#almost $50 down the drain | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ak319 · 2 months ago

Note

I absolutely love your yandere Arthur stuff- though I really have the curiosity to see him suffer. I was wondering how he'd go about if the reader, in a desperate attempt to escape, ended up getting really really hurt (if she survived or not, up to you.. but make it real heart shattering please)

Thank you and keep being awesome!!

(AN: So, I got two asks (TW) relating to suicide and the other two I added cuz I thought they lined perfectly with the plot that came to my mind. So saddle up as this is going to be a tough one, do read the warnings, and also thank you to all the anons for reading and sending the asks!)

Warnings/MDNI: Suicide, angst, forced prostitution, the reader is underage. (15-16), not incest, strictly platonic, abuse// I don't condone such behaviour

It had been almost a week since you’d run, from everything that had suffocated you. An older woman in her 50s, a widow with two married daughters, had found you and decided to give you shelter. You couldn’t have been more grateful to Linda, and you even felt for her, living alone in a small house with only her animals for company. What you hadn’t expected, perhaps in your own naivety and desperation, was that choices made in haste often became someone else’s chance to shape their own life for the better.

You were dusting off a vase when you noticed two men approaching the fence on horseback. Anxiety bubbled in your stomach. Even the faint sound of hooves and the sight of those hats stirred reminders of your brother, of the camp, memories Linda knew well by now.

“Linda, there are people outside,” you said, voice tight with unease. She looked up from her book, her expression unreadable as she rose. With an air of certainty, as if she’d anticipated this, she opened the door without even glancing to see who they were.

“Good mornin’, Miss Linda.”

The men stepped inside, their eyes sweeping over the small room before landing on you, a young girl, untouched as they were told, standing tensely in the corner, cloth in hand.

“Is she the one?”

“Yes. Her name’s (Y/N),” Linda replied without hesitation, her tone strangely casual.

Your eyebrows knitted in confusion. “Um, Miss Linda?” you murmured, hoping for some explanation. But when you looked at her, the warmth she’d shown when she’d found you, empty-handed and alone, was nowhere to be found.

As their conversation continued, realization dawned painfully fast. This wasn’t an innocent meeting. She had sold you, to men who clearly had no good intentions.

“NO!” you shouted, thrashing as one of them seized you, his grip iron-tight. Panic surged through you as you struggled, tears stinging your eyes.

“HOW COULD YOU DO THIS? LINDA!” you screamed, your voice cracking. “You have daughters of your own!” But the other man quickly moved to hold you down, binding your wrists as dread washed over you. No, this can’t be real, you thought, desperately praying for a miracle, for anything.

“I don’t have daughters,” Linda replied flatly, her gaze fixed on the money roll they handed her. “I live alone. You fell right into my trap, girly, this is what I do for a living.” She didn’t even look up as they gagged you, ignoring your cries and pleas as they dragged you from her house, indifferent to your terror.

⋆⋆⋆

It had been three months since they’d dragged you into this unfamiliar place, surrounded by strangers with cold eyes and colder hearts.It was useless no matter how much you begged or how hard you fought. The punishments, the beatings, the days locked away in dank cellars, became too much to bear.

"It's always a fun challenge to tame young ones like you,"

Eventually, the fight drained out of you. Bit by bit, you surrendered. You gave up on freedom, on dignity, on every cherished memory. You tried to convince yourself it wasn’t giving up, that they had taken it from you. But deep down, you knew the people around you would laugh at that. A woman, giving in? As if you’d ever had a choice.

Even if... even if your brother somehow found you, what would he say? If he saw you here, saw all that had happened, would he forgive you for running away? He will, he will because you're the only one he has left. It was a lie you whispered to yourself just to make it through the endless nights.

But still, despite everything, you prayed. Prayed that somehow he’d find you, that he’d come and take you back. That he’d see past the shame, past the bruises and broken pieces, and remember the sister you used to be. You clung to that thin thread of hope, fragile as it was, because it was the only thing left that still felt like yours.

⋆⋆⋆

Arthur hadn’t had a moment’s peace since you disappeared. The guilt and fury festered into a dark cloud over him, filling every waking moment. Every step, every job he took on, only seemed to twist the knife deeper, because how could he even think about anything else while you were out there alone?

He lashed out at everyone. Every misstep or delay was another reminder that they’d failed to keep you safe, to keep you close. It stung him that no one had been there, that Dutch’s assurances and promises meant so little when it came down to it. The camp members bore the brunt of his fury, his paranoia that they might’ve even helped you leave simmering just beneath the surface. And though they knew better than to push back, they held their patience, trying to calm him, even if it was like talking to a wall. How could these people not take care of you? It was the only thing he had asked Dutch for in exchange for giving his all, his best with his every breath.

Still, he couldn’t rest. Every day he pushed himself, scanning faces in crowded towns, following trails that led nowhere. He’d never admit it, but he was scared, scared of what might’ve happened to you. He wouldn’t be satisfied until he saw you for himself, safe and within the bounds of camp again.

⋆⋆⋆

It was one of those days where Chief, the man who forced you to call him that, as if it somehow dignified his cruelty, had you paraded through saloons to attract new customers. The older, more experienced girls absorbed most of the men’s attention, giving you brief respites where you could linger near the corners, gaze averted, trying not to see or be seen. This was your coping mechanism: be present but remain hidden, fading into the shadows, preserving the last shreds of yourself.

Chief rarely paid attention to your position; he was usually too engrossed in gambling or drinking with his cronies to notice. So long as you didn’t step out of line or attempt an escape, an impossible feat with his guards stationed outside, he didn’t care where you lingered. For these few stolen moments, you could almost feel invisible, protected by the wall at your back and the murmur of unfamiliar voices.

And then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw him.

Charles. Right there, across the room. Your heart thundered, your breath catching in your throat. He was here, and the realization struck you like a blow. You must’ve stared too long because his eyes landed on you, recognition dawning in his gaze. You could see his shock twist into something harder, his face darkening as he took in your presence here.

His eyes were locked onto you, and he rose from his seat, his gaze sharp and unyielding, scanning every inch of you with a dawning recognition. Each step he took made your heart pound harder, a mix of disbelief and terror twisting in your chest. You couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe, as you pressed yourself further against the wall, as though it might somehow swallow you up.

“(Y/N)...?”

His voice was low, laced with disbelief and something that almost sounded like relief, but there was no mistaking the tremor in it. Your throat tightened, and a thousand unspoken words tangled there, as if your body itself was rejecting the reality of being found.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Your tongue felt heavy, paralyzed by shame and fear. The silence was broken by Chief, who was now at your side oblivious to the storm brewing, chuckled and tightened his hand on your shoulder. "This is Cherry, my newest one. One of the youngest, too," he taunted, a sick grin spreading across his face. "Would you like a taste, sir?"

Charles didn’t hesitate. In an instant, he was on Chief, his fists swinging. You watched as Charles’s rage took over, each blow landing harder than the last, rendering Chief into a bloody, unrecognizable heap. The noise and chaos around you faded, replaced by a surreal, dreamlike silence.

You wanted to move, to say something, anything, but shock held you frozen. The reality was hitting you all at once, Charles had found you. After all this time, your prayers have finally been answered. But along with the relief, dread crept in. Charles was here, yes, but what about Arthur?

Arthur. The thought of facing him filled you with a hollow, bone-deep fear. What would he say? What would he do when he saw you like this?

“Arthur’s been looking for you. Day and night, he’s been looking. And he’s… well, you know how he is.” He paused, his gaze turning serious. “But he needs to see you. Needs to know you’re safe.”

"I--can't....Charles," he was the second after Arthur whom you called a brother, if this was your condition in front of him, you dreaded facing your real one.

"He...will --no, please." No, this wasn't how it was supposed to be, you should have been happy to go.

"The hell I am leaving you here!"

"Charles, no, you don’t understand!" you protested, your voice trembling as you recoiled slightly from his touch. “Arthur… he’ll be furious! He’ll-”

“He’ll be furious if he finds out you’re here, too,” Charles interjected, his tone sharp yet laced with concern. “But I can’t leave you here. You deserve better than this.”

You nodded slowly, still numb, letting him lead you outside, where the guards who usually kept watch were already scattered, backing off after seeing Charles’s wrath. He didn’t let you go, staying close as he guided you through the quiet streets.

With a final glance back at the saloon, you took his hand, feeling a mix of fear and gratitude surge through you. As you climbed onto the horse behind him, the reality of what lay ahead crashed over you like a wave.

⋆⋆⋆

All the guilt and frustration that Arthur had felt at himself and the others had now morphed into a seething fury. He could barely contain the storm brewing inside him as he stood there, fists clenched, watching Charles bring you back to camp. You stood behind him, your head bowed, and he could feel the weight of your shame even from a distance.

When Charles, with his broken and hesitant words, explained where you had been and what you had endured , Arthur felt a rush of bile rise in his throat. Hearing that you had been forced into such a degrading life, turning into a whore, no less in front of the whole camp, set off a wildfire of rage within him. It felt as if every cell in his body was screaming, torn between the desire to protect you and the urge to just shoot you and then himself.

“Why…?” he managed to croak out, his voice barely above a whisper, but the intensity of his gaze was like fire. You could only let out a whimper, too overwhelmed by shame and fear to answer.

“Arthur... it's not (Y/N)'s fault-” Charles began, trying to explain the circumstances, but Arthur cut him off sharply, the anger bubbling over.

“I AM ASKING HER, CHARLES, SO SHUT YOUR MOUTH! I ASKED YOU SOMETHING!” His voice thundered across the camp, startling the others who had gathered to witness the confrontation.

Silence fell over the clearing, all eyes on you as Arthur took a step forward, his expression a mix of pain and fury. You flinched, feeling the heat of his anger radiating off him like a tangible force.

Your heart pounded in your chest, a rabbit caught in the glare of a predator. You could see the way his fists trembled, the way his jaw clenched, and it terrified you. “I---I didn’t mean to,” you stammered, "I am s-sorry...please."

Annabelle, having enough interjected. "Let the child breathe Arthur! You are scaring her for no fucking reason! You should be happy she's been found you dumbass!"

“Stay out of this, Annabelle!” Arthur snapped, the violence in his tone making everyone around him tense. “You don’t know what she’s done. You don’t know how she’s made me suffer!”

Hosea, who had been observing quietly, spoke up as well, attempting to de-escalate the situation. “Arthur, we need to think this through. She’s back now, that’s what matters-”

But before Hosea could finish, Dutch stepped in, his voice commanding. “Enough! This isn’t helping anyone. Arthur, take a breath. We’ll sort this out, but you need to calm down.”

Arthur’s fury seemed to intensify, the frustration boiling over. “Calm down!?” he spat, eyes dark with rage. “She thinks she can run away from me, become a whore and come back like nothing happened? I’m not letting her off that easy!”

With a sudden, swift movement, he seized your arm, dragging you towards a nearby tent. You stumbled, panic rising within you as you felt the grip of his hand, the anger radiating off him like heat from a fire.

“Arthur, please!” you cried, but he didn’t respond, his jaw set in a hard line as he pulled you along, ignoring the protests from Annabelle and Hosea.

"If anyone comes near me, I am gonna gut em' alive!"

“Arthur, think about what you’re doing!” Annabelle called after you, her voice strained with concern. “You can’t just take her away like this-” Dutch silenced her with holding her shoulders. "Don't you dare go near him! He's not in his senses-"

"SO GO AND STOP HIM!"

But he was already inside the tent, and the flap fell shut behind you with a heavy finality. The moment you were alone, he released you, stepping back with a mixture of anger and desperation. “Why would you do this to me? To us?” he demanded, his voice low and intense.

You backed away and fell onto the cot. "Just...just listen and I'll explain-

"Oh really? Did you enjoy your adventures? See, I was right. This is what they fuckin' taught you , what that bitch Anne, taught you. That fuckin' school!" He grabbed you by your jaw to make you face him. That's when you saw the tint of hurt in his eyes.

“You think this is a joke? I’m a joke? You fuckin’ ran our family’s name, my name, into the mud. I can’t even--” He threw you back onto the bed, the impact rattling through your bones. “I can’t even look at you right now.”

“Arthur, I’m still me,” you whispered, through sobs. “I’m still.... your sister."

"IF YOU WERE YOU WOULD HAVE LISTENED TO ME AND STAYED HERE!"

He was right, you should have listened and stayed here, chasing your dreams only led you to more nightmares and even now, it seems there are more to face.

You could barely catch your breath, your heart pounding in your chest as you scrambled to find words that might bridge the chasm between you. Taking a shaky breath, you wiped the tears from your cheeks.

"You should be lucky I haven't shot you yet. If I was the one who found you, God knows what I would have done. Stay in this fucking tent until I say so, and don’t show me your face." His voice was low and dangerous, a growl that reverberated through the air like a thunderclap.

You flinched at his words, the truth of them hitting you like a slap. You had been trying to convince yourself that you were still worthy, still, the same person who had left the camp. But standing in front of him, the reality crashed down. You were not that person anymore, and you didn’t know how to return to her.

⋆⋆⋆

Annabelle and the others came to check on you, their voices a distant murmur as if they were speaking through water. You barely registered their presence, lost in a maze of your thoughts, every path leading back to Arthur’s harsh words. What had you expected from him? A comforting embrace? A gentle reminder that you were still his sister, despite everything?

You couldn't help but wonder if you were truly as heinous as he implied. Were you still his blood even? The questions tormented you, each one sharper than the last. You knew the truth of his overprotectiveness, it stemmed from love, from a desire to shield you from the dangers of the world. Yet here you were, the very thing he had feared, tainted by your stubborn quest for freedom and adventure.

Pushing the flap of his tent aside just enough to peek in, you caught sight of him, his back turned to you, oblivious to your presence. Just like he turned his back today on you. Funny.

With a deep breath, you stepped inside and placed the note in his satchel, the fabric brushing against your fingertips feeling heavier than it should.

You took one last glance at your brother, the weight of your choices pressing down on your heart, then slipped out of the tent, moving stealthily toward the supply wagon

When you retrieved what you needed, you returned to the privacy of your tent, the familiar space feeling more suffocating than ever. You sank onto the cot, the cold metal of the weapon glimmering in the bits of moonlight that managed to seep through the fabric.

Taking your time, you pondered everything that had brought you to this moment. You searched desperately for a glimmer of hope, but all you found were dead ends. Before returning with Charles, you had imagined a future where your brother might forgive you, where he could overlook the darkness of the past and allow you both to move on, forgetting the pain that had laced your life. You were even ready to let go of the past, but that hope had shattered just as quickly as it had formed.

With a final breath, you cocked the revolver, the click echoing in the silence of the night. The weight of it pressed against your skin as you brought it to the side of your forehead. At that moment, the tumult of emotions surged, fear, regret, and an aching desire for peace, threatening to consume you whole, and it did.

⋆⋆⋆

3 hours.

It had been three hours and the camp was thick with an oppressive silence that weighed heavily on everyone. The men came and went into the tent, each trying to mask their sorrow with bravado, yet their eyes betrayed them, glassy, haunted. Annabelle’s wailing filled the air outside, her cries echoing like a banshee’s lament, punctuated by shouts of blame that pierced the quiet. Yet through it all, Arthur couldn’t hear anything; he couldn’t see anything except your limp form cradled in his arms, and the world faded to grey around him.

He was convinced it was just a nightmare, an illusion crafted by his mind to torment him.

“Arthur...” Charles’s voice broke through the haze as he placed his hands on his friend’s shoulders, his grip steady yet heavy with gravity.

“We...gotta bury her. Please.” The weight of those words hung heavy in the air, an inevitability that Arthur couldn’t bear to face.

“No,” he murmured, shaking his head vehemently as if denying the truth would somehow alter the reality before him. “Only dead people are buried. She’s...she's just sleeping.” The fervour in his voice rose, desperation threading through his tone. “Mum had to always snatch the covers from her because she refused to wake up...she'll wake up soon...I know."

His memory of those mornings washed over him, a bittersweet recollection that clashed violently with the present. The warmth of your laughter, the way you would bury your head deeper into your blankets, evading the morning sun, flared in his mind. Arthur’s grip tightened around you, as if holding you closer could somehow anchor him in this cruel moment, could make you open your eyes.

“Arthur, please.” Charles’s voice trembled with a mixture of compassion and urgency. “We have to let her go. We can’t keep holding on.

“No, I said fucking no. Don't you come near, fuck off!" Arthur growled, the denial thick in his throat.

But all Arthur could think was how cruel it felt, how unbearable it was to even entertain the idea of accepting it. You were his baby sister, his blood, the only family he had left, the one he had been given responsibility by his mother, and the thought of your absence left a hollow pit in his stomach, a void that threatened to swallow him whole. He pressed his face against your hair, clutching you close to his chest, inhaling the scent of you, soft, sweet, and achingly familiar. He murmured incoherently, swaying back and forth like a child himself.

“No,” he repeated choked out, tears streaming down his face. “I won’t lose her, not like this. Not ever. GO AWAY!”

It had taken every man in the camp to separate Arthur from cradling your body. His grip was ironclad, his anguish palpable as he held you against him, as if the sheer force of his will could resurrect you from the depths of despair. They had to pry his fingers from your lifeless form, his cries piercing the stillness of the evening like a gunshot.

As they prepared the grave, the earth was turned and the makeshift coffin formed from an old wooden crate. Each shovel of dirt that fell felt like another piece of Arthur’s soul being buried alongside you. The men worked in silence, their hearts heavy with grief, knowing they could do nothing to ease the torment radiating from him. Charles stood to the side, his own heart breaking.

Even Hosea wasn't able to comfort anyone at this moment. He couldn't fathom that a girl like you, who had so much to live for, for whom he silently had promised to be a guardian of at this camp, was gone. Just like that. He will never forget how you cared for him as a daughter would for her father. Making sure he ate his meals, assisting him with chores and sipping morning (coffee/tea) with him as he read the local news alongside you.

