#fic: the purgatory papers

[silverdune]

the purgatory papers | introduction: part three

"on that note, you have a trainee to meet."

minors dni. ageless blogs dni. blank blogs dni. you'll be blocked. <- part two | main masterlist character(s): gn!reader, jeong yunho, choi jongho tags: explicit language, light angst, mild hostility, jh is a gentleman; word count: 3.5k summary: you come back to purgatory, only to be reminded that you have a trainee to meet, namely one choi jongho; however, something is amiss about the entire situation.. a/n: apologies that it's been so long since the second part 😭 i hope the two main fics in the series won't take forever to write and post but i can't promise anything! anyways, i hope you enjoy, feedback as always is much appreciated!

Your arrival back to purgatory is a rather dour one. The minute Yunho sees you, his demeanour shifts to one of concern and he approaches you from the opposite side of the room.

“I take it the trip wasn’t entirely smooth-sailing?” he remarks. You glare up at him and he immediately retracts, stunned by your expression. “Noted.”

You huff and shake your head, apologising for your attitude. “I’ll be honest, the meeting with Old Horns wasn’t as.. antagonistic as I was expecting.” Yunho lifts his brows in surprise. “Yeah, it was actually, relatively, calm and collected. Hongjoong has a bit of a sense of humour about him.”

Yunho breathes a chuckle. “Sounds like him. In truth, he isn’t as combative as people make him out to be. When you talk to him, he really comes across as just a guy who got the job of High Devil and needs to lean into it in some way.”

You nod in agreement. “Yeah.. I initially had trouble getting into his office. Pair of guards didn’t think he had actually given me permission to see him.” Yunho tuts in disapproval. “One of them even evaporated my red card, that was kinda funny.”

Yunho knits his brows. “..You got it back though, right?”

“Oh yeah, Hongjoong spoke to them through the door and made explicit reference to it, so he brought it back and returned it. It was really what happened after the meeting that soured my mood.”

The two of you stop in the middle of the room; Yunho turns to you, awaiting your elaboration.

“I managed to come face to face with San.”

Yunho exhaled nervously.

“Don’t worry, he didn’t say anything about it. I don’t think he realised I was getting the scoop on him and Yeosang. But- The things he said.. Made me..” You sigh, unable to find the right word. “I don’t know. It just got under my skin a little bit.”

You’re just here to get another article in your miserable paper.

You suppose it is pretty miserable.

Haven’t you had enough of that?

Yes, you think, hence why I wish to retire.

Unfortunately, you couldn’t bite back the point that he was a part of your final job.

Not that you’d want to anyway; considering the feud and San’s attitude towards you, it would do you no favours to start picking fights with him.

Yunho recognises you don’t really want to share what he said, and doesn’t push the topic any further. He lightly claps you on the shoulder and says, “N, we appreciate what you’re doing, and I for one appreciate your contributions to unpacking the strife between the angels and devils.” You hum passively; Yunho lets go of your shoulder. “On that note, you have a trainee to meet.”

Oh, God. Of course. You had almost completely forgotten about that.

“Jongho!”

Yunho’s eyes light up. “Yes! Jongho. He’s patiently waiting in my office to meet you. I told him that I sensed you’d be back any minute and left to come and meet you.”

You hold back a glare and instead roll your shoulders a few times to get rid of all the tension built up in your spine. That’s when it dawns on you. “Wait- He’s been waiting there for how long?”

Yunho’s eyes shift to and fro. “A little while. But don’t worry he said he was perfectly okay waiting however long it took.”

“Hm. Awfully patient.” The two of you start making your way back to Yunho’s office.

“Indeed. He’s a very polite man. Forthright, adaptable, smart. I think the two of you will get along just fine.”

You give Yunho a sideways glance that he vaguely notices. “How so?”

He sticks out his chest and puts his hands behind his back. “You have very similar attitudes. He’s a bit less pessimistic than you-” You roll your eyes. “But he’s a realist.”

“Sounds a lot like you,” you quip. “Well, apart from the level of patience.”

Yunho shakes his head with a light smirk on his face. “You know me too well, N.”

By the time you reach his office, you’re suddenly hit with a wave of nerves. What if this trainee comes to hate you? What if you really don’t gel? What if he decides some time into training that he’s not interested and wants to go back to purgatory?

Your hand hovers above the door handle as you freeze in place.

Yunho waves a hand in front of you. “N?” You blink back to life and look up at him. “You became a statue, what’s wrong?” he asks in a hushed voice, not wanting Jongho to hear your exchange and worry.

“Um- Sorry, nothing.” Yunho lifts a brow, unconvinced. “I promise it’s nothing,” you whisper. Yunho then folds his arms, kicking his doubt up a gear. You shut your eyes for a brief second and sigh; you don’t want to have this conversation outside the door of his office when the mentee is literally sitting just inside. “It’s nothing, it’s fine, I’ll..” You look at him again. “I’ll figure it out.”

Yunho exhales, but decides to put his trust in you and opens the door himself. You follow him into the room and he shuts the door behind you.

At the sound of the door opening, Jongho stands up from the chair and turns around to see you.

In the seconds before either of you say anything, you study Jongho’s appearance, and he does the same in return.

Brown hair, wavy down to his eyebrows, and wearing what looks to be a fully tailored suit.

Distinguished, you think. He certainly doesn’t mess around with fashion.

“N, this is Jongho, Jongho, this is N.”

The two of you shake hands, and he smiles very politely. You offer him a similar smile and he eventually pulls back, feeling at ease with your first meeting.

You wish you could shake this deep-seated worry in your sternum, but for the time being you opt to push it all the way back, allowing yourself to appreciate the fact that Jongho seems delighted to work with you.

As if on cue, he confirms this thought aloud.

“Can I just say, N, that I’m very pleased to be training underneath what I have learned is exquisite leadership?”

Exquisite. Wow, aren’t you taken aback.

“W-Well, thank you,” you reply sincerely; never before has your work been described anywhere close to ‘exquisite’. You wonder deep down if he’s pulling a prank. “I appreciate that, truly.”

Jongho nods, and it’s oddly reassuring.

Yunho stands between you, off to the side, and looks back and forth for a time before finally landing on Jongho. “There’s something you need to learn before you can shadow N, is that not right?”

All of you know the answer to this question already, but the prompt leads Jongho to say, “Oh! Yes.” He turns to you. “I need to learn how to manifest first, I’ve never done it before, nor have I been taught.” You hum; again, you knew this, though it is interesting to learn that no one in Hell ever taught him. “What do you know of manifesting, if anything at all?”

“I’ve heard that it’s at least a lot easier than it seems.” You nod affirmatively. “From what I’ve read from the history books, you can only manifest once every ten years at the bare minimum, and you must always go to a different location until you can guarantee you’ve put enough space between you and a location where you have already been.”

“Wow. Seems you know all that is necessary,” you remark, and Yunho nods, equally impressed. “And what of limitations?”

Jongho taps his chin. “You can only manifest for up to three days at a time or it can cause serious temporary damage. Many have developed a higher tolerance to manifesting, but it’s incredibly rare.”

A chuckle escapes your lips. “You’re practically self-taught already.”

Jongho eyes the floor rather timidly. “I know the theory, but I’ve never been taught to put it into practice.”

“Huh. Well, I don’t think you should have too much trouble considering you know all of the rules.”

“Thank you.”

“But we absolutely need to run through the practical stuff. It’s especially important since it’s your first time, and it’s incredibly demanding.”

Jongho nods once with conviction. “Absolutely, where do we start?”

You relax your shoulders. Yunho gives you a smirk.

Grabbing the handle, you open the door and jerk your head out towards the hallway. “Follow me.”

×-×

Your personal office is located down one of the many hallways of purgatory, though if you’re being honest, you hardly go there nowadays.

Most of the time, you’ve been caught between preparing to manifest into the real world and actually doing it so it’s no wonder you rarely come back to your own office. The desk has actually collected dust since it’s seldom seen much tangible presence from yours truly.

You explain this to Jongho as the two of you enter the office; he shrugs with a smile and says, “I don’t mind.”

As you close the door, a smile appears on your face. Yunho would have lightly chastised you for the mess, or more to the point, reminded you that it’s never a good idea to leave your space in such disarray. Of course, his words would have bounced right over your head given that he wouldn’t mean them so sincerely, but it’s a change of pace to not have someone make such a remark.

Heading over to one of your many bookshelves, you run a finger across the spines of every book until you find the one you’re looking for. “Ah!” You take it out and turn to Jongho. “Okay. This lesson will be fairly short and sweet, but I need you to pay close attention, okay?” You keep your tone light, not wanting to scare him off, and Jongho simply nods. “Excellent.”

You place the book down on the desk and Jongho takes notes of its title: The 101 on Manifesting - How to Get to the World Downstairs.

“How many times have you manifested, N?” he asks.

As you’re opening the book to the appropriate page, you pause for a brief second and have a serious think about it. “It’s certainly a number in the triple digits.” Jongho flexes his brows in surprise. “Yeah, it’s honestly no wonder I’m so burnt out on it, ha..”

Jongho tilts his head. “So that’s why I’m being trained on this so soon.”

You glance over at him. “Did Yunho not tell you?”

“All he mentioned was that you wished to retire. I didn’t pry on the reasons and he didn’t offer them. I reckoned it was a private thing he felt he shouldn’t share and I respected that.”

Distinguished and dignified. Almost makes him the worst person for the job.

Not that you weren’t respectful, but people had their opinions.

“Hm.” You turn back to the book in an attempt to focus on the matter at hand, but you can’t get rid of this thought in the back of your mind. “Jongho, I hope you don’t mind me asking-” When you look at him again, his hands are behind his back, his chin is slightly in the air, and his eyes are alight with a willingness to answer any and all questions that you may have. You chew on the inside of your bottom lip then sigh. “Did you- Do you- want this job? Or was it just.. handed to you at the last minute?”

His expression morphs to one of deep thought and reflection, as though it’s the first time he’s ever given it any serious consideration.

He chooses brutal honesty. “You know, I did find it odd that I was offered this position on such short notice. I had not long moved to purgatory from Hell. I wondered if my prior connection to Hell had something to do with it, but that couldn’t have been it, since that fact alone would present a conflict of interest. I took the job since I understood how necessary having somebody new fill the position was since you would be retiring, but the more I think about it, the stranger it seems..”

You blink a few times. Between your trips to Heaven and Hell, the fact that your mentee was once a resident of Hell had completely slipped your mind.

And now that you think about it, Yunho had mentioned it so casually that it didn’t seem like a big deal at all, despite the fact that it is.

In fact, it’s a pretty huge fucking deal.

You shut the book, stick a hand on your hip and cover your mouth with your opposite hand.

He can’t do this job.

Jongho notices your sudden shift in demeanour and holds up his hands in defence. “But it shouldn’t make much of a difference, right? I mean, I was only in Hell for six centuries, that’s a drop in the ocean, surely.”

Your eyes flicker to him. “It’s still risky,” you say from behind your hand.

“I don’t even know the devil in question, I know of him, but we’ve never spoken personally and he has no idea who I am.”

You place the hand covering your mouth on your other hip and exhale.

“You’re certain?”

“100%,” he answers assuredly. “I couldn’t even tell you what he looks like.”

“Hmm.” Surely Yunho should be aware of how risky this could be. “I need to talk to Yunho.”

You leave the office, barely hearing Jongho when he says, “Do what you need to.”

×-×

You weren’t planning on it, but when you eventually knock on Yunho’s door, it’s loud, urgent and rather abrasive.

Yunho sits up straight in an instant, his eyes going wide. “..Come in?” You barge in and his face relaxes to one of mild confusion upon seeing you. “N. Everything okay?”

You say nothing until you’re face to face on opposite sides of the desk. Resting your palms flat on the surface, you stare him dead in the eye. “He’s an ex-resident of Hell, Yunho.”

It takes him a few seconds, but once it dawns on him, he stares back at you with greater confusion. “I know. I thought I already told you this.”

“Yeah!” you scoff. “You did. So casually in fact that I completely forgot until Jongho told me again just now. And I must have been so focused on the idea of retiring that I didn’t stop to think about how insane this is and how you should know better than anyone that this is risky shit!”

Yunho braces in front of you. “N, listen-”

“Do Hongjoong and Seonghwa know?” you ask pointedly, straightening your back and folding your arms.

“..What?”

“Do they know that I have a trainee and that he used to be a resident of Hell?”

He sharpens his gaze. “As a matter of fact, N, yes.”

You don’t let that deter you. “And they’re okay with Jongho doing this, huh?”

“Yes, N. Otherwise I wouldn’t have put Jongho forward for the job. I’m not in the business of lying to the two of them, and I wouldn’t have put Jongho up to it without assuring him that he was well above board to take this position.” You tut and roll your eyes; are you the only sane person in crazy town right now? “Listen, N, I fully understand your concerns, but Jongho was only a resident for six centuries, which sounds like a long time, but it’s not when you compare it to the sheer millennia of the other folks.”

“But he still has experience of being in Hell. Sure, he doesn’t know San and he’s never met Old Horns but that doesn’t mean this still isn’t precarious. What if either of them were to find out Jongho used to live in Hell, huh?” Yunho deflates slightly at that question; he was expecting it, but actually hearing it aloud puts the insanity of the situation into perspective. “You and I both know that if this were to get out-”

Yunho looks up at you. “Well then, you and Jongho will have to make damn sure it doesn’t.”

You try pleading with him to reconsider. This isn’t about Jongho, not in a personal sense anyway. You’re trying to protect him. “Yunho, I still think this is a bad idea-”

“N, the decision has been made, it’s final, and at the end of the day-” - he glances up at you, and his eyes shimmer - “I am still your boss.” Your shoulders drop. Never before has Yunho taken that tone with you.

You almost feel your lips quiver and your hands shake. Such a tonal shift shouldn’t affect you this much, and yet it’s a cold reminder that Yunho was never really your friend, and you have a job to do.

And much to your horror, Yunho doesn’t back down, relent, or lighten the mood.

Instead, he doubles down.

“Do I make myself clear, N?”

He says your name like it’s poison on his tongue.

You swallow hard and nod. “Yes, Yunho.”

“Good. Now go back to Jongho, teach him how to manifest, and make no further comments on the matter. Understood?”

You nod again, dejected. You couldn’t care less about the job now. You feel as though a knife has just gone through your chest.

“Right then. Well, if that's all, N, I wish you the best of luck.”

No words of assurance, nothing like he would say in the past.

You turn your back and leave without saying another word, and as you leave his office, you tuck a tear under your chin and head back to your own office.

You have a job to do, after all.

×-×

Jongho doesn’t ask any questions about your conversation with Yunho, your expression alone is enough to tell him that he shouldn’t.

You drop all pretence in your teaching of manifestation. You keep everything short, simple and to the point, and in a way Jongho is thankful for that as it makes the lesson easier to understand, but it doesn’t make him worry any less for how cold you seem now.

He takes it on the shoulders and surmises the altercation was serious and focuses on the lesson, while you essentially shut off every emotion you could feel in a strong bid to make it through these next couple of hours in one piece.

It takes a little while for him to get the hang of it, but those two hours pass and you end up having to stop him from actually manifesting.

“Oh, wow- sorry about that..”

“It’s okay,” you reply, curt as ever with a pained smile on your face, “that’s one of the tricks of manifesting: knowing when to stop the process.” You ground him with both hands on his shoulders and sigh. “But you’ve done really well, that’s probably the fastest anyone’s taken to manifesting before. True natural.”

Jongho eyes you and smiles. “Thank you, N. I can only assume it gets easier and faster with time?”

“For sure,” you nod. “Eventually you won’t need the assistance of a seasoned standby.”

The air goes silent and you remove your hands from his shoulders, but you don’t move a single muscle besides that.

The two of you remain standing a few centimetres apart, neither of you moving, and Jongho clears his throat a little before braving an attempt to ask you what’s wrong.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, it’s okay. I just wanted to know if you were alright.”

You look up at Jongho; who do you need to thank for allowing you to work with such a courteous individual?

Yunho.

“Ha.. Nothing is sincerely wrong with me-” I was merely dealt a cold reminder. “I’m just a little worried about our journey, you know?”

“You mean the investigation?” he corrects, much to your astonishment and annoyance. “I concede, it’s quite perilous. But I think Yunho, the High Devil and Heaven’s de facto leader have taken great strides to keep this as secretive as possible. I understand that it may seem strange, as I said, I feel much the same way, but we made a promise, and we have a duty to fulfil. I think that’s vital.”

You knit your brows at him, just barely, so much so he hardly spots it.

Jongho takes a deliberate step back and lifts his chin in the air, his hands behind his back once more, and it’s almost as though Jongho has come back to the room. “So, early morning tomorrow, yes?”

You snap out of your thoughts and nod. “Yep. Early morning. Meet me in the main foyer not long after the mortal world’s sunrise.”

Jongho bows in front of you, then moves past you to leave the office.

You watch him go, turning your shoulders but not your body.

Pivoting back to your desk, you eye the open book, turned to the page with step-by-step instructions on how to manifest.

For the first time in minutes, you take a step forward, and another, and another, until your knees are hitting the desk and you can see the instructions more clearly.

Remember! If it’s your first time manifesting, make sure someone is with you to help in case you get stuck in limbo.

Limbo. You don’t really use that word up in purgatory.

× silverdune (ave). do not repost. ×

taglist: @bikerjongho × @lavishloving

[a-concert-just-for-me]

Whoops, I definitely mean Bailey as well! I’ve adopted your story of Waffles into how interpret her and Hunters relationship in canon now lol. Like I’ve said, I like it better than them carving her. They seems like the type to pick up strays.

Speaking of Bailey, I’m sensing some sort of possible montage 👀 perhaps a shopping trip, mayhaps some bonding time, I just need her to be happy again.

It’s all good, I knew what you meant!! And that’s so cool, I’m glad you like the headcanon. Here’s my thoughts on it too, if you’re interested:

I like the idea of Hunter/Bailey carving Waffles too, but for a different symbolic meaning (H/B overcoming the trauma of losing Flapjack and making another palisman to bring life to another being instead of ending it)

BUT for some reason, it leaves a bit of a bad taste in my mouth at the same time? I’m not sure why. Maybe because it might be a little weird for them to choose to carve another bird instead of picking a different animal? It almost feels like they might be trying to replace Flapjack with a being that looks similar, but not the same as him (cough cough, grimwalker vibes)?

Regardless, I always think of the carving scenario happening a lot later in canon; I feel like H/B wouldn’t want to carve Waffles so soon after Flapjack. Which is a fine! There’s just a big gap to fill there where B/H doesn’t have a service animal anymore, which would probably further alienate them from witch society and make them more depressed. That could be an interesting fic, it’s just not one I wanted to make, especially since Bailey is trying to get over her depression arc.

So! I personally just wanted to try taking it in a different direction to have B/H and Waffles be in the same situation and learn/process trauma at the same time, rather than have B/H be mostly put-back-together before carving Waffles. I thought it would be interesting to have B/H be Waffles’ Flapjack, and I’m very glad it landed for people!!! 🙂

(Also, Bailey WILL be happy, don’t worry!)

[reiderwriter]

📃 Desk Duty 📃

Unit Chief Spencer Reid x Fem Reader

For the CM Kink Bingo Challenge 2024

Summary: After taking a bullet on a case, Spencer orders you to desk duty. After two months of pushing papers and his pushing you away for fear of hurting you, you've had enough.

Warnings: Established BDSM scenario, public sex, masturbation (female and male), mentions of sex toys, breaking and entering, multiple orgasms, squirting, shoe riding, slapping (ass, face, pussy), wet/dirty/messy sex, deep-throaring, face fucking, exhibitionism, risky sex, creampie, sloppy sex, pet play (puppy), Hard Dom Spencer, bratty sub reader, degradation (slut, whore, bitch used). Confessions of love at the end because I'm not a monster.

A/N: Hello, it's me, painfully single, back with another in a series of fics that I think will haunt my (wet) dreams for eternity. Thank you to @lightvixxen for requesting shoe riding all those moons ago, I am so glad we share in the same brand of brain rot. Enjoy~♡

Masterlist || Bingo Board

The first time you were shot, you were surprised it hurt so much. Of course, you knew it was going to hurt. You knew you'd eventually be shot. 

But the graze to your arm stung like a bitch, and had you whimpering on the floor of a warehouse like a small child who'd fallen off their bike for the first time. 

You'd picked yourself back up, and, luckily, the shot had avoided doing any serious damage, but you were relegated to desk duty for two months after. Just until you could prove you weren't traumatised, and there wasn't any permanent damage to your arm.

Two months of staying home while your boss gallivanted around the country, happily diving in front of bullets and jumping on bombs. Two months of staying home waiting for him to come back and rail you. 

You'd been sleeping with Spencer Reid practically since he'd become the Unit Chief, and with the announcement that there were only a few more weeks left until Emily Prentiss came back from her special task force, you were really losing time alone in the office you'd been enjoying the pleasures of one another in. 

Of course, there would still be motel rooms for you later, but soon he wouldn't have the keys to your room, making your secret trysts slightly riskier. You weren't sure you wanted everyone in the office to know just what it was the two of you were getting up to in your spare time. 

So, with your last two months of freedom relegated to desk duty, you sulked. 

Spencer was clear that he was leaving you behind so you could recuperate, but you didn't exactly expect him to go cold turkey. 

You'd been apart before, having been sent on separate inmate interviews, and you'd made do with a poorly connected video call, a dildo and your hands, getting all the inspiration you needed watching him pump his cock in his fist.  

But somehow, your injury had made him borderline chaste, and he refused to even touch you while you were still in - his words, not yours - recovery. 

