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mikkomacko · 7 months ago

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Him and I: Meet the Hischiers

Pairing: Mob Boss! Nico x Reader

Warnings: Alcohol, Nico's crappy parents, and mean girls

A/n: Ok I'm so sorry for how long this is, oh my god. I couldn't not add sweet moments between Nico and reader though, but I promise there's only one more chapter of them in Switzerland before they return to Jersey. Anyway, enjoy and please leave comments and thoughts and requests because I love writing mob boss Nico!

~~~~

Nico’s childhood home is humongous. The SUV rolls up the cobblestone driveway to what you’d consider a mansion, honestly. At least three stories, with fields of snow covered grass and hedges, a looping driveway like at a hotel, and a bright red door.

Everything about it screams elegance.

And yet you can picture a tiny Nico toddling after his older siblings in the grass out front, chasing a soccer ball that was half the size of him.

The mental image eases your nerves enough that you’re able to teasingly scoff and smack at Nico’s arm.

“You didn’t tell me your house is the size of New Jersey!”

Nico rolls his eyes at your drama, taking your hand in his and shrugging. “Yes it’s beautiful,” he agrees “but there’s a reason we’re not staying here. Just remember that, ok?”

Dutifully you nod, but that doesn’t stop you from leaning forward to gape at Timo. Your friend just laughs, directing the car into the spot directly in front of the door.

“The Hischier’s are the closest thing to a royal family here,” he tells you. “And Nico is the delinquent prince that ran away from the crown.”

“Stop lying to her Timo.” Nico interjects, his tone hard and commanding. You immediately sink back into your seat, recognizing that for some reason that was a touchy subject.

You’ll ask him about it later when it’s just the two of you.

This time when the car stops, it’s different men in wool coats that pull open Nico’s car door. They greet him in Swiss German, nodding as he slides out and you follow, taking his outstretched hand and stepping onto the stone path.

They look taken aback by your presence, both sharing a look you can’t quite read before greeting you with a simple “miss.”

You smile, wrapping your hand around Nico’s bicep and pressing into his side. Timo falls into step with you, walking alongside as you head for the front door.

Walking into Nico’s childhood home is more like walking into a recently sterilizes hospital room than a house that three children grew up in. Everything is pristine, polished, and pearl white (or beige).

Not a single item in the main room indicates that a family lives here at all. Even the portrait of a man with a thick mustache and sharp nose hanging over the staircase isn’t friendly.

“Wow,” you breathe out, looking over at Timo. He must read the look in your eyes because he nods just once, clearing his throat when Nico shoots him a look over the top of your head.

“Come on baby,” Nico tells you, guiding you further into the house. “They’re probably in the sitting room.”

The sitting room is like a living room, only colder and not exactly lived in. His family is scattered around the large room, perched on white overstuffed furniture. The first to greet you is a light haired woman, and as soon as she smiles you know this is his mother.

“Nico darling!” She exclaims in an accented voice, one that resembles his but with a tone of superiority. Rising from the sofa, she waves the man next to her up. Even if you were seeing him through fogged glass you’d be able to tell he’s Nico’s father.

They have the same nose, same dark eyes that crinkle by the edges. He’s shorter and less broad than Nico, but their posture and gait are the same. Even the way his dark grey hair falls is similar to Nico’s.

They’re carbon copies of each other.

“Son,” the man greets, buttoning up his suit jacket. “The rumors were true then?”

“Rumors?” Nico asks, and his lack of greeting to his parents makes your stomach drop. Throughout the entirety of your relationship you never imagined Nico’s relationship with his family to be like this.

“Word from the airport was that you brought a guest.” His mother supplies, a polite smile being thrown at you. You return it, hanging to Nico’s bicep like a lifeline. Suddenly you feel pathetic, a random American girl pressed at the hip to the heir of a mob family that stretches three countries and two continents. Hiding in the shadow casted by not only Nico but Timo as well.

Maybe it’s a good thing Sieges and the others didn’t come along.

“Timo insisted on tagging along,” your boyfriend jokes and if you weren’t so stunned and stupid you would have laughed. “This,” he continues, prying his arm from your hold to wrap around the small of you back “isn’t a guest, she’s family.”

Steeling your nerves, you take a steady step forward. “Y/n,” you introduce, holding your hand out to his father. “It’s a pleasure to meet you sir.”

He takes your hand, squeezing gently as you meet his gaze. For looking so much like his son, he doesn’t actually resemble him. His eyes are threatening and dark rather than comforting and warm like Nico’s. Even the twitch of his lips feels like it was a muscle spasm.

“Rino,” he tells you. “But sir works better.”

You nod in agreement, now reaching out towards his mother. She’s just as calculated when it comes to introducing herself, her tone haughty and amused as she says “Katja.”

“Wonderful to meet you,” you say, smiling warmly despite the thudding of your heart against your ribcage.

“You as well,” she responds, then shoots her son a look. “I’m afraid we haven’t heard much about you y/n, or anything at all for that matter.”

Ignoring the blow, you settle back into Nico’s side. Timo cuts in, greeting them you think but you can’t really hear him over the voice in your head desperately reminding you that Nico loves you, Nico wants you here.

It’s not until Nico’s nose is pressed to your temple that you snap back into reality. “Breathe y/n,” he whispers, his voice just a tickle in your ear but strong and encouraging. “You’re doing perfect.”

Coming back to yourself, you take his hand in thanks as Katja directs her attention to the few men milling about the room. She speaks to them in Swiss German, an order obviously if them scurrying out of the room is anything to go by.

With her and Rino no longer focused on you for the moment, you helplessly look up at Nico. He’s already watching you, not even a hint of a smile on that handsome face of his. Even so, his gaze is solid and proud, and the subtle tilt of his head tells you enough.

It’s ok.

Your breath shudders, feeling weak under those eyes that know and read you so well. You look away, biting at the inside of your cheek to stop the welling feeling of tears. You have to stop before you let your thoughts run too wild, plagued by images of the sweet man before you living under the scrutinizing gazes of this family.

It’s difficult to even picture how he turned into the Nico you know and love.

The return of the workers distracts you, this time a man and woman following behind them. Another copy of Nico, his brother looks like he could be the elder twin of your boyfriend. The hair, the nose, the jawline, the walk. Must be a Hischier man thing.

And the woman, so obviously his sister, physically resembles Katja but her eyes hold that same twinkle that lights up Nico’s eyes.

“Luca, Nina-“ Katja says warmly. “Your brother is here. With guests.”

Nico sighs, anything he might say remaining unspoken when Nina steps between the two sides.

“Family, Mama.” She corrects, sending you a friendly wink. Like a million bricks have been lifted off your shoulders, you visibly relax at her welcoming.

“Nina,” she tells you “you have no idea how excited I am to meet you.”

She doesn’t hold out a hand, instead stretching out both arms to you. Laughing nervously, you accept her embrace, briefly squeezing her in appreciation and introducing yourself.

“Never thought I’d see Nico with such a beautiful woman,” she teases, an underlying sincerity in her words that warms your cheeks. “He must’ve finally learned how to shower properly.”

Nico mockingly laughs behind you, grumbling in his native tongue to his sister but he’s quick to hug her smaller frame. You almost laugh when he tucks into her shoulder, curling in like he’s supposed to be smaller than her. Like a younger sibling that’s forgotten he’s grown to be the tallest.

Luca greets you, not as warmly as Nina but with more friendliness than their parents. He plants two polite kisses to your cheeks, squeezing your biceps awkwardly before jumping into reuniting with Nico. Nina stands by her mother’s side, nodding at you just once as Katja and Rino tell Nico and Luca something you don’t understand.

Resilience renewed, you turn your head to Timo and he leans down so you can whisper in his ear. “You have to teach me something in German, I’m drowning here.”

He chuckles quietly, leaning into your ear. “I’ll try again but I’m not a miracle worker honey.” You blink at him, jabbing your elbow into him in annoyance. He does it back, jolting you and your gearing up to hit him back when a firm hand is reaching around your back and taking a hold of your elbow.

Easily and swiftly, Nico pulls you into his side. By the way Timo straightens up, you’d imagine he’s been silently scolded by his boss. Smirking, you bat your eyelashes at him and innocently press into Nico’s hold.

“We’ve prepared lunch, if you’re hungry.” Katja offers but she’s already directing everyone to another room. The three of you follow obediently, not having any other option really.

~~~~

Lunch is better than the family reunion that took place in the sitting room. With the distraction of food and a cook and his siblings, Katja and Rino don’t even spare you a second glance or get a chance to grill Nico about anything.

Anytime the Devs or New Jersey comes up, Luca or Nina will steer the conversation away. You’re sure it has something to do with everyone avoiding the topic of Nico’s leave of absence and lack of contact for the past few years, but you can’t be certain because it’s never said.

Nico has a hand on you throughout the whole meal, either lacing his fingers with yours or resting comfortably on your thigh. He makes sure that you eat enough, that your water is ok, that you don’t want more helpings. It’s sweet, the way he always communicates through his actions. Maybe he didn’t prepare you enough for this encounter like he should’ve, but physically he’s been here and done everything to let you know that he has your back.

Besides, after listening to his family carefully navigate around unsavory topics over lunch, you can see why he struggles with words.