Finally, the moment came. Arthur stumbled forward, the weight of your absence pulling him down as he lowered you into the ground. The first clod of dirt landed with a finality that echoed in the silence of the camp. Tears streamed down his cheek, cutting a path through the grime and dust of the world around him. It felt like a betrayal like they were burying not just you but every memory, every dream he had cherished.

The men finished covering you and when it was done, they stepped back, leaving Arthur alone with his sorrow. He sank to his knees, a hollow shell, fingers digging into the earth as he pressed his forehead against the freshly turned soil. It was all he had left of you.

Dutch approached cautiously, his heart heavy as he watched Arthur, the man he had come to rely on, the strongest in his camp, unravelling before him. “Arthur, my son.." he said softly, “we need to get back to camp. You can’t stay here like this.”

Arthur didn’t budge, his body rigid, his eyes fixed on the grave. “I’m not going anywhere,” he muttered, voice low and filled with pain.

“Please,” Dutch urged softly, “it’s time to go. You can honor her memory at camp. We’ll make sure she’s remembered.”

But Arthur only tightened his grip on the soil. “I don’t care. I’m staying here. I won’t leave her. I can’t…she's alone here.” The darkness of the night and you being alone made his body tremble. With that, he lowered his forehead to the cool earth, the pain a constant pulse in his heart, echoing with every breath he took. At that moment, he felt as though he had buried a part of himself alongside you.

"Just...be sure to come back, son."

With a heavy heart, Dutch turned away, leaving Arthur to mourn. And as the stars began to twinkle in the night sky, Arthur remained there, kneeling by the grave. For God knows how long.

That was the last time since Dutch saw him. Arthur went away from the camp, at least for the whole 4 months. Wandering and coping. Even after he came back, nothing was the same anymore. Pearson's stew tasted worse than ever, its blandness a stark reminder of the joy you used to bring to their meals.

Annabelle had left shortly after your passing, her heart broken beyond repair. She broke things off with Dutch, her fury spilling over. Blaming him, blaming Arthur. This time, Arthur didn’t disagree with her. There were moments when he caught glimpses of hate and blame in Hosea’s eyes too due to that night, moments that cut deeper than any bullet.

That night he had shrouded his fear with his rage because he didn't have the heart to hear any further, anything of what you had endured because he knew he couldn't bear it. Due to this utter selfishness of his, he forgot about your pain, denied to offer his shoulder to you.

Hey Arthur,

I know I’m leaving, and I wish I could tell you that everything will be okay, but I need you to understand something important, none of this is your fault. Please don’t let yourself carry that burden. You’ve always tried to protect me, and it breaks my heart to think that you might blame yourself for my choices. I don’t want you to live with regret, feeling like you didn’t fulfil some promise to Mum. That’s not what she would have wanted for either of us. Neither Dad.

As I write this, I want you to remember the better, more joyful moments we shared when we were young. The laughter that rang through our home, the endless promises of going on adventures we dreamed of as we rode in town with Dad.

You always looked out for me, and always kept me safe, and I will forever be grateful for your protection. You did more than any brother could. But you must know that the path I chose was mine alone. I was foolish to step outside when you even said not to and I got lost along the way. It’s not a reflection of you or your love for me. I don’t want you to carry the weight of my choices as if they were yours to bear.

I want you to live your life without the chains of guilt holding you down. Don’t let this tragedy rob you of your future. Pursue your dreams, even in this hard life of an outlaw and embrace the adventure that awaits you because I have seen how much you enjoy doing what you do even if I was not in favour of it. Find joy in the little things, just as we did when we were young and remember that we are forever connected by the love we share as siblings.

If you find it within you, forgive yourself. I hope that one day, you can look back on our memories with a smile instead of sorrow. I’ll always be a part of you, a part that encourages you to keep going, to live fiercely and fully.

Take care of yourself, okay?

With love,

(Y/N)

Arthur’s fingers lingered over the page of the letter, the ink slightly smudged from his own tears. Each word felt like a dagger in his chest, a reminder of the weight he carried, the weight of his past actions, of his failures as your guardian. He carefully placed the letter beside the photo of you both, sitting together, a snapshot of somewhat happier times, a month after he and you arrived in camp. The Morgans, written at the bottom, as Dutch had called you both. Your eyes were not smiling, they were empty of the mischief and the liveliness which you always held. It clearly showed how unhappy you were being separated from the home you held dear to your heart. He dragged you into this life when you barely had the chance to enjoy your childhood. And he failed to see this at the time, blinded by only his promise to keep you at his side.

I’m still.... your sister.

That plea of yours haunts him to this very day. With a heavy heart, Arthur rose from where he sat, the sun casting long shadows over the camp. He made his way to your grave, each step a reminder of the distance between them now, a chasm he had never imagined would grow so vast.

He knelt down, pulling a few wildflowers from the ground nearby, bright yellow blooms that reminded him of your bubbly laughter. They were vibrant, like the memories he held close to his heart. As he laid them gently atop the grave, a swell of guilt washed over him, choking him with the realization that you had taken the blame upon yourself.

You had written about not wanting him to live with regret, but how could he not? The dark and violent tendencies that had seeped into his life had cast a shadow over everything, over the once innocent and wholesome relationship, filled with just laughter, jokes, care and bickering, and now they had taken you away from him. Arthur thought of the times he had let his anger consume him, the threats he’d made in fits of rage, the moments he failed to protect you in the way a brother should.

"This is on me," he murmured, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. "You didn’t deserve this... none of it."

He brushed his fingers over the grave, feeling the cool earth beneath, as if trying to connect with you one last time. He wished he could tell you that he’d change, that he’d find a way to channel his fury into something constructive rather than destructive. But the truth was, that change seemed too far away, and the regret felt too real.

The flowers seemed to wilt under the weight of his sorrow, and he fought the urge to crumble right there beside you like he did every day when he visited you. Maybe, just maybe a simple word of sympathy from him that night could have prevented this, "I’m so sorry, (Y/N)," he choked out, his heart heavy with guilt. "I’m so damn sorry, m-my little Chumchum."

The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a golden hue over the camp, but for Arthur. He stayed there, kneeling at your grave, wishing he could turn back time, wishing he could have been the brother you needed, wishing he could have saved you from the darkness that ultimately claimed your light. Even after killing and gutting alive the ones involved, from Linda to those men, nothing could calm his heart.

It might take a lifetime to heal from your death, but it would take a thousand more to forgive himself.

(AN: Did you cry? I sure did. PS. This was the first time I wrote on this topic so just wanted to say that if you know someone who is going thru smth or even if not, just be kind to others around you and value each other's presence. And if you are goin thru smth be sure to know that this life is a gift and also a test and there is always someone out there who is waiting for you and loves you with all their might, every cell in ur body works for YOU. Thanks for reading, stay hydrated and peace ‎♡‧₊˚)

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astxroiid · 10 months ago

Text

new york private life // tasm! peter parker

❥ childhood crush, date nights, vigilantes, apprehension, sweet young love.

wc: 1.5k

navigation ✩ empire state of mind (II) ✩ manhattan longing (III)

"Hey, um... I'm Peter."

A familiar face stands in front of you, one you've known all your life.

"We went to high school together. I, uh, was wondering if maybe you'd want to maybe hang out sometime." The walls of the college cafeteria seem to be closing in around Peter. His hands twitching nervously as he shifted his feet uneasily.

"Oh!" you're caught a little off guard. "Well, I'm free tomorrow. Where will we be going?"

Peter smiles to himself a little. "There's this sushi place that just opened up a few blocks over... if you like sushi, that is."

The amount of anxiety radiating off this poor boy is so potent you can practically taste it.

"I love it," you grin up at the boy from your seat. "Pick me up at 5:30? we could be there by 6."

"Th-that sounds great!" His eyes light up as an excited smile spreads across his face. He's never gotten a this positive of a response before. This feels good.

"I'll pick you up at 5:30 then. Thank you," he says, trying not to be too happy about this, but he is. Very.

“Sounds like a date to me.” you smile, stand from your seat and kiss his cheek before walking away with a bounce in your step.

A date?! A kiss to his cheek! He's never felt so alive before! His cheeks burn red as you walk away. He can't believe that you said yes.

When 5:30 comes around the next day, you’re waiting by the entrance of your house, ready to meet up with Peter. You’re a bit nervous, but mostly excited. You felt a strange flutter in your stomach, your heart beating fast and body tingling.

When 5:45 comes, you start to worry. Where could Peter be?

5:50. Your heart begins to sink. Was this all a joke?

5:55. Is he... not coming?

6:00. You're officially distraught. Your mind immediately starts running to various conclusions. Is he busy? Did something happen to him? Or did he simply change his mind?

6:15. Maybe he forgot? Maybe he's late? Maybe he lost track of time?

6:30. Your eyes are puffy and red. Tears start to stream down your face as you realize he’s probably not coming.

7:00. Anger replaces sadness. Did he do this on purpose?! What the hell?! What was the point of even asking you out?

8:00. Sadness returns. After all your emotions drained your energy and tears blurred your eyes, you cant help but come back ton the thought: Why did he do this? He can't even have the courtesy to at least call you?

Just as the thought come to mind, your phone rings. It's Peter.

Your eyes widen and you quickly pick up the phone. You desperately hope that this might just change things, but you also can't help and start to feel anxious, afraid of what he might have to say.

"Hey," Your voice cracks as you hold the phone to your ear.

Peter's heart sinks at your tone, immediately feeling at fault. "Hey," he echoes in a small tone. "I'm sorry I didn't show up today..." he says, almost inaudible for a moment. He sounds... shaky. Nervous. "Something came up..."

In what world is that a good excuse for leaving a girl waiting for you for two and a half hours? He mentally cringes, wishing he could explain better. How? 'Hey, sorry I basically ghosted you , I'm Spiderman and I had to stop a robbery?!' it almost sounds made up.

"oh..." the same, tearful tone etched into your voice from before. "it's okay, I guess."

He gulps at the sadness in your voice, feeling worse now, not sure how to handle this situation.

"My aunt called me. She had some things she needed help with," he said, trying his best to avoid giving details. "I lost track of time and only just realized how late it was. I was rushing as fast as I could but I know I missed our date. I'm sorry, I should have at least sent you a text."

“It’s okay.” you sound only slightly more cheerful. “How about you make it up to me come over with some takeout and we watch a movie?”

"Really?" he asks, sounding surprised. After the tense conversation you both just had, he didn't think the night - or relationship for that matter - would be salvageable. "I mean sure," he says, not being able to hide the joy in his voice or the smile on his face. "What kind food do you want?"

“You pick.” You smile “Come over as soon as you can.”

꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷♡꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦

About 20 minutes later Peter knocks on your door. You open it to reveal the sweetest looking boy with flowers an Thai food in hand, appearing a little guilty but still excited.

You couldn't resist smiling back at him, feeling much less mad about what happened earlier.

"Sorry for the wait," Peter apologizes as he hands you the bouquet of tulips. You gladly take them.

Walking over to the kitchen and filling a vase with water, you call out to Peter, who's still standing in the doorway.

“You can come in Pete! You can set the food down over there," you gesture to the coffee table, covered in candles and books for your college classes.

Pete?! He smiles warmly as he enters into the living room and he watches you set the flowers in the vase. Peter glances around your apartment, your home is quite cozy.

Dark blue curtains hang around each window, soft lights from the New York night glowing through. Every surface in your home is decorated with mixtures of candles, lamps, books, or cute little trinkets.

The whole place smells like cherries and coffee. The soft music playing in the background bringing the whole mood together.

He goes ahead and sets the food down on the coffee table and he looks around the room. "Your place is nice," he says softly. He loves it. he could get used to spending more time here.

“Why thank you.” You blush, placing the flowers down “Oh! I was thinking about watching some of the Star Wars movies - is that okay?” You plop on the couch, patting next to you for Peter to sit.

"Star Wars is always okay with me," Peter replies, happy that you're not upset anymore. He sits down next to you and he can't help but notice how close you're both sitting next to each other. His heart flutters.

"The Empire Strikes Back is my favorite," Peter replies excitedly, happy to be sharing one of his interests with you.

He smiles, feeling very happy with the current state of things.

"That's my favorite too!" You smile brightly, looking into his eyes.

There was an odd and almost indescribable intimacy between you two, as if your shared love of Star Wars had brought you closer together in some unknown way.

“Really?” Peter asks, feeling thrilled by this coincidence.

You nod, giggling at Peter's excitement.

"What's your favorite character?" Peter asks. He's trying to watch the movie, although it's hard to take his eyes off of you for too long.

"Hmmm..." you place your finger on your chin, feigning deep thought. "Obi Wan, hands down the best in my opinion. What about you?"

"Definitely Han Solo," he replies, smiling. You notice how his cheeks are a bit red right now.

Is he blushing?

"He's cocky and always in the middle of trouble, but so charismatic and charming," Peter adds. He leans closer, getting a little more comfortable on the couch.

"Who's your least favorite?"

You notice him moving closer but don’t mind at all “Kylo Ren, I think. His character is just too underdone - they could’ve done better. What about you, Pete? Who’s your least favorite?” You lean in close to him, placing Your hand on his shoulder.

"Totally agree," Peter says quickly, gulping. "Kylo Ren sucks."

Chills take over Peter's body as your hand rests on his shoulder.

You're sitting awfully close, and the thought of it makes his head rush. He wishes he could take his eyes off of you.

Your heart begins to pound. He's getting so lost in the atmosphere.

You smile and turn your head back to the TV watching along as Han Solo grabs Leia, kissing her deeply. There's an ache in your chest for something similar.

Please kiss me. Peter's mind races and begs. Just go for it! He silently urges himself.

He's dying to turn his head towards you. The closeness is sending him into a spiral of emotion. If only he could find the courage to make a move. As he glances your way, he notices you're not looking at him; your attention is elsewhere. A wave of disappointment washes through him.

Peter looks to his fidgeting hands, now incredibly insecure.

Is he reading the signals wrong? His heart sinks. Does she not feel the same way?

His breath is shaky and he's afraid of ruining the evening.

Peter decides it's best to focus on the movie and not his growing, aching feelings.

I hope y'all enjoyed my first fic in a loooong time lmao, big thanks to character.ai for helping me come up with this!

#peter parker #peter parker x reader #spiderman #spiderman x reader #tasm #tasm peter parker #tasm x reader #tasm!peter x reader #andrew garfield #andrew garfield x reader #marvel #sony #marvel x reader #tasm!peter parker #tasm!spiderman x reader #tasm!peter imagine #parker

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ace-turned-confused · 7 months ago

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shiftin' gear | part two

joel masterlist | series masterlist

pairing: mechanic!joel x f!reader series outline: a slacker of a boyfriend, no job, and now your car needs serious maintenance. heading to the mechanic’s, you’re just expecting him to rid you of your car troubles and move on — you’re certainly not expecting him to change your life chapter summary: with big decisions to make, life throws you a curveball that leads you to joel again word count: 3,2k warnings: 18+ only, reader is able-bodied, boyfriend is still useless & also a prick, minor injury & blood, my car knowledge™️, bit of a cry & breakdown sesh, age gap (23/50), smutty thoughts, allusions to f masturbation a/n: thank you @frannyzooey for all the help & encouraging words when reading this over 😚❤️

A month has passed since you first met Joel Miller and you haven’t gone to see him since. You certainly wanted to, but couldn’t bring yourself to go there under the excuse of a lie, or the alternative of admitting you went just because you could. Every time you turn your car’s ignition, a small part of you hopes that another light will flicker on the dashboard, but so far that dream hasn’t been fulfilled.

A month since you met Joel Miller but three months since you and Jake last slept together. The few times you’ve come close, you end up giving him an excuse. At first, you simply couldn’t be bothered to put so much effort in, claiming you were tired. But lately, it’s because you’re thinking of Joel — what it’d look like having his hand dipping into your panties, how his mouth would feel on you, how you’d burn up watching him take himself out his pants.

Which is not ideal when Joel isn’t the one trying to do those things.

Jake’s been putting more pressure on you to see him more regularly again and it’s laborious, draining, constantly needing to put on this cheerful persona around him — you’re never able to mope around or yell or cry just for the sake of it. Truthfully, you’ve been trying to work out for a long time now how to go about breaking up with him.

His reaction to why you had quit your job had catapulted this even further. I’m sure the guy was a deserving candidate. You can’t just quit because someone better than you got the job. Not asking how you felt, not asking for details, simply not caring. He still had the nerve to ask if you were staying the night after that, and that’s when you dropped the conversation. Your employment hadn’t been brought up again.

As brief as it was, you found great comfort in talking to Joel about it — not once did he tell you you’d made a mistake, or that you’d regret it down the line. Just knowing he’s there to listen is more than what you have right now.

Maybe you should stop by sometime.

You have plans to see Jake tonight, and you’re undecided on whether or not you should finally cut ties with him. You’re dressed in a square-neck navy top and black pants that hug your hips and thighs amazingly. Sure, you might end the night by breaking a boy’s heart — though, you’re not sure he’ll feel much emotion other than confusion — but this might be the one thing that’ll keep you feeling good about yourself right now.

Stopping off to get a few small items at the grocery store, the parking lot is mostly empty by the time you walk out. As you reach your car again, you see one of your back tires is almost completely flat. Dropping your bags, you seethe with anger – it feels like one fucking thing after another.

Taking a breath, you calm yourself down and start unpacking the toolkit from your boot. Car jack, lug wrench, some… other tool that’s used for something — it can’t be that important. You run the process over in your head — it’s just changing a tire, how difficult can it be?

Crouched down on your knees, you’ve partially loosened the lug nuts on the wheel and are busy jacking up your car when your mind drifts off to Joel. He’d probably do this for you and you wouldn’t even argue with him — you couldn’t look away the first time he worked on your car, and you doubt that’ll ever change.