It had been a month since he'd fucked you. Hell, it had been a month since you'd even seen his cock. A month since you'd had any kind of orgasm, first because your dominant hand had been out of action, and then because you'd felt so frustrated without him, you couldn't bring yourself to do it alone. 

He messaged you daily, called practically once every eight hours, and made sure you were eating and sleeping even from halfway across the country. 

But he didn't make any mention of your growing frustration, even as you tried your best to tempt him into sin. 

A month into purgatory, you'd started hinting at your own needs. Your teammates had taken a case in Atlanta, and you'd stuck behind a days drive away and heard absolutely nothing. 

You'd called, and Luke had picked up, making his presence known before you could royally screw up and beg for something to fuck. 

“H-Hi, Luke. I was just wondering how the case was going. Is there anything I can help with from the office?” You asked, stammering on the phone as you pulled your hand out from between your thighs. 

“You want to help? At 11pm at night?”

“Sure do! You know me… go-getter?” You stuttered the words, not even believing them yourself, biting your lip in anxiety and hoping that Luke would just think you were going stir crazy. 

“I'll hand you to Reid, he's been talking about some case files you might be able to help with.” 

“Thank you,” you said, breathing a sigh of relief. 

You heard the phone switch hands, and then you heard movement until the line went quieter, and Spencer's voice popped into your ear. 

“Y/N?” 

“I miss you,” you sighed before you could say anything else, fingers sliding between your thighs before you could think to stop yourself. 

“I miss you, too,” he whispered hesitantly, but you heard the smile in his voice as he answered. 

“You're working so late tonight, I'd hoped…” you trailed off, feeling your skin heat as your free hands lipped into your underwear and you touched yourself for real this time. 

“We think he's working under the same MO as the Night Stalker, like a copycat, so we're keeping to late hours. What's that sound?” 

“Nothing,” you said, giving your lie away almost immediately with a moan. 

“Are you… Y/N, are you touching yourself?” He asked, already knowing the answer. 

“I told you I missed you. It's been a month since you've touched me, someone has to do it-” 

“Stop it.” 

His words were blunt, and there was no hint of excitement in them, no telling if he was saying this so he could play a part in your unravelling. 

“What?” 

“Stop touching yourself. Y/N, you are not allowed to touch yourself.” 

“Not-? Spencer, what the fuck!” You exploded, sitting up from your comfortable position on the bed, set alight in indignance. 

“I'm the only one that gets to touch you like that, you're not allowed to cum unless I'm there,” he ground out, and just as you heard the smile in his voice earlier, you heard the frustration and arousal now. 

“Well, Spencer, if you'd have brought me along on this case instead of leaving me here, maybe you'd get a say in who gets to make me cum.” 

“Y/N, you're injured, and you haven't been cleared to fly. A doctor needs to-”

“You're a doctor. Technically. You could sign off on me. You could've had me right there in your bed tonight, but no.” 

He scoffed down the line, and you saw his face flash so vividly in your head that it pissed you off. He was hotter when he was angry. 

“Nice try. I tried that myself once, but it doesn't work. Now go to sleep and get some rest.” 

You opened your mouth to argue, but he hung up. His words lit a fire in the pit of your stomach, and you threw the phone down in frustration. 

He wasn't listening again, and you were sick of it, and you we're sick of pushing paper at a cubical when you should've been out in the field doing your actual job. You were sick of being celibate and at home alone, when you should've been in a dark corner somewhere letting your boss use your body, letting him pin you to the wall and work out his frustrations.  

You should've had your lips wrapped around his cock, you should've had his hands buried in your cunt, slapping your ass, his teeth teasing your nipples, something. 

Instead, you had your phone camera and a bed, and a personal vendetta against the word 'no' coming from Spencer Reid's mouth. If he wanted you to stop touching yourself, he'd better get his ass home and make you. 

Shedding your clothes, you set up your camera and began your week long crusade. 

The first video received a response in the form of a call you let go straight to voice mail as you recorded the second one. 

He didn't call again after that, but you knew he watched each and every video you sent. 

You knew he watched the video of you fucking yourself on a wall mounted dildo in the shower. You wondered if he let him imagine it was him, taking his cock in hand in the morning as he washed and prepared himself for the day. 

You knew he watched the video of you playing with your boobs alone in the elevator at work after hours. You wondered if he was still working late when he saw that one, or if, like last time, maybe Luke had grabbed his phone first and seen it before him. . 

You knew he watched the video you shot in his apartment. It wasn't that hard to get into, knowing exactly where the spare key was hidden and letting yourself in comfortably. You let yourself dress in one of his shirts and set the camera up, pushing a bullet vibe inside yourself, and turning on the camera, playing with the hem of the shirt and the sheets below until you finally flashed the camera and him the sight of your wet cunt. 

You filmed a few videos there, fingering yourself, spreading yourself so he could see just how far you'd opened yourself up for him, sinking down on to progressively bigger silicone cocks and mumbling his name over and over again. 

You knew he watched every video, even though you'd sent ten over the space of an evening. You knew he was likely somewhere stroking his large, hot cock, wishing he was buried deep in you, but too stubborn to let you know that now. 

The day after the case ended, you knew that his return meant punishment, but you couldn't stop yourself. 

An hour before the teams expected arrival time, you excused yourself to Spencer's office. The first time he'd fucked you had been in there. He'd pushed you over his lap and slapped some sense into you, spanking you until you were a drippy mess waiting for his cock to enter you sharp and fast. 

You'd since sucked his cock under the desk more times than you could count, and the view from the window was more than familiar to you as you enjoyed being pushed up against it as he took you from behind, the both of you revelling in the fact that anyone could see you defiling the building together. 

With half an hour to spare before he returned and ended your fun and games, you mounted the arm of his couch and began rubbing yourself against it. You rocked your hips slowly back and forth against it - as horny as you were, it was still embarrassing to be so horny you'd resulted to humping pieces of furniture to meet your needs. 

You'd thought about getting drunk and finding a random dick to take home with you, but it didn't interest you half so much as fucking with Spencer Reid did. You'd never had the talk about exclusivity, but you knew just as well as he did that you were locked in. He was your boyfriend, whether he realised it or not.

And now, you simply needed his cock so badly, nothing else would do. The closest you could get was a piece of furniture he'd fucked you on before. 

You slipped your panties off quickly as your timer sounded a ten minute warning, knowing his plane would be landing any second now. You'd factored in the walk from the jet to the office, praying to the gods above that he took the initiative to get ahead on paperwork instead of going straight home. 

You rocked back and forth on the arm of the couch until his door opened narrowly and he let himself in, just as your clit rubbed the corner of the couch and you moaned out gloriously. 

“Y/N,” he hissed as he slammed the door shut. You didn't stop even as he crossed the room and grabbed your hips, instead lunging for his lips and meeting them with your own. 

Your tongue clashed with him for the first time in a lifetime, and you whimpered at how good he still felt pressed up against you. His chest was a solid shield, and your puffy nipples pushed up against it, rubbing deliciously with each grind. His hands were large, his fingers long as they clawed themselves around your hips and drew you up.

“You just can't follow orders, can you?” He asked between kisses, between breaths where you weren't sure if he'd slap you or shove his fingers down your throat. “I should fire you,” he whispered as he reluctantly pulled away. 

“But Spencer,” you said, gasping jokingly as you pawed at the front of his pants. “Who would you fuck on cases then? Who would be your controversially young fuck doll?” 

You meant it to be a joke, but the slap he delivered to your ass made you think twice as you clapped a hand over your mouth. 

His hands roughly pulled you into him again, and you were unable to rise up enough again before he hit you again. You jilted forwards with a little moan and just gave in to the sensation, pressing your face into the pillows as your hips rose. 

“You're acting like such a desperate little slut, I don't think you deserve to even lick my cock. Fuck, I don't even think you deserve to lick my shoe,” his words cut deep as you realised how angry he was, his fingers tangling in your hair he yanked you upwards. 

“Wait, please - Spencer, please, I need-” 

“Need what? You need to suck cock? You need to put yourself on display in a public place? Need everyone around you to know just what it is we do when we're alone?” With each question, he worked on bruising your ass cheeks harder, until he finally pushed you to the floor, and you sank down, automatically spreading your legs for him. 

“Pathetic. You don't deserve this cock, baby.” 

“No!” You cried out, not willing to accept that outcome at all as you panicked. “I'll do anything, please, Spencer, I'll do anything!” 

You whimpered and cried out in real frustration and fear, knowing that he absolutely would kick you out if you didn't act fast. Spencer may have been fine with you taking control some days, but this obviously wasn't one of them. You sat yourself on your knees and clasped your hands together, attempting to seem half the serious devotee and half the irresistible vixen whose chest was accentuated by the movement.

“Okay. Show me just how much of a desperate slut you are,” he said, lifting his foot from the ground and nudging it between your thighs. 

Reluctantly, you widened your stance, spreading apart just enough for him to notch his shoe against your clothed pussy. 

“Ride my shoe, Y/N. You're such a good little boot-licker. It shouldn't be a problem, right?” As if to answer your own question for you, he bobbed his knee gently, and your clit ground into the edge of his shoelaces, causing a sharp, fast burst of pleasure to spark through you. 

You still were too shocked to answer, but he smoothed your hair from your eyes as he continued to bounce his foot, and you left all of your concerns behind, slowly grinding down. 

“What a dirty little slut, I didn't think you'd actually do it.”

Wrapping your arms around his leg, you pressed your hips up and down hesitantly, looking into his eyes as your mouth dropped open in a silent moan. 

“That's it, good girl,” he said, letting his leg go still as you did all the work, shaking your hips back and forth on his shoe as you gave him pleading looks, unable to form words for the overwhelming shame and embarrassment.  

“You look like a puppy,” he blurted out, grabbing a handful of hair and pulling it back, hard, exposing your throat to him as he watched you with curious eyes. “Like one of those puppies who gets so excited to see you, she starts humping you. So fucking horny and desperate. You wouldn't even care who was in the room with us, right now, would you? You'd just keep going until yiu came.” 

You gasped as he slapped your face, tongue falling out of your mouth as he inspected his little play puppy. He smiled, as if happy with your reactions, and leant back on the sofa, releasing your hair from his grip as you continued to struggle in vain toward your orgasm. 

It was another two or three seconds before you realised he was pulling his hard cock from his pants, and another moment or two before he slid his hands back into your hair and guided your dumb, stupid, wet mouth over the top of his cock quickly. 

You let him move your head just how he liked, let him push you down almost farther than you thought you could go. You ground your bare clit down into his shoe as you deepened your breaths, relaxing your body as you took inch after inch of his cock down your throat. 

His hands were wound so tight in your hair that there wasn't space to move. You gagged, once and twice, but he held you in place still, enjoying the spit that spluttered around the base of his cock, the spasms of your contracting throat against the tip and length of his cock. You breathed deeply, ignoring the feeling of his pubic hair tickling your nose, scratching your cheek as you flattened out your tongue under his cock. You wished he would move, wished he would give you the space you needed to cum faster. 

The desperation of the last few months built up and built up, and you knew that you were close to cumming, your hips rocking out of tempo now, crashing into his foot wildly, ass shaking as you felt his shoelaces rubbing uncomfortably against your thighs. 

“God, what a pathetic little bitch, are you going to cum? Cum on my shoe, whore, show me how fucking desperate you are.” 

You felt the exact moment your body convulsed against him, you knew the exact movement that made you cum, because you felt the flood of moisture pool underneath you as you squirted all over his floor. You made a note of reminding him to replace the rug before Emily returned. 

Your whole body shook as you sat in the pool of your own cum, but he refused to let you pull away. 

“Has my little puppy made a mess? What a shame. You can't stop yet, though.” 

His grip on your face somehow became stronger, though not unpleasant, as he pulled your head up the length of his cock. You spluttered slightly, feeling the tension slip out of you as he emptied your throat. You didn't have more than a second to react before he quickly snapped your head back down over his cock, down to the base of his dick. 

“Keep up, Y/N, this is what you wanted, remember.” 

You choked on his cock, and he smiled down at you, taking your gags for nods as he proceeded to fuck your throat, deep and hard. 

“So wet and warm for me, like a perfect little pet,” he said, hips already lifting off the couch as he tried to sink deeper into you. 

You knew from experience that he'd soon grow tired of the limits of your mouth. He liked to hear you. He liked to see you drooling rather than feel it on his skin. As much as he could force his cock down your throat - and you deeply enjoyed when he did - he could get deeper if he sank into your pussy and you both knew it. 

This part was just to lube his cock up, nice and wet, until he could take you nice and quick without having to touch your pussy. He needed you nice and wet and ready for him, especially on days like today where you'd been nothing but a cock tease in need of a harsh fucking. You deserved nothing more.

As predicted, he pulled your head off his cock after a few seconds and hauled you to your feet. You tried to climb onto him, to grip his cock in your hand and just sink down where you belonged, but he stood, too, lifting you up with him. 

“Window,” he said, and you knew he must be close if he was ordering you around one word at a time. You nodded, but he kept his hands on you, moving you to the window quickly. 

You knew he'd bend you over, take you against the outdoor window, whispering in your ear that anyone outside could see you if they just looked up. Instead, this time, he moved you to the opposite side of the office. The window he pressed you against was the one overlooking your desks, the one where, should he happen to open the blinds, every member of your team would be able to look up and watch you take his dick. 

“Everyone left,” he whispered quickly as he shifted the blinds up an inch so you could see. 

You breathed a sigh of relief noting that it was as empty as he claimed, but it didn't last long as he gently pressed his cock into your cunt, finally filling you how you'd needed to be filled for the last 60 days. 

“Fuck, t-thank you, sir!” 

All thoughts about the office below faded as he lifted your leg in his hand and let it rest on the edge of the window, pushing your face against the cold glass. Your office may have been empty, but that wasn't to say that there wasn't someone working late in the other departments, a janitor happening to pass through. 

You knew, but you didn't care as you begged him to fill you up more and more. 

“Just like that, just like that, yes!!! Fuck yes, Spencer I missed this, I missed you. Missed you so much,” you moaned as your hands slipped down the glass, already fogged with condensation, your hot breath hitting the cold glass. 

“Needed this? You've been fucking yourself nightly for the last week. You didn't need this like I needed this,” he moaned, biting into your neck with a sharp kiss as you moaned loudly for him.

“Two m-months. You haven't fucked me for two months, what else was I supposed to do?” 

He groaned in your ear again, reaching a hand around you and slapping your clit as he formulated an answer. 

“Rest, you were supposed to rest,” he said, thrusts speeding up as your cunt gripped him tighter and tighter the closer you got to your second orgasm. 

He groaned and pressed your face into the glass, holding you there and screwing his eyes shut as you both chased release. 

“I didn't want to rest, I w-wanted to be by your side.” 

His head rested against your shoulder as he felt the last waves of pleasure race towards him. His hand pushed down to your clit and rubbed you, sending you right over the edge with him as he filled you with his cum. 

Neither of you could stay upright, collapsing down to the floor in a heap. Usually when he came inside you, he waited a few moments to pull out so he didn't make so much mess when he did. But in his exhaustion, in your shared bliss of finally reaching that precipice after so long, he slipped out early, as cum was still shooting from him. 

You heaped together on the floor, chests heaving as you lay on top of him, your peace only broken by a single thought. 

“We..-’ you gasped, breathing unsteady. “We need to deep clean this office before Emily comes back.” 

He looked down at you, a look so serious and shocked you wondered if he was angry. And then he laughed. Short and soft, he giggled, and you couldn't help but join in, wrapping your arms around your stomach as it began to hurt, chest heaving from the pain of all your joy. 

He sat up and gave you a hand up as well as you surveyed the damage. 

“The rug has to go,” you said, feeling hot and embarrassed as you noticed the new wet stain on the near offensive fluffy thing. 

“We should probably get some new throw pillows, too,” he remarked, and you nodded with a grimace. You made to stand up, but your legs felt weak, and you wobbled, but he was there to catch you, as he stood. 

"Maybe just a new couch," you muttered, flushed with heat as you remembered how you'd humped the arm rest not even twenty minutes ago.

He closed the blinds before moving back to the couch and sitting you down on his lap once again, such a familiar place for you to be these days.

“You….” He started, worrying g his bottom lip with his teeth. “You really missed me?” 

You startled, taken aback by the question. You thought the videos had made it clear, let alone the last half hour of intimacy. 

“I… Yes, Spencer. I missed you a lot. I always miss you.” 

“You… you do?” 

You nodded again and tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. 

“Y/N, when I am no longer your boss, in approximately a weeks time, would you possibly consider being my girlfriend?” 

For the second time in the last two minutes, the man had you floored. And perhaps a little bit angry.

“I'm not… I'm not your girlfriend now?” 

“Hmm? Oh, I-” 

“Because I already told my friends about you, and I was definitely saying the word boyfriend, but if that's not what this is, I can correc-” 

You saw the panicked look in his eye as he pulled you in for one last kiss. 

“That's what this is!” he said frantically, cutting you off when you opened your mouth with another kiss. “I thought you wouldn't think that this was- no!” He kissed you again as you tried again to speak. 

“Listen to me! I'm o-older than you, I thought I had to ask still. Do people not ask anymore?” He kissed you before you could answer. 

“Rhetorical question.”

“I love yo-” you attempted to confess, but his lips covered yours swiftly, even as his eyes opened wide when he pulled away. 

“Wait, no, say that again,” he begged, eyes weak and shiny and absolutely endearingly pathetic. 

You shook your head and sealed your lips, miming, zipping them shut and throwing away the key. 

“Y/N! Tell me again, tell me you love me again,” he said, kissing each of your cheeks. You poked his chest hard, and he kissed you once more. 

“I love you, Y/N,” he whispered, and kissed you again, trying to draw from your lips the words he had cut off earlier, losing himself in the pleasure of the moment as you sat together in the dark office, totally enamoured with one another. 

[neferaskingdom]

♡ Sign Here… Wait, What?! | CL16

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader [Crack Fic]

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Summary: Two strangers hit the courthouse for a ticket and a typo fix—next thing you know, they’re accidentally married. Chaos, a clerk who couldn’t care less, and a fiancée on the verge of a meltdown, convinced it’s all some evil plot. Spoiler: it’s not.

"For the last time, Brittany, it wasn’t on purpose!"

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A/N: Inspired by my writer's block for my other fic and that one video of Charles just randomly signing anything he's handed.

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check out my other works: Masterlist

The courthouse was an absolute disaster. It was understaffed, overcrowded, and seemed to be held together by the fragile thread of everyone’s fraying sanity. You had been stuck there for hours, and all for a minor spelling error in your legal name. At this point, you were half convinced you’d be old and gray before they got to you. The whole place felt like a purgatory of paperwork.

The guy sitting next to you looked equally miserable. He had a baseball cap pulled down low and sunglasses on like he was trying to go incognito in the world’s least glamorous place. You hadn’t exchanged many words, but the mutual annoyance simmering between you two was almost palpable.

“This is hell,” you muttered, crossing your arms tightly. “Who knew fixing one typo would take all day?”

The guy let out a long, weary sigh. “Tell me about it. I’ve been here for hours. And all for a stupid speeding ticket.”

You shot him a sideways glance. “A speeding ticket? In this city? I didn’t think that was even possible.”

He gave a small chuckle, shaking his head. “Yeah, I guess I just had to be that guy.”

The shared complaint was enough to crack a small smile out of you. But that was the only bright spot in this nightmare of a day. Every time the overworked and increasingly agitated clerk called someone forward, she did it with the enthusiasm of someone trapped in the seventh circle of customer service hell. Her eyes screamed “don’t even think about making my day worse,” and the way she barked out “Next!” like she was calling people to their doom wasn’t helping anyone’s mood.

Finally, the fateful “Next!” came again, and both you and the guy next to you jumped up at the same time. You both stared at each other, disbelief and irritation flaring up.

“I think it’s my turn,” you said, arms crossed.

He raised his eyebrows under the brim of his cap. “Uh, no, I’ve been waiting way longer.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been waiting forever for a typo correction!”

“And I’ve been here since this morning for a stupid speeding fine!” he shot back, his voice rising in frustration.

You both stormed toward the counter, practically shoving each other out of the way, bickering like children. The clerk didn’t even look up from her screen, clearly sick of everyone and everything. “Names,” she demanded with the enthusiasm of a broken vending machine.

“Charles Leclerc,” the guy said, jumping in before you could even open your mouth.

You blinked at him in surprise. Charles Leclerc? Who just throws out their full name like that? You barely had time to process before the clerk barked out her next order.

“Both of you, step forward.”

“Wait, what? Why me?” you blurted out, confused as hell.

The clerk didn’t respond. She just jabbed her finger at the space in front of her, signaling for you both to step up. You shot Charles a questioning look, but he seemed just as lost as you were, though he didn’t argue. Sighing in defeat, you stepped up beside him.

The clerk slapped two pieces of paper on the counter with the grace of a war general deploying a tactical nuke. “Sign here.”

Charles didn’t even hesitate. He grabbed the pen and signed his paper with an alarming speed, as if this was something he did every day. You stared at him like he’d lost his mind.

“What are you doing?” you whispered, still unsure why either of you were signing anything.

“I dunno,” he muttered back, not looking up. “People give me stuff to sign all the time. It’s muscle memory.”

Muscle memory? Who just signs things without reading them?! You were about to protest when the clerk shot you a look so sharp it could have pierced through solid steel.

“Sign,” she repeated, her voice low and dangerously calm.

Your stomach twisted in confusion, but the clerk’s death stare was enough to make you scribble your name down without another word. It didn’t feel right, but you were too exhausted to fight. The ink had barely dried on the paper when the clerk slammed a stamp down and said, with zero enthusiasm, “Congratulations, you’re married.”

A beat of stunned silence.

Then chaos erupted.

