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lees-chaotic-brain · 8 months ago

Note

careless whisper by george michael , gojo , angst

WC: 2k

CW: cheating, angst, hurt/no comfort, reader has female pronouns (referred to as madam and birthday girl), alcohol consumption (all characters are of age), swearing

Taglist (lmk if you want to be added to the event taglist): @chosolovers @ssetsuka @ichikanu

listen to this while reading

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For one night, one night alone you were going to put all of your suspicions and past hurt aside and enjoy the party. After all, it was your birthday so the night was supposed to be all about you.

Shooting a smile at your boyfriend across the room you can't help but feel your stomach flutter as he shoots you a wink and begins making his way through the crowd towards you. Stopping in front of you he sweeps forward in an exaggerated bow, extending his arm.

“Madam Birthday Girl, will you do me the honor of dancing with me?”

Laughing at his antics, you relax, reassured by his usual behavior. Of course everything was normal between the two of you. You were just being paranoid. Placing your hand in his, you allowed him to escort you onto the dance floor.

I take your hand and lead you to the dance floor

Wrapping your arms around his neck and swaying slowly to the music you rested your face against his chest and enjoyed the peace of the moment. Or, at least you tried to.

As soon as your nose brushed his blue button up your senses were invaded with some sort of expensive oriental perfume, meant to be subtle with rose and jasmine. But judging from the way your nose burned, whoever had been wearing it must have been wearing a whole bottle for the residual left on his clothes to be so strong. Nothing like the one or two spritzes of understated wildflower perfumes you preferred.

Fighting the urge to gag at the overpowering scent, you looked up over his shoulder in an attempt to get some fresh air. Instead you were confronted by lipstick stains on the edge of his collar. Bright pink lipstick stains, which couldn’t possibly be yours, because you would never wear a color that garish.

Suddenly you no longer felt like dancing, and as the song’s outro played you decided to give him one more chance to explain himself after the party. If he couldn’t do that, then the two of you were done. Looking up into his eyes you gave him a forced smile, a small part of you screaming that this was going to be the last time the two of you danced like this.

As the music dies, something in your eyes

Calls to mind a silver screen

And all its sad good-byes

After the song ended Gojo watched you walk away, unsettled by the finality in your eyes. Had you figured it out? Did you know where he had been before the party? Who was he kidding of course you had. As much as the two of you had danced around the obvious truth for months he knew that you knew. He had fallen in love with your quick wits and intelligence. There was no way you hadn’t put two and two together.

But despite forgotten dates, the nights he came home late or not at all, the perfume that wasn’t yours clinging to his skin, he dared to hope that you would just keep pretending not to know. That things could stay the way they were. If only you weren’t so smart.

Though it's easy to pretend

I know you're not a fool

Walking across the room you mingled with the guests, accepting birthday wishes and engaging in small talk. Heading over to the bar, you got a refill on your drink and leaned against the bar sipping it. You heaved a sigh, wishing the entire thing was over and that you could just go home. A large warm hand placed on your shoulder interrupted your stewing, causing you to turn around.

“Oh! Geto! Hi! I wasn’t expecting you to come. How are you?” You were surprised to see none other than your boyfriend’s best friend, Geto Suguru. The large man chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly at your surprise.

“Sorry, I was in the area and decided to drop by. I’m doing okay, but actually I’m here to ask you that. I’m really sorry about what Satoru did. It was fucked up. How are you doing with the breakup? I may be his best friend but just know that I’m always here for you-”

“Wait, what? The breakup?” You were confused. You hadn’t even told your best friends about your plans to confront Satoru, seeing as you had only made up your mind a few minutes ago. “What are you talking about?”

“What do you mean ‘what do you mean?’ We had a conversation and Satoru promised me-” Realization lit up in his dark eyes. “He didn’t do it, did he? Oh that son of a-” He stops, looking at you guiltily.

“Listen, I’m really sorry. You should hear it from him. I gotta go now.” With that, he turned and walked away, leaving you with a sinking feeling in your gut.

From across the room, Gojo watched his friend leave, knowing that whatever had just happened between the two of you could not not have been good. Not wanting to obsess over what Suguru could have said, he turned away and jumped into a conversation. Whatever was said had been said already. There was nothing he could do about it at the moment.

Time can never mend

The careless whispers of a good friend

If he had watched a few seconds longer he would have seen you shake yourself then chase after his friend, looking for answers. Darting around guests and avoiding dancing couples you caught up to Geto just outside of the building.

“Wait!” You yelled, hurrying to catch up with him. “You can’t just leave like that! I need to know what you mean.”

Not turning, Geto shook his head. “Trust me on this one. You don’t want to know. Let him tell you. I’ll make sure he does, but you shouldn’t hear this from me.”

“I’m pretty sure I already know.” The words fly out of your mouth before you could stop them. “He’s cheating on me, right? Listen, I need to know. I’m probably going to break up with him tonight. So it doesn’t matter anyways. Just tell me.”

Rubbing his face with one hand he sighed and chuckled without humor. “Of course you know. Jesus this whole situation is so fucked up.” He turned around and looked at you properly.

“Let’s go find somewhere to sit. This might take a little while.”

To the heart and mind

Ignorance is kind

Geto had left a couple of minutes ago, leaving you sitting on a sidewalk bench organizing your thoughts. Fighting the urge to cry, you were unsure why the pain in your chest was so sharp. You had been almost positive, he was cheating on you, so why did it hurt so bad to have your suspicions confirmed? It wasn’t like the knowledge was anything new to you.

Maybe it was because you now knew that the woman was the daughter of a wealthy family close to the Gojos. Maybe it was because you knew that it had been going on for months, and when Geto found out he had made Satoru promise to either end things with the other girl or break up with you. Maybe it was knowing that after making that promise Geto had found him with the other woman again, leading him to assume Satoru had broken up with you.

Whatever it was, it fucking hurt. Letting out a small sob, you clutched your chest feeling your heart break. Unable to stop the tears from spilling over your waterline you opened your phone and texted him that you knew before you could back out.

But as you wiped your face and headed back to the party because you would be damned if you let him ruin your night, a small part of you wished you hadn’t discovered the truth.

There's no comfort in the truth

Pain is all you'll find

After receiving your text, Satoru watched the entrance intensely, waiting for you to return. The second you step through the door he locks eyes with you, gesturing towards the outside, mouthing that he wanted to talk.

Instead of turning around and walking back outside so the two of you could talk like he had expected, you just strolled into the party and joined a group of your friends. Whipping out his phone, he tried to send you a text, only to discover that he had been blocked.

Then the panic set in as he started trying to make his way towards you. But at that moment a popular song came on over the speakers, and the crowd became rowdy, making it impossible for him to get to you. It was like the crowd was against him, pushing him back towards the edge of the dance floor instead of across it to where you were.

Didn’t they understand that he needed to get to you? That he need to explain himself? He wishes the crowd would just disappear. That it was just you and him, with nothing else in the way.

Tonight the music seems so loud

I wish that we could lose this crowd

As he continues to scan the crowd for you, he finally catches sight of you dancing with your friends, laughing and singing along to the song. Shouting your name, he waves frantically, but the venom in your eyes when they meet his make his voice die out.

Maybe it was for the better that the two of you didn’t talk right then. You didn’t seem like you were in a place where you would be able to talk reasonably. Turning, he decided to head out for the night and give you the space you so clearly needed. He would just talk to you tomorrow.

Maybe it's better this way

We'd hurt each other with the things we'd want to say

The next day when he went to your place to talk, Satoru was greeted by a box of all of his things sitting outside of your apartment and a post-it note declaring that the two of you were over. And despite all of his screaming and pleading and banging on the door, you didn’t come out that day. Or the next. Or the one after that.

Now it’s been months, and he’s given up on winning you back. It’s clear you have no interest in hearing him out. And in those three months he had come to realize just how much you had meant to him. You were his better half, the one he truly loved. The other woman he had cheated on you with couldn’t hold a candle to you.

If only he hadn’t been such an idiot. Maybe if he hadn’t been so conceited and cocky he would have seen the value in what the two of you shared and the two of you would still be together. Maybe the two of you would have spent the rest of your lives in happiness together. But that’s not what happened, and now he was all alone.

We could have lived this dance forever

But now, who's gonna dance with me?

Years had passed, and he was still alone. At first he had tried dating to get over you, but after realizing that the first girl had a similar smile to you, the second had the same shade eyes as you, the third your hair color, he stopped.

It didn’t matter how hard he subconsciously tried to find girls to replace you. None of them were ever going to be you. And the guilt he harbored over the way he treated you would follow him into the grave. He lost the best thing that ever happened to him. There was no recovering from that.

And I'm never gonna dance again

Guilty feet have got no rhythm

Note: to the people who asked to be tagged on the poll, i haven't added you to my event taglist yet, it was just for this fiic dw. however if you would like to be added, let me know!!

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rose-tea-and-strawberries · 1 year ago

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Ramshackle Family PowerPoint Night Slumber Party Headcanons

Masterlist

Bonus: First years

Sleepovers at Ramshackle are common but one day you decided to spice things up by having a powerpoint night party

You told Ace and Deuce your idea on Monday so that they had enough time to prepare for Friday.

The party begins in the afternoon and the three of you start baking all sorts of treats in the kitchen like cookies and brownies before you get changed into your pyjamas

Deuce:

His are really simple but bless him he worked so hard

He gets super into his and gets all animated and excited

He loves it when you ask questions

His slides are very neat, like one or two bullet points at most with a few pictures. He uses a baby blue background with standard black text.

“I didn’t want to make it hard to read” ♡

Ace:

Ace is what happens when a primary schooler is introduced to powerpoint for the first time

Every single transition and animation is used. He uses those cool font sites to make gif fonts that are going on every slide. It looks like a party popper exploded all over it. Each slide is a different garish colour. ‘Body text’? What’s that? Word art and word art only is his text

His presentations are either typical meme stuff like playing smash or pass with smash bros. characters or they’re the saltiest roasts you’ve ever heard

Yes, the last one was specifically made for you. He loves you dearly and has noticed that you’ve been on the receiving end of many a wandering eye. Prefect, you could do so much better

Grim

Since he’s baby™ he can’t make a powerpoint so he just has a whiteboard with the words ‘BUY ME MORE TUNA’ scribbled on

I’m not going to do the reader’s slides to make it more general but when it’s your turn to present you bet that it would be dead silent. If Ace so much as coughs, Deuce is decking him with a pillow.

After powerpoint night has ended, you play other games like those random Kahoot quizzes, charades with the ghosts, board and card games etc.

You even assemble a blanket fort that takes half an hour longer because of a pillow fight Ace instigated

You all decide to do it again next week

#twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twst headcanons #twisted wonderland headcanons #ace trappola x reader #deuce spade x reader #twst grim #ace trappola #deuce spade

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ash-rigby · 1 year ago

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Who Knows, Who Cares? (Tentacle Monster) [F/?]

Featured Characters: Female human and a tentacle monster of indeterminate gender. Both are adults.

Description: Agatha has figured out how to conjure an inter-dimensional glory hole and enjoys the variety of monster dicks that come through. On one particular night, she is visited by a tentacle which treats her to an unexpected ending. Contains: Magical Glory Holes, Tentacles, Ovipositor, Egg-Laying, Stomach Bulge, Aphrodisiacs, Masturbation, Sex Toys.

Completion Date: November 7th, 2023

Word Count: 1609

There really should have been a warning provided about how addictive the spell would be. It was rare that an evening went by where Agatha didn’t activate the portal in all its brightly glowing, pink glory. The position of the other side was random among countless dimensions, its runes designed to be translated for whatever horny beast it appeared before. A hole with unmistakable purpose.

Agatha had made herself comfortable, propped up against her multitude of pillows as she lay in bed pumping a thick toy deep into her cunt. She had learned to loosen herself up a bit before summoning; there was no telling the size of what came through.

The towel Agatha had laid out beneath her was already slightly messy with lube. Wet, filthy noises mingled with her moans, her pussy squeezing around the toy. It was far from enough; she needed the feeling of some faceless creature’s cock throbbing inside her. The heat. The cum. The knowledge that whoever was on the other side only cared about getting themself off. A kind lover was great, but sometimes she craved to just be fucking used.

Needy and whimpering, Agatha used her free hand to trace the spell’s sigil in the air. Her room was bathed in magenta light, flaring as the circle came into existence on the mattress between her spread thighs. She waited a few moments as she continued to fuck herself and bite her lower lip with impatience.

“Please…please…anyone,” she begged, sweat glistening in the garish glow.

There was movement at the center of the circle. Agatha watched as a light blue, shimmering, translucent tentacle slowly began to emerge. It was long, lined with shallow ridges starting at the tip which faded to smoothness about eight inches down. She could see thin, faintly glowing purple veins just beneath the fleshy surface, pulsating rhythmically with the creature’s heartbeat.

Agatha softly gasped, removing the toy from herself and tossing it aside.

“Hello, gorgeous,” she said.

The tentacle felt out her foot, traced her ankle, and began caressing its way up her calf. She trembled as it slid over her thigh and trailed slime. It explored boldly, working inward until it found her pussy. The tip ran up and down the wet, twitching line of it, teasing her folds and making her achingly empty hole quiver.

“There it is,” she encouraged, though she knew she went unheard. “Mmm, there you go.”

Agatha expected to be swiftly filled as was typical of tentacles. She was used to such roughly-pumping appendages. For one to finish only for another to come through circle. Sometimes leading to being stretched around a deeply writhing mass of multiple; always leading to ending up leaking cum.

Instead, she watched as the end of the tentacle opened up into a sort of small, toothless, slick-dripping mouth. It latched onto her clit seconds later. Her head tossed back in time with a sharply sucked-in breath that released alongside a moan. A tight, warm, sucking sensation had the whole of her lower body shaking.

“Ngh—what are…fuck!”

The tentacle was relentless, ravaging Agatha’s clit. A tingling sensation spread out where it was attached. She felt the pleasure growing as it traveled down her legs and up her torso. It was a near numbness to all but where it mattered; she was hyperaware of her cunt. Leaking, twitching ceaselessly, on fire. She moaned louder and distantly wondered—but hardly cared—what the hell was in the tentacle’s fluids.

With her weak fingers gripping the sheets, Agatha lost herself to the intensity. Her hips squirmed and bucked. She cried out mindlessly, without words. Getting her clit sucked had never felt this good before. The constant action and whatever influence she was under had her head swimming and floating.

Agatha convulsed as she came, clit pounding in its confines. The tentacle continued to suck. A delirious giggling started to break up her wild moans. Waves of a prolonged orgasm crashed into her until she arrived at a second, near-blinding peak. She wailed, feeling fluid gushing from her, soaking the towel beneath her. It was only then that the tentacle released.

Panting and whimpering, Agatha tried to right herself in her own mind while her body screamed for more. Her clit felt more swollen than it ever had been, hot and throbbing madly. Her pussy was in much the same state as the last of her release dribbled out of her. The break didn’t last long. Seconds later, the tentacle was teasing aside her sensitive folds to find her hole.

“Ohhhh…oh, my—GOD!”

The word was punched out of her as the tentacle slammed in. Her pussy took it easily. Almost greedily; sucking it in and squeezing enough to practically conform to its shape. Her legs snapped open wider despite not needing to accommodate a body between them. It was a reflex. Instinct. Silent begging for a deep fucking. The tentacle quivered before beginning to thrust.

Agatha moaned as she felt the tentacle swell slightly inside her and increase its girth. The ridges ground into her as her insides pressed against it. Her heart hammered in her chest, echoed in the pulsing of her stretched walls. A mix of her fluids and the creature’s made a mess of her hole, audibly spurting from her with every plunge.

The pace became crazed. A rough, quick pounding. Agatha whined, breaths gasping from her open mouth. The frantic undulation of the tentacle was mesmerizing. She watched it reel back and slam forward, oozing along its entire length with some natural lubrication. Her pussy clenched, milking it; she needed that cum. The creature began to throb hard inside her, the veins glowing brighter.

But all at once, as the tentacle fully sheathed itself and stilled, Agatha knew something was different. Round shapes were visible in the inner organ as they travelled along the slick, twitching length. She barely had time to process it before the first popped into her. Eggs, her hazy mind supplied. The thing was laying eggs inside her. It should have scared and disgusted her, but it felt amazing.

Agatha’s gaze fixated on the monstrous appendage lodged in her cunt as she was filled with countless eggs. She could feel each one moving through the tentacle before joining the rest in a rapidly growing mass. There was no end to them in sight. Breathing hard, she watched her stomach start to bulge with them.

“Fuuuuuuck!” she moaned, eyes rolling from the alien sensation.

More and more eggs pressed in and filled whatever space they could find, clearly an amount that another of the creature’s species was designed to take. What did it know, or care, about human limits? Agatha’s belly distended; round, heavy and strained. She moaned and shook with ecstasy, but the mounting danger won over her greedy pussy.

“S-stop can’t—ahhh, take anymore!” she cried, doing her best to reach for the tentacle and possibly pull it out.

Luckily, the creature seemed spent. With a few final twitches, it slithered out of her. Agatha panted, half hoping that she would feel that delicious mouth on her clit again. But instead, the magenta light faded.

The tentacle was gone.

Agatha lay there for a while with her stomach full of eggs, whimpering as they shifted with her heaving breaths. They needed to come out. But first, she needed to cum. Her used body ached for it; the monster aphrodisiac pumping through her was the likely culprit, keeping that incessant pulse in her cunt despite her situation.

She reached for her vibrator that had miraculously stayed on her bed through her thrashing. A buzzing sound filled the air as she turned it on, angling it around her belly to rest on her still-pounding clit. The pleasure was a shock and she choked on her moan.

