anon who requested this piece! i played around with the plot a bit, but I hope you all enjoyed reading it! if you guys would like a version of this story with a happier ending, let me know in the comments!

☆ taglist (based off of users that personally requested to be on my taglist, my faves, and people that I've noticed interacting with my yandere content) ~

@fanficfactoryfoxxx @ashgonedash @yourmomscuntis2tighy @yngwife @03sunoos @kaykay11sworld @maryismad @gigiramirezsblog @hoonsyo @en-thralled @haechansheart @night-en-shining-armor @cutiejseong

[squiddy-god]

Hi!! I’m new so I’m not sure if there’s a character limit but could I get the baldurs gate 3 characters with a plus size gn reader?

(If there is a limit could I get Wyll, Karlach, and/or Astarion?)

Thank you!!

I added gale because i want that wizard SO BAD this is a super cute request just keep in mind that i haven't played a whole lot of baldur's gate- also there is no character limit but i think id cap it at like 7 for hcs. Maybe slight possible spoilers. Yall are so lucky i almost included karniss for funsies but held back my spider simping 

Cw : might have slightly suggestive bits but is sfw, gn reader, no pronouns, fluffy, mentions of past body shaming, 

Wyll

He's so sweet- a real gentleman at heart

He loves to rest his head on your shoulder and wrap his arms rough your waist 

After the horns tho it makes it a bit harder so he settles for holding you and resting his head on your chest 

Kinda obsessed with your hands, always kisses the back of your hands or the inside of your wrist

Hes prone to stress, so when he’s feeling particularly stressed he gets kinda clingy- he will (wyll haha) never admit that he's being clingy tho

He hugs you, a deep sigh leaving his lips as he squeezes your sides and relaxes with exhale. 

Your soft and comforting and after all the things he's been through he is in desperate need of some comfort 

I think wyll enjoys being seen as more knightly, your knight in shining armor

That being said this man can and will defend your honor, people can be so cruel and he won't stand for it, he is absolutely going to defend you when people are talking shit because he will have none of it 

Wyll is a sweet man, he wants you to be comfortable and happy with him, so he does his best to reassure you about how he loves every bit of you and tries to ease your insecurities 

Karlach 

Hrmmmmgghghggdgg love her,,,love her so much hehehehe

She loves cuddles so much and is so touch starved fight me on this 

She sees you and gets a sappy smile because she is just so mushy 

I think out of all the companions she is definitely one of the top chubby person lovers

Handsy, she loves to hold and squish every part of you, the way your chubby arms wrap around her waist and torso while she rubs your back is heaven actually

I think she would love tummy kisses, she loves them even more if you get flustered because you are cute<3 she really adores how soft you are

She likes picking you up and she absolutely can and will at every opportunity that presents itself 

She is throwing hands if someone body shames you

Like she gets the most aghast expression of “how dare they” 

Normally people just turn tail and run but she is so down to throw hands 

Being insecure with karlach is very hard because she has no issue telling you how much she loves you, and she is very honest, her words really show threw her actions 

Astarion 

I feel like astarion is someone who understands insecurity on a deep level, there are many aspects of himself that make him insecure

You have been so warm to him, you love him so genuinely he wants to return the favor by also loving you so genuinely, size doesn't matter to this man 

Ignore that last part he loves feeding on you, so much to sink his teeth into ;) like eating something warm and comforting 

“Gorgeous as always” is a regular statement he makes whenever seeing you 

Loves to hold you before bed because he can just relax and feel himself melt into you.

Astarion is very fond of squishing your cheeks, if hes happy or mad at you your cheeks are getting squashed because this vampire has a bit of cuteness aggression 

King of talk shit get bit because he is kinda just looking for a reason to have a little murder as a treat

Like he hears someone body shame you and is like “can i pleaseeeeee stab them?just a little” 

He will find them 

He won't tolerate people adding to your self doubt because he thinks you are genuinely just the most beautiful creature and he WON >:3

Gale

I WANT THIS WIZARD SO BAD 

I'm so incredibly down bad for gale he's such a dork i love him 

He's awkward honestly, he'd like to be all suave but when it comes to physical affection he is quite awkward. 

Eventually he finds peace in just being able to hold you close, he particularly enjoys being able to hold you against his chest while he reads to you

I think he would enjoy teaching you about magic (assuming you aren't also a wizard) and if you are a wizard he still enjoys reading you books about magic 

He's a sucker for just being sweet and domestic with you

Big fan of your thighs and if you are sitting in his vicinity his hand is always resting on your thigh occasionally giving it a gentle squeeze to calm you both down 

Big fan of shoulder kisses when you both first wake up

I love sassy kinda mean gale when he talks to rude people so i love the idea of him just verbally destroying someone who talks sit about you 

Hes actually pretty good about ginning you reassurance for your insecurities

He doesn't have the best way with words sometimes but he is just so flabbergasted at your thoughts because he personally wants to fuse souls lmao 

[https-percy]

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑷𝒊𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒔 𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒔

Summary: At Castle coming, Princess Tiana’s sister meets the pirate James Hook, and they form a small bond over a spontaneous dance.

Pairing: James Hook/Captain Hook x Female! Tianas sister! reader

a/n: I've been obsessed with this movie and character since it came out, and I'm finally putting something out there for it.

---

The vibrant colors of Auradon Prep’s Castle Coming danced against the grand hall’s polished floors, an attempt at a celebration of unity and hope. But amid the dazzling array of gowns and suits, you stood out—not because of your elegant, sapphire-blue dress, but because of the quiet tension that seemed to follow you like a shadow.

As Princess Tiana’s sister, you were used to the spotlight, but tonight you sought refuge from the endless conversations and polite smiles. You excused yourself from a particularly insistent group of admirers and slipped into a quieter corridor, hoping for a moment of peace.

It was then that you heard it: a soft, melodic whistling, almost haunting, echoing down the hallway. Curious, you followed the sound until you found yourself standing before a tall, dark-haired figure leaning against the wall.

James Hook—pirate, charm incarnate, and one of the most captivating figures to grace Auradon Prep’s grounds, so they say. His attire was strikingly different from the other guests, his leather coat and golden hook a bold statement amidst the evening’s formality.

“Quite the party, isn’t it?” he said, his voice smooth and almost amused as he noticed your approach.

You couldn’t help but smile at his casual demeanor, which was a stark contrast to the rigidity of the event. “Yes, It’s quite overwhelming.”

Hook’s dark eyes twinkled with interest. “And here I thought you’d be relishing in the attention.”

You shrugged, a hint of mischief in your eyes. “Not everyone enjoys being the center of attention. Sometimes it’s nice to escape for a bit.”

He chuckled softly, pushing off the wall and taking a step closer. “I can’t say I’m too fond of these dances myself. Too many rules, too little room for.. adventure.”

There was something intriguing about the way he spoke—like every word was an invitation to a story yet to be told. You found yourself drawn in by his easy charm, a welcome distraction from the evening’s stifling formality.

“I’ve heard stories about you. The mighty Captain Hook,” you said, your tone light. “Some of them are rather... colorful.”

He raised an eyebrow, a roguish grin spreading across his face. “Is that so? And what do these stories say about me?”

“That you’re a scoundrel, a pirate with a heart made of black charcoal—or something along those lines,” you replied, amused by his reaction.

Hook laughed, a genuine sound that seemed to resonate with the very essence of freedom. “Well, if being a scoundrel means finding joy in life’s unpredictable twists, then I suppose I’m guilty as charged.”

You looked at him, your curiosity piqued. “And what about finding joy in dances and non-adventurous events?”

He smirked, his gaze locking with yours. “Not so much. I’d much rather be out on the high seas, chasing after treasure and adventure. But sometimes...it’s nice to make an exception.”

For a moment, you stood there, caught in the spell of his gaze. There was a chemistry between you that seemed..undeniable—a magnetic pull that drew you closer.

“So,” you said, breaking the silence, “what brings you to Castle Coming? if not for all the royal charm?”

Hook’s eyes softened, and he took a step closer. “Maybe I was hoping to meet someone who doesn’t fit the mold. Someone who appreciates a little chaos in the order.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “And have you found what you were looking for?”

His gaze lingered on you, a mixture of admiration and something deeper. “I think I just might have.”

There was an intensity in his eyes that made your heart race. The way he looked at you, with a combination of intrigue and genuine interest, was unlike anything you’d experienced before.

“Maybe,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, “you should join me for a dance. I think the evening could use a touch of unpredictability.”

Hook smirked, and he offered his hand with a flourish. “Lead the way lass,"

As you took his hand and stepped into the center of the hall, the music swelled around you, and for the first time that evening, you felt truly alive. Hook’s presence was like a breath of fresh air, a reminder that amidst the grandeur and expectation, there was room for spontaneity and connection.

The two of you moved together, the rhythm of the music guiding you in a dance that felt both timeless and exhilarating. With every twirl and step, the distance between you seemed to dissolve, leaving only the electric charge of the moment.

In the midst of the Castle Comings splendor, you found a moment of genuine connection—a pirate and a princess, bound by the magic of the night and the unspoken promise of adventures yet to come.

[ariadnes-elixirs]

while i'm working on their actual stories....

fun facts about each of my yans!

characters: yan noble boy, yan neighbor, yan forgotten god

yandere noble boy (oliver)

struggles with people and social interaction

spends most of his time gardening and baking

has a habit of showing up unannounced to the isekaied reader's family estate

neither of your parents mind

in fact both your parents and his parents have been pushing y'all to get married

but he refuses an arranged marriage cause he wants you to fall in love with him organically

not afraid of manipulating you though

very wet cat vibe overall

he has long white hair usually tied with a red ribbon gifted to him from you when y'all were children

isekaied reader has no clue what story they were isekaied into cause both them and elliott are so far removed from the main plotline of the og story

they just kinda live in a neighboring kingdom allied with the empire where Main Plot happens

so reader has no magical advantage from knowing the plot ahead of time :)

probably the least dangerous out of everyone here

he's more of the devoted/obsessed/manipulative type

he would never want to get his dainty hands dirty unless he absolutely has to

does bury evidence of any crimes he commits underneath his flowerbeds though

but yeah he's a wet cat

definitely would try "rizzing" you up by going "PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASEEEE"

yandere neighbor (elliott)

he likes spicy food

his hair is naturally black, but he usually dyes it blue

he is an engineer that mostly works remotely from his apartment

is a prodigy, and usually works freelance cause no one can pay him enough to permanently keep him on staff

rich

overworks himself though

takes on too many jobs and sometimes forgets that he is a human being that needs to eat and sleep

but will scold you for overworking yourself

a natural caretaker

he wants to be depended on and loves taking care of people

and when he takes care of someone else he will usually end up trying to take care of himself to lead by example

so his love language (giving) is acts of service

but as you might expect (cause yandere) he is not afraid to create circumstances in which you would be forced to depend on him

he would never hurt you directly

if he does go after someone with the intent to kill, it'll only be a person that has made your life a living hell

then when they're gone he'll be that person you can talk to about it

but usually he just causes some problems with the wiring of some electronics in your apartment when he visits

and then waits like a schoolgirl on his bed kicking his feet up in the air until you call him and ask him to fix it

has the potential be to actually dangerous/threatening, but never to you

yandere forgotten god (cal)

was banished by the gods

has been stuck on his island for so long that he genuinely doesn't remember how long he's been there

loves and takes care of the animals on his island

particularly fond of birds

also a big plant person

loves growing plants and has them absolutely everywhere

they each have names and he will introduce you to all of them if you'd let him

really sweet but being alone for so long has warped his idea of love vs obsession

he's doing his best

literally no one else is around, so he isn't particularly jealous or concerned about someone stealing you from him

he is concerned about you leaving, though

so if you try to leave, he will come up with reasons for you to stay

will start with stuff like "oh there's going to be a storm later today" and later shift to more unsavory approaches

once again, never anything that physically harms you

but will go to other extreme lengths to make sure you never leave (or even want to leave)

he is a god so probably the most dangerous? but because of the situation that side would never really come out

because he would never directly hurt you or attempt to physically harm you

(kidnapping is on the table though if you are PERSISTENT about leaving + actively taking steps to leave + talking you out of it doesn't work)

but yeah he's a silly little guy who has been left alone for too long and is now slightly insane

he's still a sweetiepie though :)

a/n: sorry for all the delays. i keep getting swamped with more work :/ and have been working furiously on that

i will have more free time once that is done though so hopefully the real parts + requests will be out soon (i am delusional)

anyways, i can go more in depth on each character and other details about them i might have forgotten to mention or brushed over if y'all want. just let me know!