“WHAT?!” you and Charles screamed simultaneously, both of you staring at the clerk in absolute horror.

Charles dropped the pen like it had just burned his hand. “Wait—what do you mean married?!”

“I’m here for a speeding ticket!” he continued, his voice cracking in disbelief.

“And I’m just here to fix a typo!” you added, throwing your hands up. “How did we just get married?!”

The clerk just raises one eyebrow and looks at her computer screen “But it says here that a Charles is supposed to get married today”

“Well clearly it’s not me!” he screams.

The clerk, utterly unfazed by the chaos she had just unleashed, didn’t even bother to look up from her computer. “You signed the marriage certificate. You’re married.”

You blinked at her, feeling like the room was spinning. “How—no, there’s got to be some mistake. We can’t be married. Can’t you just, I don’t know, not register the paperwork or something?”

The clerk slowly raised her eyes to look at you, her expression blank and dead inside. “It’s against the rules,” she said, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Against the rules?!” you repeated, your voice reaching a higher pitch.

Charles let out a panicked laugh, running a hand through his hair. “This is insane. This can’t be happening. I’m not even supposed to be getting married!”

Suddenly, a man in the back of the room shot to his feet, waving his arms frantically. “WAIT! WAIT, NO! I’M CHARLES ANDERSON! I’M THE ONE WHO’S SUPPOSED TO BE GETTING MARRIED TODAY!”

The whole room turned to look at him as he came barreling toward the counter, his crumpled papers in hand.

“YOU CALLED FOR CHARLES!” he shouted, pointing accusingly at the clerk. “I’M CHARLES ANDERSON! THEY’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE MARRIED! I AM!”

You and Charles Leclerc whipped your heads toward each other, eyes wide in absolute disbelief. “Oh my God,” Charles muttered, shaking his head. “This is an actual nightmare.”

You stared at him, trying to make sense of everything. “I don’t even know you!”

Charles Anderson was now pacing in front of the counter like a madman, his papers flailing in his hand. “My fiancée’s going to kill me! They took our spot!”

You turned to face him, throwing your hands in the air. “We didn’t ask for this, okay?!”

“Can we fix this?” Charles asked the clerk, his voice cracking slightly from panic. “Like, can we just undo it? Cancel the whole thing? Please?”

The clerk let out a slow, dramatic sigh as if they were asking her to climb Mount Everest. She clicked a few buttons on her computer, then looked up at you both with the same bored expression. “Closest annulment appointment is… this Tuesday.”

“TUESDAY?!” you both screamed, causing half the room to turn and stare at you.

Charles Anderson let out a high-pitched shriek. “But my wedding is supposed to be TODAY! WHAT ABOUT MY WEDDING?!”

You whirled on him. “NO ONE CARES ABOUT YOUR WEDDING, CHARLES ANDERSON!”

Charles Leclerc was pacing now, hands on his head like he was trying to keep himself from exploding. “I can’t believe this is happening. This can’t be happening. I came here to pay a stupid speeding ticket, and now I’m married?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, feeling like you were going to hyperventilate. “I came here for a typo correction. This was supposed to be the easiest thing ever, and now I’m married to someone I don’t even know!”

Charles Anderson, still flapping his marriage certificate, looked like he was going to start sobbing any second. “My fiancée is going to leave me. She’s going to walk out of this courthouse and leave me. We’ve been planning this for months!”

You threw your hands in the air. “This is not about you, Charles Anderson! We just accidentally got married, and you’re worried about yourself?!”

Charles Leclerc spun around to face the clerk, practically begging. “Please, can’t you just… not file the paperwork? We didn’t mean to sign anything!”

She stared at him, eyes glazed over, before sighing deeply. “It’s against the rules.”

“AGAINST THE RULES?!” Charles repeated, his voice reaching a panicked squeak.

The clerk took another slow sip of her coffee. “You can get an annulment. On Tuesday.”

Charles threw his hands in the air, pacing faster. “This is insane. I can’t just—Wait.” He turned to you, blinking rapidly. “Who even are you?”

You blinked back, equally confused. “I don’t know! I mean—I’m me? Who are you?”

“I’m Charles Leclerc,” he said, as if that was supposed to mean something.

You squinted. “…And?”

“And I drive in Formula 1.”

You stared at him blankly. “What’s that? A type of bus?”

Charles Anderson finally chimed in, “Oh my God, you don’t know who Charles Leclerc is?!”

You turned to glare at Anderson. “I don’t care! I just want to undo this whole mess!”

Charles Leclerc let out a frustrated groan. “This is the weirdest day of my life.”

“Oh, you think?” you shot back, throwing your arms up. “This is not how I imagined my day going either!”

Charles Anderson was now pacing in circles, mumbling about his ruined wedding day. The clerk, unbothered by the chaos she had caused, sipped her coffee again, clearly wishing she were anywhere else.

“This is insane! Can’t you just shred the papers or something?” Charles Leclerc was practically pleading now, his hands gesturing wildly like he was on the verge of losing it. “We didn’t mean to get married! Just pretend it never happened!”

The clerk, still sipping her coffee like none of this was her problem, took an agonizingly slow sip and deadpanned, “As I’ve said already, it’s against the rules. The paperwork is in. It’s legal. You’re married.”

“WHAT RULES?!” you cried, throwing your hands in the air. “There’s no way we’re stuck because of a technicality! This isn’t an episode of Law & Order! No one’s going to arrest you for this!”

The clerk blinked at you, her expression as blank as ever. “The rules are the rules,” she said, like she had this line tattooed on her forehead. “Take it up with a judge.”

Just as you were about to lose your mind, there was a loud crash behind you. You turned in time to see a woman in a wedding gown who was most definitely Charles Anderson’s fiancée, kick a chair out of the way, marching up to him like a woman possessed.

“YOU’RE DOING THIS ON PURPOSE AREN’T YOU?” she screeched, pointing an accusing finger at Anderson, who shrank back in terror. “You just didn’t want to marry me, so now you’re pulling this stunt?”

“What?! No!” Anderson yelped, looking around the courthouse like he could find an escape hatch. “It’s not my fault Brittany! They—” he pointed at you and Charles Leclerc, “—they’re the ones who got married!”

Brittany wasn’t having it. “Yeah, right! You’ve been making excuses for months, and now you’re going to try and pin this on them?! What, did you pay them to mess up the paperwork?”

You waved your hands in a panic. “Lady, we don’t even know each other! I’m literally just here to fix a spelling mistake in my name!”

Charles Leclerc jumped in, looking equally panicked. “And I’m just here for a speeding ticket! I don’t even know what’s going on!”

Charles Leclerc looked like he was officially losing his mind. He was pacing in circles, gesturing wildly at the air, as if the universe might suddenly intervene. “I have a race next week! I can’t be married right now! This is insane!”

You stared at him, completely lost. “What are you even talking about? Why does a race have anything to do with this?”

Charles paused mid-panic, looking at you like you’d just said the sky was purple. “For the last time I’m a Formula 1 diver!.”

You blinked and scream out in frustration. “…YOU KEEP SAYING THAT LIKE IT SHOULD MEAN SOMETHING TO ME!?”

Charles looked at you like you’d just spoken in a different tongue. “Formula 1! It’s international. Fast cars, precision driving, circuits all over the world?”

You squinted. “So… like NASCAR?”

Charles’s eye twitched. “NO! It’s not like NASCAR! It’s—" He took a deep breath, clearly trying to calm himself. “Formula 1 is completely different. It’s the pinnacle of motorsport. We race on tracks, not ovals, and the cars are way faster and more advanced.”

“Oh,” you said, not even pretending to be impressed. “So it’s like NASCAR with extra steps.”

Charles groaned, pressing his palms into his eyes. “I can’t do this.”

Before you could respond, Brittany threw her hands up in the air, clearly fed up. “I CAN’T DO THIS EITHER!” She pointed at Charles Anderson, who was now trying to hide behind the counter. “I knew you were stalling this wedding on purpose, Charles! You’ve been dodging this day since we got engaged!”

“Brittany, no! I swear it wasn’t me! It’s just some kind of mix-up!” Anderson tried to reason with her, his voice cracking under the pressure. “It’s a misunderstanding! I didn’t plan this!”

“Oh, so you just accidentally handed over our wedding slot to complete strangers?!” Brittany’s voice was so loud now that other people in the courthouse were starting to stare. “And now we have to wait while you run around trying to fix your mess!”

You slapped your hands over your face, feeling the absolute ridiculousness of the situation weighing on you. “This is the dumbest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Charles Leclerc was now pacing frantically again. “I can’t be married! This is… this is a PR nightmare! my career is ruined! Fred's gonna kill me!”

“Oh my God, no one cares about your stupid racing career!” Brittany screeched, cutting him off. “My wedding’s been hijacked, and you’re worried about PR?!”

Leclerc turned back to the clerk, his voice rising in desperation. “Can’t you just void the paperwork? Pretend this didn’t happen? We didn’t actually want to get married!”

The clerk, completely unaffected by the chaos swirling around her, let out a slow, tired sigh. “It’s against the rules.”

“SCREW THE RULES!” you shouted, slapping your hand on the counter. “No one cares about your rules! Can’t you just— I don’t know— delete the file or something?”

“The government cares about the rules,” the clerk responded flatly, barely looking up from her computer screen.

Charles Leclerc, utterly exasperated, ran a hand through his hair and muttered, “This can’t be happening. This is the worst day of my life.”

“Your life?!” you shot back, eyes wide. “I just came here to fix a typo, and now I’m married to a stranger who yells about race cars!”

Leclerc threw his hands up in frustration. “I’m not yelling about race cars!”

“Yes, you are!”

Brittany stormed back up to the counter, where Charles Anderson was practically cowering. “And you,” she hissed, jabbing a finger into his chest. “You think this is some big joke, don’t you? Delaying the wedding again just because you don’t want to marry me?!”

“I swear, it’s not what it looks like!” Anderson pleaded, trying to grab her hands. “I love you! This is just a mistake!”

“Mistake my ass!” Brittany shrieked. “We’ve been engaged for three years, and now, instead of us getting married, I have to watch these two idiots get hitched by accident!”

You threw your hands up, eyes darting between Brittany and the hysterical Anderson. “We don’t even want to be married! This isn’t some elaborate plan! I’ve literally known this guy for less than five minutes!”

Leclerc, looking like he was about to snap, turned back to the clerk. “There’s nothing you can do? Nothing at all? Can’t we get, like, an emergency annulment or something?”

The clerk glanced up lazily from her coffee. “Like I said next available appointment for an annulment is this Tuesday. Wait no, it’s actually next Tuesday”

“NEXT TUESDAY?!” you and Leclerc both screamed in unison, your voices echoing off the courthouse walls.

“Can’t we just get another slot today please?!” Anderson wails

“Sorry but the fastest I can squeeze in a wedding is on Saturday 25th” the clerk says sipping her coffee nonchalantly.

“The 25th?” Anderson whimpered. “But… my wedding is today! The 25th is like 2 weeks away!”

“Oh, shut up, Charles!” Brittany yelled, practically shoving him. “There is no wedding today! You’ve ruined it! And you know what? Maybe that’s for the best!”

Charles Anderson looked like he might burst into tears at any moment. “But Brittany—”

“Save it!” she snapped, before turning to you and Leclerc. “And you two? Good luck with your stupid accidental marriage. I hope you’re very happy together.”

Leclerc, who had clearly had enough, shot back, “Oh, we’ll have a blast. Trust me. This is exactly what I wanted out of today. To marry a complete stranger in the middle of a bureaucratic nightmare.”

You rubbed your temples, feeling a headache coming on. “This has got to be some kind of cosmic joke.”

From behind, Anderson was still shrieking about his doomed marriage, while Brittany yelled about commitment issues and a wedding that would “never happen at this rate!”

Charles Leclerc leaned over the counter, looking like he was about two seconds away from losing it entirely. “Is there nothing you can do?”

The clerk just looks at him. “Next tuesday.”

He threw his hands up and muttered under his breath, “I should’ve just paid the speeding ticket online.”

The clerk, unfazed by the circus happening in front of her, sipped her coffee and calmly called out, “Next in line, please.”

And that ladies and gentlemen is how you ended up accidentally married to Charles Leclerc in the most ridiculous courthouse mix-up of all time.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Burnt Out 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, anxiety/stress, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Robert Laing

Summary: you're stressed out and ready to escape, but the way out might not be as glamourous as it seems.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You flinch as you peel away the hangnail. Ugh. You need to stop doing that. Your hands are a mess. Short nails, brittle too. The skin and cuticles are fraying but not on their own. You can’t help it. A nervous habit. Stress. 

You’re not sure how much more you can take. It’s not a choice. Nothing in life is your choice. You didn’t even choose to be alive. Your parents always treated you like your existence was forced even on them. That barely matters. You haven’t seen either of them in years. 

You still your hands and go back to typing. If you don’t get this done, you’ll be in for another lecture from Mr. Brenner. ‘You haven’t finished the group reservation? You’re going to mess everything up again!’ 

Yeah, yeah. That’s how it goes. You can’t do anything right. It’s probably why you ended up here. You deserve this purgatory. 

As you import the files from the travel site and review for discrepancies, you hear the doors. Great, you’ll come back to it. You check the time. It’s not even noon. More bad news and the messenger is the first to be shot. 

You glance over the front desk and do a double take. Guilt speckles over your cheeks. The man is handsome. Tall and trim. You don’t know why you notice but you do. His blonde hair is neatly parted, yet there’s a small wave to it. He wears a fine grey suit which probably costs as much as a week of your minimum wage. 

It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t even occur to you. You deal with all sorts. The traveling businessmen, the body builders in town for the convention, and even those meeting for some forbidden tryst. Hotels are not the place for judgement. 

“Hello, sir, welcome to Sapphire Suites,” you smile. You usually only bother when Brenner is around to fume down your neck. “Do you have a reservation?” 

“I do,” he answers in his lilted accent. Oh. Deadly. “I understand I’m well ahead of check-in, however, I only came to inquire if I might leave my bags with you until then.” 

Polite and he reads the fine print. What more could a girl ask for? Usually, you’d be annoyed. Why would you come so early? Our housekeeping isn’t even done their first floor. Not today. He’s too pleasant to be irritated. 

“Well, I can certainly see if your rooms are ready. We weren’t booked up last night so it’s possible.” You offer. 

“That would be wonderful, so long as it doesn’t put you out,” he steps up to the desk as the wheels of his bag quiet. “Robert Laing. I believe I’ve got the executive.” 

You already know it’s ready. It’s expensive and rarely booked on weeknights. It’s only a Tuesday. 

“Let me see, Laing...” 

“L-A-I-N-G,” he spells it out. “No one expects the I.” 

“Oh, thanks,” you backspace and put in the proper spelling. Yep, it’s green. “Good news, it’s set. I just did the keycards so I’ll go grab yours.” 

You go back to the carefully organized folio, arranged by room number. You spent your first hour swipe and coding each one. You take his and bring it back with the liability form. 

“If you don’t mind, there is a waiver,” you put the paper down. “I’ll need a piece of ID as well. And a credit card.” 

“Of course,” he slides out his wallet and provides both cards. You take them as he looks over the form.  

You go to scan both and upload them into his file. You return them as he signs with a metallic pen, slipping it into his front pocket before sliding the page across. You thank him and scan that as well. You come back to hand over his keys and give him the spiel. 

You retract your hand as he looks down at it. You try to hide your chafed and cracking fingertips. You’re mess. Your name tag is barely hanging on and the scarf is crooked and only half under your collar. 

“Your WIFI and room service details are in here,” you point to the sleek little folio with his door cards. “Everything you need should be in your room. The pool is behind me and the private spa rooms can be booked by calling down. Oh—did you need a parking pass, sir?” 

“Please, Robert works for me,” he insists, “I flew in so not driving. Might I put in a request?” 

“Um, okay?” You stare at him anxiously.  

“Any recommendations for in-town activities? I’m egregiously early for the conference and I get restless pent up in hotels,” he drawls. “Perhaps a shopping center or if you’re permitted, any worthwhile bistros?” 

“Geez, I forgot to mention, there’s Ruby’s. The restaurant attached to us, just that way when you head out the doors. They have a patio but it’s getting a bit chilly. And er, the bar, The Gem, that’s on the second floor.” 

“Wonderful,” he covers the key folder with his hand. 

You smile. If Mr. Brenner was there to witness your immaculate customer service, he might just lay off of you. Or he’d ask why you didn’t smile more often.  

“You’ve been amazingly helpful, dear,” he says. “I do hope the day doesn’t prove very hectic for you.” 

“Thank you, sir—Um, Robert,” you correct yourself as his brow tweaks. 

“And you...” he leans forward to read your name tag. “Beautiful name.” 

“Thanks,” you swallow dryly, “enjoy your stay.” 

Finally, he leaves you. You watch him go, his bag rolling after his long strides. You don’t move until he’s closed up in the elevator. You want to cringe. You’re a mess and on top of that, you’re awkward to boot. It’s not that you don’t want to be good at your job, it’s that you hate it, and you’re no good with people. But work is work. 

You retreat into the back room and dig in your purse. Your lips are chapped and raw. You layer on the medicated balm and sigh. You take out the little daisy-shaped mirror and check your reflection. Aren’t you so stupid? Look at you. A man like that would never waste his time with a front desk worker ant, let alone someone so repulsive. 

[sunflowersandsapphires]

A Hint of Lovely Oblivion

pairing: Frank Castle x fem!reader 

summary: After a week of sleeping terribly, Frank makes an effort to help you get the rest you deserve.

warnings: Swearing, fluff, caring Frank, this is not medical advice

a/n: I wrote this for my lovely bestie @madschiavelique who wanted some Frankie comfort. As someone who deals with insomnia pretty regularly, this was very cathartic! I hope you all enjoy. A huge thank you to my other bestie @gracethyomen for beta-ing and helping me plan this fic!

w/c: 4.6k

Inhaling deeply, the frigid air of the room made your nose twitch. Sliding as deep as you could into the blanket pile while maintaining your seated position, you bit your lip, shifting the pad of paper on your lap and craning your neck once again. While your duvet provided an excellent shield to lock in heat, your shoulders inevitably poked out whenever you weren’t fully horizontal, leaving your body to sit in a temperature regulation purgatory; your consciousness rumbled uneasily as the hair on the back of your neck refused to flatten, your brain torn between making you shiver or letting you sweat. The position was far from comfortable—but being awake all night made comfort an unattainable goal for you anyways.

It had been days since you’d slept through the night. You were no stranger to insomnia, you’d been cursed with it your entire life, but lately it had dug its malicious claws into your chest with the violence of a starving feral animal. Your bed, which used to be a haven of rest and relaxation, was now a space that you avoided at all costs—the wonderfully soft pillows and warm blankets mocking you as they sat untouched well into the night, fatigue never overtaking you when you needed it to. For the first few nights of your ongoing battle with sleeplessness, you’d crawl under the covers anyway, praying to any deity listening that the weight and heat of the fabric would force your eyelids to close—but it never did.

Sighing as your pencil tip snapped, you closed your eyes, letting your breath rest in your lungs for a moment before exhaling again; apparently your frustration with your own hormone production created a physical pressure on the lead of your pencil. Picking up a fresh one from your nightstand, you did your best to clean up the smear of graphite from the impact of the broken point.

Turning your attention back to the subject of your sketch, you chewed your lip to stifle a smile. Despite the thick curtains your partner had insisted on, a sliver of moonlight illuminated the massive man slumbering beside you, quietly snoring away—completely oblivious to the inspiration he'd given you. The feather-light moon beams shone through his tousled hair, creeping down over his face, which was adorably mashed against his singular pillow. Considering that he'd turned up a handful of hours ago drenched in other people's blood, it was downright ironic to be calling him “adorable” as he slept—but you couldn't shake the giddy feeling that always bubbled up when you saw his face so lax with sleep. His expression was so uncharacteristically peaceful, it never failed to make you happy.

Sure, not sleeping sucked. You'd be plagued with jaw-cracking yawns and mild memory loss in the morning, just like yesterday and the day before that. Having the opportunity to watch Frank sleep soundly, didn't make up for the fact that you'd accidentally put orange juice in your coffee yesterday, but it made the build up of irritation much easier to bear. Which is why you'd decided to memorialize it in your sketchbook.

Studying the map of shadows on Frank's handsome face, you scratched the pencil over the thick paper, the rasping sound soothing the constant buzzing in your brain. Scrunching your nose as you tried to smooth out the sketch in front of you, you nearly jumped out of your skin when he spoke.

“Why're you up, darlin'?” His voice was rough with exhaustion. Noticing your wide eyes and ragged inhale, a large hand slid up to rest on your thigh. “Sorry, didn't mean to scare ya.”

”It's alright, Frankie. I wasn't paying attention.“ You tried to laugh, but the sound died in your throat.

His hand stroked over your leg as he waited for you to answer his question. Instead, your eyes remained trained on the book across your lap, pencil moving fluidly through the silence. Tracing a thumb over your warm skin, Frank frowned. “Ya didn't answer my question, sweetheart.”

“Hmm?” Your tone was innocent, but the way your eyes remained glued to your work was enough to tell him you had definitely heard the question.

Squeezing your thigh with a yawn, Frank tried not to groan as he dragged himself up to sit next to you. His movement finally captured your attention, your brow furrowing as you set your pencil aside. “What are you doing?”

Giving what he hoped was a nonchalant shrug, Frank slid an arm around your shoulders and pressed a kiss to your temple. ”Sittin' with my girl. That a crime now?“

Smiling despite the guilt flaring in your chest, you shoved at his solid torso feebly. ”Go back to sleep, Frankie. I'm sorry I woke you. I can—“ Shuffling in your seat, you tilted towards the edge of the mattress, fully intending to relocate to a different room so that Frank could go back to bed. Foiling your plan, Frank's arms held fast against your teetering, pulling you flush against his chest.