Maybe he’d be surprised you can do this, maybe he’d be impressed. Maybe he’d tell you you’re too pretty to change a tire and get your clothes dirty. You’d laugh it off, but you might just believe him.

You can’t picture Jake saying that to you — you can’t remember the last time he even gave you an honest compliment and meant it, not something backhanded, not something that elevates him higher than you.

What’s sadder is that it doesn’t upset you anymore.

Changing a tire is easy enough in theory, but this is the first time you’ve actually done it yourself and Jesus Christ it’s more taxing than you anticipated. You’re sweaty, out of breath, and you’re sure you’ve pulled a muscle. In the depths of your daydreaming, you lose your grip on the lug wrench and fall forward, scraping your arm on the tar. It stings to no end and blood starts settling in small pools, the surface of your skin covered in a rough mixture of gravel and bits of tar — the last thing you need, but it’ll have to wait.

Tossing the wrench to the ground, it lands with a startling clank, the sound reverberating through your skull. You’re hauling the old wheel into the boot of your car and see a nail, stuck flush in the tire, still shiny and new. You wish you could feel shiny and new again.

Fuck this. You pull out your phone to text Jake.

You: just got a fucking flat tireYou: not coming anymore, sorry

You don’t wait for him to respond and focus on lowering your car again. You consider your options on where to go after this — not particularly wanting to go home so soon to be grilled by your dad, there is one place you can think of.

It’s early evening and Joel’s getting ready to close up shop for the day, tools pushed to the side and cash books up to date. Piling up loose papers, he finds the invoice for the brake sets he used on your car and he can’t help but wonder how you’ve been the past month. Each day that passed he hoped you’d show up — maybe something else was wrong with your car, maybe you’d just come to see him for the sake of it, but you never did. He told himself it was better that way.

He’s been keeping himself busy otherwise, teaching Eddie some tricks of the trade and avoiding Hazel. She’s not a bad woman, but he’s made it clear on plenty of occasions that he is not interested, be it a one-night stand or something serious — then, of course, he met you.

He hasn’t been on a real date in a lifetime, he’s had casual flings here and there, but he’s felt drawn to you right from the start. He just wants to take care of you, give you the treatment you deserve, which you aren’t getting from your boyfriend. Emotionally, physically — whatever you need, whatever you’ll let him do. A part of him hopes you and this Jake boy will eventually break up and you’ll come running into his own arms instead, as selfish as it may be.

He hears a car stop outside and a door slams shut with a thud, pulling him out of his thoughts. Turning around he sees you dragging yourself in from the street, bloody scrapes on your arm and dirt stains on your pant legs. You look tired, rattled.

“Joel? Please can you help me?”

Joel’s standing alongside your car, hands on his hips, in the same tight coveralls you saw him wearing a month ago.

“You know you could’ve just called sweetheart, I would’ve come to change it for you.”

“I can change a tire.” Previously, the endearment would’ve made your mind go blank, but you’re tired — tired of Jake, tired of life’s bullshit, tired of everything, and it comes out much harsher than you intended.

Joel doesn’t seem to notice. If he does, he doesn’t comment. He bends down to inspect it and a small part of you hopes he’s impressed by your efforts.

“I can see that, you did a good job of it too.” He tries twisting a lug nut and it doesn’t shift. “Who taught you how to do this?”

“Common sense? It’s not that complicated.”

“You didn’t wanna call your dad or that boyfriend of yours to come and help?”

“My dad would tell me I’m doing it wrong and I’d tell Jake he was doing it wrong. No thanks.”

You stand, arms folded across your chest and give him a tight smile, which fades as fast as it appears. Usually you’d revel in the banter between you, but tonight you can’t find it in yourself to let go.

“Well, I won’t keep you long. I’ll put a new tire on here for you and you’ll be good to go on.”

Your phone rings before you can respond — you tilt the screen and can see it’s Jake. You let out a bitter sigh, not in the mood for the insensitivity and all-round lack of respect you’re bound to get from him. You don’t excuse yourself when you answer, beyond caring what Joel may hear from either of you.

“Yes?”

“Why didn’t you call me, I could’ve come to help.”

“Says the guy who needed the manual to find the lever for the fucking fuel cap.”

“Well, I could’ve fetched you or called someone else.”

“It’s fine, it’s done. I’m getting a new tire fitted anyways, I’m at the mechanic’s right now.”

“Alright, whatever, but it’s not too late — you can still come over, stay the night maybe?”

“I said I’m not coming — my clothes are filthy, I’ve got muscle cramps where I didn’t know I fucking had muscles, and I’m not in the mood Jake. Not tonight.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Joel stills, just for a moment, like that was the last thing he expected to hear from you. You swear you can see his ears redden and you wish you could see the expression on his face.

“Thought you’d have changed your mind by now but okay, I could come over to…”

“I said no. I have to go.”

You end the call and cut his goodbyes short, putting your phone on silent and shoving it back into your pocket. Seeing Joel had lifted your spirits ever so slightly, and now that’s all been undone. You’ve held it together all day but you feel tears start to well in your eyes. You blink furiously, trying your hardest to will them away before it’s too late.

“Everything alright?”

Joel stands and turns to face you, repeating his question when you don’t respond and sees you staring ahead, tears streaming down your cheeks. As if on instinct, he moves towards you and wraps his arms around you. He feels your body go rigid and begins to pull back — this was a mistake, he should’ve asked — but as fast as he lets you go you’re pulling him back in, your arms now wrapping around his middle.

Standing with your head buried into his chest, your breaths come out in gasps as you try to stop yourself from crying. He can feel your hands are balled into fists and you’re squeezing your arms like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded, like you’re scared he won’t come back if you let go. Joel’s careful not to put his hands where he really shouldn’t, one between your shoulder blades, the other cradling your head. Everything is not alright, but he doesn’t want to overstep, risk pushing you further down into yourself and further away from him.

“Hey, sweetheart, let’s go sit.”

You don’t object as he moves his hand to the small of your back and walks you into the office. He sits you down on the couch, handing you water from the fridge and you’ve gone silent, eyes drawn to the floor, but your tears have somewhat slowed. He notices blotches of dried blood on the bottom of your shirt and gets up to find some bandages and cotton pads — he knows there’s a first-aid kit somewhere around here.

“Just wanna clean your arm up, that okay?”

You nod your head meekly, still avoiding his eyes. He takes your arm in his hands, twisting it to see the scrapes and grazes in their entirety. He wipes your arm down with an alcohol-soaked cotton pad and you pinch your eyes shut, wincing slightly at the inevitable sting. Thankfully your arm just looked worse than it is; he’s able to leave most of it uncovered, only bandaging a small section that looks particularly inflamed.

Placing your arm down in your lap, he’s not sure how to carry on. He can practically hear you thinking, but what exactly is turning over and over in that head of yours he doesn’t know.

“Sorry,” you mumble weakly, angling your head towards him, gaze still downward.

“Sorry for what?”

“This.” You shift your hands around in your lap and start picking at your nails. You slump down on the couch, continuing, “Sorry for crying.”

“Hey, look at me.” Joel turns himself to face you, resting an elbow on the back of the couch. He waits for you to turn and you finally lift yourself to meet his gaze, your eyes red and glassy.

“Don’t apologise for crying, sweetheart. You’re allowed to cry.”

“I’m twenty-three, I should be better at all this by now.”

“Better at what? I’m about to turn fuckin’ fifty and I still cry sometimes.”

You turn away from him again — you furrow your brow and he can tell you’re trying to come up with a reason why that shouldn’t apply to you, why you need to be stronger than anyone else.

“I assume that was your boyfriend on the phone? Sounds like you had grand plans for tonight.”

You screw your face up at that.

“Don’t call him- don’t say that. He had grand plans, I was psyching myself up to break up with him.”

He knew that something wasn’t right between the two of you, but he didn’t realise it would be quite this bad.

“It’s just…” You sigh again, sounding despondent, like all that anger you had earlier has been dissolved, absorbed, or maybe you’ve just become desensitised to it.

“I just don’t understand, how is he so… detached? It’s like he’s from another fuckin’ planet. I can’t tell anymore if he just doesn’t care or if he truly is that self-absorbed.” You lean back and bring your arms up, draping them over your head.

“Was it always like this?” He’s trying his best to tread lightly, but hopes you’ll feel more at ease if you can get some of this off your chest.

“No… at least, I don't think so. Maybe it has been and I was just blinded by the bare minimum. Only now he doesn’t even do that.”

You turn to look at him again, eyes changed from glassy to broken and exhausted. You whisper a thank you, a soft, sad smile on your face and he decides not to push you any further. You’ve shared, and that’s a start — you’ll come to him again in your own time.

“Gonna go finish up that tire of yours, you can stay in here a while if—”

You’re standing before he can get the words out, straightening out your shirt and wiping your tear-stained cheeks with the back of your hand.

“Sounds good, let’s go.”

No longer hysterical as you push past to walk outside, now you just look defeated. He should insist you stay put to be alone, but having just opened up about your insecurities and loveless relationship with Jake, now isn’t the time to defy you. Maybe he can try and bring a smile to your face before you say goodbye.

You thought your night might end in tears courtesy of Jake, but this isn’t what you were expecting. You can’t believe you broke down so easily in front of Joel, but maybe deep down you knew he wouldn’t mind, knew he’d be there to console you.

You have to admit, it felt nice to be held, to feel safe in someone's embrace. Your head was spinning — Jake’s an asshole, my arm hurts like a bitch, I’m never gonna get the blood out of this shirt. Then Joel took your arm in his hands and it had your head spinning for entirely different reasons. Feeling his fingertips dig into your skin and his hold around your wrist had you longing to feel those same sensations on the rest of your body.

Joel shook your hand the first day you met and you committed it to memory — firm grip, calloused palm, thick fingers. You replayed it in your mind on countless late nights with your hand between your legs, trying to imagine how different it would feel, how much better it would feel if it were his instead.

Coming outside into fresh air was supposed to calm you down, until Joel carried on replacing the tire and you felt heat settle under your skin, neither from injury nor anger. Muscles flexing under his coveralls, neck tensing and the grunts from the exertion — something else you can commit to memory. You feel your panties dampen and you don’t feel ashamed.

Joel stands when he’s finished fitting the new tire, lifting you out of your fantasy. Thinking back to the last time you saw him, you remember his parting words to you: you’re welcome to come answer the phone for me. You couldn’t tell if he was being polite or actually offering you a job.

“Were you serious about all that answering the phone stuff?” You wring your hands, worried you’re about to make a fool of yourself.

“You wanna work here?” Joel straightens up, the hint of a smile playing on his lips.

“I mean, I know my dad would like to see me out of the house and actually doing something. I doubt this would impress him, though.”

Joel cocks his head to the side, hands planted on his hips as he inches towards you and you feel yourself heat up instantly, eyes going wide as embarrassment washes over you.

“Sorry! No offence to you, I just mean- I’m not saying it’s- God I’m really not helping myself.” You snap your eyes shut, hands flying up to cover your face and you wish the world could just swallow you whole.

Joel starts laughing, a quiet, gravelly sound and you open your eyes to glare at him. He raises his eyebrows, a wide smile now across his face.

“No offence taken. Do you really wanna sit here answering the phone? I‘m sure there’ll be some other stuff we can do, too, but not much else beyond that.”

Other stuff we can do. You could certainly think of a few things, that’s for sure.

“Well, something’s better than nothing. And you play nice music, so there’s that.”

He laughs again, shaking his head.

“Maybe you can teach me some car stuff when I’m not answering the phone. And… you’re nice to be around, I guess.” You purse your lips, trying your best to play it off as an innocent compliment.

“Well alright then, I’ll see you next week sweetheart.” He smiles warmly, eyes just beginning to crinkle around the edges and for the first time today you feel at ease.

Joel saves your number and waves you goodbye as you drive off. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he’s still standing in the road, a smirk plastered on his face and you grin like an idiot. You still have Jake to deal with, and your blood-stained shirt might go straight in the bin, but at least you have working with Joel to look forward to.

comments & reblogs are hugely appreciated, forehead kisses to all 💜

dividers by @saradika-graphics

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut

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sweetestberryofthebunch · 1 month ago

Text

Wandavision; Double Feature (Agatha Harkness x Reader)

In a town terrorised by the mind control of a grieving witch, you’re Bella Swan. Well, not entirely, but the look on Agatha’s face when you’d said it like that was too good to miss out on. Still, there was no explanation to it. You weren’t magick, at least you’d never thought you were, but when your entire hometown, including your poor parents, began to play the charades the Scarlet Witch had created, you were completely unaffected. It’s like you’re immune to it, your mind protected by a firm, unwavering shield. Luckily for you, Agatha finds you before the witch behind the Westview Hex does. She offers a simple deal. Her protection in exchange for your loyalty. And, Technicolor or not, how could you ever resist the twinkle of those eyes?

~ a collection of snippets of your time with Agatha during the Westview Hex; Loose on plot, heavy on smut ~

Part I: And … Action!

In this Episode it is the 50s and you are sent out to spy on Wanda for the first time. Agatha realises just how much you aim to please, and decides to have a little fun with that.

Content/Warnings: imbalanced power dynamics, mentions of light choking, r definitely has a praise kink, mommy kink, no smut in this one yet but dw i‘m already three fingers deep into part 2

5k+ words

„Strip.“

„What?“, your mouth fell open, staring at her wide eyed. You were standing in her bedroom, already an insane enough thing to happen within knowing her for less than 48 hours. But hearing her stern voice order you to take off your clothes definitely topped that.

Agatha didn’t even look over her shoulder, unbothered by your confusion as she pushed open the winged doors to the gigantic closet across the room. There had to be a similar magic involved in it like the basement, there was no way a closet this size just fit into the second store of a little suburban house.

She’d brought you here after finding you on the streets, a single, vibrant blob of color in the new, black and white reality of Westview. You’d been shaking, eyes swollen from crying, Why was everything black and white? Why was your apartment suddenly occupied by a random couple you‘d never met before, declaring they had to sell milkshakes from the empty store beneath your studio now, because she had told them too. Why? And why was everyone dressed so differently, so … vintage?

Agatha had been the only bright, carefree face you’d seen after hours of stumbling around lost in town square. She had been just as confused about seeing you, too, but her initial surprise quickly turned into intrigue.

Her house was a safe haven, the first time since you’d woken up in this upside down reality you didn’t feel exposed, didn’t feel like a lab rat under a bright lamp, vulnerable, unable to run.

She‘d made you tea and you‘d sat on her couch, telling her everything that had happened. And, thankfully, she already knew. So you weren’t crazy.

The things she’d told you … witchcraft, magick, hexes and mind control … if you hadn’t seen it for yourself, you wouldn’t have believed it. Slowly, as you listened to her and nodded, you saw the color drain from yourself too, slowly fitting into this new world, this hexed Westview.

„I just don’t understand why“, you‘d eventually confess, and the witch - Agatha was her name - had shrugged.

„We’re going to find out.“ she’d leaned closer to you, hands clasping together underneath her chin as she smirked at you, „The same way we’re going to figure you out.“

Because if all of Westview had been hexed, you should have been too. But you weren’t. And, as you found out after Agatha had assigned you a room in her home she placed a twin sized bed in it with the flick of her wrist (you almost fell over in surprise). You learned from her that she couldn’t read your mind either.

And while you were too busy pouting over the fact she’d tired in the first place, she’d just shrugged it off. Because that lead to one conclusion. You seemed to have some kind of resistance, an immunity to any witchcraft. A shield around your mind, like a camouflaged helmet.

That night, before you’d curled into the new bed, you had made her a promise. Her protection and guidance in this hexed town, in return for your loyalty in her plan.

„What plan?“, you’d asked before retreating to your room, and the bewildered glow in her eyes had sent a shiver down your spine.

„We‘re going to get the Scarlet Witch, and we are going to take this power away from her.“

“Take your clothes off“, Agatha said now, back in her bedroom again, starting to rustle through the racks. The sound pulled you out of your memories, and you immediately felt the heat rising to your head.

„This is a 50s sitcom.“, Agatha explained, „You’re not meeting our lead actress in a graphic tee and jeans.“

When you still made no attempts to strip, she turned around with an exasperated sigh, palm pressing against her forehead. There was a pale dress draped over her arm, the fabric swinging as she raised her hands in a dramatic gesture, pointing at you.

„My Goodness, are you Mormon? Go change in the bathroom if you need to, there’s a robe hanging at the door.“

Finally, you made your way over to the bathroom she gestured towards, only stopping when she called out your name again.

„Honey, turn back around.“

You Stopped and did exactly as she said, turning around with one hand on the door already. A smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth at your compliance, and you felt your stomach twist at the sight.

The witch gave you a long, studious look. Like your face was a canvas she had yet to decide what to paint on. A project she was still mapping out. You shifted from one foot to the other, glancing anywhere but right at her piercing eyes.

„Take everything off. Including piercings“, one more glance at your ears, „Especially piercings.“

„All of them?“, the potential implications of your question only dawned on you when the words had already left your mouth, and you immediately wanted to sink into the ground, „I mean … I don’t-“

„Oh my!“, Agatha let out a low giggle, the amusement on her face undeniable as her eyes slowly wandered down your front, over your chest and lower, to the zipper of your jeans. You felt like your skin was going to burn right off under her gaze. Own eyes fixated on your toes, you didn‘t dare to look up even as the tips of her pumps stepped into view.

„That entirely depends on how much you decide to reveal“, she chuckled. Two fingers hooked underneath your chin, nails digging into your skin just slightly. Her grip was steady but not painful, forcing you to meet her eyes. One of her brows raised up in an almost cocky smirk, observing you like a lioness observed her unassuming prey. Watchful, but aware of her upper hand over the situation. Your breathing stopped, eyes wide, brain unable to form a single sentence. God, you wanted to sink into the ground in embarrassment.

