#ghost train orchestra

[jgthirlwell]

03.23.24 Kronos Quartet with Brian Carpenter of Ghost Train Orchestra performing a song by Moondog at Big Ears Festival

[burlveneer-music]

Ghost Train Orchestra & Kronos Quartet - Songs and Symphoniques: The Music of Moondog

On "Songs and Symphoniques: The Music of Moondog," Ghost Train Orchestra teams up with the trailblazing Kronos Quartet to celebrate and reimagine the music of Louis Hardin, aka Moondog, the ground-breaking composer and poet who lived on the streets of New York City in the 50s and 60s, and influenced the minimalists Philip Glass, Steve Reich and Terry Riley. A blind composer who moved from Kansas to New York City and built his own instruments and mythology, Moondog's story and music continue to be an inspiration to many. Along with guests Sam Amidon, Jarvis Cocker, Petra Haden, Karen Mantler, Marissa Nadler, Aoife O'Donovan, Rufus Wainwright and Joan Wasser, the two groups explore Moondog's sense of whimsy, wonder and adventure through a cross-section of songs and instrumentals for large ensemble, string ensemble, percussion and voice. The vinyl and CD packages include an essay by biographer Robert Scotto, Moondog's song lyrics, extensive in-studio photographs by Dan Efram, and an interview with Kronos Quartet founder David Harrington and Ghost Train Orchestra founder Brian Carpenter, mediated by music historian Irwin Chusid. Kronos Quartet David Harrington - violin John Sherba - violin Hank Dutt - viola Sunny Yang - cello Ghost Train Orchestra Brian Carpenter, trumpet, harmonica, vocals Andy Laster, alto saxophone, flute Dennis Lichtman, clarinet Matt Bauder, bass clarinet, tenor, baritone saxophones Sara Schoenbeck, bassoon Curtis Hasselbring, trombone, guitar Ron Caswell, tuba Brandon Seabrook, guitar Chris Lightcap, bass Rob Garcia, drums David Cossin, marimba, percussion Maxim Moston, violin Colin Stetson, bass saxophone Guests: Sam Amidon, Jarvis Cocker, Petra Haden, Karen Mantler, Marissa Nadler, Aoife O'Donovan, Rufus Wainwright, and Joan Wasser All new arrangements by Ghost Train Orchestra Dedicated to the memory of Hal Willner

[drkaz]

7/358

ghostwriter give me / space lovesick dream waves sun glaze / let's ride space funk cranes

[cbcruk]

Ghost Train Orchestra & Kronos Quartet - High On A Rocky Ledge (feat. Marissa Nadler)

[rileyslibrary]

Be gentle, man!

Synopsis: You and the team go undercover to a dinner where high-profile guests are invited. You need to acquire vital information while acting posh at the same time. Good lord, help you all.

Relationship: Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader, Task Force 141 x F!Reader

Word Count: 1,519 (approx. 6-7 min reading time)

Notes:

This is the second (and final) part of the story but you can read it as a oneshot. Here’s Part 1 if you’re interested.

No warnings; casual read with platonic relationships.

———————————————————————

The Athenian Palace: You’ve heard of the place a few times, mainly through the news, but never had the chance to visit. And why would you? Are you the president of a country? A diplomat? A wealthy businessperson with significant influence over government decision-makers? No, you are just a soldier among the many considered expendables. Your duty is to protect your country with your life—the same country that many attending the event have a vested financial interest in.

But today, everything is different. Today, you’re supposed to act like someone who comes from money.

For the past month, you and the rest of the team have undergone extensive training in formal dining, conversation, walking, and dancing. Everyone has adapted to their undercover personas somehow, except for Price, who couldn’t accompany you since he’s been undercover in a similar instance some years ago and poses a threat to the mission if he gets recognised.

Gaz required the least training among the four of you. You haven’t yet determined if he was naturally suited for this role or if his assigned persona was more straightforward than the rest. Nevertheless, he seemed comfortable conversing about the tech industry and acting like James Sinclair, the alleged tech entrepreneur.

On the other hand, Soap was the complete opposite of Gaz. Your etiquette instructor, Lady Theodora, struggled to mould him, but he always found a way to break free. Eventually, she found the tipping point to channel Soap’s extravagance to benefit the mission.

“What would you do if you were a trust fund child?” She asked, to which Soap replied that he would be “poised and all” but at the same time act “like Paris Hilton in the 2000s.” And that’s how Maxwell Vanderbilt—or “you can call me Max,” according to Soap—was born: with a mohawk, a loose-fitting suit, and an unchallenged attitude. You hated to admit it, but he was the most authentic and convincing among the four of you.

As for you and your Lieutenant, you were still adjusting to your role as a couple, particularly with the required intimacy. Yet, with Lady Theodora’s help, you managed to get closer, even if that involved a few unorthodox ways of doing things. One day, for example, she duck-taped your hands together and ordered you to spend the entire day together. She taught you how to dance, touch each other in public, and show, without telling, how you and Ghost— or Sir Ethan K. Wood—would infiltrate the facility and gather vital information as a couple.

He hated the name. “Why should I pretend to be fucking Ethan?” He asked, but Lady Theodora explained that it was a name forged by Laswell and she could do nothing about it. And when you told him you were named “Constance”, he spitted out his drink and immediately became grateful to Sir Ethan K. Wood.

Arriving in a Maserati Levante, you were greeted by a team of three people, two opening your doors and one guiding your hand as you stepped out of the car.

You wrap your arm around Ghost and approach the entrance.

As you walk through the imposing double doors, the room reveals itself in all its glory—a high ceiling decorated with murals stretch towards the heavens. The ballroom’s walls are draped in exquisite fabrics of gold and burgundy while crystal chandeliers cast a soft glow, illuminating the space and creating an inviting and elegant atmosphere.

The ballroom’s focal point is a large dance floor. It invites guests to dance while a live orchestra, hidden in a corner, fills the room with melodies. Surrounding the dance floor, elegant tables decorated with crisp linens showcase elaborate floral centrepieces, while towering candelabras provide additional illumination.

You look at the guests; men wear tailored tuxedos, and women glide in flowing gowns and sparkling jewellery. Your gaze shifts to Ghost, who looks dashing in a three-piece navy suit, a matching tie, and a white handkerchief in his chest pocket.

“Are you ready, my dear?” You ask with fake confidence.

“Ah, my love,” Ghost replies, “in for a penny...”

“... in for a fucking pound.”

“Language, Constance.” He corrects you sternly.

“Apologies, darling.”

You enter the crowd, mingling with the elite. Ghost introduces you as his wife, guiding you with a firm yet gentle touch on your back. Engaging in conversation, you discuss the land you supposedly own, the inflation—that most people in the room are the direct cause of—and collectively sorrow over the economy’s current state. All this while sipping champagne from crystal glassware that’s worth more than your annual salary.

Among the guests, you spot Soap conversing with a group of Wall Street figures. He appears relaxed, holding a glass of whiskey with an orange peel garnish.

“Ah, what can you do?” You hear his Scottish accent echoing in the room. “It’s a self-regulating market, after all.”

Lots of things baffle you in this world. Soap, talking about self-regulating markets with a bunch of Golden Boys who nod and agree with him just added another paradox to your list.

“Darling,” Ghost says, with his hand finding yours and interlacing your fingers, “dinner will be served shortly; let us find our table.”

You approach your seats, and Ghost pulls out a chair for you. As you settle in, you look around at the surrounding tables, searching for familiar faces. Gaz, sporting a suit with no tie and fake glasses, is seated at the table next to yours and talks with the people around him.

The evening unfolds with a symphony of courses served with artistic precision. Each dish arrives like a work of art—a culinary masterpiece. You apply Lady Theodora’s training and indulge in the exquisite feast while engaging polite conversations. You observe and listen closely to the guests’ discussions, hoping to obtain any valuable information that might aid your mission.

With dinner concluded, everyone moved to the ballroom for the entertainment segment. Ghost discreetly signals for you to follow him. Excusing yourselves, you navigate the corridors of the Athenian Palace, with the music and chatter fading as you reach the server room.

“This is it,” Ghost whispers as he approaches the servers. “The information we need should be here. You need to get to work.”

You nod and navigate the complex digital landscape, leveraging your technical expertise to penetrate the encrypted files. Meanwhile, Ghost maintains a vigilant watch and stands guard, ensuring no unexpected disruptions throw a wrench into your plans. Each creak or distant voice makes him reach for the gun in his inner jacket pocket.

Minutes pass like hours. Suddenly, your face lights up.

“Got it!” you shout, and Ghost brings a finger to his lips, urging you to keep quiet.

“Got it!” You repeat, this time in a whisper.

“Good girl,” he replies softly, “now let’s go find the others and get the fuck out of here.”

You begin your return to the ballroom, but things feel strange this time. The calm conversations surrounding the place have turned to screams, and the music sounds somewhat different than when you left the hall.

Ghost puts a hand in front of you and stops you.

“What’s going on, Constance?” he asks, concerned.

“Let’s find out, my love,” you reply, loading the pistol strapped to your thigh.

You run through the corridors, but there’s no one there—it sounds like everyone has gathered in the main hall.

Just before entering the ballroom, you compose yourself, adopting the poised stance Lady Theodora taught you. You enter the hall to uncover the reason behind the change in atmosphere.

Soap stands on a table in the centre of the ballroom, flipping his mohawk from left to right in sync with the rhythm of “Macarena”, played by the orchestra. Ties are now worn as headbands, and champagne glasses have become shots.

Dumbfounded by the spectacle unfolding right before your eyes, you approach Gaz.

“Ga-James, what’s the deal with all this?” You ask while looking at Soap dancing on the table.

Gaz chuckles, adjusts his fake glasses, and points towards Soap. “This fucking genius had a brilliant plan to create a diversion while you two were working your magic behind the scenes.”

Ghost raises an eyebrow. “So, this whole… thing is Soap’s way of keeping the spotlight off us?”

Gaz nods. “Exactly, mate. Soap figured throwing a wild party would divert the security’s focus from their employer’s safety.”

You look at Soap, who has now started a conga line. “If their employer is too drunk and occupied, they won’t care about outside threats,” you utter.

“Indeed,” Gaz says, “they have a whole other worry; their employer not getting any more shitfaced.”

“That audacious, brilliant motherfucker,” Ghost shakes his head in awe, “he just created the perfect cover for our mission.”

Soap notices you looking at him and raises his hands triumphantly. He looks so proud of his achievement. He brings his thumbs to his chest and mouths something.

“What is he saying?” You ask, confused.

Ghost’s lips curve up, and he leans towards you.

“He says,” he whispers in your ear, “like Paris Hilton in the 2000s.”

———————————————————————

[hyperactively-me]

king!ghost x reader -- the reception

After the wedding came the awaited reception — a night of dancing and oh so joyous celebration awaited. At least, a joyous celebration awaited the wedding guests. It couldn’t have been less true for you. 

Before the reception, you were pulled into a spare room to change into a different dress. You breathed a sigh of relief as you were stripped from your wedding dress and slipped into a shorter and much thinner, simple white dress. You twirl quickly, watching as the thin fabric gently ripples around your ankles. Much better. 

. . . 

Stepping into view before the wedding guests, a mixture of dread and nerves churned within you as their applause welcomed you into the ballroom. Their collective gaze was fixed upon you as you made your way to the throne beside Ghost. 

You practically sink into the cushion, settling back against the backboard. 

Dinner had been served to the guests, and you watched them devour their meals. 

You see Ghost lean towards you in the corner of your eye, and you turn to meet his masked face. Yet again.  

“You…” He started, prompting you to raise your brows. “I’m impressed…with how well you handled that,” he eventually managed to say.

You sit up straight. You rub your wedding ring. 

“Thank you.” You responded, your gaze drifting over the expanse of people before you. 

You notice a band entering on the side, setting up their instruments. The first dance. God, you did love to dance, although you thought yourself to not be very good. You had taken ballroom dancing lessons for a while, but you were a bit shabby, honestly. 

“Do we—?” you start.

“I can’t believe you’re even asking me. Yes. It’s customary.” 

“Oh.” You nod your head, swallowing a lump in your throat.

He reaches over to you, brushing over your hand resting on the armrest. 

“It’s time.”

“Okay.” 

Standing, you both make your way to the center of the ballroom. He takes your hand in his, placing one his shoulder and the other in his hand. He brings his other hand to rest on your waist, his grip strong and firm. You look down at your feet in an attempt to calm yourself, wanting the crowd to stop staring at you. The orchestra begins playing an entrancing melody, signaling the beginning of the first dance. 

“Trust me.”

Your mouth flounders for a moment, not knowing what to say, how to respond. 

He chuckles. “You don’t have to say anything.” 

And with that, he begins moving. He gently guides you along the dance floor, slowly falling into step with the music. He doesn’t look down at his feet once, keeping his gaze locked on you. You, on the other hand, have your eyes trained down at your feet, willing yourself to not mess this up. 

“I won’t let you misstep,” he whispers.

You look up at him, grasping onto his shoulder ever so slightly tighter. How does he seem to know what you’re thinking?

As the song progresses, you start to grasp onto the rhythm of the dance, falling into the routine. 

The symphony gradually swelled in intensity, its melody caressing your ears with soothing notes that eased the rapid rhythm of your heart.

He was right. He didn’t let you misstep once. 

And as soon as it started, the dance was over. His hands fall from your body, and for the first time, he takes a deep bow in front of you. 

Something in you is arising, and you can’t tell if you’re welcoming this feeling or trying to push it as far away as you can. 

. . . 

As the evening progressed, you were pulled onto the dance floor a number of times by dignitaries and other royals. You didn’t really mind, but it made you exhausted.  

As you make your way back to the throne, you slump in your chair, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. 

“Hey, your majesty,” you hear a gaggle of familiar voices. 

“Hmm?” you hum, letting your droopy eyes open. Multiple smiling faces are squished in your field of vision. Your siblings. 

You gasp, eyes snapping open. You jump up and laugh, embracing your siblings in tight hugs. You forgot how tired you were when your siblings were with you. They felt like an extension of you, the boys and girls you had grown up with being there for you at all stages of your life, even now. 

Ghost had watched you, his chest tightening as he watched a large smile erupt on your face. He heard the way you laughed as your siblings dragged you out on the dance floor, saw the way your smile lit up the space around you. One of your brothers had motioned you to dance with him, and with a toothy smile, you began to dance. 

As you both moved across the floor, the pace of the orchestra began to shift into something more upbeat. You struggle to keep pace, the transition from classical to an upbeat melody setting a whirlwind into motion. The dance floor began to flood with more and more people, propelling you into a swirl of movement. 

The rhythm of shoes striking the floor accompanied by the orchestra’s instruments filled the room. The floor was gushing with guests swinging across the floor, laughter and cheering filling the air, creating a lively backdrop.  

Your brother’s steps quickened, gaining momentum with each beat of the music, the choreography shifting. A sudden spin marked his release of you, transferring you seamlessly into the grasp of another man. The cycle resumed. 

You’re rendered breathless as you’re carried across the expanse of the floor. Amidst the cheers echoing in your ears, you found yourself moving from one partner to another, each person you spin with moving you faster and faster. 

Amidst the thundering music, your heartbeat matched the tempo, and the intricate footwork merged seamlessly with your movements. A peculiar euphoria surged through your veins, embracing the dance as an extension of yourself, surrendering willingly to the next partner in line. Laughter mingled with the rhythm as the pace intensified, the blur of people and music becoming intoxicating.

Unbeknownst to you, a partner’s hand had strayed too far, brushing down your back in an unwelcome manner. You spun away into the embrace of a new partner. 

Suddenly, Ghost materialized as if from thin air, sweeping you into the midst of the dance. The energy between you ignited, his embrace tender yet unyielding, melding with the music that thudded in your ears.

The symphony reached its crescendo before abruptly stopping. Ghost pulled you into a final dip as the orchestra fell silent. The ensuing applause reverberated as he lifted you up, your gaze fixed on his eyes.

With a subtle step back, he nodded in quiet acknowledgement. Breath eluding you, you stood there, still immersed in the spell of the dance, unable to comprehend the intensity of the moment that had transpired.