Especially when his mother is hell bent on making it uncomfortable. The plates have barely been cleared away when she’s zeroing in on her youngest.

“I suppose it’s time you tell us why you’ve come back,” she says airily. “Or rather why you left?”

Nico’s fingers tighten around yours, eyelids fluttering in annoyance as he suppresses an eye roll. “Mother-“

“Everything was set up Nico,” she cuts in. “The house, the branch, Len-“

“That’s enough!” He cuts off gruffly, silencing Katja. You stroke your thumb over his knuckle, unsure of how to navigate him like this in front of his family. It’s different at home where you have a place, where it’s your job to step in and protect the boys from his angry bouts. But this is different, uncharted. You don’t have a spot in the lives of his family let alone a place to interject. Hell, you don’t even know the context of why Nico left either.

“Watch the tone Nico,” Rino says casually, “that’s your mother.”

Sighing, Nico shakes his head. “I’m here for the week, take it or leave it. And I didn’t come to answer questions you already have the answer for.”

You watch him look around the large table, meeting everyone gaze with a firmness he only gets on jobs and deals. When he receives a simple hum from his mother, he turns to you.

“Let’s go for a walk,” he says quietly, rising from his seat. You follow his lead, pushing your chair back in and sharing a nervous look with Timo.

Nico addresses his parents. “I’m gonna show y/n around the grounds.” Then he’s nudging you towards the hall, large hand on your back as you go.

“Put on a coat Nico!” His mother calls after you and he waves over his head in acknowledgment. You’re silent all the way back to the front door, putty in Nico’s hands as he zips you into your winter coat and slips his beanie over your head.

Returning the favor, the zip his own coat for him, adjusting the collar and hood so his ears and neck stay warm.

Nico doesn’t return to being your Nico until the side door of the house is closing behind you. Immediately he’s attaching himself to you, hunching down to wrap his arms around your waist and tuck his face into your neck. Rising to your toes, you bundle your arms around him as best you can with all the thick winter layers between you.

Closing your eyes, you breathe in the cold air and just hold him for a moment. You don’t let go until he’s pressing a kiss to your jaw, straightening out his posture and looking at you with those moony eyes of his.

“Show me the grounds,” you mock in a posh voice giggling when he rolls his eyes and offers his elbow to you. Taking ahold of him, you tuck your hands into your pockets and let him guide you down the shoveled paths.

The grounds stretch on forever, through untouched wooded land and open plains of snow. Nico shows you a tennis court, a basketball court, the indoor hockey setup him and Luca used religiously as children. You trudge through the snow with him, winter air nipping at your nose and dry lips aching as your awe of the place kept growing and growing. Every ten steps was something new, some fond memory Nico’s dug up of his childhood.

“I almost broke my ankle trying to do cartwheels,” Nico laughs, gaze sweeping over the open area in which Nina apparently tried to teach Nico gymnastics. “She hadn’t even done gymnastics herself, but I wanted her to think I was cool so I did it.”

Giggling, you shake your head at him. “You can’t do a cartwheel?” You ask incredulously. Nico scoffs, shaking his head like it should be obvious. Releasing his arm, you strut to the open space in front of him and throw your arms up.

“Watch and learn Nico baby.” You tease, winking before executing a perfect cartwheel. The snow is cold on your hands, bites at your fingers but you do a couple more anyway just to show off.

Nico exclaims in surprise, staring at you with his jaw dropped and dimples in his cheeks. “Alright, just rub it in my face!” He complains and you laugh, giving him a bow. Leaning down he scoops up some snow, quickly packing it together. You have just enough time to curl into yourself before he’s throwing it at your torso.

Squealing, you dig your numb hands into the snow to throw one back. Dodging and ducking through laughter, you and Nico pelt each other with snow until your hands are so frozen you think they might fall off.

In surrender, you leap at him and throw your arms around his neck. The shock of your bitter cold fingers on his bare skin makes him jump and he goes crashing to the ground, taking you with him.

Luckily he breaks your fall, and the snow breaks his so it’s still giggles when you cup his jaw, sitting up to check him for injuries. He’s got snow in his hair and eyelashes, his cheeks and nose glowing red as he bites at his bottom lip to try and contain his smile.

“You’re so handsome,” you whisper, the words mostly spoken to yourself but in the large, silent estate they carry. Nico’s cheeks redden even more, eyes glimmering with love. Then, thinking of the cold man from whom Nico got his looks, you quickly add “inside and out.”

His face falls with realization, a look of sympathy flashing through his eyes. Not that he should be sympathetic about anything, these people didn’t raise you. “I should’ve warned you,” he says “I just didn’t want to scare you. And I didn’t want you to think I don’t love them because I do, they’re just different.”

The snow has begun soaking into your pants, stinging your skin and you imagine Nico’s butt must be just as cold. Yet he makes no move to get up, just stares up at you from the ground with those all-telling eyes of his.

“You warned me,” you say “maybe not intentionally but you did.” From wasting away the morning with you to the way he always had a protective hand on you today, Nico warned you the best way he knows how. With protective actions.

Brushing his hair off his forehead, you ask “wanna talk about it?” Nico sighs, cheeks puffing up as he does so and the cloud of his breath dances in between you. He agrees though, nodding for you to get up so you climb off his lap and take his hand to help him up.

Nico takes both of your hands in his, squeezing them before drawing the up to his lips. Eyebrows pinched together in concentration, he breathes hot hair in an attempt to warm them up for you. After a moment he squeezes them again, frowning when they’re still too cold for his liking.

Giggling, you pull your hands back and hug his arm. “I’m ok, let’s just go back and we can talk somewhere warm.”

Pressing a kiss to the top of your head, Nico agrees. Oblivious to the figure looming on the balcony that overlooks the grounds, he leads you back towards the house, feet crunching in the snow.

~~~~

Clothes sopping wet and cold, you shuffle into Nico’s old bedroom and immediately begin shedding your winter layers. Unsure of everyone else’s whereabouts in the house, Nico closes the door and locks it before he too strips out of his clothes.

In just his boxers he disappears into the closet and you take the opportunity to look around his room. A large bed sits in the middle of the room, a fluffy blue quilt that matches the accent wall covering it. An old ratty teddy bear sits on the bed, looking out the large window across the room. The view is beautiful, snow covered mountains and white topped trees. There’s a desk in the corner, the top of it empty but the shelves have a few books and childhood awards scattered on them.

You tiptoe over, notice most of the awards have a soccer or hockey player on them. There’s one of a boy snowboarding and one engraved with a book, and though you can’t read them inscription, the year on them tells you that Nico was under 16 when he won all these.

A photo you’ve seen on his phone is hung up next to the desk, Luca and Nina holding a baby Nico on a beach somewhere, all chubby cheeks and blonde hair.

A poster of a Swiss tennis player hangs next to the bed, a few more photos scattered around the room. You don’t get the chance to examine them because Nico strolls back into the room with a ball of clothes in his hands.

“Not sure when these were last washed but it should be fine,” he shrugs, dropping the mess of items to the bed. He digs out a pair of boxers, some dark sweats, and a long sleeve for you. You happily accept the dry clothes, stripping out of your damp underwear and bra.

Nico’s Calvin’s are a little tight when you shimmy them up you hips but not uncomfortable. You pull the sweats on, rolling the waistband so they don’t hang over your feet. It’s not until you’re tugging the shirt over your head that you notice Nico is standing butt naked across from you, boxers in hand as he shamelessly watches you change.

Knowing where this going, you quickly pull the shirt on, raising an unimpressed eyebrow at him. “Put that thing away and start talking Hischier.”

He chuckles, beginning to get dressed. You sit on the bed, reaching over for the teddy and pulling it into your lap. “What do you want to know?”

“I know how you ended up in Jersey,” you say, fingers rubbing at the soft fabric of the bears ear. “Inheritance from your grandfather and wanting to get away from here. But I always thought it was because you’re the youngest, ya know? You like to be in charge and you can’t do that with Luca and Nina being in line for everything,”

Nico lets you talk, pulling on his teeshirt and settling into the bed next to you.

“But your parents said everything was lined up. What did they mean?”

Nico sighs, eyes dropping to his lap and he fiddles with the tie on his sweats. You turn to look at him, walking the teddy bear across the mattress and plopping it in his lap. He doesn’t look at you but a dimple sinks into his cheek and he takes the bear from you.

“My parents were trying to branch out, stretch the business like they did sending Nina to France. They had this whole mock up of me using my inheritance to move to Germany and head everything there.

“But they wanted to send someone with me. This girl whose father does business with mine. We had a thing kind of when we’re younger, not dating but like when I wanted to be with someone she was there. So they added a wedding to the plan and invited her to join the family.”

There’s no reason to be jealous of this girl, whoever she is. You know that, but that doesn’t stop you from feeling a little nauseous thinking of his family picking out a wife for him.

“What did you say?” You murmur, slipping your fingers under his shirt and stroking the warm skin of his stomach. Nico picks at a thread on the bear, taking a deep breath.

“Nothing, to them. I took the money and some buddies and left. Told Nina I was starting my own family in Jersey, that I didn’t want to be married or in Germany.

“That’s how I got Timo, Sieges, and Bratter to join me. We’d all been friends for a while and they hated the girl. My parents didn’t know, but she’d been after Luca the whole time she was with me. He was too focused on taking over here in Switzerland though. That’s why she wanted him, she wanted to be the queen or whatever of Switzerland. “

“Why’d she agree to marry you then?”

Nico looks up now, shrugging. You inch closer to him, stomach feeling sick and he must know you don’t particularly like to hear this story because he nudges you into his lap. Straddling his thighs, you relax forward into his chest and let him wrap his arm around you.

“Because one of us was better than neither I guess. I had a feeling she assumed she could marry me and then convince me to push Luca out or something. I don’t know but I didn’t say a word to her either, I just left.”

You nod, the joke Timo made in the car earlier finally adding up. Nico was the prince lined up to be married and grow the business, to make his family stronger. Instead he took his power and his means elsewhere. He built his own kingdom.

“I think you’re so smart Nico,” you mumble, “not many 18 year old boys would be able to do what you did.”

Nico tucks the bear into your chest and you hug it. “I had help,” he says “but it was the best decision I ever made. I got you from it.”

His phone buzzes on the nightstand, interrupting you two. You feel him reach over for it, holding you tighter as he leans over.

“Nina invited us to go out tonight for drinks,” he says. “She wants to have fun without my parents around.”

“Is Timo invited?”

“Yes, Timo is invited.” Nico laughs, stroking your hair.

“Ok. I have to go home for new clothes though.”

Nico hums his agreement, still stroking your hair. You cuddle into him, hugging the teddy bear tighter as you sort through everything he told you. It’s impossible for you to see how some girl had Nico right in front of her, was lined up to spend the rest of her life with him and instead made him feel unwanted.

How could anyone not pick him? How was she not begging on her knees to run away to Jersey with him?

“Nico?”

“Yes baby?”

“I want you,” you whisper. “I always have and I always will. I’d do anything for you.”

You think of everything you’ve given up for Nico, the life you’d left behind for him and it doesn’t even phase you. Because he’s worth it, always worth it.

“Trust me, I know my love,” he assures but you can hear the relief in his tone. Then he’s giggling boyishly, digging his nose into the top of your head. “I knew as soon as met you that there was no getting rid of you.”

Blushing, you close your eyes and enjoy his embrace, enjoying a moment with just him.