[alrightbuckaroo]

home is wherever i'm with you

Carlos says, “I love you” in so many different ways, and TK loves each and every one of them.

There’s one place that I call home and that’s because you’re there.

         - The Birdcage (1996) dir. Mike Nichols

May 2021

Carlos says, “I love you” in so many different ways, and TK loves each and every one of them.

There’s the standard, “I love you,”; that’s the one that fills TK with so much warmth; it could help him survive a cold winter's night.

He’s particularly fond of “I made your favorite for dinner,”; that’s one that TK could hear Carlos say every single night, and he would never get sick of it.

He’s even more fond of, “This song made me think of you,”; that’s the one that makes TK realize just how lucky he is. Carlos hears a story of love and finds a way to find TK in it.

Then, there’s his favorite,“Call me when you get home.” Maybe it’s a cop-out; seeing as it might be the one TK hears him say the most.

He first heard Carlos say it the first night they met. At first, TK found it a little strange. He thought it was overkill, in a way; the night had meant nothing. They had meant nothing; nothing more than a good time and a distraction.

Regardless, TK called Carlos and told him he made it home. TK could hear the smile in Carlos’ voice when he said, “Good, I just wanted to make sure you got home safe.”

And TK, well TK didn’t really know how to respond to that. All his life, he felt like he was the one who was meant to take care of other people. Take care of them, watch over them, make sure they were, well, safe. Even if they never felt that way about him.

Having someone feel that same way about him was foreign. TK hated it, he loved it, and he hated that he loved it.

He tried to suppress that part of him that didn’t want to fall prey to this same old story, time and time again. He tried to fight it.

Eventually, he lost that fight; and every time Carlos told him to call him when he got home, he’s so glad that did.

Even after they made it official, walk hand and hand and throw around the term boyfriend like a weightless force; Carlos never stops saying it.

When he leaves, and heads back to a bed that doesn’t seem nearly as warm, Carlos will kiss him goodnight and say, “I love you, call me when you get home.”

TK feels like he was being loved twice as much.

December 2021

Carlos stares at the dinner table; set for just one. He tries not to think too much about the break-up; but he’s found that he’s made TK’s favorite for dinner once again. He looks at his front door, like he’s waiting for TK to walk through it.

He lies in bed that night; just wanting to know if TK’s safe, if he made it home. Even if that home isn’t with him.

January 2022

Carlos is convinced his heartbeat has started to fall in sync to beeping sound of TK’s heart monitor. He’s exhausted, fatigued, irritable and he knows that he’s not going anywhere.

Not until he’s sure TK is safe.

When TK wakes up, Carlos is the first person he sees and he thinks he might be dreaming. When Carlos places a hand on his cheek, TK can’t help himself. He pulls Carlos in closer, grasping onto his shirt; a way to ensure that Carlos is there. He’s still there.

In Carlos’ arms, TK feels safe. He feels like he’s home.

February 2022

Carlos is getting ready for bed, he’s in the bathroom brushing his teeth and thinking about the fact it’s no longer his home; but their home. He still has yet to exhale at the thought of it; as if waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He hears the front door open, and waits for TK to greet him with his usual, “Hi babe.” Instead, there’s a beat of silence followed by his phone ringing. It’s TK’s favorite song.

He walks out to the bedroom and grabs his phone off the night stand. He picks it up, the caller ID reading TK Strand with a bright red heart next to it. “Babe?” He questions, knowing TK’s already in the apartment.

“Hey babe,” TK peeks his head in the bedroom doorway, the phone still next to his ear. “I made it home.”

Yet another tumblr cross-post! I hope you enjoyed <3

[quoththemaiden]

@mrghostrat This is now the third time since December that I'm writing about your middle-aged men and their middle-aged-man problems (1, 2). Please come collect them, because they're causing a disturbance.

Or, if you aren't able to wrangle them, then please enjoy this scene inspired by Chapter 10 of Big Name Feelings.

For everyone who hasn't already seen the top portion of this on Discord, know that this is set sometime after the con but before the big bang.

—

"I think your hair might be getting long enough to braid now."

Crowley's eyes snapped over to him. "Braid?"

Aziraphale blinked at the sharp question. "I didn't mean anything by it." He'd still never figured out quite where Crowley's gender identity lay, or if it changed day-by-day. He suspected Crowley's public presentation of his gender was either "whatever's simplest for everyone involved" (around people he didn't know but generally liked, like at the con) or "whatever causes the most problems for everyone involved" (like with a particularly annoying security guard that had left Aziraphale remembering that being middle-aged, white, and extremely stuffy in appearance was its own form of armor). Aziraphale's own perception of Crowley's gender was just "Crowley." What Crowley felt about it was something Aziraphale had never quite managed to parse out. "You can do whatever you like—"

"Do you know how?"

"How...?"

"To braid hair." Crowley's tone was oddly urgent. "Like for your nieces or cousins or—"

"—for crafting, yes. Tassels for bookmarks and such. You want me to—" Crowley practically flinging himself down onto the sofa next to him was answer enough. "Oh."

Crowley's hair really was barely long enough to braid, Aziraphale decided as he gently freed it from its elastic band. He ran his fingers through it slowly and carefully, easing out the light tangles from a day's confinement. Crowley slumped forward in boneless contentment, and Aziraphale had to switch to prickling the top of his scalp with his fingernails to get him to sit up straight enough for Aziraphale to work.

Aziraphale determined his gameplan, then, and gently eased up a few locks of hair at the crown of Crowley's head, smoothing down the top with the flat of his palm. He started working the strands into a French braid, taking it tiny piece by tiny piece to ensure every section was balanced in size. If Crowley were doing it himself, he suspected he'd get it done in just five messy joins, but every strand he brought in gave Aziraphale another excuse to run his fingertips along Crowley's scalp and he luxuriated in each opportunity. "Has anyone ever told you your hair is unreasonably thick?" he murmured, his voice huskier with fond affection than he'd intended. Crowley spared him from a tease by being too utterly sedated to manage more than a vague hum in response. Aziraphale smiled at that and kept his progress blissfully slow and methodical until he had no choice but to tie the braid off at the nape of Crowley's neck — half a French braid, half a ponytail made bushy from having had waves worked into it. He placed a soft kiss to the back of Crowley's head, padded by the thickest part of Crowley's braid and somehow all the more intimate for it. "All done, love."

Crowley leaned back against Aziraphale's chest, tilting back his head to look up at him with eyes made impossibly soft with contentment. "I'm never putting my own hair up again. Just hope you know that."

Aziraphale chuckled softly, just as fond. "I'll manage somehow, I suppose."

—

Crowley's boneless appreciation of the hair braiding had turned into boneless napping, and while Aziraphale enjoyed having Crowley fall asleep against him at certain times of day, he had never been one for naps himself and there was a limit to how long he could stay motionless sans entertainment before even he got antsy. He eased his way out from under Crowley, grateful the other man was a heavy sleeper even during the day, and was left deciding what quiet amusement he could pursue until whenever Crowley woke up and started making noises about dinner. He could always read some fanfics, of course, but his eyes couldn't help but be drawn towards his favorite muse.

His muse who had, he recalled, tempted him into joining a rigged bang and had talked him into getting a digital tablet. Aziraphale still planned to do his official art for it traditionally, because he was sure Crowley's writing would deserve no less... and, if he was allowed to be vain in the privacy of his own mind, because he still remembered the feeling he'd had when Crowley responded to his scans with barely coherent keysmashing. He wasn't in deferential awe of Crowley anymore, although he still loved his writing just as much, but part of him still hoped that Crowley might respond with just as much enthusiasm at getting to see the finished piece in person, textured paper and unprocessed colors and all. Well, assuming he could be gutsy enough to actually give it to him in person instead of just leaving it on the drafting table for him to find, which was really the more statistically likely result. But anyway.

But anyway.

His muse was sleeping in front of him, and a stylus on an iPad would make hardly any noise at all. And if he got good enough at using it, maybe he could draw some extra digital art to celebrate the fic as well.

In any case, sketching Crowley while he slept was one of life's little joys. He didn't think Crowley knew how often he did it, and that was probably for the best. If he did it all in his notebook, it would have been too easy for Crowley to flip through and find the sketches (and removing sheets would have felt damnably like a guilty conscience). With his iPad, however, he was safe to sketch as much as he liked and there was no real way for Crowley to stumble across it. Aziraphale willfully shoved aside the thought that that didn't really sound any less guilty and started setting stylus to screen. It wasn't long until he'd settled into a comfortable rhythm, his eyes flicking back and forth between the screen and where Crowley was lying face-down on the sofa, his new braid highlighted in a beam of afternoon sunlight.

Something Aziraphale did appreciate about digital art was that white could be layered on top of other colors and be shockingly vibrant, which wasn't an effect he could get easily with his beloved watercolors. Something else watercolors didn't give him was the ability to pick out very fine details, and as his sketch started coming together, he found that was exactly what he wanted to do now. While Crowley's hair was a vibrant red in his selfies or on stage, when he'd had the opportunity to run his fingers through every strand, he'd found that Crowley's hair was showing his age just as much as his own was.

The first day Aziraphale had found a grey hair had come as a shock. He'd naively assumed that with his hair being as pale as it was, even if it started greying, he might well never know. Instead, he found that the grey hairs' texture was frustratingly different from the strands that were still blond, and until they reached a critical mass fifteen long years later, they had an unfortunate tendency to stick out unattractively if his cut was anything less than perfect. He had become quite a regular at his barber's.

With Crowley's hair being as long as it was, his grey hairs had worked smoothly into his braid. From even the small distance from couch to armchair, they melded into the red strands perfectly... but Aziraphale had just spent long minutes twining them into neat twists and didn't need to see them now to know they were there. Aziraphale zoomed in close (another marked benefit of the digital display) and set his pen to a thin, sharp line, layering sleek silver strands into the red braid he'd drawn. Following the way they weaved around each other and dipped in and out of view felt delightfully meditative.

Eventually, Crowley made a soft snuffling snort-groan as he roused from his nap, slowly turning to unbury his face from the pillows. "Wha' time'zit?" he mumbled, patting around blindly for his cellphone.

"Coming up on 5:30 now," Aziraphale replied softly, trying not to startle him into full wakefulness too quickly. He rose and fetched Crowley's phone, placing it gently into his fumbling hand. "There you go."

"Mmrrr. Don't need it now." Crowley tucked the phone under his side in what Aziraphale would have guessed would be a very uncomfortable fashion but which Crowley did without even thinking. At least it wouldn't be going anywhere from there, Aziraphale supposed. "What're you doin'?" Crowley made grabby hands at the iPad Aziraphale had brought over with him.

Aziraphale handed over the iPad without even one thought, much less a second. "Oh, I was just waiting for you to wake up, really."

"...Angel." Crowley had zoomed out on the picture (with a completely unsurprising lack of propriety) and was now staring, frozen and much more awake, at the drawing of himself. "You aren't going to post this on Tumblr, are you?"

Aziraphale laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of that, despite the ripple of shock Crowley's tense tone had caused him. "Come, now. When have I ever posted a drawing of you, my dear?"

"When have you ever made a drawing of me?" Crowley retorted. He waved vaguely at the screen, accidentally sparing Aziraphale from having to answer. "I don't mind being old, but I don't want the world knowing my boyfriend thinks I'm old." His frazzled waving turned a little more flaily.

