#it reached 9K views. insane

[jestbii]

Getting back into my A Hat in Time phase

[kooyabooya]

SUITS, (STOCKINGS), & TIES

m reader x minju // 9k words

For the record, there aren’t any fingerprints seen underwater. Nothing to tie one to a crime. The trial itself is already a rapid current, pulling you and everyone around the bullpen into the endless sea of papers, payment record documents, video recording transcripts, then more fucking papers, and you absolutely hate it.

Files boxed in dating back to even before taking the damn job, the amount of trips to and from the copying machine, getting the materials right. Avoiding any fuck ups; that too, was always the end goal - staring at the blue folder sitting on your desk until–

Your fucking intercom’s ringing again. 

It’s always a trip, that’s how it usually flows around here: a turn to the left, round the front desk of the floor, hook right down the insanely long walkway, glass windows giving you this nice view of the city skyline. Pretty, at around one in the morning of another late night of work stacked upon your desk. 

Easy enough to also: take a moment to admire the view, since it’s the kind of view that you’d never get over no matter how many times you look at it. You sigh at the playback in your head, something that Chaeyeon talked to you about while hiding away from the pressures of work in her own office, bumping coffee mugs and wishing that the building had sliding windows to let the high breeze through. 

They would never allow that. You tell her, keeping the vibe lighthearted with a laugh. I mean seriously, even if we did, it’s all fun and games until someone in one of the conference rooms below us sees a body hurling down towards the ground at a hundred miles per hour. Chaeyeon complains that the air conditioning doesn’t even reach her office sometimes, and tells you that she’s jealous, wanting to switch places with you since the sun hits her back during the work hours. 

Sweeping past her office, since she’s gone for the day, the carpet gets pressed down by your loafers, tilting your head to see that the office at the very end of the walkway has the lights on, and you do notice the gap where the door should be; meaning that it’s open or someone stepped inside. 

This was the end point of this overbearing yet brief journey. The office that was considered to be base camp, the command center, the brains, one would say. One of the firm’s most well known figures with how she leans back into her chair with a leg across the other, showing that she means business, and knows how to look good while doing it. 

Prior, you loop around the pane entering the room- 

“You’re saying that I should sit back and do nothing?” Minju asks, finger tapping the peak of her nose, clearly pressed. 

“I’m not telling you to,” the woman standing across her with a left hand fastened to the hip with a lean to her right side, “We’re backed into a corner and all I’m saying is that we have to draw back and take this at a new angle.” 

“But you said that last time! And look where it’s got us.” Minju shoots back, both feet on the floor now, drawing herself closer to make a point. You’re trying to not make your presence known, seeing where this exchange is headed, fighting the urge to not butt in and make a fool of yourself. “Cutting a deal with the very same person that is trying to come back and rip everything from us was all part of your plan?” 

“Minju, I know you’re angry but–” 

Minju slaps her hand down on the desk, “We’ve got them right where we wanted, pulled all the stops, and now you want to just back off?” 

“I’m not backing off, I’ve managed to buy us more time.” the woman says, pressing on the rim of her glasses, sighing when Minju doesn’t even bother to look back at her in the eye, flipping through a packet with a pen in her hand to check and see if there was anything that was usable to help the situation. You’ve seen the packet on her desk earlier that way, ran that by Hyewon, her secretary, and now she’s finally looking at it. 

“Two days. That’s all I got until we fall back with the judge.” she says to Minju, “Unless you have something for me on my desk later today, I’m officially and unofficially grounding you.” 

“Dahyun-” 

“Zip it.” Dahyun says, mimicking a pulling motion with her right hand to her lip, “You’re already stretched thin as it is, this case is already taking a toll on all of us and this would be the last thing I need on my mind.” 

A tap to the glass on the entryway, “Is this a bad time?” 

The two women look at you in suspicion, both of them not even realizing that the door was open the entire time, listening to the conversation, “How long have you been standing there?” Dahyun asks, pointing at you while you’re leaned against the glass, foot pointed to the floor all relaxed and everything. 

“I’ve been here long enough, but a little over five minutes.” you answer, blue folder in hand. “Didn’t want to interrupt the usual bickering on a casual Thursday evening.” you also add, stepping inside Minju’s office where it opens up.  

The great Kim Minju, one of the firm’s best lawyers, and Dahyun’s right hand woman, one of the key people sitting at the high table; also your handler of these different cases and adventures that she usually sends you to do or help her with. Her office was classy, a row shelves off to the right side filled with an assortment of vinyls and picture frames of the people that she holds most dear to her heart. A record player was next to this trolley that had a kettle and a bowl of candies (though she doesn’t like to admit that she’s got a sweet tooth); there’s also her violet couch in velvet that you’ve also passed out on multiple times, drunk on the sweet scent that you still have to figure out which one she uses for that. 

“This is the last file for the case I managed to scrounge and put together.” you tell Minju, sliding it over across while her inky eyes dart at you, prompting a questioning eyebrow out of both of you while Dahyun’s gaze falls on top. “Everything in terms of deals within the last year from our target man should be all in there. Though, we had a minor hiccup earlier this week with–” 

“Don’t remind me,” Minju vexes, “That was my screwup with the family and now I’m paying for it.” 

“After I told you not to jump the gun.” Dahyun jumps in, hand on the corner of the granite. She sounds annoyed; after all, she was technically the ‘fall guy’ in all of this with her hiccup also in mishandling the exchanged information, not her fuck up though, since she was set up from the beginning after a hidden clause she signed a long time ago. She also swoops in to grab the file, opening it to skim through the papers, slightly nodding at what she could read for a few seconds. “Impressive,” Dahyun nods, “this is good leverage.” 

“Thank you,” you say, smirking while Dahyun hands you back the file for Minju to look at, pulling it out of your fingers to flip through. “Had some help from Hyewon, but didn’t want to take all of the credit.” 

“Well I appreciate you both.” Dahyun adds, “I had my doubts when I got the call to come back and see what all the fuss was about. Now, I can breathe a little more easily knowing that we have this in the bag, I hope.” 

“I’m still here, you know.” Minju huffs, rolling her eyes.

“Hush,” Dahyun scrunches funnily, taps your shoulder, causing you to shrug nonchalantly, “Thank you for hanging back to help me take care of this while I’ve been dealing with my moving situation. God, it's been a back breaker for me.” 

“How’d that go?” 

“We finally settled in, I had a small housewarming party about a few weeks ago or so, but I’ve been keeping in touch with–” 

“You said that your friend Sana was living in the area too, right? From college?” Minju suddenly asks, pen flat on the paper and fully invested in the life update. Dahyun nods to this while you’re pursing your lips at the news. You’re not one to lend an ear to these things, but you just can’t help yourself when they’re being talked about in the open. Talk about separating privacy and professionalism. 

“Yeah, it’s been good to see her, if it wasn’t for this fucking cas–” 

“Dahyun, it’s fine. We got it.” you tell her, slowly nodding to ease the stress, “You’re already doing so much by coming back from leave to deal this along with us. It shows that you do care about this firm and the reputation that it has.” 

“Look at you being a kiss ass.” Minju deadpans. You pay no attention to that. 

“And not taking this ordeal would've put the firm into crisis mode having the last thing I’d want to happen.” Dahyun scoffs, “Besides, the value is way more than that once all of this is over.” She starts to make her way out of Minju’s office, turning around to face both of you with eye contact, “I assume that you two will close up shop when you’re done?” 

“Don’t even need to remind us.” you tell her, Minju looks up with a soft smile across her face, lightly waving at Dahyun before she gives you two a quick goodbye, leaving shortly after. “She seemed a little more dismissive than usual, like she wanted to give us alone time don’t you think?” 

“I can’t stand her nosy ass sometimes, trying to veer the way how I want to do things.” 

“Ouch.” 

“I’m serious,” Minju shoots back, flipping through the packet, not giving an ounce of care through all of the blacked lines or different clauses in the suggested proposal that would settle this whole case. “I love Dahyun - I mean - she has the spare set of keys to my damn apartment since she moved away, that’s how much she means to me.” 

“Didn’t think you’d be sappy over your boss, especially after the shit show that we’d–” 

“One more word out of your smart mouth and I’ll stop looking through your documents to stall time.” 

“You already signed it, though.” you say, pouting with a frown, “Which also means that this should all officially end by tomorrow.” 

Minju sweeps through the row of open and unopened files spread across her desk, eyes canvassing between the texts and dried ink of signatures, vying for some sort of leverage that would go against Dahyun’s wishes. It’s natural for her to be extremely nitpicky - highlighted with a small curtain of hair falling in front of her forehead, pulling the side of her index finger back while her pretty eyelashes flutter about. She’s refined and very sophisticated, the kind that makes you stop in your tracks one day when she waltzes in the office on her own time, and not that she’s thirty minutes late in the morning. 

Throw the law degree away bucko, maybe that avenue of studying art and architecture would’ve been the better option considering how much you’ve been staring for the past five minutes. 

To fill in, here’s the brief rundown of the position. 

A lot of people would’ve killed to be Minju’s associate. I mean, the woman seeps in ‘getting what she wants’. You could consider yourself lucky, but Minju already had eyes on you from the first second you stepped into her office for the interview. The interview itself wasn’t all that glamorous: renting one of your best friend’s designer suits that would’ve been more usable for a fucking award show spritzed with a cologne that was way out of your league in terms of scent let alone price, a typo on the fucking resume that she looks with an eyebrow for an explanation, and a lasting impression that whatever happens would deem only to be the best going forward. 

Minju wanted someone who excelled both in book and street smarts, be able to get a grasp on the situation faster within the first few seconds of receiving the case or news, and most importantly, to steer Minju’s level of thinking where even the most irrational decisions would be reasonable. 

You hit all the marks, and qualified to be associate. End of story. 

“Everything that we all have here is solid substantial evidence,” Minju cuts in with a paper flipped back to the top of the page, pen flat on her fingers as if she’s fed up with playing reviewing proctor, “Nothing would change with what we already have on the case.” 

“But the conclusion would be different,” you reply, sitting opposite to her, respectfully doing nothing but twiddling a pen between your fingers, considering that you were pretty much done with your bout in the file room earlier today, finding the last bits of documents from the archives that would help into comprising the settlement. “After all, it’ll be you and Dahyun in that conference room tomorrow closing the deal. I’m just passing papers.” 

“I suppose that you’re afraid of taking credit where it counts. Because why put in much effort for this case especially when someone else could’ve handled it when I asked?” 

“Dahyun insisted on coming back to oversee this. Had it been anyone else, the firm would’ve been up in flames if it wasn’t for her quick thinking pulling up the memos and signing payments from all those years ago.” 

Minju closes your blue folder, sliding it off to the side, flipping open her laptop without a flinch before typing away. “You know,” she starts, giving you this quick gaze that has you nicking your head a few millimeters, catching the pen in between your fingers to highlight that she has your attention, “I could’ve done this myself with Hyewon’s help, give you at least some days off after working you down the bone.”

“Now why would you do that?” you ask, four fingertips on the back of Minju’s laptop, closing it slowly while you’re rounding the fine corner of her obsidian desk, thumb wrapping underneath when her chair meets square with your hips. “That’s not very work-efficient for you to do that to me now, is it?” 

“You want to lecture me on how I should make you operate?” 

“She knows about us…by the way.” you tell Minju straightforward, smirking when you see that high arch of her brow, grimacing at the faulty accusation that she already knows by way of presentation. Doesn’t take long also for the different neurons firing in her brain that’s filled to the brim by the way of the law - only for that to be completely flattened out in one of those lobes replaced with various details of what you’re talking about.

“What are you talking about?” Minju asks, tilting her head upward that makes the sight of the high ground utterly so familiar. 

“Dahyun can easily tell that we have something going on,” you remind her, “She can easily read the both of us like a children’s book and–” 

“Bullshit,” her face crinkling with a tone more deaf the the simple drone of a dead phone line, “You know damn well that there’s nothing happening between us, so stop with the conviction.”  

“I’m not saying that you’re being convicted of my point,” you start, pushing her chair away to leave you space when you’re leaning over, seeing her back hit the cushion of the chair where she wiggles more comfortably with both hands on the armrests, “if anything, you’re just simply denying that there was ever really a thing between you and I.” 

“And that should be the end of that, no?” Minju coos, tipping her head a little bit higher, “Can you concur that there is nothing happening between us, especially in the workplace?” 

Minju is a professional, on par with the same archetypes like Dahyun. She’s witty, calculated, knows a lot more things from her experience compared to you, and blowhards herself way too much for anyone’s own liking. Every argument with her always starts with her leading the charge, to make you feel smaller right off the bat so that you’d have no way to counter unless your point seems fit to her points of focus. 

Okay, it may not be every verbal exchange with her on a day to day basis, considering that it’s also filled with witty banter and small inside jokes that could totally fall within the implications of the term ‘flirting’, but nothing ever really escalated from that. 

You also stuck your ears in between conversations during various corporate events and coworker mixers. Hell, even the pool of associates away from the main quarters of partners and senior partners all gave you the necessary praise for the chemistry that you’ve developed with Minju. Some days she wants to have your head on a platter, other days the talks were good, and you two managed to get things done around the office. 

Except for one day, and the details are still a bit murky for you to put up in recording: another workday in the office, maybe a little slow for Wednesday transition from morning to an afternoon -  but a free flowing circulation of phone calls, fax reports, conference appointments with clients, and a running order of Hyewon’s go-to latte from the coffee shop on the first floor. 