~~~~

Luca owns the bar that Nina had invited you too. Technically the business owns it, but it was Luca’s investment plan that acquired it and it’s his staff that runs it.

You find that out as Nico leads you by the hip to the sectioned off tables in the back. Luca and a few other guys mill about the table, some you recognize from seeing around the house today. Nina is there too, her long hair pulled back into a slick pony and she’s sipping from a fruity cocktail with a blonde girl.

“You made it!” Luca greets upon seeing his brother, his demeanor much more welcoming and laidback than earlier. You let go of Nico’s hand so he can hug Luca again, his eyes crinkling as he laughs.

Timo bro-hugs Luca before disappearing back into the common area, most likely heading to the bar. You’re reaching for Nico’s hand again when Luca crouches down to meet your gaze, glossy eyes and smile shining at you.

He looks so much like Nico.

“There she is!” He shouts, charging you with open arms. You laugh in shock when he scoops you up in a hug, drink sloshing against your back as he sways back and forth.

“Hi Luca,” you giggle, awkwardly rubbing your hand up and down his back. “Nice to see you again.”

He drops you to your feet, gripping your elbow when you stumble. Not that it’s needed; Nico’s hand found your lower back as soon as your toes touched the polished floors.

“You know, I never understood why Nico loved Jersey so much,” he shouts over the music and chatter “but I get it now. I like you a lot even if my parents don’t.”

You’re not shocked to hear that but you dramatically gasp anyway. “Your parents don’t like me?!” You cry, holding a hand over your heart. “What’ll we ever do?”

Luca laughs at you, taking a swig of his beer before shaking his head fondly. “Fuck ‘em,” he says casually “Nico’s better off with you anyway.”

Your cheeks heat up at his words, flattered by the praise. You were hesitant about Luca earlier, not knowing if he liked you or not. He was harder to read than Nico and Nina but you assume that’s the oldest sibling in him.

Without another word he’s walking away, stumbling towards the pool tables with some friends. Nico leans in over your shoulder, nose brushing your temple.

“He’s a friendly drunk,” he explains “but he really does like you.”

You turn towards him. “He’s funny,” you say “I like him too.”

Pressing the lightest kiss to your cheekbone, Nico nods towards the bar. “Something with vodka?” He asks and you peek around him at Nina.

“I want what Nina is drinking.”

Amused, he nods and takes you by the hand. He approaches the booth, leaning over towards his sister to mumble something in her ear. You don’t hear what she says back but Nico straightens out, stepping out of the way and nudging you to sit down. Happily, you slide into the seat next to Nina and accept her giddy hug.

Nico sweeps your hair over your shoulder, squeezing your neck briefly before going to get your drink.

“Oh this is Maja,” Nina introduces you to her friend. You reach over the table to shake her hand and introduce yourself.

“I’m with Luca,” Maja tells you, her pretty blue eyes sparkling. “Sorry I missed lunch today, I tend to skip those gatherings as often as I can.”

“I totally understand!” You laugh,” I’ll have to keep that in mind for next time.”

Nina gasps, gripping your arms as she beams at you. “You’re gonna come back?!”

Giggling, you nod. “Well yeah, I know Nico misses you and Luca and it hasn’t been bad. Besides, it’s beautiful here!”

“You have to visit in the summer!” Maja tells you, “we can make fondue and float the river.”

Nina agrees telling you all about how that was Nico’s favorite thing to do when he was younger. Then she’s inviting you to France, telling you all about the beautiful French men and how much you’d love them.

You let her chatter on, laughing at her antics. French men aren’t exactly your forte, especially not when you’re dating a Swiss man but you can remind her about that later.

“Nina,” Nico interrupts, placing your drink in front of you. “are you trying to set my prinzessin up with a Frenchie?”

Sliding in next to you, he wraps his arm around your stomach and draws you back into his chest. His sister gapes at him, so shocked by his words she’s gone speechless and you shyly sip your drink.

“Prinzessin, Nico!” She gasps, holding her heart. Nina tells him something in Swiss German, reaching around you to excitedly shove her brother.

His response is also lost on you but you can tell by Nina’s moony eyes and how he hunches into you that it was something loving and sweet. “Soon, soon.” Nico finally says, taking a drink of his beer and setting it next to yours.

“Hey don’t talk about me when I can’t understand what you’re saying.”

Laughing, Nico presses a kiss to your temple. “Sorry baby,” he says, squeezing your shoulders. You turn to face him, sliding your leg over his lap.

“You didn’t tell me about Maja,” you murmur, fiddling with the straw in your drink. Nico’s eyebrows pinch together, lips pursing in confusion as he looks around the bar.

“Who?”

“Nico oh my god,” you gasp “Luca’s girlfriend-wife-whatever?”

Some clarity washes over his face and he giggles, glancing across the booth to Maja. Lowering his lips to your ear, “I thought her name was Maria,” he whispers and you laugh.

“I don’t know, Luca got with her after I left and he’s not chatty on the phone. For all I know he’s already married her.”

You look over your shoulder at her hand. “No ring,” you tell him “and I don’t think he’d get married without telling you.”

Nico shrugs, taking a swig of his beer before holding it out to you. You slide him your drink, trying the tangy beer he’s been nursing. It’s not bad but beer isn’t your favorite so you quickly hand it back.

“That’s sweet,” Nico says, smacking his lips and returning it to you. “Too sweet, Jesus Christ.” You laugh, snacking an arm around his shoulders and digging your fingers into the strands of hair at the nape of his neck.

“It’s not that bad,” you argue, guiding him closer to you. Smirking, those dark eyes of his dance across your face before settling on your lips. He does the rest of the work for you, capturing your mouth in a sloppy kiss.

“Mmm,” he hums, pulling back and swiping his tongue across his lips. “Better.”

His voice has that gruffness to it, heavy and thick, and not just because his accent is stronger now that he’s home. It makes your neck and ears feel hot, stomach flipping.

“No PDA in my bar Nico!” Luca’s shouting makes you jump, almost knocking Nico’s beer across the table and him and Timo snicker as they sit across from you.

“Bar PDA is his favorite,” Timo laughs, winking at you. “How do you think they ended up together?”

You can’t even argue with him. Nico is notorious for being handsy, especially when he’s out and drinking.

“Really?” Luca hums, slinging an arm around Maja. “It used be like pulling teeth just to get him to look at girl around here.”

And well, that’s news to you. Although you suppose if he planned on leaving Switzerland anyway and he had that girl to fool around with whenever he wanted, what’s the point? You’re well aware that he was never looking for love.

Nico quickly changes the topic, asking Timo about his day with his family tomorrow and you join Nina and Maja as they sift through songs on the online jukebox to play.

The queue stacks up, your drink starts to run out, and Nico leaves with Timo and his brother to go play pool. Nina leaves the phone with Maja, taking you by the hand to the bar where she orders more drinks and drops them on Nico’s tab. Not that it matters, you doubt he pays for drinks here anyway.

“I’m gonna head to the restroom,” you tell her, and she takes your drink back to the closed off section. The bathrooms are in the opposite back corner, a group of girls huddled in front of the door so you line up behind them.