"Crowley..." Aziraphale gently took the tablet back from him and set it down on the floor so he could take Crowley's hand in both of his. "I assure you, I'm not the kind of artist who spends my time drawing things I don't think are beautiful. And that includes every detail I put in."

Aziraphale would have hoped that was obvious, really. The strands of hair he had drawn weren't brittle grey; they were molten silver. They caught the light like a precious metal woven like a ribbon into cinnabar-red hair. Crowley could have been a queen, fallen asleep after a long day in her finery. He could have been a fae whose very essence was beauty, sleeping with no fear that it would be stolen away because it couldn't.

He could have been an ordinary man, who was so deeply, truly loved that even his grey hairs seemed to shine like the soft gleam of a newly-forged star when they caught the last strong beams of afternoon sunlight shining in through the windows.

Aziraphale hoped Crowley could see it, too.

Crowley made a grumpy noise. "I still don't want it on Tumblr. — Not that I can tell you what to do with your art, but—"

Aziraphale interrupted him with a warm smile. "I don't want it on Tumblr, either. I drew this just for me."

"...really? Even though...?"

"Just for me," Aziraphale whispered in confirmation, his eyes seeking out Crowley's and saving him from having to finish that sentence. "I've only ever drawn you for me." I love you to the point of creation, his heart sang. It wasn't quite how that quote went, he knew. It was the only way it had ever gone, for him.

"Hn..." Crowley shifted to look at the iPad where it lay down on the floor. "I suppose... Well. Despite the subject matter, you drew it well, at least."

"Well, thank you for that," Aziraphale jibed back lightly, completely devoid of malice.

"Ngh, you can't blame me for feeling self-conscious about my greys when you haven't got any."

Aziraphale let out a huff of a laugh. "Oh, Crowley."

"What?" Crowley looked defensive, then abruptly switched to looking shrewd. "Wait. Do you dye them??" He leaned forward eagerly, like this was taboo knowledge.

"Oh, where was that compliment two decades ago? No, not at all. Do you know how long I spent getting over feeling self-conscious about them, and now for you to not even realize I have them?"

"No way. You've been holding out on me!" Crowley's eyes had a light in them that Aziraphale had seen sometimes — the look of someone who has been wanting something very much and thinks he's just figured out how to get it. Aziraphale drew back instinctively in trepidation. He had no idea what Crowley could possibly be wanting, though a fluttering feeling in his chest suggested that it was, in some way, him.

Ridiculous. As if they hadn't had sex already.

"I'm going to go get dinner started."

Crowley let out a whine that cut off abruptly enough that Aziraphale suspected he actually hadn't intended to make it.

Aziraphale paused. "What?"

"Ehhh... just envious, s'all."

Aziraphale took a moment to muse about whether Crowley knew the difference between "envious" and "jealous" and decided, firmly, that he had faith that he did. "Of what?" he asked with an incredulous laugh, since he still had no idea what "envious" could possibly apply to here.

"Negghhh, you've gotten to play with my hair enough to know I have greys, and I haven't gotten to touch yours once."

Aziraphale blushed darkly at that, remembering some choice occasions in which Crowley had gripped his hair tightly enough to hurt. He cleared his throat and opted not to mention them. "That feels much more like your fault than mine."

"Just... tryin'a respect your boundaries, angel."

"Why would that be a boundary?" Aziraphale asked, baffled.

"I asked for it and you haven't."

Aziraphale didn't quite remember it that way, but it was a fair enough interpretation from Crowley's point of view, he supposed. "Well, no. It sounds perfectly nice, but I'd hate to bore you with it. I know you're much more fidgety than I am."

"Not bored," Crowley insisted, his eyes urgent. "Never bored when it's you, angel. Siddown."

Aziraphale laughed breathily. "Too late. I'm already up to cook dinner."

"Angel."

"You'll just have to wait," Aziraphale teased in a singsong lilt, casting a smile back at Crowley over his shoulder.

Crowley flung himself back on the couch with an impatient whine, leaving Aziraphale feeling very smug about his attempt at whatever the romantic equivalent of foreplay was. Crowley sounded very much like he was being left with blue balls. "Bastard."

"Only as much as you deserve, my dear," Aziraphale sang back as he went into the kitchen, acutely aware of Crowley's eyes following every step.

—

It wasn't really in question, at all, that Aziraphale would end the evening snuggled on the couch with Crowley's hands in his hair. There was also no question that he'd enjoy it thoroughly, and he also knew it wasn't the kind of thing that was likely to lead to anything more. So, instead, he just relaxed into it and let his thoughts drift.

"...do you really think I'd mind if my red fox turned into a silver fox?" he mused. The thought was languid, easy, relaxed. Crowley spluttered in incoherent surprise anyway, and Aziraphale laughed softly. "Yes, I know. There's a reason I'm not the writer of the pair."

"Y'are, though. Don't think I've forgotten that you are."

Aziraphale blushed a little at that. "Oh."

Crowley's hands resumed their meditative motion through Aziraphale's hair. "But... yeah. I'd rock it, wouldn't I?"

"You would," Aziraphale murmured with a smile. "And I'm quite looking forward to seeing it someday, my dear."

[mangotangerine]

have you ever thought, "what if vox isn't a sinner? what if vox is a construct of alastor's that accidentally gained sentience?"

no? ok well... um... read it anyway it's G R E A T. anyway this is one of the 52903523325 things i'm planning for after my two human AUs

alastor builds vox out of spare parts

A sprawling junkyard, just a hop-skip-jump away from Alastor’s home, is the landmark with which he uses to orient himself in the expansive and ever-growing Pentagram City. The very peak of it towers above many of the buildings in his little corner of the pentagram, somewhere in the unclaimed in-between next to Cannibal Town.

It’s a rusted monstrosity, an eyesore on the horizon, but Alastor has grown quite fond of it over the decades. It started as nothing more than a broken-down car, half-melted and abandoned in the nearby wastes—before it had been built over—and over the course of the next twenty-or-so years, people have taken to dumping any sort of metal or mechanical or rusted-up piece of trash into that very same lot. So many things here wilt and shrivel and fade, but the junkyard only grows.

He passes it on his way to Rosie’s Emporium, a trek he takes more than a couple times a week, or to the hidden gem of a speakeasy built underneath a whorehouse on the border to the entertainment district. He’d normally not head that way, what with its shining lights and the façade of modernity trying to cover up the filth of this place, but that little underground bar is the only one that has the whiskey he likes and the music from his time up-top.

He's on his way to Rosie’s, today, to consult on some territory dispute. Very official-sounding, until you learn consultation is slang for making food out of whichever lesser demon is stoking an overlord’s ire. As always, he glances toward the junkyard to see what new things might have been tossed away and abandoned. It’s rarely anything very interesting, really, but when it is, it’s snatched up near immediately by nearby demons looking to make a quick buck or take advantage of whatever treasure they’d found in the mound of trash.

Today’s additions are a set of rusty knives, one of those Fizzbots meant for sexual relations—that one isn’t going to stay there for long, surely someone will snatch it up right quick—and a cardboard box of what appears to be spare parts, some of them gleaming. It’s the gleaming that is odd—most things dumped here are at least half-rust or covered in some sort of unknown substance.

He checks his pocket watch. He’s in no hurry, and he has time to spare, so he wanders closer, taking care to step over anything particularly hazardous looking. He pokes at the box with the end of his microphone stick, startling a little when it breaks apart and the pieces spill out.

Even more startling is that he recognizes some of these parts. “Oh my,” he says, crouching down to look closer. A near mint-condition chassis to an old Philco 90, sadly gutted of its insides, and a variety of other bits and bobs and circuitry. How interesting.

He hesitates. What would he even do with these pieces? He has no need for radios, reconstructed or not, and he hasn’t done any tinkering in ages. But, well, he is growing rather bored since running out of compelling victims for his radio shows.

None of the parts look rusted and dangerous, nor are they covered in dirt or strange fluids. Maybe he’ll find something interesting. He magicks them back into the box and sends it on its way to his apartment. On a whim, he sends the old television that had been sitting in a corner, untouched and unwanted, back as well. He might not care to watch them, but it may have some electronic bits he can use for whatever he ends up doing with the spare parts.

Satisfied he’s gotten everything he needs from the junkyard, he continues on to Rosie’s to conduct his consultation. It’s some sort of venison, today, and Rosie knows how much he loves to consume creatures not unlike himself.

×

He fiddles around with the spare parts he’d gathered over the course of the next month, uses his magic to solder what needs soldering, to transmute scraps of copper coinage into traces on circuit boards and bend stubborn coils when his hands won’t do the trick, but nothing really comes of it. He’s got no inspiration, no purpose for any mechanical creation he might be able to put together with the miscellanea scattered atop his worktable, so he throws a dustcover over the entire thing and forgets about it.

×

Alastor meets his muse in an antiques shop. He’s perusing for a gift for Rosie. She likes cute little clockwork things from before electricity was so widespread—they remind her of her childhood, or so she says. He’s having very little luck finding anything, unfortunately. The overflowing shelves of the dimly-lit store are filled with trinkets more modern than what he’s looking for.

He turns a narrow corner, nearly knocking down a precariously perched bowl full of dusty marbles, and finds himself face-to-face with one of the most ghastly little creatures he’s ever seen in his entire life. A marionette hangs from the ceiling, a few strings missing, half of its faced burnt off and what looks like limbs from an entirely different puppet stitched onto its left side. Its remaining eye, glossy and deep, blood red, sparkles in the single ray of sunlight filtering through the murky windows. He tilts his head curiously and steps closer.

“It’s garnet,” somebody says behind him.

“Hm?” Alastor asks, twisting just enough to meet the speaker’s gaze. One must be polite, after all. He expects a sinner or one of the higher Hellborn, but it’s an imp who has caught his attention.

“The eye,” the imp says, gesturing. “Kinda creepy lookin’, ain’t it?”

Alastor’s smile thins and he nods, then turns back to the marionette. “How much for it?” he asks.

“The puppet?”

“No, the eye,” Alastor clarifies.

“I got the other eye that fell offa it, if ya want,” the imp offers. “Two for the price of one.”

“What’s the other eye made of? Garnet as well?” Alastor asks, turning to face the imp fully.

“Aquamarine,” the imp answers.

After a moment of thought, Alastor responds, “Sure, why not.” Five minutes later finds him outside the shop with two gemstones, no gift for Rosie, and an idea stuck in his head. He’s never made a puppet before, and certainly never a mechanical one, but he’s just bought two eyes for it so he might as well figure out what other parts he needs.

[astrronomemes]

THE SECRET HISTORY: STARTERS

a collection of quotes, phrases, and sayings from the 1992 novel The Secret History by Donna Tartt. change & alter as needed.

"I suppose, at one time in my life, I might have had any number of stories, but now there is no other. This is the only story I will ever be able to tell."

"If there's one thing I'm good at, it's lying on my feet. It's a sort of gift I have."

"I am nothing in my soul if not obsessive."

"He can't be all that elitist if he accepted me."

"Well, if he doesn't know, I'm not going to tell him."

"No person, no matter how beloved, can ever truly understand us."

"Bloody, terrible things are sometimes the most beautiful."

"Let God consume us, devour us, unstring our bones... then spit us out, reborn."

"I mean to say, [name] is a handsome fellow and a sterling character, but I wouldn't want to marry him, would I?"

"You had better watch out. I've heard some weird shit about those people."

"You're always saying that, [name], but I just don't think it's true."

"[Name], put me down. I'm bleeding all over you."

"You shouldn't push your friends away like that. The best friends you'll ever have are the ones you're making right now."

"I told you, I don't have any friends here."

"I think it's good to change the place where one sleeps from time to time. It gives one more interesting dreams."

"I mean, he's not what you think. Or what [name] thinks, or anybody else. For a while there, he had me fooled but good."