The grin on Agatha‘s face was smug, entirely pleased with your reactions to her.

„Just remember this is a first meeting between two neighbours in the fifties. Maybe let her take you to dinner first.“

Before your brain could muster up an answer, she‘d already let go of you, turning back towards the closet. „Go change“, she called over her shoulder, waving you off, „Take a shower if you need to.“ You decided to ignore the obvious jab and do exactly that.

It turned out that playing dress up for this distorted reality was quite fun. After showering, Agatha had twirled your hair into little curls, letting it dry like that as she led you through each piece of your new attire displayed neatly on the big canopy bed.

With each piece of clothing you‘d slowly feel yourself emerge deeper into the world, feeling less out of place. Agatha had curled and then pinned your hair up, and you had slipped in various undergarments, stockings, and a metal wired bra with cone-like cups that weren’t fitted to your actual chest at all.

„I don’t hate this! I look like Madonna“, you commented, giving the full undergarments a onceover in the mirror.

„Ouch!“

Your hand came up to hold the ear Agatha had flicked with her finger, turning around to stare at her in accusation, „What was that for?“

„Madonna isn’t even a concept yet“, she reminded you, shaking her head at your dramatic reaction to what really had not been that painful at all, „Drop the modern references, you can’t let her know you’re not under the hex!“

You pushed your bottom lip forward into a little pout, remembering the notes she’d made you take on etiquette, culture and speak of the era you were trapped in. “I won’t slip up!“, you promised, „I was just … pointing that out. I‘m lifting up the team spirit!“

„Thank you for the amazing contribution“, Agatha dead panned with a little roll of her eyes, before nodding towards the little chair by the vanity again. She held a small case of some pressed powder in one hand and a big, fluffy brush in the other. „Now sit down, you can lift your spirits later. We’re not even close to being done.“

The checkered dress Agatha had picked out for you was beautiful. Bright shades formed the pattern on the cotton fabric that had you wonder what its actual colors were. The shades of grey that the world had been tinted in since the Hex were brighter than what Agatha was wearing. A part of you wanted to know if she’d dressed you in contrary or complimentary shades. The same part that wanted to see the colors she dressed herself in at all, that wondered if her eyes were blue or green. But, there was no way to know that now, not until the two of you managed to break this hex. So it was time to focus on that.

You had on multiple layers of underskirts, the cone bra, and a corset that was pulling you together from your ribs all the way below your hipbone, and the dress itself came with a little fabric belt held right at the nip of your waist, a few buttons at the front as decoration.

You felt yourself inhale sharply when you felt Agatha‘s delicate fingers tie it together in the back, giving both ends of the belt a little tug. You stumbled backwards, just a single step, but it was enough to suddenly feel her warmth against your back, body brushing against yours. You jumped at the sudden contact, eyes wide as they found hers in the mirror, slowly wandering down your body.

„Relax Darling“, she smiled, one hand adjusting the little bow she’d tied at your back, the other coming up to brush some of the curls she’d so intricately pinned into place back over your shoulder.

She exposed your neck and shoulder, all the way to your collarbones, where she had placed a single necklace with a pale gemstone.

You swore you could see the tip of her tongue dart out, licking her lips mere inches from the shell of your ear.

If you were braver, you’d roll your head to the side, expose more of the silky skin of your neck to her, offer yourself up right then and there. Maybe even beg her to taste your skin just once. Just for the slight chance she might actually do it.

But you weren’t brave like that, you were not even brave enough to meet her eyes right now, despite having no problems staring at the dazzling woman when she didn’t notice. So all you did was swallow hard, eyes fixed on the hands in your lap, covered by a little pair of white gloves.

You didn’t see the way Agatha’s eyes watched your throat move, didn’t notice how her hands ran through your fluffy curls just a little longer than necessary, before pulling away to stand upright behind you, hands coming to rest on your shoulders, giving them a little squeeze.

“We’re done”, she announced, a satisfied little smirk on her stained red lips, admiring the work she’d done on you.

And certainly, you were completely transformed, looked like an entirely different person. The dress fit you surprisingly snug, you wondered if that also was part of her magic, your hair styled almost the exact same way as hers, both of your lips painted dark, both of your cheeks covered in blush. With her hands on your shoulders like that, you almost looked like a vintage photograph, the kind you kept on your bedside table. It made your insides feel like they were boiling.

In the small hall by the front door, your feet slid into little black pumps, polished to shine enough that the light reflected off the matte fabric. You stood back up, rolling your shoulders before taking the plate of freshly baked apple pie from the counter beside you. A small, unassuming gesture. Just a neighbor introducing themselves with a homemade pie. The perfect beginning to any storyline.

Agatha watched you from the door, nodding in approval when you gave a little spin to show off your final look.

“And remember“, she said, matter of factly, „you are just stopping by in town for a little while, staying with Agnes, your … mother in law.”

“Really?” You had to hold back a laugh, giving her a curious look, “that’s the story you made up for us?”

“It’s the fifties, remember”, Agatha replied. Her hand found the small of your back, fingers hooking underneath your belt, pulling you back until you were pressed against her. She was so close, you could feel the words she murmured into your ear, voice low and raspy, “We can always rewrite the plot later.”

You almost dropped the pie right then and there.

Just like that, she had already stepped away from you, letting out a little giggle that sounded a lot more like Agnes again. Her hands found yours, clasping over them, stabilising your grip on the porcelain plate again.

„So I am … married“, the words felt strange on your lips, and you had to hold back a nervous laughter. If this was supposed to work, you’d have to work on your acting skills.

Thankfully, Agatha came to help you out immediately. „To mine and Ralphs Beautiful boy … Bartholomew.“

Now you had to laugh, shaking your head at her. How she was able to just say things like that with a straight face was beyond you. You‘d better catch up to her soon.

„Yes of course“, repeating the story to her, you pushed your tongue into your left cheek.

„My husband Bartholomew, who works in the city.“ Your eyes found hers, and you bit the inside of your cheek. Goodness, even in this black and white reality, you could see the brightness of her eyes. You were longing to see them in color, wanting to know what they looked like when they caught the sun. Focus!

“And your husband Ralph, who is the guy you keep chained up in the basement.“ The look you gave her at that was a mix of concern, uncertainty and a little bit of accusation. The fact that she’d basically just taken over some poor guys house and banished him into the magical dungeon she’d summoned was a bridge you hadn’t yet crossed.

Agatha nodded along as you spoke, a wicked little grin on her lips. „We feed him twice a day, don‘t we? He will be useful later. Until then, he’s gonna be just fine down there.“

Her hands wandered from your hands up to your wrists, clasping around them. You weren’t sure if it was an act of encouragement, or a subtle warning. And you certainly weren’t going to ask. Your skin was already prickling with goosebumps from the touch alone.

Agatha‘s voice was low, the air around her vibrating with power.

„He hasn’t complained since I gave him his Xbox, and they haven’t even invented that out here. It’s best to keep him where he is for now.“ She inched closer, grip on your wrists tightening, effectively pinning you in place. Your breathing stopped.

Her voice had dropped to merely a whisper now, and you swore you could see a single flash of purple in her eyes. The only color you’d seen since all of this had started.

“Ralph is none of your concern, we need him alive and well for later.“, she was so close, you could feel the husk of her words on your face.

“Your job is to be a good little pet and do as I say. Your loyalty for my protection. Understood?“

After swallowing hard, you gave a small but firm nod. „Understood.“

After a few more seconds, she dropped her hands. The mask of Agnes slipped on and off so smoothly, it caught you off guard every time.

„Go now darling, or you’ll be late!” she smiled, and gave you a gentle push towards the front door, opening and holding it for you. As you brushed past her, she gave you a dazzling smile, hand up in a small but enthusiastic wave. Like she was sending you off on your first day of school, not a magical spy mission in a fake reality. Your life truly took a wild turn in the past 48 hours.

“Make Mommy proud!” Agatha chirped, standing by the door, and she was lucky you were already down the stairs. Otherwise you might have tripped and fallen and the whole operation would have ended right there. Your knees felt like jelly, but you straightened your back and rolled your shoulders. It was time to deliver. Most of all, it was time to focus on your mission, and not the way your stomach had just performed a backflip at her words.

As you made your way down the sidewalk, still a little uncomfortable in the pumps Agatha had picked out for you, you held onto the porcelain plate with white knuckles. It truly was a miracle you didn’t break it on the short walk to Wanda’s house.

„Alright“, you murmured to yourself, rolling your shoulders before pressing the doorbell. There was no going back now. „Here goes nothing.“

…

It turned out that you were quite the natural at this whole undercover thing. Wanda certainly made it easy, eager to talk to you, even more eager to try the pie you’d made, eyes rolling back in pleasure at the taste of cinnamon on her tongue.

She was beautiful, so to the point where you almost felt a little intimidated. You didn’t know what you had expected, but it wasn’t a girl this sweet, a few years older than you, her smile was warm and her voice genuine when she thanked you for the pie. You’d just shrugged and told her you appreciated the opportunity to leave the house for a while. At least it would be easier to click with her like this.

The ice broke for sure the moment you offered to help set the table, Wanda clapping her hands together in Delight. The two of you ended up on her couch, legs propped up like school girls on a movie night, plates of pie in hand as she‘d rambled to you about Vision. The girl was whipped.

How much she loved him, how excited they were to move to Westview, how much he already seemed to exceed at his new job. You‘d mostly nodded along, trying to memorise every little detail to repeat back to Agatha later.

It was weird, if it wasn’t for Agatha telling you the truth about the hex, you never would have assumed Wanda to be the one behind it. She seemed so … carefree. And unassuming. But then, eventually she did slip up.

„Enough about us!“, she laughed, „I‘ve been talking your ear off about my husband for over an hour, you must be so bored!“

You shook your head as you finished the last bit of pie and Wanda took your plate to place it on the coffee table. You gave her a grateful little smile.

„It’s fine really“, you replied, hoping people in the 50s would say it like that.

If they didn’t, Wanda seemed to not notice. „Tell me about Bartholomew“, she said instead, „Agnes never mentioned having a son!“

You swallowed, gears in your head turning as you came up with something on the spot.

„Well he lives in the City“, you said, „I mean, we do together. He writes for a tabloid, so he’s always busy. So is Ralph, that‘s why I‘m staying here for a while. He was worried that I was lonely. That Ag- Agnes is too.“

Wanda smiled at that, head tilted slightly to the side. „How very kind of him! He must love you very much.“

You almost choked on nothing at that, quickly busying yourself with a hand in your hair, brushing a lost strand behind your ear. „Well, I mean … I would hope so.“

Wanda eyed you with curiosity, shuffling just the slightest bit closer on the couch. „What is he like?“, she asked just a little quieter than before. Like she wanted to know the real deal now.

„Very different from his mom“, you offered, and feared it sounded more like a question than a statement. However, you took the way Wanda‘s lips curled into a distant smile as a good sign. She was buying every little piece of bullshit you had to barter. Good.

„He uh … It’s a little embarrassing but he started to bald very badly“, you had no idea where and why this had come to you in this moment, but the way Wanda leaned back and put her hands on her hips made you more confident in your story. Any reaction was a good one. If you shared, maybe Wanda would too… After all, all of this was to amuse her, to please the Scarlet Witch.

“We tried every treatment but he keeps losing more hair. He told me not to tell Agnes yet!“

Wanda gave you an almost patronising look. „Well, I would tell him that he doesn’t have to worry about that at all, and that the amount of hair on his head or what his mother thinks doesn’t change the way you feel about him! Vision has no hair at all and I still love him the same!“

There it was!

A slip up in the story. A mistake in production, almost too small for a regular viewer to notice. But you weren’t a regular viewer, you were a spy on a mission looking for cracks in the story.

„But Wanda“, you tilted your head to the side, looking at her with furrowed brows, the perfect face of innocent confusion. „Doesn’t Vision have hair? I saw him leave for work this morning, he drives past the kitchen window every day!“

Wanda‘s big, round doe eyes widened, fumbling to find something to say. You almost felt bad. Almost.

„Well, I mean …“ her gaze left you, darted from the empty plates on the coffee table to the pictures on the wall, which also featured her with a tall man, thin but definitely prominent hair on his head, even a little stubble on his upper lip.

„He’s been balding too.“ she finally said, lamely.

„Hah!“, Agatha shook her head at that, one hand on her hip as she laughed, „Balding my ass! That man is all steel and wires, the human form is merely an illusion!“

She was standing behind you as you sat at her vanity again, in the low light of the nightstand lamps, watching Agatha as she pinned your hair into little rosettes overnight. At the extent of your daily beauty routine, a part of you wished you did have magic like she had, so you could just wake up and wish for perfectly curled hair.

Then again, sitting here, wrapped in your nightgown and the robe she‘d given you as her fingers delicately ran through your hair, precise and yet gentle certainly was a way to spend your night. You couldn’t help but lean into the touch a little more, resisting the urge to wistfully sigh.

Trying your best to recount what you‘d found out earlier today proved a little harder though when she was all over you like this, barely covered by her own nightgown, one sleeve slipped off her shoulder,every little tug and pull on your hair sending a new shiver down your spine.

„So … that was helpful?“, you asked when she’d gone quiet after your story.

„It‘s strong evidence that she didn’t just create an illusion for the guy, but actually reanimated his corpse. If you can call it that. Is it necromancy if the body used is made of panels and electric wire?“

The way she said it, it wasn’t a real question. Her fingers busy pinning the last strand of your hair into place, before carefully wrapping a silk scarf around all her hard work, tying it together at the top of your head much like the one she was already wearing.

„I don’t know“, you answered anyway, flinching when suddenly, you felt her warm palms on your bare shoulders, soft skin resting against yours.

Her eyes found yours in the mirror, and her expression was unreadable to you. „Tell me what happened after she slipped.“

„Not much“, you said, „she … she stared at me really intensely for a moment, but then nothing happened, so I just offered to bring the dirty dishes to the kitchen. She thanked me again and then I left, but she did hug me on the way out. I don’t think she assumes anything about me.“

If the fact Wanda had gotten this comfortable this fast with you bothered Agatha, she didn’t let it show. Her hands on your shoulders began to move a little, eyes still holding your gaze in the reflection as her palms began to rub over your skin, back and forth and back and forth. You felt the hair on your neck rise.

„I …“, you sucked in a sharp breath, her hands wandering upwards, brushing over your neck for just a moment before going back to your shoulders. You felt yourself lean back into her tough almost naturally, like you were guided by some higher power. Like it was second nature, you tilted your head up a little, neck craning. Your legs were shaking underneath the layers of silky fabric you were wearing. You wanted nothing more than her hands back on your neck.

„Agatha“, the sound came out a lot higher, a lot weaker than you‘d intended, and your cheeks turned red in embarrassment.

The woman behind you just smirked, the way your body was reacting to her touch was not lost on her. She leaned over you, ever so slightly closer now. One of her hands stilled on your shoulder, fingertips grazing over the outline of your collarbone. Her other hand wandered back up towards your neck, thumb pressing into the back, stroking over the small baby hairs that flew free there, fingers loosely resting over your throat. She could feel your racing pulse there, feel every breath enter and release from your lungs. And she definitely felt the way you swallowed hard, felt the vibration of the little moan daring to slip out of your mouth.

She leaned down further, until her lips were less than an inch from your ear. „What‘s wrong darling? Cat got your tongue?“

“No“, you mewled, and the feeling of your throat moving against her grip was so delectable, you had to squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, fearing that one look from her might make you explode, „Yes.“

Need was burning under your skin, need for her to press down harder, need for her other hand to wander down lower. You were never more grateful for your new found powers than right now, knowing there was no way she could see the sinful images your mind was producing.

„Are you nervous?“, her tone was teasing, and when you did open your eyes again, she was smirking against the shell of your ear, brow cocked in a smug expression.

„There is no reason for you to be nervous. Not after you did so, so well for me.“ She put a little more emphasis on words than the last. Your hands wrapped tightly around the arm rests of your chair. God, you needed her to have her way with you so badly.

And judging by the look on her face, the curl of her lips, she knew that too.

The grip on your throat tightened, just a little. Her other hand tugged on the loose hair at the back of your neck, forcing you to look up at yourself in the mirror.

She was standing above you, halfway curled into you, holding you in her firm grip. Your cheeks were a bright red, a color quickly spreading across your entire face, creeping down your neck. There was a thin layer of sweat on your brow, and your eyes, goodness, your eyes were wide, fluttered half shut in a flushed gaze, pupils dark.

„You did so good for me today“, Agatha leaned in even closer, her breath ghosting over your cheek. The scent of rosewater and lavender invaded your senses, and if you had been in a position to, you would’ve loved to lean in closer, let the floral scent completely consume you. But you didn’t dare to move. Not with her hands on you like this, not when she was leaning closer, even closer never breaking eye contact in your reflections, dimply illuminated by flickering light bulbs.

And then, you could feel her. Her soft, plump lips pressed against your cheek, just above the corner of your mouth. It was short, feather light and before you knew it she had already pulled away. You instinctively tried to chase after her, but the grip on your throat kept you in place, holding your head exactly where it was as she leaned away, straightening her back. You immediately missed her presence right behind you, feeling cold all of a sudden. Her hand left your throat, giving your cheek one little pet on its way before she fully retreated from you, stepping away, arms crossed. Like she didn’t just almost kiss you, like your whole body wasn’t practically begging for her to come back. You weren’t above actually begging either.

„How about this“, Agatha spoke, matter of factly, „Tomorrow I handle Wanda, and you keep the house in tact. You remember your tasks?“

„Feed Ralph and the bunny“, you recounted, voice hoarse, „Keep everything tidy. Never touch the Dark Hold. Tend to the greenhouse out back, cook dinner. Don’t drive, we’re not allowed to drive without a man in the car. Save a plate for Ralph again, keep an eye out for Wanda‘s house.“

„Very good“, Agatha hummed, turning away from you to eye the bookshelf beside the vanity, fingers curling as she looked for something. You tried to pry your eyes away, but failed horribly.