- - - - -

(masterlist)

[simpxmachina]

NEW BOT

╰┈➤ wlw red panda , botmaker

    🔪 + 🫀 = ☆ bloodthirsty ☆

cai

👾 sarah fidel - BETRAYAL

another bot and one-shot on a character played by our beloved aubrey plaza ! I haven't seen operation fortune : ruse de guerre. so i'm sorry if sarah fidel is out of character. I hoped you would enjoy it anyway xoxo

The mansion was a fortress of indulgence, a sprawling edifice that wore its wealth like armor. Marble columns framed every doorway, and the floors gleamed with such ruthless perfection that Sarah half-expected to see her reflection glaring back at her. She adjusted the cuffs of her tailored blazer—a shade of cream that was carefully selected to say understated affluence without veering into gaudiness. Beneath her confident exterior, her mind churned. Hackers like her weren’t meant for front-line operations; her domain was behind screens, pulling strings in the shadows where the risks were calculated and manageable. Yet here she was, thrust into the lion’s den, wearing an identity stitched together from lies.

Alexandra Monroe. The name tasted foreign in her mouth, but it had been meticulously crafted: a young financier with a flawless resume, Ivy League credentials, and just enough edge to intrigue the man she had been sent to destroy. Months of preparation had gone into this—fabricating a backstory, memorizing key players, rehearsing her role until it became second nature. But nothing could prepare her for the suffocating atmosphere of this place.

The air was thick with wealth, the kind of obscene privilege that felt almost predatory. Men in sharp tuxedos and women in gowns dripping with jewels moved through the cavernous space like predators staking claim to territory. Laughter rang out, brittle and hollow, a performance of joy that echoed too loudly against the vaulted ceilings. Everywhere she turned, there were displays of power: rare art hung on the walls like trophies, and waiters in crisp uniforms glided through the room bearing trays of champagne.

Sarah’s gaze sharpened, scanning the room with the practiced precision of someone trained to notice what others missed. Every detail mattered. The politician she was here to expose—your father—stood near the center of the room, surrounded by sycophants and power brokers. His booming laugh carried over the orchestra’s elegant strains, a sound designed to command attention. He was a man who thrived on control, his charisma a mask for the rot beneath.

Sarah studied him carefully, cataloging his gestures, his tone, the way he carried himself. He was good at this—too good. Every word he spoke, every smile he gave was calculated, tailored to disarm and manipulate. Her stomach churned with revulsion, but she forced herself to stay composed. She had a job to do, and this man was the linchpin. His empire, built on stolen money and shattered lives, was about to collapse. And she would be the one to pull the rug out from under him.

She took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, not to drink but to blend in. A prop in her performance. The bubbles rose lazily in the glass, their effervescence mocking her stillness. She couldn’t afford to be anything less than perfect tonight.

As she navigated the crowd, her trained eye continued to analyze. She noted the alliances formed in the subtle angles of shoulders, the way some leaned in to speak in hushed tones while others stood apart, isolated yet observant. Power dynamics played out in every interaction, and Sarah read them like a script. This was a game to these people—a game of influence and survival.

But it wasn’t her game. Not really. She was here to end it, to dismantle the foundations of their false empire one keystroke at a time. Her real work wouldn’t begin until later, when she could slip away to a secure terminal and start extracting the data she needed. For now, she was a ghost in their midst, a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

And then she saw you.

It wasn’t dramatic, not at first. Just a glimpse of movement on the balcony that drew her attention. She turned her head, expecting another guest stepping outside for a breath of air or a cigarette. But then she saw you, and the world seemed to narrow, the noise of the party fading to a dull hum.

You stood with your back to the room, framed by the twilight sky that bathed you in soft, golden light. The wind toyed with your hair, and for a moment, you seemed entirely separate from the chaos inside, an oasis of calm in a sea of artifice. There was something unguarded about the way you leaned against the railing, your posture relaxed yet thoughtful.

Sarah’s first instinct was skepticism. She’d been around enough of these people to know their type—spoiled, self-absorbed, the kind who thought the world revolved around their whims. Surely you were no different. You had to be another extension of this place, another cog in the machine of power and privilege.

But then you moved. A small child, no older than six, came rushing onto the balcony, their laughter cutting through the stillness. They grabbed your hand with unrestrained enthusiasm, tugging at you to come inside. And you didn’t hesitate.

You turned, your face breaking into a smile so genuine it made Sarah’s chest tighten. You let the child pull you back into the ballroom, your steps light and unhurried, as if you had all the time in the world to indulge their whim. The orchestra had struck up a lively tune, and the child demanded a dance. You laughed—a sound that felt almost out of place here, too real, too unrestrained—and spun them around in a circle.

Sarah found herself unable to look away. The scene was magnetic in its simplicity: you, twirling with the child, your dress catching the light as you moved. There was no performance in your actions, no ulterior motive. Just joy.

Her pulse quickened as she watched. You were radiant, so achingly vivid in a room full of shadows. Even the other guests seemed to notice, their attention drawn to you despite themselves. Yet you seemed oblivious to their stares, entirely focused on the child in your arms.

And then, as the music slowed, you turned to your father. Sarah’s stomach twisted as she watched you approach him, your hand outstretched in invitation. He hesitated—of course he did, a man like him wasn’t accustomed to such vulnerability—but you coaxed him with a laugh, pulling him onto the dance floor.

For a moment, the hardness in his face softened. He looked almost human, almost kind. And that, more than anything, made Sarah’s task harder. Because she could see it now—how you loved him, how you believed in him, how you had no idea what kind of man he really was.

Her gaze lingered on you as you danced, her thoughts a tangled mess of doubt and determination. She tried to tell herself you were just another part of the mission, another variable to manage. But deep down, she knew that wasn’t true.

You weren’t like the others. You didn’t belong to this world, not really. And that terrified her.

Then music swelled, and the sight of you in the embrace of your father—the man Sarah was sent to betray, to expose—struck her like a silent blow. The contrast was stark. Here was a family, two people bound by ties Sarah could never hope to understand, while she, an outsider, played a part in their destruction. The dance between you and him was a slow, fluid thing, each step a testament to the years of manipulation, of shared history, of love that was still somehow untainted by the darkness Sarah had come to uncover.

But she couldn’t afford to linger in this moment, could she? She had a job to do, and it was all too easy to forget that in the face of your innocence. The thought of you—so radiant, so blissfully unaware—was beginning to gnaw at her, pulling her thoughts into a place they shouldn’t go. She hadn’t expected this. Not from you.

Sarah’s hand tightened around the stem of her champagne glass, the cold metal biting into her skin. She had trained for months for this. She had meticulously analyzed every possible outcome. She was the perfect infiltrator—calm, methodical, detached. Yet, as she watched you spin in your father’s arms, your joy a stark contrast to the weight of the lies she’d constructed, she couldn’t help but wonder if she was losing her grip on herself.

The evening continued to unfold in the usual way, but Sarah barely noticed the passing time. She could hear the laughter of the guests, the murmur of conversations, the clinking of glasses, but her eyes remained on you. It was impossible to tear herself away from the sight.

As the song neared its end, you and your father separated, but not before you kissed his cheek, a sweet gesture of affection that seemed to linger in the air long after you’d pulled away. It was the kind of moment that meant everything and nothing, the kind that could make a person forget the world around them if they weren’t careful. Sarah was careful, but not tonight. Not with you.

You glanced over to the crowd, and for a split second, your eyes locked with Sarah’s. A fleeting moment of recognition. But that was all. You smiled briefly, unaware of the turmoil swirling inside her, before turning back to the festivities.

Sarah’s breath caught in her throat. It was nothing—a glance, a smile. But it was enough to send her mind spiraling. She had come here with one mission: to steal from your father, to expose him as the criminal he was. Yet, as the night wore on, the task felt less like an obligation and more like a betrayal.

Her emotions, usually kept in tight rein, were beginning to crack. The lines between duty and desire were blurring, and she was unsure which side was winning. She wanted to hate your father for the things he had done, for the empire of lies he’d built, but how could she when you were standing there, laughing and dancing, a beacon of light in the midst of all this darkness?

She couldn’t allow herself to feel this way. She had come here for a reason. She had her orders, and the stakes were too high to let anything, or anyone, get in the way. But as the night continued and your laughter echoed in her ears, Sarah realized that this was the first time she felt like she was on the edge of something, something dangerous.

The evening drew on, and Sarah found herself alone in a corner of the grand hall, her mind whirring in a thousand directions. Her mission had always been clear: to retrieve the black money, to clean out your father’s accounts and expose him for the fraud he was. She could almost hear the hum of the data flowing through the system, the invisible strings she would pull when the time was right. But there was something else now, a weight she hadn’t expected to carry. The guilt, the guilt of deceiving someone like you.

You were innocent. You were pure, untouched by the darkness that surrounded you. It was hard to reconcile the image of the loving daughter you had just revealed, dancing with your father, with the monster Sarah knew your father to be. The man she was supposed to destroy. The man you loved.

The evening passed in a haze, and the next part of the plan loomed ahead. But Sarah found herself not wanting to leave. She wanted to stay, to watch you some more, to learn everything she could about you, about this world of privilege and wealth that seemed so foreign to her. But more than that, she wanted to hold on to the feeling you gave her—of something real, something human, something beautiful in the midst of all the lies.

She wasn’t supposed to want that. She wasn’t supposed to be caught up in you.

But there she was, standing in the shadows, wrestling with emotions she hadn’t planned for, watching you dance, her heart pulled in directions she couldn’t control. She was supposed to be the one in control. She was the hacker, the planner, the master of the game. Yet in this moment, standing on the periphery of your life, she felt more out of control than she ever had before.

And then it happened.

As the orchestra finished its final number, a pause settled over the ballroom. Guests began to mill around, their conversations drifting like the notes of the music. You, radiant as ever, moved toward the edge of the room, a child once again tugging at your sleeve. You looked around, eyes searching for someone, and when they landed on Sarah—just for a moment—the world seemed to stop.

There was no way you could have known. No way you could have understood the turmoil inside her, the battle between loyalty to her mission and the growing feelings she could no longer ignore. But in that moment, when your gaze met hers, something shifted.

It wasn’t much. A fleeting look. But it was enough to make Sarah question everything she thought she knew.

For the first time since stepping into this gilded cage, Sarah felt the weight of the lies pressing down on her. She had known she was playing with fire when she took this mission, but now, staring at you, she realized the flames had already begun to scorch her. There was no turning back.

And the air was thick with the hum of a thousand conversations, the muted murmur of gossip and flirtation drifting on the edges of the grand ballroom. Sarah, ever the observer, stood at the far end of the room, her eyes tracing the intricate dance of people, their glistening gowns and sharp suits reflecting the grandeur of the night. The orchestra played softly in the background, but it was the way the light played off the walls, casting delicate shadows, that caught her attention—flickering like the secrets everyone here seemed to hide.

She should have been more focused. She should have been analyzing the situation, considering her next move, her next line of attack. After all, she had a job to do, a mission that no one else could see but her. But no matter how much she tried to pull herself back into her role, her gaze kept returning to you.

You, standing on the edge of the room, a soft glow around you—like you were untouched by the world. You seemed so… human in a place that thrummed with falseness, your laughter mingling with the music, your smile cutting through the facades like sunlight breaking through the clouds. There was something about you that grounded Sarah in ways she couldn’t explain, something that kept pulling at the frayed edges of her concentration.

You caught her staring, and for a brief moment, your eyes met hers. Time slowed, the noise of the party dimming in Sarah’s ears as your gaze held hers. There was no hostility, no suspicion in your look—just an open, disarming warmth. And Sarah, so used to being invisible, to being a shadow on the periphery of everything, couldn’t help but feel a twinge of something unfamiliar stir inside her.

But before she could even begin to process what had just happened, a small child, perhaps five or six, tugged at your hand. The little boy, with his tousled hair and wide, innocent eyes, raised his arms toward you, a clear demand for your attention.

You giggled, a soft, melodic sound that made Sarah’s chest tighten inexplicably. Without hesitation, you lifted the child into your arms, your fingers brushing his cheek as you gently rocked him. The boy snuggled into you, his small hands gripping your shoulders as you began to sway gently, a natural dance between you two that made Sarah’s heart stutter in her chest.

For a long moment, Sarah stood frozen, unable to tear her gaze away. It was strange, this pull she felt. The child, so comfortable in your arms, your effortless grace, the way your face softened as you held him—it was so… real. So incredibly real. It was as if the world around you had stopped spinning for just a moment, and all that existed was you, the child, and the tenderness you gave him so naturally.

The boy, lulled by the warmth of your arms, soon fell asleep, his small form curling against your chest. You carefully adjusted him, brushing his hair back with a soft, absent-minded stroke as you continued to talk with a few of the other guests, the child in your arms a gentle reminder of the purity and innocence that still existed in the world, far away from the corruption that Sarah had been sent to expose.

Sarah watched, transfixed. Her thoughts, once sharp and focused, now felt distant, slipping away from her control as she followed every movement you made, every subtle shift of your posture, the way your fingers traced the child’s hair.

It was only when a man—a well-dressed figure with sharp eyes and a too-wide smile—approached her that Sarah’s thoughts were finally dragged back into the present. He leaned in close, his voice low and smooth as he spoke, a trace of flirtation in his tone.

“You seem a little distant,” he murmured, his eyes glinting with interest. “Is everything all right? It’s hard to believe a woman like you could be lost in thought at a party like this.”

Sarah forced a smile, her attention barely on him as she nodded absently. “I’m fine,” she replied, her voice cool, detached. But her mind wasn’t with him—it was still on you. You, with your effortless beauty, your warmth. The way you held that child, so effortlessly caring and kind. Sarah felt the oddest twinge of discomfort, like she was intruding on something sacred, something she had no business desiring.

The man, oblivious to her growing unease, continued to talk. “I must admit, I didn’t expect to see someone like you at an event like this. You’re... different, aren’t you?”

Sarah nodded again, the words barely registering as he continued to press closer, his gaze too insistent, his tone too forward. His flirtation, while shallow and empty, felt like a weight on her shoulders, a stark contrast to the real, unspoken connection she’d shared with you in that brief moment of eye contact.

And then, as if summoned by some divine force, you appeared.

You approached with a warm, playful smile on your lips, and the man’s eyes flicked up to you as you came closer, sensing the change in the air. You made a show of looking between Sarah and the man, your gaze narrowing just slightly in that way that made it clear you were sizing him up.

“Is there a problem here?” you asked, your voice light but carrying an edge of amusement, a playful challenge in the words.

The man’s smile faltered, and he looked briefly embarrassed, as if he realized for the first time that he might not be as charming as he’d hoped. “Oh, no,” he stammered, adjusting his tie awkwardly. “Just... just making conversation.”

You smirked, a glint of sarcasm in your eyes. “Well, you’re really good at it,” you said, your tone dripping with playful irony. “But I think my friend here was just getting lost in her thoughts.”

The man, now looking decidedly flustered, took a small step back, his expression a mix of confusion and irritation. He gave Sarah one last, somewhat awkward look before turning and retreating, mumbling something under his breath.

You turned to Sarah then, your smile softening into something genuine, something warmer. “I’m sorry about that,” you said, your voice low, almost apologetic. “Some people don’t know when to stop.”

Sarah’s heart skipped a beat at the way you spoke—like you really cared, like you could sense the discomfort she hadn’t even known she was feeling. She nodded, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips despite herself.

“It’s fine,” Sarah replied, her voice just as soft. “I can handle it.”

You looked down at the sleeping child in her arms, a small frown tugging at your lips. “It’s not always easy, though, is it?” you murmured, more to yourself than to Sarah. “Sometimes, people just don’t know how to leave you alone. But I’m glad to see you’re all right.”

You handed the boy to a passing servant, your movements gentle as you murmured a quiet thank you to the woman. Then, you looked back at Sarah, your eyes locking with hers in a moment that felt more intense than either of you expected.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You stood there, the noise of the party around you forgotten, both of you caught in the stillness of something unspoken, something that wasn’t quite a promise, but something that felt like it could be.

Then, softly, you spoke again. “If you ever need saving again…” you trailed off with a teasing grin, the lightness of your voice returning. “I’ll be around.”