Agatha’s thighs trembled, pouring sweat. She gasped as something moved inside her. One of the eggs pushed through her passage, squeezing out of her hole with a wet pop. And damn did it feel good coming out. A second followed it, making Agatha whine. She continued to tease her clit, moaning as more eggs parted her twitching folds and gathered on the bed.

Heat engulfed Agatha’s pussy; everything—inside and out—throbbed hard. She had been filled to bulging with cum before, reveled in feeling copious seed dripping down her legs as she limped to the bathroom to deal with it. But nothing would ever rival these eggs; the stretch of them as her hole’s ecstatic twitching squeezed them out. They started to come faster, lining up so one could begin its exit right after the last.

“Mmmm! Keep coming…keep coming,” she chanted, grinding the vibrator harder against her clit. “Fuck, fuck—ahhhh!”

Nothing could have prepared Agatha. As she came, a flood of eggs escaped her. Quick, rhythmic expulsions in time with the rapid clenching and releasing of her insides. Her hips rose off the bed from the sheer, intense pleasure of the sensation, heels digging into the mattress. The eggs landed beneath her, plopping wetly onto the saturated towel. She kept cumming, a string of orgasms brought on by that sweet stretch.

Agatha dropped, empty—as far as she knew. She lay among a mess of fluids and monster eggs, her stomach having returned to its normal size. Her body still buzzed with the small amount of aphrodisiac still in her system and she mindlessly pawed at her sopping cunt, jolting with pleasured aftershocks and moaning weakly.

Somewhere in the haze, she resolved to find a way to make the spell locate the portal somewhere of her choosing. Now that she had just begun a list of creatures she wanted to revisit, after all.

End

Masterlist

#ash originals #text #spicy #terato #exophilia #monster love #monster lover #tentacles #ovipositor #oc:agatha

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madebycloud · 1 year ago

Text

Melting

wednesday addams x fem!reader — 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

summary: you went trick or treating with your girlfriend. warnings/themes: fluff, soft!wednesday (ooc eheh), halloween, trick-or-treating, making out words: 1.8k

'Tis the witching season!

The whole neighborhood is in a festive mood, with ghouls and ghosts lurking around, kids dressed up as their favorite or the scariest characters.

Now, there's someone who couldn't care less about all the hoopla.

You know Wednesday doesn't like to be all sunshine and rainbows, but secretly, you've always wished she would let her guard down and have some fun.

“It's overrated,” she scoffs. But if there's one thing that can sway her, it's you.

The nostalgia. You missed those carefree days when your only worry was scoring as much candy as possible in one night. And now you have the perfect opportunity to go back to your child self and relive those memories.

“Pleeeeeeaaaaase Wednesday,” you whine, dropping to your knees and clasping your hands in front of her.

She doesn't bat an eye. She just continues to write, her fingers moving across the typewriter.

“Please baby, please love, please,” you try again, pulling out all the stops—cute silly nicknames, puppy dog eyes that you know she secretly adores. “It'll be super fun.”

Finally, she stops writing. She lifts her head and turns to face you. She pauses for a long moment, considering your plea. “Fine. But only on one condition,” she starts. “I know it's important to you—so I'll indulge your request. This is just a one-time thing. We won't be making this a habit.”

“Just... once?”

“Just once,” she repeats.

You think for a moment. “...okay.” You nod. “But I'll choose the costume.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Fine, no funny business. Let's make this quick and clean, understood?”

“Understood.” You grinned.

—

“Hey there, Mario!” you exclaim with an exaggerated Italian accent while waving your hands around, trying to mimic how he does it. “It's-a-me, Luigi, your lovable sidekick!”

“It's-a-me, Luigi? I don't know which I hate more—my ridiculous costume or your ridiculous sense of humor.”

Her eyes narrowed as she looked down at the garish plumber's costume she was forced to wear. She even had to wear a fake mustache. “I can't believe I let you convince me to wear this ridiculous costume.”

You shrugged nonchalantly, ignoring the daggers she was sending your way. “Don't worry, no one will recognize you as Wednesday with this get-up.” You winked, but she was having none of it. “Besides, this is just a 'one-time' thing, right?”

She groaned inwardly. “Just make sure you carry this, you have a stronger arm.” With a huff, she hands you the pumpkin. “After all, you're the one who suggested this fiasco, so the least you could do is carry the stupid thing.”

Her hand snaked around your wrist, her grip was so tight you could feel it even through your gloves.

You both made your way to Jericho, the streets were alive with kids in crazy costumes running around, laughing and shouting as they made their way to different houses. The streets are lined with jack-o'-lanterns and spider webs.

Suddenly, you spot a house that looks amazing. There are a few children waiting outside, excitedly chattering as they anticipate a chance to fill their buckets with candy.

“Let's try that one,” you say, pointing to the house. “They look like they're giving out some good treats.”

Wednesday just nods and crosses her arms, not seeming interested in going with you to get candies. “I'll just stay here,” she insists.

“Are you sure?” you ask, pausing to look at her for a moment.

She simply nods, waiting for you to get your candies. You give her a quick smile and head towards the house.

You ring the doorbell and wait for someone to answer. A woman with a warm smile opens the door.

“Trick or treat!” you say, holding your pumpkin out.

However, the woman looks at you with disdain. “Aren't you a little too old for this?”

The smile slips from your face as you realize what she means. But before you can say anything else, she closes the door in your face. You stand there, stunned, staring at the closed door.

That was rude.

You returned to Wednesday, your shoulders slumping as you held up your empty pumpkin.

She looks at you with an eyebrow raised, as if to ask what happened.

You scratch the back of your neck and frown. She could almost see the smoke coming out of your ears. “She... she said I was too old for this.”

You can tell she's angry at the way you were treated, and you secretly hope she doesn't plan on getting back at the woman for her rudeness. She can't believe the audacity of that woman, as if there's an age limit for having fun.

Still, you don't let the incident put a damper on the rest of your night.

“It's fine, there's still a lot of houses we can try again,” you say, grabbing her arms and looking around for another house to approach.

But people keep telling you that you're too old for Halloween and refuse to give you candy.

Wednesday senses your disappointment and starts coming up with elaborate plans to avenge the people who have denied you treats. She seems determined to make them pay for their deeds, yet you keep trying to convince her to just move on and keep searching for sweets.

Just as you were about to give up, you came across a house with the porch light off, but you could hear giggling coming from inside.

This time, Wednesday joins you in trick-or-treating.

Together, you knock on the door and a person in a ghost costume stands in the doorway, holding a bowl of candy.

“Trick or treat,” you say, holding out your pumpkin for a sweet.

Wednesday's stare serves as a warning to the person not to disappoint you or suffer the consequences.

The man hesitates before finally grabbing a handful of candy from the bowl and thrusting it into your pumpkin, his hands shaking with fear.

You thank them, and Wednesday gives you a smile as you walk away. “See? Things aren't so bad after all.”

Wednesday rolls her eyes. “Let's just keep going,” she says, before pushing you forward towards the next house.

—

You were walking back from trick-or-treating, your pumpkin filled to the brim with sweets and goodies.

“Let's go back,” Wednesday mumbled as she walked alongside you, still holding onto your hand. Her hand slipped into your biceps, yet she hardly even noticed.

You nod, prepared to return home. However, before you can leave, you hear a voice from behind you.

“Wednesday Addams?!” the boy says in shock, recognizing her beneath the Mario costume.

“Oh, for Christ's sake,” Wednesday muttered under her breath. She couldn't believe someone had recognized her in her stupid, ridiculous Mario costume. She could swear in her life that she's never felt so stupid.

You turned to see a boy dressed in a brightly colored insect costume, his antennae bobbing as he waved at both of you. “Hey Eugene!”

Wednesday narrows her eyes. “What are you doing here, Eugene?”

“I came to get some candy!” He replied eagerly, his eyes sparkling, but then his eyes widened. “Wait... is that really you... Wednesday?” he asks, taking a step forward.

Wednesday clenches her jaw and you stifle a laugh, amused by her reaction. You offer Eugene some candy from your pumpkin, and he excitedly accepts it, thanking you.

“Eugene, can you take a picture of us?” you request, handing him your phone.

Wednesday snapped her head in your direction, her eyebrows furrowed as she glared at you. She's just about lost it. She swore in her mind that she would never take a picture wearing this ridiculous costume.

You flung your arm around her and gave a peace sign as Eugene held up your phone. You chuckle and give Wednesday's waist a reassuring squeeze.

“Three, two...”

Wednesday knows she will be miserable. But she looked at your smile and realized that, despite her aversion to the costume, she didn't want to ruin your fun. So she reluctantly struck a peace sign, hoping that no one would recognize her under that ridiculous mustache.

“One!” the flash flickers, and the photo is captured.

She couldn't deny the warmth in her chest as she watched the picture saved to your phone.

—

You realized that your feet were starting to feel tired after walking so much. Eager to rest your tired legs, the two of you made your way over to a nearby bench, tucked away amidst the shadows of the trees.

Wednesday is now holding the pumpkin-shaped basket full of sweets while you gaze up at the stars in the sky. She eventually pulled out one of the candies and popped it into her mouth.

“Taste good?” You turn to look at her.

“Tastes like poison,” she teases before popping it into her mouth.

You can't help but stare at her lips. Why did her lips look like they were begging to be kissed?

“Do you want one?” Wednesday asks, seemingly reading your thoughts.

You were almost too stunned to speak, but a soft “yes” managed to escape your lips.

Small smile formed on her lips, as though she knew exactly what she was doing. She offered the candy before you swallowed it whole, savoring the sweetness on your tongue.

A glance at her lips and then back at her eyes told her everything she needed to know.

Before you knew it, Wednesday had leaned in to share the sweet with you, her lips soft and supple on yours, the taste of candy still lingering on your tongue.

When you finally pulled away, you were left weak in the knees and breathless.

Wednesday's lips part slightly, her breath brushing against your cheek. You lean in again, but she stops you with a gentle hand on your chest.

“One condition,” she whispers.

Your eyebrows knit together in confusion.

“I get to choose the costume next year.”

“We're going to trick or treat again next year?” you ask, grinning. “Fine,” you concede, “your choice of costume next year then.”

With Wednesday's permission granted, you lean in for another kiss, this time lingering even longer than before. Your lips lock together in a sensual dance.

But you pull away, teasing her. “Wait.”

“What now?”

“Well, I was thinking we could dress up as Remy and his human companion, Alfredo from Ratatouille.”

Wednesday's eyes narrow, clearly annoyed at your choice.

“Okay, I admit, that was a terrible idea, but what about SpongeBob and Patrick? or I can go as Squidward, and we can be rivals instead,” you suggest, desperate to find a costume she'll actually like.

She rolls her eyes, but you could already see the corner of her lips twitching up into a small smile. “You did not just suggest that.”

“Oh yes I did.”

“I'm not dressing up as a rat with a chef's hat next year, that's for sure. And you're not going to make me dress up as a sponge either.”

You smirk. “Maybe not, but I'll still find a way to make you dress up as something ridi—”

Before you finish your sentence, Wednesday's lips are on yours once more, drowning out your words. Her fingers glide down your jaw as she draws you in closer.

“That's it,” she whispers between kisses. “You're stuck with me now.”

And you wouldn't want it any other way.

note: me

#jenna ortega #jenna ortega x reader #wednesday #wednesday addams #wednesday x reader #wednesday addams x reader #wednesday imagine #wedneday addams imagines #wednesday series #wednesday addams imagine #wednesday addams x you #jenna ortega x you #wednesday netflix #wednesday x you #wednesday x fem!reader #jenna x reader #reader insert #female reader

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scarabesque-returns · 9 months ago

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My Very Dear Wife:

...

I know I have but few claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me, perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar, that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, nor that, when my last breath escapes me on the battle-field, it will whisper your name.

Forgive my many faults, and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless, how foolish I have oftentimes been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears, every little spot upon your happiness, and struggle with all the misfortune of this world, to shield you and my children from harm. But I cannot, I must watch you from the spirit land and hover near you, while you buffet the storms with your precious little freight, and wait with sad patience till we meet to part no more.

But, O Sarah, if the dead can come back to this earth, and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you in the garish day, and the darkest night amidst your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours always, always, and, if the soft breeze fans your cheek, it shall be my breath; or the cool air cools your throbbing temples, it shall be my spirit passing by. Sarah, do not mourn me dear; think I am gone, and wait for me, for we shall meet again.

As for my little boys, they will grow as I have done, and never know a father's love and care. Little Willie is too young to remember me long, and my blue-eyed Edgar will keep my frolics with him among the dimmest memories of his childhood. Sarah, I have unlimited confidence in your maternal care, and your development of their characters. Tell my two mothers, I call God's blessing upon them. O Sarah, I wait for you there! Come to me, and lead thither my children.

- Sullivan

Excerpt from the last letter of Major Sullivan Ballou to his wife, before his death at the Battle of First Manassas July 14, 1861

#og #love letter

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anna-the-undertaker · 4 months ago

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Nightmares and Nonsense

This is based on this post. I came up with that idea during one of my insomnia induced sleepless nights. I want to give special thanks to @anunholyabomination for inspiring me with the sheer hilarity of their comment on that post. So this is for you lmao additional tags: @leilakaro @sheep-from-rad

Belphegor's nights were an exercise in futility and simmering rage. Confined within the attic's gloomy walls, his disdain for humans stewed alongside a relentless boredom. The appearance of the human exchange student only served to ignite his contempt further. Yet, a mischievous part of him, the part that delighted in the subtle arts of manipulation and control, saw an opportunity in this unsuspecting human's arrival.

He discovered their dreaming mind by pure coincidence. While wandering the endless expanse of his own subconscious, a new dreamscape overlapped his, leaving Belphie adrift and puzzled. As a demon deeply acquainted with the nuances of sleep and dreams, he rarely encountered a dreamscape that could surprise him—at least he thought none of them could.

The dream before him was vivid, an intricately woven tapestry of colors and sensations that resonated with an unfamiliar yet undeniably human energy. He moved through it with the ease of a shadow, unseen and unnoticed, until he sensed a shift—a ripple of awareness that prickled at the edges of his consciousness.

Turning towards the source, he realized it was the human, and tried to get closer, intrigued by their control and clarity, and eager to exploit this opportunity. But before he could get any closer, a voice, clear and authoritative, cut through the dream’s fabric.

“Did I give you permission to come here?” The voice was neither hostile nor welcoming, carrying a tone of nonchalant power that Belphie wasn't used to being subjected to.

Startled, Belphie had barely a moment to register the dismissal before he was forcibly ejected from the dreamscape. He woke with a gasp, the abrupt return to his own consciousness leaving him disoriented and a single thought crossed his mind, “What the fuck…”

The encounter, however brief, sparked an obsession in Belphie. Night after night, he tried to re-enter the human's subconscious realm. Each attempt, however, ended more ludicrously than the last. The human didn’t just eject him but began to twist his appearances into increasingly absurd scenarios.

One night, he found himself manifested at the edge of a surreal circus. No sooner had he entered he was transformed—his dignified demonic form altered into that of a clown, complete with oversized shoes and a garish red nose. Before he could react, an imposing figure that his dream-altered mind couldn't recognize appeared, tall, bearded and dressed in top hat and singlet, shoving tacos into his mouth while shouting about something called Reese’s Puffs. In the background, aliens, decked out like gangsters, were busy robbing some place called a Chuck E. Cheese, stuffing their bags with what they loudly declared to be diamonds.

Another attempt saw him materialize in a dream-designed version of the wild west, where he was immediately put on a horse that had a mind of its own. As he struggled to maintain his balance, dream-created characters pelted him with bizarre questions about quantum physics—a subject he had no knowledge of, much less in his sleep. The absurdity peaked when the horse decided to join in the conversation, offering insights in a surprisingly sophisticated British accent.

At some point he was a fearsome pirate aboard a sinking ship, desperately trying to scare MC with threats of walking the plank, only to have the scene dissolve into a bizarre beach party where MC forced him to participate in a limbo contest. The dream characters cheered on, including the tall man from before who inexplicably acted as the DJ, blasting 80s pop hits.

And again, he was a villain in a medieval setting, ready to lay siege to a castle. Just as he began his threatening monologue, the scene shifted, turning him into a court jester reciting Shakespearean insults while juggling tomatoes. MC, dressed as the ruler, laughed from their throne, utterly unfazed by his supposed menace.

The indignity of it was almost too much, and he had withdrawn with a seething anger, masked by a forced calm. Yet, Belphie couldn't help but admire the human's deft control over their dreams. It was an ability he hadn't anticipated, one that both infuriated and intrigued him.

After numerous humiliations, Belphie's approach shifted. Perhaps he could weave himself into their subconscious as a constant, albeit ridiculous, presence. Allowing the human to get used to him would make it easier to manipulate them later, but that meant going along with their little game. He knew there would be no way to hide that he was a demon, but that was just a small change to his growing plan. Gradually, his intrusions became less about domination and more about persistence.

Finally, the human seemed to tire of crafting bizarre punishments. Belphie found himself simply present in the dreams, no longer transformed or tormented. He was just another character in the ever-changing tapestry of the human's dream world. This sudden normalcy felt like a cold truce, and while part of him was relieved, another part—a dark, vengeful slice of his soul—simmered with unresolved anger.

When they eventually met in person, the attic's dusty gloom illuminated by the intrusion of this peculiar human, Belphie’s feelings were a complex web of grudging respect, lingering disdain, and a peculiar curiosity.

“You,” Belphie greeted, his voice cool but laced with an undercurrent of amusement and annoyance. “Quite the dream weaver, aren’t you?”