„Let’s add something new to that list. I‘m gonna give you a list of reading assignments. Some history, some spellbooks, some metaphysics.“ She glanced over her shoulders at you, giving you a wink. „Time to find out more about those curious little powers of yours, don’t you think?“

You nodded, staring back at yourself in the mirror one more time. Whatever your life had come to these past days, no one was ever going to believe that story. But, at least in this story your co-star was Agatha Harkness, and you had a feeling you’d just passed your audition with flying colours.

#agatha all along #wandavision #agatha harkness #agatha harkness x reader #wanda maximoff #marvel #mcu #berry writes things

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loving-august · 10 months ago

Text

3:50 p.m | alhaitham.

— I'm rusty with my writings. this draft has been lying for almost a year now to be honest. college is draining especially when your course is hard. at least I'm back...? Hahahahaha

alhaitham hates your presence.

he hates it whenever he sees you in the library, sleeping on the table like there's no problem in the world.

how he hates it when he sees you piling up the books beside you, your stolen glances and as well as your voice. he couldn't bear the sound of it. as if his stomach fell down in an endless pit.

but he finds it hard lately to turn off his earpieces whenever you're around.

kaveh was wrong.

to alhaitham at least, he hates it when kaveh points out the 'facts' that he claimed.

that he has a crush on you.

alhaitham could never believe such things. he was the type to never look onto trivial things such as having a crush. "it's childish," he says.

kaveh was pinching his nose in disappointment and groaned. there's no way he's that hard-headed.

the graduation made alhaitham feel at ease. finally.

he became the akademiya's scribe and without your presence feels like he is in peace. but there is something missing.

and an unexplainable feeling that whenever he goes to the akademiya, his eyes always looked on the area where you usually stay back in the days. it was an unconscious habit of his to look at your respective dershan.

maybe kaveh was right all along.

#๑.made by aug #genshin impact x reader #gemshin impact #alhaitham x reader #alhaitham x you #al haitam x reader #alhaitham x y/n

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kpop---scenarios · 2 months ago

Text

Maniac (6)

Pairing: Hyunjin x Reader x Minho

Warning: Nothing really, being scared, language, kidnapped

Word Count: 2k

Taglist: @oddracha @hyunjinhoexxx @baby-stay92 @felixleftchickennugget

@skzooluvr @felixleftchickennugget @elzz123 @bangchansleftbutcheek

@kayleefriedchicken @yaorzu-blog @rylea08 @vietjeb @iovecb97

@skzdust @anylady-fics @ilovemyapopbaby @gloriajovicc

@kkamismom12 @chuuyaobsessed

Everything Taglist: @wife2straykidss @piscesrising01 @baby-stay92 @kisses-too-the-moon

@dwaekkiiracha @silly250 @rylea08 @imperfectlyperfectprincess1

@satosugu4l @gabriellamarie @tsunderelino @iovecb97 @1810cl

@lordmaahes-nsc @sailorkoss @minh0scat @pixie0627 @50-husbands

@jinnies-muse @yaorzu-blog @anskiiz @joyofbebbanburg @number1jeonginstan @skzooluvr

@jisunglyricist @ambersnowxxx @ayyonoona @31maze13 @stay-tiny-things @thegingerthatwaited @hoesheez

“Why the fuck does she look so disheveled?” Minho snaps at the man who had you. “Did I not give you a goddamn list of what you can and cannot do?” He spits.

“Oh fuck man, we went off just a little bit.” The man scoffs. “The little bitch has a fucking mouth on her.”

“I'll fucking kill you if you talk about her like that again.” Minho grunts, helping you up off the chair. He puts his jacket over you, with his arm around your shoulder as he helps you walk out of the building. The sun is so bright it almost blinds you, it had felt like years since you'd seen it shining. You had so many questions for Minho but at this moment, you were too tired, dirty, sore and hungry to even ask him. He leads you into the back of his car, gently helping you in and buckling your seatbelt. He goes around to the driver's side of the car, turning on the car and driving away from the building.

Minho glances back at you through the rear view mirror, like he was keeping an eye on you. Making sure you weren't going to open the back door and roll out of the speeding car. It's not like you hadn't thought about it, but you didn't have the strength to do it.

“Are you hungry?” He asks, looking at you once again.

You nod your head, holding his jacket around your body tighter. You were scared, sad and honestly you just wanted to see Hyunjin. Oh, he's probably so worried about you. You can imagine him and your father out trying to find you. If only they knew, you were closer than they thought.

A little while later, Minho pulls into a driveway, parking the car near the large front door. He helps your weak body out of the car, almost carrying you inside the house. He leads you up the stairs and into a room, which is decorated, with pictures scattered around.

“Is this your room?” You ask. Minho smiles, nodding his head.

“Yeah. Here.” He says, opening another door. “You can take a shower.”

You gave him a small smile, you knew you needed to be compliant for now.

“Do you need help?” He asks.

“No, no that's okay. But thank you.” You mumble, hoping he wouldn't push it. You didn't have the energy to fight him and you didn't want to.

“I'll get you something to wear and then we'll have food, okay?” He grins.

“Sure. That sounds good.” You reply.

Please just leave.

Minho leaves the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Once you're in the shower, it all finally hits you. You were kidnapped, beaten, verbally abused… and Minho was behind it all? You didn't want to be here. You just wanted Hyunjin. You needed a way to tell him where you were without Minho getting suspicious.

You stand there for a while, letting the water run down your body, washing your bruises, your cuts and scrapes. You watch the water splash onto the floor, becoming so dirty as the memories of the last, however long, run down the drain with the dirty water. When you finally feel like you're clean enough, you turn off the water, grabbing the fluffy towel, wrapping it around yourself. You take a deep breath. You didn't want to face Minho again but you knew you didn't have a choice. You were a strong woman. If you could survive what you went through, you could find a way to survive this. You open the door, seeing Minho sitting on the bed, with folded clothes in his lap. As soon as he sees you, he stands up, walking towards you with the clothes. He hands them to you without a word. You go back into the bathroom, putting on the sweat pants and oversized shirt he gave to you. Opening the door once again, you walk out of the bathroom, clean and refreshed. Minho holds out his hand for you to take. It took everything you had in you to take his hand in yours. After everything he wanted to act like he didn't do anything?

“Let's go get some food.” He says, leading you out of the room. You walk back down the stairs, following behind him. You're trying to take in the massive house but you're distracted by the smell of food cooking. Minho leads you into the kitchen, where there is a spread of food lined across the counter. Anything and everything you could want was out and it made your mouth drool.

“Dig in.” Minho says, handing you a plate.

You get some of everything, until you can't hold anymore on your plate. You sit at the kitchen table, slowly beginning to eat. Minho sits down across from you, only a few things scattered on his plate.

“I'm sure you have some questions.” He sighs, pushing his plate out of the way, leaning against his arms on the table.

“I do.” You say, swallowing the food in your mouth.

“Did you plan the whole thing?” You ask. “The kidnapping, selling me… all of it?”

“Yeah, I did.” He says.

“Why?”

“Because I knew you wouldn't choose me.” Minho explains. “I knew you'd choose Hyunjin, because I've fucked up slightly as few times.”

“I'm sorry, what?” You scoff. “I went through that hell because you convinced yourself that I wouldn't choose you?” You yell.

“I'm not wrong, Am I?” He yells back. “After our first date, there's no fucking way you would have chosen me.”

“How do you know? It was a first date, I hadn't made any decisions about who I was going to pick!” You yell.

“Yeah right.” He scoffs. “I could see the way you looked at Hyunjin. You never looked at me like that, did you?”

“What are you talking about?” You ask.

“Dont play fucking dumb, Y/N. I know you're not an idiot. You're just like everyone else, fucking swooning over him. I needed a win this time! I needed to prove to my father that I could do something fucking right!” He yells.

“Are you kidding me?” You laugh, but there's no humor. “All of this was over showing your father that you weren't a fuck up?” You snap. “Fucking news flash, Minho. You are a goddamn fuck up!” You scream.

Minho shoves himself back from the table. He stands up, reaching over the table, slapping you across the face. You sit there, shocked for a moment, until an uncontrollable amount of rage fuels you.

“You know what?” You begin. “You're right, I wouldn't have chosen you. Who fucking would!?. And this shit.” You pause. “This elaborate plan you concocted, makes me even more sure that I would never, ever marry a fucking insecure, gambling addicted failure, not to mention psychotic, piece of shit like you!” You scream, throwing your plate at him, quickly getting out of your chair and bolting for the front door. You run past what look like his father's men, who are standing there watching you run down the hallway.

“Fucking stop her!” Minho screams, pointing towards you. The men rush after you, but you're already out the door and half way through the field. You don't have any shoes on but you don't care. You needed to get away from him. You run into the woods, feeling the branches break under your feet, poking you as the leaves crunch beneath you. Even as you're being stabbed by rocks, branches, and whatever else is on the ground, your pace doesn't falter. Your chest hurts, your legs are burning, you can't catch your breath. You can hear them behind you, running through the woods to find you. You can hear Minho screaming your name. You didn't want to go back to him. You couldn't. You couldn't spend one more moment with the man who organized your kidnapping. You just wanted to go home.

You finally got to the point where you couldn't run anymore. Your legs wouldn't take you any further. You look around, finding a large tree, you quickly rush towards it, sinking down behind the tree. You cover your mouth with your hand, trying to quiet your breathing. You can hear twigs snapping all around you. You try to make yourself smaller, trying to blend in with the tree.

Anything.

“Oh Y/N. Come out, come out, wherever you are!” Minho yells. His voice echos, but sounds closer with each call of your name. Tears brim in your eyes, one tear rolling down your cheek. You're trying so hard not to sob right now.

“Come on, baby. Come out. Let's go home, we can eat and then go to bed!” He yells. He sounds closer. Your heart is pounding. Your stomach is a swarm of anxiety. You close your eyes, begging inside your head to wake you up from this fucking nightmare.

“Please wake me up. Please. Please.” You whisper to yourself. You were begging anyone, anything, whatever higher power there was. You just needed someone. Something to help you get out of this forest and away from Minho. You had been in some scary situations before but never something like this. You felt like you were being hunted, and you just wanted to go home. You wanted to see Hyunjin and your father.

You hear a crunch. Right in front of you. You take a breath. You open your eyes. Seeing a pair of shoes right in front of you. You look up, seeing Minho smiling down at you.

“Found you.” He whispers in a chilling voice. He was smiling but you could tell he was filled with rage and you didn't know what he was capable of.

And that was scarier than anything.

Minho grabs you by your arm, digging his fingers deep into you as he forces you up to your feet. He keeps his grip on you as he practically drags you out of the forest. He didn't say a single word to you the entire way back to the house, and you were terrified. The look in his eyes was indescribable, he looked almost dead inside. Minho brings you back inside the house, bringing you upstairs and shoves you down on the bed. He looks at you with such hate.

“Why couldn't you just love me?” He asks. “Huh?” He yells. “No answer?”

You just look at him. You can't form any words, you don't even know what you could possibly say to him. You had no answer, you at least didn't have the answer that he wanted you to have.

“Don't fucking move.” He snaps. “Move an inch and they'll never find your fucking body.” He spits, walking out of the room, slamming the door behind him. You can't move. You can't breathe. All you can do is cry, but even then, if you move he'll kill you.

And you really believed him when he said he would. Something inside him has snapped and the longer you stayed trapped in this house, the closer to death you probably were. You quickly get up, running to the window. You fumbled with the lock, pushing it up, and you climbed out onto the roof. You hadn't realized how high up his room actually was. Did you jump? Didn't you climb back inside and risk seeing what Minho had planned for you?

You need to make a decision fast. If you jumped and broke something, you wouldn't be able to run away, but you also didn't want to see what Minho might actually do to you. You took a breath, knowing what was your best and really, only option. You climbed back into Minho's room, quickly and quietly, closing the window before getting back on the bed, hopefully in the same position while also trying to control your breathing.

Seconds later, Minho comes back into the room, ropes in hand.

“Don't worry baby.” He smiles, a soulless smile. “You'll come around. They always do.”

If you enjoy my stories, and would like to read more of them, please consider donating or commissioning a story. You can do so HERE. I appreciate you and you help ♡

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peachhcs · 9 months ago

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congrats on 700 followers!!! ⭐️ for your celly, a blurb with prompt #1 with gabe perreault and any girl oc!!

long day cuddles

gabe perreault x fem!reader

after a long day, all gabe wants to do is crawl into his girlfriend's bed

0.5k words

gabeeee i love him so much. i think a gabe au is on the way at some point in the future! writing him is so much fun, i hope you like this requested blurb :)

700 celly masterlist

you were the only thing on gabe’s mind as he finished up with classes for the day. he trudged his way towards your dorm with the only thing he wanted was to crawl into your bed and fall asleep. finals drained everything out of him, especially since he had so much studying to catch up on after missing class due to being at the frozen four. he knew he needed a break though and you were the perfect pit stop before the library where he’d drown himself in his textbooks for the rest of the night.

he typed a quick message to you to let you know he would be at your dorm in five minutes so you could let him in. you responded almost immediately saying you would head down. gabe couldn’t fight the smile creeping onto his lips knowing he got to see you in 50 steps. it was hard to find time together with your busy schedules, so the boy was grateful both of you had some free time.

he could see you standing by the door as he got closer, your own smile painting your lips when you spotted your boyfriend coming. gabe widened his stride to cut the walk down, scooping you into his arms as soon as he was close enough.

“hi baby,” you smiled into his shoulder.

“hi, so good to see you,” the dark-haired boy pecked your lips before leading him inside.

his fingers intertwined with yours while you waited for the elevator to come back down. “how was class?” your eyes found his again.

“it was fine. just tired is all,” the boy mumbled. you squeezed his hand tighter knowing how much studying he’s been doing to make up for the days he missed last week.

you rode up to your room in comfortable silence and as soon as you opened up the door, gabe’s backpack was on the ground, shoes off, and he climbed into your bed without much warning. he snuggled himself into the covers while you giggled as his behavior.

“tired much?” you laughed, kicking your own shoes off to join the sleepy hockey player.

“i told you,” gabe mumbled. he reached out for you, bringing you to lay on his chest as you got yourself comfortable beside him.

“how’s studying?” you brushed his loose curls away from his forehead.

“fine. feels like i missed a whole semester with how much i’m trying to teach myself,” gabe frowned.

“i mean, you did kind of miss a lot of class for games. i can always help you too,” you grinned, always glad to help your boyfriend study (as long as he didn’t distract both of you whenever you did study together).

“i know. i hate asking you though knowing you have a lot to study for too,” he always made sure he put you first. you rolled your eyes a bit.

“you should know that i’m weeks ahead already. maybe we can go to the library after a bit?” you suggested.

“sounds perfect,” gabe pulled you closer, wanting to lay in your bed for as long as he could.

#gabe perreault #gabe perreault x reader #gabe perreault x you #gabe perreault x y/n #boston college #boston college hockey #gabe perreault fluff #gabe perreault imagines #bc eagles #bc hockey #gabe perreault x fem!reader #peachhcs 700 celly!

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gallifreyanhotfive · 9 months ago

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Random Doctor Who Facts You Might Not Know, Part 50: 50 Facts for 50 Parts

How the hell did I get to part 50?!?!?! This is insanity.