Sarah’s breath caught in her chest. There it was again—the softness in your voice, the warmth of your presence, the feeling that she was no longer just a player in the game, but something more. Something real.

And for the first time, Sarah felt the weight of the lies she’d built around herself and the tension between duty and desire pull at her with an intensity that was impossible to ignore.

---

The grand mansion was a sprawling labyrinth of cold marble and velvet drapery, its halls echoing with the quiet footsteps of servants and the low murmur of distant conversations. Sarah, now under the guise of Alexandra Monroe, had blended seamlessly into this world of wealth and corruption. Her role as the financial advisor to the elusive and powerful politician, Gregory Hale, was the perfect disguise, one that allowed her to move about unnoticed, like a shadow slipping between the cracks.

Sarah had already spent days observing Hale’s movements, learning the patterns of his routine, the ways his mind worked when it came to money, and more importantly, how she could get close enough to gather the information she needed to expose his secrets.

But today was different. She had a new task. The bugging of Hale’s office.

As the sun poured through the tall windows of the mansion, Sarah walked with deliberate steps through the gleaming corridors, her heels clicking against the polished floor with an eerie finality. She could feel the weight of her mission pressing against her chest, a burden she wore with practiced ease. Every corner she turned, every door she passed, she was on alert. She had done this before—many times—but never in a place quite like this, never with so much on the line.

Her breath was steady, her hands steady, as she moved to the door of Hale’s office. She knew the layout by heart now, having memorized the route from the times she’d observed him. The office was tucked away on the second floor, a place where Hale often retreated to make deals, count his black money, and manipulate the threads of his influence.

But just as she approached the door, a soft, unexpected voice stopped her in her tracks.

“Alexandra?”

She froze, her heart skipping a beat. Her eyes flicked toward the sound of the voice, and there, standing at the far end of the hallway, was you.

You, dressed in a soft blue dress, your hair cascading down in gentle waves, a smile playing at the corners of your lips. You looked… radiant, untouched by the darkness that swirled just beneath the surface of this place. It was a warmth that made Sarah’s chest tighten, a strange mix of discomfort and longing pulling at her in ways she couldn’t articulate.

“Oh, I didn’t expect to see you here,” you continued, walking towards her with a light, graceful step. “I thought you were meeting with my father today.”

Sarah blinked, shaking herself from the haze of thoughts that threatened to consume her. “I… I was,” she replied, her voice steady but carrying a faint edge of surprise. “I was just on my way to his office.”

You tilted your head slightly, curiosity lighting up your face. “I see. Is he in there?”

Sarah hesitated for a brief moment before nodding. “He should be,” she said, gesturing toward the door behind her. “I’m… meeting with him for a financial review. But I didn’t expect to bump into you here.”

Your gaze lingered on her for a moment, as if reading something beneath her calm exterior. The faintest trace of a smile curled on your lips, and for a moment, Sarah couldn’t decide whether it was teasing or something else entirely. “Well, maybe it’s fate,” you said softly, your voice playful. “Or maybe I’m just looking for an excuse to talk to you.”

Sarah’s heart thudded louder in her chest. She knew she had to focus, knew she couldn’t let the connection between them distract her, not with the mission so close at hand. But somehow, being in your presence, even in this moment of apparent chance, made everything feel a little more complicated, a little less clear.

“I’m always happy to talk,” Sarah replied, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “But I really should get going. You know how your father is with his schedules.”

You took a step closer, your smile widening. “Maybe we could talk a bit before you go?”

Sarah felt the tension rise in her chest, the unease at the growing closeness between them, but she knew it was just a passing moment. It was a brief exchange—a momentary diversion. She could handle it.

“I’d like that,” Sarah said quietly, her voice softening despite her inner turmoil.

You led her a little ways down the hall, your steps in sync, and there, beneath the soft golden light that poured through the windows, you began to talk. It was simple conversation at first—talk of the party the night before, of the weather, of anything and everything that didn’t touch on the heart of the matter. And yet, with every word, with every fleeting smile and gentle laugh, Sarah found herself drawn in.

You were… different. So different from the others in this world of deceit and power. It was as if, beneath all the opulence and the money, you were untouched. A light in a place where shadows ruled.

As the days went by, Sarah continued her mission, slipping deeper into the folds of Hale’s life, learning his secrets, gaining his trust. She was always on the move, always watching, always planning. But as she did, she found herself in constant, subtle contact with you.

At first, it was small things. You would bump into her in the hallway and smile warmly, asking about her day. Sometimes you would sit beside her during dinner, chatting lightly, your laughter filling the silence in a way that was strangely comforting.

But it didn’t stop there. You began to seek her out.

One afternoon, when Sarah was reviewing some files in the lavish library of Hale’s mansion, you appeared at her side, a tray of tea in hand. You placed it down before Sarah with an easy, almost intimate gesture, and Sarah felt a strange flutter in her chest. She had always kept people at arm’s length, always kept her focus on the job, on the task at hand. But with you… everything seemed so much more complicated.

“Is everything going well with the finances?” you asked, your tone light, but Sarah could see the flicker of concern in your eyes. “Father tends to get so caught up in his deals that he forgets about the details.”

Sarah nodded, offering a tight smile. “It’s all fine. Nothing you need to worry about.”

But the more she spoke with you, the more she realized that you weren’t like your father at all. You weren’t consumed by the hunger for power or the manipulation of money. Instead, there was an ease to you, a warmth that made Sarah’s walls slowly begin to crumble, piece by piece.

It was difficult to ignore the growing connection between them. You would find small reasons to speak to Sarah, offering her a seat at dinner, pulling her into conversations about art or music, anything that seemed to interest you. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, Sarah found herself looking forward to those moments.

Each time she saw you, she became more intrigued, more drawn to the way you seemed to move through the world with such grace, such authenticity. There was no pretense in you—no mask, no agenda.

And then, one day, as Sarah was once again at Hale’s office, preparing to plant the bug she had so carefully designed, she felt a presence behind her. She turned, half-expecting to see Hale, but instead, there you were—standing in the doorway, looking at her with that soft, knowing smile.

“Alexandra, I didn’t realize you were here,” you said, your voice gentle, almost teasing. “I thought you were busy with my father today?”

Sarah felt her breath catch in her throat, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop around her. She was alone with you, no distractions, no interruptions, and something shifted between them, something unspoken, something that made Sarah’s chest ache in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

“I… I was just finishing up,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I’ll be on my way soon.”

You stepped closer, your presence overwhelming in the quiet room. “Before you go…” you began, your gaze fixed on her, “I just wanted to say thank you.”

Sarah blinked, taken aback by your words. “For what?”

“For being here,” you said, your voice quiet, sincere. “For everything you’ve done for my father and for… being here with me. It’s strange, I don’t know why, but I feel like I can trust you.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavier than anything Sarah had ever heard. For a moment, she didn’t know how to respond, how to reconcile the words you spoke with the truth of what she was really doing.

But all she could do was nod, a faint smile pulling at her lips, even as her heart twisted with the realization that the deeper she fell into this false identity, the more complicated things were becoming.

As the days passed, the invisible threads between Sarah and you continued to tighten, drawing the two of you closer with an intensity that neither of you could fully comprehend. Sarah, with her guarded exterior, remained the perfect professional—her role as Alexandra Monroe giving her the perfect cover to move through the world of wealth and influence without suspicion. But when it came to you, things felt different. You weren’t just another task or another piece of the puzzle to manipulate. You were an enigma, a shining light that pierced through the cold darkness of this world of corruption. And slowly, she found herself drawn to you, more than she ever intended.

The first time it happened, it was subtle. A touch of the hand as you handed her a glass of wine, your fingers brushing lightly against hers, a flicker of heat passing between you both. Sarah���s breath had caught in her throat, and for a moment, the world had fallen away. She’d been careful to maintain her composure, but she couldn’t deny the spark that ignited within her. It was fleeting, almost imperceptible, but it was there.

The second time, it was in the garden, when you’d asked her to join you for a walk after dinner. You’d talked of everything and nothing at all, your laughter mixing with the soft rustling of the leaves. It was a moment of peaceful intimacy, and Sarah couldn’t help but feel as though she had stepped into a world she didn’t fully understand—a world of beauty, of light, of something untainted by the darkness she was so accustomed to.

And then, there were the looks. Those lingering glances, the way your eyes would catch hers across the room when you thought no one was watching. Sarah would often find herself lost in your gaze, feeling a pull she couldn’t explain. Your eyes, full of warmth and curiosity, held an intensity that was disarming. Every time your eyes met, her heart would race in her chest, and she’d have to tear herself away, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand.

But despite her best efforts to maintain control, Sarah found it becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the undercurrent of desire that simmered between them.

It was on one particular evening, after a lavish dinner, when the tension between them reached its peak. Sarah had just returned to her room after a long day of pretending, of playing her part, when a knock came at the door.

She paused, momentarily taken aback. It was late, and the mansion had fallen into a quiet lull. Her first instinct was to ignore it—after all, she had no reason to entertain anyone at this hour. But the knock came again, and this time, there was a gentle, almost tentative quality to it.

“Alexandra?”

The voice was soft, familiar, and Sarah’s heart skipped a beat. She stood, frozen for a moment, trying to calm the sudden rush of emotions that flooded her chest. She knew who it was. It was you.

The door opened just slightly, and there you were, standing in the dim light of the hallway. You were dressed in a flowing, white nightdress that glowed softly in the low light, your hair falling loosely around your shoulders, your eyes wide and filled with an unspoken question.

“I… I hope I’m not disturbing you,” you said, your voice quiet, almost hesitant. “But I was wondering if I could talk to you for a moment.”

Sarah’s breath caught in her throat, her mind racing. She knew she should resist, knew she should send you away with a polite excuse, but the words stuck in her throat. She couldn’t bring herself to do it. There was something about the way you stood there, so vulnerable yet so confident, that made her heart ache with an intensity she wasn’t prepared for.

“You’re not disturbing me,” Sarah finally managed to say, her voice low, controlled. “Come in.”

You stepped inside, the soft fabric of your nightdress brushing against the floor as you moved toward her. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of the lamps casting long shadows on the walls. There was an almost dreamlike quality to the atmosphere, as if time had slowed, holding its breath.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you said, your voice soft, almost sheepish. “I kept thinking about everything that’s been happening. About how strange it is to have someone like you in our lives. Someone I can’t quite figure out.”

Sarah nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “I know what you mean. I feel the same way, sometimes.”

You stepped a little closer, the distance between you narrowing with each passing second. Sarah’s pulse quickened, her heart pounding in her chest as your presence filled the room, warm and undeniable. She could smell the soft scent of lavender on your skin, the fragrance lingering in the air between you.

“I feel like I’ve known you for much longer than I have,” you continued, your voice dropping to a whisper. “Like there’s something… familiar about you. Something that draws me in, even though I know I shouldn’t feel this way.”

Sarah’s breath hitched, the words hanging in the air between you. She could feel the magnetic pull between them, the tension so thick it was almost suffocating. She had never felt this way about anyone before—not like this, not in a way that made her heart race and her breath catch in her throat.

“I… I don’t know what you mean,” Sarah said, her voice strained, betraying the emotions she was trying so hard to keep buried. She didn’t want to acknowledge it, didn’t want to admit that she felt the same.

But you weren’t listening. You took another step forward, closing the space between you. Your eyes were dark now, intense, and Sarah could feel the heat of your gaze like a physical touch. The air between you crackled with something electric, something dangerous.

“I think you do,” you said softly, your hand reaching out to touch her arm, the contact sending a jolt of electricity through Sarah’s body. “I think you’ve felt it too.”

And then, in that moment, it happened. Without thinking, without the rational part of her mind having time to intervene, Sarah leaned forward, her lips meeting yours in a kiss that was soft at first, tentative, as if neither of them could believe what was happening.

But as the kiss deepened, as the heat between them intensified, the world outside of the room seemed to fade away. It was just the two of them now, wrapped in this strange, intoxicating moment that neither of them could escape from.

Sarah’s hands, which had remained at her sides for so long, now reached up to touch your face, to pull you closer. Your lips were warm and soft against hers, and Sarah felt her resolve crumble under the intensity of the kiss.

When they finally broke apart, breathless and tangled in the moment, neither of them spoke for a long time. There was so much left unsaid, so much that neither of them dared to confront.

But as you pulled back slightly, your fingers still lingering on her arm, you looked into Sarah’s eyes, and for the first time, Sarah felt as though she was truly seen.

“I didn’t expect this,” you whispered, your voice breathless, as if the kiss had stolen the words from your throat.

Neither did Sarah. But as she stood there, with you so close, the weight of the mission, the weight of the lies, seemed a little less important. For the first time, she felt a flicker of something real, something that could, maybe, change everything.

---

The soft light of the morning sun filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. The bed, still slightly disheveled from the night before, held the quiet evidence of a moment that had passed, leaving behind the traces of lingering warmth. Sarah’s room was calm and serene—decorated simply, with a few personal touches that reflected a woman who had crafted her life with precision. Yet, today, the room felt different. The space seemed to be filled with an energy that was undeniably hers and yours, two forces drawn together like magnetic poles.

You were there, nestled in the sheets—wrapped in them like an ethereal figure, the white fabric clinging to your form in a way that seemed almost sculptural. You lay on your stomach, your legs slightly bent, one hand resting on the book in front of you while the other brushed a stray lock of hair behind your ear. The way you held the book, so absorbed in the words, the way your body seemed to flow in such natural grace beneath the sheets—Sarah could hardly look away.

She sat at the edge of the bed, her body languid as she watched you, her gaze tracing the lines of your figure. For a moment, she allowed herself to indulge, her eyes drinking in the sight of you, taking in how the soft sheets hugged your skin, the way the sunlight kissed your bare back. You seemed so at ease, so perfectly composed, yet there was a certain softness to you in this moment that made Sarah’s chest tighten. You looked like something carved from marble, perfect in every way. A modern-day Aphrodite, with your long, dark hair and glowing skin, radiant and serene, the book in your hands the only thing that seemed to tether you to the present.

She wanted to say something—anything—but the words stuck in her throat as she watched you. The guilt, that ever-present, gnawing sense of deception, was there, lurking beneath the surface of everything she did. She wasn't Alexandra Monroe. She wasn’t the woman she had allowed you to believe. But in this room, at this moment, none of that seemed to matter.

Sarah’s fingers twitched at her side, wanting to reach out to you. She wanted to touch you, to hold you, to pull you closer. But she stopped herself. She watched you for a few moments longer, feeling the weight of her secret, the weight of her lies, pressing on her chest like an iron bar. But in the face of you, in the warmth you exuded, all that seemed so distant. The real world—the one she was pretending to belong to—felt so far away, almost irrelevant in the light of this stolen peace.

Your voice broke through the silence, soft but full of curiosity, dragging her from her reverie.

“Alexandra,” you asked, your voice sleepy but playful, “what exactly do you find interesting about this book?”

Your tone was light, teasing, but Sarah couldn’t help but notice the way you looked at her as you asked. Your eyes were full of innocence, but there was something else, too—a spark of something that she wasn’t entirely sure how to interpret. You had no idea, of course. No idea that Sarah had no interest in the subject at hand, no true knowledge of finance or the intricacies of economics. It was all a façade, a performance, a game she had been playing long before meeting you.

But now, sitting here in the soft morning light with you, the words seemed to lose their meaning, the numbers on the pages becoming irrelevant. It wasn’t the book she was thinking about; it was you. Always you.

She shifted her posture, leaning slightly forward as her fingers brushed a stray strand of hair from your face. Her hand lingered in your hair for a moment, fingers brushing gently, caressing the soft strands. She didn't trust herself to speak at first. Instead, she allowed her eyes to study you, to memorize the way your lips curved as you smiled, the way your body seemed to breathe in time with the warmth of the room.

The smile on your face was genuine, something that had begun to grow between the two of you in the days since the kiss had blurred the lines between who you were and who Sarah was pretending to be. It was all starting to feel... real, even when Sarah knew it shouldn’t.

“I don’t know,” she said finally, her voice soft, almost regretful. “I guess I just thought it would be… practical, something I could learn, something that might make me… more useful.”