Bouncing back and forth between Dahyun’s office and Yuri’s, you make a quick detour towards Minju’s office who happened to slot herself on the left side of you while matching your walking pace. Expecting a quick quip from her like any other morning, you were waiting for it, but she hits you with the ‘file room, now.’ order that has you in-tow right behind her on the way there. 

Though your mind was already in overtime mode with the workload that was dropped to your desk roughly about two hours since arriving, it had already been nonstop and maybe Minju’s time could be quick if it was related to saving the firm from being purged by pulling some old papers in the filing room. Somewhere along those lines, your mind gets blanked out from the cramped space of the metal shelves, those dusty boxes, compounded by dim lighting in the room already. 

What you do remember: 

The small little gasps and hums when you’re sucking along the line of Minju’s neck, gripping the fistfuls of her dress and sliding your hand along her thighs. 

(So much for keeping it professional with the woman who’s also technically your primary boss.)

“How do you want to go about this?” you ask, “Do you want me to persuade you into telling Dahyun that we need a little more time?” 

Minju hums, pensively, as the question itself is rather a tempting decision that’s also actionable at best. You could see the small lump from the inside of her cheek before she shifts it across her upper lip to the other side, twisting her chair forward to place both elbows on the desk with fingers intertwined like she’s praying for the Lord’s insight from above. “We’ve been on the nose with this thing for too long now, I think it’s about time to cut our losses before things get ugly.” 

You don’t say anything, leaning yourself onto the obsidian while your arms bridge themselves together, flexing the wool in the threads when she makes eye contact with you, flicking her eyes back onto the paper where there’s a few blank lines that still need to be written in ink. 

With a simple lift of her signature ballpoint pen by you, she takes it, twirling it around like you were doing a few minutes ago to imply that your point finally got through to her, fingers grazing along the fine paper to fill in the gaps. 

But the vantage point where your ass is pressed against the edge is proving to be some sense of uncomfortability, so you change course, from left to right, vacant chair adjacent to the desk in your hands in a fraction of a second, scooching closely while Minju scoffs at the prying during the task, “Didn’t think it’d be that easy for you to be cooperative with the demands.” 

“Stop,” and Minju sings this with the better facade of her naivete, “Unlike you, I’m willing to actually listen to what's being asked from the first try, and not have it repeated to me through different remarks.”  

You get too close, too soon, when the ends of her hair brushes against the front corner of your lips and cheek, she could hear the air close at the bottom of your throat when the tip of your nose barely grazes her cheekbone. A moment like this occurred before, you could say it’s in the sense of deja vu: Minju invites you out for some quality time between partner and associate, a few drinks were on the table, and Minju challenges you to a simple game of pool. 

Sounds pretty mangable and straightforward, right? 

Wrong. 

You get shafted by Minju the first game, pull yourself back the next round. There’s this back and forth like usual banter between colleagues, dishing out trash talk for some good ol’ competition. The count of drinks gets lost along with the perception of time, and this happens on impulse when you’re backed into a corner with the eight ball being the last one for Minju while you’re behind on three solids. She rambled about you being always two steps behind and you can’t blame or deny the fact that she’s also way out of your league, so what do you do? Take the pleasantries of hums to your advantage, molding your hips along with hers, calloused hands lightly clinging onto the denim while your chin nestles into her collarbone, saying carelessly with intent of taunting, don’t you think you should call the last shot if you do make it? 

Minju nips her lip triumphantly, turning her head, catching on with what you’re incessantly doing, whispering her call: left corner pocket. The attention to the black ball slips out of your mind when she presses your lips onto your cheek, a fatal blow while the space opens up between you again, tipping her head back also lets you know that you lost the best of three series, which also meant that the loser has to pay the bill. 

(You pay your dues, but also add the pay up by making your own call: pocketing yourself into Minju’s cunt on her bed later that would only serve all the wiser.) 

A flashback in your mind that took minutes, only to be reeled into the real world by merely seconds, “You missed one more claus–” 

That gap could be filled after, because this deal on the agenda was more important to deal with. 

Minju grabs you by the tie, leveling your head with hers. Your hands are quick to smooth out her skirt from behind, letting the various files and dossiers rest across the desk or on the floor, depending where her hands land for a proper hold. Some lights stay on long after hours, to serve as a subtle ambience that no matter what time it may be, someone’s still hard at work on a case, or waiting for their personal driver on the ground floor. Though, some other cases include a well-spoken conversation, or even just chatting between colleagues - this chat about work with Minju however, was anything but that. 

Right off the bat, you’re reminded of how Minju is so easy to break down, despite her having a front that has every possible contingency of shutting herself away from others because she’s not that kind of character to be soft and open, until where your fingers are dancing alongside the slope of her bottoms at the hips, thumb rounding the hard end with a slow pull of her chair to reel closer until you’re at the edge of your seat. 

The move itself is so subtle, setting her on the desk in a similar position that you were in while she was signing through the documents with her ass pressed against the desk, scooching back while dancing with her tongue, lips parted with her head tilted. You’ve also managed to get your hands underneath Minju’s perfect thighs, lifting her up to the tabletop, spreading her long limbs much like to that excerpt of Moses parting the Red Sea, dipping your hand underneath to get a feel of her lace. 

Minju’s breaths become slightly erratic, nearly short-circuiting the more your fingertips dance along the line of her skirt; inner thighs pressing along the side of your hips while you cater your mouth and fingers in her hair, her neck, the growing heat rising in the skin when she whimpers through your teeth given how cold it was in the room. How your fingertips graze along the slightly damp fabric with one- maybe two tips, you chuckle softly at how she’s very responsive to the touch, the small clutch around your neck and back from her arms to serve as a safeguard. 

This is something that you’ll probably take to the District Attorney, let alone have Dahyun in the loop, in the specific case where you find yourself with no other option, a last resort to drown her into the ground: 

“Let me ask you this again,” you prompt with another received kiss to the growing swell of your bottom lip, “Are you sure that there’s nothing happening between us? Especially in the workplace?” 

Minju gasps out before you shut her up with your lips, channeling the moan when you increase the intensity of swirling around her clit, putting her hips out forward to sate that ache for at least something, anything. 

“You’re certain that you can say with full confidence that you have no kind of interest in me, whatsoever, admit to me right now that I’m correct.” 

You could tell from the look on her face and the moan she lets out, vocal cords open and freely flowing with the heavy tone while crumbling at the touch, all hot and wet and losing most of the plot at this point before even getting to the real business. It’s really wicked, how this woman as your boss flaunts around the floor, knowing that she won’t let anything get in her way for getting the case done, doing whatever it takes to see it through to the end and even if the methods aren’t within the boundaries. 

Like you could handle the boundaries yourself, playing nice isn’t always the way to go. 

While your hand hikes up the smooth skin of her thigh, feeling an unfamiliar ridge, a weave, something that hugs her leg that probably deserves to be there, to help with the appearance and everything- maybe not or maybe so, you’ll assess when the moment gets there. She grips around what she could touch in terms of your blazer, hips pushing forward at the flex of muscle when you’re scratching the surface of her clothed cunt, the ripple effect shown in her body as she arches first, then sighs into your collarbone the next. 

“Mmn, pretty–” Minju groans out, letting a small hiss through the porcelain cracks of her teeth, “so well, so, so amazing.” 

You’ll seek out the wants, the needs, the odds to break even, testing out the very little restraints in patience left while this cold-hearted woman is melting into your touch, giving you the benefit of having free reign over her body, when she’s murmuring these little hums and broken phrases that switches back to yours with more perversion. 

“I need an answer from you.” Playing prosecutor against the defense wasn’t always ideal unless it’s a mock trial, but you’re always one to challenge Minju, getting her to see your points on a day to day basis, proving her wrong when you know it’s impossible to. She can see right through you, always letting you take the loss, never accepting a victory that you rightfully deserved. You’ll be good, go to her when you’re in a rut, she expects it to happen, that’s how loyalty works. Though, there’s nothing wrong with being defiant. “Don’t make me ask again.” 

It’s all a tease, the way you let the lace dip underneath the slit with the extra press of fingers, toying with the soaking walls and fighting the urge to tug the strings the more you repeat the same fucking routine–

“Baby,” she croons, it’s pathetic. You’re about to get worked up too if you play the waiting game, dragging your thumb across her clit so delicately that she’s quivering, squirming, feeling the tense in her shoulders through the button up, hanging onto your forearm when the hold gets a little too tight. Those breathy gasps get your mind ahead to what’s coming, the natural instinct of what you’ll do to her in her office, on top of her desk, and maybe even on that stupid velvet couch if need be. 

You can hear the huffs more clearly down your ear, the rise and fall of her upper body when you coax her for a few seconds; she’s spiraling out of control, a whine gets suppressed with a press of lips to her throat, and she stumbles back on her arm, spreading wider in mirth. 

She’s shaking her head, eyes screwed shut, like wincing, the whine too - holy hell - it’s reminding you after that night at the bar with her, a moment coming full circle. 

A hand sweeps through her hair, fingers carding, you kiss that sweet spot just underneath her earlobe, a lick from the tip of your tongue to get her more fitful, bring the desperation and sluttiness out of her lips. 

“Do you have- “ she’s sputtering out the letters and consonants, intertwined with hitches and moans, “any idea of what you do?” Minju can’t stay composed while the nips at her jaw and neck close the distance between her mouth–

“Haven’t had the slightest.” you whisper, hiking up the last bit of her skirt to see the new piece to untangle, “God, Minju- lacy stockings? Really?” 

The laugh she lets out should set you off in annoyance, almost like a border that’s meant to be there and never to be touched - let alone cross, fingers clasped around the nape of your neck to keep you trapped while she smiles to the small victory, “You sound surprised. I always come to work with these pairs from time to time, but you don’t leer when I want you to.” 

Her eyes flutter shut once again when you tend to her pulse point, mouth gaping open when you’re doing two things at once: soothing the warmth on her neck while your fingers work teasing her clit and walls, a punishment of sorts when she’s reeling back onto the desk with a slipping hand, her other limp gripping your forearm to not stop - but keep going. 

“How long–” Minju asks while she’s practically sliding off of the polished bark, “have you waited to do this…to me?” Strands of hair falling forward ever-so slightly in front of her forehead, hand tangled to the back of your head while your ear is pressing against the hard line of her collarbone. You don’t pay any attention to her subjective inquiry, replacing it with another strand of moans leaving her lips when you skate her ass across the table again, the bottoms of her thighs meeting yours, melting a bit more when her core rubs against the emerging bulge from between your legs. 

She knows what she’s doing, it’s a trade off of pushing buttons. Trying to get you to lose all the sensible urges just to give her what she exactly wants. 

You let your hands map out the case: her hips, the flat plane of her waist, where the peak of her hips meet at the hint of her obliques, only for your digits to spread out behind on the curve of her ass, feeling the lacy panties that might go against dress code policy because of how too fucking thin they were. Minju grins against your mouth, the exchange of hot air serving to be this addicting oxygen that you can’t get enough of. “Who knows how long I’ve wanted to have a crack at you. I just put myself off to the side because I knew that I’d never stand a chance.” 

She laughs, and you hate to admit how much you like it. The image of her being disheveled in front of you, just inches away from the fingertips; legs spread out wide on her own desk, waiting to be ruined. 

“What’s going through your head right now?” Minju asks, tossing her arm on the lower section of your waist, seizing you while failing to meet her glazed eyes. “Have you…fantasized about me? Tell me all about it. I’m intrigued. Want to know what gets you off after work.” 

And there it goes again: the banter. She’s always quick for a couple liners, sayings and slang that you’ve shared with her day in day out. Minju isn’t the kind of person to greet you with a ‘good morning’ or ‘want to get a quick drink or bite from the cafe downstairs?’ - but rather: right down to the dirty business of what she needs you to do in the long, extensive hours of the workday, dealing with clients, putting up with her and Hyewon’s bullshit, getting the necessary paperworks, and having some random beef with Yena in the break room. Minju is always quick to give you insight on what needs to happen, you also supply your own opinions and takes where Minju does accept some of them (most of the time). 

Except for this, when her cropped blazer is barely hanging off the shoulders, skirt hiked up past the peak of her thighs, displaying that wet spot in between her unbelievable legs, pulling you by the tie because she doesn’t have time for you to fucking daydream saying: “C’mon, pretty boy. You’re basically drooling in front of me and we haven’t even got to the fun parts yet–” 

She stops short when you lay the rough palm of your hand against her pussy, hushing through the cuff of her ear, grip tightening and muscles tensing in her body as if something snapped within you - which it did for a slight second - before you draw yourself back, finally looking her in the brown ambers of her eyes. 

“I had a dream once,” you finally built up the courage to start, “about being here, in your office.” landing a kiss to the corner of her lip to keep yourself focused. On a night just like this, where you’re sitting nicely on top of your desk. Your legs were spread apart like so. Minju coos when she sees you lightly licking your lips. It would’ve been better if you were already out of your clothes, naked for me. Her head dips forward when she feels the languid circles rubbed across her clit, I fucked you right here, on this desk. And then, I ruined that pretty little couch that you love so much apparently. 

“God, you’re insane.” She’s acting innocently like she too hasn’t been teasing you out and around the workplace before this. 

Insane? It becomes a little bit more deranged where Minju’s jaw drops to the floor when she hears the sinful sound of her lacy panties being ripped away from her hips. 

“Oh, I could do a lot more for you right now, and believe me, I will.” You assess the drainage when your finger plunges into her cunt; the sharp inhale she takes in while saying ‘shit’ is only brief when you’re thrown off by her walls tightening around you, her hands working the buckle of your belt and slithering past the pants. 

“And how do you suppose you’ll keep your word?” she asks, fingers coiling your cock, the reaction easily readable judging from the loss of breath through your windpipe.