”Don't you dare.“ He growled, chin resting atop your crown.

”Frank! I didn't even finish my thought,“ You wriggled against his hold, your brain torn between reacting with endearment or annoyance over being imprisoned by his strength. “Let me go, you...you...butthead.” Whining at your own lackluster insult, you buried your face in Frank's neck as he chuckled.

“Fuck, sweetheart. Ain't gotta go for my throat like that.” Frank murmured smugly. You could envision his shit-eating smirk despite it being out of your line of sight.

”Shut up,“ You muttered, a tiny smile gracing your lips against your will. Your body trembled as Frank shook with rumbling laughter. Drawing you into his arms, Frank set your legs over his lap, positioning you towards the windows. The gusting heat from the vent closest to your bed ruffled the fabric covering the panes, the pale glowing rays of moonlight fluttering over your knees as the drapes shifted. It created a mesmerizing dance of light and dark, captivating you.

”Ya gonna tell me how long you've been sittin' here starin' at me or did ya wanna keep pretendin' you were asleep?” In defense of your ruthlessly persistent boyfriend, it has been said that the third time’s the charm. His tone was as delicate as his gruff voice allowed, the muscles of his jaw and throat rippling against your scalp as he spoke.

Eyes falling closed, you focused on the warmth of Frank’s body surrounding you as you willed the tears pricking your eyes to back down. Another unfortunate side effect of sleep deprivation—your emotions started to go haywire over the littlest things.

It wasn’t that you thought Frank would be angry. Well, it wasn’t the biggest anxiety on your mind, at least. It was more the fear of burdening him with your own issues at all hours when you knew a good night’s sleep was practically a miracle for him. The first night at home after a few weeks away always seemed to make it come easier, but other than that Frank rarely rested. The mere thought of forcing him to sit up with you, especially on the one night this week he’d get a full 8 hours, grabbed your guilty conscience by the throat.

Giving a halfhearted shrug, you caved. “Dunno. Slept for a few hours when we went to bed. Then I got up and...” Trailing off, you gestured to the bed in front of you, which was clearly not being used for sleep.

Frank withdrew from the embrace and your pounding heart sank. You set your jaw, waiting for the frustrated scolding…but it never came. Instead, one calloused finger landed underneath your chin, tilting it upwards as he spoke. “You been awake that long?” His eyes shone with concern, boring ferociously into yours.

Nodding miserably, you swallowed the overwhelming shame crawling up your esophagus before speaking. “I’m sorry, Frank. I tried to sleep, but I just couldn’t—“

Cutting you off with a tender kiss, Frank’s hand moved to cup your cheek. “Nothin’ to be sorry about, honey. Ya shoulda woken me up.”

Looking up at him with glossy eyes, you bit your lip, ”You deserve to sleep uninterrupted. I didn't want to be the one to take that away from you.“

Frank chewed the inside of his cheek as he was overrun with waves of adoration and sympathy for you. How he'd managed to end up with such a considerate partner, he'd never know. Especially when he didn't consistently return the gesture.

He'd come home yesterday and practically collapsed into your arms—ignoring how unsteady your balance seemed when you dragged him into the apartment, blaming it on his own weight. You'd patched him up sweetly, as you always did, and Frank hadn't thought twice about the fact that you'd had to leave the room three times to get the gauze, assuming your memory had just been shaken by his battered appearance.

Was he truly so wrapped up in his own bullshit that he hadn't noticed the sunken crescents underneath your eyes? They were so prominent now, stark sepia bruises on your otherwise even skin. It must have been days since you slept properly. Beside himself with worry, his thumb traced the indent under your left eye. ”Shit sweetheart...“

”I'm—“ You started to apologize, but it stuck in your throat when Frank shook his head.

”Hey, none of that. Don't wanna hear it, ok?” You nodded in response to his gentle command, sitting there quietly as he schemed. “Are you tired at all?”

The pitiful shake of your head seemed to make up his mind.

Unwinding from you, he raised his arms above his head in a stretch, moaning as his back popped with the movement. Your face scrunched in disapproval, making him grimace sheepishly. “Sorry, honey. Guess I was stiff from drivin' all day.” Without waiting for your response, he slid out of bed. Your brow furrowed as he strode over to the dresser, pulling a shirt over his rumpled hair.

“Get dressed, darlin'. I have an idea.” He called to you over his shoulder as he rummaged for a clean pair of pants. Sighing, you abandoned the bubble of heat surrounding you in bed and headed for the closet.

Despite your grumbles and evident confusion, the two of you were dressed and on the road before the sun even peeked over the horizon. With one hand settled in yours, Frank kept his gaze trained on the road ahead, trying not to laugh at your exasperated questioning and adorable pout. Dragging you out of the house at this hour might not have been his brightest idea—since he normally tried to remain on your good side—but hey, he’d gotten this far without you chewing his head off.

Frank could hardly be considered a morning person, but you were practically nocturnal. Leaving the house before dawn was probably high up on your list of personal hells, but staying in bed when you couldn’t sleep wasn’t a good idea. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard Curtis’s agitated tone.

“For the last time, Frank: staying in bed will make it worse.”

Way back in the day, during his first trip home after going overseas, he’d bugged Curtis relentlessly about his own sleep issues. Maria was tired enough raising a wandering toddler and an imaginative kindergartener, she didn’t need to worry about a restless marine to boot. He’d tried every suggestion under the sun, but sleep still evaded him. Tour after tour, night after night, he’d lay beside his wife in their bed and stare at the ceiling until his alarm went off. After his family died, well…it didn’t exactly get easier to rest.

Despite scouring the internet, a few libraries, and the expanse of Curt’s brain for any possible cures, his sleeplessness persisted. It was a torture he endured for years, and an anguish he wouldn’t wish on anyone but his worst enemies.

Finding out that you also dealt with insomnia was a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, not having to explain his fickle moods and constant absence from the bedroom was a welcomed relief. On the other, seeing the symptoms of sleep deprivation in someone he cared about was an agony worse than an infected bullet wound.

He knew what you were going through all too well, which meant he was determined to try and help. Getting you out of the house was just the first step of his admittedly too-detailed plan.

His lips twitched with a smile as he spotted the building. Turning into the ragged asphalt lot behind the restaurant, he turned his attention to you.

“We’re here, darlin’.”

Raising an eyebrow at him, you remained unimpressed. “A diner?”

Letting out a bark of laughter at your obvious disdain for the activity, Frank pointed a finger at you in warning. “Hey, don’t knock it til ya try it, sweetheart.” His exaggerated stern expression broke through your apprehension, your lips turning upwards into a fond smile.

“There’s my pretty girl.” Frank pressed a kiss to your temple, heart swelling as you leaned into him. “If ya wanna go home, just say the word.”

Biting your lip, you glanced out the window at the electric blue awning extending from the glass doors. The yellow lamp lights lining the sidewalk reflected in your wide eyes as you stared. “No, we can go. I, just…can I ask you a question first?”

“Course, honey. Anythin’.”

“Why here?” Your question was soft, but genuine; your curiosity was outweighing the contempt you’d previously shown for his choice of destination.

Running a hand through his hair, he gave a one-armed shrug. “Fuck, well... ya know I’m no stranger to the whole…not sleepin’ thing. And, uh, back in the early days, when it was real bad for me, I’d come here. We– er– Maria and I, we took the kids here a couple of times. Dunno, wanted to remember the good times, I guess, and it became a sort of tradition. Thought it might help you too.”

With a stuttering inhale, you reached for his hand, stroking a finger over his knuckles as you looked up at him shyly. “Thank you for sharing it with me. I didn’t mean to be rude about it, I’m sorry.”

Squeezing your fingers, he could feel heat creeping up his face. “It’s nothin’ sweetheart. Ain’t gotta worry about that.”

Glancing back out the window for a moment, Frank could see the gears turning in your head as you turned back to him with a tiny grin.

“Lead the way?” You asked tentatively.

“For you, sweet girl? Always.” He pressed a kiss to your hand, his stubble scratching at the skin of your fingers.

Frank ushered the two of you inside and into a booth in the back of the diner. The restaurant was lacking in customers, as could be expected given the early hour. While the inky black sky was broken up with dim streetlights outside of the building, the inside was flooded with fluorescent lights--so bright that you had to shield your eyes with a limp hand for a few minutes.

Once your vision adjusted, you had to admit that the energy in the diner was quite nice. The chipped linoleum tiles that lined the floor were a gorgeous cobalt blue. Along the ceiling, large chunks of the roof had been replaced with thick panes of glass, allowing you to watch the clouds float by, the darkness of the night contrasting beautifully with the intense lighting. You and Frank were seated on a worn vinyl booth, the strips of fabric alternating between silver and black. Similar booths wrapped around the space, almost twinkling as you looked at them.

“So,” Frank pushed a mug towards you. “Whaddya think?”

“It's nice.” You murmured, pulling the warm cup closer to yourself. Somehow you'd missed him ordering himself coffee and you a tea in your distracted state.

Frank cocked his head at you, lips turned up in a smug smirk. ”’S that so?“

Smiling into your mug as you took a sip, you retorted. ”Shut up.“

The drink was warm and, thankfully, unsweetened. It's crisp flavor relaxed your shoulders as you sipped, settling your anxious stomach.

“Hope mint is a’right.” Frank spoke quietly, a blush creeping up his face as he studied his own drink.

“You remembered.” You breathed out, taking his hand in yours and squeezing it tightly as your eyes prickled with emotion.

“Course I did.” Frank huffed, draining the rest of his black coffee. You shuddered in distaste and he chuckled, rubbing a thumb over the back of your hand. “You hungry at all?”

Shrugging noncommittally, you worried your bottom lip between your teeth. Frank sighed, but didn't push further on the subject, which you were very grateful for. You'd never explicitly spoken to him about the effect your insomnia had on your eating habits, but--being the observant partner he was--he'd clearly picked up on it anyways. Once your day started with little to no sleep, it was like all of your bodily functions forgot how to...function. Hunger and thirst cues were practically impossible to read, your body and brain battling each other ferociously at every turn. Which, of course, just exhausted you further.

Scrubbing at one eye with the heel of your free hand, you grit your teeth to keep from groaning. Dwelling on how miserable you were going to feel today wouldn't solve anything, it would just worsen your mood.

”Head botherin' ya?“ Frank asked, brow folding in concern as he watched you knead at your forehead.

”No more than usual.“ You cracked a small smile, hoping that didn't sound as sad as you thought it did. “Just...frustrated with myself.”

“I feel ya, sweetheart. Not sleepin' ain't any fun. But I have some ideas, so don't you worry your pretty little head about it, ok?” Frank tangled his fingers with yours, his gaze earnest.

“You get ideas?” You scoffed, grinning when Frank rolled his eyes in return.

“Ya know what? Just for that, I ain't gonna tell ya about 'em.”

“Nooo,” You whined, taking Frank's massive hand in both of yours and pouting at him. ”I was just kidding. Please tell me.“

”Hmm, I dunno. First you insulted the diner, then my intelligence. Seems like you don't want my help, sweetheart.“  Frank withdrew from your grasp, pretending to sulk into his coffee.

Giggling at Frank’s pout, you reassured him. ”No, I do! I do!“

With a sad little shrug, Frank glanced forlornly out the window.

“Please Frankie,” Pleading with your gaze, you tried to keep a straight face.  “You're my only hope.”

Dropping his startlingly believable moping act, Frank cackled. “Ya think you're real clever, don't ya?”

Smirking into your tea, you gulped down the last remnants with a shrug. ”Maybe.“

After your countless apologies for insulting his intellect, Frank finally explained why he'd encouraged–forced–you to leave the house before sunrise. Apparently he'd heard that staying in bed while awake could perpetuate the cycle of sleep deprivation. And, though you were loath to admit it, it seemed to help.

The little excursion definitely lifted your spirits, if nothing else. You were able to admire the sunrise and mess around with Frank without your anxiety skyrocketing because of the city crowds.  It was nice, and you told him such–even at the risk of over-inflating his ego.

His next activity, however, was not as pleasant.

“Are you going to have me carry you around the apartment next?” You groused, hefting the bedframe up so that you could adjust your rapidly loosening grip on the cold metal. This much physical labor on an empty stomach and no sleep was not what you’d had in mind for a relaxing day with Frank. He, however, was insistent on moving the furniture in your room immediately upon your return home. 

“You offerin'?” Frank smirked at you, pretending to set the bed frame down. His eyes glinted with a humor you didn’t share over the current situation. 

“Fuck no.” You muttered, glaring at him until he lifted the majority of the weight once more. Frank laughed deeply. 

“Set it right over here, darlin’. We gotta move your dresser and then we’re all done.”

“You know, if you hated the layout of my room so much, you could’ve told me months ago.” Instead of waiting until I was already reaching my limit. You thought to yourself, not vocalizing that particular vulnerability. 

“And have you put me out on my ass for bein’ so forward? I’d never, sweetheart.” Frank chuckled, adjusting your bed as you collapsed against the mattress with a huff. “I’m teasin’, honey. It’s an old trick Curt told me about. All the rearrangin’ is supposed to help your brain remember how to sleep, or some shit.”

Rubbing at your forehead as the ache that had been plaguing you all day made a sudden resurgence, your limbs instinctively curled into fetal position as a small whimper escaped your lips. 

“It’s helping it remember to bother me is what it’s doing.” You grumbled, gritting your teeth as the pain ebbed and flowed. You knew the more you thought about it, the more it would torture you–but the stabbing sensation was all that your fatigued brain could focus on right now. 

Frank snorted, sitting beside you gingerly and caressing your hunched back with an open palm. “‘M sorry, sweet girl. Let me get ya some meds and you can lie here while I finish movin’ shit around.”

Your body felt like it was aimlessly floating, untethered to the Earth and hurrying to escape the pain so viciously attacking it at the moment. You were so tired. Every blink was a reminder of the heaven that had been ripped from your delicate grasp hours ago because your body couldn’t even function in the way it was designed to. Brow scrunching, you burrowed under the covers with a sigh.

“Ya better not be sleepin’ on me, honey.” Frank murmured as he stepped back into the room. 

“Course not,” You mumbled. “Would never…”

“I know you’re tired, darlin’, but ya gotta stay awake until it’s dark. Naps will just make ya feel worse, trust me.” He trailed a finger down your arm, taking your hand and placing some painkillers into it. Waiting patiently until you begrudgingly dragged yourself into a seated position, Frank smiled softly at you as you popped the pills into your mouth. Holding the glass of water out to you, the Marine squeezed your leg as you drank, tucking his chin over your head as you collapsed wearily into his side.

“The big bad Punisher takes naps? Hard to picture, Frankie.” You teased, your voice morphing into a satisfied hum as he threaded his fingers into your hair. 

Frank scoffed, kissing your crown before returning the jest. “Maybe I should take the vest off before closin’ my eyes next time.” 

You giggled, burying your face into his neck. His warm flesh felt wonderful on your pounding head, soothing the pain behind your eyes with each measured breath. “Do you cuddle your guns like teddy bears?” The question was overtly ridiculous, but Frank loved you enough to entertain it anyway. 

“Course. What else would I do with ‘em?” He asked coyly. 

Looking up at him, the corners of your lips lifted as he pressed a line of gentle kisses down your nose until he reached your lips. 

“If I turn on the TV, are ya gonna pass out on top of me?” He murmured, his stubble scratching your face as he spoke. 

“Wouldn't dream of it, love.” You smiled, pressing a kiss to his sturdy jawline before he stood up to grab the remote. 

If someone would’ve told you a year ago that your next boyfriend could make a bad insomnia week feel tolerable, you never would’ve believed them. But here you were—lying on your stomach completely topless as Frank massaged a lightly scented lotion into your back—feeling pretty comfortable with the whole arrangement. 

After you’d failed to stay awake during the movie you’d picked out, Frank had carted you around town on various errands: picking up groceries, going to the bookstore, and even taking a quick walk around the park to feed the ducks, which he knew you loved. Your body still ached, and your mood still waned, but overall, it was a good day. And all the credit belonged to your incredible partner. 

Groaning appreciatively, it felt like you were melting into the mattress as Frank tenderly stretched your taught muscles, unraveling the knots of stress that had been building up all week. 

Chuckling, Frank pressed a tiny kiss to your bare shoulder. “Glad it feels good, sweetheart.” 

“No, it’s awful,” You lied. “You clearly need more practice..” 

Frank snorted, “Noted. How’re ya feelin’?” 

“Tired.” You sighed, rolling over as Frank handed you one of his tees to sleep in. 

“I bet. We’re on the last leg, sweetheart, almost there.” Frank’s large hands eagerly wrapped around you as you nestled into his side. Cupping your face with one palm, the fingers of his other hand threaded into your hair, detangling it carefully and brushing it off of your face. 

Biting your lip in frustration, and to keep from sighing again, you nodded. Attempting an understanding smile, you poked him in the chest. “I know. Thanks for putting up with my cranky self today.”

“Sweetheart, you can be snappy with me as much as ya want if it means you’ll sleep through the night.” Frank smirked, squishing your cheek as your eyes suddenly blurred with tears. 

“I love you.” You whispered, going limp in his hold as he settled against the pillows. 

“I love you too, darlin’. So much.” Resting your foreheads together, he kissed you delicately and your lashes fluttered. 

“Frankie?” You looked up at him with your practiced ‘doe eyes’ expression that he could never resist.

“Yah?” He raised an eyebrow skeptically.

“Can you read to me?” Batting your lashes, you watched with satisfaction as Frank’s expression softened, your eyes taking in the exact moment he caved to your whims. 

Straightening his posture stoically, he reached over to grab your new book from the nightstand with an exasperated huff. “Oh, I see. This was all a scheme of yours to get me to read to ya? ‘S that it?”

“No…” You giggled, nuzzling into him as he cracked the novel open.

“Sure, sure. You’ll be hearin’ from my lawyer, sweetheart. Think ya owe me compensation.” He winked at you, eyes lingering on your face.

“Honey, before ya drift off, jus’...” Sighing, he stroked a thumb over your cheek. “Just know, if all this doesn’t work, cause it ain’t a cure all, ya know–”

Laying your hand over his, you gave him an encouraging look. He inhaled sharply, thinking about how he wanted to phrase the sentiment. 

“I want you to sleep, darlin’, ya know I do. But if it doesn’t happen tonight, we can always try again, ok?”

Startled by the affection in his tone and his beautiful promise, your face went slack as you nodded. Eyes flitting over your gaze, he nodded curtly once he decided you understood. Returning his attention to the book in his hands, he cleared his throat before beginning to read. His rumbling velvet tone soothed you, your eyes falling closed almost immediately. Here, in the safety of Frank’s arms, surrounded by his beautiful voice and reassured by his adorable promise, you finally felt at peace. Though you knew sleep might continue to evade you, the anxiety you’d felt about your insomnia didn’t feel quite as all-consuming tonight. Whatever happened, Frank would be there. And, for now, that was enough.

Thanks for reading!!

[stillfrownyclownlol]

MORE HEADCANONS THIS TIME FOR WRITING RAH :0 sorry not sorry for harassing the tags

Ashlyn: She like...found Spiderman fanfiction on accident when she was like...11...so...i mean...she tried that a few times... but like besides that she's not really a big reader or writer, poetry is kinda confusing to her. Her grade in English isn't very high aaaaa

Aiden: constantly in WIP purgatory, he doesn't have the attention to finish things he writes. He's dabbled in poetry but he thinks he's bad at it. He's written poetry for Ash too (which she doesn't really get but keeps anyways). He prolly had an OC phase and has tried drawing comics before but he's abandoned them all help-

Ben: He's been writing A LOT since the accident, mostly poetry and song lyrics to get his feelings out. He has a 50+ chapter Danny Phantom canon divergence fic on fanfiction.net that had a decent following when he suddenly stopped posting (the phantom dimension hit lol)

Tyler: he has no idea what fanfiction is and he's not that interested in writing anyways LMAO. He really hates having to do essays for English class or poetry assignments, he doesn't know how to put his feelings to paper at all- lord help him

Taylor: she likes writing!! Especially short stories for class :) she's tried to convince Tyler to write smth with her which is...50/50 chance of smth decent haha. She reads a lot of fanfiction and writes for fandoms she likes, but mostly one shots, she's not really good at planning out long fics

Logan: Logan writes poetry (kinda emo) and short stories, mostly science fiction stuff. He really likes reading and has consumed a lot of different authors styles so his writing is very eloquent. He's come across fanfic before but he's not really into it. Maybe he wrote some Star Trek fanfiction once tho...

[laundrybiscuits]

This is the start to a wholly unasked-for sequel to wait for the season that I’ve been poking at for some time. It’s definitely even weirder than that already-kind-of-weird fic, so maybe give it a miss if you’re looking for the standard fare. Steve isn’t even mentioned in this snippet. I'll post something more normal soon, I promise.

From the living end of memory, the past seems inevitable.

You had to go through that terrible thing so that you could become the type of person who would survive that later, more terrible thing that most likely occurred in a thematically resonant way—and with a little determined creativity, the thematic resonances start popping up all over the place. 

So then you arrive on the other side of the terrible thing, the second terrible thing, with your memories all worn smooth like rocks that have been jostling around in a pocket for years. They fit together now, no inconvenient angles or edges anymore. It’s all one continuous shape, the shape of how things happened, and you tell yourself that there was no other way for your story to go.

It was always going to happen this way. 

It was always going to be the concrete; the buzzing overhead lights; the placid, thoughtful voice saying “Let’s see if we can get it to wear some clothes, why don’t we?”