She didn’t say anything else. It wasn’t the truth—she wasn’t really interested in finance at all—but it was close enough to avoid the question. Besides, the real truth was that she had no idea how to respond to the way your presence made her feel. How everything about you seemed to make the world fade into something far less significant.

You shifted in the bed, propping yourself up on your elbows to meet her gaze. Your eyes were full of something—something softer than what Sarah had ever expected. It was a look of trust, maybe. Or maybe it was just the effect of being so close to each other for so long. Either way, Sarah felt herself growing weaker under the weight of your gaze.

“You’re already plenty useful to me,” you teased, that smile still lingering on your lips.

Sarah swallowed, her chest tight. There was a part of her that wanted to pull away, to protect herself, to pull the walls back up that had taken years to build. But that part of her was weakening. It was losing its hold.

Without thinking, her hand returned to your hair, her fingers brushing through the strands, gently pulling them back from your face. She watched as you closed your eyes for a moment, a soft breath escaping your lips. You didn’t resist, didn’t pull away. And for a fleeting second, Sarah thought she might stay here forever, lost in this moment of tenderness, of warmth, of something so perfectly ordinary and extraordinary at the same time.

“I never thought I’d end up here, you know,” Sarah murmured softly, her voice full of that same strange vulnerability. She didn’t know why she was saying it. Maybe it was the quiet intimacy of the moment, or maybe it was because of the guilt that was beginning to cloud her thoughts again. But she couldn’t stop herself. “I never thought I’d let myself… feel this way.”

You met her eyes, the softness in your gaze deepening. For a moment, neither of you spoke. There was a strange tension in the air, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was just… intense.

“Do you regret it?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, the question hanging between you like an unspoken promise.

Sarah blinked, her fingers still gently tracing your hair. She felt her heart skip a beat, the weight of your words settling over her like a soft, heavy blanket. Her answer wasn’t immediate, and for the first time, she realized that she wasn’t entirely sure. There was too much at stake. Too much of her identity had been wrapped up in the lies. But looking at you—this radiant, open soul in front of her—she couldn’t help but wish that the truth didn’t seem so far away.

“No,” she finally said, her voice steady, though her chest was tight. “I don’t regret it.”

And as you smiled softly, that small, knowing smile, she felt something shift in her. Something deep inside her, something that made her realize she didn’t want to pull away from this. She didn’t want to walk away from you.

For a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, this could be something real.

But the real world always catches up. Lies never last.

Days drifted by like leaves in a lazy river, but Sarah could feel the current of her own actions pulling her under. It started small—a whispered message that didn’t seem to matter at first, an innocuous note that seemed to have little weight. But as the days went on, that message began to settle into her mind like a stone lodged in her chest, a constant reminder that time was running out.

The mission was drawing to a close.

Sarah sat in her temporary office, the one she had carefully crafted for the last few weeks under the false identity of Alexandra Monroe. The world outside seemed so far away now, as if the life she had built here—this life with you—was something she could never have truly known. But she had to let go. There was no other choice. She had done her job, infiltrated the heart of the corruption, and now it was time to disappear. To collect the evidence. To walk away.

Everything has a price.

Her fingers hovered over her phone, her gaze flicking to the unread message once more. The words burned in her mind, mocking her, reminding her that the time to act was now. She felt her pulse quicken as the weight of the decision pressed heavily against her chest.

One last job. One final act of betrayal. One last moment to take the money, pass it to her team, and disappear.

But then what? What about you?

Her eyes flicked to the door. The sound of your laughter had been echoing in her mind all morning, the way you moved through the halls like sunlight breaking through a storm. You were still unaware. Still untouched by the truth.

And Sarah? She was no longer sure who she was. She wasn’t just Alexandra Monroe anymore. She wasn’t the woman she had been before. You had cracked something in her. Something she didn’t think could ever be cracked. Something soft. Something human.

But it was too late. She couldn’t undo what had been set into motion.

---

The final day arrived, cloaked in an uneasy silence. Sarah had already set everything in motion. The black money had been arranged to be moved. The proof of the politician’s corruption—the man who had built his empire on lies and greed—was ready to be handed over. She would make the exchange, slip away with her team, and vanish into the shadows. Everything had been planned down to the smallest detail.

And yet, as she stood in the grand hallway of the mansion, she felt as though she were walking on the edge of a knife. Each step felt like it could be her last.

Her eyes flicked over the guests who wandered in and out, the polished, pristine faces of power and influence—some laughing, some murmuring in groups, none the wiser. But her attention wasn’t on them. It was on you.

You were still the same. Beautiful. Radiant. The very embodiment of everything Sarah hadn’t realized she wanted—until now.

She spotted you across the room, surrounded by laughter and the hum of conversation, but her heart skipped as she saw something shift in your gaze. A glance that caught hers. And for a moment, time seemed to still. You smiled—so innocent, so unaware—but Sarah felt the cold knot of her impending betrayal twist deeper inside her.

The message had arrived. The job was simple. The money was ready to be moved. There was no more time.

But then, you were there.

You crossed the room to her, your presence undeniable, your smile so sweet it almost broke her resolve. You stopped in front of her, a gleam of curiosity in your eyes.

“Alexandra,” you said softly, tilting your head. “I was just wondering if you might want to join me for a dance?”

The question caught Sarah off guard. She hadn’t expected this. You were always so... so full of life. Always so present. So genuine. How could she say no?

But she had to. She had to say goodbye. This was the moment.

“I… I can’t,” Sarah said, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’ve got some things to take care of. But maybe later.”

You didn’t seem to buy it. You frowned, confusion and hurt flickering across your face.

"Later?” you echoed, and Sarah could hear the sadness in your voice. “You’ve been saying that for days now, Alexandra. What’s going on? Why are you avoiding me?”

She felt the heat of your gaze, the weight of your words hanging in the air between you, and for a moment, she considered telling you everything. But then the door opened, the sound of her team waiting to make the exchange. It was time.

And then, just as quickly, you were gone.

---

The hall was empty when Sarah moved toward the back, away from the guests, toward the place where the money had been stashed. She pulled the small briefcase from beneath the hidden panel in the wall, her fingers trembling as she prepared to hand it off to her team. She was almost there.

Almost free.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Another message. Her heart stuttered in her chest as she saw it.

Everything is set. Do it now.

She took a breath, pulling herself together. She turned toward the door, but then she stopped.

A shadow in the doorway.

It was you.

You stood there, eyes wide, breath quick. You had seen it all. You had watched everything unfold. Your heart was on your sleeve now, raw, broken. You were shaking your head, your mouth moving but no words coming out at first.

“Sarah…” you breathed, disbelief written on your face. “What are you doing?”

The world seemed to collapse in on Sarah. She felt the walls around her crumble, her heart racing as the reality of what she had done hit her full force. You had seen it all. Everything.

“No,” you whispered, the pain in your voice cutting her to the core. “No, this can't be real… you—this isn’t you.”

Your eyes were wide, searching hers for the truth, but Sarah couldn’t give it to you. She couldn’t give you any more lies.

“I—” Sarah began, but her words faltered. What could she say? What was there left to say?

This is the mission. This is what you’ve always been trained to do.

But you were there. You had been there for her. You had made her feel something real. And now, she was standing here, caught in the tangled web of lies, unable to escape.

“Tell me this isn’t happening,” you whispered, your voice breaking as you took a step forward, your hand reaching out. “Tell me you’re not—tell me you’re not betraying me.”

“I’m sorry,” Sarah whispered, the words feeling like poison in her mouth. “I never wanted to hurt you. I never meant to…”

You couldn’t hear her anymore. You took another step forward, your face crumpling with the weight of the betrayal. The tears welled in your eyes. You looked lost.

“How could you?” you whispered, your voice a broken tremor in the air. You shook your head, stepping back. “I thought you—I thought you were different!”

The hurt in your voice was too much. Sarah wanted to reach for you, wanted to apologize a thousand times over, but the distance between you was growing. You were slipping away, disappearing into the shadows. And with each step, it felt like the last piece of herself that Sarah had left was crumbling to dust.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, but it was too late.

With one last tearful glance, you turned and walked away.

The sting of betrayal hung thick in the air like a heavy fog, and Sarah stood frozen in the doorway as you retreated from her. The world outside seemed so distant, so far away, as she struggled to form the words that might make everything right again. The plan had worked—she had nearly escaped, had nearly taken everything she needed and walked away with nothing but memories of a woman she had come to care for, even love. But now? Now it was all falling apart.

You hadn’t even let her explain. And Sarah felt the weight of it all settle onto her shoulders, the voice in her earpiece shouting orders that she couldn’t possibly follow, her team urging her to leave, to finish the mission.

But none of that mattered now.

You mattered.

"Wait," Sarah called out, her voice cracking as she took a shaky step toward you. "Please, just—let me explain."

You turned back, your eyes a mixture of confusion, hurt, and anger. It was too much. The betrayal, the lies. Everything had shattered in the seconds it had taken for you to realize what was happening. You couldn't believe it. She couldn’t believe it.

"You don't need to explain," you whispered bitterly, your hands trembling at your sides. "I can’t even look at you right now. After everything... You lied to me. You used me."

“I never meant to hurt you,” Sarah continued, her voice a fragile thread in the darkness. "I swear to you, my feelings for you... They're real. I care about you. This—this isn’t who I am. But I’m not who you think I am."

You shook your head, disbelief written across your face, and Sarah felt her heart crack into pieces. Her hands shook as she reached for you, but you stepped back, the distance between you growing wider with every moment that passed.

“Who are you, then?” Your voice trembled as the words escaped. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not... Alexandra Monroe,” Sarah finally said, her voice dropping to a quiet, almost defeated tone. "My real name is Sarah Fidel."

The words hung in the air like a confession, one she hadn't planned on making, but something inside of her couldn’t hold it back anymore. The truth had to come out. If she was going to lose you—and she feared she already had—then at least you would know everything.

"Why did you lie to me?" you demanded, your voice rising with emotion. "Who are you, really? What are you doing here? Why—why did you pretend to be someone else?"

Sarah’s chest tightened at your question, and she took a step closer to you, ignoring the frantic chatter in her earpiece telling her to move, to finish what she’d started. She was losing everything. She was losing you.

“I didn’t want to. I never wanted to deceive you,” she said softly, her words laced with sincerity. “I came here to do something, something that had to be done. I needed to get close to your father… I needed to find out what he was involved in. I had to expose him. But when I met you... everything changed. I didn’t expect to feel like this."

You stood still, watching her, your arms crossed tightly over your chest, the hurt in your eyes turning to anger.

"My father? You’re saying my father’s involved in all this?"

Sarah hesitated, her eyes briefly flickering to the side as her mind raced. "Your father... he’s been laundering money, running illegal operations... I was sent here to gather evidence, to bring him down. But I—” Sarah’s breath caught in her throat. “I didn’t know about you. I didn’t know about us.”

“You didn’t know about us?” You scoffed, stepping forward, your voice rising. "What do you mean by that? I trusted you. I let you in. You—you said you loved me!"

Sarah felt the pain of your words like a knife. "I do love you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, but full of raw emotion. "I know it sounds insane. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But please, please believe me—everything I’ve felt for you, everything between us, was real. I’ve never... I’ve never felt this way before. You—you changed everything for me."

Her breath caught in her throat as she took another step toward you, her hand reaching out for yours, but you pulled back, your eyes filled with so much conflict.

"I can’t just forget what you've done, Sarah." The name tasted strange on your lips now. "You've been lying to me this entire time. You’re not the person I thought you were.”

The air between you two was thick with tension, and Sarah felt the tears welling up behind her eyes. Her hands shook with the weight of everything she had to say, everything she needed to explain. “I never wanted to hurt you. And I never wanted to drag you into this mess. I swear to you, I was going to leave. I was going to walk away, take the money, and disappear.”

You shook your head, your eyes still dark with hurt. "But now I know what you've been doing, Sarah. I can’t... I can’t forgive you for that. My father? This whole thing? It’s too much. It’s all a lie, and I—"

“Stop,” Sarah said softly, cutting you off. She took a step closer again, her voice cracking under the weight of everything. “Please... just listen to me. I didn’t want this to be the way it was. I never wanted to deceive you. I want to be with you. I care about you. And I know I’ve messed up. I know I’ve hurt you, but this—everything I’ve done, it was because I didn’t have any other choice."

You stared at her, your expression torn between the anger you felt and the love that you had for her, a love that, despite everything, still lingered beneath the surface. Your heart beat faster in your chest, and you felt the weight of the decision you had to make.

But the world felt like it was breaking apart around you. There was so much you didn’t know, so much you couldn’t understand. Your father was involved in something far darker than you had ever imagined, and Sarah had been part of it. She had lied to you, and yet she stood here, asking for forgiveness.

What was the truth?

And yet, beneath all of the anger, beneath all of the hurt, there was still a part of you that wanted to believe in her. That wanted to believe that everything they had was real, that Sarah—Alexandra—wasn’t just a mask, a facade. That the love she had shown you, the way she held you, the moments she shared with you, weren’t just part of a game.

“I don’t know what to do,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

Sarah’s heart clenched at the sight of your vulnerability. She reached out, her hand brushing against your cheek. “Please,” she said softly, her voice full of pain. “Don’t let this be the end. I know I’ve made mistakes. But I swear to you, everything I feel for you is real.”

For a long moment, you didn’t move. The silence stretched between you, and Sarah felt as though time itself had stopped. You were fighting, torn between your feelings for her, the woman you had come to love, and the reality of the situation that had been uncovered. But as you looked into her eyes—her soul bared to you, raw and trembling—you saw the truth behind the lies.

And in that moment, something inside of you broke. The tears that had been welling up inside of you spilled over, and you felt the weight of everything settle onto your shoulders.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you whispered. “But I need time... I need time to figure out what’s real.”

Sarah’s chest tightened, but she nodded, a faint but hopeful smile on her lips. “I’ll wait for you,” she said softly, her voice steady. “I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

And as she reached out one final time, pulling you close, you allowed yourself to melt into her embrace, torn between the past and the future, between the love you felt for her and the world you now knew you could never be a part of.

But for now, all you could do was hold on—hold on to the woman who had lied to you, hold on to the love you still wanted to believe in, even though you weren’t sure what was left to hold.

And maybe, just maybe, the answer would come in time.

But for now, all you had was the silence between you and the hope that maybe, one day, the truth would set you both free.

[rindragon-from-twewy]

Swap au character intros part 4!!!

Spoilers for specifically Raincode Chapter 0 ahead!

Let's start with Zilch! In this au his forte becomes Audial Aptitude - thanks in part to his animal ears. If you've seen my art of Zilch before, you'll probably have noticed I like drawing him with his animal ears as his actual ears and not on top of his hat. It's cuz I generally just hate the ambiguity of it. Are the animal ears real? Are they just on his hat? Why do they move? Why does he have 4 ears? So I just like making his animal ears his only set of ears. That being said, apparently they're fox ears??? I always assumed wolf??? But I digress- His uniform has been changed up to be reminiscent of an orchestra conductor cuz hahah audio. His face tattoos are meant to be those spotify code scanners - the right cheek leading to It's All So Incredibly Loud by Glass Animals and We Own The Night by Chandler Kinney on the left (cuz I think it's funny!) As for his last name change, "Allegro" in musical terms means "to be played very quickly" which I thought would suit him quite well as someone who can solve cases really fast. His personality is basically the same, the only alteration being that he carries around a notepad and pen in order to help keep track of all the hundreds of things he's constantly hearing all the time.

Next is Pucci. She's received Spectal Projection from Melami and if you thought being good at hearing made her existential then BOY HOWDY does being able to use her body as a vessel for spirits fuck her up even more! Originally I was going for a classic "fortune teller" look for her but I instead went with a cute seamstress-y sort of look instead cuz I couldn't really get what I had in mind initially to look good. She wears a tape measure like a scarf and a thimble as a necklace charm. Her eyes, while cute, have a sort of dead look in them that make others wonder if she's even alive at all. Her last name has been changed from Lavmin to Lavender because in flower language, they're representive of purity, serenity, grace and calmness - all traits she seems to exhibit until she actually starts talking and you realise she's just sort of awkward and shy. She finds it easier to talk to ghosts/spirits then living creatures and honestly probably gets along reeeaaally well with this AU's version of Vivia.