"The appeal to stop being yourself, even for a little while, is very great."

"You're being so nice about this. I feel awfully embarrassed by the whole thing."

"Well, you may or may not know this, but [name] is a little jealous of you."

"Jesus, [name], you know everything. You make me sick."

"They say the same about arsenic, but I wouldn't like to try it."

"Anything I do will be dangerous, you know."

"What do you and [name] need a secret code for?"

"A person can do an awful lot of talking in twelve hours."

"If we keep it as casual as possible, no one will give us a second glance. People don't pay attention to ninety percent of what they see."

"Really, there's nothing to worry about. It seems risky, but if you look at it logically, it couldn't be safer."

"Who do you think [name] would be more apt to believe?"

"Forgive me for being blunt, but if you think you have any influence over [name], you're sadly mistaken. He's not particularly fond of you, and if I may speak plainly, he never has been."

"There were some things you had to know, I suppose, but I feel I've done you a disservice by involving you this far."

"What is unthinkable is undoable."

"Anyway, you want to come to this party?"

"You idiot. Did you know your shirt is on inside out?"

"I had a dream tonight. You were in it."

"I need more than coffee."

"I'm embarrassed that people will think we went to see such bad movies."

"He knows we're lying. He just doesn't know what we're lying about."

"I prefer to think of it as a redistribution of matter."

"These guys will chop you up and put you in a garbage bag for twenty bucks."

"You know, we've done a terrible thing."

"You know, I'm really not attracted to you."

"Anything is grand if it's done on a large enough scale."

"You look as if you were in a barroom brawl."

"People get upset, all of a sudden they want to listen to old hippie garbage they would never listen to if they were in their right mind. When my cat died, I had to go out and borrow all these Simon & Garfunkel records."

"By the way, I've been meaning to ask, what did you do to your eye?"

"Murder is pollution. The murderer defiles everyone he comes into contact with. And the only way to purify blood is through blood."

"You amaze me. You think nothing exists if you can't see it."

"He loved you, too. He would have wanted you to know that. You know that, don't you, dear?"

"Do you think I should go to the hospital?"

"I didn't take anything. You know very well I didn't."

"I would've told them anything if I thought they'd send me home."

"I mean, I've been drinking a bit more than I should. I'm the first to admit that."

"I never brought your name up, man. I hardly fucking know you. But they got it from somewhere. And it wasn't from me."

"Look at [name]. Don't you just love him? If he called me up and asked me to marry him, I would do it in, like, one second."

"Is death really so terrible a thing? It seems terrible to you, because you are young, but who is to say he is not better off now than you are? Or — if death is a journey to another place — that you will not see him again?"

"I'm not taking sides. I just think whatever you're doing, you picked a bad time to do it."

"[Name], it's none of my business, but I hope for God's sake you know what you're doing."

"What the hell is wrong with you? Why do you have to make things so hard for everybody?!"

"You don't feel a great deal of emotion for other people, do you?"

"My life, for the most part, has been very stale and colorless. Dead, I mean. The world has always been an empty place to me."

"I know I said earlier that he was perfect, but he wasn't perfect. Far from it — he could be silly and vain and remote and often cruel, and still, we loved him, in spite of, because."

"Flesh and blood are frail and weak, and there comes a time when we have to transcend our teachers."

"I loved him more than my own father. I loved him more than anyone in the world."

"I don't care what happens to him. I don't care if he dies. I wish he was dead."

"[Name] can't hurt you. You're perfectly safe out here."

"Kidnap is not the word that I would use."

"So, you've come to kill me?"

"If you want to shoot me, [name], go ahead and do it. It'll be the stupidest thing you ever did in your life."

"The stupidest thing I ever did in my life was listening to you."

"I managed to get out of taking my French exams next week, due to the very excellent excuse of having a gunshot wound to the stomach."

"Forgive me, for all the things I did, but mostly for the ones I did not."

"You know, everybody is saying that you're dead."

"Are you happy here?"

[liftingdown]

How do i 🏋‍♀️ groceries their so big and idk how to just conceal food that quickly or get enough

.firstly, walk out are the best way to get the most stuff, but they are also the most difficult. that's not really an option on a weekly basis. literally just fill you cart, and walk out, often through the garden section of big box stores. people usually put things in reusable bags,

. 2 smaller items are easier then 1 big item. you not buying it, get the mini packaging. plus the nicer stuff is usually smaller, so double duty.

. stagger your grocery stores, try to go to a place less then once a month if possible, and work with smaller, more frequent trips across multiple stores rather then big trips once a week. this sucks balls if you have to walk, but you don't have to get groceries from grocery stores. dollar stores, bargain outlets, gas stations, drug stores, even things like department and craft stores do sell food. You can start to get a mental list of what you can get where, and where the easiest place to get stuff is. I'm particularly fond of doller treee, as it has refrigerated goods, is the easiest store your going to get, items are packaged in easily concealed servings, and there a lot of them so you can cycle through stores.

. conceal in the bread/bakery isle. like, double check your store first, but it usually has like no cameras, the clearance section is also usually a good bet. DO NOT STEAL IN THE DRUG OR BOOZE ISLE. if you want those things, 1 go to an easier store, and two take them to a different isle first.

. self check out fuckery used to work really well, but isn't a great option anymore. you might be able to get one or two things if the staff is dead inside, but you aren't going to be able to get like 90% off like you use to. obviously, get what you can, but I wouldn't count on it.

. look for blind spots, conceal (poorly if you have to) then go to the bathroom to readjusts. This creates doubt as to weather you stole it or just left it in the bathroom so you are less likely to get caught. it also means you can body conceal (more room).

.Put fruit and stuff into one of those reusable fruit bags, and then put the whole bag into purse, this is easier then doing it one at a time.

. if you see someone else shoplifting really badly, that's a good sign. check if they get caught to get a sense of how easy the store is.

. do not steal non grocery items at the same time, groceries are not what they are looking for, they are looking most of the time. avoid the electronic section like the pledge, as they keep a really strong eye on it, and might even name every person who enters and exits if the store is quiet enough.

. do not steal from targget , I mean, your personal one may vary, but in general, assume they have security out the ass. hole foods is either really easy or immediate fail.

. you will probably need to plan your space and go for as much space as possible. puffy skirt with legging under is a really go way to get a lot of space without being sus, but plan your outfit beforehand to maximize space and know how much you can fit before it starts getting lumpy.

also, if this is meeting a need instead of not being cheap, please for the love of god, supplement with a food bank. I used to work at one, and I can promise you, you won't be able to get everything necessarily, but supplementing you lifting with the infinity amount of day old panera bread that a food bank will give you is a great way to get more room for other stuff.

[another-lost-mc]

SATAN x gn!Reader 0.7k Words | SFW | Domestic Fluff | Suggestive -> Prompt: Bringing Home Flowers [ Obey Me! Masterlist ]

Exam week is difficult for everyone living at the House of Lamentation. Lucifer and most of his siblings spend as much time arguing about studying as they do actually studying. It's difficult to focus on your own stack of textbooks and papers when there's bickering echoing in the halls outside your room.

It's not a surprise when you study best when the house is quiet—ironically, this usually happens when Mammon and the others sneak away after dinner to go out and do something fun. Satan doesn't join them, even though you know they ask him to.

Meet me in the library after dinner, he tells you instead.

When you arrive, Satan is already seated and organizing his materials on the table in front of him. There's something out of place on the table, though—a small vase filled with violet night-blooming roses, a Devildom flower you're particularly fond of. You've never seen this particular colour of rose before, and there's rarely flowers in the library at all. You set your books down and wait for some sort of explanation. Satan smiles at you across the table, something soft and shy and a little mischievous, but then he taps his pen on your book and you get to work.

When you're done studying, Satan offers to tidy up. He starts putting books back on one of the shelves while you gather your own belongings. "Why don't you take those back to your room?" he suggests, eyes still scanning the shelves in front of him.

You know what he's talking about, and it's his only acknowledgement that the flowers were there at all. You take the vase back to your room—carefully, so it doesn't fall—and set it on your nightstand. The pleasant scent is soothing without being overwhelming. When you wake up, you touch the petals with your fingertips and smile.

It carries on that way for the rest of the week. Every night you join Satan in the library to study, and every night there's a vase of roses on the table between you. After you're done studying together, he shoos you back to your room for a good night's rest—oh, and don't forget the vase, hm?

By the time exams are finished, you have several small vases of roses scattered across your bedroom. Your room has never looked so vibrant or smelled so lovely. Each vase has its own bouquet of different coloured roses—violet, emerald, mauve, azure. You save a couple blooms of each to press for safekeeping.

You're elated the day you get your exam results back the afternoon before the weekend break. You might not have the nearly-flawless scores that Satan does, but his eyes twinkle happily when you offer him the paper so he can see your marks. You're glad you didn't disappoint him.

That evening you go back to your room after dinner and wonder what you'll do now that there's no reason to go to the library and study. You miss his company already. Satan spent so much time with you, and you feel guilty wanting to take up the first evening he's had to himself all week.

The brothers chatter excitedly about their newfound freedom (and ignore Lucifer's pointed comments that some of them barely studied at all). There's some dance at a club that Asmo wants to go to, but you tell him you're not interested. You assume Satan is going with them, though; when they rushed from the table, he excused himself too.

You eat a bit more slowly and go back to your room afterwards. You open the door with a sigh and expect to spend the next couple hours bored and alone. What you don't expect to see is a large, vibrant bouquet on your bedspread—it's filled with all the brilliant shades of roses already decorating your room, plus others you haven't seen before. Even in the Devildom, flowers of these colours aren't exactly easy to come by.

You pick up the small card attached to the bouquet. The note isn't signed, but you already know who sent them.

Congratulations. I'm so proud of you.

I'll be waiting for you in my room, if you'd like to join me.

In your haste to see him, you leave the bouquet on your bed and don't even think about putting them in a vase first.

(When you ask Satan between kisses if you should leave to put the flowers in water, he leads you to his bed and mumbles reassurances against your skin that they'll be fine until morning.)

[artficlly]

smog & spirits: pony club (mini-series)

Marvel 1920s Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

gangsterboss!bucky x witch!reader

Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and he needs a witch to help him break it.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, angst no comfort, previous abuse, domestic violence, curses and hexes, criminals & crime, 1920s street gangs, witchcraft, possession, mediums, ghosts, hauntings, horror, smoking, brothels, pubs, gambling, alcohol, cults, death/violence/torture, bucky barnes has issues, bucky barnes is a dick, police brutality, vaguely british setting??, sexism, classism, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 10.1k!!! oh my god someone help

A/N: god this has been on the go for awhile. it got so long but i have a worm in my brain that told me this had to happen before i can get onto the juicy stuff. next part will be a lot more bucky heavy im so sorry this didn't have much of him, needed to build up that loreeee. anyway i actually hate my writing in this, if i have to reread this one more time im gonna go crazy so i'm just gonna post it and go to bed lol!! sorry for any typos - not proof read and edited while half asleep lol.

taglist: @nash-dara

main masterlist | series masterlist

To be lulled into the false security that you would never see Bucky Barnes again was a foolish thought. 

Two months passed rather uneventfully. The handsome payment Bucky left you after your favour to him was far beyond your normal rates. A mixture of the gangster having deep pockets and, you suspected, an indication that all that had unfolded was to be kept quiet. 

So you had done just that. Your mouth had been sown shut, an invisible thread keeping your lips bound. There were so few people left in your life anyway that you didn’t feel like spilling details of a sex-based ritual with the limited relatives you had left. You weren’t particularly fond of them regardless; most you had not seen in years. 

You embraced the winter months as they settled across the city of Blackstone. The fog would roll in thick and dense, the clouds lingering over the port as Sootstone was cast into days of hoarfrosts. Icicles as long as your forearm hung from buildings and lamp-posts and was salt scattered across the wooden docks, where slippage was the worst. The homeless gathered in crowds around the Smokestack district, leeching off the warmth the factories produced. The ice and frosts were never white, unlike the country estates or wealthy garden districts. Smoke and ash continued to pour into the skies, tainting everything with a layer of black grit. 