The Eleventh Doctor once got hit with an electromagnetic pulse that left him needing to rebuild his mind, during which time he lived as Mr. Foreman. Valarie would sell her cybernetic enhancements to Mr. Foreman in exchange for money and the chance to check on the TARDIS, often telling him stories about the Doctor as she did so. Mr. Foreman used so many of her enhancements that she lost herself. (Audio: Curiosity Shop)

The Fifth Doctor has been tied up in strappado before. (Audio: The Church and the Crown)

The Ninth Doctor has lost or forgotten the ability to play the spoons. (Audio: Station to Station)

Aspirin is fatal to Time Lords. (Novel: The Left-Handed Hummingbird; Burning Heart; Audio: The Condemned)

The Brigadier lost his virginity as a Second Lieutenant when he was 21 years old. (Novel: Deadly Reunion)

The Thirteenth Doctor has introduced herself as "Sarah Jane Smith" before. (Short story: Mission of the KaaDok)

The Third Doctor was able to sense that he was near the end of his life before being irradiated. (Audio: The Children of the Future)

Mozart got cloned in the future many times because they were inspired by his creativity. This made one clone travel to the past to make Mozart immortal with the intention of draining him of that creativity, which would make sure those clones were never made. The Sixth Doctor traveled to Mozart's deathbed to convince him not to trust the clone, and Mozart eventually dies very confused by what was going on. (Audio: My Own Private Wolfgang)

Ace once tried to use the Seventh Doctor's "look me in the eye, pull the trigger" manipulation tactics, but because she's not a hypnotist or psychic like him, she ends up shot anyway. (Audio: The Fearmonger)

Hannah Bartholomew stowed away on the TARDIS, looking for an adventure. She ended up being instrumental in saving the day on the God-King's Tomb Ship and joined Nyssa and the Fifth Doctor more officially. (Audio: Tomb Ship)

Iris Wildthyme has her own version of the Valeyard called Bianca. She rebuilt her TARDIS as a nightclub and tried to steal Iris's regenerations. (Audio: The Wormery)

The Thirteenth Doctor and the Master, locked together in a psychic link, once talked about their issues. They talked about their pasts, but the Master refused to tell her about the "mystery" he was keeping from her. (Short story: The Doctor vs the Master)

After being irradiated, the Third Doctor wandered the time vortex for an entire decade, his body breaking down the entire time. It got to a point where he could not reach the console and was left drifting until the TARDIS finally landed herself. (Novel/Audio: Love and War)

The Thirteenth Doctor once tried to celebrate Yaz's birthday with a tea party in Boston, 1773. (Comic: The Forest Bride)

The Eighth Doctor was separated into his three different sides once. One side was sensible. The other was quite bouncy and excitable, and it was a wonder he didn't get killed while being distracted by something. The third side was incredibly nasty and could be quite violent without the other two sides there to balance him out. (Audio: Caerdroia)

The Fifth Doctor is so good with a bow and arrow that he could shoot an arrow with a piece of parchment attached to it through a window in a tower and snuff out the flame of the candle he was aiming at. (Audio: Son of the Dragon)

The Ninth Doctor once invited a woman named Adriana to travel with him in the TARDIS, only for her to almost immediately die. (Audio: The Bleeding Heart)

When taking into account the battered appearance of his TARDIS console, the Second Doctor realized that the Time Lords had been sending him on missions for a long time, using him as a pawn. Unfortunately, every time he realized this, they erased his memory. (Short story: Save Yourself)

The Twelfth Doctor recalled pulling the Sword from the Stone, becoming King of England for a day, and then abdicating to King Arthur. (Novel: Silhouette)

The Eleventh Doctor used the alias Jean Valjean to infiltrate Alcatraz. (Comic: Escape into Alcatrax)

The Toymaker once turned the Eighth Doctor into a ventriloquist's doll, and he was unable to move or speak unless Charley was holding him. When he did speak, he would shout and protest desperately against the situation. (Audio: Solitaire)

About six hours after the events of The Tomb of the Cybermen, Captain Hopper and his crew ran into the Fifth Doctor, Tegan, and Nyssa, and Hopper was killed by two cyber-converted crewmembers. (Audio: Secrets of Telos)

The Third Doctor became a British citizen at some point. (Audio: The Doll of Death)

After leaving the Eighth Doctor, Zagreus became Perfection, who was a huge flirt towards the Doctor. (Audio: The Next Life)

William Shakespeare once spiked the Fifth Doctor's drink with ginger, leading to the predictable drunken effects. (Audio: The Kingmaker)

The Thirteenth Doctor also really likes ginger nuts, garibaldis, and fig rolls and gets them from the biscuit dispenser in her TARDIS. (Comic: The Forest Bride)

The Sixth Doctor considers Braxiatel condescending and doesn't really like him, but he still trusts him. (Audio: The 100 Days of the Doctor)

When the Fifth Doctor was stabbed in the chest, he was able to survive due to his characteristic heart anatomy, but he was still out for the count for a while. (Audio: Son of the Dragon)

The Sixth Doctor had been known to play with swivel chairs, even going "wheeeee!" while gliding around in them. (Audio: The Sandman)

The Ninth Doctor used his sonic screwdriver to seal the Compassionate away in the rift. He also rigged the sonic to explode. However, this sonic screwdriver was the model commonly used by the War Doctor, not the one from the first series of nuwho. (Audio: The Bleeding Heart)

The Twelfth Doctor thought he might regenerate when he was infected with the Venusian flu, but he also worried that the flu would take such a toll on him that he wouldn't be able to regenerate. (Audio: The Lost Flame)

Kwundaar looks so terrifying that the Doctor screamed after merely looking at him. (Audio: Primeval)

Erimem - a companion of the Fifth Doctor - brought her cat Antranak on board the TARDIS, whom the Doctor despised. There were several reasons for this, including that the Doctor was occasionally unable to set the controls because Antranak was lying on top of them. (Audio: The Church and the Crown)

C'rizz's father almost drowned him once as punishment for deviating from the Church of the Foundation. (Audio: The Next Life)

The Twelfth Doctor's sonic sunglasses have a Telepathic Emergency Beacon, which allows him to take control of another person's body. (Short story: My Dad, The Doctor)

There was a murderer in a place called the Needle, which should be impossible since everyone there has a chip inside of them stopping them from being violent. This killer traveled from person to person, something referred to as "redlining." The Seventh Doctor immediately redlined after being chipped. This whole situation began because a time traveller came to the needle, and the time travel mechanism was organic and a part of her, which made the computer go mad. The Doctor was drawn there and was sensitive to redlining due to his time sensitive nature and his biology. (Audio: Red)

Simon and Joanne, two characters in Lant Land, thought that Tegan and Turlough's names were unbelievable and proposed they change them to Yvonne and Derek. (Audio: Lant Land)

The Eleventh Doctor once gave the name Colonel Lethbridge-Stewart as a pseudonym. (Novel: Shroud of Sorrow)

Gemma, one of the Eighth Doctor’s companions, has called him Dad before, but the Doctor preferred to be called a cool uncle. (Audio: Terror Firma)

Turlough hates the cold and will complain if put in it. (Audio: Singularity)

The Sixth Doctor and Evelyn once thought they had accidentally cockblocked Julius Caesar's parents on the night of his conception. This meant that instead a baby girl named Julia was born, which Evelyn thought would be a brilliant chance to revolutionize the world. She kept trying to stop the Doctor from convincing Julius Caesar Sr. and Aurelia from hooking up at the proper time. Eventually, the two realize that 101 BC is before 100 BC and that they were doing this for no reason at all. (Audio: 100 BC)

The Spriggan was an alternate universe version of the Doctor, who terrorized a planet and used their youth to power his TARDIS. He even created an new Leela, but she fought him to protect the Tenth Doctor and threw him into the vortex. (Audio: Splinters)

The Galyari are a species of 8-foot tall reptiles that had extraordinary eyesight. Because of their exceptional vision, they found the Sixth Doctor to be literally painful to look at because of his coat. They were afraid of him and called him "the Sandman." (Audio: The Sandman)

The Tenth Doctor referred to the Seventh as the mysterious and manipulative type, the sort of rebellious phase someone goes through when they turn 1000 years old. (Novel: Legends of Camelot)

Joshua Douglas was a companion of the Third Doctor but stopped traveling with him after a disagreement. He was later killed while with the Fourth Doctor and Leela. (Audio: The Catalyst)

Mandy Litherland was incredibly fond of and sweet on the Ninth Doctor. After traveling to the past, she kissed the Doctor. The Doctor almost invited her to travel with him but didn't because he knew she probably wouldn't accept. (Audio: Auld Lang Syne)

Sometimes, when the Sixth Doctor is distressed and going off the deep end of his emotions, he has been known to break down in Evelyn's presence and cuddle with her. (Audio: Arrangements for War)

The Veil left the Twelfth Doctor a spade made of duralinum and a dwarf star alloy, which would have been strong enough to break the azbantium wall. The Doctor was wary of it, assuming it was a trap, and he used his fists on the wall instead. (Short story: The Veil)

Missy once saved the life of a young girl whose sister had asked her for help. She had stopped to rescue the child stuck high up while being chased by an assassin, without further witness, and without reward. The Doctor does not know of this. (Audio: The Chaos Cascade)

A young version of the Fifth Doctor post-Four to Doomsday once got displaced in time. Experiencing time slippage, he swapped places with his future selves and learned that Adric had died far too early. Eventually, he ended up in the body of an Auton duplicate the Master had made of the Doctor. He eventually faded away and died as the time slippage unraveled his past and his memories to an extent where he was running on his most basic desire: to save Adric. He had been convinced that if he was put back in his own time he could save him, and for that reason, the older Fifth Doctor refused to return him. (Audio: The Auton Infinity)

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kaylopolis · 3 months ago

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Alastor's Shadow (18+) - My Fawn & My Shadow: Epilogue

Alastor x F!Reader

Synopsis: There’s a new Overlord in town and it isn’t the Radio Demon. Six years after you fell into Hell, you have finally earned your seat at the table as Pentagram City’s newest and baddest and with the Extermination coming six months earlier than planned, it is now time to implement your ultimate endgame. After all, who doesn’t love a bit of power and chaos? Your plan brings you to the doorstep of the Hazbin Hotel as Charlie’s newest Redeemer, but who you find waiting for you will not only turn your entire plan upside down but also challenge your grab for power…

Tag List: Slow burn, rivals to lovers, eventual smut

Masterlist Link: Masterlist

____________________________________________

Dear Hoteliers,

Helluva Boss events take place after Apology Tour and after the most recent Helluva Boss short “Mission 4: Chupacabra.”

<3 Stay smutty

My Fawn & My Shadow: Epilogue

Content Warning: Self Harm, abuse, mental health, mentions of suicide

Just Outside Levittown, Envy

Tom Trench: “Five years after 'The Massacre,' V Tower is finally being rebuilt!”

Katie Killjoy: “That’s right, Tom! The Sins of Lust and Gluttony purchased a 50/50 share of the building three years ago, but after a long legal battle with Lucifer Morningstar, reconstruction can finally begin!”

Tom: “Today marks a new era between Hell Natives and Human Sinners after the Sins won the right to purchase property and run business within the once forbidden Circle! What does this mean for the travel ban on the other Rings? What does this mean for the economy now that Hell Natives can run and own businesses within the Pride Ring? And who will soothe the King’s butt after it was kicked in court?“

Katie: “In other news, Massacre memorials are set to begin tonight…”

You clicked the radio off.

Has it truly been five years already?

Vox.

Velvette.

Crim.

The hundreds of Souls who all got in the way.

Carmilla who tried to stop you but died trying.

The THOUSANDS of Souls after who died for no reason.

Massacred.

Charlie tried to intervene, but Vaggie wouldn’t let her near you.

Rosie focused on getting everyone away from you.

Lucifer was hurt but thankfully lived.

In the end it was Angel who stopped you. Angel who knew the truth. Angel who told you to think of the baby…

Then it was Husk who carried you through the portal to this safe house where you still remained.

The Entertainment District had been leveled by the time you had finished.

And the red staining your fingers still hadn’t faded, no matter how hard you scrubbed.

It was the least you deserved.

Eve has been quiet since then, popping up for short moments of conversation and then disappearing. It’s almost as if all the power used to take out half of Pentagram City had drained her batteries.

Or…

Perhaps she had known that, after the destruction, you had truly given up.

No more Endgame. No more games in general. No schemes or plans or revenge.

You simply just wanted to be.

You would have ended it all had you not had a reason to go on.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

Turning off the faucet, you start the kettle and head for the door.

“Tomatuh!” Rosie pressed a kiss to your cheek, her arms filled with supplies she often brought along despite your protests. Mostly food but sometimes gifts - clothes she made herself.

“Shh,” you took the goods from her. “You’re early, she’s still asleep.”

Rosie hesitated in the doorway.

“Is something wrong?”

“Well,” Rosie adjusted her gloves.

Something was wrong.

“Tomatuh, you know I love you and that little tyke.”

You raised an eyebrow. “But…?”

“Can I come in yet or what?” Vaggie stepped into the kitchen.

You grit your teeth. “Rosie!”

“Hey!” The moth demon stepped in front of the Overlord. Still the warrior she was created to be. “Rosie forbade me from coming but I pushed myself through your stupid portal anyway!”

“That portal,” You held your ground, trying to look as formidable as possible - which admittedly was more pathetic than you assumed given the state of your health. “Is for Rosie only. It is not to be used for gallivanting across the Rings!”

No one was allowed here save for Rosie. The portal opened at the same time everyday - automatic magic she helped you to set up. It opened right on the porch and closed the moment she stepped through.

For Rosie. It was too much of a risk for the others to know your location. They can be captured and they can be interrogated by Heaven. Rosie was a much bigger fish to go after than say someone such as Husk.

“Listen here, asshole! I’m here because Charlie asked me to deliver this personally!” The ex-Exorcist shoved a box into your chest. “The only reason she isn’t here is because she’s at home in our bed balling her eyes out!”

The box…

“Vaggie,” Rosie pulled her back. “That’s enough.”

…it smells like…

No. That can’t be.

“…so ungrateful for everything we did for you!”

“Vagatha, that is enough! Go wait outside.”

The forest after a storm…

“She didn’t mean it.” Rosie grabbed your attention.

Your fingers started to tremble. “Where did this come from?”

Rosie pushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “Charlie had it boxed up at the Hotel. Apparently they did some fall cleaning with all the new Hotel guests and Angel accidentally unboxed it.”

Oh, Angel.

“Charlie’s been a mess ever since. She insisted that be sent to you right away.”

Tears welled in your eyes.

“I think I’ll take my tea at home today.” Rosie pulled you into a hug. “I love ya, tomatuh. Don’t you ever forget that. Tell the little tyke I’ll bring her somethun’ special tomorruh!”

And then she left.

Leaving you alone with a piece of him.

Oh! What could it be? Eve materialized on your kitchen counter.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t answer. Your entire body and mind froze, completely entranced with the box in your hand.

All of Alastor’s stuff had been boxed up and either moved to his radio tower or to Rosie. You forbade anyone from going to the tower - not that you yourself had returned to it since. Rosie has been there a few times to clean and check on the place but other than that…

“There were only a few things missing…” The package was wrapped in a thick layer of dust. The only evidence that the box had been opened was the few fingerprints around the edges. Angel's fingerprints? Charlie's?

You peeled the tape off carefully, afraid that ripping the box would somehow mare his memory.

"Holy shit," you collapsed over the box and sobbed.

Alastor's coat lay folded inside - the black pinstripe suit jacket he died in. Speckles of golden and red blood crusted the surface, the fabric ripped diagonally across the chest. Atop sat Alastor's microphone, busted in half along the pole.

Something inside your chest snapped as your fingers traced the cut.

“Mourir d’amour, vivre de haine…" You mumbled.

That’s what Alastor had said to you when he died.

Dying for love.

I miss him too. The embodiment of power leans over your shoulder and huffs. Eve was fun for a while, but I agreed with you. Her plans were small and easily fixed. I never even introduced myself to her. Then I met you, and your plans were extraordinary - I didn’t even think of making Heaven destroy itself. Then we met him. She motioned to the jacket. You fell in love with the man, but I’m why you fell in love with his thirst for power and chaos.

You rubbed the tears from your eyes, afraid of crying too loud for fear of waking the toddler in the next room. “I could feel his magic even before we met. That day I came to the Hotel and Sir Pentious attacked, I felt his static moments before he appeared. I always knew before he was going to enter a room and when his shadow was nearby. Others could not. We had a connection long before the deal we made atop his radio tower - a pull I could never quite put my finger on. I've never had that with anyone else, not even Eve. You’re the reason why I could always feel his magic? Why I had access to his static even though I voided the contract? Why I could summon static during the Extermination?”

Oh, no. She waived her hands. I have nothing to do with Soulmates and Magic Bridges.

“Wh-what?” You stammered.

Look I know things but my magic can’t do everything…

“No. Not that. Can you explain the Soulmate part?”

Wait. You didn’t know? Ha! Oh, my God this is rich!

You blinked. “But Angels don’t have Souls…”

She shot you a dumb look, And who told you that?

You shrugged sheepishly, “Dad?”

Ugh! She rubbed her face. How can you be so smart and yet so dumb at the same time?

“Hey!”

Angel’s have Souls, babe. Soulmates share their Souls. One Soul in two bodies.

“But why would Dad make me a Soulmate?”

Answer: he didn’t. He’s a dick. But hear me out. You have been so sad and so alone for so long, do you ever think that maybe you wanted it enough that YOU made it happen. YOU willed it into being? Your upbringing wasn't precisely the picture-perfect happy childhood.

“That’s insane!”

Oh, well. Excuse me. I’m just the Book of Knowledge, I don’t know anything.

“I made Alastor?”

No! Eve threw her hands in the air. You'd shush her but no one else but you could hear her. You made a Soulmate! Fate decided who. Fuck, girl. It took thousands of years to find him, not like the Soul just popped into a body and called it yours. The Soul is made and ripped into two, it’s probably been floating around the Ether waiting for him.

“Oh…” You fisted the lapel of the jacket, finding comfort in the feel of the jacket in your hand.

That’s a compliment. Some people get shit Soulmates. Sounds like Fate was picky with you.

That made you feel a bit better.

Wait.

“Why are you trying to comfort me? You never try to comfort me.”

It’s not comfort, bitch. It’s pity.

You rolled your eyes, “Thanks.”

Eve didn’t disappear. She sat back on the armchair and watched as you folded the jacket into a nice pile on the table. “What?”

The embodiment of power crossed her legs and rested her chin in her hand. Nothing. Just waiting.

“Waiting for what?”

For you to figure it out.

“Figure what…”

Why I'm pitying you with this knowledge.

Whatever...

You grabbed for the pieces of microphone left inside the box but accidentally knocked it off the table instead. The cardboard came crashing down along with the metal. It smacked against the tile, eliciting a wave if green sparks as the microphone came to rest a few feet away.

Holy shit.

… green static.

Oh, shit!

There it is. Eve smiled.

Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait.

That's not possible. Green static was Alastor's magic. Alastor is gone. Therefore, so should his magic.

But if his magic was still here...

Angel’s have Souls, babe. Soulmates share their Souls. One Soul in two bodies.

You looked at your hands.

It wasn't possible.

You grabbed the jacket and held it against your chest, letting Alastor's natural musk drown you in a sea of his memory. Of his hands in your hair. Of his cockeyed smile whenever his true self shined through. Of his laugh, absent of the radio static.

Blue flame lit up your right hand and in your left...

Green.

Holy shit.

“Wait but how do I…?” You spun, preparing a barrage of questions to through at Even, but just as you had figured it out, the embodiment of power disappeared in a puff of smoke.

Bitch.

Eve wasn’t going dormant, she was just ghosting you - literally.

But then again, you already knew where to start.

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath as you made your way to the bedroom.

You practically tripped over yourself as you flipped on the lights. “Mary Marie, it’s time to wake up.”

“Maman?”

“I’m sorry, my fawn, but it’s time to go.” You threw clothes into a bag, along with a few essentials such as a pink bedazzled hair brush and a singing toothbrush that played Verosika Mayday as you brushed.

The small child, previously tucked into her crib for her daily nap, rubbed the sleep from her eyes, “Mais, maman, où allons-nous?”