The human's grin was all too knowing, their eyes sparkling with mischief. “Had to keep things interesting. You demons take yourselves so seriously.”

Belphie scoffed, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the wall. “You have no idea what you’re meddling with, human.”

“Maybe,” They conceded with a shrug, their confidence unshaken. “But I think I can handle it. Can you say the same?”

The challenge hung between them, and despite everything, Belphie found himself intrigued. Here was a human, capable of turning nightmares into farce, of standing toe-to-toe with a demon in the battlefield of dreams. As much as he hated to admit it, this might prove more interesting than he’d anticipated.

And, of course, he could find a way to use this to his advantage after all.

#obey me #obey me headcanons #obey me imagines #obey me mc #obey me belphegor #obey me chaotic mc

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capseycartwright · 2 years ago

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hiiiiiiii lorna it’s only weird if you make it weird if u want<3

a throwback to quarantine era because there's just not enough of it u know?

Eddie Diaz is a grown man. He probably shouldn’t need to clarify that, but he is a grown man – and as a grown man of thirty-something years of age, he shouldn’t be feeling so weird about sharing a bed with his best friend.

Except he might be having a panic attack of some kind.

“Eddie,” Buck huffed, squirming as he got settled on the left side of his California King. He looked laidback, and comfortable – which was to be expected, Eddie supposed, given this was Buck’s bed, and Buck’s home. Eddie had always struggled with comfort, and he relied on being in his own space to find that comfort: and now, he was here, in Buck’s loft, sharing the relatively small space with three other people, and he wasn’t sure when he’d actually be able to go home to his own house, to his son.

“Buck,” Eddie mimicked, trying to use sarcasm to cover up his nervousness.

He didn’t know why he was being so weird.

(He did –

His slowly changing feelings toward Buck were something Eddie didn’t have the mental – or emotional – capacity to deal with just yet, and then the world went mad, and they were in lockdown and there was a killer virus spreading through the world, and now Eddie was having to face sharing a bed with his best friend who he might – maybe – have some less than platonic feelings toward, and –

He was being weird about it.)

“You have to get in bed if you’re going to sleep,” Buck hummed, folding his arms across his chest. He was wearing pyjamas, a garish cartoon character printed on the front of the grey material.

“I just – is it weird?” Eddie hopped from left, to right, the cool wood of Buck’s bedroom floor cold under his bare feet. But he’s not an animal – he wasn’t going to sleep with socks on and face the cripplingly domestic task of finding the socks he would inevitably kick off during the night under the weight of the shared duvet.

“It’s only weird if you make it weird,” Buck shrugged, seemingly unbothered by the prospect of sharing a bed with Eddie for the foreseeable future.

“I snore,” Eddie offered.

“I talk in my sleep,” Buck countered. “I kick sometimes, too – so sorry in advance to your shins. Any other arguments to make?”

Nightmares, Eddie wanted to say –

Sometimes, he woke up screaming and he couldn’t remember why: and other times, he woke up screaming and the why felt terrifyingly vivid: it was Afghanistan, it was watching Shannon die, it was losing Christopher and that constant fear that Eddie wasn’t a good enough father, it was watching the ladder truck up and the weight of it crush Buck while Eddie screamed Buck’s name until his lungs burned.

“I’m a restless sleeper,” he finally settled on a more measured set of words: because admitting to the fact that his sleep was plagued by nightmares and insomnia felt as though it wasn’t something he could talk about right now – and maybe wasn’t the right moment, either, given the tension that had crept into every corner of Buck’s loft as the four of them wondered how long they might have to live like this: crushed in like sardines, desperate to protect their families from a virus they didn’t know enough about yet.

Buck grinned. “I’m a deep sleeper,” he countered. “So, we’re a perfect match.”

Eddie couldn’t argue anymore, and so he nodded, padding the final few metres to the right side of Buck’s bed, tugging his side of the duvet free, sliding in, the cotton of Buck’s sheets soft under his skin. Buck’s bed was big, sure, but they were two relatively big guys – so Buck’s shoulder was pressed to his, as Eddie tried to get settled.

“It’ll be okay,” Buck reassured, his voice quiet, quiet enough to make sure that Hen, and Chimney couldn’t hear from downstairs. Those words were for Eddie, and Eddie alone.

Eddie appreciated it so much he could cry.

“How do you know that?” he wasn’t great, at voicing his fears, but Buck had always made him feel comfortable enough to admit to some of those dark thoughts running a marathon inside of his head.

“Because,” Buck nudged Eddie’s shoulder, the faint outline of his smile in the dim light of the loft all the reassurance that Eddie had ever needed to get through the worst days of his life. “It always is, when you and I have anything to do with it.”

And yeah –

Maybe Buck was right.

send me a 'there was only one bed' prompt

#911 fox #buck x eddie #buddie #evan buckley #eddie diaz #in which i ramble #in which lorna writes fic #prompt fill #clusterbuck #thank u emma!!

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patiann345 · 9 months ago

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I'm flabbergasted, I'm shocked, I'm disappointed, and frankly? I'm indignant.

In a series with so, so very little in terms of representation in canon, a series that had what I THOUGHT was 2-3 confirmed POC (we'll get to that 2-3 bit btw), 1 Jewish man, a handful of women who's writing is hit-or-miss, and no queer characters because according to one of the creators "their identities don't matter"... (Tell that to the straight characters like Henry, Thomas, Allison, Susie, Linda who's not even a character and didn't need to exist in the first place-)

Preview for that graphic novel dropped! Spoilers!!

Norman Polk is white.

I'm. astonished. For the record, because I know someone will likely bring it up, I am aware that there was never a point in the series where it was ever actually confirmed that Norman was a black man. But it was very much the consensus for most people that he was coded to be POC. To see this is just.. it's disheartening.

Dreams Come to Life seemingly (egg on my face for thinking Norman was black ig???) had 3 POC characters; Norman, Thomas, and Jacob. This was... maybe changed to 2 later on, as JDS went back on coding Thomas as a black man (an announcement they made in a Discord server of all things?? Never publically???) which they may have gone back on again later since the wiki (not official, for the record) recognizes him as black.

3 characters, and we're now down to possibly one; I say possibly because it depends on how Thomas is represented in this book. If he's black, we've got 2. If he's white?

One. One character who's never made an appearance in the games; only in spinoff material in a book. One.

In the simplest way I can put it, I'm upset. There's lots more I can talk about here; how I think this opening is a disservice and bastardization of the original writing for cutting so much out, how while it can look worse (I've read a good handful of fnaf books I KNOW it can look worse) I can't say it really looks any good, how Buddy looks like he's 12, how the yellows are garish and piss-looking. But what has me the most upset is Norman, because he was 1 of 2-3 POC characters, out of a cast of dozens upon dozens. And sure, there could be more. But we only had 3 confirmed. Maybe 2.

And now we may be down to one.

I actually spoke with my partner a few nights ago about how nervous I was about the graphic novel. Because of how the cover looked, I wasn't expecting anything great. But I knew there was a chance they'd double down and be like 'Nope, actually Thomas is white, always was' I was anticipating that, and I still am. And I looked at them and told them something roughly along the lines of- "I can live with them making Thomas white, cause of them trying to back-peddle once, I wouldn't be surprised, but I don't know how I'd handle them whitewashing Norman."

I still don't know how to handle it. To say I'm disappointed is an understatement. People have done amazing designs of Norman for AUs and personal headcanons. Hell, all the staff really. And a majority of them, you'll find, are black. Almost everyone thought he was black. Not this pale Afton knock-off (seriously his hair looks greasy as hell, I know it's a stylization of the lighting but it looks gross)

I'm just throwing my thoughts out here for anyone who cares. Maybe most people won't mind, and fine. Again, it wasn't stated, it was seemingly coding, but clearly, we were wrong because he's paler than the fucking moon. But this is upsetting. This is genuinely upsetting to see. We have so little rep in this series, and the number is somehow dwindling.

What. the Fuck.

#Norman Polk #Batim #Dreams come to life #Bendy and the ink machine #bendy and the dark revival #boris and the dark survival #bendy dctl #dctl #bendy the cage #bendy: the cage #Bendy: lone wolf #Bendy lone wolf #sure we'll add those too #I'm. god I don't even know what more I can say #words can't express the disappointment #Roddy rambles

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valscigarette · 1 month ago

Text

Summary: Val goes to the drugstore after a long night (drugstore!au)

Tags: Vox/Val, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced SA, Drugs

See AO3 or DM me for more detailed tags/warnings!

WC: 3.3k | AO3

Despite how the sun blinds Valentino at this cruel, early hour, he knows the walk to the drugstore by muscle memory. Two dozen steps down one block, cross the street, a right turn, eight more steps, and turn to the left so he can grasp the cool metal of the door handle, a hiss escaping him when it cracks the thin rug-burn scabs of his palm. This place needs automatic doors. Still, Val powers through the sting of pain to wrench the old, squeaky door open and enter the dim shelter his favorite drugstore provides. He’s pretty sure he’s more attached to the morning cashier than the store itself by now. Something about that box-headed prude makes Val feel like a million bucks, no matter how many insults they trade back and forth.

“Oh, fuck, Val!”

He hears the sinner in question before his eyes adjust, and chitters as he stumbles toward the counter. “I don’t think they pay you enough for that,” he drawls. With a few rapid blinks, Vox’s blue screen comes into fuzzy focus, his concern twisting a slashed frown across his face. “You get a raise, Papi?”

“Cut it out,” Vox retorts, none of the usual bite in his static voice. His eyes dance around his screen, taking in every detail of Val’s disheveled state, from the crook in his antenna, to the bruised necklace around his throat, to the cum trail ending at the broken strap of his pleasers. If Vox wanted to be mean, he has no shortage of material. “I told you,” he adds with a spark in the wires atop his head, “I’m not one of your fucking customers.” Vox suddenly turns on his heel and opens the pill cabinet, defaulting toward the slot of oxycontin. “The usual? Or something stronger?”

“You know me so well.” One of Val’s heels creaks ominously under him, prompting him to lean further into the counter before it snaps. “A double, Voxxy.” He squints at the shelves and asks, “You guys carry the good shit, right?”

Vox hesitates with two bottles balanced between his fingers. “What’re you thinking?”

“Special K.” Though Vox can’t see him, Val still bats his eyelashes. “Enough to knock out a horse. I don’t wanna move for a week.”

Another arc of electricity haloes Vox’s head, making Val’s fur stand on end and his wings twitch reflexively. The air always has a taste in Hell, and Vox’s static brings a dry, sharp flavor to the tip of his tongue, triggering more drool to fill his mouth and coat his lips– something he can’t discern as distinctly attraction or fear that Vox might hurt him. Val dismisses the latter. If Vox lays an unpaying hand on him, Val will regenerate and his boss will squeeze every last penny and pixel from the bastard for his trouble; on the other hand, if Vox ever coughs up a couple hundred bucks, he can have carte blanche.

“Yeah, you uh-” Vox clears his throat, “you look kinda rough.”

Somehow his words sting worse than a slap would. “Fuck you. You’re one to talk, you wear the same goddamn shirt everyday.” Val sucks in an inhale and gestures at Vox’s garish, ugly sweater vest to illustrate his point. “Are you a fucking cartoon character? At least I have taste-”

His scathing review of Vox’s fashion is cut short by his shoe breaking, prompting Valentino to lose his balance and crumple to the linoleum in a tangle of limbs that would hurt if he wasn’t already most of the way to stoned. No way Val would’ve made it to the store sober. As he catches his bearings, he hears Vox curse and jog around the counter, the fuzzy hum of his screen deafening when he kneels next to Val.

“You okay?”

“I’m great,” Val huffs, struggling to push himself up when his wings cover the ground around his body. “Just a broken heel.”

He’ll have to work off the cost of it, probably through another night like last, but it's a problem for later Valentino, once his current injuries heal enough to take a fresh beating and his ego recovers enough to admit a fifth costume piece needs replacing in as many weeks. The cost is gonna come out of his drug money sooner rather than later. Val curses under his breath at the thought as he struggles with the fine buckles of his shoes. At least his only witness is Vox, too anxious and antisocial to fuel the rumor mill, and too enamored by Val’s attention to take advantage of an easy target.

Vox is safe like that.

“You need to clean up,” Vox says, holding out a claw-tipped hand to Val. In the months they’ve come to know each other, he’s recoiled from every touch, even incidental ones- never offered it. “There’s an emergency shower in the back, I use it sometimes when my water’s off.” He wiggles his fingers, impatient, until Val takes the support.

“It doesn’t damage your,” Val waves one of his upper hands around Vox’s head, “whole thing?”

“You’ve seen me drink coffee. It’s not all mechanical,” Vox answers dryly. As he leads Val around the counter, he has to hold both of them up through Val’s stumbling and wincing in a display of more strength than his wiry frame suggests. Vox pulls him through the Staff Only door, down the hall, and into the bathroom lit by a single corded light bulb and inadequately perfumed by a urinal cake in the cracked toilet bowl. “Leave your clothes on the paper-towel dispenser so they don’t get wet,” Vox says, pointing toward the metal box jutting out above the sink. “You get ten seconds of water every time you pull the lever next to the shower, and it’s cold, but you can’t drip-” he stops, his face glitching with stripes of technicolor, before his voice returns in a whine of feedback, “fluids in my fucking store. It’s disgusting.”

Val rolls his eyes and tugs off his cropped hoodie. It sticks to the lashes in his back that have just started to scab over, but he tamps down a reaction as it pulls away from the welts. “Please. You’re into it, I can tell; wouldn’t be staring otherwise.” He tilts his head and hooks his thumb into the waistband of his skirt. “Hmm?”

One of Vox’s eyes flashes red for an instant before he schools his shock into a guarded expression and pointedly casts his gaze to the floor.

“Don’t be shy. I’m not. Everyone’s seen it.”

“Val,” Vox snaps, falling short of intimidating and landing in the neighborhood of defensive. “I’ll be right outside, so I’ll hear if you fall.”

“Aww, such a gentleman,” Val coos, because he can never resist pressing Vox a step past the line.

Rather than reacting, Vox lets himself out. For the first time in over twenty-four hours, Val is entirely alone, too close to sober for his comfort, and torn between amused by Vox’s care and annoyed at the delay in getting his fix. The former wins out. There’s something cute about Vox, clinging to a proper image like he doesn’t sell ecstasy for a living and get behind on his water bill, practically short-circuiting every time he’s tempted by the myriad sins at his doorstep. If Vox ever gets past his hangups, Val would happily introduce him to the messier pleasures of the afterlife.

Reveling in the thought, Val peels off his skirt, fishnets, and gloves, then piles his clothes on the dispenser with his wallet atop the heap. Now to actually clean up. There’s not much he can do with only hand soap at his disposal, but he fills his bottom two hands with the pink stuff from the dispenser before positioning himself under the rusted shower head. He spares a moment to hope the water is clean.

Thankfully it is, albeit ice cold, as it cascades over Val and cuts through the grime caked into his fur. Other than the obvious mess from a few creampies more than his body can reasonably accommodate, flakes of dried cum stick to other parts of him with errant smears of blood, sweat, and cigarette ash. All in all, Val’s had more disgusting nights. The thin soap doesn’t make him feel clean, but it washes the visible stains down the drain and rinses easily with each timed stream of water, leaving him to begrudgingly admit he feels better without a head-to-toe coat of dried jizz. The water doesn’t sting when he washes his injuries either, a miniscule comfort after all he endured to get them.

After his final rinse, he shakes off as much water as he can with a full body shiver, but finds the paper towel dispenser empty when he cranks its handle. He sighs.. Vox means well. It’s not his fault Val hates redressing without fully drying off. With effort, he negotiates his thigh-highs and miniskirt back into place. He pauses over the hoodie; it’ll stick to the cuts in his back again, and he doesn’t want to wash them a second time today, but Vox is liable to throw a fit about his indecency. Any other day it’d be a guarantee. This morning, though, his misplaced pity seems to erase their carefully defined boundaries.

Val tucks his hoodie under his arm and reemerges from the bathroom with his armor intact once more, despite his relative state of undress. True to his word, Vox leans against the opposite wall, his eyes darting from the front counter to Val when he appears, then away again with a minor glitch when he spots his bare chest.

“Really?”

“My back’s fucked,” Val says simply, brushing past Vox. Feedback cries through his speakers, echoing in the enclosed space loud enough to make Val cringe upon seeing the state he’s been left in. Without a mirror to check the damage, Val can’t be sure how bad it is, but he could feel at least a dozen individual gashes when he washed. “I came here to get pills for it, remember? Earth to Vox?” He stops, turning to face Vox again when he doesn’t hear his footsteps following. Eight months have made Val an expert on the intricacies of digital expressions, but he can’t make heads or tails of the twitchy one on Vox’s screen now. “Are you short circuiting? Surely you’ve seen a man’s tits before today.”

The unreadable look falls off Vox’s face as he straightens up. “I have a first aid kit under the register; I’m not selling to you until I bandage those. Because they’re a biohazard.” He nods, as if to convince himself of the excuse. “No fluids in my store.” Recovered from his lapse in control, he ushers them out of the staff hallway. “And don’t show up like this again.”

He gently shoves Val onto the stool in front of the register, which Val only complies with because his muscles are too sore for it to be worth the fight. When Vox ducks to retrieve his first aid kit, the sharp corners of his screen press indents against Valentino’s calves, static from his screen and antennae teasing the lavender fur on end. One day Val’s going to see how that feels between his thighs.

“But you take such good care of me, Papi,” Val simpers.

“Here it is!”