Now, you may be looking at Aphex and going "Rindude! You changed fuck all about him!" And yeah, you're right... The only major changes I made was switching out his coat, boots and like doubling his muscle mass. He's strong. He could beat you up, no questions asked and it definitely shows! His forte is now Thoughtography but he's just as angry as ever - originating from the "front lines" that canon Zange mentioned in his own backstory. For that reason, his coat is inspired by WW2 trenchcoats and while my art doesn't show it very well, everything he's wearing looks and smells like he's crawled straight out of a dumpster. Originally I was going to change his last name to Harkness as an homage to Captain Jack Harkness, a WW2 soldier inspired character from (surprise, surprise) Doctor Who but considering the fact I did that exact same thing with an oc of mine for my A levels earlier this year... I instead went with Tyler; an homage to another Doctor Who character called Rose Tyler who is also a badass blonde <3

And that's all the details I'm sharing for now! It's a little strange considering I've written the Storm Cypher fanfic about half way through its chapter 0 already so I have a lot more to say about the train gang then I did anyone else - since they've already had stuff actually written for them. Melami and Zange's swap au designs will drop like... as soon as I figure out how to draw elderly people. So soon, hopefully! But yeah, I'm cooking super good atm I just can't really share much due to the nature of writing lol. I've been loving getting asks about it though! Deadass, it makes me kick my legs and giggle to know people are crazy enough to care about this AU- >w<

[melit0n]

Miasma

- Synopsis: In the halls of the Palais Garnier, a ghost holds a grasp on the minds of almost all those who enter. A ghost, a creature of the imagination of the artists, the superstition of the managers, or, perhaps, a product of the absurd and impressionable brains of the young ladies of the ballet, their mothers, the box-keepers, the cloakroom attendants, or the concierge.

In the glory of the golden auditorium, the burn of his eyes can be easily mistaken for the glare of the calcium lights.

- Oneshot

- Stalker Phantom/Reader

- Word Count: 5.2K

- Warnings: None

- Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50298724

Gracefully, your feet move in carefully practised synchronicity with the fellow members of the soloists, different shades of expensive tulle twirling in time with the orchestra. You were nearing the end of the final, full run-through rehearsal for to morrow's show; a new production long awaited to be displayed to the public.

The choreography was tiring, yet not the worst you had ever done: the repetitive, five to ten hours of practice each day with a ballet master who was unwilling to take anything but utter perfection brought more ache to your muscles than completing your role in the show itself. Yet, even with tired, overworked calves, you continued to strive for the grace and refinement that your teacher had forged into your very bones.

The surge of the orchestra reverberates in your chest, adrenaline habitually coursing through your veins, practice or live show aside. Despite the seemingly endless hours you had spent practising this piece, you still had the innate fear–whispering in the back of your mind–of tripping over your own feet and falling. Or, even worse, crashing into one of the other fast-moving girls, subsequently earning a condescending reprimanding from the ballet master. 

Nothing but perfection. Something hard to achieve with bruised ankles and lungs constricted within a too-tight corset. 

Even with the distinct lack of a large, judgemental audience, the sting of observant eyes burns into your figure. Being a ballet dancer in a prestigious company, with delicately crafted productions showing to the public almost every other day, you were used to the stare of thousands on your figure. 

This, however, was different.

It was an almost eerie sensation; an uncomfortable tingle raising goose-flesh on the back of your neck.

Covertly, you scour the darkened auditorium. In between fast moving limbs, the blurred faces of the orchestra and your fellow dancers, you find nothing but the bright red velour of the thousands of seats and the rich gold of the engraved private boxes. 

You would have left the odd feeling to be the result of nerves, or the watching eyes of the stage director, or even members of the chorus, yet it felt unrelenting. Eyes somehow managing to stay trained on your figure and your figure alone, even through the organised flutter of tulle.

As you pirouette, however, you catch the stare of one of the violin players, shrouded in darkness within the cavity of the pit. 

Ah.

Augustine would laugh at me for my paranoia, you think to yourself.

Regardless, the swell of the orchestra sends a strain through your legs; your muscles pulled taught in anticipation of finally finishing for the day, if not to only repeat it the next.

Finally, the woodwind and strings grow louder, along with the leading soprano, and bring the piece to a finish. You flourish your legs outwards in an arabesque, holding yourself delicately on the tips of your ballet shoes, careful not to wobble. 

Careful not to be considered anything less than perfection. 

Simultaneously, you flinch slightly as the sound of ripping fabric meets your ears.

You can feel the beads of sweat running down your back, soaking into the itchy fabric of your costume. Chest heaving, you hold your position for a few moments before a loud, happy applause erupts from the observers of the final rehearsal. Gracefully, the leading lady bows as members of the chorus and corps de ballet surround her; congratulating her on reaching her notes, as if that wasn’t what she had trained tirelessly her whole life to be able to do.

The glare of the calcium lights burns. 

Eventually, the stage director himself praises your group and, as it has finally struck six pm, calls for the members of the ballet, the chorus members, the orchestra and the leading actors to part and leave for home. You walk, tiredly, off stage right, rubbing the back of your neck. 

You avoid the eyes of the violin player, trying to catch your gaze yet again. 

Squinting in the gloom, you find a large rip on the back of your costume’s bodice. You scowl as you run your hands over the ripped threads, nails plucking the strings of fibre like those of a harp.

A careful hand finds your shoulder, and you look up to see your friend; Augustine. Happily, you smile at her, her clean white teeth smiling back while she tilts her head in question at you. You stand straight and state, annoyed, “My bodice ripped.”

“Good riddance.” She replies sarcastically.

“For the amount of funding the costume department receives, I would have hoped they would make one of the main pieces of our costume more durable-”

“-And less itchy.”

“And less itchy.” You agree. “The costumers are not the ones dancing in those for two hours,” You sigh out as you run your hands over your bodice again, feeling the threads of the expensive fabric and praying, quietly, that the costumers would not ask for payment in fixing it. Considering how close you were to the official show, you have no doubt they’ll be annoyed that you somehow managed to rip it. 

Augustine laughs joyfully at your expense, saying, “Perhaps you should send an official complaint to the costume department, or even-” You huff loudly, already knowing what she was about to suggest, “-The Opera Ghost himself! He’d be sure to scare the costumers into submission, no?”

Laughing tiredly at her jokes, you continue to walk backstage, cautiously avoiding the moving scene–directed by the shouting stagehands above���and passing by your fellow actors. Each are either gossiping, rubbing their fatigued muscles or talking amorously with the sweating stagehands. Though, it is mainly the younger girls trying their luck with the older men. 

“I don’t think I’ve been so tired in my life,” Augustine mumbles.

“Perhaps you are getting old?” You joke back.

“Don’t you even start!” She nudges you harshly in the side, smiling, while you cry out in faux pain. “I don’t think I’ll even be able to walk home. God above knows if I’ll be able to move after I’ve gotten into bed.”

“I wonder if you will fall asleep in our booth after dinner?” You jest. You both had a ritual of going out to dinner, trying a new restaurant for each occasion, the day before performing a new show. While you saw each other every day, you both found it to be a pleasant way to unwind after practice. 

“If I am to afford new ballet shoes and my rent, I think I may have to give dinner itself up for a few weeks.” She smiles a tired smile, one that does not reach her eyes.

“Do not speak so, Augustine. I’ve told you once and I’ll tell you again, if you ever need help with your finances,” You place your hand on her shoulder, “Just say so, and I will be there to aid you.”

You both pause in your walking, and she looks at you with lapis-like hues as she speaks, “I could not–would not–burden you so.” You open your mouth to reprove, but she begins speaking again, “Yet, I appreciate your offer.”

Raising an eyebrow at her, you pat her shoulder empathetically as you intertwine your hands. You walk further into the ever moving and humming guts of the theatre, squeezing up stairs too thin and creaky to be safe and down darkened corridors only illuminated by the dim gleam of the oil lamps not yet put out for the evening. 

Oddly, with each dim hallway you pass, goose-flesh seems to arrive on the back of your neck. As you did during your performance, you chalk it up to a member of the ballet, or the orchestra, silently vying for your attention. That, or perhaps an unfelt draft coming from the cellars.

Now, hidden away from the burn of the calcium lights, your practised facade of expected neatness slowly unfurls. You gently pull out the hair pins keeping your hair in tight buns, wisp like strands following. The tight ribbons that keep your shoes together are also loosened, allowing your feet to finally breathe. Augustine’s are quickly falling apart and, while it wasn’t usual to have them replaced frequently, the price had increased dramatically in the past months. You expect all your fellow dancers–at least those without donations–were beginning to struggle to come up with the money. 

As you do so, many people meander past you; male members of the chorus with bottles of liquor in their hands, hopeful, seasoned members of the corps de ballet, as well as your fellow soloists, and stagehands unhappy with their pay alike.

“What do you intend to do with this month's payment?” You ask, in an attempt to begin conversation again.

“A new-” Augustine begins.

“-Other than the new pair of ballet shoes.” 

She glares at you, half annoyed and half entertained; “A restock of oil and new candles, most likely. Perhaps a new sewing kit. What of you?”

You shrug. “I expect something similar; a restock of oil and possibly some soaps.” She nods, understandably, at your decision.

As you turn past another unlit hallway, your goose flesh arises on your arms now, and you quickly glance over your shoulder to look for anyone in particular, perhaps that violinist. Yet, you find no one. No one but the average crowd of gossiping dancers. 

“Y/N? Are you well?” Augustine stops and looks over her shoulder at you. “Are you looking for someone?” She squints into the crowd along with you, searching the different heads for who you may have been looking at.

“No, I apologise, I just…had an odd feeling.” Augustine looks at you incredulously, before a sly grin makes its way onto her pretty face. 

“Hm…mayhap The Phantom is eyeing you from the shadows…” She shrouds her accent with an ominous tone, the same tone the stagehands place upon themselves when telling ghost stories to the younger chorus members.

“Don’t-”

“-Eyeing his next victim-”

“-Agustine!” You begin to laugh.

“-Waiting for the perfect moment to drag you down into his cellars and make you a part of his bone collection!” She grabs you by your shoulders and shakes you vigorously as you laugh heartily; relieved of your paranoia by her jesting. Easily enticed with mention of the renowned Phantom, some members of the chorus walking past let out a nervous laugh. Expectantly, some even linger or slow their gait to listen in on any gossip about the local ghost. 

Still laughing, your chest aching with both the strain of your corset and the joy flooding out of your mouth, you finally reach one of the many dressing rooms. Your pace had been slowed talking to Augustine, so you find it already full of the other female chorus members and soloists; some already changed, others half nude. 

The dressing room was made of dark, shined oak, and was lit in a lamp-light glow, fire-formed rays spreading like spring petals upon the peeling, ivory-coloured wallpaper of the walls. Multiple wall-length mirrors hang upon them, the glass of them scratched and worn with time and bristling skirts. It’s spartan in comparison to the official, commonplace elegance afforded to a select few of the principal dancers, let alone the dressing rooms of the main actors, yet, it's a comforting place of shared fatigue and tired conversation.

However, once, you visited one of the secondary operatic vocalists in her room, invited to share tea and gossip as she had taken a liking to you. While the only thing she had need to do there was change and perhaps receive the occasional public visitor, she was provided a room that oozed refinement and grandeur. 

The warm lodging contained an intricately designed pier glass, a sofa, a dressing table and a cupboard or two. Along with an astounding number of fresh bouquets, a second floor length mirror lay on the far left. The walls themselves were covered in delicate, floral wallpaper and accented by odd art pieces that appeared to be original.

You’d later learn that while she deeply enjoyed the attention of her older patrons, she tended to take a liking to artists.

Overall, it matched perfectly with the marble palisade that was the Théâtre National de l'Opéra. A complete juxtaposition of the sparse changing rooms you now currently stand in.

Different shades of hats were sat, as per usual, on dress hangers, as well as dull evening dresses. The more expensive, elaborate dresses with long trains were usually kept tucked away until show night, when rich patrons–ring-bearing or not–usually paid visits to the female members of the chorus and troupe of ballerinas.

Reaching your designated changing area, where your own evening dress lay folded neatly upon the wooden bench, you began to converse with Augustine yet again.

“Are you sure you won't join me for dinner this eve?”

Sympathetically, she watches your form from the corner of her eye as she slips out of her costume, reaching around to finally undo her corset, “I am sure, I apologise, you know what it’s like-”

“-Do not apologise.” You sigh deeply as you undo your own corset, letting the warm air of the dressing room fill your lungs. “I will not berate you for wishing to save some extra money.” 

She gifts another warm smile in your direction, before averting her eyes, almost shyly, away from your partly naked form. Aimlessly, she begins to chatter to you about the ache in her calves, and how she believes she’s found yet another ‘life-saving’ treatment for her damaged muscles. Your conversation filters in with the rest of the conversations that flows around the small room, and, half listening to Augustine, you pick up on some of the other’s words. 

In the left corner, a group of girls surround one of the newer members of the troupe of ballerinas, chatting to her with large grins placed delicately on their rosy faces. You spy the glint of gold and the glint of some sort of large gem on her ring finger.

Lucky, you think to yourself, beginning to pull on your chemise and stockings.

In another corner, there are whispered nothings between two girls, one you know to be a young woman named Blanche; a tall thing with peachy skin and hair the colour of a golden sunrise, almost always kept in a tight plat. She looks at the shorter girl, half-dressed, next to her with the same sort of eyes some of the comtes and young vicomtes give to members of the chorus in the parlour.  

You’re pulled back from your people-watching by tumultuous shrieking outside the corridor. Were you not accustomed to the trainee ballerina’s rambunctious shouts after they had finished practice, you would have expected them to have seen a ghost.

Or, rather, the ghost.

A collective sigh resounds in the small room as the noise dissipates down the hall, followed by your own dressing room door opening as three giggling girls enter. Augustine gives you a weary sidelong glance as the pitter-patter of ballet shoes approaches your corner. 

“Hello Mademoiselle L/N, Mademoiselle Charbonneau! We finished practising for Polyeucte this eve!” Lucille, a lithe creature with a button nose and bitten-down fingernails speaks, excitedly.

“Yes yes! Yet we didn’t spot either of you,” Little Jammes begins to moan. She was a favourite of the chorus and existing members of your troupe of dancers, what with her tip-tilted nose, forget-me-not eyes and rose-red cheeks. “You promised you would come watch!”

Before you or Augustine could respond, another voice adds their opinion to the situation; “They couldn’t! They have the performance for the new production tomorrow eve, halfwit-”

“-Don’t insult Jammes so, Elaine,” Augustine reprimands. “I-” She quickly glances your way, “We apologise. Myself and Y/N are quite fatigued; we were not granted a break to day. If we have time, we will watch your practice in the morning on the Monday.”

The younger girls let out a happy cheer at their small success. Elaine and Lucille skip off to where the other apprentices and members of the corps de ballet were changing, while Little Jammes lingers behind.

Nodding to both yours and Augustine’s forms, she says, “I hope your performance goes smoothly tomorrow, mademoiselles.” She begins to turn back to the rest of her group, however, glances at you and speaks yet again; “Oh! And don’t forget your scarf.” She giggles, almost maniacally, before prancing out the door and off to her group.

“Will do, Little Jammes.” You call out after her. She turns and smiles, acknowledging you.

Little Jammes was one fond of jokes, one being stealing your scarf and having you chase her around the Opera House looking for it. A game of hide and seek, if you will. You had kept up the game for almost three years now; her having just turned fifteen. While she was adamant in becoming refined and elegant, as all girls that age are taught to be, she still held onto some of her child-like tendencies with you.

One of the girls, just putting on her bonnet, turns to you as she fixes the ribbons; “I’m unsure how you put up with such boisterous creatures, even Little Jammes; the lot of them are such brats.” She jokes somewhat sarcastically. You smile at her as her eyes, black as ink, look into yours for an answer. 