“Consider this as wet work.” 

“Wet work?” 

This attractive woman who’s posture could rival classy models, with those perfect lips in both sets, the image now being unraveled like an item being auctioned off to the highest bidder: how her legs open enough for you to fill the space, the way her bra sits across her chest once the blazer is finally discarded onto the floor. (She’s pretty now, she’ll be even prettier when you have your way over her, helplessly letting these soft sounds out, coming undone over or underneath, it won’t matter either way, because that’s always the endgame.) 

“You’ve got your skirt on still,” you observe, pulling her closer to the edge of the slab, “I don’t know if-” 

“Ignoring the double entendre you made?” she gasps, struggling to keep composure when the ends of your fingers, tightening her grip around your cock while the other arm is thrown around your shoulder, “just-please-like that-fuck-oh fuck-” 

Minju sort of hides away from the immense pressure in her cunt and her clit, seeing the usual features on her face show a little more crease to them, slacking with her words, lost, feeling every bit of you, huffs of poor syllables and consonants, octaves going up in keys. You’re loving how needy she’s getting. 

What’s the matter? You whisper against her chin. You don’t seem too well. Body burning up? Too hot for you to handle? She’s gone too far off to answer, only by huffs and light nods of her head, the flex in her knees, hands across your broad back, working herself around your fingers, groaning when it gets all too much. 

The idea of staying at the firm for the night doesn’t seem that bad of an idea to do. 

“Fingers, babe,” she whines, rasping in moans at the ends of them, “fingers are too fucking good, want it- so bad-give me a–fuck-” 

Her eyes are screwed shut, clinging onto your body desperately while she starts to work the buttons off your shirt; starting in the middle rather than the top or bottom because she can’t think straight. But she diverts her hands instead to the loops on your sides, wiggling you out of your pants more - keeping herself moving while trying to ignore the throbbing that’s happening between her legs. 

“Tell me what you need, boss,” you say, a little tinge of sincerity behind the professional title. “Maybe put some solidity to this little affair?” 

Minju gives you this glare, scattered ends of her hair covering the little blush that’s all too apparent across her cheeks, failing fantastically the way she lets out this wail when your two fingers fill up her cunt completely, pulling her over the edge of the desk one last time as you mesh your hips right in the underside of her thighs, body leaning back with the arch bending a whole lot deeper, head back while you lean yourself forward that tips over a few trinkets across the desk; some picture frames fall face flat, that one pendulum set you’d always mess around with in the morning briefings nicks around in disarray, and her nameplate kinda just gets hit in the crossfire by Minju’s stray hand and onto the floor. 

“Call this,” she sputters, gasping, heaving most likely, “a hot and steamy affair.” 

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?” you retort, “don’t get smart with me now.” 

She just looks at you with that same sly smirk she’s been wearing whenever she teases you about anything. You find it annoying at times because of how effortless she does it, this time her breaking smile doesn’t match up with her eyes and how they are dead, sincere with a desire waiting to be fulfilled, a craving that’s been long overdue simply because you know that Minju is not an easy person to break down, though that’s been proven to be the complete opposite now. 

There’s this priming for a second, your own hand wrapped around your cock, getting close, until you nudge yourself from the first few inches inside her cunt, feeling the small press to push more, replaced with the easy glide inside the compact, yet addicting heat. It’s also kinda cute how you and Minju share this quick inhale - a hiss would be better to describe it - then you see her blown out irises, that sly smile getting more lazier, lost completely when you drag the half of your length out, slowly, steadily. 

“Wait, fuck-” she mumbles out, laying flat across the top. Her chest rises and falls a little more erratically, eyelids fluttering shut when you sink back right in, deeper this time, delicately, a little tease with the pullout before feeling her out completely. You learn for the first time ever since stepping inside that one room that day for the interview: that small thought of how it would be so easy to slot yourself right into Minju would be nothing but a pipe dream, becomes too real to relish in the feeling now. 

Then she mumbles again: “holy fucking shit.” 

You give one good snap of the hips for good measure, and the ripple effect of Minju’s body sliding across the desk, the wiggle in her perfect tits, her hands hold fast to yours around her thighs as if she’ll do the fucking all by herself while you just stand there in awe. 

But you’re good as fucked if you weren’t already, so you snap your hips back into her again, harder. Then again, filling up her perfect cunt each and every time you bottom out. You’ll take this image to your grave, let this be the last piece of evidence submitted to the judge who’ll sentence you do a much safer place in hell: MInju’s pretty body, with stockings around her perfect legs, tits sliding across her chest in every stroke, cock disappearing inside her cunt as her pretty lips fit around them with ease. 

“Minju, I - God,”, you try to tell her, the promise buried in your throat, buried underneath the air that flows right above the words, as your hips meet hers, the audible smack of her thighs filling up the office, how amazing she’s massaging your length well deep inside her, all slicked up and smooth for you to keep going. “I’ve been waiting for this- dreaming how to get you all stretched with this tight pussy. Your cunt, baby. Minju–” 

“You’ve shown me why - why I chose you, out of everyone else - show me again how good you can-” she breathes. When her mouth trails off again, because of the strokes, the clench in her pussy, hands clinging onto your wrists as you cast your own hands onto her waist. 

Eventually, nothing sounds better than the noises she makes against your collarbone, angling deeper where - you find out on the fly, and maybe something to keep in mind for later. It’s all coaxed out when you’re working her to the wall, holding her carefully while she can just keep herself stretched out, working all of the bundle of nerves across the spots inside her cunt. 

“More, honey,” and the pet names just seem to escalate as they come, do they? She sets herself up on a wobbly elbow, seeing the flex of muscle across your arms and stomach each time you rip into her, fucking her with a steady pace, but teetering on the subtle rawness, that hidden potential that sets yourself apart from the other talents you have working as one of the top employees. “Love it when you- fuck me to pieces.” 

"Anything else you want to say to me?"

“What’s also nice is that,” she continues to ramble (another thing that you’ve heard make rounds through the wings), dizziness shown in her eyes, the continuous clapping of her pulsing cunt, tightening around you, molding her into the perfect shape of - “how you continue to surprise everyone here, including me-” 

A string of curses spill out your mouth, Minju can’t help with the mix of laughs and moans at how good you feel inside her, the sight of your cock vanishing between her legs, putting one past the degree where her knee nearly touches her clothed tit, and that gets her wincing for a quick second. You’ll probably put this in a mental file, how you’ll get her to molten cunt more creaming until she cums, cums, cums and cums-

“-you’re like me, but only as a handsome guy who continues to impress-” 

Anything else that comes out of her mouth in lieu of praise will only feed that ego in your mind to get one over her, to say that you’ll always be two steps behind her while she’s five ahead. She doesn’t let you off easily, so why would you do the opposite for her? Rocking your hips towards hers makes the legs of the desk mirror the motion of your tempo, thumbs pressed up against the mold of her ribs just underneath her breasts, deep into the skin where you could also bend the bones beneath them while they rebound off of the smacks. 

You’ve got your hand over her mouth, to shut her up, eyes squinted tight to where her brows could meet in the middle, grasping onto your wrist while the muffles of your name reach higher in octaves, sobbing in her moans while she’s suffocating against the roughness of your palm.

She can’t keep focus for any moment longer, eliciting shorter gasps when you tease by slapping your cock head on the nub of her clit, gritting her teeth at the shameless tease you’re giving. 

“Can-” it’s a little sweltering to notice that she’s reduced to helpless one word blurbs, slipping inside of her once again to make her chest freeze off of the flares in her waist. “harder- i need you to-” 

The shiver that erupts through your fibers sends you in limbo, feeling Minju’s ankle anchor behind your back, serving as the reins when you stutter in pace, ass hanging off of the desk to completely bottom her out, and your cock is constantly getting soaked with a new layer of her slick each time you pull back. 

That low groan she lets out meshed with the word ‘fuck’ undermines her whole persona. Once known for being straightforward with her words, now lurching you in to keep pounding into her, slaps bouncing off the windows when she tries to perch her head upwards to see the damage, but slowly losing tension in her neck, deprived of focus when she lolls her head back to the original spot, sucking in air, sobbing even more loudly. 

“Please, like that, keep doing that, I’ll let you anything to me, just–” You could see her lip wobble a bit slightly, cunt shaped to every minute detail of your cock, “i’m so- so fucking close, you fuck me so good- so well–” 

“So tight,” you say, deep of that desired well. Minju is past the point of where the obscene words and demands can’t even be verbally said anymore. She’s whimpering, lazy wrist over her mouth again, the little strands in her hair bouncing along as one of the ripple effects caused by your length. “Gonna have you aching for me long after-” 

It’s all royally fucked. 

The way that she, oh- 

How she clamps well around you, the new coat of her arousal soaking your crotch. When you’ve edged her out past the bar and how her whole body spasms in strain and ease, she’s clutching for something within arms reach - your hands and fingers, or anything that she can grasp - while these sinful sounds unravel her from her vocal cords. Her eyes look like they can’t open at all; with the small stream of stray tears falling from her cheek. You’re also crinkling your own features, jaw hung low with the bellowing moan leaving your mouth along with hers. 

You could easily get lost in the reveling of Minju cumming over your cock, but you’re not seeing this through to the end not just yet. 

In one swift motion, you flip her over, hook her waist, pull this one party trick of stripping her bra away from her chest, pushing her back down to which she giggles slightly. “Here.” you tell her, mouth well above the lobe of her ear, hanging her ass off the desk again. “I’m just getting started.” 

Minju puts this lazy smile on her face, eyelids still closed, using whatever energy left that you haven’t dicked out of her to catch her breath, sliding her palms across the desk downwards to set herself in place. “God,” she says this as a revelation, “you are so fucking good.” 

A low chuckle is all she hears while you pull her back up against your stomach, twisting her head up to your lips, pressing them to her cheek, while she traps her bottom lip between her teeth. 

You say this as a serving rebuttal: “I’m better than good.” 

Minju can be selfish at times, always willing to put her own personal interests over yours or anyone else’s (most of the time). But when you’ve broken her down to this: knees apart, your back flush with hers on her favorite couch, pushing well past the limit, driving your cockhead down the deepest depth to where you could get it, cupping the crease where her leg and hip meet, clasping with the pads of your fingers, dragging and impaling her what could be a punishment for her - or a reward to the limitless amounts of things that she wants and receives on almost every occasion. She’s the kind of woman to play the long game, hard to get, make someone like you grind your way in order to rail her in the most intense-rough fuck that she loves (but won’t admit), or the excruciating delay of feeling every nerve binded inside her walls, where the veins of your length just graze slightly enough to feel the tense in her muscles, her hands; going limp while lazily whining at the slide of your dick inside her cunt, playing with her while she’s whimpering at you to finish the job. 

“God fucking dammit,” she manages, laying herself flat while you’re hovering right on top of her, taking your cock while she can only grip the seat covers. It’s all there, bare back and ass, the set of stockings still on her majestic thighs. You’re hitting her hips hard and heavy, the stable and slow strokes while she fills your ears with these strings of babbles that aren’t really conceivable to decipher or understand. She got a little to excited, bouncing her ass back against your cock while you just drop your arms and admired the show, before pushing deep with your balls nicking the clit at the end of every thrust, and that earns you these thick gasps, only taking you whole with every slam of your weight against her nimble body. “God, I- fuck- need you all the time, please.” 

“Whatever you want,” you hush against the crook of her neck. That is something that you’ll take to heart under oath. She croons at how you're spilling all of these filthy things in her ear, a guarantee of sorts to the promises that have already bent the both of your minds into obliviion. "If it helps to stop you from fucking those other scumbags you call 'your clients' on a weekend basis, then I'll give it to you, sweetheart."

The self-control went off the rails a while ago, this was just free real estate with the endless cantations of moans coming out of her. "Need me to cum inside this sopping cunt so badly?" you ask, pulling a handful of hair that lifts her by the neck, "love using this pussy to get myself off."

She's giggling at the action because it's necessary. You could imagine the grin on her face for the entire world to see. "Words baby, or I'll cum-"

“Fuck- just, do anything- I want you.” Minju gasps with a whine tinged behind the words. It’ll be in the records, spoken into existence. She could care more less than a fuck of what others think after all of this is over. Pace slowing down, feeling that throb tremor against her walls when you’ve held out for this long, an overdue reward in itself. 

It just took one more good hit to bury your cock into that perfect pussy, spilling everything, sending it deeper in the trenches of her cunt, fucking yourself in while she’s putting some effort to say your name, only for it to be overpowered by the gluttal moans you’re letting out while the shackles of tension finally come loose. Her head is pressed enough to leave a visible print on the cushions, crying before the shudder translates to her noises when you drive all the way in for one final time, letting the pulse die out; every heartbeat, every drop. 

Your nose is pressed into the side of her head, taking in that sweet scent from her hair, showered in bliss, tangling and untangling until she takes rest in your arms, straddling your lap, chin forming alongside the small dip in your collarbone. 

Minju offers this lazy smile, matching your rise and fall of breaths in your chest, blowing this hint of cool air to your neck that makes you twitch slightly from the sudden sensation, lips against the line of your throat: 

“A hot and steamy affair, huh? I think I can let that pass by.” 

“You really want to call it that?” you inquire, hands sliding down to the plush of her ass. 

Minju simply laughs while you shake your head at the rhetorical question. “All honesty though, I thought that you and-” 

“We are not going there.” you tell her, leaning back when she sets herself straight in your arms, hands along broad shoulders with the curtain of her hair falling towards one side. Definitely something that you’ve had in a wet dream before - talk about having deja vu. “Absolutely not.” 