Popping back up with the dusty kit in hand, Vox carries on like he didn’t hear the aside. He has a knack for spinning conversations, reality, to his whims with the skilled precision of a charlatan. One day, he’ll be important. Val knows it. And if he plays all his cards right, Val can climb the ladder with him as the pretty little mistress who cracked Vox’s repressed shell.

“You get off on this?” Vox asks, lifting an ancient roll of gauze.

They’re clearly the first to make use of the kit, given how non-angelic wounds heal on their own, but with as many to attend to as Val has currently, it’ll take long enough for bandages to be sensible. Neither his flat nor the club are particularly clean, after all.

“I get paid.” That’s all that matters. Val reminds himself so every time he knocks on an ugly john’s motel room door. “Don’t get me wrong, Voxxy, I love a good pounding, a little fight-” he stutters when Vox begins pressing the first layer of gauze into the tender welts on his back, “but I’d rather bend those slimy fucks over and remind them they’re paying for the privilege to get their pathetic dicks anywhere near me.” Vox’s hands still and Val wishes he could see his face. “I like dancing, I like sex, and it keeps the drugs flowing. So if you're asking, yes, I get off on it.”

Vox considers this in silence. He winds the gauze around Val’s chest to secure it, masterfully avoiding contact with anything other than the inches of bandaging he pushes into place over the lashes, as he works his way down Val’s back. It aches, fiery and deep, every time the dull backs of his claws smooth the gauze, but the pain is far closer to the enjoyable sting of lactic acid after a vigorous fuck. By the third row down, he reaches the deep centers of the gashes, where his unwavering focus spikes from tolerable to white-hot, like a spark directly through Val's spine.

He twitches away with a gasp. “Fuck.” It takes a conscious effort to keep his wings from draping in a protective curtain around his back. He expects Vox, his safe, predictable, loser, fucking drug clerk to freeze at the reaction, but Vox smooths the gauze again with a considering hum Val can only read as interest. “Ah, I see. Should I have come in all bloody sooner?” he teases.

“This may come as a shock to you, but not everything is about sex,” Vox deadpans.

When he presses the next layer down, Val groans in the back of his throat to antagonize him. He expects a snarky reprimand, perhaps a warning hum, but instead Vox suddenly digs the points of his claws into Val’s hip, far enough from the lashes to cause a distinct, fresh pain to flare at the contact.

“Yes it is,” Val counters, tilting his head back to look up at Vox’s flickering screen. “This holier-than-thou attitude’s holding you back, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Inches from the smooth, static glass, Val can’t help wondering what it would be like to kiss Vox: if his screen would be cold with death or warm with electricity, if his tongue would be wet like real flesh or ephemeral like the jolts between his antennae. With any other sinner, Val wouldn’t hesitate to find out, but he can’t risk it this time. Not with Vox. He’s spent too many months being a good boy and following Vox’s lead to screw it up with poor impulse control now.

“You’ve got something special, amor.” Val grins into the teal glow. “Sucking and fucking, it’s not for you- I get it.” Another deliberate drag of Vox’s claws makes him trill. “But you’ve got star written all over you.”

“Okay, I know you think it’s funny to call me a prude, but here’s the truth, Val.” While Vox’s voice isn’t any louder, its timbre drops deep enough to vibrate Valentino’s bones. “My unwillingness to risk Hell’s version of gonorrhea-”

“Regular gonorrhea,” Val interrupts.

“-doesn’t mean I’m celibate. You do know you’re a whore?” Vox laughs, a distorted, mean sound as he winds a second layer of gauze around Val’s torso. “I’ve got better options.”

Though Vox doesn’t tempt the injuries he’s presumably caring for again, his sharp claws repeatedly skim the spared skin of Val’s ribs and waist. “Not to insult drunk back-alley bowjobs,” Val chirps, ”but you’d be much less uptight if you got a decent fucking orgasm every once in a while.”

Finally, Vox finishes his wrapping, the brush of his hands dulled through layers of gauze as he knots the end in place. He lingers a moment too long; palm splayed between Val’s upper set of shoulder blades, standing close enough for Val to enjoy his body heat, calculating eyes darting over Val’s figure like he’s memorizing the scene. The attention is familiar, if not from him.

“As fun as this has been,” Vox says slowly, turning to pack the first aid kit away, “You’re lucky no one else has come in. So, two bottles of oxy, and how much ket?”

Val pulls his shirt on as he stands up. Frustration at the dismissal squeezes his heart, but he knows better than to expect anything else from Vox. “Five grams, powdered.” If the quantity surprises Vox, Val can't tell. “What do I owe you for it?”

“Two hundred,” Vox replies automatically, crossing behind Val to reach the tranquilizer section. He places the scale on the counter and begins to measure out Val’s ketamine with more dedication than a shithole drugstore deserves. “If your cut’s less than that after they tore you up, you’re more of an idiot than I thought.”

Val hums. “Don’t worry about me, Daddy makes plenty.”

More accurately, he makes enough to get so high, he can put up with his least favorite customers and his handsy sleazeball boss. He eats and lives free at the club, and the cash he sees from his work keeps him stocked, making it a decent gig– definitely beats retail work. He feels the edges of the bills in his wallet, guessing from the number that they’re in twenties rather than hundreds this time.

“How many twenties is that?” he inquires.

“Ten.”

Val counts the bills, restarting a couple times to be sure, but a nagging feeling insists he tallied them up wrong. He frowns as he counts them again. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure I can do simple math,” Vox enunciates, like multiplication is simple to most sinners. “Oxy’s sixty a bottle, like always. Two bottles is one-twenty, and then eighty for the ket.”

“That’s it!” Val crumples the bills as he snaps his fingers on another hand. “Eighty for five grams sounds wrong. Mixing up prices isn’t like you, Papi, are you distracted?” It wouldn’t be shocking, after the morning they’ve had. “I don't want you to get in trouble. You’re lucky I’m an honest sinner.”

“Honest, ha!” With a couple more adjustments, Vox seals the five gram bag and returns the stock of ketamine to its shelf. “You’ve never been honest a day of your existence.” He comes back to the register to slide Val’s goodies into a logo’d paper bag and punch the details into the register. “No, it’s correct. Staff discount, for the…” Vox jerks his head toward Val’s discarded heels in the store lobby. “Inconvenience. Put the money toward a replacement pair.”

Discounts are part of life for Val, a given in the red-light district of the city where he’d be hard pressed to run into a shopkeep he hasn’t fucked yet, but this doesn’t feel like the typical quid-pro-quo. Since Val arrived, Vox has done him favor after favor. If it had just been the shower, or the bandages, or the discount, Val could write this off as a relic of Vox’s antiquated brand of masculinity, but for him to do all three without asking anything in return is a bear trap waiting to close.

“How sweet.” As Val hands his cash over, he dismisses the thought; Vox is too tame to demand anything Val wouldn’t give him cheap regardless. “You’re too good to me.”

Vox's customer service smile glitches. “It's my job, Val.”

“I know, but you always make me feel special.” Scooping up his shoes on the way out, Val allows his skirt to ride up, grinning smugly at the choked sound Vox makes. “Same time next week, mwah!”

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fic #staticmoth #staticmoth fic #vox hazbin hotel #valentino hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fanfiction #vox hazbin #valentino hazbin #voxval #voxvalfic #drugstore!au #usershady #usershadyfic

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kenmjiro · 1 year ago

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𖦹⭑ You find out that he was unfaithful to you.

⋆⸜ 🎧✮₊˚ character: Draken, Baji, Mikey, Kazutora and Chifuyu.

⋆⸜ Warning: Unfaithful, anger, insult, mention of sex etc, dramas

𓍢ִ໋🀦 Ken Ryuguji (Draken)

It was already eleven at night and you had just left work. You were so tired that all you wanted to do was get home and take a hot shower, maybe with your boyfriend in the company.

Draken must have already arrived, unless Mikey wanted to go out to eat, in which case then you would be the first to show up at the house.

"Honey, it's here!" You spoke as soon as you stepped foot inside. After closing the door slowly, you left your bag and jacket on the couch. You fluttered the keys somewhere in the living room. Everything dark, off, you were extremely surprised to see Draken's jacket on the floor of the hallway.

Something was wrong, very wrong. You bent down to pick it up and looked at it, then set it down on the couch. At a hasty pace you went to the room you shared, door closed, everything still without light.

Shit, you already knew what was happening. This was not normal for both of them despite the three years of dating they have had. Draken always responded when you came home, and he always put the jacket where it belonged, he was careful. You gritted your teeth and threw the door open.

Clothes scattered on the floor, your boyfriend in bed, with a girl next to him. That wasn't the worst, but the blonde was totally naked, both apparently sleeping. You crossed your arms and leaned your side on the door frame.

"Draken" You called him from there, a look of hatred settled on your face, you discovered him at the worst possible moment, in the worst possible act "DRAKEN!" You bent down to grab a sneaker that was on the side, which belonged to your boyfriend, and you threw it at him with all your strength, hitting him on the back.

"Mhm?" He took his face off the pillow and after focusing on his surroundings, on the girl next to him and on you standing at the door, he opened his eyes wide and sat up in bed, sitting down "y/n" he looked at her naked body. and stood up quickly to start dressing.

You didn't say anything, his expression was enough for you and you simply turned around to get out of there as soon as possible.

"Hey, wait!" You grabbed your jacket and bag to place it on your shoulder "Y/n me. Sorry, I didn't know what I was doing" He grabbed your arm and held you back just so you could open the door. "We went to a bar and I got drunk, forgive me, I'm sorry."

"Let go of me" You murmured coldly, your grip not loosening "Ryuguji, drop your shit and let me go" You turned around and saw his horrified grimace. With your free hand you pushed him in the chest. "Don't you dare touch me, let go of me now!"

You pushed him with all your strength, the blonde didn't give in.

"Listen to me, okay? Let's talk." The boy insisted once again, you didn't know what to do to make him leave you alone.

"I'll tell you only once, the last time." You stared into his eyes. "Take your hands off me" you swallowed all the sadness you felt, anger was present in its place.

Draken let you go, after turning around and opening the door you walked out quickly without looking back.

You didn't come home, you didn't answer her calls, and you didn't pay attention when he went to look for you at your mother's house, much less when her friends tried to get you to forgive him. You just never wanted to see him again.

𓍢ִ໋🀦 keisuke Baji

You couldn't wait to go see him. You decided out of surprise to go look for him at the end of a meeting. To look pretty you put on your prettiest dress, put your hair up in a high bun and even put on some lip gloss.

When you arrived you were impressed by the number of motorcycles at Musashi Shrine. A lot of men grouped there made you a little nervous, because they were all dressed in black and you were wearing a rather garish, reddish and white dress.

From behind everyone you waved to Mikey and Draken, who were at the top. It was even more of a surprise to you when they froze when they saw you. They looked at each other and swallowed deeply, continuing with the meeting. At the end you decided to approach your boyfriend's friends, under the gaze of several guys who were yet to leave.

"Hello! Have you seen Baji?" You smiled brightly at Mikey and Draken, the other gang leaders watching from afar. "I didn't see him at the meeting and he told me that at this time he would be as usual."

"Y/n, hello" Mikey started to speak, he looked away and looked at Draken "you tell him, Kenchin" the taller one snorted, and rubbed his eyes.

"Y/n, hello, Baji has been banned from coming to meetings since always." I answer seriously.

"As?." You giggled nervously, your hand gripping the hem of your dress. "But he's always told me that he doesn't miss any ToMan meetings..."

Draken looked at you with some pity, Mikey had already escaped from his side. Sure, you got it. Baji was indeed a good friend, he even told them the reason why he would be at that time.

"You should" Draken started to speak but you interrupted him.

"It's okay, it doesn't matter" You waved your hand with disdain "I'd better go" you bit your tongue to hold back your tears, the lie he told you was constant. You turned around and started walking, you wanted to get home and just vent against your bed.

When you arrived you didn't even bother to change your clothes, you sat on the sofa in the dining room and turned on the TV, looking for some romantic comedy to increase the irony you were watching. You wanted to think that your boyfriend hadn't been cheating on you for a long time, but it was simply impossible to find another justification.

"I arrived!" The one with long hair entered through the front door with a smile on top. Seeing you on the couch, with a tub of ice cream in your hands and that dress, he approached you. "Hello, pretty... you look great in that dress, where is it from?" Baji came up to kiss you, you moved your head so that he was facing your cheek. A grimace settled on his face. "Something happens?"

"Where were you?." You muttered at once. Baji sat next to you, with his palm on your thigh, giving gentle caresses.

"With the boys, at a meeting." He responded directly, not a hint of lie in his voice, it made you angry.

"With the boys..." You repeated, looking at the television. You ate a spoonful of ice cream and gave a deep sigh “I wore this dress for you, Baji.

"Oh really?" The boy turned his face towards you and smiled at you. When he made to approach you to hug you, you placed your hand on his chest, holding him back.

"Yes, I went there to surprise you myself." Baji made no movement. "But wow, what a surprise I was to see that you weren't there." You continued babbling completely angry. A tear fell from one of your eyes. "Your friends looked at me with pity, Baji. That was what embarrassed me the most... it wasn't being dressed like that in the middle of a damn gang meeting. What embarrassed me the most was how they looked at me" your voice broke with the last.

I..." Baji raised his hand to bring it to your face and wipe away the tears that were falling. With a swipe of your hand you pushed him away and turned around, facing him.

"Better tell me, where had you been all those times you said you were going to meetings?" You complained harshly. The boy looked at you with his mouth half open, he opened and closed it several times; he didn't know what to say.

"I'm sorry..." he whispered softly. You looked away from him, that was enough. You stood up, leaving the ice cream aside and went to the room you shared, Baji followed you but didn't say anything when you started to pack your bags.

"I'll go to my mother. I imagine what you were doing Keisuke and I... I won't turn a blind eye to this." You spoke totally frustrated. He didn't do anything to stop you, knowing that you had discovered the truth then he knew he was screwed.

After that he called you constantly, you always hung up. Your ex-boyfriend had cheated on you, it was obvious, despite not seeing him in the damn act with someone else, it hurt you twice as much because you found out and you hated yourself for having given so much of yourself to that idiot who played with yours. feelings

𓍢ִ໋🀦 Manjiro sano

Why didn't he let you go to his meetings? You had always supported him in everything regarding his gang. Your boyfriend was well known to everyone, you felt that you were very lucky to have him, just like he said he was lucky to have you. You always believed him.

But now, seeing him after the ToMan meeting is over, with a girl on her motorcycle in front of him, kissing. Your heart simply broke in two. You tapped the floor with your foot, and after a short minute you decided to walk up to him at a steady pace.

Mikey noticed you, and that you were totally angry, and suddenly separated from the girl. He stood up and extended his hands, "I can explain it to you" came out of his mouth.

After reaching him, you didn't even allow him to speak, your hand balled up into a fist and you hit him squarely on the chin and mouth. Mikey turned his face to the side, instantly he saw blood dripping from your busted lip.

"What a son of a bitch you are." you muttered hatefully. Mikey looked down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, soaking it in the blood that ran down his mouth. The girl who was on his motorcycle had gotten off and I went like hell. "How could you fall so low? Damn shit." Your anger was at excessive levels, although you let your boyfriend's lack of attention pass, certainly not this.

“Y/n,” he mumbled in a whisper, he turned his head to look at you completely regretful, “I…”

"Nothing, I don't need any explanation." You interrupted him, raising your voice. "What are you going to tell me? Was I giving you mouth-to-mouth resuscitation or what?..."

"No, no, I just... got carried away." he exclaimed plaintively, his voice expressing pity. "I'm sorry, forgive me, okay? It won't happen again..."

"Fuck you." You looked at him for the last time with true contempt, when you turned around and walked a few steps away you let out the tears that had been hitting you for a while. You brutally removed the drops that ran down your cheeks with your hands, regretting having noticed someone so stupid.

𓍢ִ໋🀦 Kazutora Hanemiya

The boy had stood you up. Nothing could take away the shame you had, you waited more than an hour and Kazutora never appeared.

After hundreds of text messages, your boyfriend had finally responded to you:

Kazutora

I'm late, Babe. See you at home?

But what... his mother's son. Thought. To tell you the truth, you weren't surprised. Kazutora always had things to do, many times she didn't arrive on time or simply forgot about her appointments.

You took your things and left the restaurant, you took a taxi to his house and went in immediately, it was raining and you didn't have an umbrella so you couldn't stay outside for long.

After entering you changed into your pajamas and tied a messy bun, you decided to sit on the couch next to the window to wait for Kazutora. You looked outside from time to time, waiting for him to arrive.

A vehicle stopped in front of his house, a color you didn't know so it wasn't one of his friends. Kazutora got off of him with the jacket on his back, holding it from his hand. Everything was fine until a girl with long hair came out from the back seats, grabbed your boyfriend and jumped on top of her to start kissing her. The long-haired guy, after wrapping his arm around her, returned the kiss with total enthusiasm.

Your brow furrowed little by little, you didn't believe what you were seeing. After a long while, the girl separated and got into the passenger seat, where Kazutora had gotten out. Your boyfriend, after shaking his hand goodbye, began to walk home. He didn't even notice your gaze from the window.

They kissed, no, several. Maybe... no, there was no justification. You were trying to find any excuse in your head, anything to not see him as cheating on you. You didn't want to believe it, despite being so rude to you for a long time, you loved him too much and you didn't want this to be real.

You left the side of the window, placing yourself on the sofa on the other side. Kazutora opened the door, whistling a tune you hated at the moment.

“Oh, you got there before me, Y/n” She was totally surprised when she saw you sitting in the dining room. You were crouched in place with your knees close to your chest.