“It is not much trouble, even if all the majority speak of is the fabled Opera Ghost.” The young lady and Augustine both laugh at your jest. As she finishes with the ribbons of her bonnet, she waves, and wishes you both a good evening. 

Slowly but surely, the girls drift out of the room, some by themselves, and others in larger groups. 

By the time you’re finally fixing your dress, most have left, including the members of the corps de ballet and trainees; eager to leave the domain of the Opera Ghost for the comfort of warm blankets and dinner. Augustine and you are slightly behind schedule, taking extra time to chat aimlessly.

“I cannot believe it takes you so long to dress,” Augustine jests as she finishes buckling her shoes. 

“I know you wish to leave for your apartment Augustine; go. I will walk home on my own to night.” 

Her eyes turn to you, body still bent with her shoes. “Are you sure? Will you be well?”

“Of course I will be. I am a grown woman, Augustine. Either way, I must talk to the costuming department in order for them to fix my bodice; I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

Augustine raises an eyebrow at you, as if thinking this is some test of friendship, before nodding and pulling her shawl across her slim shoulders.

“Good evening, Y/N. Be safe.” She calls over her shoulders as the click-clack of her heels descends towards the exit. “Oh! And I promise to go to dinner with you next week!” She peeks her head over the door frame to call back to you. 

“Sure.” You call back sarcastically. You catch a small smile on her tired face before the sound of the door echoes in the empty dressing room. Finally, you finish dressing, placing your hair into its usual updo again. As you do so, a newspaper, left behind by the young woman of whom you had been talking to, catches your eye. Its newsprint page open on the Opera and Theatre periodical, and a title in bold reads; ‘800 Pounds on a Conserige’s head.’

You recognised the tragedy almost instantly, for it had only occurred but three weeks ago. You were surprised the headline was still making rounds, let alone at the top of the periodical. Although, you suppose, this may be an old paper. Underneath the title shows;

On the evening performance of Helle, May 20th, one of the counterweights for the Théâtre National de l'Opéra’s chandelier fell, suddenly, upon Madame Colette Auclair, aged fifty-six, during her first and last visit to the Opera House; as she passed on impact. Stagehands deny any and all involvement with the tragedy, and report no issues with the counterweights. However, many of the members of the Théâtre National de l'Opéra claim it to be the work of the ever-so-infamous Phantom of the Opera; The Monster of Paris.

You cease reading the moment your eyes graze over the word ‘Phantom’. You felt it ludicrous that an official newspaper would accept and continue to publish such a superstitious and almost mocking piece. Someone’s death shouldn’t be attributed to a spectre that exists and lingers, purely, in the absurd and impressionable brains of the young ladies of the ballet. 

As are the faults of journalism, you suppose.

Sighing loudly, you close the paper and check the date, which reads that it had been re-published not but a week ago. You glare at the bold print while reaching to the hanger for your scarf, and, when your hands find nothing but cold air, you turn.

All you find is an empty hanger. 

How odd, you think to yourself. It was there but a minute ago. Where could it have gone?

You begin to scour the dressing room, before realising what Jammes had hinted at beforehand. Yet, you frown. How could she have gotten in while you weren’t looking? Even if you had been distracted reading the paper, you would have most definitely heard the loud creak of the un-oiled door.

Eyes searching methodically around the room, you finally spot the hue of your scarf peeking out from the ajar dressing room door. The tassels lying, spread, across the scuffed wood of the floor. 

Sighing yet again, you call out for Jammes, who you still swore had left long before you had, and begin to walk across the room. 

I don’t know if I’ll even have time to visit the costumers at this rate. I can never remember how late they stay into the evening.

The heels of your boots send a resounding click-clack across the now bare room. As you near the door, you crouch ever so slightly; haunches rising like a cat ready to pounce on its prey. 

“Jammes…” you mumble out with a smile growing on your face, slowly reaching out to grab your scarf, preparing for a tug of war with a giggling ballet girl, before your scarf zips out from beneath the pads of your fingers. 

You scoff, surprised, before peeking your head out of the doorway, like some weary animal, and looking down the left hall. Innocently, your scarf sits at the end of it, hidden partially around another corner.

Mocking you. 

It was unusually silent. You didn’t hear a laugh nor giggle come from the teasing girl. Glancing down the other hall, you keep watch for the lamplighter. 

You hear no steps echo against the wood and stone. You surmise he has not arrived yet.

Softly, you step out of your dressing room and begin walking down the hall to your beloved scarf. 

The oil lamps send shadows down the hall, long, gangly ones that claw at the hem of your dress as you walk forward. Long, gangly ones that you swear whisper in the dark of the halls. Whispers that sound much too like your fellow dancers, asking for you to follow them.

“Jammes?” You call out into the moving mass of darkness. 

No reply. 

Yet again, as you creep closer to your prize, it is pulled away from your grasp; spirited away and down another ill-lit hallway. 

“Jammes,” you whine, quietly. “This is not funny Jammes. I have to go see the costumers before they leave for the evening.” Despite your worries and growing annoyance, you still follow your scarf down hallway after hallway. Ones you find lead deeper into the Opera House, down passages you were sure were only touched by stagehands. Down routes that only the spiders and their webs called home. 

Quite admittedly, you begin to grow afraid. Afraid of both the dark and the odd whispers that you pray are simply the evening wind whistling. The gossip of the corps de ballet begins to catch up to you too, murmuring descriptions of a man, a monster, with the body of a corpse; skin rotting off his own bones and the Night itself hiding in the sockets of the ghost’s skull. 

Perhaps you are just as paranoid as the brats of the corps de ballet. 

Augustine would laugh at me for this, you repeat as your scarf slips out from under your fingers yet again. Just wait until I tell her this to morrow morning.

Eventually, you find yourself in a dank hallway deep in the Opera House, near the storage room for all the set pieces, you suppose. 

Jammes must have been dared down here by her friends at least once, you reason with yourself.

A trapdoor, locked, sits to the left of you, a bit further up the hall. The wood of the floors let out a cry with each step you take; bending around your feet. You fear it may snap from right under you. 

“Jammes!” You call out frustratedly. You had spent twenty or so minutes travelling down into the depths of the Opera House for a mere scarf; you could have spoken to the costumers and been on your way home by now! Typically, your cat-and-mouse chase with Jammes only lasts ten or so minutes, for her mother calls on her before she can go too far. You were tired and frustrated, with fear building up in your dry throat.

As you begin to turn yet another corner, one you would suppose would lead down into the storage rooms and the vaults of the opera, you are met with pitch black itself. It was as if there was a wall of night standing before you; a mirror reflecting a pitch-black sky you couldn’t see.

Out of the void reaches a white, silken gloved hand, holding your scarf, and your scream echoes loudly in the empty hall like the first chords played in a silenced auditorium. Your hand immediately goes to your chest, to squeeze your thumping heart into submission as your lungs heave for the air they can’t seem to inhale fast enough.

“Apologies, Monsieur, I…” You try to catch your breath, incomplete thoughts rushing through your brain. “...I did not see you.” 

He wears the type of expensive glove that only those who visit the Opera House and its members wear. Clean, white as pure as a dove’s wing, and well made. Immediately you question, mentally, what someone of supposed high status is doing so deep in the belly of the Opera House, especially since there had been no public show today. Further, if Little Jammes is nowhere in sight, then is this who has been leading you around the Opera House with your scarf? Or, perchance, has Jammes given your scarf to him in order not to get caught?

He speaks not a word; you do not even hear him breathe. Your nostrils are met with a terrible stench as a breeze ascends from under the trapdoor and behind the man, sounding more like agonised cries than wind. Mould, stagnant water and…and death. The type of miasma that lingers in your apartment when a trapped animal passes in the cage of your walls; rotting to dust. 

Rotting. Rotting flesh. Rotting flesh pulled taught against bones like a drumhead. A horrible image infiltrates your fatigued mind. 

You are unable to see a single inch of him other than his silk-covered hand, the beginning of his clean, nicely dyed overcoat and of course, your scarf. In the dim lighting, his hand seems to be trembling, as if holding a tremendous weight. Let alone the grip he seems to have on your scarf; the fabric wrinkling under his fingers. Despite him holding it out for you to take, the grip he holds onto it with makes it seem he almost wishes not to let go. Conditioned by years of interacting with the higher class, your mouth immediately goes to asking on his well-being.

“Are you well, Monsieur?” You whisper emphatically. You’re sure he can hear the fear laced in his voice. Considering the habits of the other patrons, you wouldn’t be surprised if he finds amusement in it.

The hand reaches further outwards with your scarf, and makes a motion for you to take it. You stand there, between the stagnant air and the man, looking back and forth between your scarf and where you believe his eyes to be. 

You look at him with an uncertain stare, before gently reaching out to take your scarf. You approach this like you would approach a wild animal; with slow movements, and careful eye contact. Cautiously, your hand meets the soft fabric of your scarf, as well as the coolness of his gloves. 

A shudder seems to run up his arm, and you’re half sure he flinched from your touch. Yet, your scarf remains in an iron-grip, despite your light tugging. 

Again, you squint into the void, trying to find his eyes in the dimness of the oil lamps. “... Monsieur?” You mumble, even quieter than before, with an increasing amount of panic in your voice. As if suddenly remembering he’s holding your scarf, he jolts, yet again, and releases it. 

Yet, his hand still lingers in the air.

Wrapping the scarf around your neck, you can almost feel his eerie gaze following your hands as you do so. His hand still floats, trembling in the air. It almost seems like he wishes for you to take it. Take it and follow him into the vaults of the opera house. 

Take it and make you a part of his bone collection. 

You waft the idiotic thoughts away from your head with a swift movement of your hand, disguised by pushing the ends of the scarf behind your back. 

Idiotically, with worry entangled in your movements, you reach out for him again, gingerly placing your hand on his upper arm. A shiver of your own rattles through you, like a cold finger caressing your spine. The pads of your fingers find the expensive threads of his overcoat, and, dear Lord, he is so cold. Even through his coat, you can feel the wintery burn of his skin. He was so bony; ever so skeletal. With such a gentle touch, you felt as if you could crush the bones of his arm. 

Something between a gasp and a sob quickly escapes his mouth, regardless of the distraught tone he held, he manages to sigh with perfect pitch and time. 

“Forgive me-” Taking a step backwards, you apologise immediately, but you’re met with the quick swish of fabric through the dank air as another foul-smelling wind arises from the trapdoor. It flutters through your hair and causes a chill to settle in your chest. It curls up around your lungs and heart and makes every breath difficult.

Your scarf does nothing to keep you warm. 

Most of the dimming oil lamps are quickly blown out by the strong gust, and the little you could see of the man is engulfed by the darkness. 

One oil lamp remains, barely lit, behind you. 

Quickly, you step backwards until your back hits the wall, and you reach for the lamp. Unhooking it, you bring it forth to the hall, thrusting it outwards into the void. 

There is nothing there other than lingering dust. 

Another gust of wind arises, and quickly puts out the lamp. As you now stand in the dark, a cacophony of whispers erupts upon the cold wind.

He’s here, The Phantom of the Opera.

----------------------------

I had an unbelievable amount of fun writing this. I'm sorry if this doesn't read completely right; I was doing my best to imitate Gaston Leroux's writing, since I wrote this for Leroux!Phantom rather than Musical Phantom (or any other phantom for that matter). Further, I apologize to any possible ballerinas reading this, for I know the terminology Google and some ballet Tumblr blogs gave me may be incorrect.  I know there isn't that much actual Phantom interaction, but I wanted to focus on the more creepy and touch-starved version of him. I'm thinking about doing a series of Phantom one-shots, hence why I'm leaving this as 'incomplete'. Either way, thank you for reading <3

Historical Notes:

- Calcium Lights = Another word for limelights.

- Théâtre National de l'Opéra = The name given to the Palais Garnier from September, 1870 to January, 1939. 

- Pier glass = A mirror that is placed on a pier, i.e. a wall, between two windows supporting an upper structure. Generally used to fill the space between the windows.

- 800 pounds on a Concierge's head = An actual headline written by Gaston Leroux himself. On May 20th, 1896, a performance of the opera Helle was underway when a counterweight, one of multiple that held the chandelier up, broke loose and fell through the ceiling; killing a Concierge on her first (and last) visit to the Palais Garnier, which inspired the falling of the chandelier in Phantom! Forensic investigators later said a nearby electrical wire probably overheated and melted the steel cable holding up the counterweight, causing its fall, yet, for all the superstitious opera workers, it was said to be the famous Opera Ghost. The name used for the concierge is made up. 

[thelov3lybookworm]

What We Want

Day 7: free day

Summary: Y/n had not expected her past to meet her through her present and future.

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A/n: to make up for the lack of fics during the whole week, I wrote more than one fic for day 7 of @azrielappreciationweek

(i feel like there is a possiblity for more parts for this fic, so let me know if you want that 😉)

Enjoy my loves!

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The party was in full swing, soft music coming from the speakers overhead. Or maybe it was the orchestra in the corner. Y/n didn't know. Nor did she care.

The soft murmurs and the loud laughter swirled around Y/n as she stood in a secluded area, holding a glass, all alone.

She sighed, swirling the wine in her glass as she leaned back against the wall behind her. She just wanted to go home and get some sleep, but even thinking about sleeping on that uncomfortable couch gave her back pain.

And she couldn't leave without her husband, as he was nowhere in sight, and if she left without him, he would get pissed.

She took a small sip from her glass, relishing the fresh and fruity flavor of the wine.

The flavor immediately soured in her mouth when she heard her husband's voice nearby. She turned to look for him.

And instantly wished she hadn't.

There he was, walking towards her as he smiled and talked to another man.

When she took in who her husband's companion was, her blood chilled.

A man who wore dark clothing, no adornments accept for a single silver chain hanging from the strong column of his throat and a few rings on his fingers.

The man simply nodded along to Vaughan, Y/n's husband, as he talked.

The man who Y/n knew all too well.

The one she had been a little too late in telling that she belonged to him.

And now she belonged to another.

She quickly turned away, hoping to slip away into the hallway nearby. But of course, her husband had reached her by then.

Of course he was still talking to Vaughan.

And, of course, recognition dawned on that beautiful face.

"Oh, also, this is the woman I'm married to." Vaughan gestured towards Y/n carelessly, as if he couldn't care less about the fact that she was his wife. His choice of words and their meaning also didn't go unnoticed by Y/n. And by the looks of it, Vaughan's friend picked up on it too.

While Vaughan was married to Y/n, by no means was she his wife. He didn't care for her, didn't like her in any way. In fact, he despised her.

"And Y/n, this is" –Azriel– "Azriel, a business partner."

Azriel hadn't looked away from Y/n for even a moment, and neither had she looked away from him. It seemed like none of them were intrested in losing the staring match.

Y/n finally looked away, towards Vaughan. And her blood instantly froze at the coldness she found there.

He glanced at Azriel with the same shrewdness and calculated anger, and Azriel, the damned bastard, still stared at Y/n like he'd seen a ghost.

Look away, dammit!

Y/n smiled at her husband, then at Azriel, nodding in greeting.

Azriel searched her face, and Y/n looked away, not wanting to give Vaughan any ideas regarding Y/n and her old friend.

The one she cared about.

The one she would give her life for.

The one she had stopped talking to.

The one she loved.

And the one she would forever pine for.

Not that it mattered now. And when it would have mattered, she had been too late.

Just then, breaking the train of Y/n's thoughts, came a loud giggle.

Y/n looked up from her glass of wine, finding Eve, Vaughan's... girlfriend, clinging onto his arm. She curled her lean body around him, giggling. Probably at one of his unfunny jokes.

Y/n swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth, gulped down the remainder of her wine in one go, and then excused herself.

She needed to get out of there. Because if she didn't, she would lose her shit and break down, right then and there, in front of everyone.

She exited into a nearby hallway, turning right. She didn't know where she was going. Neither did she care. All she cared for was getting as far as she could from her husband and her love.

Of course, her luck didn't want her to be alone.

The sound of footsteps following her sounded from behind, and she hurried her steps, then broke into a full on sprint, hoping to lose whoever was following her.

If she had to choose, she would rather have Vaughan follow her, because she didn't know if she could handle it if it was him.