It’s when she trails her fingertip across the chiseled form of muscle across your chest, elevating her hand higher to cup your face. She gives you this look in her eyes, the kind that would make anyone keel over because as you’re reminded: Minju is someone who always gets what she wants. And when she rubs her thumb across your cheek, your cock jumps a few millimeters underneath her hips to which she notices, and seizes the opportunity presented to her. 

Leaning forward with a purring whisper in the act, and you’re suspended in time while she moves. “I think I should repay you for treating me right just now.” 

Minju has never owed anything to you. For the most part in your career, it was her that has given you these chances to make a name for yourself, to prove that you could go toe to toe with the best in the court, to prove to her why she chose you out of countless others to be her associate. If anything, you owe pretty much everything to her. 

But maybe-

Maybe just this once-

“My little pretty boy needs to have his cock all cared for, right?” she asks when she sinks down to the edge of the disgraced couch, spreads your knees apart, eyes trained on you, lowering her head to swipe her tongue across your balls and the base of your shaft, feeling that same twitch in your cock when she gets a dainty hand across the length, well trained with the languid strokes that she’s giving you; it’s not hard to give in to that searing heat of her mouth while you’re trying to find the right words to respond. 

(The options here are very limited: considering the fact that you have your hips forward with your friend / partner / new love interest slobbering all over your length, rubbing the head of your cock across her pretty face until she drains you out completely, painting her cheek white and bathing in the taste of your cum while you’re struggling to stay awake. 

After all, you could just spend the night here at the firm bearing in mind how late it is. 

Or better yet, have Minju stay at your place to not give Dahyun another headache to deal with the next morning.) 

[geraskierbrainrot]

This is a collection of Alternate Universe fics that happen in coffee shops where Jasier or Geralt are baristas

the wallpaper inside my heart by @echo-bleu | T | 6k

Jaskier is unfailingly kind, unfailingly cheerful, and unfailingly talkative. And he never, ever says anything about himself.

(not technically a coffee shop AU but this is my list so I do what I want)

Jitters by @lovelyrita1967 | T | 7k

Jaskier is an aspiring musician working in a coffee shop. Geralt is a fancy lawyer in expensive suits. It could never work between them… right? Jaskier turned and found himself looking up into the face of the most beautiful human being he had ever seen in his life. He felt his jaw drop, his cheeks flush a fiery red, and, had he been a cartoon, his eyes most certainly would have done that “boing-oing-oing” thing.  “Good morning!” Jaskier announced, perhaps a little too loudly, eyes a little too wide. “What can I get for you, sir?”  The man met Jaskier’s gaze, and he felt his cheeks burn even hotter. What was happening to him?  “Double espresso, to go. Please,” he rumbled, in the deepest, sexiest voice Jaskier had ever heard.

→ Follow The Sun | M | 7k

Jaskier is an aspiring musician working in a coffee shop. Geralt is a fancy lawyer in expensive suits. Against all odds, they have been dating for 4 weeks. Most of this fic is a flashback to Part 1 (“Jitters”), but this time it's from Geralt’s perspective, plus a little bit of his lawyer world with Lambert and Eskel. And then finally, we see where Geralt and Jaskier are now as their relationship gets a little more serious. (Hint: check the tags!) I would highly recommend reading “Jitters” first! Jaskier was standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows of Geralt’s penthouse condo, high above the lights of Kaedwen, admiring the view. Geralt was admiring the view, too, all long lines, sharp jaw, soft brown hair... Jaskier turned away from the window suddenly to look at him. “You look really fucking hot in that tux,” he said, voice low.

#blessed by aiyah | T | 7k

Sure, the pay at Yeast Meets Zest is great and all (and the food's even better, in Jaskier's opinion), but there's just one thing nipping at his nostrils: being allergic to the unfairly attractive customer who comes every Tuesday and Thursday. In hindsight, Jaskier should've applied to work at Starbucks instead.

Café Morhen series by musicalgalaxy1000 | 21k and ongoing

→ A Fine Night For A Song | G | 3k

Café Morhen is hosting an open mic night. A few new customers could be what keeps them afloat should the land lord raise the rent. Not too many people show up, but one new face in particular seems to want to stick around.

→ Can't Tune You Out | G | 1k

As tired as he is from closing the café from the Open Mic, Geralt can't fall asleep. There's a song stuck in his head.

→ Unexpectedly Sweet | G | 1k

Sometimes the only saving grace of working a minimum wage job was the consistency. Geralt should be fed up with Jaskier's increasingly insane drink orders, but he carries on anyway, learning to expect the unexpected.

The one day Jaskier tells Geralt to make him "whatever's easiest," he just can't bring himself to break the newest consistency in his life. So he makes the sweetest drink he can reasonably muster for a more than just regular customer.

→ Teasing and A Cup of Tea | G | 5k

Two oblivious men are pining for each other and are teased about it while also given reassurance. What are loved ones for?

→ A Call, A Confession, A Kiss | T | 9k

Geralt works up the nerve to text Jaskier, who had gotten a little tipsy while waiting for his crush to reach out. Geralt makes sure Jaskier gets home safe. And Jaskier finally gets to make a move.

i like you a latte (warning: hot contents) by rcfthns | Not Rated | 28k

“It’s not satisfying,” the man states, as he places the coffee on the counter and pushes it back to the barista. I can be satisfying!, Jaskier is about to say in response but bites his tongue at last. “Is there anything missing?” he asks instead.  “There is,” the man answers, shaking his head. He glances at the drink again, displeased. The look doesn’t suit him at all.  He deserves to be pleased. “Ah,” Jaskier acknowledges. The “ah”-s are very fitting around the man. Although “oh”-s would be even better. “I’m sorry, I’m just out of it today. What’s missing?” The man grins, leaning over the counter. “Your number.” Jaskier is a barista at a coffee shop and he isn’t (for sure isn’t!) in love with a customer.

Show love to all these authors by leaving kudos and comments, and happy reading!

[seb-owns-these-tatas]

Witcher Of The Night (Chapter 4)

THIS IS MODERN ERA READER WHO WOKE UP IN THE DIMENSION OF THE WITCHER.

CHAPTER 3

Characters: Geralt of Rivia x small!Naive!Reader

Summary: Ciri wanted chicken and so she gets one. Y/N needed warmth amongst the cold weather in the Forest of Kaedwan and she'd received more than a warmth for her body as it traveled straight to her heart; warming her soul. Even getting some sort of comfort from the witcher himself. Other than that, Geralt had a lead on where the sorceress was. Though, right now he needed her to help you Plus, he also had other options other than that. 

Warnings: FULL OF Y/N AND GERALT FLUFF. ❤ Geralt is an asshole at first because of certain reasons. 😂 Blood and animal killing in this one. Smiling, soft Geralt, tho still having that stoic expression of his of course. Gotta write him completely in character. 😂 Also, a Hirikka is here and will be on the next chapter!

Words: 3,900+

A/N: There's a part 2 for this chapter. It'll be a chapter 4.1 but will be posted after 2-3 days. ^u^ I couldn't put them together because it'll be 8-9k words long. 😅😂 Sorry, if I write long ass chapters and the pace is still slow. I need to develop their characters, relationship and such. The places said here are from the game however it isn’t accurate and I just made my own direction. Like how I try to make my life go in the right path but failing and actually walking on the wrong path. LMAO. Also, I’m making a masterlist for WOTN! 🤗

TAGLIST IS STILL OPEN FOR THIS ONE! Heehee! Don’t forget to REBLOG, COMMENT OR GIVE FEEDBACK IF YOU DID LOVE THIS CHAPTER! IT’LL MAKE ME SMILE! 

Disclaimer: PNG's used in edits are not mine even the GIF's too. However, the edits and oneshots are definitely from moi. Characters, places and said monsters aren't from moi as well.

MY WORKS ARE NOT NOT NOT NOT NOOOOOOT TO BE POSTED ON ANY OTHER WEBSITES. My official username in Wattpad is “TATATHEPOTATO” and that’s the only other site I have for writing aside from Tumblr. Thank you, Tater tots!

"Do you not...have cars, Geralt? Or motorcycles?"

You've panted like you were having a marathon, palms falling on your knees as you took a breather; seeing a small cottage on the far end of the shallow path in the forest.

It was a smaller house that had a fence with chickens, goats and pigs segregated by kind. The home was a sandy shade of yellow and a slip of brown which was also made just like how Geralt's have been.

No answer was given to you other than how he was hauling Roach back to look at you who were walking along side with him; not bothering to even ask you for a ride. It's not like you were hoping he would. Based on the change of mood he'd gotten, you were sure he won't lend you his horse to lessen your difficulty in traveling bare foot.

You've already asked what his horse's name was. He simply answered with the word 'Roach', allowing you to touch the horse as she neighed. Much to someone's dismay; specifically a bard who happened to saw the whole interaction, left a mutter to himself.

"Why does the midget get to touch Roach in haste and I don't?!" Jaskier muttered rather in disbelief. The Witcher fixing his black, hooded wool cape attached to his shoulders, giving him a subtle hum with the gravel of his voice.

Jaskier huffed for the third time, hands on his hips as he watched the scene before him with incredulity in his baby blue peepers. You happily caressed her crest as Geralt fixed things on the leather bag attached to the horse's hip.

"Geralt---" Jaskier started but was cut off with a insouciant scold from the man himself, "Don't call her midget," he cut him off without even paying him attention. Jaskier gave a nod; a grin molding his face leading to mischief at the chide given.

Jaskier took a step close and planned to give Roach's crest a caress but his stern friend was fast enough to cease his wishes, "Still, don't touch roach," Geralt quickly mumbled as he felt Jaskier's plan on touching his horse. The bard slyly grabbed onto his own hair, brushing them through his locks like he wasn't about to pet Roach. Geralt closed the bag with a soft click, giving him the side-eye; voice firm and full of derision, "I don't want you singing a song about my horse in the near future,"

Which is why you were walking on your own now with Geralt's good will on making you handle the death march rather like a happy child.

It was probably okay, you thought at the back of your mind. Walking, that is. Exercising in the morning was great, except that if it weren't too chilly unlike him who have gotten a full armor and gear out of his closet like he'd gone out of a magazine or animè. The sword on his back even giving you shivers, but a different kind because of how tough looking he had as his exterior.

You shook your head as he just looked back at you. That look of his that was filled of inquiry; asking you what you were saying in the back of your mind. A huff of pure exhaustion was given to The Witcher before you sauntered forward, leaving the man eyeing you with sass and a high raise of his bushy brow.

Geralt followed through along with Roach as he pulled her reins, slowly galloping as he analyzed your form from behind. His buttoned up tunic that reached the ends of your thighs with a weird kind of foot ware that certainly doesn't help with the crispy, brisk temperature of the forest.

Geralt gravelly sighed, watching you struggle with scrubbing your legs together as you pathetically strolled forward and onto the place that he'd pointed. He was too engrossed at seeing you struggle when he has heard a slight twig breaking from afar, catching his senses and making him look to where it came from.

"Midget," The Witcher tried calling you with that deep voice of his in the middle of the woods. Though, to no avail; you never heard him coherently and continued your stroll through the forest; hollering a message without even looking back because of the mere exhaustion.

"You're too slow, Geralt, like an old man! I'm exhausted!"

He breathed out his vexation of your naivety that you weren't strolling in your world. You were walking in theirs and having your own little dimension while you walk by yourself can be pretty dangerous.

Geralt heard the crack of another wood. It was from behind a large hickory tree. He doubtfully grabbed onto the handle of his sword wrapped behind him; halfway unsheathing the sword and contemplating if he needed to jump off his horse when suddenly a medium sized Hirikka came into his view, maybe an inch shorter than you. Those eyes that were doe, just like yours whenever you wanted something and eventually getting it from him.

"You're hungry, aren't you?" Geralt asked the Hirrika. The tone in his voice softer and in awe. He'd rummaged through his bag without taking his Aurum, blazing eyes away from the harmless creature, feeling an apple inside his bag and threw it as the Hirikka caught it with its own two paws.

"Don't get yourself killed out there,"

Thus, he began to follow you as fast as possible before you even get yourself harmed from any monsters. When he'd seen you leaning on the fences of Cuthberth's home, he didn't know he has been holding a breath for as long as he could remember without seeing the sight of you.

You were making him insane for not even waiting for him and thinking what would've attacked you in the forest of Kaedwan.

Cuthbert was feeding the chickens inside their palisades. His friend thought you were lost but you've said that you came for the purpose of buying chickens with a man. He was friendly enough to give you chitter-chatter while waiting for Geralt to follow you from behind. It took minutes before he arrived with a complete set of body parts; so the worry of him being killed off by a monster was thrown in the dumps.

As he rode his horse closer, you've had the chance to admire the beauty edging to be seen. You were in awe as his mere self was enough to get you ogling at the man treading near. Never seeing such a man like that who wore armors in his everyday life except from seeing Cosplayers in certain conventions that seemed so fake rather than Geralt who felt real. Too real that you were pondering if he was just a mere hallucination or a fantasy of yours.

He was definitely eye-candy. Dashing. Ravishing. Beyond gorgeous.

Cuthbert saw them coming and so, his expression turned wild with a grin. His dirty fingers scratching his bald head in excitement as he jogged out of the fences with a giddy self. "Oi! You didn't tell me it's the infamous Geralt of Rivia, elfin!"

Famous. He's famous? you thought to yourself before keeping your eyes away from the witcher who had already jumped down his horse and gave you a look; asking what was wrong because you were staring like there was a problem at hand.

You didn't need to tell him that your heart was actually the problem. It was always skipping a beat whenever he'd pay a glimpse to stare at your eyes.