"Yes, I arrived earlier." You mumbled with your voice somewhat broken. That did not go unnoticed by the boy, he stared at you from the entrance, wanting to study you.

"Something happens?" -He took a few steps closer to you, just standing next to you. "If it's because of the departure, I'm very sorry, I had a lot of work and I missed the time." He began his usual typical story. "And you know I can't use my cell phone while there." You nodded without looking at him, your eyes fixed on the wall in front of you. He reached out his hand and caressed the top of your head, when he leaned down to kiss you you found yourself speaking:

"Did they come to leave you?" You whispered against his distraught face. Kazutora sat next to you and after rubbing her leg on his pants a couple of times he began to speak.

"Yeah, some guys I met at work." He spoke calmly, "You...were you looking?" Kazutora looked at you out of the corner of his eye, a grimace settling on your face.

"Are you asking if I saw the girl who kissed you? I saw her perfectly." You whispered with genuine hatred. Your boyfriend closed his eyes and faced him, avoiding looking at you. "I didn't know your 'job' had to do with making out with strangers." You continued talking, every word hurt like hell. "So... all the times you stood me up it was because you were with other people having a good time, huh?"

"It's not what you think... I... I don't know what happened, it just jumped on me." He stammered between stutters. “I swear this is the only time it happens, I've never cheated on you.” When he brought his hand closer to yours you stood up, moving away from him.

It doesn't matter, I was stupid for not realizing it sooner." You gave an ironic laugh. "This isn't the first time you've done this... Since it won't be the last, I think it's better to end things right now."

"Wait..." Kazutora stood up and walked over to you, grabbing your hands and trying to get you to come closer to him. "Forgive me, I didn't let myself, I was just shocked, I didn't think I would do that." more excuses and more and more. "You know I love you, it's not necessary to end our relationship because of this stupidity."

"Stupidity? Are you crazy or what the hell?" After giving him a push you separated from him completely, placing yourself on the other bank. "I'm telling you I'm breaking up with you, it's not a fucking question." You spoke determinedly, even with your trembling voice you tried to look firm. The boy opened his mouth, his hand extended again to reach you but he was left halfway, in the air.

You swallowed deeply and made your way past him to your bedroom, locking the door and trying to sleep. Kazutora slept on the couch. The next day you told him that he had to leave the house, after all you put more money into it than he did, it was practically your property. He agreed, then After that, they almost never met again, and when they saw each other you just acted as if he didn't exist, despite inside wanting to go hug him and forgive him for everything.

𓍢ִ໋🀦 Chifuyu Matsuno

It seemed crazy to you that your boyfriend invited you to live with him, well, with him and his cat.

You couldn't be happier, it was a very big step for your relationship and you still wanted to accept. Right now you were on your way there, to tell him the long-awaited answer.

In your hand was a collar that he had bought for his pet, a welcome gift perhaps.

After arriving at the apartment you went up in the elevator, you were with a too wide smile. Floor five, when you leave You found a not very pretty scenario.

Chifuyu and a girl kissing in the hallway, judging by what they were doing, they had lost the apartment or they were simply so eager that they didn't bother looking for it. Your hand was placed on the elevator doors so it wouldn't close, you looked at them but didn't get out of it.

You wanted him to see you, you wanted to see the look on his face that he had screwed up. And that happened when he looked behind the stranger's back, her eyes widened and her eyebrows raised. He quickly separated from the girl and you decided to let the elevator doors close.

"Y/n! Wait!" Chifuyu took a few steps towards you, you didn't see him again as the doors closed and he started to go down. Tears fell from your eyes without being able to avoid them, after reaching the first floor you immediately left the building, without even looking back.

You stopped walking when a hand grabbed your wrist, holding you back.

"Wait, honey... I..." You sniffed and wiped away your tears with your free hand. "Sorry, I screwed up, I swear it won't happen again." He murmured in pain. You turned a little to look at him, he had his eyes on his feet, he looked regretful. "Please don't break up with me."

"Do you think I'll act like nothing happened?" You exclaimed, giving him a dirty look. "I thought you were stupid but this is over me, we can't continue being boyfriend and girlfriend after seeing you cheating on me" you swallowed back a sob and stopped looking at him, you couldn't see him.

"Please don't leave me..." He moaned softly, as you could you got rid of his grip and before leaving, you smashed the collar that was for his pet on his chest. He looked at you hurt after seeing the gift, after a brief glance you turned around and walked again at a hasty pace.

You refused to see him again after that, Chifuyu had hurt you too much just by seeing a kiss with another girl, you didn't even want to imagine if you found him in another similar situation after even living with him. Your willpower was too much not to go to him. Without a doubt, it took you a long time to forget it, too much.

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5starluvr · 8 months ago

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Gangster

Paring:Gangster!Lee Felix x Gangster!reader

Genre:slight angst?,fluff?

Warnings:violence,blood(just a little at the end,guns,stealing

Words:1.2k

The dimly lit safehouse buzzed with nervous energy.Y/n, clad in her usual black jeans and combat boots, paced before a worn leather couch where the rest of her crew lounged. Felix, her ever-present partner-in-crime and maybe something more though they'd never admit it outright, fiddled with a silenced pistol, it’s sleek black frame catching the dim light.

"Alright, crew," Chan announced, his voice sharp. "Tonight's the night. Let's run the plan one last time."

They huddled closer, voices murmuring as they went over the details.Y/n, alias Tiffany Kim, daughter of a tech billionaire a carefully crafted lie for tonight, would infiltrate the high-society fundraiser thrown by Mark, the arrogant secret arms dealer who held the key to their mission.

"Tech here," Seungmin piped up, holding a sleek black earpiece. "Comms are crystal clear.Y/n, this bad boy will let you hear everything we're saying and vice versa."

She took the earpiece, the familiar cool plastic a source of comfort. Testing it, she spoke, "Can you hear me?"

A chorus of affirmations rose from the group. "Loud and clear," Felix said, his voice a steady rumble. "Remember, y/n, get close to Mark. Charm him, distract him, whatever it takes. We need that key."

She grinned, a dangerous glint in her eyes. "Charming billionaires? Piece of cake."

They ran through the escape route, Felix pointing out the security cameras they'd disabled and the quickest way to their getaway van. The tension crackled in the air, a mix of fear and excitement. They were about to steal from the thief, reclaiming what was rightfully theirs – the weapons Mark had stolen from their gang.

Later, bathed in the garish glow of the ballroom, she navigated the sea of socialites with practiced ease. Her gown swished around her ankles. Mark, a walking cliché in a polished suit, approached, his eyes sweeping over her with a practiced appraisal.

She forced a smile, laying on the charm as thick as the caviar on a nearby platter. "Well, hello there, beautiful," Mark drawled, his cologne a disgusting presence in her nostrils. The act was loathsome but necessary.

"Why, hello yourself," she purred, her voice dripping with feigned sweetness. They waltzed to the deafening music, his every touch sending a shiver down her spine, a mix of disgust and the need to stay in character.

"You have eyes like gold," Mark declared, leaning in a little too close. "The kind that could pierce a man's soul and steal all his secrets." She fought back an eye roll. Was this supposed to be romantic?

"Oh, really?" she countered, batting her eyelashes for maximum effect. "Perhaps they can steal the key to your heart as well, Mr. ?"

"Mark," he supplied, puffing out his chest in a way that made him look like he was lifting heavyweights "Mark Lee, at your service, beautiful lady."

Y/n choked back a laugh. "Damn, How cringe." He said through the earpiece, Felix's voice cracklings with amusement. “That's gotta be the worst pick-up line I've ever heard.”

She stifled a smile. Tell me about it she thought. She focused back on Mark, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Well, Mr.Lee, perhaps you can show me some of your… treasures later?" She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Mark's eyes widened, and a flush crept up his neck. Bingo. She thought, feeling a surge of satisfaction. This was going to be easier than she thought. As they twirled, y/n focused on the conversation Felix fed through the earpiece, their plan unfolding in real time. Her heart pounded in her chest, mimicking the rhythm of the music. Then, with a practiced flick of her wrist, she snagged the key from his pocket while they spun. Success. A silent thrill surged through her. The booming bass of the music seemed to vibrate the very floor beneath her feet. Through the earpiece, Felix's voice was a constant murmur, keeping her focused on the task at hand. Mark, thankfully oblivious, babbled about his latest yacht acquisition.

Suddenly, the air shimmered with a change in energy. She felt hair prickle on the back of her neck. A hush fell over the crowd, the music stuttering to a halt. Then, the ballroom doors exploded inward with a deafening bang.

Ateez, their most ruthless rivals, flooded the room. Their faces, twisted with murderous intent, scanned the sea of terrified socialites. Guns, a chilling army of black metal, rose in unison, trained on the unsuspecting crowd.

Panic ripped through the air. Screams rose, a cacophony of terror drowning out the remnants of the music.Y/n, momentarily frozen, felt a hand clamp around her wrist. Felix, his face a mask of cold fury, yanked her towards a strategically placed side door behind a towering potted plant.

"Go!" he barked, his voice a harsh rasp over the din. She stumbled the stolen key digging painfully into her palm.

"Felix, we need–" she spluttered, desperation warring with a burgeoning fear.

"No arguments!" he snarled, shoving her through the heavy oak door. It slammed shut behind her with a sickening thud, plunging her into the cool darkness of a deserted hallway. The faint thump of Felix's boots echoed against the floor as he disappeared back into the pandemonium.

Y/n sprinted, adrenaline coursing through her veins. Her dress, ridiculously impractical, caught on a loose wood board, ripping at the hem. She ignored it, driven by the primal need to get away. Behind her, the ballroom erupted in chaos. Shouts, gunfire, and shattering glass formed a terrifying symphony.

Reaching a pre-arranged meeting point, a back door leading to a collection of fire escapes, she collapsed against the wall. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Relief, heavy and sweet, washed over her, laced with a sickening dread. Felix. Where was he?

His voice, rough and laced with concern, crackled in her earpiece. "Y/n, are you alright?"

She lunged for the microphone, her voice raw. "Felix, I'm here. But you—"

His reply was a guttural sound, a mixture of pain and determination. "Get back to the safe house. I'll meet you there."

The line went dead. Fear, cold and primal, coiled in her stomach. Felix. He couldn't be hurt. Not him. Not after everything.

Ignoring the tremors in her legs, she pushed herself up and sprinted into the night. The stolen key felt heavy in her hand. Maybe she had gotten the key, but at what cost?

Minutes bled into an eternity as she navigated the back alleys. Finally, she reached the safe house, a small building cloaked in shadows. The heavy steel door creaked open before she even knocked.

There, in the dim light, stood Felix. His Face was soft and a dark stain bloomed on his silk white shirt. Yet, his eyes, the familiar fiery, held an unwavering softness.

He pulled her into a crushing hug, the metallic tang of blood mingling with the familiar scent of his cologne. In that moment, the world around them faded away. There was only him, her anchor in the storm and the unspoken promise that hung heavy in the air.

"Always behind you," he rasped, his voice thick with emotion. "Ride or die, remember?"

Her tears stinging her eyes could only manage a shaky nod. A genuine smile bloomed on her face. "Now let's go get our weapons back, baby," he murmured, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips before he closed the gap between them.

#stray kids #skz x reader #skz fluff #lee felix #stray kids fluff #stray kids x reader #lee felix fluff #lee felix x reader #stray kids felix #stray kids imagine #Spotify

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theladyofshalott1989 · 2 months ago

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"In Which There's a Spooky Surprise": A Sebastian Sallow x MC 🎃 All Hallow's Eve One-Shot

Summary: Married!Sebastian Sallow is in for a spooky surprise at Sirona's yearly All Hallow's Eve masquerade.

Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x Male MC (Damien Evans)

Word Count: 1,900

SFW

Note: You can also read this one-shot on AO3! If you enjoy it, please feel free to give it a kudo, a comment, or whatever floats your boat! (Please and thank you.) [ AO3 Link ]

Sebastian adjusted the mask on his face as he glanced around The Three Broomsticks, searching for his dashing husband. In theory, he should be able to spot Damien easily. But in practice, it didn’t quite pan out.

Firstly, he couldn’t very much wear his glasses over his mask, so the world was a bit blurrier than usual. Then, on top of that, Sebastian and Damien had agreed to not divulge their costumes to each other before meeting at Sirona’s All Hallow’s Eve masquerade event.

All Hallow’s Eve, which also happened to be Sebastian and Anne’s birthday, was still a handful of days away, but Sebastian always enjoyed the holiday. Mostly because Damien loved to play dress up, which usually led to another—more sensual—experience. Obviously, that wasn’t likely to occur at Sirona’s esteemed establishment, but perhaps later, when they returned home. Oh yes, that would be positively glorious. Sebastian would trust the events of the night, wherever they may lead.

At the time they’d decided to keep their costumes a secret, Sebastian had found the idea enticing. But past-Sebastian hadn’t known that he would have two errant potions explode in his face this afternoon. The clean-up had been exasperating, to put it kindly, and the subsequent scolding he’d given to his students for being so careless with their ingredients had set him in a sour mood.

So, here he was, dressed as a “vampire.” Sebastian had thrown something together with very little thought: black trousers, a black shirt, black, leather gloves, and—yes, you guessed it!—a long black coat and boots. He didn’t bother with fangs. He'd debated adding a dab of strawberry jam just below his bottom lip, but he knew it wouldn’t be there long, especially if he ever found Damien. His husband simply adored everything sweet; it was a wonder he’d ended up married to Sebastian, as grumpy and irascible as he could be. But, to be fair, Damien often brought out Sebastian’s agreeable side. Not that Sebastian would ever admit that out loud.

And then, of course, there was this damned mask, which was currently pinching his nose. He adjusted it again with a sigh.

“Hm,” a woman in a gaudy purple dress with long trailing coattails said as she appeared before Sebastian. Her mask was designed in the shape of a giant orange bow tie.

Sebastian chuckled quietly to himself. It was clearly Sirona. Only Sirona would dare to don Peeves's garish attire. And, since she was the host of this party, she must be greeting everyone upon their arrival.

“Let me guess,” she continued, inspecting him up and down. “Death! No, no, wait! A crow.”

Sebastian released a hearty chuckle. “Not even close. I’m—”

Mirabel, her long red hair a conspicuous giveaway, swooped in, cutting Sirona off with a recitation delivered in a shockingly accurate Transylvanian accent: “Listen to them, the children of the night. What music they make!"

Sebastian’s eyebrows shot up. “Mirabel, you know Dracula?”

"I re-read it every year!" she exclaimed, beaming under her green mask adorned with what seemed to be actual vines. She must be a Shakespearean character. Perhaps Queen Titania? Or wait... no, Puck seemed more her style.

He gave it a try. "Lord, what fools these mortals be!"

Mirabel clapped deliriously. "Oh, well done! Well done, Sebastian!"

Sirona started tapping her foot on the floor. "I’m waiting."

Sebastian rubbed his chin in mock contemplation. He wracked his brain for one of Peeves’s more well-known phrases, settling on, "Naughty, naughty, you’ll get caught-y."

Sirona quirked a smile, patted Sebastian on the back, and before departing—her arm looped through Mirabel’s—whispered in his ear, "Damien's upstairs, haunting the corridors."

Damien was a ghost then, Sebastian mused to himself. That costume should be easy enough to find.

It turned out Sebastian was sorely mistaken. He downed the final dregs of his Butterbeer. Damien was still nowhere to be found. Damien wasn’t avoiding him, was he? They hadn’t had an argument lately… Had Sebastian forgotten something? No, their anniversary was last month. He’d given Damien a beautiful hardback edition of his favorite novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray. So, if Damien wasn’t cross with him, where was he?

Sebastian deftly maneuvered past a few other partygoers, weaving back and forth through the buzzing crowd. He couldn't recall ever seeing the inn this packed, but he supposed it was good for business. Sebastian had already indulged in three Butterbeers within the past half hour, and he was now debating when—if at all—it would be acceptable to have another without appearing overly eager.

As Sebastian made his way up the stairs, his mind wandered, until something caught his attention: a shadow, barely visible, drifting past the edge of his vision. He froze, eyes narrowing as he focused on a figure up ahead wrapped in what appeared to be a long, flowing white sheet, gliding soundlessly down the hallway and into a room. A chill crept up his spine, but curiosity overpowered caution. Without thinking, Sebastian hurried forward.

The hallway seemed to stretch unnaturally as he approached, the friendly chatter from the crowded stairwell and the room below replaced by a suffocating silence that pressed against his ears. He slipped into the room after the mysterious figure, but found it... empty. Completely and unnervingly empty. Had he imagined the haunting apparition? The stillness of the room was stifling, as if the very air itself was holding its breath.

Before Sebastian could fully process the strangeness of it all, the door behind him slammed shut with a deafening thud. The sound echoed through the hollow room. Sebastian’s heart lurched into his throat. He spun around, but the door remained still, shadowed and menacing, as if it were mocking him. His unease deepened, crawling up his skin like long, spindly spider legs. He shuddered.

With a shaky breath, Sebastian approached the door, hand trembling as it hovered over the handle. He twisted the knob, then pushed. The door creaked open easily. Too easily. Was he expecting it to be locked, trapping him here? He chuckled quietly to himself. Of course not! The door must have slammed shut due to a breeze from the window. He glanced back over his shoulder to confirm his theory.

The solitary window in the room stared back at him. It was closed. There was no breeze. There was no reason for the door to have shut in such a forceful manner. There was no reason for the door to have shut at all. How peculiar. A cold sweat beaded on Sebastian's forehead, and despite his best efforts, he couldn’t shrug off the tension growing in his shoulders.