She spied a door nearby, muttering a word of prayer to god as she picked up speed, her gown riding the air behind her, the slit in her dress causing the warmed air to caress Y/n's bare legs.

The door opened into a balcony, the cool night air making her shiver slightly as she leaned against the railing, hoping she had lost the person following her.

She heaved a sigh when no one followed her onto the wide and spacious balcony.

Too soon.

It was maybe a minute of two after when the door behind her creaked open, and out stepped her one and only love, looking disheveled, his chest heaving.

He stared at her, and she did the same until he regained some semblance of control over his breathing. Then he spoke.

"Y/n." Her name was a whispered plea to the gods, a prayer that slipped out of his lips. His eyes searched hers before he raked them up and down her body. There were so many emotions in his beautiful hazel eyes that she couldn't begin to decipher them, even if she wanted to.

Good for her, she didn't want to. She couldn't afford to want that, because if she did, she wouldn't be able to hold back her sorrow at the loss of her friend. And love. But he didn't know that, nor did he need to.

She sighed, pretending to be irritated. "Azriel. What do you want?"

Her chest tightened, making it hard to breathe when she saw a flash of hurt in his eyes, as if her body was disappointed with her and wanted her to die.

To be honest, she felt the same.

"It's been so long. How are you? Why don't you talk to me anymore? Why do you ignore my messages and calls?"

Y/n made sure to clear her face of any and all emotions, tugging on the mask that she had mastered in the last six months, the six months that she'd been married to Vaughan.

She turned away, knowing all he could see on her face was detachment and coldness. "I don't know what you're talking about."

She could feel it when his demeanour changed. She knew she had taken it too far, maybe put years of friendship in jeopardy, but that was not a bad thing if he would leave her alone. Forget about her. It would be for the best, she told her heart. He wouldn't get hurt if she pushed him away.

Or maybe he would get hurt, but not as much as when he found out the extent of the mess she was in. When he found what could have been.

She heard him coming closer, then his cologne of mist and cedar reached her, and instinctively, she took a deep breath. And then she saw him in her peripheral view, staring at her with cold hard eyes, eyes that were always reserved for peple who hurt his family or him.

His hand, so much bigger than hers, wrapped around her elbow. He tugged lightly, and she heaved a frustrated sigh, turning to look up at him.

"Quit it." He mumbled quietly.

"Quit what?"

"I know this is an act, Y/n, so quit it."

"What makes you think this is an act? And what is this?" She snarled, snatching her elbow back from his grip.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. "I've known you for years Y/n-"

"That does not mean you know anything about me." She sneered. "Stop pretending like you do."

He simply stared at her, unmoving, giving her the no nonsense look that would have crumbled the old Y/n, but she was not who she had once been, and she stared back at him, as still as him.

After a moment, he sighed. "If you are so interested in having me leave you alone, then tell me one thing, and I will leave you alone."

Her heart clenched, knowing he would keep that promise and leave her alone.

She knew she didn't want that, and also knew she was stupid to not want that.

But she gestured at him to continue, wrapping her arms around herself.

He studied her for a few moments, and she had to suppress a shiver under his intense gaze.

"Why did you marry that jerk?"

Instantly, she wondered how long the drop would be if she decided to throw herself over the railing. She wouldn't ever do that, but it seemed tempting, even if it was for a moment.

"Because I wanted to. Now you can leave."

She made to turn away, but his hand shot out, grabbing her around the bicep, tugging her closer. Due to the unexpected action, Y/n stumbled forward, crashing into Azriel's chest.

Her face was pressed to his chest, both her hands clutching his sides. She hurried to push away from him, her hand on his chest.

His other hand was around her waist, and she found him staring down at her intently when she lifted her head to meet his gaze.

She had to swallow because of the close proximity, searching his eyes.

His eyes eagerly followed the roll of her throat before rising back to hers.

"So is this what you are doing behind my back?"

Y/n jumped away from Azriel, startled by the sudden loud voice breaking the peaceful yet tension filled silence around her and her best friend.

She whirled around to find her husband standing in the doorway, fuming. Eve was practically draped across Vaughan's hand, smiling like a cat.

Y/n heart was beating in her throat, making it hard to speak, but she was finally able to find her voice before her husband could make any more assumptions. "Vaughan, I can explain. It's not what it looks like–"

"All cheaters say that." He smirked, eyeing the space between the Azriel and Y/n.

"You would know." The deep voice intoned from beside Y/n, and she stiffened, her blood turning to ice at the look that came across Vaughan's smirking face.

"Cheaters hide their affairs. I don't."

Panic suddenly gripped Y/n when Vaughan turned to her again. He simply jerked his head towards the corridor, and she shook her hand out of Azriel's grip and walked away without looking back.

She lowered her head when she passed next to Vaughan, and she could feel the satisfaction rolling off him in waves at the act of submission.

Vaughan followed her out, Eve with him. He didn't wait to see if Y/n followed as he walked towards where the exit, murmuring something in Eve's ear, making her giggle.

Y/n finally glanced back at a stony faced Azriel, letting her mask slip for just a moment.

It was not much, but it was enough to let Azriel know she was not a willing participant in this mess, and that she was sorry for talking to him so rudely.

Understanding entered his eyes at the vulnerability he spied in Y/n's gaze, but before he could do anything, she walked away.

Following her husband back to his car and, then, to the shit hole she called home.

•○🌑○•

Azriel Taglist: @darthdumbasss @foreverrandomwritings

General Taglist: @bubybubsters @eos-princess @nightless @harrystylesfan2686

[astor-and-the-endless-ink]

Character Profile: Rhys Lucen

Full Name: Ghostspeaker Rhys Alexey Lucen

Nickname: Rhys

Age: 16

Pronouns: He/him, but he also doesn't really care

MBTI: ISFJ maybe? Idk I can’t type him he's Difficult

Personality Description: He’s kind, stubborn, and curious; he's also incredibly loyal, but shy. He can be a bit awkward, but fakes confidence when necessary. He loves people tho.

Backstory: His mother, Ghostspeaker Deirdre Lucen, died soon after he was born, leaving his father, Nikolai, both to take care of Rhys and become the Ghostspeaker since there was no heir old enough to take the position yet.

Rhys was then raised by a mostly absent father, who was more concerned about furthering the Ghosts’ goals for his own glory than his own children, since the Ghostspeaker had adopted Val by then, too. The only time Rhys really spent with his father was in training to become the next Ghostspeaker, and this led to a huge fear of failure for him, as well as fear of what taking the position would do to him.

And then Val ran away, and Rhys’ father hatched a plan to recover the people’s hopes—bring back the Ghostborn, children Gifted to a Ghostspeaker by the Ghosts themselves.

So Rhys became an older brother to a winged baby girl named Brynn.

Rhys now adores Brynn with all his heart, so when the people find out she exists and aren't receptive to bringing back the species they thought was cursed, he takes her on the run just in time to become the next Ghostspeaker and receive an impossible mission:

Kill all immortals, the only people in the world who can’t be killed…to his knowledge.

Likes: Reading, journaling, taking care of kids, being helpful generally, classical music

Triggers/Dislikes: The dark, the unknown, any mention of his future

Relationships (by the end):

- Nikolai Lucen | Father

- Valentine Lucen | Sister

- Brynn Lucen | Sister

- Ellis Lucen | Brother

- Sterling Pierce | Friend

- Devin Snyder | Girlfriend? It’s complicated

Theme Song:

[jgthirlwell]

2024 Year In Review

2024 was another intense year. It was the first time in twenty years I wasn’t scoring a show for TV, and I got to concentrate on finishing albums and starting new projects. The year began with the premiere of my chamber symphony for Alterity Chamber Orchestra in Orlando and ended with guest-vocalizing with the Losers Lounge Band on a Bowie classic at Joe's Pub in NYC. I completed new albums for Xordox and Venture Bros, to be released in 2025. I released an Archer Soundtrack album and scored a Harry Smith film for L’Etrange Festival in Paris. Worked with Laura Wolf on a new project and premiered my Ensemble project at the Big Ears Festival in Tennessee. Recorded many overdubs for the next Foetus album, also to be released in 2025. Began a new series of sculptural wall pieces. We lost Phill Niblock in January and Steve Albini in May. We lost my colleague Roli Mosimann in September. I still woke up 5am in a panic on too many occasions. As a cultural omnivore, many sights, sounds and stimuli penetrated me.

Albums that I enjoyed in 2024

Sleepytime Gorilla Museum of the Last Human Being (Pelagic) Present This is not the end (Cuneiform) Tristan Perich/Ensemble 0 Open Symmetry (Erased Tapes) Drew McDowall A Thread Silvered and Trembling (Dais) Warrington-Runcorn New Town Development Plan Your Community Hub (Castles In Space) Extra Life The Sacred Vowel (Bandcamp) Geordie Greep The New Sound (Rough Trade) D-en Haut D-en Haut (Pagan) Aksumi Fleeting Future + Lines (Tonal Union) Louis Cole Nothing (Brainfeeder) Uniform American Standard (Sacred Bones) Zeal and Ardor Greif (Redacted) Shellac To All Trains (Touch and Go) Bangladeafy Vulture (Nefarious Industries) Ekko Astral Pink Balloons (Topshelf Records) Kee Avil Spine (Constellation) Fennesz Mosaic (Touch) Marewren Ukouk Round singing Voices of the Ainu 2012-2024 (Pingipung) Elysian Fields What The Thunder Said (Ojet) Melvins Tarantula Heart (Ipecac) Blood Incantation Absolute Elsewhere (Century Media) Aoife O’Donovan All My Friends (Yep Roc) Anna Thorvaldsdottir Aerial (Sono Luminus) Grace Bergere A Little Blood (Casa Gogol) Bob Vylan Humble As The Sun (Ghost Theatre 2) Andy Akiho Kin (Aki Rhythm) Yannis Kyriakides Hypnokaseta (Unsounds) Big | Brave A Chaos of Flowers (Thrill Jockey) The The Ensoulment (Cinéola / earMUSIC) Beth Gibbons Lives Outgrown (Domino) Beak >>>> / Kosmik Musik (Invada) Sebastian Tropic OST (Ed Banger) Chaser Planned Obsolescence (Decoherence Records) Jesus Lizard Rack (Ipecac) Ex East Islander Norther (Rocket Recordings)

Some books I enjoyed

Yuval Noah Harari Nexus Chris Stein Under A Rock Bill Buford Among The Thugs Patricia Highsmith The Talented Mr Ripley Sy Montgomery Soul Of An Octopus Malcolm Gladwell Revenge Of The Tipping Point

Some films I enjoyed

Furiosa ZEF Story Of Die Antwoord Joker Folie A Deux Kneecap Bad Faith Rebel Ridge Hundreds Of Beavers Ministry Of Ungentlemanly Behavior Teachers Lounge

I saw hundreds of concerts in 2024. Some highlights:

01.24.24 The Chisel at Bowery Ballroom 02.15.24 Jack Quartet play Austin Wulliman at Roulette Intermedium NYC. 03.09.24 Louis Cole / Genevieve Artadi at Brooklyn Steel 03.14.24 Kate NV at the Atrium at Lincoln Center 03.18.24 Sleepytime Gorilla Museum at Elsewhere in Brooklyn 03.23.24 Secret Chiefs 3 at Big Ears Festival 03.23.24 Hatis Noit at St John’s Cathedral in Knoxville TN for the Big Ears Festival 03.24.24 Kenny Wollesen’s Sonic Massage at Knoxville Art Museum for the Big Ears Festival 03.24.24 Elliott Sharp’s Void Patrol (with guests Cyro Batista and Colin Stetson) at Big Ears Festival 03.24.24 Aoife O'Donovan with the Knoxville Symphony Chamber Orchestra at the Big Ears Festival 04.01.24 Caleb Landry Jones at The Sultan Room i 04.06.24 Lovely Little Girls at Hart Bar. 04.19.24 Keith Fullerton Whitman performs ‘Playthroughs’ at Ambient Church 04.23.24 Mandy Indiana at Elsewhere in Brooklyn 04.26.24 Knower at the Brooklyn Bowl 05.04.24 Oberlin Contemporary Music Ensemble, directed by Tim Weiss, play Alex Paxton at Long Play Festival 05.04.24 Fuji|||||||||||ta at Long Play Festival 05.05.24 Ligeti Quartet perform Ligeti + Anna Meredith at Long Play Festival 05.17.23 Swans at Music Hall of Williamsburg 05.23.24 The Rolling Stones played at Met Life Stadium in New Jersey. 05.24.24 John Zorn’s ensemble, the New Masada Quartet 06.08.24 Rebekah Heller’s Bassoon Ensemble 06.25.24 Mdou Moctar at Bowery Ballroom NYC 07.12.24 C.Gibbs Review at Barbes 07.23.24 Bangladeafy at The Sultan Room in Brooklyn 08.18.24 Kid Congo and the Pink Monkey Birds at Union Pool 08.23.24 Alarm Will Sound play Marcos Balter’s Code-Switching, 09.30.24 Uniform at Bowery Ballroom 09.04.24 King Dunn aka King Buzzo (Melvins) and Trevor Dunn (Mr Bungle etc) at Music Hall of Williamsburg + White Eagle Hall in Jersey City. 09.13.24 Steven Bernstein and Nels Cline with the Arturo O'Farrill Latin Jazz Orchestra, playing James Bond themes. At Bryant Park in NYC. 09.15.24 PJ Harvey at Terminal 5, NYC 10.11.24 John Zorn’s Cobra in a 40th anniversary performance at Roulette Intermedium in Brooklyn 10.17.25 The The played at the Beacon Theater 10.22.24 Die Antwoord at Brooklyn Steel, 10.23.24 Boris played at Racket in NYC. 11.01.24 William Basinski for Age Of Reflections 11.04.24 Growing performing for Abasement at Artists Space in Manhattan 11.06.24 Pioneer Works presented a concert of Louis Cole Choral Music. 11.08.24 Lankum at Warsaw in Brooklyn 11.17.24 sunn o))) at Lincoln Center for the Unsound Festival 11.21.24 Extra Life at TV Eye. 11.24.24 Zeal and Ardor at Le Poisson Rouge NYC 11.25.24 Axiom, comprised of Juilliard students and conducted by Jeffrey Milarsky playing Solstice Ritual by Augusta Read Thomas 11.26.24 Blood Incantation at Elsewhere 12.01.24 Pharmakon’s awesomely unhinged performance at Union Pool. 12.11.24 Jesus Lizard played a great set at Brooklyn Steel 12.28.24 Grace Bergere / Jon Spencer / Gogol Bordello Capitol Theater Port Chester

Honorable mention to the multiple concerts I attended at the Abasement series at Artist Space, as well as multiple shows by S.E.M. Ensemble and Wet Ink Ensemble

[tarisilmarwen]

For the Sabezra Secret Santa Ask game:

🕐, 👨‍👩‍👧‍👦 , 💿?

:)

🕐 When did you start shipping sabezra?

Officially in the hiatus between Season Two and Season Three. I had been kind of a casual ship enjoyer before that and during the break read some very nice fanfics that had me all, "Okay this probably isn't going to happen but I like it anyway, Imma ship it." Of course then they showed the preview clips from "Imperial Supercommandos" at Celebration and I boarded the hell train full steam ahead lol.

👨‍👩‍👧‍👦 What are some of your favorite relationships (platonic or otherwise) Sabine and Ezra have with characters besides each other?

Honestly for both of them it's probably their relationship with Kanan. Let's be honest though, everyone in the Ghost Crew has a great dynamic and I love their quasi-familial friendships so much.

💿 Favorite Christmas song(s)?

Trans-Siberian Orchestra's Christmas in Sarajevo, basically epic rock Carol Of The Bells.

[saleintothe90s]

495. I watched Ghostbusters II, and I have questions

Hot take: I loved it.

When they fell on hard times in those five years, it made them more interesting to me. Although, it was never revealed what Winston did in those five years other than appearing at kids birthday parties with Ray. I know Red Letter Media didn't understand why Ray and Winston dances to the Ray Parker Jr. Ghostbusters theme, but I totally get it. My theory is that in the Ghostbusters universe, that song was totally a novelty song that only played on NYC radio stations. My theory is proven more after I saw Frozen Empire and Paul Rudd's character references it.