Embarrassingly enough, that’s the first thing Eddie remembers from his new life. He’s seen clips of the grainy footage from the months before that, but when he tries to remember lurching around and sinking his teeth into some disgusting raw slab of meat, it’s like a black hole. His mind doesn’t even want to get near the edges. He feels irrationally like if he thinks too hard about it, his mind will decide that actually, sentience isn’t such a hot shit idea after all, and he’ll tip right back down and down and down. 

———

Wayne’s old now, and it makes Eddie uncomfortable in a way he doesn’t really want to look at too hard. 

Wayne had never been young, exactly; Eddie doesn’t remember a whole lot from back when he first went to stay with Wayne, just a lot of promises that it was temporary, promises that stopped coming after a while. But what he does remember looks a hell of a lot like Wayne when Eddie was nineteen or twenty: wrinkles, bald spot always hidden under some ballcap or other, grumbling I’m an old man but Eddie never truly believing it because somehow, over the years, he’d got to believing that Wayne would always be there. Fucking stupid! So so fucking stupid from Eddie, who on paper looks like someone who should know better. 

Now Wayne’s actually old. Now he moves so slow, Eddie gets impatient just watching him through the lit-up window, doing the washing-up and puttering around the kitchen with stooped shoulders.

It’s easier on him if I don’t, thinks Eddie, but he already knows he’s lying as he thinks it. Or rather, he’s lying in a very specific way: it’s easier for Eddie if he pretends Wayne is dead, but probably not so much the other way around. 

That makes him a pretty terrible person, he guesses, but then again—not exactly a person anymore. He doesn’t know how much that matters. 

It would hurt him, thinks Eddie, tentatively, and that might actually be a little bit true. It’s just not as true as the other truth: that Eddie wants to keep Wayne locked in the box marked BEFORE because it’s too difficult to even think about explaining. That if Wayne’s back in his life, Eddie has to reckon with him as someone who will just continue to get older every single day until one day Wayne is as old as he will ever be.

It’s easier if he doesn’t. Doesn’t he deserve an easier life? Didn’t he go through purgatory? Hasn’t he paid and paid and paid? He should get whatever he wants, he should rip through the skin of the Earth to sink his teeth into the candy flesh, chew it up—

So yeah, he’s a monster in more ways than one. 

———

There’s BEFORE and there’s AFTER, but really that’s just a narrative device. Really there are a lot of before-afters. 

There was before-after Eddie woke up; that’s the big one, maybe. Then there’s before-after Eddie is Eddie again and could think in words like a human. Like a person. Then there’s before-after it becomes scorchingly, irreversibly clear that Eddie is neither human nor person. 

And of course, there’s the before-after Eddie finds himself outside in government-issued sweatpants and a plain blue t-shirt, looking up at the gibbous moon for the first time in his new not-quite-life, and feels absolutely nothing about it.

It hits him later, kind of. He doesn’t even try to get somewhere safe (for whom?) to bunk that first night, just curls up in the nearest Greyhound terminal and felt sorry for himself, performatively. It seems like the thing to do. Woe is Eddie, friendless nightmare beast, freakier than anyone’d ever guessed he could be, and not in a fun way. 

He hadn’t even—

Back before, like before he’d even died in the first place, he probably would’ve taken it harder. Hah. Harder. 

But it hadn’t even occurred to him to reach into his own stringless scrubs and make baby Jesus cry, not for a long time. When it had, he’d felt oddly proud, as if that was proof that he's not some mindless beast at his core. That's probably not quite right, though. He thinks about it some more and decides it doesn't mean anything after all.

And then when dawn hits the Greyhound terminal, he belatedly realizes that shit, maybe he should’ve been thinking more about what vampires can and can’t do, traditionally, and he’s a little worried about burning to a crisp but it’s already too late, so he just rolls under the bench with the last of his consciousness and hopes like hell he looks too dangerous to mess with. 

Somehow he’s okay; somehow the cops aren’t even called. This is by way of being an inference, given that once the sun is out for real, Eddie is for all intents and purposes no longer a participant in goings-on. But he wakes up in the orange light of the sunset and everything seems to be the way he left it, maybe a handful more Burger King wrappers and fresher eau de urine gathering in the corners. The slim roll of go-away-please cash is still in his white cotton briefs. He’s not in a drunk tank and nobody’s prodding him. Nobody’s even around. Cautiously, he wonders if it’s another freaky power they just never thought to check for. 

He doesn’t feel much like testing it, and also it’s actually really fucking uncomfortable to be crammed underneath a bench like he is, so he crawls out and starts trying to pull together some kind of life.

———

“Eddie,” the labcoat says, while he’s still staring up at the night sky for the first time in almost a decade.

Yeah, that whole thing where he walked outside and looked up at the moon wasn’t actually that romantic. They didn’t exactly let him waltz out into the wide world with a bindle on his shoulder; they decontaminated him, made him sign a bunch of stuff, and had this labcoat in sensible shoes slip him a shifty fifty in exchange for promising to come back on a regular basis for “check-ups” that they both know aren’t for Eddie’s benefit. They pretend otherwise, because it’s nicer that way.

“What,” says Eddie. “I’m just saying, I dunno how the economy works nowadays, but I’m guessing fifty bucks isn’t gonna get me too far.”

The labcoat pushes gold-framed glasses up her nose. “You understand that we did not have to do this at all, right?” She doesn’t sound—she’s not being mean, or even condescending. She’s just telling him so he understands. “You do not legally exist.”

That’s all she says, but Eddie knows what she means. He also knows that this money’s coming with strings, and he wants to get the absolute most he can out of this while he still has something they want. 

“Okay, but—”

The labcoat rolls her fucking eyes and reaches into her own fucking pleated slacks and pulls out her own fucking wallet, counting out two twenties and a ten gone soft around the corners. She probably gets paid real good. There’s a picture of a kid in the wallet, maybe five or six years old; it looks like a school photo with that weird cloudy blue-grey background. The kid looks happy. He’s grinning. His name is probably Chris or Lionel or Jacob. He’s probably in some kind of youth T-ball league where he mostly sits in the outfield and eats grass. He’ll probably get into a good college someday, maybe on a baseball scholarship after he gets really good at T-ball after all and hits the winning home run for his high school varsity team. It will be a whole different millennium and he will never, ever know that the Psych 101 class he’s skipping to dry-hump his English-major girlfriend was paid for by the three and a half years his mommy spent administering heavy-duty sedatives to Eddie so they could run all their little tests without Eddie getting bitey.

“Thanks,” says Eddie, because he’s got manners. He’s still got manners.

“We’ll see you in a month,” the labcoat says.

[geraldthellama]

Bowuigi Corpse Bride AU Lore Post

So I said I would probably make this and while I thought about making this into a fanfic and making ya'll read that, I decided that I need to commit to the other three (two and a half?) Mario fanfic ideas I have. So if anyone wants to make a full blown fic or whatever with this AU, feel free (but tag me ofc because I've got to see it).

(This will not be short, just a quick warning that this is a commitment).

This AU is very loosely based off the actual movie. Instead of them being in the underworld, they're just in a haunted house that Boo lost to Bowser in a game of poker, and instead of being a corpse (as the name suggests), Luigi is just a slightly annoying boo. Him and Polterpup are the only ones that inhabit the mansion, and, with the house completely abandoned, it's probably going to stay that way.

In this world, ghosts only stay after some massive traumatic death. Problem is, Luigi has no recollection of how he died, he just knows he hit his head and a little while later awoke, a ghost that's unable to be seen, heard, and is completely alone as a newly-deceased. Aside from the yipping ghost dog at his feet (Luigi has always been afraid of both ghosts and dogs).

As a ghost, Luigi originally spawns (spawns?) into this world with little ghostly abilities. Living beings can't see or hear him and he doesn't have the power to manipulate objects or people in any way. He is essentially a specter, watching the lives of other people for years until, eventually, it's abandoned, and the Peasley family mansion (one of many, that is) is gambled away to King Boo.

But, King Boos already got his own slew of creepy haunted mansions, and, frankly, this one is haunted by a ghost he can't stand. A ghost that hasn't been able to speak to someone for around a decade. A chatty ghost that hasn't been able to speak to someone for over a decade. He's not exactly torn up about parting with it.

Bowser, the poor thing, is on attempt...

Attempt... 2 hundred... something.

(at least 4 proposals a year, for around 20 years... that's...)

Let's just say, Peach does and has not wanted Bowser for a long ass time, and it really doesn't help his self esteem that he's still being thwarted by a plumber that's old enough to be his dad and uses a cane. He really can't understand what Peach sees in him, especially considering she still looks like a youthful 20/30-something into her 60s. Frankly, it's unfair. He's got money, kids (some really awesome ones too), power, looks (he thinks so at least), and isn't 3 pudding cups away from dementia.

What he hasn't got, until right now at least, is an awesome mansion, specially built for human(oid) creatures. Maybe she just didn't like gothic castle architecture? Maybe, as Boo suggests, he just has to get her scared enough to fall into his arms for safety. He's got this all planned out.

Boo did not specify that the "ghostly inhabitants" of this mansion were a hyperactive ghost dog and naive plumber. He didn't think it was important information at the time.

So, when Bowser is plotting and practice-proposes (does he really need more practice?) to the striking blue eyes of a, surprisingly, human painting, the last thing he expects is to be met with a ghoulish grin.

Barely ghoulish, because, god, the thing is bright. The smile and the bio-(bio?)-luminescent energy it's attached to. For a ghost who's wearing bloodied bandages and has been dead for 30 lonely years, he's surprisingly optimistic.

"Really?! And you're not even a boo!" :D

He's very optimistic, in fact, because he's willing to believe that this complete stranger might just be his ticket out of this wall-papered purgatory. He died meeting up with his forbidden love, after all, so it must be a sign. He does not hesitate to shove that ring on his finger, even if his new fiance looks hesitant (he might be naive enough to go with it, but he's not blind). He's convinced the two will make it work.

Luigi is... very tired of looking at the same things everyday. Now, he can attach to his new fiance, who's only slightly hesitant to engage with him, (and is not bad looking at all, in Luigi's opinion). Together, the two can actually have a life together. Luigi was only 25 when he died, and he was far too shy then to do any adventuring. The most rebellious thing the man had ever done was sneak out.

Man, look where that ended him.

For Luigi, this is his opportunity to live the life he wasted was robbed of.

And the guys got kids! How awesome is that?

Bowser is not liking the new pets at his side. One never stops yipping and yapping and one is a dog. Luigi is... fine. From a distance. The problem is that they physically can't get any. As long as Luigi is attached to him, consider them hand cuffed. This stupid, green boo is crimping his style, and any game he had with Peach is virtually ruined when he's got his "fiance" clinging to his side like he's the best thing since breathing air.

At least Luigi appreciates his kids. The ghost obviously has some taste (of course he does, he chose him for pete's sake), and Junior and the rest seem to like the ghoul enough... Even if Junior isn't completely sure that Luigi is a ghoul. Both Luigi and Junior agree that boos are scary.

Maybe, after some hard self-reflection (with Luigi close and present, of course), and some growing emotional intimacy and openness, Bowser begins to kind of, perhaps tolerate Luigi. Just a little. Just enough to find his stupid quirks endearing and just enough to start to think that maybe he's always been too good for Peach, anyway. Maybe he should be with someone who appreciates him and loves his family. It's not like her and Mario had ever had kids in their relationship, and her not wanting kids is kind of a deal breaker.

Bowser's newfound attention on Luigi is driving everyone else nuts, though. Boos barely seen the man since his unfortunate run in with the green leach and no one else at their poker table is any good. At this rate, Boos not even satisfied winning Peasley's riches off him anymore. Occasionally, a guy just wants to lose, y'know? Boo hates only one thing more than Peasley whining about the consequences of his gambling addiction, and that's boredom. He misses when the Koopa King spent all his time plotting against the old-ass plumber. At least then he showed his face at their meetings.

And when Boo finally brings up his grievances, because he deserves to rant, Peasley seems... nervous. Boo loves nervousness.

"There's a... human boo... in the mansion I gave you..?"

"One, you didn't give it to me, you lost, fair and square. Two, yeah, and he's just about the chattiest thing I've ever met. All dressed up in a white suit, the pretentious-"

At that, Peasley turns about as pale as a ghost. Well, if that were possible, considering he's a legume. Suddenly, he's got some important things he has to do somewhere else.

This poker table is looking weak.

When Peasley asks Bowser to meet at the mansion, Bowser warns he can't come alone. It's a stretch to get the green ghost to go back with him, and as much as Bowser wants to tell him "you're coming with me, whether you like it or not", he can't bring himself to say it. Instead, he convinces Luigi that it's a quick stay. Essentially, a welfare visit on the old house and a quick meeting with an old friend. Luigi's narrowly convinced.

Stepping back onto that porch brings back a lot of old memories for the human. Few of them anything good in retrospect.

But he does want to see his painting again. He always did cherish that painting. He's sure Bowser will too, right?

Is that painting a good memory for Bowser? He wonders.

It was all those years ago that a young Peasley gifted him that painting. Like him, he had been optimistic and in love. Even if his rich, snobby parents weren't a fan of the human, they had an entire life ahead of them. Peasley had made him a beautiful painting. It was the one part of the house Luigi felt was his. A good memory.

He never expected to be greeted by the same image he had all those years ago. Peasley, now older, stood in front of the painting. His face now wasn't proud or love-struck or whatever expression he had had then (Luigi can barely remember Peasley's face until just now), he looked somber. It was a rare occasion that Luigi wasn't green, and his teal glow seemed to throw Bowser off.

And divert Peasley's attention away from the miserable painting and over to the ghost, who was nervously twiddling his thumbs with a sympathetic look in his eyes.

It's not long before Bowser realizes that this meeting was never about him, and he feels more awkward than anything else...

Except that Polterpup has been on edge since the moment he saw the bean (now) king. Has he ever seen the dog not wag it's tail at someone?

Immediately, the older man apologizes. Things were never meant to end up how they did. He tried his best to help when he could.

Luigi's not angry, how could he be? Luigi's fall was an accident.

Peasley says he didn't know Luigi had stuck around, and if he had, he thinks he would have done things differently. He would have at least had the place cleaned instead of just letting it rot.

(So Peasley abandon the mansion? The perfectly good mansion for no reason, leaving Luigi alone.)

And, of course, Peasley's sorry for not telling Mario or his parents about what happened to him.

(HUH?)

He insisted that he waited for hours with Luigi, hoping he'd recover with enough gauze. The man told him it was a lost cause. If he could have saved him, he would have.

Hours?

"I was unconscious for hours?"

It came out as barely a whisper.

"I stayed almost the entire night. As long as I could."

Bowser didn't know boos could turn so many colors, especially that quickly. Bowser didn't think Luigi even had it in him to be anything less than smiley, especially completely enraged.

Luigi had never been more angry in his life (death).

Even Peasley's insistence that "You don't understand what they'd have done to me if they'd known I went against their wishes!" fell on deaf ears.

When Luigi's aura finally finished raving, Peasley had backed away from the now red ghost. Again, Luigi recognized the position they were in;

One of them backing up, away from the painting and towards the basement stairs. How could Peasley forget that door never closed all the way? It had only been the exact thing that killed Luigi 30 years ago. The exact thing that, of course, Peasley hadn't fixed.

Luigi swears he didn't push him, even in that state. Bowser believes him, only because the still angry and unaware Luigi yelled angrily down the stairs: "You better not die here, because I'll make your death hell!"

If they both hadn't just watched Peasley fucking die, Bowser would have kinda been into it.

It took Luigi a second to realize that even if his own fall had been an unlucky hit, Peasley wasn't 25 anymore. And he wasn't responding. His red hue didn't last long, especially when Polterpup no longer seems threatened (and Bowser notices that the bean king no longer seems to be breathing).

"What did I do?"

Bowser suggests fleeing the crime scene, which normally isn't his move, but he'd rather not be tied to the murder of a fellow royal. Luigi shakes his head.

This is his fault. And as angry as he still is at Peasley, he can't flee what he's done. Not in a right conscience. Not like what Peasley did to him. Luigi suffered enough sitting in that mansion alone for 30 years, and, as much as revenge tastes sweet, a small part of him still cares. Had he lived, Peasley and him would have had a life after all.

But he hadn't lived, did he.

Bowser can't remember a time ever seeing Luigi's color look quite as dull as it did then.

Playing with his engagement ring, Luigi thinks back on the part of the man he loved. Peasley never did buy him the ring, like he had hoped. Luigi remembers getting himself all excited over the possibility of a scenic proposal as they walked through the flower garden of the mansion. He had gifted him a painting. Which was almost as good.

He couldn't even count how many times he had stood and looked at that painting, thinking:

Was it worth it?

An apprehensive smile comes onto his face. A nostalgic smile. A somber one.

Doesn't really matter, does it? He'd never know if it was worth it in the end. This was how it ended up. Luigi had always believed that fate is what had brought him and Peasley together, considering everything else had lined them up for failure. Fate was what brought him here. What kept him here.

Who is he to drag down others?

He returns Bowser's ring.

"I'm sorry."

Bowser never deserved to have him weigh him down.

"I wasted my life chasing after a family I never got, and then spent my death doing the exact same thing."

Bowser awkwardly matches Luigi's bitter laugh.

"I lived my life, be it a short one, but you deserve to live yours."

Luigi pats the ring on his hand.

"I hope she likes it." He smiles. He means it. Peach sounds wonderful.

Tears prick Bowser's eyes, and all because...

He never did tell Luigi about him and Peach, did he? He can't help but laugh. Tears streaming down his face kinda laugh. The laugh you only get once a year kind of laugh.

"You spent, what? Maybe five non-consecutive years chasing after a family? Try twenty!"

Luigi's eyebrow goes up. This is supposed to be a super emotional goodbye and this goobers laughing? On about his conquest to marry Peach (who, apparently, is already married) and make his picturesque life. Luigi can't help but laugh, because it's so stupid that Bowser's laughing about this right now.

"Her and her stupid, human, mustachioed husband Mario have been kicking my ass for decades. I promise you, boo, you weren't ever getting in the way of anything."

Mario?!

"Mario?" (!)

"You heard of him?"

The excitement in Luigi's eyes (and aura) is obvious.

"My brother's name is Mario!"

With a look of determination, Bowser promises he'll tell Luigi the story of all his and Mario's exploits if he does him two favors.

Leaves this, frankly, ugly and decrepit mansion with him. Because this story needs atmosphere.

Puts the ring back on his finger. Because how else is everybody going to know they're engaged?

Luigi gives a grin.

He looks down the stairs. What about doing his due-diligence?

"I promise you, boo, if fate brought you and Peasley together, and pushed you down those stairs, and brought us together, and then pushed him down the stairs, fate is on your side."

Luigi's lips are still pursed.

"And it's almost sunrise," Bowser points out.

"So?"

"Well, we've waited almost all night, seems like a fair amount of time to me. It's obviously a lost cause."

At that, Luigi begins laughing. Not quite Bowser's guttural, teary laugh, but certainly a cackle. Enough to turn his aura back to a vibrant green, just like before. Enough to make him hunch over and take some (not really) much needed gulps of air.

When the laughing dies down to a hurt giggle, Bowser assures him that:

"You didn't kill him, Weeg."

No. I guess he didn't, did he?

Looking down the stairs one last time, (his death completely bloodless, the lucky bastard), Luigi's brows furrow for a second and he twiddles his thumbs.

If Luigi's learned one thing from being a condemned ghost, it's that you should take every chance you get.

The bottom of the stairs don't look so intimidating now.

"I...

I forgive you."

Maybe that is all Peasley deserves.

Luigi deserves to have another chance. And maybe Peasley does too, maybe he'll find one in the next lucky winner of poker. Someones gotta replace his spot at the table.

Bowser shares that he certainly deserves a mother to his children, and he's already got a quality candidate who's proved he's got what it takes. ("One who cooks, cleans, can't call in sick, die, and is pretty good looking! I hit the jackpot!")

Maybe, at the very least, Luigi deserves to see his brother one last time.

And maybe a few more times after that, for good measure.

Anyways so the original plan was just to have either Luigi and Bowser straight up immediately abandon the crime scene (not really crime scene) or have Luigi sit in the mansion forever and live out a miserable existence.

But I couldn't do that to my boys now could I. (But Peasley still gets abandoned because screw Peasley I hate that little bean man /j).

This wasn't meant to turn out in the format it did but, y'know, it did. Just know this isn't brief but also isn't comprehensive. I might (big emphasis on might) make a shorter headcanon post on this, but we'll see.

I hope you enjoyed. And sorry for the length, I am not known and will never be known for being concise.

[prismaticpichu]

Hi! I'm sorry if I was bothering you, so umm can you make Seph Zack, like Seph has a diary, Zack is sick, Seph takes care of him, add angst, Protective Sephiroth, Zack needs a hug, angst with a happy ending, please? also, take your time, it's okay, I will be patient. ❤️♥️🫂

Awwww! You’re never a bother, friendo 💖 Plz don’t ever worry about that!!! 💕

Oooh!! I love a good angsty/protective sickfic!!! Thooo, admittedly, I already have a Zack sickfic that covers those points pretty well called Priorities ❤️:,3

The diary idea tho??? I LOVE <33333 💙💙💙 Have another slash fic! :,333

18+ Zack!!

~

ZackSeph ~ Diary Discovery

The rhythmic sound of a pen gliding against paper was what stirred Zack awake that night, blue eyes fluttering open from their purgatorial state between slumber and consciousness, their sleepy Mako glow sparkling with a hint of mischief as he spotted Sephiroth scrawling something in what looked to be a little black notebook.

The sight was just too precious to be confusing.

"...Takin' notes, pal?"