You would see the Smog Boys in the streets often. Teams of the lower-ranking, younger lads would roam in packs, dipping in and out of the alleys. Even dressed in black, you could not make them out through the fog when they intended to disappear. Maybe it had been your brush with Bucky, but you began to notice them everywhere. Lurking in the markets, smoking by the docks, or sauntering by the smokestack factories. A small, stiff, knowing nod would be bestowed upon you if your gaze locked with theirs or if you lingered too long. As if they knew who you were. As if they had been instructed to keep an eye out for you. 

You could never leave the Smog Boys once you were inside. Whether you liked it or not, your fates were inextricably linked. You never knew when you might be needed. It shouldn’t have been a surprise to find one in your home. It is what you ought to have expected by now. It was only a matter of time before they came calling. 

You could only find one word to describe the woman in your kitchen. Beautiful. Beautiful in a hauntingly, terrifying way. She was stylish, with a blouse tucked into tailored, high-waisted suit pants. A lavish fur coat was draped over her shoulders, and her red hair was in a fashionable, blunt bob. Her lips, painted a deep red, were curved into a disgusted sneer as she assessed your residence. 

She had to be with Bucky because only a Smog Boy could illicit such an aura. 

“You should invest in better locks.” The redhead comments with a sniff. You haven’t even had a chance to process her presence; instead, you are standing with your lips parted in shock. “It wouldn’t be hard to rob you… or worse.”

You’re unsure if that was a thinly veiled threat or genuine advice. 

“Most don’t make habit of breakin’ into witches' homes.” You mutter, regaining your composure. You whip your headscarf off, abandoning it on your dining table. “They’re scared of being cursed.”

Your fingers unknot the woollen scarf around your neck now, tugging it free with a flutter of ash. The woman arches a well-manicured brow at you, looking you up and down. She doesn’t try to hide her judgement. She didn’t seem the type of woman to shy away from stating her opinion. Your clothing was noticeably different from hers, which was made of luxurious fabrics. The Smog Boys were well known for their finer suits—just because they lived and worked in the slums didn’t mean they dressed for it. Bucky seemed to like to keep certain appearances and had the funds to do so. You, however, were dressed for practicality. Heavy, cheap textiles that kept in the warmth. 

“Cursed.” The woman states, tone sharp. “You don’t seem the type to throw curses. You’re too… sweet.”

You don’t miss the condescending nature of how her sharp lips curve into a smile. You shoulder the insult. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Natasha. Romanoff.” The name was vaguely familiar to you. She was definitely one of Bucky’s inner circle. Possibly she worked closer to the shadows—a brain rather than brawn like Steve and Sam. “Barne is in need of your particular set of skills again.”

You pause, your fingers frozen over the pin in your mantle. Again? You knew to expect this, but still, you felt your heart uptick a beat. So soon? The question of which skills hung heavy in the air. Your abnormal skill to summon and banish spirits? To break curses and sense the otherworldly? Or to get your brains fucked out by Sootstone’s most notorious gangster? 

From the way Natasha was eyeing you, it seemed she knew all about your little sex ritual. 

“What if I’m unavailable?” You test hesitantly. 

The redhead isn’t amused. “It wasn’t a request.”

You nod slowly, hands falling to your sides. One should know when not to test Bucky Barnes or his men; it always ended rather unfavourably. Plus, you didn’t want to wake up tomorrow to find your kitchen filled with any more gangsters. 

Maybe Natasha was right about the locks.

—

Bucky and a pack of his dogs congregated in the streets outside the pub known as The Anchor. The establishment sat across from the docks, with tinted, lattice windows facing the port. On a clear day, one who sat in the window booths might be able to see the ocean. Though, throughout your life, you could recall about as many clear days as the fingers on your right hand. The Anchor had been in the Barnes family for years, originally bought by Bucky’s father when the Smog Boys first rose to infamy. 

The building was well cared for, a luxury not many of the surrounding establishments were familiar with. The building was decorated in a nautical style, with netting and flags adorning the walls and rafters. Fish and ships were painted onto the siding, with gold and blue accenting the furniture inside. Even the sign out front was a small, steel anchor engraved with the pub's name. 

The Anchor was mainly stocked with whiskey, which the Smog Boys ran an underground distillery for. They offered other spirits, wines, and ales, but the main vice of The Warrens was whiskey. Bucky had several underground or even legal businesses dotted throughout Sootstone, including gambling dens and brothels. You knew he made his office in a gambling den not too far from The Anchor—the dock-side streets were prime spots for high traffic from the sailors and dockworkers coming and going like the tide. 

As you and Natasha approached, the pack of adolescent gangsters surrounding Bucky scattered, disappearing into the thick fog and alleyways like wraiths. 

“Your witch, as requested,” Natasha announces with a sigh, her brows arched. Bucky glances at you, acknowledging you with little more than a grunt. He takes the last drag from his cigarette before crunching it beneath his shoe. 

“Thank you, Nat.” Bucky replies, smoke escaping his lips as he speaks. “Sam’s lookin’ for you inside.” 

Natasha doesn’t offer you a farewell as she pulls her coat tighter around her lean body and ducks inside the pub with a tsk. You and Bucky are left in an odd silence, with only the faint call of seagulls and the lapping of waves joining you. You had never seen the dockside street so quiet, but you could confidently assume his presence was responsible. 

“I trust Nat didn’t scare you too bad.” The gangster breaks the silence. His dark eyes wander across your frame, seemingly disappointed that you were thoroughly covered to prevent the cold from seeping in. “Would’ve come to get you myself, but I had some business to attend to.”

In retrospect, the thought of encountering Natasha in your kitchen again seemed more daunting than Bucky. You weren’t too sure how to interpret her malice and cool charm. She did give off the impression that she would kill you if you even breathed in her direction. As for Bucky, maybe he would kill you, but given his reputation, he was far more likely to fuck you up against the nearest available surface. 

“She said you've a job for me?” You ask, watching as the gangster tucks his large, bruised hands into his pockets. 

He cocks his head to the side. “Walk with me.”

You obey wordlessly.

Bucky navigates the streets with ease, ducking through alleys and blindly striding into the fog with unquestionable confidence. The few people you encounter in the winding streets dart out of the way, mumbling apologies and casting their gazes down as they stumble over their own feet. Your breath comes in clouds as you exhale, salt and ice crunching beneath your feet as you keep pace with him. 

“There’s an establishment I own, it’s been losin’ business these past months. The girls reckon it’s cursed. Or haunted.” He elaborates, and you frown. 

“You think a spirit’s attached?” You ask, and the gangster huffs out a short, bitter laugh. 

“I don’t fuckin’ know. I don’t have a sense for that stuff.” His lips are set in a line as he casts his sight down at you. “That’s your job, spirit-raiser.”

You can’t help but gulp and hope that his issue was indeed a spirit. One did not want to disappoint the gangster out of fear of the consequences. Your mind drifted back to months ago, to when he sat in your kitchen with that cursed necklace. He hadn’t noticed that curse—not until his sister apparently spelt it out for him. You couldn’t imagine carrying that thing around when it had reeked so badly that you tasted rot. 

“What about your sister?” You suddenly interrupt.

Bucky gives you an incredulous look. “Becca? What about her?” 

“You said she has a sense—”

“You think I’m lettin’ my sister near a brothel?” He snaps over you. His body turns to face you as you are both left motionless in the empty, ashy street. 

“Oh— I didn’t realise it was… You just said— I just assumed—” Your cheeks grow pink—this time not from the cold—as you stumble over your words. Flakes of ash slowly amble down from the sky, twirling in your mingled breath as the gangster looms over you. Several emotions flicker over his face—insult, disbelief—before finally settling on an eerie amusement. 

“Shy ‘bout a brothel? You’re not far off bein’ a whore yourself, doll. You certainly let me fuck you like one.” He leans closer to you, the scent of tobacco fanning across your skin. You clamp your jaw shut, your cheeks growing hotter by the second. The gangster smirks at you with a wickedness that rivals the devil. 

—

The Pony Club was not creatively named, like most things in Sootstone. You were sure there was an innuendo about riding or mounting buried in its origin. The brothel was buried deep in the busy streets of the Smokestack District. The crowd of workers parted with hushed whispers as you, Bucky, and Steve approached the establishment. You had bumped into the other gangster during your walk, and he had thankfully filled the tense silence hanging between you and Bucky. 

The Pony Club was neatly tucked between two stores. Ice covered the tiled roof, and grey-stained icicles dripped melted water from the front balcony. The ash falling from the sky was thick in these parts. Street sweepers patrolled the roads like small armies, brooms in tow, ensuring the roads were clear for carriages, waggons, and those on foot. 

The three of you paused before the building. Your eyes swept over the painted sign, an illustration of a pony alongside the cursive lettering. The building looks well up-kept like many of the Smog Boy establishments; it put its neighbours to shame. You couldn’t help but notice how, despite its busy location, the building was eerily empty. It was as if its walls stood outside of time, cursed to live an existence outside of perceivable reality. 

There was a twinge in your gut, a knowing. 

Steve grimaces beside you, the gangster scowling as he tucks his hands deep into his pockets. At first, you think he is simply cold from the frigid fog sitting over the city, but only as he speaks do you realise he senses something more. “I hate this place.” He utters.

Bucky hasn’t reacted. He truly didn’t seem to have a sense for anything otherworldly. 

“How does it make you feel?” You pry. Steve blinks at you in surprise, as if he hadn’t realised he spoke aloud. It would be useful for you to know how a non-magical person might feel; it could also give you insight as to what haunted the halls of the brothel. 

“Doesn’t encourage me to put my cock in some bird, that’s for sure. Bad for business, ‘cause that’s the whole point.” Steve grumbles, and you swear Bucky rolls his eyes. “How does it make you feel?”

The two men look at you with curiosity as you consider your words. Terrible? Awful? Yes, you felt unnerved, but you were accustomed to spirits and hauntings. Most places in this city had ghosts, whether they were malevolent or just lost. You had become unnervingly comfortable with the creeping sensation that you were not alone. It was an entirely different feeling to curses—no, curses, they twisted your gut in wicked ways—hauntings you were at ease with. There was an odd familiarity to them, it sparked a warmth in your soul. 

“Best I not say.” You land on. It would be better not to mess with the egos of gangsters, especially if they were afraid of a little ghost. 

The two men follow you as you step into the building. The inside is lavish, with a large, grand set of stairs that lead up to the mezzanine. Draperies hung from the balcony railings, and plush furniture, and decorations were artfully placed around the foyer. Despite its luxuriant appearance, there was an isolation that clung to the bones of the building. It was as if dust hung in the air, floating undisturbed. Not a breeze could get through the thick walls, nor could a breath of life. A place that was supposed to be rowdy, a den of sin and pleasure… silenced. As if it were a mausoleum. 

The building and those inside were lost in time, caught between a past that did not exist and a future that had not yet come. 

The peace is interrupted by a thundering noise, then shrieking. “Mr. Barnes! Oh, Mr. Barnes! So nice of you to come visit us!”

A few curious observers watch from over the bannisters. Beautiful women with tired eyes, hair swept up and curled into coiffures, and revealing dresses that clung to their curves. You suddenly felt rather overdressed in your winter clothes. 

An older woman descended the stairs in a frenzy, grinning from ear to ear. Her eyes were lined heavily with kohl, a bright pink blush across her cheeks, and lipstick to match. Her blonde curls bounced around her smooth face, a few longer strands following the dip of her dress. The madame of the brothel. 

Your lips purse together, and Bucky lets out a quiet sigh. “Madame Voss.”