Flinging the backpack over your shoulder, you wrapped her favorite pink fuzzy blanket around her and pulled her from the crib. “We are going to visit Auntie Rosie.”

“No! My Angel!” She screamed, reaching for the stuffed animal in her crib.

You tucked the black cat into her arms and sped from the room. Perhaps one day you’d explain the irony to her, but today was not that day.

As you ran from the house, child in one arm and jacket and staff in the other, you felt small hands on your cheeks demanding your attention. “Maman, pourquoi es-tu si triste?”

You paused. “What?”

SNAP! The portal to Rosie’s Emporium cracked through the wall of reality.

“Why are you so sad?” She rubbed the tears from your cheeks.

You paused.

Were you still crying?

“I don’t know…”

You did know, but how did you tell your almost five year old that there was a chance - a minuscule chance but still a chance - that her father might still be alive.

And that bringing him back might kill you in the process.

She dug her small hands into your cheeks and forced the edges of your mouth up. “You should smile more, Maman.”

A sob tore its way through your chest.

Mary Marie Hartfelt was born 7lbs and 3oz in a beachside safe house outside of Levittown, Envy. Named for her grandmother on her father’s side, Rosie would tell you that she’s the spitting image of you but that was due large in part to her blonde hair and pale complexion. In reality, you couldn’t look at her and not see her father.

She had the same small tuft of red fur for a tail, which she hated you pulling, and a matching set of ears, which she demanded you scratched every night before bed. Her legs ended in red hooves that she loved when you painted pink - her favorite color - and her eyes…

She had her father’s red irises.

And her father’s temper. God forbid she didn’t get her way - she was a total spitfire. At least she hadn’t sprouted wings, the crawling phase was already too much to bear as a single parent - despite Rosie’s help. Actually the only time she calmed down was when Rosie came over for tea.

Chai - Mary Marie’s favorite.

She had her father’s appetite and her mother’s knack for weaponry. God forbid she get into any weapons unsupervised.

Her magic started showing early - most notably during her terrible twos when she almost burned down the house: electricity. Your blue fire plus her father’s green static gave birth to red electricity.

Thankfully none of the power from the Book of Knowledge seeped into her or impacted the pregnancy in anyway. Either Eve was quite attached to you or you got lucky - really lucky.

Hell have no furry like existence’s most powerful toddler throwing a tantrum.

That was your fault however. After the battle and the Massacre, Heaven was on high alert. Everyone now knew that God was missing and Mikaela Morningstar was a traitor. So, naturally, the story became that you killed God and were on the run.

If only the first part were true…

But you were on the run. Only Rosie knew your location - all communications had to go through her. Which meant you hadn’t seen Husk or Angel in years. They wrote you letters though and you wrote back (Vox was dead but you still wouldn’t risk a phone or television). Mary Marie even drew a few pictures for you to include.

What you didn’t tell her was that you ordered everything burned once they read it.

One day, when everything has calmed down, you and Mary Marie would return home.

Huh, funny how the Hotel was now home in your mind.

“I love you, my fawn.” You tickled her belly, eliciting the cutest giggle before stepping through the portal.

The day hadn't yet come when Mary Marie asked about her father, but you knew one day it would. She had seen parents during your outings and knew of relationships, but she hadn't fully grasped the concept that something was amiss.

Yes, you were sad - a lot - but, unfortunately, it was something the child had come to understand as normal. There were times when her mother would break down crying for no reason or days when she couldn't get out of bed when it was raining. There were songs she refused to listen to on the radio and recipes she'd spend hours in the kitchen trying to perfect: gumbo, Mary Marie was sick of it.

And, no matter what, she always wore her hair in a red hair clip.

Her mother was odd and always a little sad despite her smile but thankfully Mary Marie did not yet have to be burdened with the truth. Where was her father? Why did they always have to wear cloaks when they went outside? Why couldn't they meet any of mother's friends besides Rosie? Why couldn't she play with any of the other children?

“Oh, my stars!” Rosie was curled up on her couch, tea cup in hand, clearly enveloped in some book on her coffee table.

Right. You kicked her out before her daily tea time.

“Auntie!” Mary Marie jumped from your arms. Enveloped in her pink blanket, the tiny tyke jumped into Rosie’s awaiting arms.

“Hello, my sweet.” The Overlord hugged her back.

You threw her bags on the loveseat. “I need a favor.”

Rosie’s look of confusion turned serious, “Okay.”

Mary Marie played with Rosie’s collection of Build-A-Bones while you talked - creating small towers of remains which she proceeded to zap with electricity till they turned to ash.

Told you she was a spitfire.

While you told your tale to Rosie, you watched her look of concern turn to outright denial. “No!”

Mary Marie jumped at the sudden turn in conversation.

“Rosie,” you grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into the other room, one eye still on the fawn as she returned to her undead masterpiece. “If there is even a small chance that this could work -.”

“And you die in the process?” She interrupted in a whisper. “You’d be robbing that beautiful child of both her father and mother.”

“I owe it to that child to try. To bring her father back-!”

“Is that what this is truly about, tomatuh? It sounds like you’re doing this for you.”

“Rosie-.”

“Don’t interrupt me.” She put up a hand. “This is irresponsible and based off of knowledge fed to you by her. Remember the last time you let Eve influence you?”

How could you forget? You took out half of Pentagram City.

You stepped back, your teeth clenched in anger. Not at Rosie, you could never get made at Rosie, but she was making it so easy to. “I’m doing this Rosie - with or without your blessing.” You nodded to your child, who was completely unaware of the happenings in the adjacent room. “Look after her, for me. Please?”

She huffed, “If Angel were here, he’d talk some sense into you.”

“Good thing he isn’t.”

Rosie stared you down for a long time, waiting for you to break, but you wouldn’t. You couldn’t.

“You know," she said, placing a hand on your cheek, her pupilless eyes softening. "I think of you like a daughter."

"I know, Rosie."

"I'm supposed to stop you." She smiled sweetly.

"I know."

"I'm not going to."

Your shoulders relaxed. "I know."

Rosie knows how powerful you are. She knew the day you practically fell on top of her that first day in Hell, and she knows now, even with tears in your eyes. She saw your resilience despite the countless days Carmilla tortured you. She knew your past and what you had come to endure. If Rosie truly believed this would kill you, she'd stop you.

Mary Marie had become her granddaughter - she'd never let that child come to harm. She'd never let that child lose a mother, but at the same time, she knew - she knew - that you had to do this.

You have been slowly decaying over the years. Alastor's death had taken its toll.

At the beginning, you couldn’t get out of bed. Save for the morning sickness and to use the bathroom. Rosie kept you alive, kept you fed and clean. If it wasn’t for this woman, who knows where you’d be right now.

Then Mary Marie was born and things got a little better - the days got a little brighter. Yet you still found yourself crying in the kitchen whenever jazz came on on the radio. Or felt your heart skip a beat whenever a man in a dark suit and fedora walked past. Or felt that you couldn’t go outside for days after it rained for fear of it smelling too much like him.

You could barely maintain weight as you found it hard to eat. Your muscle was long gone and eyes permanently sunken from the years of crying.

Everything felt heavier. The world felt heavier.

But you kept yourself going, your only function to be a mother, to keep the last bit of Alastor alive.

Yet, Mary Marie was a walking memory of him: a living ghost. Which made it all the easier to love her but all the harder to stay strong.

The Overlord dropped her guard. “If you somehow get your hands on the Grimoire to do this, and that is a big ‘if,’ be safe. If not for my sake, then for hers."

You beamed, the first time you had truly smiled about something that didn’t regard Mary Marie in years. “Thank you, Rosie!” You pulled her into a hug. “I need one more thing before I go.”

After the battle atop V Tower, Lucifer had taken your cloak - the one inscribed in Leviathan. At some point over the years, your brother didn’t know what to do with it, but he certainly didn’t want to keep it. Not after the destruction you caused at the Massacre. The cloak - along with your things at the Hotel that the Hotel Natives helped clear out - were sent to Rosie. You reclaimed most of it for your beach house in Envy, but what you didn’t use Rosie stored for you.

Including the infamous cloak which started all your Shadow Overlord business.

After a quick kiss for Mary Marie and a hug ensuring you’d be right back, you snapped a portal to visit an old friend.

“Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit!” The imp dove behind his desk. “There’s a front door for a fucking reason people!”

The office was empty, save for Blitz sulking in his chair while he cleaned some sort of jewel on his desk. Where the others were at you didn’t know but were thankful for it. Normally this office was chaos and you really didn’t want that right now.

“Hello Blitz,” you pulled back the hood.

“Whaaaaaaaaat?” The imp’s jaw fell.

“I need the book.” Straight to the point.

His eyes narrowed. “Aren’t you supposed to be dead or something?” Blitz slowly climbed back into his chair.

Fuck, why did it smell like a barnyard in here?

“Not quite,” you took a seat.

When was the last time you did something like this? The last time you played the role of Shadow Overlord? When was the last time you donned this dusty cloak, sat lax in a chair, and demanded something of a Soul so nonchalantly as if it wasn’t important at all?

Did you miss those days?

“I need the Grimoire,” you repeated.

Blitz did not like the lack of explanation that you were giving him. His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

You clenched your fist beneath your cloak. That’s when you noticed the inter-dimensional gem sitting atop the table.

He doesn’t have it.

“How is Stolas these days?” You asked, running a finger across his desk.

The imp slowly pulled the gem back. You could literally portal across dimensions, if the imp thinks you seek a little trinket from Asmodeus then he wasn’t as smart as you gave him credit for.

“You know, bitch. You can’t just show up here making demands after all these years and expect us to jump when you say how high!” He jutted a finger out in your direction.

This was going swimmingly.

You stood. “It was so nice to see you again, Blitzy.”

“Fuck you, Angel bitch!” He flipped you off as you stepped through the portal.

Blitz is clearly pissed about something. Given that he now had an inter-dimensional gem and not the Grimoire, you were about to find out why as you knocked on the door of its owner.

“Gerald, if my dad Hell Eats one more pint of ice cream, just cancel the fuckin’-. Oh.”

Octavia answered the door.

You pulled back your hood just a touch and waived awkwardly, “Hey.”

And then she slammed the door in your face.

“Octavia, wait!” You practically jumped on the door, panic building in your chest. “Please! I need your help!”

Silence and then, “You left me!”

You blinked. What is she talking about?

“You dropped me off after the hospital and you left! I never saw you again!”

Oh… She means after Stolas told you off and forbade you from seeing her again.

“Your dad -!”

“I know what my dad said!”

“Then you know -!”

“Who cares what my dad said, that isn’t the point! I thought you were my friend, but it turns out you’re just like everyone else!” You heard feet stomping away.

Shit. Leaning against the door, you slowly sank to the ground. “I’m sorry. I know what it’s like to be left behind too.”

Great. Now what are you going to do?

You pulled the chain from beneath your shirt and held it between your fingers. Eve was right, Alastor was an emerald man.

Wrapped in gold as if rays of the sun, was a green emerald ring. You had thought it would be a ruby or a diamond, but green represented Alastor’s magic and that felt more suiting.

“I miss you so much it hurts.” You choked.

It had taken exactly one year before you could open the leather box Alastor left behind. You felt so guilty doing so, knowing it would never be his hand which placed it upon your finger. So, you never put it on, but you couldn’t let it go either. Thus, here it sat, hooked around a chain hanging over your heart.

“Octavia, is that my ice cream?”

SLAM!

The back of your head smacked tile as the door swung open.

“Oh, my,” A blurry Stolas put a hand to his lips.

“Hey, Stolas,” You grunted.

“Thestral?” Then his face fell flat. “Mikaela Morningstar. I thought I told you -“

“Wait!” You held your hands up. “I need your help. Please, just hear me out!”

The Prince took a look around, noticing the eyes stopping in the street to stare. “Come inside.”

One cup of tea and an ice pack later…

“You know, I don’t always harbor fugitives in my home.” The Prince stood astutely, one pinky feather out as he sipped from the fine china.

“I’m not looking for you to hide me.” You ignored the tea, the bubbles of anxiety in your chest too much to handle right now. “I’m looking to borrow the Grimoire.”

Stolas did not look surprised.

And then you explained why.

“… I loved him and he’s gone. If you had a chance to save someone you loved, wouldn’t you?”

Stolas eyed you, “And you’d be willing to die for him?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“This goes against everything the Goetia stands for.”

“I know.”

“Everything I’m supposed to represent.”

“I know.”

“Why are you asking me and not trying to steal it?”

You huffed. “I’m tired, Stolas. I’m so very tired.”

So tired your bones felt like led.

The Prince sighed. “I’ve always wanted that.” He placed the cup down gently. “I just... want someone to care, if I stay or go. I want someone to want me. To want to see me. To hold me. To look at me and think 'You're the only one I want! I desire to hold you and talk to you, and never let you feel so... alone…”

Ah, now you understood.

You placed a hand atop his wing. “I’m sorry about Blitz.”

And he lay his other atop yours. “Follow me.”

____________________________________________

You landed atop the balcony, a layer of dust parting in your wake.

The metal was absent of any signs of what took place here. You had Rosie to thank for that. She came by and cleaned up everything after…

His stuff was still here, but the curtains were drawn so you didn’t have to see any of it. You might break down again if you did.

Nothing’s changed. Eve materialized in a puff of black smoke wearing the same clothes she died in. The same clothes you killed her in.

You didn’t let your mind dwell on it too long. “Let’s get started.”

You drew the Circle of Rebirth in the same spot Alastor died - courtesy of Stolas' Grimoire. The Circle is a form of ancient and forbidden magic, guarded by the Goetia but not forgotten entirely. You vaguely remember hearing rumors of it from a time you could no longer remember.

Different from a Summoning Circle - which knew the recipient’s Soul location - or a Trapping Circle - which trapped beings of other planes within it (the same Circle Eve used to trap you in the airplane hanger a millennia ago), a Circle of Rebirth was meant to trap a dying Soul’s fragments so one could piece them back together.

Technically, that meant the person had to die while in the circle for it to work.

Do you get where I am going with this?

You stood, hand covered in red chalk, and talked with Eve as you finished up the final touches. “So, a Soulmate is of one Soul in two bodies. That means Alastor’s Soul did not fade when he died. I’m carrying it.”

But it’s also technically yours. Eve sat back against the railing, a smug look on her face.

“So, we do what I did accidentally all those years ago. We rip my Soul in half.”

I like it! Eve practically cheered.

And if it doesn’t work then you die… Cool. Okay. No stress at all.

You grabbed Alastor’s jacket and cane, and placed it on your lap as you sat at the center of the Circle.

Eve bent over so she was eye level with you. Are you ready to die?

You died five years ago when Alastor took that bullet for you…

“If I die, what happens to you?” You lifted a brow.

Hmmm, Eve thought a moment. There’s this adorable little product of power and chaos I’ve been dying to play with.

You saw red. “Eve!”

But before you had a chance to lunge, Eve melted into a mass of ink and began the spell.

A hurricane erupted around you, whipping your hair about your face and blinding you from the world.

It exploded into the sky, bringing with it lightning and rain. A cacophony of torrential pain fell upon you as the rain pelted your skin and the wind tore at your flesh.

It felt as if your entire being, every molecular connection, was slowly being ripped in half. Green and blue light exploded from your scar as your Soul slowly seeped out from your form.

Eyes filled with burning tears, you watched as the specks of green slowly floated away and collected into a solid mass before your eyes.

The mass slowly took shape, giving birth to arms and legs…

Power is of two kinds…

...and tall ears…

One is obtained by fear…

Details set in. Alastor’s face took form in a hue of green. His eyes… His lips…

And the other by love…

“Alastor?” You screamed over the wind. You screamed through the pain.

Power derived from love…

And then the ink set in. From the wind itself the liquid trailed into the blue, swirling about as if oil in water.

The demon smiled.

…is a thousand times more powerful than fear.

And then everything exploded.

____________________________________________

As if submerged in a river of silk, your body slipped away.

No sights. No sounds. No touch.

You were the world, and the world was nothing. Everything existed all at once and yet not at all.

You were the absence of existence, yet you continued to exist. Without form and body, you were consciousness as its birth and end.

You were dying.

If you had told yourself at the beginning of time that this is where you would end up, you would have said to yourself that you were nuts.

Before everything, you were a soldier. A general. A physical representation of God’s Will.

And everything was perfect.

Carry out missions. Train. Report. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. Existence was simple and predictable, but that's what you liked about it.

Then the beatings began.

You questioned it at first. Why did God only ever call you to his office alone? Why were you the only Angel with bruises and marks not born from war?

Why was he so angry?

Then the answer became apparent because he told you.

Everything that went wrong in his life was your fault.

YOUR FAULT.

Even if it had nothing to do with you or your missions… It was your fault.

Then you tried to control the uncontrollable in order to lessen the beatings.

Which just made things worse.

Because it was your fault.

You kept it hidden because you were ordered to. But also because it would have been embarrassing.

How could God’s General, leader of his armies and vanquisher of the Leviathans not even protect herself?

Things changed; you rebelled and ran away with Eve, thinking that was the fix you needed. You thought you had moved on. You thought you had healed. But trauma is a scar that never heals, doomed to rip open again and again.

There might have come a day when you had moved on. When God was cold and dead beneath your feet, and everyone who let this happen had been destroyed or long gone by the time you broke down Heaven’s Gate.

That was the plan at least.

Power and chaos and revenge… That was what was missing from your mantra: revenge.

But, here you are: a pesky story of revenge that went nowhere.

And now you’re dead.

And it’s all your fault.

You wonder what would have happened had you not met Alastor. Had you shown up to the Hotel that day and he was woefully absent from the cast, still in Heaven with Lilith - or if Lilith had never recruited the Overlord to begin with.

You wouldn't have Mary Marie...

Wait, who is Mary Marie?

You felt your thoughts starting to slip away.

Dying is confusing.

But painless.