The warrior’s shoulders went slightly stiff against the polished arch of the headboard, clearly not expecting his partner to be awake, the vague coral on his cheeks visible even through the glossy threads of mercury. "Yes..." he assured in a totally-believable grunt, reflexively snapping the notebook shut. "Jotting data, researching. Nothing more. Go back to sleep."

Seph was a man of many things, Zack had come to learn over the span of their blossoming relationship. He was ethereal beautifully (inside and out), adoringly kind, bafflingly intelligent in both booksmarts and the art of wielding a blade… Gaia, was he a man of so, so many things.

But a good liar was not among them.

His expression softening into a doting smirk, Zack shifted further on his side. “Yeah? I don’t think so…” He pawed sleepily at his best friend. “Watcha really doin’?”

Sephiroth didn’t even bother swatting him away, merely lowering his head in aversion. “Go back to sleep.”

“Aww, Seph…” Zack snuggled closer to his friend’s side, his tone mellowing, realizing as the groggy mist lifted from his mind that Seph was likely afraid of tease and criticism. “It’s just me, bud. I’d never judge you. Never…” And he nuzzled into his partner’s neck for emphasis. “I promise…”

The soothing assurance was enough to soothe Seph’s muscles, at least to the point where he was comfortable enough relaxing into Zack’s touch. He leaned down to press his temple against the black-haired SOLDIER’s, noses gently rubbing, strands of silver spilling across their connected bridges like laces of silky moonlight against the night.

“…I know.”

Zack’s lips melted into a loving, tranquil smile, mischief turning to twinkle in the sapphire stars. “Then show meee… I’m curious!”

Gentle chuckles rippling against from the man’s lips, Seph’s amusement was accompanied by a playful yet resigned sigh, sheets and linens rustling as both SOLDIERs pulled back from the intimate closeness, emerald eyes gazing back down at the notebook while Zack waited in good-hearted anticipation for it to be handed over.

“…Alright…” Sephiroth continued to quietly chuckle, but the genuine embarrassment created an obvious underbelly to his voice. “…You mustn’t laugh, though.”

There came that affectionate smirk again. “I mustn’t?’”

“No. You mustn’t.” But a small smirk was budding on Sephiroth’s own lips as he handed over the notebook to eager hands, immediately lowering his head, gushing silver bangs doing their job to veil his flustered, pinkish expression.

“…Can I read it aloud?” Zack smiled over the charcoal cover, wanting to ensure that Seph was still comfortable.

“Mmph. Go ahead.”

…Was he crazy, or did it suddenly seem like Seph wanted him to read it?

Satisfied either way, Zack’s eyes glimmered with playfulness, glancing down at the small black treasure chest as he opened it up, cleared his throat, and began reading aloud.

“…Dear Diary…” Annnnd tZack’s face bloomed with a smile before reaching the first sentence, shooting his partner the messy grin. “Aww man… it’s a diary?!”

“…Perhaps.”

“Aww, Seph…” Zack’s heart was nothing short of swelling as he glanced back down at the immaculate handwriting, continuing to read the entry.

“I wanted to purchase this journal because there are some thoughts that turn incessantly around in my mind, and yet I don’t have the proper experience to express them. I have always been more adept with expressing myself with writing—“

Zack canted his head as the paragraph abruptly came to a stop, starting anew on the following line.

“I love him so much…” he continued to read, a velvet throb in his heart. “Zack. Zack Fair. My lieutenant, my paramour… my very best friend. Never in my life had I met someone who treats me with the kindness that Zack does; never has anyone seen me the way Zack does, so human and unafraid… Never has anyone loved me the way he does. Hojo had always played the broken record that I was unlovable, a tool… why would mother ever love me? But Zack does. Zack has always loved me. And I think he… And I pray to Gaia that he always will.”

By the time Zack was done reading, pearls of mist had formed in the oceanic eyes, lowering the journal to gaze hazily at his beloved partner. The throb in his heart had stopped completely—frozen in place, having come to a gradual stop the further he read along, swallowing slightly to keep the watery choke inside.

Gaia…

“Are… all the entrees like this?” Zack asked, gingerly.

Seph was fully facing him now, the emerald eyes more vulnerable than Zack had ever seen them, green fire so delicately small yet true. “…More or less,” he admitted, soft expression softening into a smile. “That was only the first one I wrote. There’s perhaps about twenty more entrees in a similar vein.”

His chest practically numb, Zack glanced back down at the journal, rapidly flipping through the pages to find over a dozen more entrees in similar length—catching the familiar script of his name, catching all the loving adjectives that accompanied it, catching all the anecdotes and places and experiences shared between them…

And the mist turned into a gentle rainfall.

“Gaia, Seph…” he dropped the journal, strong arms enveloping his friend in an overwhelmed embrace, the unspoken words written into his heart pulsing with every velvet beat. “You didn’t say it would destroy me.”

“…Heh,” Sephiroth grunted, the smile still lingering as he buried his head in the feathery raven nest. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have been so insistent.”

“You kidding?” Zack wiped the tears from his eyes. “I… I don’t even know what to say.”

“Heh… I can empathize.”

Sapphires blinked, their color rich with understanding, buried deep in the smooth terrain of his partner’s neck.

“Did you… did you never feel comfortable saying it?”

“Mmn.” Seph’s voice was muffled by his hair. “Saying what?”

“You know…” Zack’s own voice grew small, innocent. “…’I love you?’”

The swath of silence that passed was meaningful, ephemeral.

“I was… heh,” Sephiroth murmured after a few moments, the honesty drawn from his soul, cocooned in so much warmth and solace that Shame could never penetrate it. “Afraid.”

“…Afraid?” Zack repeated, tender.

“Mmn…” came his earnest nod in reply, even more muffled, the warrior’s voice slightly subdued by the truth. “Because… because what if the feelings were not reciprocated?” And he closed his eyes, burying even deeper, quickly amending himself.

“Or, should I say… to the degree that I feel.”

There was silence, raw and real. Raw and real and long. Zack took several beats to fully digest his friend’s words, emotions conflicted, the rivers in his eyes momentarily ceasing to flow. Had he… had really never said it? Said it clearly? Even if their relationship was new, still being explored…

And the words came flooding all at once.

“Bud…” Zack pulled his friend down onto the pillow, burrowing his head into his friend’s cheeks, lips pressed against angelic skin. “I love you so much… So frigging much. So, so, so frigging much. Don’t ever worry about it not being mutual… ‘kay? I love you more than anything on this planet. More than anything… That kindness, that mind, that heart… all of it, bud. I love all of it. All of you.” He burrowed deeper into his cheek, eyes creaking open to face the watering green, their faces only inches apart.

And I pray to Gaia that…

“And I always, always will.”

…Magical, really, the way he could feel Sephiroth melt into his arms, the beautiful silver shape fitting against his body so perfectly, the harmonious song of their heartbeats pulsing together as one. “I… I love you too…” Seph wrote the words against his ear in a doting murmur, faint but unhesitant, the thudding sound of a pen falling to the carpet as he pulled him closer against his chest.

And Zack melted right into it. “…You more,” he murmured blissfully.

“Hmph. I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Yeah…?”

“‘Yeah’ indeed.”

“Nope. It’s just not possible.”

“Mnm. I suppose you didn’t see my January twelfth entry then.” Sephiroth’s eyes fell fluttered shut with a long, tranquil sigh. “My numerical list of things I love about Zack Fair.”

“Oh my Gaia… you did not.”

“Oh, I did. And I can recount them all from memory.”

“Don’t you dare.”

The angelic laughter rang warn and rich against his ears, the gentle vibrations rumbling against his beating heart, the closed pages of the notebook opening in front of Zack one beautiful chuckle at a time.

“Mmmn. Number ten…”

[silverdune]

the purgatory papers | introduction: part two

"enter.. we have much to discuss."

minors dni. ageless blogs dni. blank blogs dni. you'll be blocked. <- part one | main masterlist | part three -> character(s): gn!reader, kim hongjoong, choi san, park seonghwa, kang yeosang; (minatozaki sana, myoui mina;) tags: explicit language, light banter, slight hostility, alcohol, references to drinking alcohol to cope word count: 5.1k summary: with only a vague idea of what lies ahead of you, you take a trip to both hell and heaven to speak with the people involved. in doing so, you start to get a glimpse of just what exactly you're dealing with.. a/n: i initially intended to this just be one long introductory chapter, but i'm actually gonna split this into three parts because this second part ended up way longer than i thought it was going to;😭 i hope you enjoy!

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

You give the mortal world exceedingly less credit than the folks in Heaven would, but it’s not lost on you that the configuration of Heaven, Hell and purgatory are exactly how they’ve envisioned it for thousands of years. For the nth time it makes you chuckle as you descend the staircase into the cavernous pit, recalling how you once joked with Yunho that the mortal world is basically the living room, and that they would sometimes refer to Heaven and Hell as upstairs and downstairs respectively.

One thing that is slightly off is that purgatory still, in part, exists as a liminal space above the sphere as well as below it. The area in which you live means you often refer to it as downstairs.

As for Hell, that’s the basement.

And much like the mortals, no trip to the basement is a fun one.

The temperature is known to increase, but you yourself don’t feel it much, bar the odd sweat beads that form across your hairline. As you approach the door to Hell, the air does become noticeably stuffy, and you wonder if they upped the fire resources in the last century and why exactly they felt the need to bask in more heat than necessary.

Then you recall how the temperature is governed by the overseer’s temper - hence temperature - and it all starts to make sense.

Old Horns’ feathers have been ruffled in greatly unfortunate ways.

There’s a single security guard standing by the door to Hell, someone you’ve strangely become good friends with since you first met two centuries ago. Her eyes light up at your arrival, and her smile invites you to smile back. However reluctant you felt to take on this job, it’s always nice to see her again.

“Well, well, look who it is!” she teases. Embers of orange dance around the curls of her auburn hair, her black, backless dress trailing the floor. “Never one to stay a stranger, hey?” She smirks, knowing full well why you’re here, but opting not to say the quiet part out loud.

“Business as usual,” you nod, then exhale deeply, “for the last time.” Sana’s face falls instantly. You didn’t think such an expression would sting so much. “Oh. So, that means you won’t be paying any more visits to Hell.” She says it so matter-of-factly, as if she already understands how this is going to work, but there’s still a tinge of sadness in her voice. It makes you feel genuinely awful.

“Well-” You trip over your words in an attempt to placate her. “Not necessarily!” you perk up. “I can still pay you a visit!” you say. Sana grins again, so bright and effervescent. It actually brings you joy to cheer her up about this. A strong heart lies dormant in your dwelling soul after all. “And besides, no more business means I’ll have more free time.”

“We can do the stairwell picnic we talked about!”

Ah, the stairwell picnic. Meet halfway along the staircase and eat snacks while waxing philosophical about the mortal world.

You smile. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Sana claps her hands excitedly. “Excellent! Well- ahem- enough chit-chat.” She opens the door to Hell. “Welcome to the fire!”

“Speaking of that,” you mutter into her ear as you walk past, “have you noticed that it’s warmer down here? If I’ve noticed, then you’ve surely noticed.”

Sana coughs weakly, trying to ignore what is so clearly a bothersome elephant. “Well.. Um, yeah, to be honest, it’s not really my place to make a comment,” she whispers in response. “But.. it is.” She seriously lowers her tone for that last part. You swallow the lump in your throat and nod. Sana’s smile then returns and she almost nudges you into Hell. “Have fun!”

The door shuts behind you, and the noise is thunderous. Most of the residents here turn to see you, and they hone their eyes at your presence.

You’re not their favourite member of the band.

Without a second to waste, you depart for the corridor to Hongjoong’s office.

Not a single eye leaves you as you speed down the narrow halls of the overseer’s domain. Many of them begin to chat among themselves; you know they’re talking about you.

The two guards outside Hongjoong’s door straighten their backs as you draw near. One holds up their hand and speaks in a low, harsh voice. “Excuse me, this area is out of bounds.”

“I have express permission from Hongjoong himself to speak with him.”

The guards exchange looks. They turn back to you, and the other speaks, his voice rougher than the first. “Is that so? Do you have any identification to prove this?”

“I have this red card,” you announce, pulling the item out of your inside jacket pocket. You hand it to the first guard, and they both inspect it diligently, before bursting into laughter.

“Nice try, but this is, for lack of a better word, bullshit,” chides the second guard. He evaporates the card with a single toss in the air.

You groan internally and try again, “Listen, I know this is completely unheard of, but Kim Hongjoong has specifically asked for me to speak with him on a very important matter.”

The first guard stutters over his laughter, “What? You’re joking, right? The High Devil doesn’t speak to anyone unless he has given the word.”

“Yeah, if he wanted to speak to you, he would’ve informed us,” says the second guard.

“If that is the elder of purgatory, let them in.”

The sound resonates through the door, startling the three of you.

“Uh-”

“Um-”

“But- But Your Highness-”

“Did they present you with a red card?”

The guards eye one another. You lift a brow at them as if to say, see, what did I tell you?

In an instant, the second guard restores the item to its former glory and hands it over to you with a mouthed apology. You take it with a shameful shake of the head and fold your arms.

“Um, yes, Your Highness, they did.”

A beat passes, and the door opens, seemingly by itself. The two men part in the centre and stare straight ahead, assuming a stoic position despite the dread coursing through their veins.

“Enter, N. We have much to discuss.”

You take a deep breath in and let go. With your shoulders pushed back, you pass by the guards and enter the office of Hell’s overseer.

The second you’re through the door, it slams shut behind you, making you jump. You place a hand on your chest - a habit you picked up from the many times you’ve manifested, mortals seemed to do that when something surprised them - and exhale through your nose.

Ahead of you, the High Devil paces back and forth in front of his desk.

You take a moment to have a good look at the place. It’s the first time you’ve set foot in this room. The ceilings are so high you can’t see where they end, but the room itself is surprisingly small for such a figure like Old Horns.

The walls are draped with burgundy curtains and there are candles everywhere. To most people, this room would be unbelievably dark, but you are able to see Hongjoong very clearly. His desk almost takes up the total width of the room and seems to be carved from mahogany or oak.

You clear your throat quietly and remind yourself that you’re not here to admire his decor.

Hongjoong stops when he notices you. “Ah.” He quickly disappears in a cloud of smoke beneath the desk then reappears on the other side, already sitting in his chair, a motion that doesn’t phase you. “Take a seat.”

There’s a passive sense of magnitude inside you; this is the first time you’ve ever met Hongjoong, the first time you’ve ever stepped into his office, something strictly forbidden unless he specifically requests it. Over the course of the three millennia that you’ve spent in purgatory, that occasion is so rare that you notice three distinct plaques affixed to the wall behind him denoting these moments as some sort of achievements.

You assume this meeting will add a fourth to that collection.

Eventually, you take a seat opposite and slowly descend into the chair. Perhaps that feeling isn’t so passive after all.

Everything that you’ve understood about Hongjoong over the centuries is now taking full effect right in front of you. He doesn’t make eye contact, doesn’t seem particularly pleased with social interaction, and the embers don’t so much dance around his hair as they do shift erratically around his entire form.

Neither of you speak for a time. What do you say? Do you even say anything at all? Yunho hadn’t exactly debriefed you on the appropriate etiquette for talking to the High Devil.

Uncomfortable silence spreads through the whole room until eventually, Hongjoong shifts his gaze to the side and speaks. “I am sure you understand why I have asked you to come here.”

Understand is probably not the word you’d go for, but for the purposes of getting this over and done with you agree. “Yes.”

“Good. Because as you can probably tell, I am up to my fu- God- .. neck in it.”

You blink a couple of times. Old Horns not being partial to the odd cuss? Colour yourself shocked.

You spare him any quippy remarks, you’ve never met the man before, after all, and instead simply say, “..Yes.”

“This feud, this-” He tries stalling his anger by clenching a fist and resting his lips against it. “I’ve been Hell’s overseer for thousands of years. I’ve seen things come out of this amorphous realm that I couldn’t begin to describe to you. But this?”

“Somehow worse than that?” you stutter, nervous even still of stepping a single syllable out of line.

He swallows. He breathes out. He looks up at you.

Kim Hongjoong looks up at you.

Your entire being turns to stone as he maintains eye contact with you.

“It’s a level of spite and vitriol that I can’t possibly comprehend.”

Your resolve shatters. This all makes sense. Of course Hongjoong has seen shit that no one else has ever seen, he’s the goddamn leader of Hell.

But this.. this is something he can’t comprehend.

And it’s your job to cipher an explanation. It’s your job to help Hongjoong understand.

He’s typically never cared for the feuds. Anything that goes on between the residents of Heaven and Hell has nothing to do with him.

But now he is directly involved.

And for whatever reason, this has stoked a fire so strong it’s caused him to increase the temperature.

You brave a question that’s been on the tip of your tongue for the last minute or so. “What is it about this animosity that you cannot comprehend?”

Hongjoong leans forward, not breaking eye contact with you for a second.

“Why the elder in question didn’t take things up with Seonghwa while he had the chance.”

Seonghwa. The de-facto leader of Heaven.

Why for the love of all that is good is Seonghwa involved?

You hold back on making a comment but your face says it all. Hongjoong scoffs, “Yeah. I know. Trust me, getting in touch with him was not on my to-do list.”

“You- You got in touch with him?” you hesitate to say. Hongjoong nods solemnly.

Why didn’t Yunho mention this? Did he even know?

You chew the insides of your bottom lip and ponder for a while; Yunho and Seonghwa have never met.

But if this is as big and as serious as Yunho said it is, as Hongjoong is currently claiming it is, to the point Seonghwa of all people is in the know, then why were you not informed?

Why didn’t Seonghwa tell you?

You and Seonghwa had been friends for quite a while, ever since you were merely a dweller. He had not long become the leader of Heaven, though Heaven never really had a leader. It was simply a placeholder title, the illusion of someone with authority beyond the pearly gates, but Seonghwa doesn’t rule in the way Hongjoong does. He mainly acts as a figure of guidance, a literal guardian angel as the other residents had joked. Heaven did have space for a sense of humour.

Given your history, it feels like something Seonghwa would have relayed to you during your monthly catch-ups. Heck, your last catch-up was only a fortnight ago, so is this an incredibly recent thing? Could he not have sent a message, was the information too confidential to risk a telegram?

There’s a flood of questions drowning every cell in your brain to the point it almost leaks out of your ears. You grip the rests of the chair until your fingers hurt, which to your surprise, concerns Hongjoong.

“Um, N? Is there something on your mind?”

You gaze up at him, foregoing any distant regret at the act. “Seonghwa never told me.” Hongjoong sits back in his chair. “I feel like- y’know you’re probably not aware of this, but, we’ve been friends for a while-”

“I am aware,” he reveals, “Seonghwa actually conceded that I ask after you in order to sort this situation out.”

You let go of the arm rests and place both hands on the desk. It’s cold to the touch, remarkable for such a sweltering space. “Y’know, not to make this about me, I just.. It’s weird, y’know, unless this happened in the last week, then I guess that makes sense, but-” Hongjoong’s words finally register. “He- He said what?”

Hongjoong sighs. “Seonghwa conceded that we ask after you. Full disclosure, this has been going on for a while, but it only really came to a head in the last week or so. He confided in me that he has been going back and forth in his brain over whether or not to send you a message himself, but that changed when I knocked on his door.” Sparks are firing off every inch of your body. The room is suddenly much hotter, and your nerves are somehow flying through the very tall roof of this office.

“I- Fucking hell-”

A hand flies to your mouth. Lower-case hell, and yet, it still stings on your tongue when you remember where you are.

Hongjoong shrugs it off, even managing to crack a smile. “Honestly, N, that does not phase me one bit.”

Your hand falls. “I- ahem- I’m sorry.”

“Worry not, N. I hear that sentiment all the time down here.”

The conversation has become calm out of nowhere. For a small moment, you forget yourself, but you immediately spring back when the embers return and Hongjoong’s eyes harden.

“Trust me, this situation is relentless on all fronts. I have an elder stewing in his own hatred and guilt, and there’s an angel upstairs he’s got it in for.”

“And you need me to scope this out?”

Hongjoong looks at you. “Yes. Please. If you would be the kindest.”

Taking a deep breath, you rest your forearms back on the desk. “Okay. Give me the details, and I’ll pay a visit to Heaven and talk to Seonghwa.”

“Good idea.” Hongjoong clicks his fingers once and a sheet of paper appears between his thumb and forefinger. “Here’s all the information you’ll need. I know that Yunho didn’t give you much, but that’s because I had all of it.”

You glance at the paperwork. At the very top, you see two names.

Choi San and Kang Yeosang

Choi San being the devil. Kang Yeosang being the angel.

Reading through the paperwork is an absolute trip. It’s all still so vague and yet you have your work cut out for you.

San - Elder. Four millennia. Mysterious past - possible connection to Heaven? Long history with Kang Yeosang. Seonghwa knows him of old, but the two never got along. San was never an angel, but has a history with Heaven. Yeosang - Divine. Two millennia. Harbouring a secret that no one in Heaven knows, not even Seonghwa. hates San with a burning passion. The facts - San and Yeosang have a long history. There are connections between the two of them via Heaven and Hell, but they have no connection to purgatory. Only they know why they feel the way they do, except Seonghwa has a theory that either one of them used to be residents of the other. The questions - Why didn’t San tell Seonghwa about this situation? What is the history that connects San to heaven, despite him never being an angel? Was Yeosang once a devil? Was San the reason he left Hell, or was Yeosang the reason San left Heaven? What do the other residents know of their history? Is there anything that San’s closest friend in Hell, Jung Wooyoung, can tell us about their past? Why has their feud caused such a terrible rift?

Your brows knit at a name you don’t recognise. “Jung Wooyoung?”

Hongjoong scoffs the meekest smile. “Ah, Wooyoung. The true definition of a daredevil. He has been here for two millennia, good friend of San. He likes to manifest to the mortal world a lot, so he doesn’t often spend time in Hell.”