“I trust you are here about the ghost?” The madame asks. She is rather excitable, like a puppy or a young child. Even Steve has grown uncharacteristically quiet, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and dread. “I told my girls you would be back to help! I said you were a busy man, but not to worry. We’ve lost a few since you were last here, Rose, Amorie, and Vivinne… but that is nothin’ to worry about. They were traitorous at heart—”

“Yes, I quite understand.” Bucky snaps over Madame Voss. Steve tries to hide a snort, and the madame is left momentarily speechless. “I’ve brought a witch.”

You feel the madame’s gaze rip from Bucky to you. She looks you up and down in one exaggerated sweep, then offers you a somewhat forced smile. She looks as if she is gritting her teeth as she drinks you in. You were left wondering if the madame had some type of unrequited infatuation with Bucky. Many of the women of Sootstone seemed to share such an attitude, especially if they did not have the wit to sense the danger attached to the handsome gangster. 

“She’s a bit too pretty for this business, don’t you think? I suppose all those witch women are a bit pretty. It’s usually glamours though, isn’t it?” There is an underlying spite to her tone as she assesses you, arms coming to fold over her chest. Her bosom is exaggerated, and her waistline is pulled pencil-thin by her corset. You are surprised the woman can breathe. “Well, are you wearin’ a glamour, girl?”

You hadn’t realised the madame was questioning you; actually, you found yourself rather overwhelmed by the whole display. Your lips part as you struggle to find your tongue and eventually stagger out a confused reply. “What?”

Madame Voss murmurs in annoyance, her arms uncrossed and hands coming to move in spirited gestures as she speaks. Bucky is staring at the ceiling as if bored out of his mind. “A glamour? You can’t tell me you normally look like that, all wide-fuckme-eyed?”

Steve makes a choking noise somewhere beside you while you gape at the madame. “No?”

“Huh.” 

“I work with spirits, not—” You cut yourself off, clearing your throat, and decide it was not worth the argument. “I’ll need some time to walk around ‘n get a feel for things. Maybe talk to some of the girls, if that is alright?”

“Fine by me.” Madame Voss waves you off, attention hastily pulled away as she turns to Bucky. “In the meantime, Mr Barnes, can I get you anythin’? Tea, biscuits… something else? You know my girls will always give you a discount—”

“Somethin’ to drink, perhaps. Somethin’ strong.” Bucky cuts off the Madame and claps Steve on the back. “What do you say, Steve?”

You got the impression that neither Bucky nor Steve liked this Voss woman. 

—

It did not take you long to explore the brothel in its entirety.

The establishment was compact and efficient. Downstairs was made up of the main foyer room, which was extended into a room similar to a drawing room. Tables made up the majority of the space, with playing cards and strong Smog Boys branded liquor decorated around the room. Comfortable furniture and suggestive art lined the walls. Out of view was a kitchen, a washroom, and madame’s office space, which Bucky would occasionally take residence in if dealing with business for the Pony Club. 

Upstairs was dedicated to private spaces, where the girls lived and worked. They were hesitant to speak with you, guarded and quiet. You did not get the sense that they were being abused or held against their will, but rather haunted by whatever spirit clung to the brothel. 

As the Pony Club slowly spiralled due to the haunting, many girls left. Business had grown to a standstill. The girls were plagued with nightmares and anxieties. The few that spoke to you recalled dreams of a dark figure who prowled through the halls, standing at the edges of their vision. At night, they would see the figure in the corners of their room, sitting on the edge of their bed. One girl even claimed the spirit sat upon her chest, that the mass had no face but two sets of shining white teeth that grinned down at her as she struggled to breathe. 

When the girls were not targeted by this mysterious figure, they were afflicted with memories of their past. Dark images would replay before them every time they closed their eyes until they awoke sweating and screaming. 

You bid farewell to an exhausted working girl by the name of Hanna. She sat on the bed, a woven blanket pulled over her shoulders. There was a distant look in her eyes as you quietly pulled the door shut, forcing yourself to inhale a deep breath as you stood on the empty mezzanine. There was an oppressive energy to the building, one that weighed down your chest as if someone were purposely crushing your ribcage. You knew your feelings were exaggerated due to your knowing, but there was certainly something potent enough here that even those with little to no sense could feel it. 

You slowly rotated around the mezzanine in thought, unsure where to begin. Most spirits had an anchor—an item, person, or space—that they bound themselves to. They used it to draw energy, recuperate, and recharge. In rare cases, a spirit might bind to an entire house, causing lesions and pus to drip from the walls. But in your experience, those houses had sat abandoned for years, decades, or even more. The house itself would become sentient, dripping with malice and blinded by rage for those who created it, only to leave it abandoned. That was a festering type of haunting, one of anguish and loneliness, but this… this brothel was active. There had once been clients, and multiple women still lived within its walls. So, where was the anchor? Nothing had screamed out to you; nothing had made bile churn in your stomach or your hair stand up on end—

You froze.

You were a few paces away from the staircase, your mind swimming in thought, and—

A dark mass stood on the top step. 

It watched you.

You couldn't make out the eyes or the shape of any humanoid body part. It just stood there, a black cloud over the staircase. But still, you could feel it watching.

And then it smiled. 

It smiled wide, yet it did not seem to have a jaw. There was no skull, nothing solid within its mass. Several pearly white teeth smiled at you, spiralling into a gaping hole. The pungent smell of decaying meat filled the air as the mist contorted and pulsated in a sickening rhythm while observing you.

Before you could even consider speaking or moving, the mass had swept down the staircase, disappearing from your view. You raced to the bannisters, leaning over as far as you could without launching yourself over the edge. Loose strands of hair danced around your face as you darted your head. You could still not make out the spirit. 

By the time you gathered your skirts and descended the staircase, you found the foyer empty. You could hear the distant trill of Madame Voss's voice deeper within the building, near the kitchen.

There was still that lingering oppression, an uneasiness that squeezed your chest. Regardless of how many times you whirled around, blindly scanning the foyer, you were unable to find a trail where the sensation intensified. 

Clenching your teeth together, you let out a sharp sigh and balled your hands into fists. You paused in one of the corners of the foyer, allowing the blood pumping in your ears to calm and your muscles to relax. You blocked out the distant voices, instead focusing on the hum of the environment. You were frustrated, yes, and maybe a little scared. Not of the spirit, but rather how Bucky might react if you told him that you couldn’t banish this ghost. Not because you were too weak or unaware of how to handle it—you were very much prepared in both areas—but because you couldn’t find it?

You were skilled at finding hidden anchors, but it was difficult to focus when you felt immense pressure on your shoulders alone. You closed your eyes and listened intently. You could feel each speck of dust swirling through the air and hear every small sound the walls and floors made as the wood settled. You could hear each fibre of the rug rustle as you gently tip-toed across the room, following an invisible line.

The string was knotted in a complex pattern, similar to a spiderweb. You could feel it brushing over your skin as you moved, growing taut as it tangled around your body. You pushed through the sensation as if wading into a pool of water, stepping deeper and deeper into its strands as they layered over your skin and clothes.

Then, a tug.

A slight tremor, a warbling as a single line was set alight in your mind. The spider—your ghost—was circling you like prey.

You grasped the string, following its current blindly through the foyer. You stumbled around furniture, tripping over the edge of a rug and—

The floorboard creaked beneath you.

It wasn’t a typical creak—not one of an old building or a settling house. No. The creak resonated through your mind, deafening you. Your hands rose to your ears, the shrieking growing louder and louder as you fell to your knees, wincing. The fibres of the rug bit into your skin, sending a rush of electricity coursing through your veins. Under the rug, the floorboard made a hollow thud, loud enough that your ears were ringing from the volume. 

You gasped in a breath, violently ripping yourself from your secondary state until you crashed back to reality. Panting, you found yourself crouched over the rug, fingernails dug into the fabric as you wheezed and panted. A cold sweat covered your body, your head aching as you tried to roll the discomfort from your shoulders. 

“I think there’s somethin’ wrong with your witch, Mr Barnes.” Madame Voss spoke in a sing-song fashion as she entered the foyer, a condescending look in her eyes as she stared down at you. You wiped the sweat from your brow, forcing your wobbling legs to rise. 

“It’s underneath,” was all you were able to reply, your voice raspy as you stalked to the corner of the rug.

"Ominous," the madame retorted, her brows arched. Her gaze cast back to the two gangsters who watched from the entrance to the room. There was a curiosity in their stare, hands tucked in their pockets as you worked. You gripped the corner of the rug, peeling it away from the floor. Underneath, everything looked perfectly in order, with well-polished hardwood panels lined up in unison. Carefully, you walked the length, tapping your shoe on each floorboard.

“Well, you do know what they say… with magic comes madness!” Voss announced with a sly grin, her hands moving to flourish her words. Bucky cocked his head to the side, emitting a sharp exhale through his flared nostrils. 

"Let her work," he spoke up, and the tension in the room mounted. The madame's disapproving scowl only added to the oppressive atmosphere. The room fell into an almost palpable silence, broken only by the sound of your tapping as you methodically sought out the hollow board once more. You could sense the growing impatience of the group as you painstakingly worked, with each floorboard sounding as solid as the next. 

Just as Bucky appeared poised to call off your efforts, the floorboard beneath you emitted a hollow thud that reverberated through the space below. You tapped again, feeling the same hollow thudding from the adjacent boards. Looking up at Bucky, you gestured toward the floor, affirming, “It’s underneath.” 

Madame Voss gaped in astonishment at you and then turned her incredulous gaze towards the two gangsters. “Underneath? Underneath! This must be some kind of magical trick—in all my years working in this establishment, I have never heard of a basement or cellar!”

As Bucky waved at the woman, he made a disdainful noise in dismissal. The madame fluffed up, muttering under her breath in flustered embarrassment, and then stalked away a few paces. Bucky and Steve soon joined you, watching intently as you blindly felt around the edges of the wooden panels. As you investigated, your fingertips discovered finely carved grooves hidden within the wood—imperceptible to the casual observer but discernible to those who sought them out. The edges of the indents provided a perfect grip for you to dig your nails into the wood, allowing you to pry the board from the floor with little effort.

The three of you peered into the space below through the thin gap. It was pitch black, but you could make out some rickety stairs descending into the inky dark. A thick layer of dust sat upon the steps, a musty smell hitting your nose. 

You sat back on your haunches, peering closely at the board you had just managed to pry up. The wood was marred with deep gouges as if some kind of wild animal had relentlessly scratched and clawed at the panel. As you tentatively ran your finger across the rough and battered surface, a sense of unease settled in the pit of your stomach, sending a sickly shudder up your spine.

“Did you know this was here?” Steve mutters to Bucky from somewhere above you. 

You continued peeling up each of the loose boards, using the indents to grip the wood with your nails. The disgusting, nauseating feeling intensified as it became apparent that every panel had identical deep gouges carved into the wood.

“No,” Bucky replies, his voice hushed. 

When the hole is completely visible, you sink onto your knees. Now that light was flowing in, you could see more clearly. The dusty, ancient stairs descend to a stone floor. The stone appeared dry but extremely dusty. What appeared to be large, old wooden barrels and the beginnings of shelving against the walls were visible in the beam of light. You peer up at Bucky and Steve, who tower over you, and resist the urge to squirm as Bucky meets your gaze. 

“This is the anchor.” You explain, and Steve’s face twists, perplexed. 

“The pub—?”

“No. Spirits they… they bind themselves to something. An object, a person, a room. This is where the haunting originates.” You clarify and gradually rise to your feet, taking care not to collide with either of the men. 

You take a hesitant step down, the stair beneath groaning under your weight. You swallow hard, then spin in place to look back up at the gangsters who watch you expectantly. “I might need a candle.”

Without glancing back, Bucky clicks his finger at Madame Voss, who is attempting to peer into the mysterious room from her perch. “Voss. Candle.”

The madam, clearly exasperated, lets out a loud huff before turning on her heel and disappearing into one of the adjacent rooms. There is still a distinct taste of tension in the air.