A soft clear of your throat, your fist covering your mouth as you do and you eyed Cuthbert inquisitively, "Is he famous? Famous for what? Is he an actor? Model? The king of this kingdom or something?"

Cuthbert patted his dirty hands on his soiled apron full of flour, a hand on his hip while the other reaches out for Geralt's powerful looking shoulder in attempt to give him a pat. The animal butcher's forest green eyes coruscant of fervor. Geralt's initial response was to give him a smile back with the man's excitement in seeing him again, "This lad's a something! Kills all types of beasts, vampires, dragons, huge kikimores---"

You coughed out loud, making them snap their heads from where you stood. Cuthbert's words sounded too surprising to be true. As much as you remembered, vampires only existed in the movies and games; not in the real life survival of people. His words caught you off-guard, "Vamp--vampires? There's vampires here, Cuthbert? Even dragons?"

Geralt looked at you, utmost jaded. The way your voice stuttered alerted him that you were scared or probably still unfamiliar--still illiterate of their world since he was doubting to give you all the information ahead if you abruptly disappear out-of-nowhere with the knowledge of the continent; their world. It would be very much dangerous for it to be compromised especially that you had the experience in teleporting to their dimension.

Cuthbert gave a loud laugh, not believing the strangeness of your words, "You're actin' like yer’ never been here before! I thought yer’ were livin' with the Witcher?! You should ask the white wolf, here! He's killed hundreds! Maybe even thousands!"

You've fluttered your eyes closed, trying to calm yourself from running off the forest and getting yourself killed just like the horror movies you've watched. You've called them idiots, now wasn't the time to call yourself one as well.

Though, you were completely unaware of Geralt's gaze which consist an ample amount of worry. You continued your rambles in a hushed whisper, "I'm not just in a freakin' game that have monsters, but even a live-action movie of Twilight. This is great, real great."

The Witcher clenched his teeth, gradually turning his body to you without moving his soles. His forehead creasing as he could feel your heart beat quickening, "Are there also wolves? Big bad wolves here?" your voiced lowering a miniscule, sounding diminutive.

His friend gave off a shrug, his mouth forming a thin line when he did so as he scratched his whitened beard, "We may never know what this world can bring, Elfin! It always brings out the worst of everythin'!"

At the confident mention of that, you've felt your chest tightening with the knowledge of having vampires and dragons around. What if you died in their world? Would you also be dead in earth? Geralt licked his Crimson lips, staring down at you with utmost comfort that he could give. Yet, he failed at that with how stoic his expressions can get. Though, his eyes were exempted because his feelings can be read through those stern, Aurum eyes.

Midway, he'd lift his burly armor-coated arms to plan and give your back a caress to calm you down; but he was immediate enough to drop it down considering that maybe even a touch to the hand would calm you because he'd seen it trembled. If only he was thoroughly direct towards you; he would in a heart beat.

"Don't panic, Midget." The roughness of his voice; that definite amount of timbre. It was the only word you've heard from him. Short but straightforward. Even so, still the only thing that calmed you down through out all your panic attacks back in earth and even in their world.

Cuthbert has seen Geralt's attempt of comfort; even seeing his eyes shift in a way that nobody else could. He had a smirk on his face, scrubbing that beard he was owning, "Who is she, Witcha'? Another one of those clingy harlots of yours?"

Geralt turned his head to see Cuthbert smirking. The way his eyes changed into a lethargic faze meant that the witcher was mantling the emotions he was having or probably having no idea that he was feeling it yet; in denial of the state he was in.

"---Or the trouble and strife?"

The witcher knew what he meant and decided to let those words fall out of his ear to the other. His hands clasping together on his front as he straightened his back, cocking his head to the side as he narrowed his eyes on the latter, "We need...chickens," Cuthbert raised his eyebrows in astonishment, "You cook now, witcher?"

No words were said besides from a satisfied hum as the chickens clucked before the butcher of animals. The panic died down because of Geralt's voice and you've finally had the will to insert yourself in the conversation.

"I do!" you excitedly exclaimed, stepping a foot closer to Geralt and the witcher was aware of it, giving you the side-eye, "---also, do you have any spices please?"

Cuthbert nodded in comprehension, sending a playful wink to The Witcher and scrubbing his hands together as he also gave you a rogouish smile, "Oh, that kind. The little woman, Geralt! Literally because this elfin is quite short but fetching nevertheless!" Geralt gave him an apathetic blink of an eye, sighing from the talkativeness of the man.

But, also worth it if he could see those anticipated beams of yours as you stood beside him.

The latter gave out a loud sigh, seeming to be in his head space as he talked his thoughts out loud, "---I remember how Gisela cooks Flamiche for me whenever I go home from me' hunt! Though, that woman seldom does it anymore considering how Bridgely gets her attention a lots!"

Geralt gave him that daunting smile of his; wanting to tell the man to just butcher the heck out of the chickens already as he wanted to get it over with. You gave Cuthbert a wide smile, oblivious of Geralt's taunting gaze back at the man. He suppressed a laugh and nodded to himself; quickly running off to Geralt's wishes.

As the chicken was being slaughtered across the fence, Geralt was thoroughly unaware that you were already sniffing and crying because it was all out in the open and you could see how it was being killed. He watched you look over the fence and inspect Cuthbert cutting its head off and it made you shriek, warm tears falling on the sides of your face while watching how much pity you've given to the chicken.

Geralt did a double-take, eyeing you and where you were staring at and saw how you were crying over a chicken being slaughtered. He wanted to laugh because of how you were being sad over it. However, he decided against so as to not offend you when you were just pouring your heart out in this one.

"I thought...you wanted chickens?" the witcher pondered, leaning away from the fence and facing you instead with that amused glint in his eyes.

You've sniffed hard, patting your nose with his clothes that you were wearing from; the snot wanting to come out of its cave. You gazed up at him; eyes damp and reddish from the cries. "I did, Geralt! But not for it to be killed like this!" you hiccuped from all the bawling that has happened, "---It was better to be bought in a supermarket!"

The way you cry always made a pinch inside Geralt's heart. A kind where he would try and do everything to make it stop because you were annoying but also irresistible.

His lips lifted in a slight beam, looking around the forest before peering down at your sobbing thyself. "There, there," surprisingly, Geralt cooed before you; stopping your weeps short as you gaped at the tall witcher. His chiseled face warped in clear softness and mirth, "---for a bountiful feast requires death in exchange for us to be sated,"

The amazing color of his eyes gleamed more under the sun. You couldn't help but outstare back at him with that stupefied look of utter adoration. You snapped out of your daydream when he was waiting for a witty retort but you've loudly cleared your throat; the heat travelling to your neck. Before it can even reach your face, you turned your head back to look at Cuthbert who was now grinning back at you; holding the headless chicken up for you to see. Its blood dripping down the ground as he mouthed a 'what do you think?' back at you and Geralt to tell you if the size of the chicken was a-okay.

Your face quickly morphed into a wince, another mourn about to come to light when you've felt a warm hand on your shoulder; shooting lightning to your spine as you jumped from the physical touch. Geralt gently turned your body around; away from the panorama of chicken slaughter. The way his lips lifting in a small, soft smile never leaving yet. "Don't look at it,"

A huff was sent to the latter, "I can't! It's making noise!"

"Then cover your ears," Geralt's brow raised in sarcasm. Though, those playful sparkle never dying down. You narrowed your eyes back at him, an annoyed crease of your forehead as you explained and raised your hands back at him. It looked dull and definitely freezing, "But, my hands are shaking from the cold!"

Geralt studied you from head to foot, noting the lack of clothes you were wearing. The smile you've grown to love fell as he sighed, looking away for a moment before a tiresome gaze of his eyes was sent to you. He held onto the string of his jet black hooded cape, unlatching it around his neck as you stared up at him in utmost curiosity.

The softness of his cape fell around your shoulders like a furnace hugging your body; better yet the soul that needed a hug after all you've experienced since the first time you've been in their world. You could feel your heart warming at the gesture of Geralt giving you his dramatic cape; even growing hotter when he was tethering the tie together; intently staring down at your face and feeling his thick, calloused fingers inches before your neck.

Maybe, an egg was worthy of using your face as a frying pan right now.

You consciously looked away from the heat of his stare. Geralt tightened the tie around your neck as you've felt the heaviness of his cape over your shoulders. He drew he fingers away from your neck, slanting his head as he never cut the gaze he had; rather than you who'd looked away because you were...blushing.

"Better?" His voice graveled, a small beam carving his face. You've reluctantly gawked back at him, giving him a reserved nod. The way you were acting looked entirely stupid, your eyes looking like those googly ones used as stickers back in your desk as you tried avoiding the intensity of his stare. You bit the insides of your cheeks, deciding to leave the exhilaration out in the back as you had the courage to look at him, "Better!---Never better, Ge-Geralt!" Regardless of the brave act, you embarrassingly stammered and cited his name wrongly with a shameful 'J', "I mean, Geralt. Geralt with a G!" you back paddled in an instant, scratching your temples as you avoided his eyes and tried to fan your face.

The witcher looked askance, he could hear your heart beat running miles after miles. Geralt pondered why and what was making it pump fast when you weren't even having your panic attacks.

He crossed his hefty arms, looking at you skeptically but with a stupefying smile on his face, "Are you going to stop being a bairn now?"

You initially stopped fanning your face, narrowing your eyes back at him; completely confused, "What's a bairn?" he sighed and glanced at the sky, shaking his head with a beam that fell as quick as you've seen it when Geralt heard Cuthbert walking to where you were and glanced at the acquaintance.

The dead chicken was tied close to the witcher's bag located on the hip of his horse. You were busy staring at the four pieces of aftershafted chickens dangling on Roach's side with that sympathetic glaze of your eyes but actually talking at the back of your mind that its death would be worth it because you cook well and he'll taste good.

Cuthbert scrutinized your nodding form. A strange expression written on his face that tells that he was seeing the oddity that you were nodding at the chickens like you were talking to them.

The animal butcher was running his blabber mouth about how his chickens were also missing every other day. Sometimes his pigs or goats that made Geralt narrow his eyes from his share of message; his nose slightly scrunching from the admission of Cuthbert with his missing animals.

He didn't need to know that some were kind of caught by Geralt's hands. Maybe at least ten chickens, three pigs and two goats. Even so, slaughtered by the witcher himself.

The sneaky witcher couldn't catch a chicken as of the moment because he always does it at night. Catching a chicken from other people's fence in the morning can be risky and definitely tricky.

"About...the sorceress," Geralt trailed off, grabbing Cuthbert's attention away from you before he could even think you didn't belong to their world and guessed about his stealing escapades. He spun his head to look at Geralt, thoroughly distracted from how he called him out, "---you still hangin' onto that sorceress you had, witcher?"

"No...It's....kind of complicated," the latter speculated with a shake of his head.

Cuthbert nodded in understanding, scratching the nape of his neck as he seem to ponder, "The tittle-tattles around the village says that the sorceress is in a burgh called 'crow's perch' in the east of Vizima," pause. "It's a long journey out there! Lots'a beasts to encounter before it!" he roughly warned.

The Witcher only hummed in response; deep in thought as he calculated how long will it take to get there after a week when he was done with any favors for the villagers of Kaedwan and for some of his options on how to get you home.

His first choice was the Djinn. Now, he just needed to find one. Again. But, not for the sole purpose of asking peace and a long nap but to help you.

Geralt fished out the black pouch he kept on his sides, reaching out to give it to Cuthbert across the fence. The animal butcher shook his head to decline the money, "No, I don't need yer' coins." he simply admitted with a scoff, "You've helped us a lot; for me to be accepting some kind of repayment from the white wolf himself---,"

"----You deserve a thank you for all your help, Witcher." Cuthbert continued with a grateful tone.

Thus, this was the first time that he'd been acknowledged by his help in slaying monsters and terrifying creatures. The man himself didn't know how pleasing it was to hear those words from a mere human and from a person he'd help back in the years. Even so, seeing those smiles you've given him when you were excited to cook the damn chicken didn't seem so satisfying and delightful to look at; until now..

MORE FLUFF ON CHAPTER 4.1! Heehee! THANK YOU FOR THE LOVE, TATER TOTS! AM I THE ONLY ONE WHO LOVES GERALT CALLING Y/N, MIDGET? 

Taglist: @alyxkbrl​ @himarisolace​ @barkingbullfrog​ @ayamenimthiriel​ @hellodevilslittlesister @vania-marie @spookypeachx @grungelovebug​ @fangirl-inthe-us @nympeth @missjenniferb (I couldn’t tag you AGAIN bud! A different blog was popping out of the recommendation and it wasn’t your blog. Though, I’ll try again on the next update! Don’t worry! Tumblr is being DUMBLR RN. I’M MAD) @amirahiddleston @gabethelobster @dreaming-about-starfleet @uncoolcloudyhead @melaninstylezz @psychosupernatural

[hetaliasummerexchange]

The Ghost of Candlecreek Hall

Pairing: Austria/Prussia

Rating: T (Mentions of violence)

Word Count: ~9k

Summary: There are all kinds of ghosts, ghosts of smiles, ghosts of songs and ghosts of the past, but, as one snooty city boy by the name of Roderich comes to discover on his seaside adventures, the ghost of Candlecreek Hall is by far the most captivating of them all.

This is my gift for Flower-crowned-galaxy​ for the 2017 Hetalia Summer Exchange. I hope you enjoy it! :)

  Notes - human names:

I used two nyo!characters in this story - Daniel Héderváry is male!Hungary and Martin is male!Belgium. The rest of the characters carry their usual, canon names.