You tilt your head. Interesting.

Hongjoong senses your gears turning and explains further, “I only added that question because something tells me he might know something. I mean, the two of them clicked almost immediately when they first met. Wooyoung had been there for a few centuries by that time. San was in a bit of a mortal world phase so he wasn’t around when Wooyoung first arrived.”

As Hongjoong speaks, you store all the necessary mental notes and remind yourself to jot them down in your notebook once you’re back.

“I see. Thank you for letting me know.”

Hongjoongs nods once, very politely, then shuffles the remaining papers in front of him. “So, with that, I believe that concludes our meeting. Do you have any questions?”

Yes, and no.

“I don’t think so,” you tell a half-truth. Or is it closer to a lie? You’re not sure.

“Well, if anything changes, send a telegram through Yunho and I will reply as promptly as possible.”

“But what if by that point I’ve manifested to the mortal world?”

Hongjoong hums, then strokes his chin. “Good point.” He then smirks a little. “In that case, do it the old-fashioned way.”

You make a face you can hardly believe you’re making in the presence of the High Devil, and he laughs, though it comes out as more of a heavy rumble. “Nobody has done that for hundreds of years.”

“Well then, perhaps you can start a new wave.”

You stand up, take the piece of paper, then fold it before putting it in your jacket pocket. “It has been quite the bizarre honour to speak with you, Your Highness.”

You can’t exactly say the meeting was amicable, but it certainly wasn’t hostile either.

Hongjoong regards you reverently. “And I you, N. Take care, and make yourself scarce.”

Exactly what Yunho had said. Not quite two peas in a pod, but close enough.

Upon leaving the office, you bypass the two guards with ease and make your way to the entrance.

That is until you are stopped by one of the devils.

“Excuse me, what were you doing speaking to the High Devil himself?”

You glance at the devil. His short, black hair is swept back off his forehead and stiff, as though held back in place with gel. You know of mortals styling their hair in various ways. Perhaps this is a look this devil picked up from one of his visits. “The meeting between us is strictly confidential, now please excuse me.”

You skirt around him and head for the door. He turns in place and yells after you, “Hey! We know why you’re here, don’t pretend like we don’t. We’re not fucking stupid, y’know.”

“San..” you hear another mutter.

San.

Shit, that’s San?

If you make your business known, he will know it’s him you’re getting the scoop on.

“You’re just here to get another article in your miserable paper. Haven’t you had enough of that?” he chides.

You swallow the lump in your throat and leave, not even sparing Sana a glance, regrettably so. Sana watches you ascend the stairs, and the door to Hell closes behind you.

Halfway up, you reach the doors of purgatory, your proverbial home, and take a few deep breaths.

Nothing has ever left you feeling so stilted. Residents of purgatory have no room for such strong emotions, and being an elder yourself, it’s astonishing that a split second confrontation with another elder has left you more winded than an entire meeting with Hell’s overseer.

His words turn somersaults in your mind as you continue your journey up to Heaven. All the while, you wonder if talking to Seonghwa will calm you down, you are friends after all, but then you remember his involvement in this feud.

And by the time you get to Heaven, the familiar face you’ve come to know as Mina, who much like Sana, acts as a security guard to the gates, is full of thunder in a way you have never witnessed before.

“Mina..” you inaudibly breathe out.

“N, good gracious, am I ever pleased to see you.” She approaches you and immediately wraps her arms around your shoulders, a gesture uncommon for her, and you awkwardly return the hug before she pulls back. She grabs your arms and looks you dead in the eyes, “N, there is no polite way for me to say this, but Seonghwa is beyond inconsolable.”

You sigh deeply and look askance. “Don’t worry, I have some idea.” “I thought you might,” she replies, letting go of your arms. “You have the face of someone who’s called at Hell already and hasn’t had the best experience.”

“You would be shocked to understand why.” Mina flexes a brow. “My meeting with the High Devil went pretty smoothly, actually,” - Mina then lifts both brows in shock - “I know. It was what happened after that that caused this.” You gesture vaguely to yourself and Mina exhales sympathetically.

“Oh dear. Did someone make a pointed remark?”

“Only one half of the party involved, no big deal,” you shrug it off sardonically, and Mina’s head falls in her hands. “The silver lining is that I don’t think he recognised that what I’m helping out with concerns him, so I think I’ve bought myself some time.”

“Any time is better than none,” Mina concedes. “But it is also of the essence, specifically in regards to Seonghwa.”

You glance at her, “Do you know the full extent of what’s going on?”

“Goodness, no. Not my business, not my place to ask. But I just know it’s another disagreement, and this one is so bad it’s made him so upset to the point I’ve been dragged into calming him down.”

You reach for her hands, tucking them into your own. “You have my sincerest apologies, Mina. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Worry not, dear, it is out of your control. I just hope things clear up eventually.”

“So do I. Okay, let’s go find Mr. Sad Wings.”

Mina stifles a laugh with a shake of the head, then hesitantly opens the door to Heaven.

You create a shield over your eyes with your hand; how do you constantly forget how bright it is in Heaven?

From afar, you notice a swath of angels surrounding a boldly disgruntled figure, fanning his face with their own wings and replenishing his cup with a dark red liquid.

You stop in place and cock a brow. Trust Seonghwa to unleash his inner amateur dramatics.

Seonghwa then notices you, and within seconds tells every angel to flee his presence. “Ah! N! Precious N, my dearest friend, how pleased I am to see you, my goodness.”

“Seonghwa,” you bluntly reply, dissatisfied with the performance.

He notices this and places a hand on his chest, genuinely offended by your attitude. “N! Can you not see I am in the greatest distress?”

“I can see you’re donning your I wish I was on Broadway slacks again.”

Seonghwa instantly halts the act and glares at you. “Fine.” He stands up, sets the cup aside and walks towards you. “You’re here, finally.”

“Finally?” you utter, taken aback.

Exasperated, Seonghwa exhales deliberately. “Listen, N, I am truly sorry, but the past 48 hours have been an absolute nightmare.”

“I can see, I can tell, and I know. You don’t have to say anything to me I haven’t already heard from Old Horns.”

He blinks at you. “Wait, you mean to tell me you went there first?”

You shrug, “Thought I’d get it out of the way, and honestly I’m glad, he was the one that ended up telling me about your involvement in this mess.”

He reflexively closes his eyes with yet another frustrated sigh. “Do not get me started, I have not caught a break from this since all- of it started breaking loose.”

Folding your arms, you shift to the side. “So much so Hongjoong had to get in touch?”

Seonghwa’s eyes open and he stares at you. “He told you that too?”

“Of course he did, Seonghwa. Hongjoong filled me in on everything he felt I needed to know, including this..” You pat the left side of your jacket discreetly, alluding to the information within, and Seonghwa pushes his shoulders back nervously. “You know me, I’ve been quite successful at my job, and if it means managing to help both leaders of Heaven and Hell at once, I consider it a bonus.”

“Hey! I am not the leader, you know how I feel about that.”

“De-facto leader.”

“Not even that! I don’t like being associated with the term, it makes me feel like a deity.” He adjusts his outfit, closing in on himself more as he stares at the cloudiness that covers his feet.

“Well, how should I refer to you if not by your name?”

“As I always have since I became an elder: an elder.” Seonghwa looks about the place then back at you. “Everyone here calls me a leader, it’s unnerving.” He shivers in the place at the mere thought then exhales. “So, you have all the information you need, you know exactly what you’re dealing with, why exactly have you come to see me?” he asks.

“Oh, am I not allowed to see you anymore?” you tease lightheartedly. Seonghwa rolls his eyes at your comment and explains that it isn’t about that, but that maybe you wouldn’t want to loiter around considering the sincerity of the situation. You ponder this and concede his viewpoint, but then you remember the feelings laying in the far back of your mind and scratch the nape of your neck. Honesty is the best policy. “Well, to be frank, when Hongjoong told me that you were a part of this, I wondered why you hadn’t said anything to me.” Seonghwa listens, but looks at the floor almost shamefully. “I just.. It just seemed a bit weird, since we’ve known each other so long and we talk about basically everything.”

“I see where you’re coming from,” Seonghwa replies, eventually gazing up at you. “It was never my intention to withhold anything from you, there was no malicious foresight.” You didn’t think there was, but continue to listen anyway. “I suppose I didn’t say anything right away because I just knew this would result in something that you’d be asked to get the answers on in a professional manner.”

“So it didn’t feel right to confront me on a personal basis?”

“Exactly.”

You hum in understanding. “Makes sense.”

“Trust me, N, this is well beyond both mine and Hongjoong’s imagination. I reckon it was quite odd for Yunho to discover as well.”

This takes you aback. Seonghwa rarely, if ever, references your boss directly, much less so by name.

You bite your tongue and decide not to dwell on it. “Oh, trust me, he was as shocked as anything.”

Seonghwa nods knowingly. “Well, to be honest, that is all I really understand about the situation. Anything you could possibly glean from my knowledge is contained in that paperwork, I can guarantee it.” He indicates your jacket pocket then clasps a hand over the other wrist, settling it on his abdomen. “I wish you the best of luck on his endeavour, and for the good of all that is gracious, don’t cross any wires.”

You lift a brow. “Meaning?”

Seonghwa goes to turn his back in a very defensive fashion. “Once you start divulging, it will all make sense.” Without another word, he walks away from you, lifting his cup and taking a sip of the wine within.

You feel the most bizarre interaction you’ve ever had with your closest friend has come to a rather unnatural conclusion, and instead of saying goodbye, you simply bow your head and turn to exit Heaven.

Before you can reach the gates, however, Seonghwa has another message for you.

“Be careful on the way down. It’s risky business.”

You stop in place. The same thing he always says before you go on a new adventure.

A smile cracks through the plaintive neutrality of your expression, and you leave, knowing that Seonghwa is smiling too, and that no matter what, you will always have each other’s best interests at heart.

×-×

Seonghwa moves through the courtyard of Heaven and takes a seat on one of the grey, velvet chairs in the corner of the room.

In the corner of his eye, he notices a certain other angel approaching.

The angel takes a seat beside him. Seonghwa lowers his cup and rests it in his lap.

“Was that N, perchance?” wonders the angel.

Seonghwa knows the residents of Heaven and Hell are aware of N, but they’re not always aware of what N is up to. Seonghwa peers over the cup, not sparing him a glance. “Yes, it was.”

The angel looks askance towards the floor. “Must be up to something exciting.”

The words get clogged in Seonghwa’s throat, so much so he cannot take another sip of his wine. He keeps himself occupied by running his finger around the rim, hoping to goodness that the angel doesn’t prod him for any more answers.

The divine looks back at him. “More wine, dear leader?”

Seonghwa almost coughs up the lump in his throat and shakes his head. “No, thank you, Yeosang.”

Yeosang nods his head and leaves him be. A cold shadow follows the divine as Seonghwa watches him go.

Yeosang heads to the other side of the room and sits beneath a silver canopy. Crossing one leg over another, he quietly observes the other angels.

An unsettling thought creeps into the back of his mind. He needs his own drink.

taglist: @bikerjongho × @lavishloving

× silverdune (ave). do not repost. ×

[foolishbuilders]

Random QSMP Fic Recs

Somehow, Sundown by Coby_Thinks

"Don’t- Fit, don’t try,” Bad wheezed from the ground. “When he’s like this, it's-” “Oh, when I’m ‘like this’ what?” Foolish knew he was probably just being honest, seeing as Bad had seen him like this a good many times. Hell, Bad had driven him to this point, pulled him back, joined him in it… but he still turned to glare down at the demon. “What, Bad? I’m unreasonable? I’m- what, fucking dangerous?” They both knew that the last one was very true, and Fit seemed to sense it. Rated T, 4.6k words, Totem of Death Foolish

precious things (that time forgot) by Coby_Thinks

The word ‘immortal’ had some common misconceptions about it, sometimes confused with ‘eternal’ or ‘invincible’. No, that’s not how it was. Foolish knew that better than almost anyone Rated T, 23.6k, Fooligetta

just yesterday i could've gone far away (today it rains again) by justlukahere

Pac is running through the forest when a jolt of pain makes him fall to the ground or; on the run from the red pack, Pac steps into a trap Rated T, 1.7k, purgatory teams and werewolves

lightning strike by bonesandthebees

Although some of the tension in the woman’s shoulders loosened, she continued to keep the gun pointing at Cellbit. “How do I know you’re actually their parents? People are fucked up these days. Especially when it comes to kids.” So Tallulah and Richarlyson were here. They were here, and they were probably right through the door to her left. But despite how badly Phil wanted to run past the woman to grab his daughter, he knew that right now, that would end with a bullet to the back. “Let us see them,” Cellbit argued. “Then you can see.” “But you could be trying to intimidate them. How do I know you haven’t, I don’t know, kidnapped them or something?” The woman questioned. “They’re our kids! Why would we lie?” Etoiles asked. “Because you took them into a fucking horde!” Rated T, 10k, zombie apocalypse

the best laid plans are half baked by sparklesandjazzhands

Wordlessly, Cellbit hands over a piece of paper with the rough sketches he had drawn early that morning. Charcoal letters across the top proclaim “FUCK THE BEAR!” in a messy scrawl. They match the dozens of scribbled-out pages littering the ground beneath his feet. Foolish reads the title without comment and holds the page up to his face for closer inspection. “Huh,” he mutters eventually. m Rated T, 1.7k, post purgatory au

I Hate You Too by foolich

“So.. you guys.. dated?” Jaiden carefully inquires. “No – “ “ – Yes.” Their heads swing towards each other. Bad was the one who said yes, and Foolish, is the one who rushed to deny. Foolish takes the leap to properly explain, like it’d soften his fall from grace, “We kissed for like two seconds.” “There is absolutely nothing between us.” Bad adds. “I do not feel anything towards Foolish.” Foolish pauses, his expression crumpling, “For some reason I feel like I should be offended by that.” Unrated, 2k, foolhalo/landduo shenanigans

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Walking on Sunshine 3

Sister series to Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows

Warnings: non/dubcon, antisocial behaviour, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: God The Bounty Hunter x reader

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You stare at the muffin, pondering it as if it holds the meaning of life. Where did it come from? Who could know of your secret longing? Or could it be a lucky guess?

Surely, it isn’t your prospective friend from the break room. Too fast, despite your hopes. You really can’t figure who would do this. As far as you know, you’re more of a name on a roster than an actual person in this office. That grumpy goth guy made that clear on your first day when he ran diagnostics on your machine.

You huff. Do you let temptation take over? A muffin, that’s a nice gesture, but it could also be a trap. Maybe your seat neighbour is trying to poison you for all your squeaking. The cinnamon makes your mouth water and you put the crumbly dessert back in the bag.

You put it in the corner of your desk and try to ignore it. There it is, taunting you with its deliciousness. You really should have eaten something. Now your stomach is growling at you angrily.

You sip your hot chocolate to suppress the cravings. You click and tap keys and zone out as you go through the usual corporate monotony. You feel like a robot just going through the motions. The same thing over and over.

You sit up and rub your eyes, leaning back so your chair squeaks, so high it hurts your ears. Ugh, curse this chair. But don’t really, it’s cursed enough.

Your neighbour mutters and makes a noise as if to mimic your chair. You whisper an apology. You drop your hands and a dark shape above the wall of your cubicle catches your attention. Your eyes round as they meet two others, vibrantly blue but dark at the same time.

It’s that man again. He just sits there, watching you. He peels the wrapper away from a muffin and pinches away a piece of the top. He’s expressionless as he puts it between his lips. He lets his fingers drag slightly as he seals his mouth and chews, still watching you.

Your mouth falls open and you look at the paper bag then back to him. His brows twitch just a little. Oh, wow. That’s strange. Who is this man and why is he so quiet and mysterious? You wheel your chair out slowly, careful not to make too much noise. You stand but hit the desk with your hip, jolting your cubicle and the next.

“I swear…” the slither rolls from your neighbours tight throat.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you look over as your neighbour hunches down but doesn’t acknowledge you further. Maybe you could be relocated.

You look up and the man is gone. What? How? He’s like a ghost. Are you imagining him? Are you cracking from this office purgatory and blacking out to buy sweet desserts? What’s real and what’s not? That’s a question better left to Descartes.

You sit back down and reach for your cup. There’s nothing that can be cured with sugary goodness. And there’s some things that can’t be forgotten, like that muffin and its sinister aura.

🌞

The muffin stays in its habitat. You let the sugar crumble fester, fighting not to let the cinnamon tempt you to err. Your work is made even more tedious by the paper bag sat not far from your mouse. Tear up the planks! It is the beating of his hideous heart!

Not exactly a Poe horror, only a muffin. You sigh as you log out for the day, packing up slowly as you ponder the weight of a single baked good. Your desk neighbour is gone swiftly, striding off with another mutter. They can’t even be happy about quitting time.

You pull your jacket on and sling your bag on your shoulder. One last look at the paper bag. You don’t have the heart to dump it in the bin. It’s a problem for tomorrow, another line on the list.

You take the stairs like you always do. The elevator is too crowded for you. It lurches terribly and gives you vertigo. Besides, you sit at a desk all day, you need to stretch your legs.

You get to the bottom floor and pop your earbuds in. Time to finish the saga of the tragic marriage. Your walk home isn’t far. It’s depressingly close. It feels like your entire life revolves around the soulless office building.

You tuck your hands into your pocket and dip your chin down. The narrator’s voice fills your ears, blocking out the impatient honking of rush hour and the noise of pedestrians shuffling by. You stop at the light, waiting for it to change.

A figure comes up next to you. You inch away, giving them space. They get closer. You stare ahead of you, your neck hot as the shadow hovers over you. The light changes but before you can set across the street, a paper bag greets you and has you stepping back.

You gasp and reach for your earbuds, turning to face the man as he holds out the paper bag. It’s him! The office ghost. He’s real!

“Oh, uh, it was… you?” You eke out as he says nothing. “Um…” you look back to the bag, almost crosseyed for how close he holds it. “That’s so kind of you but I don’t know if I should.”

He blinks and his brow ripples. He looks at the paper bag quizzically then at you. You flinch as he steps closer, reaching for you. You’re frozen in shock as he takes your wrist and turns your hand up. He places the bag firmly against your palm. You close your fingers around the bottom of the bag so it crinkles.

He lets you go, a curt nod before he brushes by you, leaving you speechless and confused as he marches down the perpendicular lane. You turn to watch his broad shoulders stalk down the pavement, oblivious to those who sidle out of his way. You adjust your grasp on the muffin as your mind races.

The mystery of the muffin is cracked but a million more questions flurry in your head. You don't even know his name.

[screamingmandrakes]

meg | they/she | voldemort centric

THIS BLOG IS ANTI-JKR. Pro-ship. Antis dni. PFP: by KoshLis.

welcome to my blog! i’m a multi shipper but i write voldemort centric fics.

MY SHIPS: HP/LV | HG/LV

NON HP SHIPS: DP/BC | FP/BC ( @onesixerplease )

i write mostly dead dove content, so let that be a warning to proceed with caution when reading my works. I always appropriately tag and put warnings on my fanfiction. When I post Dead Dove, I tag it ‘Dead Dove: Do Not Eat’. I don’t make a habit of reblogging/posting otherwise NSFW content but please be aware it is a possibility. this blog is 18+ and does not welcome minors.

Miss Granger

Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle | Voldemort

(Dead Dove, Do Not Eat.)

After finding herself trapped in an era not of her own, Hermione manages her survival by hiding in the Hogwarts’ library.

Unfortunately for her, it does not go without notice.

(This work of fiction depicts non-con. Please proceed with caution.)

Clever Little Mudblood

Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle | Voldemort

“You very nearly escaped Lord Voldemort,” red eyes peered upon her, furious, insane, obsessive. Hermione blinked back at her reflection in them, her hands searching the rubble behind her for any hint of an escape. “You very nearly fooled me, for you were smart, little Mudblood. You were quick, but never again will you run.”

Happy House

Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle | Voldemort

(Dead Dove: Do Not Eat)

Lord Voldemort cries.

No, not Voldemort: Tom cries. Swaddled in grey blankets, a battered baby mobile spins idly above his crib as he shrieks. Chipped, faded yellow stars dangle from it, doing nothing to soothe the wailing infant. The windows rattle as thunder booms on the horizon, and the world around them kisses the day goodnight as the sun descends from sight. Pitiful attempts of joy fill the room: cracked paint peels from poorly painted rainbows on the wall, and the distant chime of a lullaby bleeds in from the hallway.

This is no place to hope, yet Hermione does anyway.

(AKA: Hermione raises Tom, and then fails miserably.)

boys

Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort

This must be karma, some kind of punishment, some form of purgatory. Tom is meticulous, never wrong, never out of place. He eliminates anything — or anyone — that threatens to usurp that. Tom Marvolo Riddle, by all means, does not spend his time in broom closets, crammed against a shelf while the Gryffindor seeker holds him by his hips.

“Is that what this is about? You…you like…” Harry’s sentence remains unfinished, but the implications are clear. Disgust curdles in Tom’s gut, putrid.

“Like,” Tom enunciates as if the word is poison on his tongue. “What a stupid thing to say, Potter. I admire your delusion.”

(AKA: Tom's a bratty virgin.)

Fan Art

Art for and i feed on the fear that's behind your eyes

Art for Miss Granger

Translations:

Ukrainian translation for Miss Granger

My Non-HP Works

Psychological Warfare

Ford Pines/Bill Cipher

What was it he had called Bill in his journal? A screeching, graceless lunatic?