After one last long glimpse, Sebastian exited the room, swallowing his unease. Damien wasn’t here, and lingering any longer seemed... unwise.

But as he stepped into the hallway and back down the stairs, something seemed terribly wrong. The once bustling stairwell, crammed with people, had become a yawning void. Not a single soul remained. Where did everyone go?

“Hello?” he called out, his voice cracking. No answer came. Only a vast, unsettling silence.

His steps grew quicker, but the sound of his footsteps seemed too loud, too isolated in the emptiness. He descended the last few steps, his heart pounding louder with each tread, until he reached the bottom.

And then: a chorus of voices. Too loud, too synchronized, as if they’d been waiting for him all along.

"SURPRISE!"

Sebastian stumbled backward as someone cast Lumos and the room flickered to life, revealing dozens of unmasked familiar faces gathered before him. Damien stood at the forefront, a white sheet draped over his shoulder, a mischievous grin on his face as he held up a massive birthday cake—chocolate, of course—adorned with candles, also now lit.

"Happy birthday, Bash!" Damien exclaimed, signaling to the assembled guests with a nod of his head, his hands currently occupied. "Did we surprise you?”

Sebastian nearly collapsed from relief. “It’s not my birthday until next week,” he stammered back, clutching his chest.

“The better to surprise you with, my dear." Damien leaped forward and pecked Sebastian gently on the lips, somehow managing to not drop the cake or set Sebastian on fire in the process. Placing the cake on a table, he allowed Sebastian to snuff out the candles, then conjured a serving knife. “Who wants a slice?” he asked amid the crowd breaking out into scattered conversations.

Sebastian took three deep breaths in succession.

Unsurprisingly, Damien noticed Sebastian’s sorry attempt at a recovery. “Alright, love?” he asked, brow furrowed.

“Alright now,” Sebastian replied, waving off Damien’s concern. It wouldn't do to spoil Damien's romantic gesture.

Damien’s gaze lingered on Sebastian for a moment, scrutinizing his face. Sebastian must have schooled his expression well enough—the mask, which he was still wearing, may have helped a little—to convince Damien he was telling the truth, for only a few seconds passed before Damien nodded, then resumed cutting the cake.

Sebastian glanced around the busy room to take in the throng of people. The only loved ones missing appeared to be Anne and Ominis. Sebastian presumed they were at home with Leigh and Albert. The other week, Ominis had confided in him that Al, barely a year old now, was having a rough streak of sleepless nights. If Anne and Ominis needed to stay home to get some rest, so be it. Sebastian didn’t blame them. They could always have a smaller, more intimate birthday celebration later.

Once everyone had a slice of cake—Damien cutting the largest slice for Sebastian, but stealing a bite or two when he thought Sebastian wasn’t looking—Sebastian finally mustered the strength to smile. His shoulders relaxed.

Damien met his gaze, his mouth full of cake.

“Thank you,” Sebastian said.

Damien swallowed. “Of course,” he replied. “Anything for my brilliant husband.”

“Maybe not so brilliant.” He let out a nervous laugh. “Did you know, I nearly sent myself on a wild goose chase?”

“Oh?”

“I thought I saw someone enter a room upstairs, but it was just my imagination.”

“No, that was me," Damien said through a chuckle, rubbing at his stubbled chin.

“What?” Sebastian shoved him lightly. “Be serious, D. It was terrifying.” Damien had never been much for stealth; he lit up a room far too effortlessly.

“Terrifying? Little old me?” Damien's eyes sparkled; he looked far too pleased with himself. It was both delightful and infuriating. He continued: “I had to cause a diversion so everyone could hide!”

Sebastian blinked, taken aback. “How did you ever manage?”

“I Disillusioned myself, of course,” Damien said, smirking devilishly. “Had to, really. I’m rather conspicuous, you see.” He grabbed his belly and shook it, releasing a hearty laugh. “Especially lately.”

Sebastian grinned. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. And good thing you learned that spell from me.” He mussed Damien’s hair in an affectionate manner. “You’re welcome.”

“You old softie,” Damien teased, his cheeks turning a rosy shade of pink. He grabbed Sebastian’s hand and planted a soft kiss on the back of it. “Thank you, my love.”

Sebastian pulled Damien in for a real kiss, not this hand-kissing nonsense. “I positively adore you, my own personal ghost-husband,” he murmured against Damien’s lips.

“Love you too, my…” he trailed off, inspecting Sebastian with narrowed eyes, “vampire?” he finished, one eyebrow raised.

“I knew you’d get it.” Sebastian smiled, leaned forward, and gently nipped Damien’s neck. “You’re mine now. Eternally.”

Damien burst into an infectious peal of laughter. “I’m not so sure the mechanics of that works with ghosts, but I catch your drift.” He flicked Sebastian’s nose. “Eternity sounds perfect.”

[ AO3 Link ]

[ Read the whole series ]

Happy Halloween!

#hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow x mc #hogwarts legacy one shot #halloween one shot #spooktober #grumpy sunshine #sebastian sallow x male mc #sebastian sallow x m!mc #sebastian sallow x damien evans #sebastien #like moths to a flame series

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gallierhouse · 4 months ago

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asking for opinions about armand on a friday night is crazy because ive been terrorizing the people in my life about him for a month and now?? im being asked to talk about him?? anyway so i couldnt get thru s1 back in 2022 bc it felt like a kind of rehash of hannibal (character dynamics wise) in a different setting and kind of bored me. i really liked louis in the pilot and honestly would just watch a historical drama about a black pimp and his gens de couleur family in 1930s nola and that was cruelly ripped away from me and ill never forgive lestat. BUT THEN s2 arrived and i gave it another go and armand just rose out of this show as a character ive truly never seen before?? his identity-lessness, his role as a bad stage director, that eager black hole growing around 500 years of life, its so fascinating. the Moment for me with him is obviously the donor painting seeing the whitewashed beautiful pleading garish (when compared with the real man) painting just shifted something in my soul. and THEN getting hit with the arun/maitre stuff and them the entirity of ep5 directly after? ive literally memorized the loumand argument from listening to it so many times Television of All Time fr. i love failmarriages that rot and decay and are inescapable and loumands whole thing felt so good and fresh and so so tasty. those bitches do not like each other. they dont even like each other and yet theyve stayed together for 77 yrs in a relationship built on abuse, spite, and 24/7 power exchange bdsm and thats CRAZY ! plus ive never seen toxic yaoi executed so well with two nonwhite, darkskinned characters and as a south asian that lowkey made me happy lol. anyway i love armand so much he sucks so bad but i do feel deeply seen and deeply compelled by his little gremlin ass

I miss Louis’ New Orleans era too. I get why Lestat fell in love with him, though, if I saw this beautiful creature pull a knife on his own brother in the middle of the street I’d stop at nothing to pursue him. It’s alluring. I think that’s the part of Louis Lestat has always loved and loathed most, his fierce independence and survivor’s instinct and capacity for violence. I say loathed because Lestat’s always torn between wanting Louis like that and wanting Louis to be his little housewife. He’s stupid like that.

I thought his stage direction was nice. Were his plays “good”? No. But were his notes well thought out? Yes. His notes for the trial were good. So it’s the playwright’s fault the scripts were bad, actually.

Re: his identity, I really think he’s doing fine. Not everyone needs a laundry list of hobbies and characteristics to “have an identity.” It’s true that Armand molds himself into whatever shape that’s required of him and sometimes he makes erroneous assumptions about it, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have an identity. I think Armand doesn’t perceive himself as having an identity, and it’s obvious that he structures his life around whatever role he’s occupying, and that it’s all very fragmented and difficult for him to see the continuity in it, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have an identity. His priorities and thought process are fairly obvious to the viewer, so that’s his identity. You can see the structure of his mind. That’s him. Right there. We don’t have to wait for the “real” Armand, he’s already here.

I don’t remember when I started loving him, but it was before the painting. Maybe the hunt, or when he starts participating in the interview. The painting did change something for me, though, and so did the bench scene. But I liked him from the start of season two, really, from the moment I found out he’d essentially been stalking Louis the whole time in Paris. I like him most when he’s got a little bit of edge, but then again, I love him when he lies. I actually have a shirt with their argument printed on it. It’s so fucking funny.

Well, I think there was love, at least before Armand strangled it to death. I don’t know if Louis ever loved Armand again, not after the trial, but I think Armand loved Louis, although not in a way that would really be comprehensible as love to anyone else. Maybe only the way you love something you own. But I think he at least enjoyed the performance of it. Besides, all the best relationships are 24/7 BDSM built on abuse and spite. You don’t agree? I think it’s very romantic.

Yeah, it’s the first time I’ve seen something like that too. And it was the greatest thing ever and I’m really glad we got a South Asian lead, even if I’m unsatisfied with AMC’s promotional strategy. One million seasons of Armand and one million posters of his face splashed across all major cities around the world, please. He’s perfect! More people should see him. More people should be subjected to him.

#armand #interview with the vampire #iwtv

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robthegoodfellow · 1 year ago

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May I Find You One December RENAMED Here I Go Again

1: Don't Know Where I'm Going, Sure Know Where I've Been

for @fizzigigsimmer

(caligator, referenced past harringrove, age difference, referenced character death, references to neofascism/evangelicalism)

Billy’d been warned against stopping in Stark County, but when you had to go, you had to go—and anyway, he was running low on gas. And snacks.

And, since he wasn’t a spring chicken anymore, it’d be wise to get out, work the rust from his joints a bit.

Glancing around as he filled the tank, the town looked normal enough; your average main drag in Middle of Nowhere, North Dakota. Couple sleepy shops, general store, dinky diner—one of those blue lives matter flags hanging limp by the door, vivid polyester garish against all the beige.

Basic shit.

No obvious signs of a place under the iron thumb of a white nationalist evangelical militia, and he was just about to roll the dice on that diner, maybe snag a coffee and a slice of pie, when a police cruiser ambled into view, pulled into the fueling station opposite.

Just his fucking luck.

Billy studied the pump, face schooled a pleasant bland. Marveled at how, even after all these years, his days of tussling with fascist pigs long behind him, the same wolves were stirring in his head. One baring its teeth on a low growl, ready and willing to tear the fucker to shreds, the other poised, still as stone, itching to turn tail and run at the first sign of trouble.

At fifty years old—fifty plus, but who was counting—he preferred neither option. The meter clicked off, and he watched his hands replace the nozzle, screw on the gas cap.

Even his hands were fucking old. Thicker—blocky knuckles. Veins starting to bulge. Grandpa hands.

Sense memory flashed, suppressed so quick and smooth it left barely a ripple. Wouldn’t do to indulge in fond longing for those gay glory days, for the hands he still missed like phantom limbs, some nights, this aching absence. Not within spitting distance of a patrol car.

Because why test the thought police, right? He could reminisce on youthful love lost when he was back on the highway, heading west.

Good boy, he heard, like Billy had a tin can cupped to his ear, the string trailing off into the fog of time.

So strange what stayed sharp, he mused, rounding the hood, gripping his keys. Behind him, the cruiser door swung open with a creak. Like—despite the photos, it was hard to really conjure the face, hold it steady in his mind. A face through a window in the rain, and more so as the years slid by. But that voice still whispered clear as day—sometimes a Jiminy Cricket, keeping Billy out of trouble, sometimes a little prankster demon, pure trickster.

And the hands. The feel of those hands had never left him, touch embedded in the skin.

He sniffed, ducking his chin, scolding himself. So much for smothering his inner queer.

The door was open, sanctuary of the driver’s seat calling his name, when something drew his attention across the way—some movement, maybe, or shift in the air. Pulling his gaze, against his better judgment, to meet the bored stare of the emerging cop.

His chest—seized, breath caught in tight lungs by a tighter throat. Distantly wondered if this was what a heart attack felt like—crushed in a cold fist.

Because the eyes staring back at him were Steve’s. The furrowed brow above lips pinched in a frown. The lines of his jaw, his nose. Like the rain had stopped and he could see him clear through the pane. Then the lips twisted, a sudden sneer, straight out of senior year.

“Got a problem, pal?”

Billy blinked rapid, took in the flak jacket and badge announcing him as the Sheriff’s stooge, the douchey camo hoodie layered underneath, dark hair slicked back, sides shaved like he’d stepped off the cover of Nazi Vogue.

What the fuck.

“Asked you a question, old man.”

Billy coughed, half a laugh, half choke, and shook his head. Same voice—his voice. Steve’s. Only the tone was all wrong—mean and self-important—more like… like Billy, once upon a time.

Like if his old bratty attitude and Steve’s voice had a baby. That’s what he was hearing right now. Like—

Wrenching his brain back on track, Billy rebooted. Cut him off before the brat could launch another volley.

“Sorry, officer,” he said, and couldn’t help it—the amusement thrumming beneath the words, or more accurately, the unhinged hysteria. “Must be going senile.”

The eyes narrowed—assuming that if he wasn’t in on the joke, he must be the butt of it.

“In fact,” Billy went on, blindly following some instinct, he knew not where. “Think I might be having some heart trouble.”

The cop did not spring to the aid of a needy citizen, but eyed him skeptically. “You smell burnt toast?”

“That’s for a stroke,” Billy corrected, and he’d gone and done it again—only this time a fondness threading the wry mockery. “Heart attack is pain in your arm and whatnot.”

The brat didn’t shoot him dead for perceived disrespect, which was something. Really he just seemed—confused. Baffled. And boy, Billy was right there with him.

This wasn’t Steve, he reminded himself. Wasn’t him. Just a random dead ringer in Middle of Nowhere, North Dakota, a likely foot soldier in the brutal local militia.

And Billy should just leave him to it, obviously. Because this wasn’t Steve.

So—bid the doppelganger adieu, get the hell out of dodge. Billy cleared his throat.

“Don’t suppose protect and serve extends to helping some geezer find a place to eat while he rests awhile?”

Now the perplexed indignation was out in force, head tilted so far to the side it was liable to roll off his neck.

Hand to God, Billy thought he’d kicked the death wish long ago—his Y2K resolution—and yet here he was. Still talking, coaxing the neofascist to come closer, chucking all caution to the wind for a pair of pretty, over-familiar eyes.

“C’mon,” he said, and made the smirk self-deprecating. “I make it across the street without keeling over, I’ll buy ya a coffee.”

The brat straightened, something like tolerant intrigue settled in the quirk of his brow. “All right, then, old timer.” As they stepped off the sidewalk: “Don’t expect me to hold your elbow or nothing.”

“Oh, nah,” Billy replied, waving him off. “Dignity won’t allow it.” And then—he winked. Winked at the boogaloo boy. He’d lost his mind. Farewell, sanity. “Name’s Billy.”

No response from the boy in blue until they reached the diner steps. “I’m Gator,” he said, hauling the door open, gruffness at odds with the tinkling bell.

To his credit, Billy didn’t break down into gibbering laughter.

Gator. This asshat wearing Steve’s face, this Duck Dynasty heir apparent—was named Gator.

Way off in Indiana, Steve must’ve been rolling in his grave.

#idk where this came from #idea swamped me in the car this morning #caligator #but also make it angsty harringrove #billy hargrove #gator tillman #more to come?? who knows

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eleanor-bradstreet · 1 year ago

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Let Me Be Your Anchor

Chapter 2: The Masquerade

Benedict Bridgerton x Sophie Beckett An Offer From a Gentleman reimagined Chapter rating: G Word count: 8.1k Masterpost Previous chapter Next chapter

Author's Notes: THANK YOU for your incredible patience while I took forever to write this next chapter. It's the most daunting one in the whole story for me (and potentially the longest), and my summer has been full of travel and distractions. But I'm committed to keeping this story rolling! I do need to write chapter 3 which should be comparatively short, and then chapters 4-15 are already written and just need tweaking. Expect more frequent installments soon, though I do need a bit of time to focus on a Halloween fic for y'all 😉

As a reminder, text in italics are quotes from AOFAG and are the work of Julia Quinn.

Lastly, if we're manifesting things for Benophie in the show, the song I imagine them waltzing to at the masquerade is the VSQ cover of Young and Beautiful - it's so mysterious and romantic and gives voice to Sophie's anxieties. Enjoy 💙

Sophie was no stranger to courage. It was courage that had bolstered her through her lonely childhood at Penwood Park. Courage that enabled her to face each morning knowing she would most likely be subject to Araminta’s abuse. But what drove her to sneak into the Bridgerton masquerade was something different. Courage was an element of it, but she also had the odd and wonderful sensation that she was somehow destined to attend. A sort of magnetism pulling her back to Genevieve’s shop then down the street to the wisteria-clad manse glowing with candles in every window under a starlit night.

It had proven surprisingly easy to accomplish her ruse. She had dressed Cressida in her iridescent mermaid costume then helped Araminta into a garish Elizabethan gown. Both of them fussed and snipped at her, demanding assistance and criticizing when it was provided. Lord Cowper kept his ensemble comparatively simple with a black horned mask that Sophie found to be an accurate reflection of his true character. Soon enough all of them bundled into their carriage, leaving her alone for the evening. Sophie knew to make for the modiste’s shop as quickly as she could, and only dithered when it came to selecting the shoes Gen had told her to bring. Neither of her sorry two pairs would suffice for a ball which meant borrowing a pair from her employers. She felt safer using Cressida’s except they all proved too large, to the point Sophie knew she would be tripping over herself. Araminta’s shoes fit comparatively well but her stomach lurched at the thought she may discover they had been taken. She reminded herself that she was the one tasked with cleaning them so she could easily replace them once she returned. Memories of a stinging slap dealt that morning solidified her resolve and she selected a pair of silk slippers in a pale blue-grey with diamond clips that complemented the silver gown she knew was waiting for her.