The end of existence began creeping in, growing ever closer as if tidal waves on either side of you.

Thankfully, painless.

And you were okay with that.

"Not so fast, my doe."

____________________________________________

In an explosion of greens and blues, you were flung back. Your head hit the wall of glass with a loud crack, and your body scorched from the heat as the explosion dissipated.

The thunder ceased. The rain dried. The wind slowed.

Nothing but the silence of death filled your ears - is what you thought, anyway, but death had been painless. This was not death.

"Fuck," you groaned. The scar across your front burned as you sat up. The skin beneath your shirt felt fragile as if newly minted during the moments of your... hallucination?

And when the world stopped spinning, you froze.

A body lay curled in the fetal position, directly at the center of the Circle of Rebirth. Green steam floated off the figure, now wrapped in the black jacket he died in. In his hands, he held a microphone he often used as a cane, freshly made whole once more.

The demon groaned as words flew across his bare skin.

Holy shit.

"Alastor?" Hesitantly, you crawled to the Circle.

An ear popped up, turning in your direction as you stopped just at the edge.

"Alastor Hartfelt?" You reached slowly for his shoulder.

Please. Please. Please. Please. Please.

A sob tore through your chest. "It's me. It's..."

"My doe."

The next thing you know, you had arms wrapped around you and warm lips on your own. You sobbed into his mouth, the same familiar mouth belonging to the demon you loved.

His hands were soft as they cupped your cheeks, as the scent of the forest after a rainstorm filled your nose. His hair curled around your fingers, knotting itself as you plunged them deeper.

Alastor pulled you into his lap. Cocooning you in his warmth. He was always so warm...

The demon broke the kiss, catching his breath as he said, "Shed not tears for me, my doe."

Red irises glinted with tears of their own. A green "X" was now present between his eyes were the bullet once hit.

"You left me," you sobbed. Rivers of woe flooded down your face and soaked into his gloves.

"I did not." He rested his forehead on yours. The demon breathed, simply enjoying the mere presence of you. "I never left. I have been here the entire time."

You blinked. "What?"

"I have held you long into the night when you could not sleep and guarded you when you did. I was the shoulder you cried on when you needed to and dried your tears when you were done. I caught you when you crumbled and helped you find your feet once more. I ensured no harm ever came to you and no enemy ever found you." Alastor dried the tears on your cheeks.

"I have stood by your side every moment since that day." He went for the chain around your neck and broke it in two.

"I promised you I would never leave, and I did not. I have been at your side for the past five years." He unhooked the ring, and you watched as he slipped it on your finger. "You just didn't know it." The demon pressed a kiss to your hand. “Your personal guardian angel.”

Life flooded back into your body. "Alastor!" You flung your arms around the demon, burying your face in his jacket as you sobbed.

"I love you, my doe." He held you tight.

You shook your head, "Al, I am so sorry. It's all my..."

"Stop," He held your face in his hands, his claws brushing your cheeks. "Saving you was my choice, and I'd do it again, given the chance. Your death is mine to claim, remember?"

You chuckled. How ridiculous that sounded, given the current circumstances. "How could I forget?"

Pressing another kiss to your cheek, he chuckled.

God, you missed that sound.

With his hand in yours, you watched the words from the Book of Knowledge flow from your skin into his. "How is this possible?"

Blue fire erupted along your fingers, calling to his green static.

Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.

Alastor's heart.

"My Soulmate." The demon's purr filled your chest with warmth. "That explains everything."

"I always thought it was an old wives' tale, something you told children at night before bed." You watched the green static dance across your arm, bending and moving at your will.

And the ink. The ink flowed along Alastor's jacket as if it were his own.

Long ago, you killed the Second Lady because she had tied her Soul with the power from the Book of Knowledge, thus tying it to yours. By splitting it in half, the two of you now share it, along with your original magic.

Power and chaos and love...

"Thankfully not." Alastor was solid beneath your touch. His breath filled your lungs with new life. His magic tore the weight from your bones. His heartbeat synced with yours and willed it back to full strength.

You felt reborn.

Al brushed the hair from your face, the warmth from his breath hot on your skin.

Alive. Alive. Alive. Your body chanted.

Alastor was alive.

The demon cupped your cheeks and tilted your face up to his. "Now, where is she?"

You scrunched your nose, "Who?"

The demon smile went cockeyed - a soft, toothless grin.

"My daughter."

And then the Radio Demon kissed his Shadow, marking the beginning of a very long afterlife together.

To power, chaos, and love, dear readers…

Thanks for reading, Hoteliers <3

-> Afterword

Tagged Hoteliers:

@sirens-and-moonflowers @wonderlandangelsposts @saccharine-nectarine @goyablogsstuff @mommymilkers0526 @eris-norwega @missgirlsstuff @alastor-the-radio-demons-blog @sillywormtrixareforkids @its-a-dam-blue-brick @cloverresin20 @blue-bird251 @speedycoffeedelight @littlebluefishtail @sawi1987 @mopeyghost @beelz3bub @fraugwinska @minamilinaqueen @demoarah @diffidentphantom @divineknightmare @animecrazy76 @sleepykittycx @graunta @reath-solia @satansdaughter123 @mysticatto @freshonyourpages @chibistar45 @rapunzelbro @stephydearestxo

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king-craftsman · 11 months ago

Text

Black And White

"Ugh why the hell are people even into this kinda stuff?"

Scott couldn't believe what he was seeing. He swore, what was even the point of all these algorithms if they were going to continue recommending stuff he wasn't into? This must have been the tenth "What I'd Wear In The 1950's" video he had blocked.

He decided to put on some music instead as he thought to himself.

He just didn't get it.

He knew that these people didn't want to genuinely live in the past, that it was all about an appreciation for the design, the outfit, the aesthetic. But even that angle just came across less ignorant and more pretentious. Who the hell would wanna even pretend to live in the 50's?

There was no internet, no vaccines, no nothing. The only part about it that Scott liked were the movies, he had to admit there was something about them that were so alluring and it wasn't some gripping plot or enthralling mystery that got to him.

It was the men.

All dressed up with their slick hair and expensive suits, the trenchcoats and hats, suspenders and suit vests, the shiny shoes and cigarette smoke trailing from the full lips. Scott never realised it but he couldn't believe how turned on he was feeling thinking about that.

That's because just a few moments ago, he wasn't turned on by any of that.

In fact Scott used to hate old films, even ones from the 80's barely interested him.

But in his venting, he hadn't clicked out the YouTube window, he instead switched tabs and left the autoplay on, where a calm and jazzy 1950s tune played and the more it played, the more Scott's head suddenly began to fill with how much he loved those noir movies.

He hadn't even noticed that his hand on the mouse had began to change, not only growing larger but growing lighter, almost too light as his pale skin shimmered slightly like it was underneath a film reel. But oddly enough the sleeve of his shirt began to darken and not just because it was turning into the sleeve of an expensive suit jacket, but as if his hand was draining of all colour, as it turned black and white.

That's when Scott realised.

"The fuck?!" He quickly tried to control his hand, but there was nothing he could do. It shimmered and flickered like it was in another realm world as the sound of running film filled the room. Scott couldn't move his hand as it went and clicked on the tab with the music and suddenly moved to turn the volume to its max.

Sweet jazz music filled the room as the changes were progressing faster, the drainage of colour spreading down toward his arms now which were suddenly beginning to grow thicker, causing the new suit jacket to become tighter.

Scott wanted to use his other hand to reach up and turn his whole computer off. But the moment he reached out, he spluttered and coughed as smoke trailed down his throat. He felt something in his mouth, tasting bitter and dark as his free hand reached to take it out, only to see what it was, a lit cigarette.

"O-Oh fuck that feels good," Scott spoke, a sudden Transatlantic accent overtaking his voice, turning it deeper and more authoritative. His own voice managed to carry so much weight that it seemed to swell his throat, like it needed more room to work with as his neck thickened slightly, beginning to look more befitting for a larger and taller body.

More and more of Scott was turning monochrome, spreading over hands that looked more manly and large by the minute as one of the hands forced him to be unable to stop the music. The other brought the cigarette closer and closer to his growing fuller lips.

"N-No please don't...make me..." But then the cigarette met those lips finalizing their change and as he sucked in more of the smoke, he could feel like the aura of the transformation was coming in hot, making him change from the inside out.

He remembered growing up in the late 20's, memories flashing of older looking city streets, fancy cars and men constantly in suits. He remembered his first case and the thought of it all made his cock swell as he grew more and more manly and muscular beneath his three-piece suit.

His visage had the most remarkable change. His soft jaw began to sharpen as his face grew more angular. Eyes turned from a dull brown to sparkling blue, more focused and attentive as his nose elongated with a slight tilt at the very tip. His lips had become fuller and his hair, once somewhat shaggy and greasy was retreating back into his scalp to become something more refined, turning short and slicked back with pomade.

As Scott's cock throbbed, his home changed. His computer become a record player, still playing those jazzy blues on loop. His doctorate degree turned into a painting whilst shelves of comic books and fantasy novels transformed into mysteries and non-fiction. All before finally his smartphone on his desk, his last saving grace to stop this change and call for help flattened and expanded, turning black and white into a big broadsheet newspaper with the date on the front, reading the year.

1955.

And with that, Scott realised too late what was happening before he felt his cock throb and come in his pants, again and again and again...The pleasure ricocheting throughout his new body, like the added muscle mass gave it more space for the pleasure to fill, for the orgasm to sweep over him as Scott forgot all about his old life for the time being.

He was no longer just Scott.

He was Scott Flynn, the hotshot detective in town who could make any man or woman swoon.

By the time the new Scott stirred from the pleasure, he blinked and almost knocked the newspaper off his desk. He looked down, seeing a cigarette in an ashtray and some case files for him to look over, before there was a knock at the door.

"Gosh I must have dozed off," Scott murmured to himself, for some reason he blinked in surprise, as if he wasn't used to his voice.

He looked at the clock. Near midnight.

If he didn't know any better, he'd have thought his dreams were real and he was stuck living out some noir film for a few days. After all, a knock at the door so late at night, wasn't that how all those noir pictures started?

Either way, he wasn't gonna refuse the call and stood up, dusting himself off and ready to help out on the next case.

After all, what else was a handsome detective like him supposed to do? It was as simple as black and white.

For a whole library of hot stories like this, be sure to check out The Craftsman on Patreon.

#male transformation #stepfordization

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hopeluna · 11 months ago

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𖦹 ׂ 𓈒 ⋆ ۪ — Barista!Izuku Midoriya

♡! hope's notes: this is 50% unrealistic and 50% self indulgent. Tell me what u think lol <3

It's 7 in the morning when you realise that you're truly, utterly fucked.

You try to convince yourself that it was really your alarm's fault for not waking you up. Because now you are desperately trying to shove everything in your bag, while chewing on the world's driest granola bar and make your way out of your apartment.

You do the calculation in your head as you make your way down the stairs, trying not to trip. Your class is supposed start at 7:15, so you have approximately 5 minutes to get a much needed cup of coffee. And then you need to make run for your class which is 15 minutes, hoping to whatever deity that you'll reach there in 10 minutes.

A groan of frustration escapes you on the sidewalk at the utter slow pace the lady is moving in front of you, talking animatedly on the phone.

You've been late to class enough times this entire week that you're convinced your professor is going to shoot you in the head today. The first thing you notice in front of the cafe is how cute and cozy it looked. Like something straight out of a rom-com set.

There were small little coffee shops like this scattered through almost every road corner outside the campus. Coffee shops, cheap diners and stationaries all looking out for their target customers, drained college students.

This particular coffee shop, you had realised one day talking with your friends, was new and untouched by your hands. You knew that logically it wasn't a great time right now to experiment newly opened shops, no matter how much your friends had been praising the place but you were already late, and the decor and smell of roasted coffee beans seemed too appetizing to pass up.

The gentle chime of the bell at the entrance almost made you forget that your life could possibly be on the line in less than 10 minutes. Your shoulders loose some tension at the faint but noticeable fragrance in the air, the smell of coffee and the muffled sounds of students clicking away on their computers, couples chatting away in excitement and the sound of the workers behind the counter.

Oh yeah, you were definitely forgetting about class for some minutes.

Tapping your fingers to a random rhythm, your eyes immediately go to the cheapest drink on the big menu overhead the counter. Being a college student, you weren't really raking up the big bucks and would rather like to be able to afford instant ramen in the future.

And that's when it happened.

You swore that you almost went blind for about 2 seconds at the absolute beaming, sunshine-filled smile the barista gave you. The simple words "what can I get for you today?" suddenly sounded like the most holiest piece of angel music coming out of his mouth. He was cute, like a lot, with lush green curls falling messily atop his head, freckles doted like stars across his cheeks. You briefly registered the small "Midoriya" name plate attached to his shirt.

"Um, e-excuse me?"

"Yes?"

"I- what can I get you, ma'am?"

"Your number, hopefully"

Shit. The wide eyes and the full flush creeping up on his cheeks made you almost shriek in horror, you didn't mean to say that aloud. Suddenly, the once calming air felt stifling and uncomfortable.

"Uh! I mean- no!", wincing at your own volume, you suddenly wished that the earth would just open up and swallow you whole. "You see, um, that was- a joke! A bad joke!". It took all your strength to not bash your head on the counter under your sweaty palms, cringing at yourself.

The nervous laugh that "Midoriya" let out certainly didn't help the situation either.

You felt the tension lifting off your chest when a girl came up to the counter to ask for more creamer. The next course of action was probably not your proudest moment, definitely something you would look back at and curse yourself for. In your defence, your mind felt scrambled and fried at the whole interaction, so you did the only thing your brain managed to comprehend. You ran.

A few minutes later, already at your campus, you stopped for a second for breath. The frustrated whine you let out next was met with some questioning glances your way that you could not be bothered about right now, your mind only swirling with one thing.

You didn't even get your fucking coffee.

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roseytheangel · 28 days ago

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Heyo here’s twelfth day!

Hope y’all enjoy.

Izuku was tired. That was an understatement. He just had training with all might and Katsuki, and training was much worse. He had second to none sleep thanks to the nightmares of kamino ward.

He sighed, too tired to even bother with schoolwork. Quite easily people noticed, got worried. Shoto walked closer tapped him on the shoulder and looked worried, “you ok midoryia..? He mumbled as he stared into his eyes.

Izuku flinched and nodded, “yeah.. just tired.. of… you know.. life.” He sighed as shoto nodded in understanding, looking at him in sympathy. Shoto took and gave a deep breath before answering, “you know we are here for you right?”

Izuku only nodded in response as he started walking back to the dorms.

After a few more hours of a nap he was woken up by a presence he could feel, he groaned and turned over to try escaping and keeping warm but it didn’t leave. It felt like a hand stroking his cheek but he couldn’t be sure who it was until he heard a huff and felt hands wrap around him.

Katsuki. Katsuki was cuddling him.

He tried not to go bright red and ruin the moment as he snuggled in closer but Katsuki humned and pulled him closer, a small breath felt on izuku’s neck as he was nuzzled into by the blonde. Izuku hummed and actually started relaxing.

That was when he felt it, the cold jolt of AFO staring at him. He flung up and used, by his knowledge, 50% of his power. He froze as he felt the whole dorm go into chaos, his face dropping as he realised it was his fault. He needed to get his shit together.

He locked himself into his room with an upset look on his face, curling into a ball as he started crying.

He was the problem.

After a few more hours he heard a knock, “let me in dumbass.” The voice grumbled before a cooler and more gentle voice came out behind it, “let us in midoryia…”

He huffed and reluctantly opened the door, trying to smile as he saw the blonde and dual haired boy stare back in worry, their faces almost dropping as he saw the depressed and drained greenette staring back.

“D- izuku.. stop hiding in your room, we know it was an accident Damn it.” Bakugou said firmly as he glanced at todoroki for approval, when he got a nod in response he looked back at deku and sat onto his bed.

“But.. I-i hurt you guys- I-i didn’t want to..” izuku muttered, before shoto hummed and held izuku’s hand, squeezing it gently as he locked eyes with midoryia.

“That isn’t true you know.. we don’t think that and neither does anybody else in 1-A.” Shoto said as bluntly as he could without sounding too mean. Patting izuku’s thigh as katsuki huffed, “exactly, so stop acting like this got it?” Katsuki poked his side to try prove a point but izuku only flinched and tried pushing him away.

Katsuki paused and looked at shoto. That was an idea. Shoto chuckled and brought izuku closer, “your not.. ticklish.. are you midoryia..?” He muttered into izuku’s ear, smirking as the boy snickered and tried pulling away, bakugou’s large arms blocking him.

“N-nohoho- hahaha! Kahahacchan! Wahahaihihit!” The young boy squealed as katsuki started digging into his sides. Shoto chuckling and forcing his hands up so he could dig into his armpit, causing the boy to giggle louder.

“Aw.. how are you giggling this badly already?” Katsuki muttered as he led him down and started to dig into his stomach instead, putting his body laid onto the bed as shoto moved to his thighs. Izuku’s giggles turning into squeaky laughs, “StohOHOhohop! Ihihit tickles..”

“That’s kinda the point izuku…” shoto muttered as his hands moved quicker. Katsuki pulling away and shoto reluctantly doing it as izuku deflated.

“Feeling better?” Katsuki pats his shoulder as izuku nodded.

“Good now let’s get downstairs.”

——

Edit: sorry this took so long haha-

Bye!!

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aislinrayne · 11 months ago

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[𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱] [𝔖𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱]

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

ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: Mature ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔦𝔰 𝔰𝔲𝔟𝔧𝔢𝔠𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢!

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

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

𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 4.08k

She’s going to kill him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…Strike one.

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

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

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

Strike two.

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean? What happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well shit.

Three strikes, you’re out.

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

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

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

Nothing.

𝔑𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 ⇢

𝔉𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔞𝔤𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱, 𝔱𝔞𝔭 [𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢]

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