Part One

Many years ago, there was a little town which stood to the shores of a vast, grey ocean. It was a quiet, remote place, several days of riding away from the nearest large city. In that town, everyone knew each other, and so whenever a visitor arrived, the whole town would stir with excitement. Therefore, when on one beautiful day of early summer a carriage jolted down the dirt road leading to the town, a small crowd formed to watch and welcome the newcomers.

The carriage, so they discovered, transported a respectable little family from the city. The man wore a suit better and cleaner than the Sunday clothes of any of the townspeople, and his wife a velvet dress adorned with lace and muslin. Their son, a pale, timid boy, shouldered an instrument case. They had arrived for a vacation and were to stay the summer in the seaside town.

The townspeople were curious about the peculiar city folks who were unlike any other they had ever met. In the first few days after their appearance, the townspeople showered the man and his wife with questions, and in exchange, provided them with essential information and gossip: Where to buy bread, milk, and fish, where to repair shoes and mend clothes, who’s a good, trustworthy fellow and from whom should they steer away.

The local kids, however, noticed something strange and displeasing in the days to follow. The son almost never came out of their rented lodgings. They found it an insult that upon arriving at a new place, he chose to stay inside instead of enjoying all the adventures their town and the wild areas surrounding it had to offer. The bravest of the children, a stable boy named Daniel Héderváry, decided to go and see what was the matter with him. And so, one afternoon, when the man and his wife went out to the market, he climbed up the stairs to the room where they stayed.

Just before knocking, he heard music coming from behind the door. The tune that dribbled through the wood was unlike anything he had ever heard. It was gentle and complex, ever-changing and sweet. Daniel then remembered the black case that the newcomers’ boy carried on his back the day of his arrival. A violin – he had only seen one or two of those miraculous objects in his life. He swung the door open and with beaming eyes called out to the astonished boy who stood inside: “Show me how you play that!”

Just as the newcomers’ boy seemed strange to Daniel’s eyes, so did Daniel seem to him. A dirty, puny boy with scraped knees and messy hair that fell over his shoulders, who barged into his lodgings without invitation. “What are you doing here?!” The boy demanded once he overcame his shock, voice full of rage. He had very unusual, unnerving eyes: Deep purple. Daniel shrunk under his furious violet gaze. “You are always hiding inside here,” he defended himself, “what’s the point in a vacation like this? We want to invite you to play with us!”

The boy opened his mouth to shout again, then closed it and puckered his lips into a pout, cheeks red. He seemed to be embarrassed of his outburst. “I didn’t think about it in such a way,” he mumbled, “and in any case, I don’t think we’ll get along…”

“What!” Daniel cried, almost hurt. “We’ll get along just great, you’ll see!” And since he was the kind that acts before thinking, he grabbed the city boy’s elbow (gently, for he knew better than putting the precious instrument, which the boy was still holding, in danger). “Come with me,” he demanded. “We’ll show you all the nice places.”

As one surrendering to fate, caught between curiosity and revulsion, the boy sighed heavily. After shaking Daniel’s hand away, he placed his violin in its open case with extreme tenderness. “I shall come, but not for long,” he announced. “I’m still not done practising for today.”

“Great!” Daniel exalted, and in his heart hoped to hear the boy playing again. “My name is Daniel. What is your name?”

“Roderich,” the boy replied curtly and sharply, and followed Daniel out into the street.

***

Despite his concerns, Roderich had no real choice - the town boys had made up their minds to make him love the countryside, and nothing could stand against their will. In the weeks to follow, the city boy became acquainted with a whole new way of life. In this age, the town boys informed him with certainty, one should run barefoot over stones and grass, swim in the ocean and explore the wilderness – not worry about serious matters. Smile at the world and the world will smile back at you. With their help he managed, after much splashing and spitting and rubbing salt from his eyes, to stay above the water surface.

There were some differences, of course, that were impossible to overcome – his skin, for example, refused to tan and instead reddened and peeled under the sun. His accent and speech were educated, and sometimes difficult to understand. His eyesight was another problem – at first, he went out wearing his glasses. Then, realising the danger that it put them in, he left them in his room, which in turn transformed his world into an unidentifiable blob of blurry, colourful shapes. The greatest struggle was the violin. Roderich was always wary of the condition of his hands – refusing to climb steep rocks or throw a heavy ball; and every day, he woke up before first light to get his practice. Not one of the town boys’ arguments could falter his determination. Daniel was secretly glad that he kept playing, since he could come and listen on some evenings.

One afternoon, while the boys sat on the fishing docks and dangled their feet into the water, the subject of a certain haunted house came up. There was, they explained to Roderich, an old, deserted mansion just about an hour’s walk away, beyond the hills that lay at the edge of the town. The name of the place was Candlecreek Hall.

“Do you like ghost stories, Roddy?” asked one of the boys.

“At night, you can see candlelight moving in the windows - even though the place had been deserted for years!” A second boy added, and others went on:

“And whoever walks in after sunset, never comes back…”

“And some people can hear beautiful music, that at first seems harmless, but little by little they go insane, it haunts their dreams and afterwards, their waking hours, too–”

“What? That one’s bullshit, you made it up!”

“No, I didn’t! Everyone knows that! And since when do you know anything about haunted houses, we all know you piss your pants when–”

“Shut your face! Did the baker’s daughter tell you about the ghost music when you braided her hair with flowers–”

A loud splash sounded; one of two arguing boys had dragged the other into the water. Everyone laughed when their heads popped above the surface, shaking wet strands of hair out of their eyes. After some humorous attempts to drown each other, they emerged again, breathless, lay their arms on the wooden dock and listened from there like outstandingly silly-looking mermaids.

Daniel suggested that they went to Candlecreek Hall the next morning. The idea was enthusiastically supported by Francis, who always drew their treasure maps, and Feliks – who had just pulled his friend off the dock. Said friend, Toris, who was more likely to be considered Feliks’ ultimate nemesis, objected to the idea just for the sake of not agreeing with him.  Martin, who was a year or two younger than the rest, objected as well – he seemed genuinely afraid of going. “It might be dangerous, even during the day…”

They all turned to look at Roderich, waiting for his opinion. “I don’t mind whether we go or not.” He shrugged. “I don’t believe in ghost stories anyway…”

“So… you don’t mind if we do go?” Francis interpreted excitedly.

Roderich glanced at Daniel’s pleading eyes. “I… guess so.”

The supporting party cheered.

***

The next morning, they climbed the green hills eastward, each carrying a bag of lunch. It took them, as they had predicted, no more than an hour to reach the peak of the highest hill. From there, they could see the valley lying below, and in the middle of it – Candlecreek Hall. It was a building of an ancient architectural style that had long ago passed from the world, tremendous and made out of grey, forbidding stone. The boys stopped and stood, enjoying the view and the light breeze.

It was not yet noon when they crossed the dead, dry gardens around the mansion and entered through the gates of the Hall. It was a stunning place; and at daytime, with the sunlight flowing through the shattered windows – not the slightest bit scary. Even little Martin seemed excited. The ceilings were high, decorated with beautiful paintings that were only half covered with cobwebs and dust. The floor was white marble. Numerous corridors weaved in and out of each other and led deeper into the mansion. The boys decided to split up into pairs and explore the place, then meet again in the entrance hall before sundown.

Daniel and Roderich went together. They soon discovered that the marvels of Candlecreek Hall were endless. It had hundreds of rooms, some still furnished with unbelievable richness, some empty and bare, and countless hidden paths and stairways leading to small, dark niches or to large dining halls. They opened drawers to find tiny baubles: a golden pin with carved flowers, a porcelain figurine of a horse, a ring with a shining red stone in it… “Don’t take anything with you,” Daniel warned, sounding cheerful. “Just in case the place is haunted.” Roderich snorted, but took the advice anyway – just in case…

Candlecreek Hall was a maze; at first, they kept repeating their steps and bumping into the others. At one point, they spotted Feliks and Toris fencing with a pair of wooden swords they had found; at another, Martin balancing upon Francis’ shoulders, trying to reach a staircase whose lower part had collapsed.

Eventually, they stopped meeting the other boys. It was growing quiet; they were wandering into the depths of the mansion. The light here was dim, coming only from high, narrow windows. Water dripped in a steady rhythm somewhere in the distance. Their footsteps echoed.

Roderich was being awfully quiet, Daniel noted worriedly. His purple eyes were unfocused, and he walked as if caught in a dream. It scared Daniel to look at him. “Let’s start getting back,” he said. “Let’s just get to the end of this corridor and then turn back.”

Roderich nodded twice in silence. They went on, but after a few more steps, Roderich stilled. “Let’s go back now,” he urged. “It’s getting… strange, here.”

“What do you mean?”

“The sounds.”

“The water?”

“No…”

Daniel raised an eyebrow. “Then what?”

“Can’t you hear it…? It’s getting louder…”

“What is?!” Daniel demanded. “Come on, you’re scaring me.”

Roderich swallowed hard. “The music…”

Daniel’s heart skipped a beat, and his breath hitched in his throat. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“Flute playing,” Roderich stared straight back into his eyes. His pupils were wide and dark in contrast to his pale face. “It’s unlike anything I’ve ever heard…” He bit his lip. Then, in a sudden, eerie change of expression, a devilish smile appeared on his face. “Of course I am joking.”

Daniel blinked at him. He tried to laugh; it came out slightly hysterical. “For God’s sake, Roddy, don’t do that again…”

“Oh, you should have seen the look on your face…”

“Roderich, please… That was too much…”

They retraced their steps back towards the exit. Daniel’s pulse still thumped loudly in his ears. Once, he glanced sideways at his friend; his eyes still seemed distant. Daniel took his arm and hastened his steps.

***

The others were waiting for them in the entrance hall. They all seemed restless; the sun was almost down, and through the windows, they could see the sky turning dark blue. “Took you a while,” Francis commented nervously.

“Sorry, we didn’t notice the time,” Roderich apologised. His voice sounded small and thin.

Martin burst out speaking: “When Francis and I went into a corridor on the second floor, all the windows, those that still had a windowpane that is, slammed shut at the same time.”

Francis sighed. “I told you it was just the wind, Marty…”

Martin seemed unconvinced. “How can you be so sure?”

Feliks cleared his throat. “Something happened to us, too.”

Daniel’s heart fell. Martin was easy to scare; Feliks was another thing. He wouldn’t admit seeing something unusual unless he was completely certain about it – wouldn’t want to seem as a coward unless it was completely worth it.

“What happened?”

Toris answered in Feliks’ stead. For once, they seemed to be in agreement. “At some point, doors started closing behind us.”

“We’d go into a corridor,” Feliks explained, “then, when we tried to go back, the door would be closed and stuck. We had to find other ways out.”

A frightened silence fell.

“Let’s get out of here,” Martin’s tiny voice expressed their thoughts for all of them.

They didn’t waste time. Within minutes they rushed outsides, hurried to the iron gates of the gardens and made their way out. Sparing the mansion a last glance over their shoulders, they headed straight back to town.

“Nobody took anything, right?” Daniel asked all of a sudden, as they began climbing the hill. Everyone nodded. Roderich followed their example, half-a-second late. In his shirt pocket, he could feel the weight of folded paper. He had found several pages of sheet music, written in faded ink, in one of the rooms, and slipped them into his pocket while Daniel was studying a painting on the wall.

It seemed as if Daniel could read his thoughts. He pursed his lips, but said nothing.

Part Two - Seven Years Later

There was only one inn in the whole town, a very modest one. On a regular night, you could only spot three or four men in the common room, regulars that were well familiar with the innkeeper.

However, that night was an exception. The common room was filled with loud chatter and laughter, and the anticipation in the air was almost tangible. The tables were pushed to the sides and arranged in a half-circle to make space for an impromptu dance floor. The innkeeper and his son bustled about, carrying trays and filling cups; to their great satisfaction, they soon had to bring out a new barrel of ale from the back.

The reason for all that excitement stood near the counter, tuning his instrument while standing upright and calm. The musician’s name was Roderich Edelstein, and that name preceded him. A violinist with inhuman skill, they said, who could stir the coldest heart and set the heaviest feet dancing. Rumour had it that the King himself had invited him to play at his court.

The violinist plucked his strings and listened to the sound carefully with his eyes closed, twisting the pegs ever-so-slightly. He seemed awfully young for such a celebrated man – he must have been no more than twenty. His features were dainty and slightly feminine, his hair dark and carefully combed. He furrowed his thin brows with intent concentration and pressed his lips into a slim line, drawing attention to the a little beauty spot near the corner of his mouth.

When he was done tuning, he reached for his case and pulled out the bow out of its niche of red velvet. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced. He didn’t speak loudly, yet his words rang clear and bright. “It is an honour for me to visit your lovely town again. I shall now commence the performance,” he bowed his head humbly. When he raised his head, he looked straight at the sole person in the room who remembered him as he was when he had last left the town. “And I hope you enjoy it.”

Seven years ago, when Daniel Héderváry first heard Roderich play, it seemed to him like nothing could ever sound better. Now, it was way more than that. The melody sounded like someone had grasped Daniel’s own emotions and thoughts and put them to music. Roderich didn’t change much; he still played with a proud jerk of his chin and fierce eyes. The townspeople shouted song requests and he performed them all with absolute excellence, and even added his own to them, making them into something new and stunning.

Out of the group of friends, only Daniel had remained in town. He was now a horse caretaker, and was content with that; life was simple and the town was his home. The others preferred to chase their luck in the wide world, away from the little seaside town in the middle of nowhere. Francis had married a beautiful woman who had a temper like the stormy sea of their hometown. In the last letter, he mentioned that they were expecting a child. Feliks and Toris, the last time he had heard from them, were travelling together; years proved the existence of an unbreakable bond between them. Little Martin was working in the city, making sweets. It fit him, Daniel thought.