“Looks like your old man's been a naughty boy.” Steve teases, a boyish smile emerging. Bucky remains silent, choosing not to dignify the gangster's comment with a reply. Their dynamic left you contemplating the depth of their relationship, especially since you had heard that Barnes was not particularly kind to those who mentioned his father. While Bucky's gaze remained blank and unmoving, you couldn't help but notice a subtle twitch in his jaw, betraying a suppressed reaction.

The Smog Boys were infamous for their cruelty towards their enemies, anyone who crossed them, and those who betrayed their trust. Bucky, in particular, was known for his ruthless approach to dealing with anyone who stood in his way. He carried out his actions silently and brutally, and by the next morning, everyone in The Warrens knew that Barnes had spilt blood. Despite the fear he instilled in others, Bucky remained calm and collected. He was a strategic thinker and planner, and he took pleasure in the sadistic ways his plans unfolded. Despite his fearsome reputation, he was still not as notorious as his father. 

His father exhibited a striking lack of cunning, care, or thoughtfulness in his approach. The Warrens endured a dreadful existence as George Barnes succumbed to alcohol-induced rampages. He embodied sheer strength, a fierce warrior whose white-hot rage could melt the most hardened of hoarfrosts. He instilled fear without cause, displaying psychopathic tendencies and craving notoriety through any means necessary. He bolstered the Smog Boys fostering terror through street attacks, gang wars, or burning entire buildings down as a message. Upon Bucky's ascension, the business adopted a quieter and more devious approach. Bucky was all about making money in a quick, quiet, and dirty way. His enemies didn't fear him because they knew what he was capable of, but rather because they never knew, and Bucky knew how to up the ante each time.

Around seven years ago, George had been arrested. He had been too loud and confident in his approach, and the coppers had snagged him. Bucky ran the business for his father, and the Smog Boys boomed with success. His father was set to go on trial, and it wasn’t an unknown fact that the judge had paid off. George Barnes was set to walk free and take over the business again. 

Two days before the trial, he was discovered dead in his cell, his body bearing the marks of a brutal, mysterious beating. There was no trace of evidence to scrutinise, and the guards remained silent, neither admitting guilt nor pointing fingers. The law turned a blind eye to the demise of a notorious criminal under their watch, and the incident was quickly swept under the rug, forgotten within hours. Bucky vehemently denied any involvement. He put on a public display of mourning, cursing the authorities and vowing vengeance, though his threats never materialized. It's also worth noting that Bucky shared a particularly close bond with his mother, Winnifred, who herself was not spared from the brutality of her husband. It was common knowledge that, behind closed doors, Winnifred, Bucky, and his younger sister Becca endured all manner of cruelty at the fists of George Barnes.

Years had passed since those fateful events, and Bucky's ascension to power remained unquestioned. No one dared challenge his authority, fearing both the brutal consequences and because The Warrens had silently celebrated in the wake of Senior Barnes' untimely demise.

The sound of Madame Voss' heels clicking against the hardwood floor signalled her return. You took the candle gratefully, eager to escape the awkward tension, and descended into the gloom.

The old wood stairs protest with every step, emitting squeaks and groans under your weight. Your sweeping skirts brush a fine layer of dust into the air, shimmering in the weak candlelight that struggles to pierce the shadows of the small, dimly lit room. You could only describe the space as a cellar, with its stone walls and floors exuding an eerie, uncomfortable atmosphere. Thick metal bolts secure wooden shelves laden with countless large glass bottles, while large barrels, shrouded in heavy blankets of dust, crowd the square room. In the dim corners, dense cobwebs collect. A place long forgotten.

Bucky and Steve carefully made their way down the creaky stairs as you delicately balanced the flickering candle on the edge of one of the dusty barrels. As you wipe away the accumulated grime, you uncover a label imprinted on the lid:  Property of SMOG BOYS—George Barnes. You squinted at the words in the low light, moving to the next as you tried to understand what was in these barrels. 

Behind you, Steve had grabbed hold of one of the large glass bottles and uncorked it with a sharp pop! He raised it to his nose, took a sniff, and then emitted a loud holler. "Shit, Buck. This is moonshine."

Bucky let out a grumbling noise of recognition, inspecting one of the barrels. “It must’ve been a storage space from the distillery. These barrels look like whiskey.” 

The two gangsters gathered near the barrels, muttering between themselves. 

“You sure he never mentioned this to you?”

“I’m sure. Don’t know why he was so determined to hide a bit of liquor. We have plenty of warehouses for this—”

You rounded the barrels, venturing deeper into the room. A row of shelves faced the centre of the room, with a narrow space between them that you could slip through. The candlelight barely reached the other side, obscured by the layers of barrels and bottles. You blindly stumbled into the empty space, feeling a familiar, thrumming sensation.

Invisible strings tangled at your ankles as you pushed deeper into the darkness, the warm flicker of candlelight barely illuminating what lay within. There, in the centre of the room, stood a solitary chair—a simple wooden chair. The thrumming grew louder, your heart pulsating as you gaped down at it. Thick sailor ropes coiled tightly around each arm and leg, faded remnants of blood splattered across the cold stone floor beneath. The oppressive atmosphere seemed to close in around you, the air heavy with a sense of foreboding—

You jumped out of your skin as a hand rested on your shoulder. Bucky had followed you through the shelves. His eyes mirrored the unease that churned in your stomach, his face etched with a deep, troubled frown. You felt urged to speak up and console the man but you knew better than to fall into that trap. His presence was disturbingly comforting as if the dangerous gangster were not the apex predator in the room. All you could do was gape, tearing your vision away from the chair as you stumbled back a few paces. 

As quickly as you had found solace in the man, it was torn away. He stalked toward you, finger pointed as he jabbed it into your sternum. His eyes had glazed over, a thunderous rage taking shape. You sensed it was a defence mechanism, a way to intimidate you because you had seen something you weren’t supposed to—something that shocked even him.

“Not a word. You understand?” he hissed, his large, sculpted frame towering over you. You shrank back, your spine meeting the shelving, causing the moonshine bottles to clink together.

You knew what this place was. A hidden place. A forgotten place. A place where torture and death had been carried out. An echo from the past. A whisper on the wind that spoke the name George Barnes.

This was the kind of business Bucky kept meticulously hidden—a necessary evil shrouded in secrecy. Bodies were found only if he wanted to send a message. You were certain there were countless other hidden, unmarked graves. Bucky was too clever to be undone by a rogue body or misplaced trust. Every action he took was calculated to ensure it could never be traced back to the Smog Boys. Of course, everyone knew it was them, but legally proving their involvement was another matter. Despite the gang's reputation for being untouchable, the coppers constantly searched for any loophole to bring them down. Bucky's entire operation could unravel if the wrong person discovered incriminating evidence.

For all your understanding, The Pony Club was one of the few legitimate businesses under the Barnes name. If an enemy of the Smog Boys discovered a way to link this grim scene to the underground crime network Bucky managed? It could spell disaster. 

“Do you understand?” Bucky repeated, his voice dripping with venom. This was a side of him you had heard rumours of but had never witnessed yourself. This was the leader of the Smog Boys. This was the Bucky that made Sootstone cower.

You swallowed hard, nodding as you huddled against the shelves.

The gangster ran a hand through his hair in frustration. You could sense the conflict in his eyes as they darted between you and the chair. After rubbing his chin and jaw, he finally settled on resting a hand on your shoulder again, an oddly tender touch. His head dipped, and he muttered in your ear, “I need this ghost gone. Now, doll. I think it's best no one else sees my father’s handiwork.”

“I can—I can do that,” you stammered. The gangster gave you a slow nod, exhaled sharply, and then turned on his heels.

In the sudden emptiness, the thrumming in your ears became deafening, a relentless pulse that drowned out all other sounds. Your ears rang with a piercing intensity, and your breath quickened, coming in short, ragged gasps. The room seemed to close in around you, now suffocatingly tight. The walls pressed inward, and the air grew thick and heavy as if it were pushing against your chest. You felt an overwhelming sense of dread creeping into your bones, a cold, insidious fear that wrapped itself around your heart. Somewhere in the background of it all, Steve yelped. 

At first, you could not hear his distress, not over the noise in your head. It was only as Bucky paused by the narrow opening between the shelves, his eyes snapping to yours, that you heard Steve again—frantic shouts piercing through the deafening roar of a fire, overwhelming even the clamour in your head.

You move quicker than Bucky, darting through the shelves back into the candlelight.

Except it wasn’t the candlelight that lit the room in a blinding glow, but instead a figure engulfed in flame. You could make out bludged eyes and an agape mouth through the tendrils, which licked up the figure in a violent blaze. Steve was pinned with his back against one of the barrels as the figure, screaming and writhing, hurtled towards him.  

You hurry forward, positioning yourself between Steve and the burning figure. Steve grabbed your arm, pulling you closer as he shouted, "What the fuck?!"

The fiery figure hesitates, its swollen, bloodshot eyes flitting between Steve and you in confusion. Bucky had pulled what appeared to be a knife from his pocket and was circling the scene. Your brows furrow as you give him a puzzled look and free yourself from Steve's grip. 

“Put it away!” You bark over the roar. Bucky cocks his head to one side, both of you mutually surprised that you had found your voice. As you approach the figure, it retreats, the flames quickly extinguishing. Your ears ring as silence falls. The spirit has transformed into a black mass again, its shape twisting and jittering as it swings its gaze between the three of you. 

“It can read your memories. It feeds off fear and pain.” You explain to the two gangsters, hesitantly stepping forward once more. The spirit centres its eyes solely on you. “It shows you your darkest memories, the ones you've buried. It’s tryna scare you.” 

You do not dwell on whatever memory Steve was plagued by.

The spirit shifted once more, the dark mass disappearing into the shadows. You shallow your breath, quickly scanning the room before turning to Barnes. “The chair is the anchor. The spirit needs to be unbound.”

“And how do you do that?” He asks in reply, nostrils flaring. You step into the centre of the room, peering through the shelves into the dark space. Dread curled in your stomach as your eyes roamed the chair.

“I could destroy it or cleanse it—”

“Where's your mother, girl?” A familiar, slurred voice reverberated through the dimly lit room, sending shivers down your spine. Your entire body tensed, and your heart seemed to clench in your chest as a surge of fear momentarily halted you in your tracks. The acrid scent of alcohol mixed with the pungent odour of sweat hung heavy in the air. The heavy, unsteady footsteps of a large man reverberated over the stone floors.

“She’s sick.” A child's voice replied. Your voice. 

In front of you appeared a vivid scene. Your father, in a state of intoxication, stood before you. His body was angled in such a way that only the profile of his face was visible. His clothing was tattered, and the floors bore marks of mud and filth from his worn boots. His hair was dishevelled and sprinkled with ash, and his flushed face glistened with sweat. Facing him was a much younger version of yourself. You estimated her to be around eight years old, judging by the length of her hair and the ragged dress clinging to her emaciated frame. The child cowered against a door, her limbs trembling in fear.

“Sick? That damn woman is always sick. Get out of the way, girl, I need to speak with my wife.” Your father slurs, lurching forward. The child held steady, her back pressed defiantly against the door. 

“You can’t, she’s sleeping—”

A resounding crack echoed through the room as your father’s palm connected forcefully with her cheek. The impact sent her sprawling to the floor, a soft whimper escaping her lips as she fell. Tears shimmered in her wide, frightened eyes, reflecting the harsh light as they welled up and spilt over her cheeks. The room seems to hold its breath in the aftermath, the sharp sound of the slap lingering. 

“What’s this? Who’s that?” Steve spoke up from beside you. You had almost entirely forgotten that the two men were still in the cellar with you. Bucky watches on with morbid curiosity, but you do notice how the muscles in his jaw tighten. 

“A memory.” You mutter back. You urge your feet to move, but you feel as though you are wading through waist-deep water. 