Your phone buzzes in hand, Nico’s contact lighting up the screen and you almost laugh. Of course he noticed you were missing.

I’ve lost my pretty girl

Biting your lip, you text back bathroom break ♥️

The typing dots pop up and you’re anxiously awaiting his response when the conversation around you catches your attention. Specifically the mention of Nico’s name.

“He’s still as hot as ever,” a dark haired girl in front of you comments, and you keep your eyes on your phone so they don’t think you’re eavesdropping.

“Do you think she’s actually with him or is that just another fuck you to his parents?”

Nico’s text comes through, but you can’t focus enough to read it. “I mean, she doesn’t look his type so who knows. Didn’t he say he wasn’t into commitment Lena?”

Out of the corner of your eye, a tall and leggy brunette twirls her hair around her finger and shrugs. “If he were into commitment don’t you think he’d be with me right now? It’s definitely just to piss off his parents, I mean did you see the size of her? Typical American girl.”

Suddenly you feel sick, like everything you’ve ever eaten is choking up in your throat and about to spew all over the mean girls in front of you.

“I heard he put her in the family,” a quieter voice says. “Timo was talking about it at the bar with Luca. He’s calling her his princess.”

The leader-Lena, scoffs. “Princess? She hasn’t even got a pendent let alone a ring.”

Maybe this why Nico doesn’t talk about his exes. They’re mean and petty little girls, girls that haven’t moved on in over 5 years. That doesn’t make it any easier to hear though.

“Probably another one of his deals. He fucks her, she pretends to be serious with him for a family trip.”

“Why would he decide to come back now with a fake girlfriend?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Lena laughs, loud and proud. “He must have heard that I’m back at the estate.”

You decide that’s enough, pocketing your phone and clearing your throat. All the girls jump at the noise, turning to face you and you smile.

“Are you in line for the bathroom or just gossiping?” You ask politely, smirking as the color drains from all their faces. All except Lena, who looks you up and down before sheepishly nodding for you to go ahead.

“Thanks, I appreciate it.” You say, stopping in the doorway to look at her. “You’d think Luca would have bathrooms strictly for family but I guess not.”