But what had been with Roderich, he never knew. A month after the incident in Candlecreek Hall, his vacation ended. The five boys felt as if a crucial part of their group had been cut off, and Roderich himself, on his departure day, looked as if he were about to cry. However, he never came back to visit, and never wrote. Only years after he left, word of him reached the town.

Time seemed to pass quickly, as Daniel was lost in thought; when Roderich finished playing, bowed to loud cheers and turned to pack his violin, it was nearing dusk.

***

“Where have you been?” Daniel demanded. “It’s been so long. Why didn’t you come to visit? No, forget about that - why didn’t you even consider writing?”

They had been sitting together at the bar for a while; the sun was slowly rising. Their reunion, when Roderich arrived the day before, was coloured with contrasting emotions. They hugged and laughed and shed tears for their lost days of childhood, yet there was something sour beyond the surface. Now, it seemed, after several drinks, it was all coming up.

“I can’t explain.”

“Can’t?” The years had done Daniel well. The scraggly little brat that Roderich remembered had grown tall and broad-shouldered. He kept his hair long and tied it back with a yellow, woollen thread.

Roderich looked into his eyes. Those, at least, were still the same grassy green. “It’s not a reason that you would understand. But believe me, I would come back if I could.”

“If you could? Come on, Roddy.”

The violinist winced involuntarily at the nickname. It bore memories as heavy as a mountain, and it stung his heart. “It’s very complicated.”

Daniel crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, why did you come back now, then?” He huffed. “And don’t tell me that it’s because you missed us.”

“That…” Roderich sighed. “That you wouldn’t understand either.”

“Try me.”

Roderich removed his glasses and wiped them on the fabric of his sleeve. “I cannot,” he said very quietly. “Please don’t ask me to.”

A short silence fell. Roderich was biting his lip, and his eyes were distant and unfocused. It reminded Daniel of something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on… Then it clicked. He leant forward. “Roddy, does it have to do with Candlecreek Hall?”

Roderich’s hand stopped mid-motion as he was lifting his glasses back to his face.

“I knew it,” Daniel tried to sound triumphant, but instead, heard his own voice cracking. “You behaved so strangely after we came back from the mansion. You were way more closed inside yourself. You kept thinking about the music you heard, didn’t you.”

Roderich nodded. His eyes were closed shut. “I didn’t want to scare you, so I told you I was joking. When you said you couldn’t hear it, I realised that it was the ghost’s music. I knew it was said that whoever heard it went mad. I didn’t want you to think that I was.”

“And did you really? Go insane, that is.”

“You must be thinking that I was not quite alright in my head to begin with…”

Daniel shook his head. “I never thought so. I believe that you really heard something there, and that it was not your imagination.”

“Well, thank you.” Roderich smiled faintly. “To your question, my mind is as clear as always. The ghost ruined me in another way.”

Daniel waited silently.

“Ever since that day,” Roderich began, “I’ve been hearing that music in my sleep. In my dreams, I trace our footsteps through the corridors of Candlecreek Hall, until I reach the point where it’s loud and clear. I think to myself – this is perfection, nothing could ever sound better. I take out my violin; for in those dreams, I am always carrying it. I accompany the invisible flautist until the end of the song. I wait until I see its figure walking out of the darkness, towards me. Then I wake up.”

Daniel opened his mouth to speak. Before he could, Roderich went on. He seemed to be drifted away by his flood of words; a dam that stood strong for years had finally collapsed. “You knew that I took something from the mansion, of course. It was sheet music. I learned them. I practised them over and over. You heard that song tonight.” He inhaled deeply. “The reason I did not come back was that I was afraid. I knew that if I came back to visit you, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from going to the mansion, for I craved with all my being to hear more of that music. But I knew that if I went there, it would be the end of me. The ghost has chosen me as a victim. I’ve been trying to escape that fate for the past few years, but no matter how far I went – and oh, I went far, trust me. I’ve been to the edges of the world known to men. No matter how far I fled – the ghost’s shadow still fell over me, calling me back.”

“And now you finally gave in,” Daniel finished, defeated. “I want to say that you should have told me, and I would have tried to help. But I understand that you would never do that, because of who you are.”

Roderich chose to ignore the last part of his words. “I am going to the mansion tomorrow.”

“May I come with you?” There was little hope in Daniel’s voice. He didn’t bother trying to talk Roderich off the idea – there was no point in that.

Roderich shook his head. “I am going to stay the night. No use putting both of us in danger. Also… it is a matter between the two of us… me and the ghost.”

“I wish you luck, then, friend,” Daniel looked away. “My thoughts will be with you.”

***

The next afternoon, Roderich climbed the green hills with the violin case bumping up and down his back. As he walked, he felt the bittersweet memories rise in him, and craved with all his being to be a thirteen-year-old boy again and smile at the world with little worries. The strength of the memory was enough to bring tears to his eyes, and he stopped in his tracks to wipe them away with the back of his hand. Then, shaking his head to himself, he kept walking.

Then sun burned bright and hot. He could feel the sweat trickling down beneath his shirt. After what seemed like an eternity – for he wasn’t used to that kind of physical effort – he reached the top of the hill. The valley lay before him, and in the middle of it – the mansion which had haunted his dreams for the past seven years.

The door to the gardens wasn’t locked. Roderich pushed it open. The screeching of the hinges startled a flock of crows inside, and they rose in a mess of flapping wings and croaking, to find shelter on the branches of bare, dead trees. He stepped inside and closed the gate behind him. The gardens, just as he remembered, were a grey kingdom of thistles and nettles. A paved path of cracked stones with wild weeds growing between them led to the mansion’s door. Roderich made his way across it, glancing over his shoulder from time to time out of an unexplained instinct.

The gates to the mansion itself weren’t locked either — just slightly stuck. He put his shoulder against one of the gate wings and pushed forcefully until it gave in. The smell of dust hit him; he pushed open the second wing too, to let in some fresh air. Then, after taking a deep breath, he stepped in.

For a moment, Roderich stood there and considered his options. Should he wander into the depths of the mansion, like he and his friends did back then, like he did in his repeating dream? No, he told himself immediately, that was a bad idea. He should stay close to the gate, his only real means of escape, in case something went wrong.

Of course, all chances were that something would go wrong.

Roderich chose a window and settled beside it. He placed his violin case on the windowsill and flicked the clasps open. He found comfort in the familiar routine of applying rosin to the bow and tuning the strings. When he was done, he began playing. He played childrens’ songs and drinking songs, earthly songs that were as far as possible from the cold whisper of Candlecreek Hall. For a while, he felt confident.

However, the sun was inching towards the green hills in the horizon, and the light was growing dim. As the shadows lengthened, the sound of his music seemed more and more unnatural to his own ears; it echoed from the far walls of the hall, a thin and lonely tune within the vast silence.

Roderich shuddered. All of a sudden, a disturbing thought fell upon him – that if he stopped playing now, he would be able to hear terrible things… rustling in the darkness, something twisted crawling closer…

He gritted his teeth. What a foolish idea, he told himself firmly. It was simply the eerie atmosphere getting to him. As if to prove his imagination wrong, he let the music fade mid-sentence, and put down the violin and bow on the windowsill beside him. He should make some light.

Roderich pulled his flint and steel out of an inner pocket of his coat, and searched the outer pockets of his violin case until his fingers found candles.

He struck the steel. After a few attempts, the wick caught fire, but it was blown out right away by a sudden gust of wind that seemed to have come not from the outside, but from the dark depths of the mansion. Roderich shuddered. He tried again, guarding the tiny flame with his palm. This time, although the fire danced and flickered, he managed to bring it into safety by placing it between his case and the wall. A bright circle of candlelight spread around him. Relieved, Roderich put the flint and steel back in his pocket and rubbed his hands against each other. It was cold, he realised, and held his palms near the candle, enjoying the warmth.

By then, the sun was close to setting. As he watched, it slowly moved past the line of the mountains, and the sky lost its pink and orange, gradually turning dark blue. For several moments, a last strip of gold hung over the horizon; then it disappeared, and night fell over the earth and over Candlecreek Hall.

Roderich forced a courageous smile. “Now the real fun begins,” he whispered, and reached for his violin again. He played a cheerful sailors’ tune and knocked the rhythm with the heel of his boot against the marble floor. The minutes drew longer. The song ended, then the next, then the one that came after. He played on, stubbornly keeping up the liveliness of the music. He glanced out of the window, but it was a cloudy night, and he could not see the stars nor the moon.

Little by little, Roderich became aware of the other presence in the hall. At first, he threw it off as another trick of his imagination, those movements in the darkness, beyond the edges of the candlelight circle, and that uneasy feeling of being watched… But at last, when the footsteps sounded clear, despite the music, he let the bow leave the strings and spoke. “I know you are there.”

Although he knew he was not alone, the sudden laughter that burst as a response to his words startled him and caused his heartbeat to quicken. He swallowed hard. “Show yourself.”

A bare foot stepped into the circle of light; the other followed. A dark cloak dragged behind the figure that exposed itself to Roderich’s eyes. The Ghost of Candlecreek Hall had arrived at last. Its breath was frost, and its footsteps traced ice on the floor — a thin layer that spread like ink in water. The ghost’s hair was a snowy white, and its skin so pale that it was almost grey. Its nose was crooked, birdlike, and its lips thin and blue, as if suffering from an unbearable cold. As it advanced, Roderich did his best to stand his ground. Every sensible part of his mind told him to run for his life; yet there he stood, motionless, and watched the ghost creep closer.

It came to a halt an arm’s reach away from Roderich, who raised his eyes to meet the creature’s dim red gaze. The ghost stood as proud as a king, back tense and straight, and in its hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, Roderich noticed with amazement, there was a hint of a long-gone beauty.

The ghost spoke. “It’s a splendid fiddle you’ve got, and you play it well.” It bowed its head, formal and serious, yet its voice was amused and the corner of his bloodless lips crooked upwards. “But what brings you to my house, tonight? Surely there are better places for you to practise your art.”

The pleasant words didn’t calm Roderich, and he watched the ghost’s face intently, aware of the madness that lay within, searching for any sign of its outbreak. “Long ago, I have heard your music,” he replied cautiously, “and I wanted to see, with my own eyes, the one who had created those beautiful sounds.”

For a moment the ghost didn’t move. Its brows furrowed, and something dark flashed in those blood-coloured eyes. Roderich tensed, ready to spring, and the ghost grinned wickedly, exposing pearly white teeth and stretching its ashen skin over sharp cheekbones. Then, suddenly, it bowed a deep, theatrical bow, elegantly throwing its arm to the side. “That would be me,” it acknowledged, and straightened up. It held out a spidery hand, and its voice dripped irony: “Gilbert Beilschmidt, at your service.”

Without thinking, Roderich put aside the violin bow and tried to grip the offered hand. His fingers closed upon thin air, and he let out a small, surprised gasp. His hand dropped to his side. “Roderich Edelstein.”

The ghost laughed again, a harsh and unpleasant sound. “I know.”

Roderich smiled sadly. “Right.” He reached for his breast pocket, and pulled out a few folded pages. “These belong to you, I believe.”

A burst of wind snatched the pages out of his hand. By a gesture of the ghost’s hand they unfolded themselves in the air in front of him. Roderich watched the movement of his eyes as it skimmed through the first lines. The ghost’s face crumbled with distaste. “An old work. It’s so lacking. You may keep it.”

“Thank you.” Hesitantly, Roderich plucked the pages out of the air and folded them again. He tucked them into his pocket. “It means more to me than you can imagine. And I do not think it’s lacking.”

“Of course,” the ghost acknowledged arrogantly. “It is far beyond any music that you, the living, could ever create. Yet it is not close to being perfect.”

““What is ‘perfect’?” Roderich tilted his head. “Isn’t it all in the eyes of the beholder?”

“No,” the ghost frowned. “I have composed better ones – therefore, it is not perfect.”

“But for me, the way I am right now, it is.”

“You have not heard enough to know.”

“Maybe it is time I did, then,” Roderich suggested with uncharacteristic gall.

The ghost scowled with disbelief at his shameless request, and his ire made the candle flame flicker. Roderich flinched, but mustered the remaining bit of his courage to insist: “Since you lured me back to this place against my will, I believe I deserve to hear just another song of yours, before you carry out the fate you have planned for me.”

The candle was extinguished. The room went black; in the darkness, Roderich could see the ghost’s eyes shining like embers. He heard him step closer, and around them – the same sounds he had feared earlier, whispers and murmurs and thousand of nails scratching at wood. Then the ghost spoke again: “I did not lure you here. You came back on your own.”

“The dreams. I had no choice.” Roderich couldn’t help glancing to his sides, searching for the source of the sounds.

“But that was all. I never broke your mind or bent it to my wishes like I did to others.”

“And why didn’t you?”

The candle swooshed back to life. The ghost was standing inches away. His nearness brought the cold with it, and its breath bit at Roderich’s skin. “It is true that I have made my way into there,” he gestured at Roderich’s temple with a bony finger, “since the day you and your little friends trespassed into my mansion. But I had nothing to do with what went on in here,” he pointed at Roderich’s chest. “That was completely your doing. By truly wishing to come back, you made it easier for me.”

Roderich stammered a step back, until he was leaning against the wall. Out of all the thoughts that raced through his mind, he picked the one that seemed the most pressing. “What do you want from me?”

The ghost pondered over that for a long moment, studying Roderich’s face cautiously. At last, he decided: “That you can’t know yet.”