Wrapped in a cloak, she had scurried to Gen’s door and the proud smile on her friend’s face gave her a burst of excitement for what was to come. The modiste slipped her into the finished gown, somehow impossibly more breathtaking than it had been before. Sophie couldn’t tear her eyes away from the mirrors in the shop, bewitched by how the fabric caught the light. Gen had procured all the trappings, outfitting her with elbow length silk gloves, starry earrings and jewels for her hair which she helped to coif atop her head in an elaborate style. She even swiped rouge on her cheeks and stain on her lips, something Sophie had never tried before, and by the time she was done Sophie didn’t recognize her reflection even before the demi-mask was fitted over her eyes. She was an elegant silver stranger and one who looked every bit deserving of entry to a ball.

With a kiss on the cheek Genevieve sent her out into the night and closed shop to attend a party of her own, the likes of which Sophie could only guess at. Though her heart was pounding as she treaded the cobblestones up to Bridgerton House, she knew it was from excitement as much as nerves, and when she was waved into the main hall without question, it nearly stopped altogether. It was a sight far better than she had imagined. A candlelit scene of ivory grandeur with masked guests milling across the lacquered floor and up the grand staircase, dancers in the center and towers of treats and champagne to each side. It felt as if she had stepped into a dream and she never wanted to wake up.

She was knocked from her reverie by a young lady who appeared at her side, costumed as a Grecian muse. “My, what a beautiful dress!” She commented.

Sophie swallowed, suddenly fearful that her very voice may betray her identity, but instinctively she responded. “Thank you.”

When the girl only smiled and moved away, she breathed a sigh of relief. Who here could possibly recognize her voice aside from the Cowpers? She scanned the room but they were nowhere to be found. The lady who had spoken to her was at a table by the wall selecting a dance card. Not wanting to attract suitors, Sophie moved past the cards and weaved her way toward the nearest refreshments. Her eyes were so fixed on the array of delicacies that she failed to register how many heads turned to watch her.

The tiered display before her boasted a variety of sweets unlike any Sophie had ever seen. Candies and fruits, chocolates and tarts, even ice cream were all for the taking. Until that moment the only treat she had ever eaten was marzipan, a controversial candy that both her father and the Cowpers kept on hand for guests but despised themselves and so were none the wiser when she snuck pieces. Spoiled for choice, she seized a raspberry tart and had to fight from moaning at its rich sweetness. Then she nibbled on a chocolate, then a lemon cake before she stopped herself, realizing it would be unladylike to gorge herself and thereby risk revealing that she did not belong. She switched to a flute of champagne, another luxury she had never sampled before but quite enjoyed, and began to move about the perimeter of the room.

The sea of costumes was so varied and elaborate, Sophie felt confident she did not stand out too drastically. Among the women there were queens and faeries, flowers and creatures of myth, all hidden behind demi-masks or veils. The gentlemen presented as an array of devils and jesters, satyrs and knights if they weren’t simply wearing their tails and a mask. Sophie listened in on their snippets of conversation. Courtship gossip among the women and business among the men. The young ladies whispered their opinions of the bachelors and the bachelors largely stayed silent unless they were mumbling about retiring to the smoking room. Behind them in the center of the hall were the dancers, swishing over a bee motif painted onto the parquet floor. The song was a sprightly one, spurring couples to hop around their partners while grasping hands and looping arms in a complex sequence. Sophie was transfixed, marveling at how it reminded her of a music box come to life. Everything was a feast for the senses: the twinkle of the candles, the strings of the musicians, the bubbles that tickled her tongue and the silk that wrapped around her skin. This was the life she had read about in Whistledown. This was the life she could have had as her father’s daughter if things were ever so slightly different.

A footman collected her empty glass and she felt herself calming. But that calm was immediately shattered when she noticed not one, not two, but three young gentlemen approaching her from various points in the room. It was then she realized that card or no, they would ask her to dance. It was also when she remembered that she did not know how to dance. And it was then that she began to chastise herself for forgetting this crucial fact before sneaking into a ball. She had been so caught up in the thrill of simply observing the masquerade and so used to being overlooked that she had not contemplated the possibility that a man may ask her to dance. If she attempted to, it would immediately become obvious that she was an imposter. Her mind started to race, eyes pinging between the three admittedly handsome gentlemen who drew closer and closer, looking at her as if she were a piece of meat and they were starving lions. There was nothing for it - she would have to hide. Backing away as gracefully as she could, she scurried around a cluster of guests, lifted two more flutes of champagne and darted down a hall where open french doors promised a swift escape.

---

[Shift to Benedict’s POV as written at the beginning of Chapter 2 of AOFAG. He is begrudgingly attending the masquerade, aggravated that he cannot be distinguished from his brothers.

…he sometimes wished he were considered a little less a Bridgerton and a little more himself.

Violet asks him to dance with Penelope who is unfortunately dressed as a peacock. On his way, he is cornered by rude debutantes.

“A Bridgerton!...Which are you? No, don’t say. Let me guess. You’re not the viscount, because I just saw him. You must be Number Two or Number Three.”]

Grimacing his way out of yet another insulting and inane conversation, Benedict tucked himself into a corner under the stairs. He should have pushed forward to go humor Penelope Featherington but he had lost sight of her and he didn’t know if he would be able to bite his tongue through one more chance interception by an air-headed debutante or her mama. All of these ladies simpering over a man who they could not name while their mothers’ half-smiles betrayed that they saw him as little more than a consolation prize now that his titled brother was taken. He pitied them, knowing it was what they were all raised to do. But he also pitied himself for being the focus of their attentions. He supposed it was inevitable that he would find himself playing the marriage mart one day and it was precisely as miserable as he had imagined it would be, if not more. But having failed in his pursuit of art, the one thing that had stirred true and enduring passion within him, what else was he supposed to do? Perhaps a wife would make him feel grounded, grant him a new sense of purpose. But none of the young ladies he had met throughout the painfully long London season had been able to produce any feeling in him that was even a fraction of what he felt when he daubed oils on canvas, or sketched a flower, or studied a Turner sky.

With a rueful smirk he wondered if he would fail at becoming a husband too. He hadn’t the merits to get into the Royal Academy without a bribe; perhaps he didn’t have the merits to succeed at the marriage mart either. As eager as the women were to throw themselves at his feet, he didn’t know if he could hide his true feelings well enough to make it to an altar. Feelings of disappointment, lack of inspiration, and invisibility. The dreadful suspicion that he was not destined for the productive life of artistry he had always imagined. He was only a Bridgerton, one of many, and the most he could hope to achieve was some form of domestic happiness, if any woman would tie herself to such an empty shell of a man.

His stomach sank as he heard his surname giggled in a nearby pack of debutantes. It was all too much, he needed fresh air. As he turned toward the back hall he felt an odd tingling sensation in his limbs and all of his focus seemed to narrow on the french doors. Perhaps he had drunk too much, perhaps it was too hot in the room, but it was not an unpleasant feeling. Rather, it was a feeling of certainty. Certainty that he must go outside and his feet were itching to carry him there. He did not protest and in a moment he was through the doors and in the cool air of the back garden.

On instinct he walked toward the massive elm tree, planning to rest on the swings hanging from its branches. Scattered torches and a pearlescent full moon helped to illuminate the garden, making it a peaceful respite from the crush of people inside. He assumed he was alone but realized he was mistaken when he rounded the rose bushes and beheld an odd sight. It was a woman standing on the paving stones with her back to him. She was dressed in a silver gown, antiquated in style but made of the most mesmerizing fabric that seemed to absorb the very moonlight and make her glow. Her head was turned toward a large window of the house through which could be seen the dancing couples inside. She was mimicking them, slowly, jerkily, raising her arms and stepping to and fro with an invisible partner, stumbling every few steps and then hissing at herself as she tried to match the movements once again. It was clear she was trying to learn the dance and failing spectacularly.

Benedict couldn’t tear his eyes away. Even without seeing her face he could tell she was a beauty. But more than that, she was the most curious creature he had come across at any event of the ton. So many questions immediately arose. Who was she? How atrocious had her dancing master been? Why wasn’t she chaperoned? Whatever the story was, he simply had to know it.

He stepped closer and cleared his throat, hoping not to frighten her.

“Are you in need of a partner?”

“Oh!” Instantly she whipped around and nearly jumped a foot in the air.

Benedict’s breath caught in his throat. He had been right about her beauty, it was evident even behind her demi-mask. But it wasn’t simply the trappings of her stunning gown, glimmering jewelry or scarlet lips. It was innate, some kind of light that animated her from within. It called to him like a lighthouse across a stormy sea and he was transfixed. He had never experienced such a powerful sensation upon first seeing a woman. Sophie stuttered, embarrassed to have been discovered tromping around in the garden and nervous that her behavior was about to reveal her as a trespasser. The fact that her inquisitor was tall, dark and handsome was also causing her mind to stall. She offered a meager explanation. “I…I am not familiar with this step, so I was…trying to learn.”

Her voice was the sweetest music Benedict had ever heard. It made him feel weightless, electrified. Akin to how his favorite landscapes left him gaping in awe, but even more visceral. He realized he was staring at her, agog, and snapped himself back to attention. “And you did not want to ask any of the gentlemen inside to teach you?”

“I didn’t want to seem silly. Though I suppose, I have already failed at that.” She dropped her eyes and blushed and Benedict felt heat surge through his own skin at seeing its beautiful hue. What was it about her that made him falter when every other young lady made him want to run? Who on earth was she?

“I don’t recognize you. The same array of people always come to these parties.”

“Ah, then my disguise is working well.” She arched a brow with a mischievous little grin.

Benedict felt his stomach flip with delight. “What is your name?”

Sophie prickled. She would need to be crafty with her answers to maintain her anonymity. The consequences of being discovered were dire, but perhaps that was what gave it an undeniably exciting edge. She had learned to hide herself in plain sight with the Cowpers. Surely this wouldn't be much harder. “Is a degree of mystery not the purpose of a masquerade?”

His lopsided smile set her at ease. He wouldn’t interrogate her; he was amiable.

“Very true. So you are going to make me guess?”

“I think it would be a fruitless endeavor.”

Benedict marveled at the beautiful stranger as the intrigue grew deeper. She was the first debutante who had reacted to him with anything other than fawning desperation. She was playful. She was a breath of fresh air.

He stepped closer, folding his arms as he looked her up and down. “Well, you have already given me a significant clue. A young lady in society who does not know the quadrille. That is unique indeed.” She straightened her mask and he noticed her unadorned wrist. “And no dance card. You are truly committed to remaining as anonymous as possible.”

“All in the spirit of the event.” She turned quickly and walked to a nearby table where two flutes of champagne sat unattended. She drank down the remnants of one a bit too eagerly, betraying her nerves.

“Is someone joining you?” Benedict wondered if he had interrupted the flirtations of another suitor. If so, the man was a fool to take his eyes off such a creature for even a moment.

Sophie followed his gaze to the second glass and felt herself flush at being caught indulging so brazenly. She picked it up and carried it back to him. Now that he knew she could not dance, she could relax and enjoy his conversation at least.

“You have joined me, Mister…?”

He accepted the glass and huffed a laugh. “Oh come now, my disguise is not nearly as good as yours. You don’t have to be so coy.”

The woman continued to stare at him blankly and the puzzle of her grew infinitely more bewildering. Could it be possible that she truly did not recognize him? Even if this was her first event among the ton, she could not have failed to hear his name on every other woman’s lips as they chased him through the ballroom. Nor could she be so ignorant about her hosts. They were at his bloody house after all.

His brow knitted in disbelief. “You truly do not know who I am?”

“There you are!” A voice called out suddenly.

Sophie’s stomach lurched into her throat. She’d been found out. She’d be thrown into the street, and tomorrow probably into jail for stealing Araminta’s shoes, and–

A second man marched around the rose bushes also in tails and a black demi-mask, shorter and broader than the first but also remarkably handsome. He stomped up to confront the other.

“Mother has been looking all over for you. You weaseled out of your dance with Penelope and I had to take your place.”

The taller man smirked. “And did that put you out terribly, brother?”

Sophie looked from one man to the other. Even under their demi-masks, the familial relationship was more than obvious, and she realized in a blinding flash that they must be the famed and coveted Bridgerton brothers. But which brother was her visitor? Benedict. He had to be Benedict. She sent a silent thank you to Lady Whistledown, who’d once written a column completely devoted to the task of telling the Bridgerton siblings apart. Benedict, she recalled, had been singled out as the tallest. Sophie began to assess him anew, the most eligible bachelor in the ton. Remembering that Gen had shared a dalliance with him, she could understand the appeal.

“It was better than any of the alternatives, I must say,” The man who must have been Colin Bridgerton shrugged. “If you flee the party and leave me to that pack of she-devil debutantes, I swear I shall exact revenge to my dying day.”

Benedict laughed and Colin turned to Sophie with a start, realizing that they were not alone. “Oh pardon, present company excluded. I apologize, Miss.”

He bowed politely and she returned her best curtsy.

“No offense taken, sir.”

The annoyance melted out of his eyes - a captivating shade of blue - and his voice grew silky as he stepped toward her. “Might I request an introduction?”

“I doubt you’ll meet with success.” Benedict snickered. “I would like one as well but the lady is committed to the spirit of the event and will not share her name.”

Colin frowned at her playfully. “Not even a false one?”

Sophie grinned, enjoying their little game. She had never received so much attention from any member of the upper class, much less two suave and flirtatious bachelors. It made her bold. “If you really insist, I suppose I could tell you something.”

“But not the truth?” Benedict asked.

“This isn’t a night for truth.”

Colin leaned in with a devilish smirk. “My favorite kind of night.”

Benedict rolled his eyes and tugged his brother upright. “Shouldn’t you be with Penelope?”

At this, the younger grew flustered. “I…well…”

“It would be the honorable thing to do, making sure the young lady is asked to more than just one dance this evening.” At the end of his argument Benedict folded his bottom lip into an exaggerated pout and Sophie felt her insides flutter.

Colin seemed possessed by a new sense of chivalry. “Very well, I’ll take my leave. And fight back through the pack of ravenous wolves…”

“Wolves?” Sophie laughed, turning to Benedict. “Is that what drove you out of doors as well, sir?”

“I suspect it is.” Colin grinned and clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Our mother would like nothing better than to see this one married off.”

“Brother…” Benedict’s grip tightened around the champagne flute.

“Would you take pity on the poor, long-suffering woman and chase him up the aisle?” Colin shot a wink at Sophie.

“Have you been at the tea again?” Benedict grumbled under his breath, staring daggers.

Sophie couldn’t remember being so entertained before. “I believe I shall have to get to know him better first, and take the full measure of his character before any chasing shall commence.”

Her co-conspirator released a loud sigh. “Then alas, I fear he may be found wanting and remain a bachelor forever.”

“Are you quite finished?” Benedict snipped.

Sensing the end of his patience, Colin slapped him on the back and desisted. “I am.” He turned to Sophie with a beaming smile and bowed once more. “Enjoy your evening.” Then he was gone as quickly as he had appeared, leaving them alone in the garden.

Sophie allowed a giggle to escape. “It is charming to see two brothers who get on so well.”

Benedict took a large swig of champagne. “You’d call that getting on?”

“I would.” Sophie smiled softly. “I have no siblings myself but it’s clear the jesting stems from a place of love.” Indeed, Sophie felt herself surrounded by love at this house. A love of family and community that she had always longed for but always been denied. It was bittersweet to be wrapped in it, knowing it would only last for one evening.

He quirked a brow. “Another clue. She has no siblings.”

“That cannot be that rare.” Sophie spluttered, chastising herself for her misstep.

“It certainly narrows the options.”

“Well, it is the last thing I shall share about my identity.” She set her chin defiantly and Benedict found it to be quite the most adorable expression. Now he was determined to know everything about her, however long he had to play her game.

He stepped toward her again, lowering his voice. “Why so many secrets?”

“I told you, this entire night is meant for secrets. Though I believe I have uncovered yours.” Sophie said with an enigmatic smile, truly warming to her role as a mysterious stranger.

“Oh yes?”

“I know who you are.”

Benedict shrugged. “I assumed as much.”

“I didn’t at first,” she confessed.

“What gave me away?” With no discernable parents shoving her in his direction, Benedict wondered how she had deduced it.

Sophie grinned, victorious. “The fact that you are here with your brother. That you look so alike. And are both being hounded by the young ladies.”

“We look alike even with masks on?”

“Even with masks,” she nodded. “Lady Whistledown writes about the Bridgerton brothers quite often, and she never passes up an opportunity to comment upon how alike you look.”

Ah, she was a Whistledown reader, though that didn’t help him parse her identity among the young ladies of the ton. He had never read the scandal sheet himself but was unsurprised that it contained discussions of the Bridgerton resemblance. He had heard it all his life, how similar he was to his two eldest brothers. The three of them were often called by the others’ names, even by their own mother on occasion, with everyone typically defaulting to assuming they were all Anthony, the Viscount. He and Colin had used it to their advantage from time to time, wielding perceived status to get preferential treatment or making handshake deals to embroil Anthony in some ludicrous business venture. He of course could see the clear distinctions between each of them but it seemed society could not. If anything, he knew he most closely resembled his late father and it caused the greatest pain when someone slipped and called Benedict by his name. It was all something he had learned to live with. He loved his family dearly but his visibility as a Bridgerton often made him feel invisible as Benedict.

He steeled himself to be wounded again by this lady in silver. “And do you know which brother I am?”

“Benedict,” she smiled brightly. His heart skipped hearing his name on her lips. In the soft glow she cast, he finally felt seen. “If indeed Lady Whistledown is correct when she says that you are the tallest among your brothers.”