Embarrassed, they all laugh awkwardly and you close the door behind you. What the fuck?

~~~~

By the time you’ve returned to the booth, you’ve shaken off the word of those girls. You trust Nico, you know Nico loves you, and high school bullies that pick on girls weight and nationality aren’t going to change that.

Nico is still playing pool, but he catches your eye and winks as you settle in next to Nina. Smirking, you blow him a kiss before Nina is handing you music rights. Sipping on your drink, you pull up your playlist on your phone and find the Swiss songs Nico likes. Adding his favorite to the queue you hand the phone back.

“How do you know that song?” Maja asks you, chewing on the end of her straw. You take another sip of yours.

“Nico plays it every time we’re in the car.” You say, catching the eye of Lena over Maja’s shoulder. She simply raises an eyebrow you, throwing back whatever shot is in hand and purses her lips.

“Hey, do you guys know her?” You suddenly ask, nodding towards the bar where Lena is now perched over the top to steal cherries from behind the counter.

“Oh,” Nina mumbles, laughing awkwardly. “Rino does business with her father and uh…”

“She was into Nico?” You supply, glancing over at your boyfriend. Maja bites her lip, hesitantly nodding.

“She was supposed to marry him.” Nina tells you, lowering her gaze to the table. Suddenly it all clicks; the comments about sleeping with him, about him not committing, about using me.

The song changes, the beat immediately catching the attention of Nico who stands up taller and looks over at you. You smile, wiggling your fingers at him as Nina laughs.

“I never thought Nico could be so romantic.” Maja teases you, not that you get it. The rap song is lost on you, any translation you’ve tried to look up being even more confusing. So you just enjoy the beat of it usually.

“What?”

Nina laughs, finally realizing that you can’t understand Swiss German. “It’s a love song,” she tells you, and then she’s pulling up the lyrics and translating them for you.

It’s a lot of nonsense, cute tidbits about how the artist loves the habits and traits of his lover. But the chorus is sweet, a declaration of him finding love after being told he would always be on his own.

Unable to help yourself, you swallow down the rest of your drink and scramble out of the booth. Nico is watching you, bottom lip caught between his teeth as you approach him. He’s leaning on the pool stick but as soon as you get close he’s moving it aside.

You crash into him, bury your nose in his hoodie and holding his waist tightly. “What’s her deal?” Luca slurs, but he goes ignored. Nico squeezes you just once, swaying side to side in time with the song.

Closing your eyes, you think of him singing along in the car, humming it in the shower while he washes your hair for you, blasting it through the house when you two clean together.

“Who translated it for you?” He finally murmurs, his smile present in his tone.

“Your sister,” you say, resting your chin on his chest and looking up at him. He’s all white teeth and dimples when you meet his gaze, eyes glimmering with pride. “Her and Maja think you’re very romantic.”

Nico shrugs but doesn’t argue. The pool balls clink behind you and then Timo is hollering. “Game over Luca, pay up.”

Luca mutters something in Swiss, heading to the bar with his head low. You let go of Nico, giving Timo a chance to high five you both.

“Let me teach you to play,” Nico tells you, handing you the pool stick. You follow him to the end of the table, letting him show you how to rack up the balls. Timo chalks up your stick for you, tells you about the cue ball.

And you go about your night, teaming up with Nico to play Timo. He stands behind you for every shot, large hands over yours on the pool stick and his warm chest tight against your back.

It feels so good to have him wrapped around you that you don’t even notice the staring eyes of Lena and her friends.

And you don’t bring her up to Nico, though you probably should’ve.

#nico hischier #mob boss Nico Hischier #nico hischer x reader #mob boss au #Him and I #nhl #new jersey devils #nj devils #fluff

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youneedsomeprompts · 2 years ago

Text

How to write: ethnicity & skin colour

requested by: anonymous request: How exactly can I describe a characters ethnicity/skin color casually, without it sounding like a specific scene that just exists to describe the skin color? I hope this makes sense lmao… I just want to write a scene where I casually mention someone’s ethnicity or skin color

description of appearance: No matter if skin colour or hairstyle or clothes, a text is more dynamic if you don't dedicate an entire scene/paragraph to it but rather sprinkle the necessary information in here and there. However, there can be instances where it's conducive to the plot to put that entire paragraph (e.g. introducing a new important character with backstory). Otherwise, I'd say try to keep it short and put it where it serves the plot.

ways to incorporate...

... a description of appearance:

when a character makes their first entrance (describe everyone's colouring - POCs' and white characters')

the impression their complexion makes together with their clothes: "the bright yellow of their shirt complemented their dark skin"

the way their colouring interacts with lighting: "the grey weather took away the rosy hue of their fair skin"

when appearances create a contrast: "I immediately noticed them because they were the only other black person"

... ethnicity:

let the characters mention it where it makes sense

regarding the narrator you've chosen for your story, it can also be blended into an inner monologue

include parts of their culture: traditions, terms, family, etc. (this also allows to bring up their ethnicity repeatedly over the story and not only at the beginning)

show their struggles: are they affected by social struggles? then show it!

words to use to describe skin colour:

... basic colour descriptions:

brown

black

beige

white

pink

... more specific colours (try sticking to familiar/common words that can be easily visualised):

amber

bronze

copper

gold

ochre

terracotta

sepia

sienna

porcelain

tan

... prefixes or modifiers (can be easily combined with basic colours):

dark

rich

warm

deep

fair

faint

light

cool

pale

... undertones (pre-dominant colours underneath the skin - often warm or cool, sometimes also neutral and olive):

yellow

orange

coral

golden

silver

rose

pink

red

blue

... avoid food analogies as it's often received as offending, fetishising, and/or objectifying.

That's all I can provide as of now but I'm sure you guys have aspects to contribute. I'm very interested to hear your thoughts, so please feel free to add to this post whatever you like to/can share <3

And for more information, maybe also check out @writingwithcolor for more specialised posts on the topic <3

#ethnicity in writing #writing advice #writing skin color #terminology #writeblr #writers on tumblr #writing guide #creative writing #how to write #writing inspiration #writing ideas

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felicitywilds · 1 year ago

Text

The Magiciatron

A couple of posts came across my dash recently in quick succession about Crowley and Aziraphale’s costuming, and boy howdy did they get me Thinking™. The details of those posts are not super relevant, but they did inspire this one and were quite insightful, so I’d recommend giving them a read anyway, as well as the several other posts I have linked throughout where ideas were taken. Please do give those a read/reblog as well!

And then take a look at this post I saw:

“You’re not trying to trick me, are you?”

Now kindly consider the fact that Crowley is beside Muriel’s left shoulder (like an angel) and the Metatron is on Aziraphale’s right (like a demon). And notice, like I did, that the lapels on his coat are some of the lowest we’ve seen. Which, for an angel-who-isn’t-Aziraphale, and you know, the literal fucking voice of God, is pretty fucking weird. But I digress.

Because what’s important here is that you’re reminded, like I was, how weird it is that the Metatron is wearing so much black.

Surely the most important angel we’ve ever met-- who up to this point, has only ever been depicted as a brilliantly glowing white head, and is (stage blocking-wise, literally) above inhabiting the typical corporations that other angels have, even while in heaven-- surely he would be sporting the cleanest, purest, whitest clothes imaginable, right?

But... he isn’t. He’s not wearing grey or beige like any of the other angels, or even white like Muriel’s constable uniform, he’s wearing black. That’s weird! Angels don’t wear black! Oh... well except when they’re magicians, of course:

(X, X)

But even in his magician costumes, Aziraphale retains many elements of his angelic nature: the upward-pointed lapels; the white cuffs poking out of his sleeves; the floppy bow ties; the single-button or open jacket revealing the soft gold and velvet vests. This is merely a flashy costume! Don’t worry folks, he’s still the same, good old angel underneath!

The Metatron, on the other hand, does not have any of these angelic indicators. Underneath his magician’s coat-- which is big and loose, falls closed in front of him in a way that obscures his suit, and has extremely downward-pointing lapels-- he wears a dark tie, and a very normal-looking, white, pinstripe shirt. No angelic tartan to be seen, either. It’s a very understated, business-minded look compared to Aziraphale’s flashy stage getups. Also worth noting imo is that in many scenes, the Metatron has his hands in his pockets, which obscures his form even more.

Now this might be indicative of something more, some larger scheme we haven’t deduced yet, but by itself it’s a brilliant move by the costuming department, adding yet another perfectly conniving layer to the Metatron’s manipulations:

Dress him in the magician’s coat and send him on stage, where his tricks are hidden in plain sight...

Engage the audience to participate in a dramatic reveal...

Reassure his volunteer that his props are completely normal by offering them up for inspection...

Have the assistant do all the flashy presentation for him...

So that while the audience is distracted, they fail to notice...

... that a swap has been made...

And then the curtain falls. Show over. Audience fooled. Job well done.

The End.

#good omens #good omens meta #good omens analysis #good omens season 2 #good omens spoilers #gomens #gomens meta #aziraphale #the metatron #by me #hes got such a smug look on his face as aziraphale steps into the elevator #he performed his trick flawlessly #be advised the stand-ins for audience and volunteer and assistant are mutable in this metaphor #the only constant is that the metatron is the magician #ok i think thats it SHOOTING THIS OUT INTO THE ETHER NOW #this line of thinking was MOSTLY inspired by the crowley post #and his turtleneck being his 'spy outfit'#which got me thinking about if his white server uniform at warlocks birthday counted as a spy outfit #bc it has lapels (pointed up) whereas no other servers do #which then got me thinking about how hes wearing white and aziraphale black #and then i saw that first post and remembered that metatron ALSO wears black #and then i thought about it for four days then posted this #this is not supporting evidence for coffee theory!!!!!!!#this is a doyalist analysis of costuming and what metatrons role is in that scene #ty for reading

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whole-circus · 1 year ago

Note

hi! since your requests are open, could I ask for some room hdc?? with characters of your choice 🧎‍♀️

please take care of yourself and take your time!!

Creepypastas room headcanons!

➥ Jeff the Killer, Homicidal Liu, Eyeless Jack, Ben Drowned, Clockwork and Hobo Heart

Oh hi and thank you!! Here you go sweetie! If you wanted someone more then feel free to uptade!! :33

.•┈••✦ 🖤 ✦••┈•.

☆ Jeff the Killer

What a stinky men. Im sorry but his room is messy for sure and you can't convince me otherwise! Dirty clothes, empty cans, leftovers, stains..man, hire him a maid or something. Some dead plants and messy grafitties, stolen traffic signs and construction boards! Propably never in his life made bed, and his sheets aren't changed often.

Definitely has many band posters on his walls too! Maybe some vinyls too?? Mostly the black, red and grey colours can be seen. Hates the big light, so usually sits in dark or with small lamp. His drapes 24/7 covered. He is emo and plays loud music.