“Some gall you have to be telling me what I can and can’t do in my own home, girl!” Your father charges through the door, his eyes wild and unseeing as he drunkenly stumbles over your younger self's frail body. Ignoring your cries, he leaves her sprawled on the floor, the door slamming shut with a jarring finality before she can react. Muffled shouting and screaming rise from beyond, chaos that drowns out her sobs. The child curls into a ball on the cold floor, trembling and sobbing as the shrieking grows louder. The walls thud and shake with the force of his rage, each violent sound echoing through the small room, amplifying the terror that grips her small frame.

“You’re not welcome here, spirit,” your voice cuts through the unfolding nightmare with unwavering authority. You can feel Bucky’s gaze burning into you, but you tilt your head defiantly. Momentarily sucked into the horror of it all, but now you stand unshaken. The scene pauses, and the child freezes in place as the shouting and banging abruptly stop. The spirit seems to contemplate your words, its image flickering before dissolving into a dark fog that settles in a dense layer across the stone floors. 

“I think destroying it would be easiest.” You mumble to the gangsters. Bucky’s lips were set in a fine line, his jaw still clenched, while Steve eyed you warily. “Burning it would be the best way.”

As if in response to your comment, the room burst to life once more. The two men stand on either side of you as if their curiosity is too much to dismiss as they realise it is another of your memories. 

This time, the version of you was older. A teenager. She perched on the edge of the docks, her legs dangling into the waters below. Next to her sits a boy roughly the same age. The two of them laugh and indulge in a shared bag of colourful, sugary treats.

“My dad keeps askin’ after you.” The boy says. Michael. Your gut twists. You knew what was to come. 

“I’m not joinin’ your dad’s weird cult.” She giggles, popping a boiled sweet into her mouth with a lopsided grin. Her hair was loose, uncaring as the breeze tangled it and ash fell from the skies. 

“He keeps goin’ on about how you’re some saviour—”

“Ew.” She replies, nose scrunching. The teen leans back on her palms with a sigh, looking across the docks. “You know me and my mum aren’t interested in that stuff. I’m not desperate like those other witches he tricks into joining. Frankly, I’m surprised you’ve held on this long, you’re what? Seventeen? Why don’t you just get a job in one of the factories and get the hell out of there?”

Michael appears displeased by her response. You had never previously noticed, despite replaying the memory in your mind numerous times. In the past, you believed you were being helpful, perhaps even clever. You could see the wrinkle of discomfort in the boy’s face now. You knew all too well that breaking free from his father's control was never as easy as moving out. You had been naive to believe that. Michael had not called you a fool, which was probably a small act of kindness on his part.  

“How’s your mum?” He asks, gaze cast to the side to look at the teen’s profile. She shrugs, sucking on the sweet in thought. 

“Still sick. We saw that healer in the Smokestacks, said he might be able to do somethin’ about it.”

“You know my family could help—”

The teen gives him an irritated look. “You know my mum doesn’t want your help. She doesn’t even want me hangin’ out with you.”

The tranquillity of the scene had captivated you to the point where you lost awareness of your surroundings. It was only the looming sense of dread for what was about to unfold, the feeling of Bucky's sleeve brushing against your arm, and the audible, sharp intake of breath from Steve that jolted you back to reality.

“Oi! Lookie here! It’s—” The shout of a copper was warbled as you strode forward, the memory rippling like a pool of water. 

You had to prevent what was about to happen. You couldn't let Bucky see how everything truly unfolded. You knew you should have stopped it before it went this far. You shouldn't have allowed yourself to get pulled into this memory. Yet, there was a bittersweet comfort in seeing him again, remembering him as he was before everything went so wrong.

“Probably shouldn’t burn it down here. Those barrels catch and this place will explode.” You mutter under your breath, trying to ignore the sickness churning in your stomach as you approach the chair. As you draw closer, your eyes catch the gruesome details etched into the wood. Dark, crusted blood is splattered across the seat, each fleck and smear a silent testament. Streaks of crimson have seeped into the grain, staining the wood in a macabre pattern. The iron tang of old blood hangs in the air, mixing with the musty dampness of the room. Your hair stands on end and your nerves tingle as a shiver runs down your spine. The closer you stand, the more uneasy energy pulses through you. Summoning your courage, you grip one of the chair's arms and yank with all your strength—only to find it bolted firmly to the floor. 

Your stomach drops. 

You needed to get the two men out of this cellar and defeat this spirit yourself. You couldn’t stand their gazes upon you, waiting expectantly. You roll your shoulders, twisting your neck as a tight, itching sensation settles over your skin. You weren’t afraid of the memories, but rather the reaction to them. You didn’t want sympathy. Most of all, you didn’t want to be feared—to be viewed as a weapon. 

You knew that was what the Smog Boys truly desired—a tool to complete their dirty work. 

The memory came to life around you once more, stronger and more vivid. Michael was sprawled on the floor, beaten and bloodied, his face a mess of bruises and cuts. The coppers, young and full of arrogance, stood above him, their laughter echoing in the confined space. They were eager to prove themselves, and they relished every moment of his suffering, laying blow after blow into his broken body. Their cackles filled the room, mingling with the sickening thuds of their fists and boots against his flesh. 

“Let me go!” Your head swivels as you look to the other side of the room. There, the teenage version of you is held back by two men with bruising grips, their hands digging painfully into her arms. Tears streamed down her face, carving glistening tracks through the grime and dust. Her eyes are wide with terror and helpless rage as she struggles and screams, her voice raw and desperate. The men restraining her exchange smirks, their expressions cold and indifferent to her anguish. The room seems to close in around you now, the walls reverberating with the echoes of her cries and the relentless thudding of blows landing on Michael. You were powerless, trapped in a living nightmare.

You needed to stop this—

There was a loud crunch, the agonising sound of bone snapping and shattering under a steel-toe boot. Michael has grown still, his body is no longer convulsing with pain. His face was unrecognisable—a grotesque mask of bruises and blood, the features obliterated by the relentless assault. His skull is misshapen, cracked open against the stone curb, a dark pool of blood is spreading beneath him.

Somewhere in the distance, the past version of you wails, a heart-wrenching sound that seems to come from the depths of her soul.

She was scrambling on her knees over the filthy streets, her body shaking with sobs as she gripped Michael’s lifeless form. Her fingers, trembling and desperate, searched for any sign of life, but you knew now that it was pointless. Michael was dead. He had died the moment they cracked his skull open. Blood smears her hands and clothes as she clings to him, her tears mixing with the grime on the ground.

She shakes his body, begging him to wake up. The coppers continue to snicker amongst themselves. They are unphased by the blood and flesh painted across their boots, their faces twisted in smug satisfaction. 

“That’s enough now.” You spoke up in the present, tone low and warning. The spirit hesitates, and the teen pauses, her body relaxing as the sobbing stops. Her head twists around, her eyes a milky white as she looks directly through you. 

“I know what you are.” The spirit spoke through the memory of you. Her gaze shifted to look at the coppers. Their figures are silent, but their shoulders shake with laughter, an amused indifference as they watch the suffering before them. “Spirit-raiser…diviner…light-bringer.”

Her eyes start to glow, a bright white that blinds the room. You know what is to come. You know what happens next. The shelves and barrels begin to rattle around you, and dust is stirred up into clouds. You could hear Steve swearing somewhere behind. Her sights move to the coppers, a knowing smirk fading into a cruel frown. Her hand raises into the air, fingers moving to snap—

Your hand has subconsciously raised. The ground trembles beneath you. It isn’t from the past; it is present. It was you at this exact moment, touching your fingers together. The ceiling above you groans, bottles of moonshine shattering across the floors as they fall. Behind you, Bucky and Steve yell over the commotion, calling to you. You can feel the crackle of electricity in the air and map every particle that flutters in the air. The chaos rises in your chest as you summon it forward. The crackle of energy grows higher and higher until the tingling sensation meets your fingertips. 

You snap your fingers, and a deafening crack echoes through the cellar. For a moment, everything grows still. Your body begins to glow, emitting a bright white light that fills the room, even stronger than the spirit's light. The intensity of it is blinding, obliterating every detail with a searing brilliance.

The room explodes around you. 

Bits of wood splinter, torn from their fixtures and launched through the air. Barrels explode with a thunderous roar, whiskey gushing out in torrents that splash and pool around your ankles, the potent scent of alcohol overwhelming your senses. The entire room shudders and rocks from the impact, the walls groaning under the strain. You were momentarily assaulted by the barrage of debris—sharp shards of shelving and glass raining down around you. Until Bucky grips you. Amid the chaos, he seizes your waist, pulling you into the shelter of his chest to shield you from the storm. 

Steve has vanished up the stairs, the floorboards above rattling with each of his hurried steps as the earth finally settles. The room falls into an eerie silence, the only sound being the gentle sloshing of liquor around your feet.

There is a large crack in the stone floor where the chair used to be. 

You pull yourself from Bucky’s grip rather unceremoniously, frowning as you pull shredded wood from your hair. The gangster eyes you cautiously, clearing his throat as he retreats backwards. “Are you gonna explain what that was?”

You were unsure what he was specifically referring to—whether it was the haunting memories or the raw power you had just unleashed. Regardless, you didn’t feel up to explaining either. A deep weariness had settled into your bones, your muscles aching from the exertion of channelling such immense energy. A thin trail of blood had begun to leak from your nose, the metallic taste of copper lingering as you absentmindedly licked your bottom lip in thought. 

You should not have done that. But they would have found out either way. 

Your fingers instinctively came up to rub your temple as you let out a sharp sigh of annoyance. With magic weariness came a tinge of irritation and snarkiness—it was a familiar companion after such displays of power. At that moment, you couldn't summon the will to care about how dangerous Bucky was or how he could ruin your life. All you craved was the simple comfort of lying down and perhaps indulging in a strong drink or two to ease the embarrassment of the situation.

Above, Madame Voss's shrill shrieks pierce through the ceiling, amplifying the headache pounding behind your skull. You knew the entire row of buildings would have felt the surge of energy you had just unleashed. One could only hope that the coppers wouldn’t investigate too closely into the disturbance.

Ignoring his previous question, you speak up. “You should invest in gettin’ your buildings properly cleansed.” 

Maybe that would make him and his men shut up about your faulty locks.

You go to walk away, but Bucky's firm grip on your forearm halts your movement, holding you back. His head cocks as he looks you up and down, his eyes sharp and calculating. “I don’t know much about magic, but I know witches don’t just summon shit like that out of thin air.”

If you were one of his dogs, your hackles would have raised, teeth bared. You look him down defiantly with a scowl. “Respectfully, Barnes, you don’t know shit about magic. I keep your secrets; you keep mine. That’s the deal, isn’t it?”

His lips curl into an astonished smirk, pleased as equally as he was stunned by your tone. His head dips down, his breath warm against your ear as he whispers, his voice a low murmur. “You know, doll, if you weren’t growing on me, I would have you killed for speaking to me like that.”

You could feel the warmth of his breath tickling against your skin, his proximity stirring a mix of emotions within you—wariness, curiosity, and a hint of something deeper that you couldn't quite define. You knew better than to let the boundaries between you blur. You give him a mocking pout, wrenching your arm from his grip. “I know you won’t kill me, if you wanted to kill me, I would be dead already. You’ve decided I’m valuable, haven’t you? Who would break your curses and scare away the skeletons in your closet? You must know that I’m not doing this out of the goodness of my heart. I don’t want to help you, we’re not friends.” 

His jaw tenses slightly as he processes your words, and his voice is flat as he speaks. “The most valuable thing a woman like you can offer is what’s between your legs. And you gave that up pretty easily.” 

His lips curl into a sneer. “I suppose the magic is a bonus. But I know you’re little more than a whore beneath it all.”

Several emotions flicker through your chest. Pain, frustration, disillusionment. You should have known better. You knew better. You don’t dignify the gangster with a response, instead turning on your heel to march out of the cellar. 

“I’ll have someone come fetch you when you’re next needed, spirit-raiser,” he calls after you, his tone mocking. 

You ascend the stairs without looking back.

PART THREE