“Play for me, then.”

“…Fine.”

Roderich blinked; when his eyes opened again, the candlelight flashed from the surface of a silver flute, which the ghost held casually in one of his wispy hands as if it had been there the whole time. Tuning, apparently, was not needed for this phantom flute; the ghost brought it to his bloodless lips, and immediately the space around them was filled with sounds.

After the first few lines, Roderich joined in. They sounded well together – the airy floating of the flute on top of the melancholic, rich tune of the violin, contrasting yet completely harmonious. The ghost seemed surprised; he glanced sideways at Roderich, and with a challenging tilt of its head began playing faster, creating sudden changes and turns in the music. The violinist followed, tiny beads of sweat forming on his forehead. The ghost was right – Roderich hadn’t heard enough to realise what real perfection was. And unlike in his dreams, now it took all his concentration not to fall behind.

However, he soon began to understand the rules by which the ghost played. Although at first the ghost’s rhythm and line of melody seemed like the mind of a madman, lacking any sensible connection between sentences, little by little Roderich noticed that like any human composer, Gilbert Beilschmidt had a style that was recognisable just as it was – to an expert listener – predictable. As soon as Roderich found the key behind his patterns, creating the counter melody became an easy task. It was time for the tables to turn, he thought, and from playing the second voice he careened his way into the first, pulling the music behind his own melody line. The ghost’s eyes shot fire, and the shadows around them deepened. Ice covered Roderich’s shoes. “Stop cheating,” he hissed through gritted teeth. The flute let out an ugly, jarring sound, but the ghost quickly recovered and caught up. He was trying to snatch back the leading voice; Roderich played like never before. He was sure that at any moment, his fingers would slip and he would miss a note, making him lose his line of thought; but it was clear that the story, one that he was telling, was nearing an end. He saw bitter defeat in the ghost’s eyes as the last sentence was sung and the two lowered their weapons.

“What do you want from me?” Roderich repeated his question, panting.

The ghost’s expression was furious. His hands, still holding the flute, were shaking. “That you cannot know.”

Roderich felt a mad grin spread across his face. “Play for me, then.”

***

They played together three times; and although the ghost called all the forces of darkness to his aid, desperately trying to distract Roderich from the music, the violinist always finished leading. He felt divine, as if there was nothing he couldn’t do; during their last battle, his smile wouldn’t falter. Perfection is all in the eyes of the beholder – and at that moment, he knew no one could ever play better than him, not even The Ghost of Candlecreek Hall. Gilbert Beilschmidt’s  music spoke of ageless pain and longing, and was as beautiful as the cold moon; but Roderich shone above him like the sun, for he knew the joy and the love of the outside world, of blue skies and green hills and the shimmering sea, of laughing voices and tears of reunion – smile at the world and it will smile back at you.

“What do you want from me?”

The ghost stood at the eye of a black storm, and through it, all Roderich could see was the dim light of his red eyes. Only now that he stopped playing did Roderich notice the wild fluttering of his clothes and hair, and suddenly had to grip the windowsill to stop himself from falling.

“I want your hands,” the ghost shouted above the roaring of the wind.

Roderich understood. “You can’t have them,” he whispered, almost full of sorrow. The ghost would be able to hear him, he knew. “I can’t give you this body. I still have things to live for.”

The storm began draining out, fading, and the room gradually turned quiet. “I know that,” Gilbert said, “and I won’t take it from you. Go away.”

Roderich didn’t move.

“Go away!” Gilbert demanded. “I will no longer haunt your dreams. Go, and never come back, for I shall not show you this kindness again.”

Roderich stared. Then, at once, realisation hit him and he snapped up; he dropped the violin and bow in the case with little care and swung it off the windowsill, and with a last glance over his shoulder at Gilbert Beilschmidt’s pale silhouette, he fled.

***

Despite the ghost’s promise, in the following nights he kept visiting Roderich’s dreams. But those, Roderich knew, were just dreams.

Just like Roderich did as a child, he stayed inside the humble lodgings that he had rented in the little seaside town. He paced back and forth in his room, lost in thought. Daniel came several times to knock on his door and plead with him to open it, but Roderich ignored him. He could not possibly explain to his old friend any of what had happened in Candlecreek Hall.

On the seventh day since the incident at the mansion, he packed his violin and set off for the hills again. This time he was really coming back on his own will. Long ago he had given his heart to the ghost, and he wouldn’t desert him now.

It wasn’t yet dark when he arrived; it seemed that there were still one or two hours left until sunset. He decided to delve deeper into the mansion, like he did in his dreams, and wait for Gilbert’s appearance. He lit a candle and strolled with little aim, listening to the distant sounds of dripping water.

At some point, he began hearing different noises – a moving presence nearby. A long time must have passed without him noticing, Roderich realised, if Gilbert was already awake. He looked around, but the corridor he walked had no windows.

Roderich followed the noises – as he grew closer, they began sounding clearly like Gilbert’s voice, angrily muttering to himself. He carefully pushed open a wooden door and entered a dusty and luxurious bedroom.

Standing with his back to him, clothed in a simple white shirt and ankle-length trousers, was Gilbert Beilschmidt. He was flipping over a small object in his hands, examining it.

“I came back,” Roderich said, and the ghost’s head turned to look at him. Something in his face seemed not quite alright to Roderich – it might have been the lack of fire in his red eyes – but he kept speaking, for he feared that if he stopped he wouldn’t be able to ever say it. “I want to help you. I will do anything to set you free.”

Gilbert stepped towards him. “Anything?” he asked quietly. Roderich opened his mouth to speak – then his eye caught the sight of the shadow Gilbert’s form cast on the floor behind him. With sudden panic, he glanced down at the floor beneath them – which lacked any smallest touch of frost – then back at the man in front of him, whose face was vital and full of colour. The latter was now sliding the object he was holding into his breast pocket.

Roderich acted without thinking. He dropped the candle to the floor, leant forward and snatched the object out of the moving hand – which was, undeniably, flesh and blood – then turned around and ran out to the corridor. The man in the room let out a startled curse and followed him. Roderich halted at the forking of two corridors, then took the one that – so he thought – led to the opposite direction of the exit. There was again some light to unveil his way, coming through scattered, broken windows – the dim light of nearing dusk. Roderich had only one intention in mind – to keep the stranger who wore Gilbert’s looks, whoever he was, inside, until dark.

As he ran, he opened his palm to expose a golden medallion. Shaking his head confusedly, he tucked it into his own breast pocket. Behind him, the stranger was catching up; he could hear his hastened footsteps getting closer. The surroundings, Roderich noticed, were strangely familiar. As he turned into another corridor again, he realised why. In his mind, he saw two mischievous, golden haired kids climbing each other’s shoulders to reach the top of a half-collapsed staircase. He slowed down his pace as the first descending steps appeared in his sight; his pursuer, on the other hand, sped up. Roderich turned to face him, heart beating fast in his chest, and looked straight into Gilbert’s red eyes. Someone, or something, stared back out of them at him, and his pupils widened with horrified realisation just as Roderich gripped his shoulder and threw him off the broken edge of the staircase.

After the resounding crash that came from the floor beneath subsided, Roderich inched slowly towards the edge and looked down. Gilbert’s body lay there motionless, blood trickling down his face, and his right arm – trapped under his weight – was twisted in a grotesque angle. Through the torn flesh, Roderich could see the pristine whiteness of a bone.

A sickening feeling rushed through him as the weight of his actions sunk. He hurried to the opposite side of the corridor, where another, fully intact staircase led to the bottom floor. He stumbled through the darkness of the hall to the location where he reckoned Gilbert had fallen. He dropped to his knees beside him and felt for his pulse; it was faint, but steady. Focusing on this small relief, Roderich stilled and waited for sunset.

On closer examination, he could see that although the man had the same snowy hair and lashes as the ghost did, the same crooked nose and red eyes, he was older at least by ten years than the young lad that The Ghost of Candlecreek Hall seemed to assume the shape of. Of course – Gilbert was a young man when he became a ghost, but time had passed since. As for the being that inhabited his body now… Roderich remembered how Gilbert planned to take over his own body. The same must have happened to him in the past. The Ghost of Candlecreek Hall hadn’t always been Gilbert Beilschmidt, and the former actor of that role now lay beside Roderich in Gilbert’s body.

After an immeasurable time of waiting in suffocating darkness, Roderich began feeling the cold that marked the arrival of the ghost. He heard footsteps approaching from behind him, and pulled himself up to his feet, turning to meet the real Gilbert.

“Didn’t I tell you not to come back?” The ghost snapped. Roderich moved aside silently, exposing the rigid form that lay behind him. Slowly, Gilbert came closer, and to a commanding motion of his hand, the darkness that shrouded the floor wrapped around the unconscious figure and flipped it onto its back. Gilbert stared at his own lifeless face, and in a matter of seconds his expression changed from confusion to horror to scalding fury. “What have you done…”

“He would’ve escaped if I didn’t–” Roderich fell silent under the phantom’s seething gaze and staggered back as the ghost reached towards him, gripping right through his chest as if meaning to tear his heart out. Ice cracked under their feet and Roderich slipped; the case flew out of his grasp and his head hit the ground. His sight blurred. Around them, the mansion was as though jolting awake, and the shadows gave birth to horrors that gathered and shrieked with vicious joy. To Gilbert’s word, Roderich knew they’d tear him to pieces.

“For years I’ve waited to come back to life,” the ghost bellowed,“but all those stupid, reckless heroes who stepped into this mansion weren’t good enough for me. There was no way I could keep playing with those coarse, vulgar hands. Until you came along, and I thought, there, I finally found the perfect body.”

Roderich tried to pull himself up; an invisible hand pushed him down and the back of his head hit the floor again. He tasted blood.

“However, you and your friends were clever enough to come during the day, and so all I could do was place my mark in your mind, hoping it would be enough to bring you back one day – but when you indeed returned to me… I could not seize the opportunity, for I realised I could never make you into the new ghost. Your talent was too great to be wasted.”

Roderich opened his mouth to speak but found that all that came out was a quiet gasp, like a faint breeze. He held up his hands pleadingly. Then, by some desperate idea, he felt for the violin case, until his hand finally bumped into it; seeing that he could still not move from his place, he dragged it towards him across the thickening ice.

“And now,” the ghost finished, and its voice shook the whole hall, “you have broken me, the body I was born with, that by a miracle came back here– You took away my chance to return to my old life–”

Roderich slammed the violin case at the floor; the sound caught the ghost’s attention and the vice around his throat seemed to loosen. “Would you prefer me to let him get away?” he yelled, and from the case that had snapped open, pulled out his violin. The bow had spun out of his reach as he slammed it down, so he plucked the strings furiously with his fingers. The ghost played by certain rules, and Roderich very much hoped that cutting a song in the middle was still forbidden. “The former ghost did not come back ‘by some miracle’, but to get something – you can find it in my chest pocket.” As the wind grasped the medallion and sent it swirling into Gilbert’s open hand, he went on. “You say you’ve spent years waiting. Do you prefer waiting on, or taking back what belongs to you?” He jerked his head sideways at the unconscious man. “You won’t be able to play, that is correct, but what is that compared to a life of eternal loneliness?”

The G string snapped beneath his finger. Roderich cursed under his breath; he only had moments left before the others would follow. “Do you not want to take revenge on the one who trapped you in here, and went out to the open world wearing your face and name?”

The second string ripped, sending a resonating D through the air like the last word of a dying man. “I will play for you!” Roderich yelled, and felt tears streaming down his cheeks. “I’ll play what you write for the rest of your life.”

The third string split; the figures in the dark careened closer; Gilbert’s face was a hideous mask of senseless rage and pain, and he raised his hand again, ready to snap his fingers one last time and bring the end to Roderich’s song. Before he could manage, the violinist threw his instrument at the frosted floor.

“You have my heart and soul, I am willing to give you what is left of my life. I love you.”

His world went dark.

***

At dawn, a pillar of black smoke was rising from beyond the green hills. An unexplained fear sent Daniel Héderváry to the door of Roderich’s lodgings. After a few minutes of frantic knocking and shouting, and no sound coming from within, he broke the lock and swung the door open. The room was empty.

He rushed down the stairs and out to the street, and headed for the outskirts of the town, then out to the hills. When he reached the peak of the highest hill, the sight of Candlecreek Hall, engulfed in red flames, was unveiled before his eyes. Terror seized his heart; then, he saw something moving through the burning gardens. A moment later, two figures emerged from the gates.

Daniel sprinted down the hill. As he drew closer, he recognised one of the figures as Roderich, whose clothes were scorched, but apart from that he seemed unharmed. The man who leant on his shoulder, however, seemed to be worse for wear. Blood stained his ashen hair, his arm was twisted in a strange angle, and he was limping.

“Daniel,” Roderich croaked, “help me.”

He briskly nodded, and took the other side of the injured man. “What happened?!”

“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you everything when we get back safely to town.” Roderich glanced over his shoulder at the burning mansion. “For now…” He smiled wryly. “I can tell you as much as this – it is all over. This is the end of the Ghost of Candlecreek Hall.”

“B-But… how?” Daniel asked puzzledly. “And who is this?” He gestured with his head at the half-conscious man suspended from either of their shoulders.

“That’s Gilbert Beilschmidt,” Roderich replied, ignoring the first question. Then he added, almost to himself: “And from now on, he’s going to be alright.”

Endnote

A thousand thanks for RomanosCheese, Red-bean-soup, and Gavriel, who accompanied me along the whole process of coming up with this idea, tolerated my endless blabbering and spent long hours out of their time editing and correcting. Love y’all <3