Smells like cigarettes and like room that hadn't been aired for long time.

☆ Homicidal Liu

Pretty, clean and organized room! The only 'messy' thing could be mugs he forgot to clean (same tho). Im sure he has gramophone and listen some of this old, silly, romantic songs! Also - a lot of plants, maybe even lego flowers? Couple of this aesthetic posters, some gobelins, small paintings. Photos with his friends, S/O! His bed is almost always well made. He have many books, and an easel (what an art hoe of him).

Mostly green, brown and beige colours. He loves natural light and candles, and if the weather is nice then his windows are open.

His room smells like cleaning detergents, soil and candles (usually the flower ones).

☆ Eyeless Jack

Soo..his room is not as clean, but its caused by his wild side. On his walls and furnitures are many straches from his hands (or even teeth!). Otherwise? You don't have to worry about surviving visiting his room, you have high chance to not caught anything! I would say his room is pretty dark, only becasue his walls are in gloomy colours - maybe not black, but gray, green or navy blue (all in dark shades).

Let's pretend that he actually was into medicine before all his tragic events..pls? Propably has some decorations, like skeleton, anatomy-related posters! Also likes to keep his blinds shut, he is pretty hypersensitive in terms to hearing, sight, smell. And maybe..he would have this small, funny fridge in his room, you know - to keep his..food..fresh!

About the smell..maybe a bit of blood? And something rotten? But its not that strong tho!

☆ Ben Drowned

Musty, dusty and rusty room, but we still love him! He would clean once in a while, and he do that very solid..but that doesn't last long - his room gets messy very easly. When he isnt gaming then he is sleeping..pretty productive, huh? Bed is never made, lots of junk food wrappers, empty (or not) cans..

LED lights 25/8! His room is pretty dark, propably never seen the sun. On his walls are posters from movies, anime and games. Has pretty professional gaming set when it comes to computer (I would describe it but i only know that computer need screen and keybord lol). High chance of having some psp gaming corner! Like bean bag pouffe, TV and stuff. Also! Collects figures like funko pops, anime figures, nendoroids. Ben have pretty nice Lego collection too!

His room smells like sweat and energy drinks.

☆ Clockwork

A bit messy, but in this aesthetic way - in other way, chaos under control! You know, some clothes at the floor or on chair..some dirty mugs..and her trash can is a bit too full..but as I said - everything looks pretty planed..! She has many blankets and plushies (she would never admit to that tho) on her bed.

In her room dominates mostly shades of dark green and white! Has many fun stuff in her room - rocks, animal skulls..sorry fellow animal lovers, promise they were found! But also a guitar! Full jewelry holder - and they are all well made! Thats why they are a bit too messy.. And she keeps many fake plants, she sucks at taking care of them. Clockwork has many string lights in various shapes!

Dunno, but I cant really assign smell of her room! Maybe something like dust and coffee?

☆ Hobo Heart

Ahh I miss this pretty boy to be honest! His room is clean, end of the sentence, thats it. I also think that he would have some pet in terrarium or aquarium - lizard, frog or just some fishes. Even if they are small, he treat them with proper respect and like the family members!

Has white walls with paintings and photos of his friends/SO, but most of the decorations are in shade of red. Also vinyls as decorations and posters of his favorite singers/bands (m sorry but he totally looks like somoene listening to Lana Del Ray vibes T^T) - all in this 'aesthetic way'! Simple light bed sheets, and when his bed is made (which is pretty often) he put pillows that have this silly shapes. Like to keep his room natural lightened and loves candles!

His room smells pretty like vanilia, but its not a strong scent.

.•┈••✦ 🖤 ✦••┈•.

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pedrisbanana · 2 years ago

Note

Could you do something with the cheating trop3 but with gavi, where the reader goes to a game despite pepis injury and gavi takes her home

More intensity. More Gavi...

Enjoy 🍌

Pedri's Luck

Scrolling through your phone, you waited for Gavi at the entrance to the stadium at the parking lot. The air was chilly in the underground floor. You should've brought a jacket.

Pedri had a cold and had to stay home, so he asked you to play Gavi's driver for today. Barcelona had played against Villarreal and won 4-0, with two of the goals scored by the little golden boy.

Several players greeted you as they walked past you to their cars.

"Hey. Congratulations on the big win." you said and Gavi pulled you into a hug.

He wore a grey sweater and beige cargo pants. The sweater felt soft against your cheek. Being pressed against his chest, his body warmth spread through you. You sighed.

He smelled like a fresh shower and musky deodorant. Something hurt in your chest when he let go.

"Thank you. Also for driving me." he smiled and your heart fluttered in your chest.

You shook your head. You couldn't think like this, Pedri, his best friend was your boyfriend. Even if Pablo was really hot.

Both of you stepped into your car and drove off. You felt his eyes on you.

"Are you okay ?" you asked him, eyes focused on the road.

"I could ask you the same, you seem nervous" he cocked an eyebrow, letting his eyes take in your body.

Goosebumps spread on your skin, but not because you were cold. No. Your body felt on fire. Gavi being so close indeed made you nervous.

"I'm just not used to drive in the night, that's all." your hands fisted the steering wheel tighter, knuckled turning white.

"Is that why you clench your thighs together ?" he chuckled and suddenly his hand was on your exposed thigh, fingertips tickling the inside of them as he pulled your legs apart.

His touch felt like a burn, hot on your skin. The pads of his fingers drummed against your sensitive skin. If he reached a little higher he could feel how soaked you were.

"You know I scored my goals for you." his voice was low and his hand gave your thigh a squeeze.

"Gavi..." you said, pulling into his driveway.

Luckily Gavi didn't live that far from Camp Nou. You stopped the engine.

"Come with me, princesa."

It wasn't a question. You looked down at your hands in your lap.

"I'm with Pedri." you couldn't look at him.

His hand took one of yours. "Now you're here with me and I know that you want this. Pedri will never know."

His hand was warm and soft.

After a few minutes of silence he dropped your hand and got out of the car. Before you could sigh in relief, your door opened and Gavi pulled you out of the car.

He pressed you flush against him and he closed the door with a soft kick of his feet.

"I'm not letting you go, hermosa. Not when I know you're dripping for me to touch you." he whispered against your neck, sending shivers down your spine.

"Gavi please-" You were cut off by his lips, soft and warm pressing against yours.

His erection poked against your hip. You moaned and he slipped his tongue inside your mouth, dancing with yours.

The cotton material of your dress felt uncomfortable. You wanted Gavi to take it off. You wanted to feel all of him.

Gavi pulled away, leaving you breathlessly leaning against your car. Your pink lipstick was smudged over his top lip and his face was flushed. He licked his bottom lip, looking at you with husky eyes.

"Take me inside, Pablo."

He didn't need to hear more. Picking you up, you wrapped your legs around him.

Gavi carried you to his bedroom, leaving bruises and bites on your neck before dropping you on the soft sheets. You watched as he opened the fly of his cargos and pulled his sweater over his head. His hair was a mess and it looked insanely attractive.

Climbing on top of you, he ripped your dress off.

"Hey this was a birthday present!" you exclaimed as he peeled the fabric off you.

"Yeah I know, from him." Gavi pulled at your panties, leaving you completely exposed in front of him.

"What a sight, princesa. Naked and wet." he bit his lip, palming his cock through his briefs. "Be a good girl and get on all fours."

You did as he said and turned around, arching your back. Pablo's hands found your cheeks and squeezed them.

The harsh slap surprised you and you moaned his name.

"I don't think you're wet enough yet. Wouldn't want my cock to hurt you. I'll do that in other ways already"

He appeared beside you, rummaging through a drawer. You watched him, his pants at his ankles, back muscles flexing.

After he returned, he startled you by throwing your phone in front of you on the bed.

His erection pressed between your folds, hips flush with your ass as he bend over you. Pulling a strand of hair behind your ear he kissed it.

"You're not going home tonight, princesa. Pedri is going to worry. You better text him and tell him his dear friend offered you to sleep over." his hand wrapped around your throat.

Biting your lip you clicked on Pedri's contact. Gavi kissed your neck, making it hard to concentrate.

Typing a quick message, you felt Gavi's other hand spread cold lube on your pussy. You automatically rotated your hips, seeking friction.

"You're so desperate. Can't wait to have my cock inside you, hm ?"

His lashes tickled the back of your neck. Pushing the phone away, you dropped your arms. The teasing was too much. Your clit throbbed and your pussy clenched, begging for Pablo to finally fuck you.

"Pablo please." you whimpered, pressing your cheek to the duvet.

His fingers were replaced by the tip of his cock, rubbing up and down your slit, almost slipping in from your wetness.

"Please what, amor? Use your voice." Pablo breathed against your neck.

You pushed your hips back to get him to slip inside, causing him to tighten his grip on your throat.

"Please Pablo... I need you to fuck me." your voice was filled with need, exhausted from the pleasure.

His hand guided himself inside and grabbed your hip. Your name on his lips, echoing through his apartment.

Breathy moans and whimpers mixed with the sound of his balls slapping against your wet pussy.

The hand that held your throat tangled into your locks and pulled, making you arch into him.

"You feel so good, princesa, so tight. I'm gonna fill you up with my cum until you can't take it anymore."

His words made you clench harder. One of your hands reached down to circle your clit. The little figure eights you drew had you screaming out in agony.

"You're such a slut, can't take my cock without touching yourself." The hand from your hip moved to spread slaps all over your asscheeks, each making you clench and moan, milking his cock.

"Yes Pablo, mmh." Tears rolled down your face, joining the drool on the duvet under you.

Pedri was soft and gentle, but Gavi was rough and inexorable.

A few more thrusts and he screamed out, pumping his seed inside of you with slow, sensual thrusts.

Gavi pulled out which made you cry out. Turning on your back, you could relax your muscles while your hand still worked your clit in fast movements.

Pablo look disheveled from the sex as he leaned down to take over for your hand. You closed your eyes as he fucked you with two of his fingers, curling them upwards.

You could feel your orgasm approaching slowly and your hands found your hardened nipples, playing with them. Your hips bucked as he pulled his fingers out, cum dripping onto your breasts as he moved them to your lips.

"Open up nicely, amor."

Greedily accepting his fingers, knuckle deep between your lips, you cleaned them. His other hand brought you over the edge and he only pushed his hand deeper as you screamed out, waves of pleasure taking over your body.

You gagged a little, the salty taste bringing you back to reality. His wet fingers petted your cheek. Gavi's lips replaced his fingers. His voice vibrated softly, flaming your exhausted body all over again.

"You're so beautiful. Even better than in my dreams. Pedri is lucky to have you."

A/N: Finally some Gavi smut...

Once again not proofread.

Love you guys (not Gavi's cargo pants) 🥰❤️

Leave a comment on your way to the heart button...

#pablo gavi #pablo gavi fanfic #pablo gavira #pablo gavi one shot #pablo martín páez gavira #pablo gavi smut #pablo gavi x reader

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wosowrites · 2 years ago

Text

Award Night (Alexia Putellas x Reader)

warnings: none

a/n: this is more of a ficlet and it’s based off this request:

prompt: "please don’t make me wear lipstick" & "you look absolutely beautiful." i wasn’t sure if anonymous wanted the reader to say "don’t make me wear lipstick" or vice versa so hopefully this is good for you.

The day the list of final three contestant for every category of the FIFA best came out, you were ecstatic. And furious. Your girlfriend, Alexia Putellas, was nothing but thrilled, even if she hadn’t made the final cut.

"It’s ridiculous babe. You should be there." You had told her.

She had gotten a little annoyed with you. Telling you to focus on the fact that you were one of the final contestants, along with Beth Mead and Alex Morgan.

You were now sitting at the vanity in your parisien hotel. You mid length dyed blond hair was tied in a messy low bun, and your natural brown roots were peaking through your scalp. You were wearing a fully grey suit with a loose cut. it was buttoned up just below your breast. You weren’t wearing a shirt under the jacket, that look, the one of the suit and nothing else was always one you wanted to try. And today, you got too. Of course, Alexia was your plus one, and she looked gorgeous in a white, goddess like dress.

You were sat at the vanity, your left hand fiddling with the bracelets on your right hand. Alexia was standing behind you, her hands on your shoulders. "You look beautiful, baby." Alexia said to you, kissing the top of your head. "Yes, so don’t make me wear lipstick." You told your girlfriend, looking up at her. "This is the FIFA best, mi amor. And you’re going to look your best." Alexia told you.

"Fine." you groaned.

You stood up and walked into the washroom, Alexia trailing behind you. "What colour then?" You asked, rummaging through Alexias bag of makeup. Alexia took the bag and started pulling out different colours. She would hold one up to your suit, and then to your face, and shake her head and put it down. Finally, after what felt like hours, her shake of the head turned into a nod. "This one." She said, opening the cap of the lipstick. The colour was a nude pink, and you had to agree that it looked like it would match well. "Put it on then." You told her. "Me?" She laughed. "Yes. I’ve never put on lipstick before and i’ll probably get it all over my face. "Fine." She laughed.

You pulled out your phone from your pocket, filming in the mirror as Alexia applied the colour to your lips. She stared at them, watching the change in colour, while you stared into her eyes.

"Perfecto." She said gently, putting the cap back onto the lipstick. You looked at her gently, using your hand that wasn’t filming to lift her chin up. You leaned in to kiss her gently, but she pushed you back. "You’re not ruining your lipstick with kisses." She said, and you turned off the video. "Please!" You said. "No." She laughed, walking out of the room.

When it was time to go, you put on beige loafers and kneeled down to tie Alexia’s heels. She was your everything, your queen, and you treated her that way every day, without a fail.

You both walked out of the limousine and onto the red carpet an hour later. You took pictures together, and individually. You smiled to the other finalists, as well as to the people that were going to be in the best 11.

You did a few interviews, but you could barely focus, feeling too nervous. Eventually, you got settled in your seats, and you looked around, soaking it all in. Beth Mead looked amazing, as a Canadian, you had a slight grudge with Alex Morgan, but that pink outfit looked amazing on the american.

The ceremony started, but everything was blurry. Mary Earps won the best keeper, Messi won FIFA best for the men’s, Sarina Wingman won best coach, and everything else you had no idea. You were so entranced by Mary’s speech however, that you completely freaked out when you realized that the next category was yours. "I can’t do this, Ale." You whispered to her. "Yes you can. Don’t say you can’t. You can win an award for being an amazing player if you can win the FA cup, and the olympics, and so many other things. You got me?" Alexia said.

"And the winner is… y/n y/l/n." The person opening the letter said.

It was as though a weight lifted off your shoulders. Tears prickled your eyes as you stood up. You kissed Alexia quickly, and nodded towards Beth and Alex. You walked up onto that stage, the stairs were steel and you were grateful to have been wearing a suit and not a dress. You got to the commentator and kissed her cheek respectfully before taking the award. You fixed the mic a bit, before really taking a look at the room.

"Holy crap." You breathed out. "I-I don’t know how to give a speech that could ever compare to Mary’s. Mary that was a beautiful speech. But i’ll start off by saying that I feel so lucky to be here today. And I strongly feel that Alex, Beth, you both deserve this just as much as I do. And honestly, the me from… three years ago honestly was just such a people pleaser that she probably would have walked off this stage and gave the award to you both. But, that is not the me of today. The me of today can accept that I deserve things in life. That I deserve joy, and recognition and support. I don’t think I really realized that I could have a life where I was totally happy, a life where I didn’t feel as though everything was constantly going wrong until I was 19. But then I moved out of Canada, and I love my home country with my whole heart but I needed a change so badly. Anyways, I moved out of Canada and went to UCLA where I met some of the best people in the world. It was there that I realized that my life could be good. That I could be in an environment where I was valued. I did my major in sports psychology and that really helped me understand my own brain. I think it also helped me become a better girlfriend to the most… incredible person in the world. I deserve a lot, but I’ll never deserve you, Alexia. Thank you, to you, for always lifting me up a little bit higher, thank you to my club teammates, Mapi, Keira, Patri, Lucy, Aitana, you guys have made living in the third country of my life much easier. But I think I owe my biggest thank you to my national teammates, who’ve put up with me since I was 15. I love you all, and I hope you’re watching me right now and thinking: ‘that’s the 15 year old who sang Justin Bieber for her initiation to the team.' Yes there is a video, no none of you will ever see it." The room laughed slightly, Alexia looked as though she was crying. "Anyways, thank you to every fan who voted for me, and thank you to Alexia for making me wear lipstick because the lighting is really harsh and I hope I look okay." The room laughed again and you walked off stage to loud applause.

You took your seat again, eventually being all called back for the best 11. Everything was amazing, everything was good. "You look absolutely breath taking." Alexia whispered in your ear as you walked off stage with both your awards. "And I love you very much."

#woso fic #woso imagine #woso x reader #woso #canwnt #alexia putellas #fc barca #barca femeni #beth mead

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flappyhappystim · 2 years ago

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#spinner rings #product advertising #i am going to be trying to post different products over the next while #so that is the tag to block if you don't want to see them

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xwingsandohs · 1 year ago

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did anyone say good omens fanfic x cupid!reader ?!?!?

good evening tumblr. i have many thoughts for the ineffable fandom. can’t get out of my head a cupid!reader that crowley hangs out with now that azi is gone?!?? broken heart crowley?!?! crowley x reader smut ?!? gender neutral reader?!?!? gender bending crowley?!?!? sex shop running cupid ?!?!?!??! 🫣🤔🤭🪽

I wrote a drabble. Please send thoughts. May write a fic 🫣 XOXO, xwingsandohs.

Angels and demons have always been assigned their roles on earth to protect peace and create chaos, but it’s in the 15th century (or so) that the Almighty notices that humans have evolved themselves beyond simple procreation. And so God creates the Cupids, not necessarily a legion of angels and definitely not demonic, but a collection of holy beings powered by Earthly love to bring happiness and prosperity to humanity in new ways.

Where Aziraphale was defined by white hair and golden clothes, Crowley recognised by fiery red locks and sleek suits; this particular Cupid is defined by a rainbow of colours, patterns and flowers for every occasion.

It’s been three months since Aziraphale left for Heaven’s gates, or escalators to be more accurate, and your attempts to foster and create love in London has suffered thanks to a certain lonely demon moping around. Crowley can’t admit he just needs the company.

“Coffee?” You ask, Crowley hums positively. “What would you like?”

“Something strong.” He’s sitting on a lovely green couch in the back room of your shop, sprawled in all his comfort. It’s decorated with a variety of silly cushions, one particular eye-catching one being bright blue with orange tassels.

The room is littered with beige boxes of spare stock and new deliveries, but you still keep it looking bright with a mis-matched collection of hanging prints and printed wallpaper. You keep it on theme with what you stock.

“I know that, silly.” You shake your head and smile as always, you both do this routine most mornings. The coffee bean grinder grunts loudly and you pick out two big mugs from the cupboard. “What shall I try draw in your coffee with the milk? You know I’ve been practising.”

You have been practising. Despite coffee not being the main draw of your high street shop, you have a vision of giving out free drinks to customers if you can master the art of the latte. You’re getting better, actually.

“A leaf.” Your friend responds, standing up and heading towards you.

“You say that every time!”

Crowley picks up the yellow striped mug you’d taken out for his drink.

“I like the leaf.”

He’s nonchalant. He puts the mug back and looks around for the one he wants.

“But it’s easy and I’d like a challenge. Something silly.”

You grin up at him with a little humour, and he looks back to you with a raised brow.

He can’t find the mug.

You look up and find the mug immediately. It’s completely plain and black, with a slightly lighter shade of grey on the inside. He bought it and gave it to you especially for his drinks. You always fight back.

“Fine.” Crowley says with exasperation. “How about….” He looks around for inspiration in your decor, finding little that he wishes to ask for. “A tree?”

“Oh, I know!” You almost cut him off, exclaiming. He doesn’t know why you bother asking, again, this is your routine. His eyes roll and you can sense it without even seeing. “I’ve just remembered something I saw online the other day and I’d like to try it out.”

“Sure.” He rubs across his face with his hands then spins on the spot to head back to a seat on the couch. The milk steamer screeches and he considers it his cue.

“Could you do me a quick favour before I unlock the doors?” He stops, seconds away from reclaiming comfort on the velvet. He’s not your assistant, but you tend to always ask for these little things.

“I know you’re not my assistant, but there’s a pile of online orders printed out that I need to put together. Could you grab that pile from upstairs for me? It’s next to the-“

“The computer.” He finishes. Routinely.

You finish the coffee.

By the time he’s brought down the pile of paper and placed it where you like it behind the till incase of a quiet moment, you’re skipping over to unlock the door and flip the sign to ‘Open!’ Before it hits 9:01.

Then you rush back to grab the two mugs.

Crowley looks around at the shelves and pegs that hold the stock and shakes his head at everything he sees, humans and their rubbish. He does however appreciate the collection of green plants that have found a place amongst the shelves since he’d been spending lots of time here. They perhaps even look happier than his own, or maybe the colourful shelves really bring out their green.

“I wonder what lovely people will walk through our doors today?” You say with a smile, taking your first sip of coffee and smearing the pattern. Your hand holds out the other cup to Crowley.

He shrugs, takes the coffee from your hand and looks down at the pattern. “It’s a…”

“-A seahorse!” He wouldn’t have guessed it really, but when you point it out he notices. It’s definitely an animal of some sort.

“I like it.” He doesn’t really care for it, but you seem to like the labour, he understands that care. “Although it’s a little…”

He’s not going to say the word.

You’re still grinning, you know the word.

“A little…?” You ask.