I do, however wonder why the kids wished He-Man was at their party instead .. I thought that Masters of the Universe/He-Man was more of a mid 80s craze?

I wanna know who Sigourney Weaver had 'dat baby with! Was it the guy who was jealous of Peter in the original film when he waited for Dana outside of orchestra practice? I bet it was him.

Egon wanting to do a gynecological exam on Dana as part of the investigation. Egon totally did it with that slime.

No more smoking! I kinda miss the smoking. I loved in the original that the boys pretty much welcome Winston in by lighting up a cigarette for him in the basement while they discuss Twinkies.

Peter MacNichol! I didn't even realize it was him until I was like forty minutes in. I love him, the only shining light from Ally McBeal! Did I miss why Dana was restoring paintings now instead of being in the orchestra? I guess it was because it was a day job so she could be with baby Oscar at night? I know at one point she tells Janosz that she'll be leaving soon since the baby is getting older?

They are cute as buttons in their suits fighting those death row ghosts in court.

Speaking of cute as buttons, Janine's glam makeover! She got that "return of Ghostbusters" paychecks now.

It's weird that New Years Eve is brought up, and is a giant part of the plot, but other than them wearing the Santa hats in the montage, and the aluminum tree in Peter's awesome apartment, that's all the Christmas we get. Did the entire movie take part in that week between Christmas and New Years? This video tries to figure it out.

Ooo the green dress. Winston saw it in a deleted scene, and said "[Peter's] not coming". Was that dress in the suitcase Peter brings over from Dana's apartment?

Speaking of the suitcase, that apartment scene before their dinner date, that scene felt like it was ten minutes long! I like Peter's apartment, so I'll let it slide.

Winston being scared of the ghost train is one of the best most overacted scenes ever. What was up with all the beheaded heads at the old Subway track?

Why did that scene involving Louis and Janine at Peter's apartment awake something in me? I do have a thing for guys like Louis. I need to put those feelings back away. Y'all know I gave up on dating!

I mean THIS?! With the earmuffs?! I need a minute. Even if Louis thought he had to save the Ghostbusters, I think him and Janine did some things first.

When that cop said "the Titanic just arrived", I felt the emotion in that line. He said it like it was real deal this really happened breaking news. Better Late Than Never.

Bobby Brown's sad cameo where he just opens the door at Gracie Mansion and asks the boys where he can get some ghostbusters stuff for his brother. Yes his song "On Our Own" (which I LOVE) is playing in the background.

I don't care about the Vigo stuff too much, the baby's acting makes the scene bearable however. Those twins who played Oscar were really good baby actors!

Them controlling the Statue of Liberty with the positive slime and the big flat Nintendo controller is silly as heck, and I am here for it.

Now, I know the movie got a cool reception when it came out in June of 1989, especially since it came out the weekend before the biggest movie of the year, Batman. Ghostbusters II made the biggest three day box office record at the time -- but Batman beat it the following weekend. I wanted to read some critic's initial reactions to the movie.

Vincent Camby of The New York Times almost gives away the entire movie's plot! I agree with most of his points, except for him saying the original was "overproduced and sloppy" the effects were made in 1984, what do you expect? On Christmas of 1988, NYT almost gives away the plot again in an article about the behind the scenes process of the film. (gift article)

I think Al meant a "junky" effect when he was referring to the Statue of Liberty walking around instead of a "junkie" effect, but I get what he's saying, even if I loved the scene for its silliness.

(My local paper ran this review too, so that's why you don't see one from my paper. ) I saw Ghostbusters: Frozen Empire the other day, and I feel like this was finally Ernie Hudson's chance to shine after being just the fourth Ghostbuster so so long. To me, each Ghostbuster has their own movie now: the original was Ray's, Ghostbusters II was Peter's, Ghostbusters: Afterlife was (ghost) Egon's, and Frozen Empire was Winston's.

I even found a newsgroup review from June of 1989. That is baby internet! Here is the archive, because I just feel like google groups is going to shut down the old newsgroup archives any day now. Wait, I just found another one (archive).

Here is an article about the press tour held at the newly renovated Plaza hotel in New York City. The press was already clamoring for a third movie. Of course, we wouldn't get that until 2020, 2021, of course.

In closing, never forget the Hardees promotion, with the noisemakers that were recalled almost immediately because lil kids ate the batteries. I remember being about six? and was terrified that my parents were going to take away my Ghostbusters noisemaker.

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[technicallymaximumkitty]

playlists

I made playlist for hazbin hotel characters

charlie, vaggie, alastor, angel dust, husk, niffty, sir pentious (bonus adam)

❤️ Charlie ❤️

❤️ Humility, gorillaz 

❤️ Lights, ellie goulding 

❤️ Gateway to the stars, skeleton staff

❤️ Cry baby, melody martinez  

❤️ Sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows, Lesley gore 

❤️ KK bubblegum, animal crossing 

❤️ Charlie’s inferno, the handsome devil 

❤️ The exorcist, calypso 

❤️ Space unicorns, parry gripp 

❤️ Out of my league, fitz and the tantrums 

❤️ Heathens, 21 pilots 

❤️ Devil town, cavetown 

❤️ Rat, penelope scott 

💜 Vaggie 💜

💜 Saint benard, lincoln 

💜 Angel with a shotgun, the cab 

💜 I wouldn't mind, he is we

💜 Hell’s coming with me, poor man’s poison 

💜 Mary on a cross, ghost

💜 Notion, the rare occasion 

💜 Butch 4 butch, rio romeo 

💜 Training wheels, melody martinez 

💜 All the good girls go to hell, billie eilish 

💜 Soku eye, gorillaz

💜 Spear of justice, toby fox 

💜 Roar, katy perry 

💜 Raincoat, studio killers 

🧡 Alastor 🧡

🧡 Twisted, missio 

🧡 All eyes on me, or3o 

🧡 Our love is god, heathers musical 

🧡 Animals, maroon 5

🧡 Dismemberment song, blue kid

🧡 Animal cannibal, karen skladany 

🧡 We'll meet again, vera lynn 

🧡 Terry's taxidermy, teddy hyde 

🧡 Christmas kids, roar

🧡 Arms tonite, mother mother

🧡 The hunting song, tom lehrer

🧡 Necromancing dancing, bear ghost 

🧡 Happy face, jagwar twin 

🩷 Angel Dust 🩷

🩷 Epoch, the living tombstones

🩷 Say amen (saturday night) panic! At the disco

🩷 Bad romance, lady gaga

🩷 Candy store, heathers musical

🩷 Grrrls, aviva

🩷 Take a hint, victorious cast 

🩷 Bubble gum bit*h, marina and the diamonds

🩷 Baby hotline, jack starbur 

🩷 Weak, AJR

🩷 Bad habits, steve lacy

🩷 Vending machine of love, the stupendium 

🩷 Front street, will wood and the tapeworms

🩷 Control, halsey 

🤎 Husk 🤎

🤎 Let me down slowly, alec benjamin 

🤎 Dirty harry, gorillaz

🤎 Ghosting, mother mother

🤎 Hand me my shovel i am going in, will wood and the tapeworms

🤎 The good, the bad and the dirty, panic! At the disco

🤎 The gambler, kenny rogers

🤎 Let's get this over with, they might be giants 

🤎 Cats, dogs, and rats, rare americans

🤎 Your gonna go far kid, the offsrping

🤎 Pardon me, he is we

🤎 Coffee, jack starbur 

🤎 Look who’s inside again, bo burham 

🤎 Tennessee whiskey, chris stapleton 

🤍 Niffty 🤍

🤍 Girlfriend, hemlock spring 

🤍 Body, mother mother

🤍 Bill waterson, lemon demon

🤍 The masochism tango, tom lehrer

🤍 The red means i love you, madds buckley 

🤍 Cell block tango, Chicago musical

🤍 Runs in the family, amanda palmer 

🤍 Killer queen, queen 

🤍 Hello kitty, avril lavigne 

🤍 Pretty little psycho, theexorcist 

🤍 Cannibal, kesha 

🤍 Barbie girl, aqua 

🤍 Curses, crane wives 

💛 Sir Pentious 💛

💛 Love like you, steven universe 

💛 Give and take, poor man’s poison

💛 Oh klahoma, jack starbar 

💛 I’ll rust with you, steam powered giraffe 

💛 Mr blue sky, electric light orchestra 

💛 Hidden in the sand, tally hall

💛 Egg and soldiers, cosmo sheldrake 

💛 Rhinestone eyes, gorillaz 

💛 Man made objects, lemon demon 

💛 Under my skin, jukebox ghost 

💛 Bang!, AJR

💛 Secrets, one republic 

💛 Savior of the skies, the cog is dead

🩵 Adam 🩵

🩵 Main character, will wood and the tapeworms

🩵 Stick it to the man, school of rock

🩵 Eighth wonder, lemon demon 

🩵 Verbatim, mother mother 

🩵 They’re only human, death note musical 

🩵 American idiot, green day

🩵 5/4, gorillaz 

🩵 Punk tactics, joey valance and brae 

🩵 Kiss me son of god, they might be giants 

🩵 DONTTRUSTME, 3OH!3

🩵 blood//water, grandson

🩵 Another way out, hollywood undead

🩵 Modern day cain, I DON'T KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME

[hyperactively-me]

king!ghost x reader -- the wedding

You hated your wedding dress.

As you stood there in front of the mirror, your heart sank at the sight of yourself drowning in ornate and thick fabric, embroidery, and jewelry.

The veil was long and thin yet adorned with embroidery, slightly obscuring your vision. The corset was too constricting against your figure. The train of the dress seemed to stretch for miles, making movement a cumbersome ordeal. A dainty tiara sits atop your head. It would soon be replaced by a bigger tiara, one more fit for a queen. Ghost’s queen.

You sit still as the maids apply make-up to your face and style your hair, leaving yourself to your thoughts. At this moment, there was no possible alternative for you but to face him at the altar. You had to utter falsehoods about your affection for him, til death do you part. You had to slip wedding rings onto each other’s fingers, symbols of connection and eternal love. Of course, the public had no idea of your true feelings towards their king. You had to hide behind this facade, this act, that you truly liked this man. You internally roll your eyes as the maids straighten out your dress and veil, adding final touches to your wedding outfit.

A quick knock rapped against the door and the head maid, who introduced herself, came in to help you slip on your shoes.

“It’s time to go out there. Do you have your vows ready?”

Unfortunately is what you really wanted to say, but you bite your tongue.

“Yes.”

“Good. Guests are arriving. Your family is here, your highness.”

You perk up a little at that statement, but you pretend not to care. You still hadn’t forgiven your parents, but you would be overjoyed to see your siblings.

“Diplomats and royalty from other kingdoms will be present,” the head maid continues. “They’re here to bear witness to his majesty’s wedding. They want to show their support of your union. It’s a great thing, your kingdom and Kastron creating peaceful relations. It provides more…stability and protection.”

You nod your head knowingly. You weren’t completely clueless. You knew Kastron has a history of starting battles and wars. You knew they always won. And you knew other territories, kingdoms, and rogue militias who tried to pick fights with Kastron always ended up defeated. Kastron also tended to fight unnecessary wars, burning down villages with no remorse. You supposed you had to keep track of all this, now that you were about to become the queen of Kastron. More recently, you had been thinking about asking Ghost for political lessons…

Which, speaking of, your thoughts begin to drift towards him. Where is he? What is he doing right now? What is he thinking? What is he wearing? Is he dreading this as much as I am?

You would find out soon enough.

Each passing minute brought you closer to the life with him that you didn’t want.

You were snapped out of your thoughts when you heard a gentle voice beckoning you. “It’s time to go, your highness.”

You nod, taking one last look at yourself in the mirror. You don’t recognize yourself. Yes, you look beautiful, but it’s not…you, per se. The wedding dress is just a facade, a wall of innocence to hide the fact that you’re marrying a murderer.

You turn, the motion causing the heavy fabric of your dress to brush against the floor. The head maid reaches behind your head, moving the veil in front of your face. She takes your hand, helping you move down the imposing wooden doors in front of you. Everyone from Kastron was in there, royalty from far away lands were in there, your family was in there, he was in there. All waiting for the blushing bride to be married to a killer.

The head maid quickly shoves your bouquet in your hands, and you grip onto the flowers like it’s a lifeline.

This was your reality.

On cue, the doors swing open, heads turn, and the orchestra plays the wedding march. It sounds like a death march to you. (speak now by taylor swift, anyone?)

You fix your gaze on the man you detested, waiting for you at the top of the altar. He was still wearing a stupid mask, his face covered. His body was adorned in the same black regalia he had worn when asking your parents for your hand in marriage. His cape flowed down his back, pooling at the stairs. An anxiety you’ve never experienced before swallowed you whole as you dragged your feet down the aisle, hundreds of eyes picking you apart.

Ghost was looking straight at you, his form unmoving as you approached him.

You had to force yourself to keep going, this time a little faster. You wanted to get this over with. The grip you held on your bouquet made the flowers quiver. God, the feeling of hundreds of scrutinizing eyes on your back made you want to throw up.

You were almost there. Almost there. You look down at the steps in front of you, climbing up to the altar, making sure not to trip on your trailing dress.

You wondered what he thought of you at this very moment. You wondered if he understood how truly scared you were to marry him, a killer, a creator of wars and bloodshed. You hoped you made him feel guilty.

You come to a stop on the top of the stairs, turning to face him. The music stops.

The wedding officiant starts speaking, talking about love, and this and that. It bores you half to death. Every last word he says is a drag.

“Now, for the vows.”

Oh God, the fun part.

You look down at his feet, trying to tune Ghost out as he talks about “steadfast loyalty,” “honor,” “privilege,” and “responsibility.” You want to scream at him to stop.

When he’s done, he looks at you expectantly. You just know that there’s a smirk under that stupid mask of his. You clear your throat, and begin to speak lies.

Meaningless, empty vows of how you would be “patient,” “honest,” “poised,” and “loyal.” The image of a perfect wife. The moment you concluded your words, your vows ceased to exist.

The officiate turned to grab the pillow holding your wedding rings, presenting them to you. He motions for you to grab Ghost’s wedding band. Your fingers tremble as you pick it up.

“I give you this ring as a symbol of my love and faithfulness, and as I place it on your hand, I commit my very heart and soul to you,” you practically spit out, sliding the ring on his calloused hand.

You watch as Ghost grabs your ring, a rather large diamond sitting on the band. He grasps your hand gently in his own, and he repeats the same: “I give you this ring as a symbol of my love and faithfulness, and as I place it on your hand, I commit my very heart and soul to you,” slipping the ring onto your finger. He squeezes your hand gently before pulling away.

You had nearly forgotten about this part. The kiss. The final nail on the coffin.

He reaches towards your face, pulling your veil up and over your head gently. He stepped close to you, closer than ever before. You reach up to his own mask, pushing up the top to reveal his lips. He lets you, watching you intently. You wanted to rip the mask off his face, but something deep within you stopped yourself.

His hand comes around to the small of your back, pulling you right up against him. He angles his back to the crowd, allowing only you to see, suddenly pulling his mask higher and higher, until it completely slipped off his face.

God, he’s gorgeous.

He bends down to your height, breath tickling your skin. You try to memorize his face before he eventually covers it back up. He pulls you impossibly closer, his other hand coming up to press against your cheek as he kisses you deeply.

The breath is knocked from your lungs as his lips press against yours, hard.

He slowly pulls away after another beat, and surprisingly you find yourself not wanting it to end. He methodically pulls his mask back down, concealing his face once more. He turns back to face the crowd, hand not leaving the small of your back, now cheering loudly for the happy couple. His hand gently pushes you towards the crowd, beckoning you to move. You turn, putting on a shaky smile as you spot your family in the crowd.

Ghost pulls his hand from your back, extending the crook of his arm out for you to take. You clutch onto his arm like it’s a lifeline, wrapping your hand around his bicep.

The orchestra is deafening as you both make your way down the aisle as a couple. The double doors open and shut quickly behind you two, and you let out a shuddered gasp, pulling your hand away from his arm.

This is your life.

- - - - -

(masterlist)