He swallowed to try and hide his excitement. “You’re quite the detective.”

She shrugged. “I merely read a gossip sheet. It makes me no different from the rest of the people here.”

He wanted to chuckle at how she voiced his precise thoughts aloud. Perhaps she was an enchantress with the power to read minds. Whoever she was, dream or reality, he needed to know more. Downing the rest of his champagne, he set the glass aside and moved closer, trying to study the contours of her face and color of her eyes behind her mask.

“And if Lady Whistledown were here and saw you tonight, would she know your identity?”

The woman backed away, playfully but pointedly drifting across the grass toward the elm tree. “I’m so well disguised that no one would recognize me right now.”

He continued his pursuit. “What if you removed your mask? Would she recognize you then?”

“I’m not going to answer that.” She walked backward slowly, always staying paces ahead of him.

He returned her wry smile. “I didn’t think you would, but I had to ask nonetheless. Dare I ask what else you know about me from Whistledown?”

“Are you fishing for compliments?”

Sophie’s nerves were running haywire at being chased with such evident intent by a gentleman. And not just any gentleman, but Benedict Bridgerton himself. She had never planned to flirt nor attract the attention of gentlemen at the ball. She had only wanted to observe it, to soak in the atmosphere, to forget the life of Sophie Beckett for a few hours. But now the most coveted man in the ton - a man far more charming and beautiful than she had presumed - was stalking toward her with hungry eyes. She should have been terrified at being discovered or even compromised, but she wasn’t. She was enjoying this. Perhaps she could blame the champagne for the heated, buzzing feeling throughout her body but whatever it was, it left her heady with confidence and craving more.

Something bumped into the back of her legs and she turned to see that she was standing by a pair of swings hanging from the branches of the looming tree above. He had her cornered. But he was nothing but a gentleman as he held the swing steady and gestured for her to sit. With the volume of her skirt she could do little but perch on the seat and hold onto the ropes to keep her balance. He lowered himself onto the swing next to hers and rocked lightly to and fro with a cheeky glint in his eyes.

“If I cannot know anything about you, at least I might know what you know about me.”

Sophie pondered a moment. Her immediate thoughts were what Genevieve had shared. That he was sensitive, talented and good. But of course she could not reveal that she had learned such things. She had to rely on what had been reported in Whistledown, which had conveniently been confirmed by Colin. “Your name has not been seriously linked with any young lady, and your mother despairs of ever seeing you married.”

The way his shoulders slumped banished her assumption that he simply didn’t want to end a rakish bachelor lifestyle. The burden to marry weighed on him more heavily for some reason.

“The pressure has lessened a bit now that my brother’s gone and gotten himself a wife,” he explained.

“The Viscount?”

“Mmmm,” he nodded. “And anyway, I’m sure at some point I’ll find the lady suitable enough to keep my house and bear my children.” He kicked at the grass, dispirited.

“Among the ravenous wolves?” Sophie chuckled, trying to brighten the mood and coax the truth out of him. “It sounds as if that traditional sort of life would be unappealing to you.”

Benedict shook himself out of his ruminations and sat up straight. He felt so at ease with this mysterious guest that he had let the mask of debonair suitor slip. He must be cautious in revealing his true feelings especially if he hoped to secure her hand, the only one that was making the prospect of marriage seem in any way appealing. He spluttered, “Well…I only…”

She cut him off. “Do not worry about offending me, Mr. Bridgerton. I am not here to find a husband and I’d much rather have your honesty than your flattery.”

Who on earth was this miraculous woman? A young lady who was not scheming for a proposal but rather seeking to know him better. The first and only he had encountered in the marriage mart. He felt as if he had discovered a unicorn and effortlessly opened his heart to her.

“I suppose there are other pursuits in life that interest me. To travel the Continent and see the artworks of the great masters. To seek out beauty in all its forms and capture it. To do something worthwhile with myself, have an occupation. Shocking as that may be, I feel that I would find it fulfilling.”

While his desires may have confused many of her peers, the lady in silver only smiled. “I think it’s admirable for anyone to hold an occupation. It shows a great deal of character, not to mention independence. And in this independent life of yours, there would be no room for a wife?”

“I didn’t say that,” he clarified. “I have never disdained romance, as it appears you do. If you’re not here to find a husband, then what are you here for?”

“To enjoy myself.”

“Simple enough,” he smirked.

“Yes,” she sighed. “If only I knew how to dance.” The pointed challenge in her eyes lit a spark within him. She was a smart little thing, a force to be reckoned with. He would not shy away. He bounced to his feet and stood before her.

“I would teach you gladly but be forewarned, I will teach you badly. I never took to it.”

Sophie laughed. “Have you two left feet, Mr. Bridgerton?”

“Why do you think I find myself still unmarried?”

“Surely your dancing skills cannot be that atrocious. Could it be you have some nefarious personality traits that are driving the women away?”

Benedict sniggered. “Hmmmm. Perhaps I am too rakish. Too predisposed to indulgences.”

“Does that not describe just about every gentleman in the ton?”

“Are you saying that I’m indistinguishable?” His lip folded into a hilarious pout again.

Sophie was enjoying their sparring immensely. “I’m saying it must truly be your dancing that is to blame.”

Then he bent and extended his hand. “Let me show you and you can judge for yourself.”

She rose with a rustle of silver skirts and allowed Benedict to guide her back across the lawn to the paving stones, the two of them walking in comfortable silence. She felt like a princess - a reckless princess - and so when he asked her to dance, she put her hand in his. And even though she knew that this entire evening was a lie, that she was a nobleman’s bastard and a countess’s maid, that her dress was borrowed and her shoes practically stolen - none of that seemed to matter as their fingers entwined. For this moment, at least, Sophie could pretend that this gentleman could be her gentleman. It was nothing but a dream, but it had been so terribly long since she’d let herself dream.

Standing across from the house window once more, they turned to face each other. Sophie swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how tall and how close he was. The moonlight shone behind him, cutting a striking silhouette with glinting pale blue eyes set behind his black mask. Never releasing her hand, he guided it into place.

“Put your hand here on my shoulder. Just a touch lower, there you are.”

Then his hands moved, one to her waist and one to extend their arms to the side. Sophie couldn’t help but shudder at the expanse of his grasp.

Benedict dropped his voice, instructing gently. “Now, listen to the music. Do you feel it rising and falling?”

Drifting out from the house Sophie could hear the musicians’ strings playing something light and hopeful. She concentrated and began to sense its rhythmic pattern.

“I feel it.”

Benedict smiled. “Good. Now watch my feet and let me lead you. One, two, three; one, two, three.”

As if on queue Sophie stumbled after just a moment, tripping over Benedict’s feet. “Oh! I’m sorry!”

His hold tightened around her to keep her from falling but he couldn’t help bursting into laughter. “See? I am an awful teacher. Perhaps you should return to watching the dancers inside. What are they doing now?”

Sophie couldn’t keep the smile from spreading across her own face, realizing she had never met such a good humored man. A nobleman who didn’t scold her for a misstep and even blamed himself instead. He was so playful, so easy to talk to. Despite the outrageous risk she was taking with this entire evening, she had never been more comfortable around a member of the gentry. She turned to peer into the ballroom and watched the flurry of dancing couples moving around one another. Their hands and arms entwined in a series of looping motions, palms meeting to raise over their heads before sliding back down to wrap around the ladies’ shoulders.

Knowing they were entirely unsuited to the task and giggling at each other with mischief in their eyes, she and Benedict attempted to mimic - or rather mock - the dancers inside. They grasped at each other’s elbows and wrists, fumbling to change holds and laughing as they found themselves tied in ridiculous knots and unable to glide into the next motion. Benedict pranced like a peacock and overexaggerated a deep bend of the knee as the men inside artfully swept a leg behind themselves. Next, the ladies twirled, grasping the mens’ hands and floating in a circle to revolve around their backs. Benedict extended his hand with a flourish, Sophie took it and then began skipping like a child around him, skirts bunched in her fist. They were laughing so much she was sure the champagne was to blame, which was practically confirmed when she rounded Benedict’s other side and promptly tripped on her dress, pitching to the ground.

But he caught her, swiftly and easily moving to cradle her in his arms. Their laughter died away as they gazed at one another, catching their breath. For the first time Benedict was close enough to determine the color of her eyes - they were green. A deep emerald green that sparkled as richly as her silver costume. He was nearly overcome with their light and the feeling of how perfectly she fit in his arms. Barely keeping his wits about him, he lifted her gently back to her feet.

“Lord, I never expected to find the one person worse at dancing than me,” he chuckled, trying to tame the maelstrom of emotions swirling within.

The woman returned a shaky smile. “Well I hope it serves as a boost to your confidence.”

The tremor in her voice gave him a glint of hope. Could she be feeling the same way he did? Did she too sense an overwhelming connection between them? Something he was ready to label as destiny. She hadn’t spurned any of his advances. No indeed she had flirted back at him, toying and challenging, matching his wits and his energy. She was not eager to marry him for his family or position, she was able to pick him out among his brothers and she supported his dream to do more with his life than simply wile away in domesticity. She made him laugh, she made him feel alive, she made him feel visible. Everything he had been searching for and had abandoned hope of ever finding, all embodied by a nameless lady in silver who had appeared in his garden like a gift from the heavens. She was a star, and he wanted to pick her up and hang her in his sky to guide him.

He stepped close and wrapped an arm around her waist, just wanting to hold her again. “Shall we try again? In earnest?”

Sophie was transfixed, something blooming inside her chest from the moment he caught her. This already exceptional night had taken so many unexpected turns. She had never expected to speak at length with any attendee of the ball, much less the most prized bachelor in society. And she certainly never expected a private audience with him for the whole evening, nor the feelings it would stir within her. So quickly he had banished her assumptions of what such a man would be like. He was nowhere near as snobbish as she imagined he had a right to be, nor was he the dour figure she had supposed when Gen told her he probably disdained attention. He was passionate, animated, with a comic disposition and a large heart. He disdained attention because he wanted more and felt out of place - feelings she could relate to very well indeed. He was good-natured, forgiving, gentle. And as if that weren’t enough, he was the most handsome man she had ever seen despite that she could only view half of his face beneath his mask. Though she knew the Bridgerton siblings were famed for their looks and she had only seen one brother to compare him to, she knew that Benedict would always have drawn her eye above all.

She was in danger of losing her heart to him. She feared it may have already happened. But there was no happy ending to this story. She could not reveal herself nor enjoy his company for any longer than this one night. But with his arm around her and his blue eyes holding hers so warmly, she could not bring herself to care. The musicians inside were playing a new song, something resonant and soulful, full of longing and magic. She would fit an entire lifetime into this night.

“Alright, one last go.” Bringing one hand to his shoulder and lacing the other with his, she took her position and stared down at their feet again.

“Look up,” Benedict encouraged.

She shook her head. “I will stumble.”

“You won’t. I won’t let you. Look into my eyes.”

She followed his soft command and raised her eyes to meet his. Mesmerized, she couldn’t look away. She could barely breathe. She was dimly aware that they were moving, that he was guiding her through a waltz slowly and fluidly. Suddenly their feet knew precisely how to carry them. Benedict never blinked, determined never to let this silver blessing out of his sight or his arms until she understood how she had enchanted him. Everything around them was bathed in moonlight, making her shimmer like a precious jewel in his hands.

“What do you feel?”

“Everything,” she breathed.

“What do you hear?”

“The music. I hear the music as I’ve never heard it before.” She moved light on her feet, the romantic call of the strings making it seem as if she were floating across the paving stones.

Benedict’s heart was pounding, desperate for her answer to his next question. “What do you see?”

Sophie froze, paralyzed by the impossibility of putting it into words. As their steps gently stopped and they stood inches apart, everything about him was thrown into sharp focus. She saw everything she had never dared to hope for. A man who showed interest, a man who was kind, a man who could free her from her miserable life. If only she was not who she was. Her skin tingled where he touched her, and the air grew thick and hot. This was desire, Sophie realized. This was what she’d heard fellow maids whispering about. This was what no gently bred lady was even supposed to know about. But she was no gently bred lady, she thought defiantly. She was a bastard, a nobleman’s by-blow. She was not a member of the ton and never would be. Did she really have to abide by their rules?

As Benedict’s lips parted and his head lowered toward her, she knew he was moving to kiss her and she would allow it. She craved it. It was enough to ruin a reputation, but what sort of reputation did she have to begin with? She was outside society and she wanted one night of fantasy. One kiss to savor for the rest of her pitiful existence.

Their breaths gusted across each other’s skin, lips barely an inch apart. Sophie was certain her heart was thundering loud enough that he may hear it. The music swelled. She closed her eyes. Then she felt his long, slender fingers cup her face and begin to slip under the ribbon tying her mask.

Alarm bells sounded in her mind and she lurched backward, bringing a hand to press her mask firmly to her face. She could not be discovered. Despite how everything in her body was crying out for him, she would not allow it. In the commotion a lock of her hair fell loose and dangled over her shoulder. After securing her mask she began trying to pin her hair back in place, fingers slipping in her silk gloves.

Benedict stood befuddled, watching her fumble with her gloves and hairpins. She was truly committed to not revealing her identity. A thought flashed through his mind that perhaps she was hiding some kind of deformity. At this point, he did not care. It would not make him feel anything less toward her and he was determined to woo her.

“Blasted things…” Sophie cursed under her breath as her hair continued to slip out of her grasp.

“Allow me.” Benedict reached forward and softly took her wrist, slowly sliding the glove down from her elbow to pull it off. Sophie stood trembling as he kept her hand in his and brushed his thumb across her knuckles, their skin meeting for the first time. Then he bent, keeping his eyes locked on hers as he pressed a deep, warm kiss to the back of her hand. Her breath hitched, feeling an electric current spider out from his lips across every inch of her skin. This was already a bold move but he took it even further, turning her hand over and lavishing her palm with another sensuous kiss - making his intentions clear without a single word.

“Who are you?” Benedict rasped. “I have to know.”

“I can’t say.” Sophie felt torn in two - her heart and body tugging her forward into his arms while her mind and reason held her back.

Benedict felt the heat rising under his collar. He didn’t want to learn her name simply to beat her at her game. He wanted it so that he could know who had stolen his heart so quickly and completely. So that he could keep her in his life and sing her praises. He would not end the evening without making his feelings known.

He gripped her hand tighter, pressing in close, his voice urgent. “I want to see you tomorrow. I want to call on you and meet your parents. Do you understand what I’m saying? I need to know you. I want…”

“Don’t say anything more! Please. Not another word.” Sophie cut him off, tears pricking at her eyes. This was all a mistake, a dreadful mistake. She never should have remained in the garden with Benedict, should never have flirted with him, should never have let it go this far.

“Then tell me your name,” he pleaded desperately. “Tell me how to find you tomorrow.”

The sobs were rising from her throat, anguished at how much pain she was causing them both. At how unfair it all was. “I…”

Her voice was drowned out by a booming clang from within Bridgerton House, followed by the guests inside erupting into cheers and laughter.

“What is that?”

“Midnight. Time for the unmasking.” Benedict explained, turning to her with hopeful eyes.

“Unmasking?” Sophie’s mind whirred, horrified. No one had ever mentioned an unmasking. It wasn’t reported in Whistledown and Gen hadn’t warned her. Perhaps it was something that everyone of good breeding inherently knew about a masquerade. Clearly she was not one of them. She had been so wrong to attempt this, so ill-prepared for what would happen. Now she would be out of place for not revealing herself.

As she panicked over what to do, Benedict pulled off his own mask and her crisis deepened. He was beautiful. Impossibly more beautiful now that she could see the boyish mirth in his face, the inquisitive slant of his brow, the way his crystal blue eyes were framed by the most endearing creases, evidencing a lifetime of smiles.

Benedict’s hope deflated as the woman stared at him, stock-still. “Are you alright?”

“I have to go,” she choked, barely audible. Then she gathered her skirts in her hands, turned and fled into the house.

“Wait!” Benedict leapt after her, feeling like a man possessed. He could not lose her, the only woman who had stirred him to the depths of his soul. The only one who he could be prevailed upon to marry. She held his future. She held his heart. He couldn’t let them vanish.

He tore back through the house, catching glimpses of her silver form sweeping around each corner. She was remarkably fast. He burst into the ballroom and had to scan to find her among the riot of costumes and noise. The candlelight glinted off her dress as she pushed steadily through the crowd, already halfway to the door, and he dove in after her. He abandoned any care of being polite and began shouldering his way past guests, even knocking into his brother Anthony who promptly began to admonish him but Benedict pressed on, deaf to anything but the chanting in his mind. No, no, no. He could not lose her.

Sophie dipped and sashayed around the crush of partygoers, moving as quickly as she could for the exit but not wanting to cause a scene. The genteel crowd proved their manners by parting easily as she passed. She cast glances back over her shoulder, seeing Benedict trying to catch up with her but people were less inclined to clear the way for a man. Her heart was in her throat, unsure if she could escape without being caught by Benedict or the Cowpers or anyone else who found her behavior curious. The large front doors were in sight and she turned one final time to see Benedict’s path blocked suddenly by a severe looking woman with a scarlet costume and a cane. She would make it.

Barely maintaining composure, she slowed her pace as she approached the doors and nodded politely to the footmen who opened them and ushered her out into the cool night. She scurried down the stairs, mask still on her face as she began to soak it with tears. Confused and frantic, she gave over to her instincts which were drawing her away from Grosvenor Square and back to the modiste shop. Though she knew it was her only course of action and she knew she had let the entire evening get out of hand, she couldn’t help but feel fractures splintering her heart with each hurried footfall on the cobblestones.

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