“Yeesh! I’m just kidding,” Bill flicks his cane, rustling the papers surrounding them and sending them awry. They scatter widely, equations lifting from the pages, the sloppy penmanship spiraling through the air around them. Everywhere Ford looks, his desperation stares back. “It’s not my fault you rolled a zero on your sense of humor. You know you’re not allowed to die! All I’m saying is, how long are you going to keep pretending you don’t need me? Look at you, I’ve possessed corpses in better shape.”

"Yes," Ford says, squaring his jaw. "I know. I enjoyed shooting them.”

shut out the cold, kneel and pray

Ford Pines/Bill Cipher

The need to be loved is not unique to humankind, but it’s a rather integral part of what makes Stanford Pines who he is. Bill understands this.

[calaisreno]

Point of View in Fiction: Some Observations

I did a poll on point of view in fanfiction a while ago. The results didn't surprise me; I knew that some people just don't read 1st person stories, and most people don’t care about POV. I was more interested in the reasons people gave for their preference.

It's a personal thing, how someone tells you a story, and if you don't like the narrative voice, you will associate it with other things. Readers don’t often think about voice, but it is one of the most important ways a story draws you in, or sends you to the back button. I suspect it's narrative voice that is affecting some readers more than POV.

I’ve never hit the back button on any fic because of the POV. I have hit that button because of format, paragraphing, and a few other issues. I’m an English teacher who taught creative writing for many of those years. Now I don’t read things that feel like student writing-- simply because I can’t enjoy reading something if it feels like I should be grading it. If there are spelling errors or common grammar mistakes that I see over and over in student work, I don’t read it. It might be a good story, but I can't put myself in the right headspace to appreciate it because it feels like work.

Judging from the replies to the poll, some people associate first person POV with bad writing, but there are many other things that flag a story as badly written. And a badly written story isn’t necessarily a bad story. (Barbara Woodhouse assured us that there are no bad dogs; this may be true for stories as well, but choice is an individual matter. There are some breeds I would not choose as a companion.)

I was given the task of teaching creative writing because the admin in charge of the schedule at my school needed another English elective and I had a hole in my schedule. I was an avid reader and had written a lot of original fiction at that point, and thought having students write poems and stories might be a nice change from essays and book reports. My feelings about it were not relevant. Nobody cared whether I was qualified; it was either Creative Writing or Study Hall (i.e. Purgatory) for me. I did not hesitate.

The reality: I loved it and hated it.

Many of my young writers were reluctant, having been placed in my class to fill a hole in their schedules; they did not enjoy writing in the least. A hundred words was an accomplishment for some of them; if they could break this barrier, they got smiley faces and exclamation points. Others were wildly enthusiastic, producing pages of badly spelled and punctuated narrative, a chaotic jumble of scene and dialogue with random flashes of brilliance.

Grading a story is not like grading an essay. The fledgling writers who are serious need to know that spelling, punctuation, and grammar matter: it’s the suit you put on for the interview so you get the job. The ones who dislike writing need encouragement to see that it doesn't have to be punishment. It can be play.

A few observations from my years working with student writers:

Inexperienced fiction writers tend to use POV 1st person more often. Most of these writers are also enthusiastic readers. First person POV helps them find the camera eye focus they realize fiction needs. However fantastic, the story they write is their story, intimate and personal, and 1st person feels most comfortable to them. They need encouragement and a few friendly suggestions, not a paper bloodied by my red pen. In writing process, first drafts are allowed to be horrible.

The non-readers in my class were the most reluctant writers; they often failed to understand POV and wrote from an outsider third-person POV which ended up being more of a summary than a story. My job was to show them how to pull scenes out of the summary. People talking, doing things.

We all start somewhere.

Publishers note that first submissions are often written in first person. It is not that they reject these stories because of that; the stories have other amateur flaws and the POV is just a flag for other issues. First person is not bad, it’s just harder for new writers to pull off well.

Several novels I’ve recently read use first person narrator to good effect: Piranesi comes to mind, The Rule of Four, and Moriarty. The Left Hand of Darkness is a story I can’t even imagine in third person-- and it has two narrators! The original Sherlock Holmes stories (all but a couple) are written in first person, with Doctor Watson narrating.

There are choices even within a first person narrative. The main character doesn’t have to narrate. Watson isn’t the main character in ACD’s stories, Holmes is. Watson is an involved/interested observer (a common use of first person); he stands in for the reader, seeing the mystery unfold, not understanding what all the clues mean until— surprise!— Holmes reveals the solution. I have read mysteries where the first person narrator turns out to be the murderer; the shock value of this fades if you use it every time, but it’s effective on some stories. First person is not bad, if chosen for a good reason.

And third person has its own set of problems. The multiple “he” and “his” that need clarification. The accidental wandering out of limited point of view into semi-omniscience. Even a close, third-person limited narrative provides some distance from the viewpoint character.

Second person is rare and considered gimmicky. I wrote a story in second POV once; the only comment from my most admiring reader: NO. Just, NO. Since that horror, I’ve used first person with second person address in a couple stories (Blessings and The Story of Us, if you’re curious). It’s not a choice I’d often make, but sometimes it’s the right one.

Several of my favourite fanfics use the first person brilliantly. (Pointing to ivyblossom’s The Progress of Sherlock Holmes and The Quiet Man.) When reading, I generally don’t notice point of view unless I think about it; if the narrative flows, the choice obviously works. I don't read much in other fandoms, but think that the Sherlock fandom has a lot of really talented and experienced writers, better than many published stories I’ve read.

I use first person in some of my stories, usually because I’ve found a narrative voice I like. I’ve also rewritten stories after the first draft, changing POV (first to third, or third to first) because I thought it would work better. My feeling is that neither is better in general; in a specific story it should be a deliberate choice, not an accidental one. It’s one of many things to think about when writing a narrative. Voice is one of the most important.

My conclusions:

Reading for pleasure means that the best story is the one you love. It’s a personal choice, not a debate.

Writing well develops over time, as a product of many things. If you’re writing for pleasure, not pay, you should write what you love. Do not change your story because of what a poll says.

If you’re unsure or unhappy about what you’ve written, find a beta reader. Ask them questions. Pay them in adoration. Return the favour; it’s a great way to learn.

Polls are useful only for provoking thought. My thanks to all who participated!

[hyprfixate]

hold on tight ↝ [L.F.] :: part one

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ summary: you're unhappy. you're almost certain that there isn't anything in this world that can make you happier, and you're right. what you don't account for, however, is something otherworldly flipping your life on its head. or, should you say someone

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ pairing: lee felix x (she/her) reader

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ word count: 3.3k

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ tags: angst, non idol au, fantasy au kind of, felix is an angel literally and figuratively, mentions of suicidal thoughts without going into detail, reader is depressed, she/her pronouns used for the reader, slowburn, strangers to lovers, putting angst again bc thats how much angst there is.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ author’s note: i wanted to post the whole fic at once but college + adhd + eds = no writing time :(. so here’s part one! i hope you guys enjoy it <3

(ignore formatting mistakes i beg </3)

-

You open your eyes to find yourself, of all places, in an elevator.

You’re not exactly sure where you expected to be, but an elevator was definitely not in the realm of possibilities.

“Um… hello?”

As expected, no one answers you.

The elevator is moving, though, and it dings with each floor that it passes. Your eyes nearly bulge from your head when you see there are 4,000 floors this elevator can go to, and you’re only on the fourth at the moment. With a sigh, you slump against the wall and prepare for the long ride ahead of you.

“Great,” you mumble to yourself. “Just another place to be stuck in.”

Your pessimism is one of your worst qualities, you think. While there is very little about you that you would deem “good”, your pessimism seemed to be the overarching issue, not only for you but for those around you.

The dinging of the elevator grows bleary, and as you pull up to the 10th floor, the ding sounds more like the low groan of a dying man. The doors part slowly, and you come face to face with what looks like a waiting room.

Is this some kind of joke?

A plaque on the wall reads “Purgatory”, and just under that plaque is a plentiful head of sandy brown hair. The owner of the head looks up with a grin, and you’re nearly mesmerized by his beauty. Perfectly sculpted features on the most symmetrical face you’ve ever seen, with freckles littering his face and cheeks like flecks of gold in the sand. To add to his otherworldly good looks, his body is outlined in a pale gold, flickering like the flame of a candle. Your eyes roam his body for identification, but the name tag on his shirt is too far for you to read. You continue to hold his gaze as the grin on his face falters.

“Um. Hi?”

Collecting himself, he clears his throat, shuffling with papers on his desk. “Hi,” he manages out. “My name is Felix, welcome to purgatory. Can I get your name please?”

Your name comes out in a voice just above a whisper, and he hurriedly types it into his computer. The room is silent while you wait,and you notice he’s purposefully avoiding your gaze. The awkward energy in the room comes to its peak when after a moment, his thick eyebrows mesh together in confusion.

“Sorry, could you repeat your name for me? I may have misheard you.”

You nod, repeating and even taking the time to spell it out, letter by letter. Felix’s face is still scrunched in confusion as he mutters the letters back to himself under his breath. Moments pass, and the confused look does not leave his face.

“Do you… have another name by chance? A birth name?”

“No,” you say carefully. “I’m not adopted or anything.”

“That’s.. weird,” he mutters. “Your name isn’t coming up in the system for some reason.”

Your breath catches in your throat. “What do you mean?”

Felix reaches over to the front of the desk, grabbing the phone off of the receiver and holding it between his ear and shoulder. “Everyone gets a death report,” he explains as he punches in some numbers. “It details which part of the building you go to, how long you have to stay in this department, the people you left behind— all the technical stuff. For some reason yours isn’t coming up.”

He holds up one finger as the person on the other line answers, turning away and talking in harsh whispers.

There’s a feeling of anxiety brewing in your stomach as he talks, and you feel like you could throw up.

Felix’s conversation wraps up quickly, with a satisfying clack once he puts the phone back on the receiver. “Guy will be down in a second,” he says. The soft smile is back on his face as he gestures to a plastic chair nearby. “Please, have a seat.”

You nod wordlessly as you make your way to the decrepit looking chair. There’s a sneaking suspicion in your brain as to why your report won't come up, and you hope to all powers above that you’re wrong.

You take a few deep breaths, trying to calm your pounding heart as you wait for Guy to come down here and explain what’s going on. From the corner of your eye you see Felix sneaking glances at you, scribbling furiously in a notebook as he does. The glow around his body is growing brighter, almost blinding you. You’re about to mention it when the ding of the elevator catches your attention.

Both of you turn your attention to the entrance of the office, watching as a couple walks in, hand and hand. They smell like fire and burning rubber, and judging from the bright red mark across the girl’s throat, a car accident did them in. Felix sneaks one more glance at you before putting away his pen and turning back on his customer-service smile, asking the couple the same questions he asked you a moment before.

Unsurprisingly, their reports show up as expected. Felix prints them out and says comforting words to the couple, sliding a box of tissues to them when the girl starts to weep. He points them in the direction of a grand staircase before wishing them well. As they disappear up the stairs, you notice a pair of feet coming in the opposite direction.

“Oh! There’s Guy. He’ll sort this all out.” Felix’s customer service grin is back on his face, but you notice apprehension and questioning in his eyes.

Guy steps into the room, and you’re immediately overwhelmed by his presence. He’s absolutely massive, and his face glows so bright you can barely make out his features. All you see are his eyebrows, mouth, and nose. He rests the file folder he was holding on the front desk, leaning forward with ease.

“Hey,” he says. “You called, Lixie?”

The brunette nods, gesturing in your direction and introducing you. “Uh, she came in earlier, I took her name, but nothing came up. I think something’s wrong with the computer.”

“That’s… interesting.” Guy turns towards you, eyebrows raised. “Hey there. Can I get your name?”

You tell him your name, spelling it out for him the same way you did for Felix. He nods quietly and opens the file folder, flipping through documents quickly. The anxious pit in your stomach grows with each passing second, and it’s taking everything in you not to throw up right then and there.

He reaches the end of the folder, confusion appearing on his otherwise blank face. He leans over the counter and turns the computer monitor towards himself, typing in your name and clicking around several times.

“See,” Felix says, his large eyes peering up at Guy. “Nothing.”

Guy stands up to his full height, placing his hands on his hips and sighing. He shakes his head and lets out a huff of air that sounds almost like a laugh. Felix’s big brown eyes never leave his face, even when Guy picks up his manilla folder and tilts his head in the direction of the staircase.

“You two, please follow me.”

-

It’s obvious from the way his eyes go wide and sparkly that Felix has never been in Guy’s office before. He bubbles with childlike curiosity as he looks at the books on the shelves, taking time to read their titles and inspect their binding while Guy scours through his desk for– well, you’re not sure what he’s looking for. You assume it’s important though, as he’s mumbling to himself as he searches (you swear you hear a few expletives come from his mouth as he does). After a minute or two, he produces a much older looking manilla folder. This one is stained with who-knows-what, and it’s covered in dust particles and stray pen scribbles. He tosses the folder onto his desk with an exasperated sigh.

Seemingly only now remembering that you two are there, Guy gestures to the loveseat next to his desk. “Sorry! Please, take a seat.”

The two of you shuffle over silently. Felix sits at the edge of the couch, hugging a throw pillow to his chest.

You tuck your hands between your knees, seeking warmth and comfort. You’re tired and extremely confused– for the most part. Though you’re almost certain why you’re here, you still have a lot of questions about what the front desk worker, Felix, has to do with any of this.

Guy looks over at the two of you, and you can see his lips are curled into a small, soft smile. “There is really no easy way for me to explain this,” he starts. He reaches a hand up, and you assume he’s running it through his hair. “I guess I’ll start from the end and go backwards. You two can’t stay here.”

Your eyebrow quips upwards, but Felix makes a face that looks like he’s just been kicked out onto the street. You suppose that really is the case.

The brunet next to you stutters and his voice shakes. He’s confused, rightfully so, but you keep your eyes pinned to the floor in front of you. Guy simply holds up a hand and pleads with Felix to let him finish.

“Felix,” he continues. “Have you ever noticed that you’re surrounded by a–”

“Gold outline?”

They finish their sentences at the same time, and Guy nods. “It’s a rare phenomenon. Extremely rare. I’m sure before today you’ve never seen anyone else with one.”

Your attention peaks at that, and you glance up. You’re about to ask who else has one, when you catch sight of yourself in the reflection of the window behind Guy’s desk. You look the same way you remember, but you’re surrounded by bright, flickering gold light. It shines around you like sparklers on the fourth of July, the same way you noticed Felix’s did when you were downstairs in the lobby.

Felix meets your gaze in the window and nods. “What does it mean?”

“Well… For you–” Guy’s attention shifts to your direction, “- for you it’s a sign that you’re here before your time. You shouldn’t be here yet. You shouldn’t be dead yet.”

The anxious pit in your stomach widens and swallows you whole.

You barely register Guy’s explanation to Felix of what he means. Panic engulfs your senses and you’re trying your hardest to hold it together. You don’t want to cry in the afterlife (betweenlife?), you did enough of that when you were fully living.

Of course, you think. Of course you’re here before you need to be. That would just be your luck right? Despite the months it took to gather the courage to take that final plunge into darkness, you’ve still somehow made a mistake– one that seems to take more than just a quick fix.

You notice, through your spiraling thoughts, that the voices around you have stopped talking. You lookup and notice Felix’s eyes are on you. His expression reads pity, and you scowl, annoyed by the thoughts you think are running through his mind. You turn your attention back to Guy, and you’re grateful that you can’t make out his eyes.

“Are you alright?”

You nod. “Sorry. I must have zoned out.”

Guy nods slightly, knowingly, but he chooses to continue with his speech rather than to dwell on it. You dig your nails into the palm of your hand and force yourself to keep focused. Felix swallows thickly and decides to turn his attention away from you.

“Where was I?” He rubs his hands together in thought, clapping softly when he gets back on track. “Right. Now, while that might be the case for her and for other people, you glow for a different reason, Felix. Almost the opposite, actually.”

It’s Felix’s turn to look confused and anxious. He rubs his hands against his thighs. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

Guy slides the dusty old folder to the edge of his desk as an invitation for Felix to take it. He reaches over for it, and with wide eyes he notices his name stamped on the top right corner.

“You’re very special, Felix,” Guy continues. “Everyone who works here was alive at some point, except for you. You’re what we call a wandering spirit.”

You glance over at Felix, who’s brown eyes are vacant as he peels through the file. “What… what does that mean?”

“It means that you have a purpose, a very specific purpose on Earth, but your spirit was born before its time. That’s why you’ve been here for so long. Your job here at purgatory was busy work, just a time passer until the day you’re needed on Earth. And it seems like that day is today.”

Guy lets out a long, watery breath. “Felix Lee, I would like to formally introduce you to your guardian angel assignment.”

“Guardian angel?”

You blink curiously. “I’m confused.”

“Well. His job is to watch over you, protect you, keep you out of harm’s way.”

“I get that,” you mumble. “But why does all of that matter if…”

You trail off in the middle of your sentence. Realization rears its ugly head like an unwanted pimple, and you freeze on the spot.

Guy doesn’t even get the first letter of your name out of his mouth before you’re disagreeing, anger and fear taking over your actions like a wounded stray animal. You’ve managed to propel yourself halfway across the room before you even realize what’s going on.

“I’m not going back,” you cry, anxious hands wringing together feverishly. You avoid Felix’s gaze, trying to keep your focus on the massive man seated behind the desk. His mostly featureless face looks surprised at your outburst.

“Wait, what? What’s going on?” Felix quips. His big brown eyes shift between you and Guy as though he’s watching a ping-pong match.

Guy sighs. “Felix, your assignment is to go to Earth and watch over her. Make sure that she doesn’t…”

“Doesn’t… what?”

“Kill myself,” you deadpan. He whips his head in your direction. “You’re coming to Earth to make sure I don’t kill myself.”

Said “guardian angel” drops the folder in his hands, sheets of paper fluttering down to the floor. His ears are beginning to grow red, and he mumbles apologies as he makes quick work of gathering what’s fallen to the floor. When he sits up again, he looks directly at you. His eyes are wide and his lips have flattened into a thin line. Felix stares holes into your face, a myriad of questions swimming in the back of his mind. He opens his mouth as if he wants to say something, but he closes it again.

“I’m sorry,” Guy says. You can’t tell who he’s talking to. “I know this is sudden, I know that this isn’t what you, either of you, expected or even wanted.” His gaze settles on you before he continues. “But you don’t belong here. Not yet. There’s so much more for you to learn about and discover.”

You shake your head furiously. “No.” Your voice comes out stronger than it feels. “No, I can’t go back. I don’t want to.”

There’s sympathy on Guy’s face, but he isn’t wavering. “I’m sorry.”

Felix has remained silent, staring at the ground in front of him with an alarming amount of focus. His hands are clasped together over the folder in his lap, but his leg is bouncing at an incredible speed. For a moment, you imagine the panic going through his mind: he’s being forced to leave the only home he’s ever known to play babysitter to someone who doesn’t even want to be alive. His problems take a back seat in your mind as you mull over that last part.

Someone who doesn’t even want to be alive.

Guy is speaking again, this time to Felix. You can’t find it in you to listen, or even pretend to be listening. Your mind is swimming with thoughts, memories of your life and everything that led up to this moment. You’re shaking, knees wobbly and trembling as you realize that you’re once again destined to be stuck in a situation you don’t want to be in. Your eyes dart around the room and you begin looking for an out; a window, an air vent— if it came to it you’d close your eyes and pretend that you weren’t even there.

Guy stands up and begins walking in your direction. You inch closer and closer to the corner, only for him to walk right past you. You notice that there’s a small, unassuming door in the wall behind you.

“There’s really no time for any more questions,” he murmurs. “I have to get you two back to Earth where you belong.”

“Wait…”

Felix’s voice is hoarse with trepidation. He’s still staring at the ground, body slightly trembling as he gathers up all his fleeting thoughts in attempts to make a coherent sentence. “I don’t… I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing.”

“Everything you need is in that folder, Felix.” Guy’s booming voice has an edge of softness to it, the kind of fondness only achievable by a parent. “I know you can do this. Both of you. Everything is going to be okay.”

Guy reaches a massive hand towards the doorknob. He’s shaking a bit himself, and you imagine he’s feeling nervous about sending Felix away from the only home he’s ever known. From what you’ve gathered, Felix is the only one who’s been here as long as he has. He must feel like a son to Guy, and now he has to watch his son leave the safety of their home for the first time.

The door in the wall opens, and a bright light floods your senses. You squint from the corner you’re huddled in. There are tears streaming down your face, and it is taking every ounce of your control not to begin screaming and throwing yourself around on the floor. Guy turns around, motioning for you and Felix to come to the door.

“This passageway will take you back in time by a few days,” he says. “From there, it’s all in your hands.”

He looks over at you, calling your name softly. “It’s okay,” he says. “You can do this. You can go back. You won’t be alone.”

Against your better judgement, you look over at Felix, whose freckled face is also littered with tears. His big, brown eyes are still downcast, but sensing your gaze he glances up and gives you the smallest smile. He scrubs his cheeks with the back of his hand before he reaches out to you. “We can do it,” he whispers.

There’s desperation in his voice the next time he speaks. “Please. Let me do this.”

Only hesitating slightly, you uncurl yourself from the corner of the room and take a step towards Felix. He closes the gap between you two, slipping his long, slender fingers in your grasp. He gives your hand a squeeze, then looks up at Guy. They stare at each other for a moment before Guy steps out of the way, allowing space for you and Felix to walk through the door.

Felix takes the first step, letting the hand connected to yours stay behind him. Your feet feel heavy, but you allow yourself to get pulled a bit. With one final watery sigh, you follow him into the white light. It swallows both of you whole, and you feel both weightless and weighed down at the same time. Felix’s hand seems to disappear from your grasp, and before you can fully register it, you feel yourself falling from a great height.