“You know, it’s…” He doesn’t say.

“Phallic?” You say it. He doesn’t look away from the coffee.

“Phallic.” He confirms with an unsurprising demeanour .

“I know!” You giggle, he shakes his head.

“You really do take this all very seriously, don’t you?” Crowley chuffs as he leans back against the counter and takes his first sip.

“You could say it’s all about passion in this business.”

Well…. What else would a Cupid sell? The bell above the door rings.

“Good morning.” You call to the first two customers that come through the door. They respond politely back. “Welcome to Sugar ‘n’ Spice, let us know if we can help with anything.”

“Actually, we were looking for some bondage gear?” The lady says as her partner shrinks slightly behind her.

“Of course! Let me introduce you to our selection and then I’ll leave you to shop on your own.”

#here to bring chaos #and smut #and chaos #good omens #aziraphale x crowley #crowley #crowley x reader #cupid!reader #cant really remember the inspo #writing drabbles #good omens drabbles

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shmorp-mcdurgen · 1 year ago

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Home Sweet Home AU: Radio Silence

Thatcher becomes obsessed with a case he was assigned, one relating to the disappearances of two local teens. He has no other choice but to dig deeper.

TWs: Body horror, character death implied, blood/gore/injury

Notes: around 14'500 words long! The third volume for Home Sweet Home is here!!! The horrors!!! Anyway hope you enjoy :)

September 21st, 1992. 12:25 PM

“Hello. No one is available to take your call. Please leave a message after the tone.”

BEEP.

“Hello, uh…this is Arthur Heathcliff, and I’m calling to…report a missing person.” A man’s voice spoke through the speaker; a somewhat gravely yet not too deep voice. “My son, uh, Mark. He hasn’t shown up in a week, and…I would like an investigation to be done to…try and…find him. Please answer as soon as possible…me and my wife are just...worried. We just want him to come home. Thank you.”

BEEP.

Thatcher knocked on the front door of the two story home, waiting a second before he spoke loudly, “Mandela County Police Department.” Thatcher was a thin, and tall man, wearing a dark blue police uniform over his body. He had a scruffy, unkempt beard and tired eyes, the dark circles around them contrasting with his pale beige skin. He looked at the door in front of him before he placed his hands on his hips, waiting for an answer at the door as he looked around the yard. The house he looked up at was a pale grey color, with two windows on the top story and a garage to his left. He sighed, brushing away his bleached blond hair before he heard the sound of the door opening in front of him. He let out a forced, soft smile before speaking. “You must be Leah Heathcliff?”

“That’s correct.” In front of Thatcher was a shorter woman with curly brown hair draped over her shoulders. She wore a beige and white striped sweater over a white shirt, along with a long, black skirt. Her green eyes looked up at Thatcher, her brows furrowed and her expression giving away her concern. She rubbed her necklace, which had a blue sapphire hanging from a silver chain. The silence continued before she swallowed hard. “You’re here…to search, aren’t you?”

“We’re just trying to help find your son, ma’am.” Thatcher stated. “A friend of mine is on her way; she’ll help find anything that can clue us in on where he went. Once we’re done we’ll get out of your hair. May I come in?”

“…I’ll go get my husband.” Leah stated. “You can wait in the living room.”

Leah led Thatcher into the home, closing the door behind them before walking into the living room. “Arthur?” She called. “…The police are here.”

Thatcher walked around, sighing deeply as he looked down, thinking to himself before he heard another person enter the room. “About time.” Thatcher heard Arthur speak quietly to Leah. “They were supposed to be here an hour ago.”

Thatcher looked up to see Arthur himself, seeing that he was wearing a black dress shirt with a gold cross necklace resting on his chest. His short, dark brown hair swept to the side, and his brows seemed lower, making his resting expression seem more upset than he actually was, though Thatcher couldn’t tell if it was natural considering the circumstances. He held out his hand towards Thatcher for him to shake. “Arthur. I’m the one who called.”

“Lieutenant Thatcher Davis.” Thatcher shook Arthurs hand before quickly letting go. “Okay, I’m…gonna have to ask some questions about Mark, if you don’t mind.”

Arthur sighed before gesturing towards the couch. “Go ahead.” Thatcher sat down on the couch, watching as Arthur sat on an arm chair to the side of it and Leah sitting next to Thatcher.

“Has Mark ever…snuck out of the house at any point?” Thatcher asked.

“Maybe once or twice…” Arthur recalled. “But he always came back a day or so later. Often went to his friend’s house.”

“And who was his friend?”

“Cesar.” Leah answered as she fidgeted with her hands. “Cesar Torres.”

“He…also went missing recently.” Arthur stated.

Thatcher let out a soft sigh as he scratched his head. “Alright, any…other friends he could have gone to?”

“No.” Leah stated. “…Cesar was…his only friend.”

“I see.” Thatcher stated.

“He’s been…acting strange for over a month.” Arthur stated. “I think the kid got into drugs or something—”

“Arthur!” Leah stated with a tone of surprise, sadness, and horror. “Mark wasn’t an addict, and you know it.”

“Leah…we don’t know; I’m just saying it’s possible.” Arthur responded.

“Don’t listen to him, please,” Leah’s voice almost sounded like she was begging as she turned towards Thatcher. “He was a good young man…he wouldn’t get into that.”

“We won’t blame his behavior on anything unless we get proof for it.” Thatcher assured. “Have you been in contact with Cesar’s parents?”

“I’ve…tried calling Maria, his mother, but…no answer.” Leah stated.

“Mhm.” Thatcher let out a deep sigh as he tried to think. “We’ll have to try and get in contact with the Torres family in that case,” He whispered. “When was the last time you saw your son?”

“At home. He fell asleep on the couch, and…I didn’t want to wake him up.” Leah stated. “He’s…been unable to sleep for so long so…I figured…he needed it.” Leah hunched over, sniffling slightly. “I-I should’ve asked him what was wrong.” She squeaked as her eyes began to water. “Maybe this wouldn’t have happened if I just…listened.”

“Leah, we couldn’t have predicted this.” Arthur attempted to assure her as he sat up in his chair. “We don’t know what was going through his head…”

“But we could have.” Leah responded. “But we never asked.”

Thatcher looked at the ground, bouncing its leg softly as it attempted to gather its thoughts, all before it heard a knock at the door behind it. Arthur glanced at the door then back at his wife, brows furrowed further before he stood up to greet the person at the door.

“Y-You’ll…find him…won’t you?”

Thatcher looked back towards Leah, seeing the look of desperation in her watering eyes, the stare making a pit form in its gut. It wished it could guarantee that Mark would return safe and sound, though the thought of lying to a woman who’s gone through enough pain to last a life time wasn’t something it wanted to do. “We’ll…try our best, Mrs. Heathcliff.” It stated softly. “Trust me.”

“Thatcher, I brought everything we need.”

Thatcher turned around after hearing a familiar voice, standing up from his seat. “Alright…then I guess we’ll start the search, Weaver.” Thatcher sighed as he looked at Ruth from across the room.

Ruth was a muscular, tall woman wearing the same uniform her coworker wore, without the black tie around her neck and with her sleeves rolled up. She had almond colored skin, and her dark brown, curly hair was pulled back in a ponytail aside from the bangs covering the right side of her forehead. She had facial hair on her chin, and her arms also had hair on their forearms. She looked at Thatcher, her round eyes still showing energy despite the matter at hand, even as she approached Thatcher holding a few plastic, sealable bags labeled “EVIDENCE” along with plastic gloves. She also had a camera in her hands, which she handed to Thatcher as soon as he was in front of her.

“How much are you going to take?” Arthur questioned as he stared at Thatcher.

“Only what can potentially link to the case.” Thatcher stated. “We won’t take anything we don’t need to. Was there a particular room Mark stayed in most of the time?”

“…His bedroom; upstairs, last door in the hallway.” Leah stated softly.

Leah stood beside Arthur before he hugged her, staring at Thatcher as it turned back towards Ruth. “Could you stay with them as I search the room?” Thatcher asked Ruth quietly.

“Of course.” She responded. “I’ll…try and help them through this the best I can.”

“Thank you.”

Thatcher turned towards the stairway, walking up them as Ruth approached the Heathcliffs, standing up straight as she tried her best to conceal her uncertainty. “Could you two take a seat?” She asked.

“We don’t have much else to say.” Arthur stated.

“I’m not going to ask about the case,” Ruth responded. “We can get to that later on.”

Ruth gestured towards the seats before they all sat down on the couch, Ruth sitting to the side with Leah in between her and Arthur. Leah glanced down at Ruth’s leg noticing something; it was a prosthetic. Below her right knee was a blade prosthetic, with her dress pants leg rolled up above it. Ruth caught her gaze, looking down at her leg before a soft smile appeared on her face. “Oh…Don’t worry about it,” Ruth let out a soft, lighthearted chuckle. “Just…accidents happen, y’know?”

“Yeah.” Leah said quietly. “…I guess they do.”

Ruth’s smile faded when she saw that Leah’s worried expression didn’t disappear, all while Arthur wrapped his arm around her in an attempt to comfort her. Ruth looked at them with a somber look in her eyes as she considered her next words, all while Thatcher made it to the upstairs hallway. He looked down the corridor, walking down it, his shoes clacking against the floorboards until he stopped outside of Mark’s room, taking in a breath before opening the door.

“Can…you tell me about yourselves?” Ruth asked. “What do you do for work?”

“I work at the library downtown…” Leah answered. “…Arthur’s a priest.”

“Really? Where, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“St. Gabriel’s Church.” Arthur stated.

“I see.” Ruth said, trying not to remember what she heard on the broadcasts regarding religious practices. “I’ve worked at the Police department for…years now. Me and Thatcher recently got promoted, actually.”

“Oh…congrats!” A soft smile formed on Leah’s face. “I’m…happy for you.”

“Thank you.” Ruth returned the smile. “Now…how is your job at the library?”

The first thing Thatcher noticed when he looked into the room was the state of disarray it was in. Snack wrappers and dirty clothes littered the floor, and the bed was unmade and messy. A few drawers in the dresser resting next to the wall were cracked open, jammed by lazily shoved in socks and clothes. Thatcher stepped over the garbage the best he could as his eyes grazed around the room, looking for anything out of the ordinary aside from the mess.

He looked towards the dresser, seeing something resting on top of it that grabbed his attention; an analog television. He stared at it as he approached it, looking down to see its cord dangling off of the side of the dresser, unplugged. Two objects rested on top of the television, being a camcorder and tape recorder, both of which he gently picked up and placed in two separate evidence bags. He turned around, looking towards the bed until he noticed something wrong with the posters on the wall behind it. One of them seemed crooked and lazily put on, and Thatcher squinted when he saw black markings just barely peeking out from behind it.

“I just…wish I had more time to…you know…spend time with my own children.” Leah continued as Ruth listened carefully. “It’s hard to make money nowadays and…I guess I was too focused on that rather than focusing on the things that matter…”

“We’re…better than we were a few years ago,” Arthur said. “Luckily we were able to avoid selling our belongings just to put food on the table.”

Ruth looked at the ground with a worried look on her face. “I get it, trust me.” She said quietly. “With multiple businesses closing down, it seems like getting a job is becoming harder to do.”

“Definitely.” Arthur sighed. “All I can do is thank God himself for the place we’re in. A safe home, food on the table, two healthy kids; I mean…it’s a miracle.”

Ruth nodded as Leah began to speak. “They’re…so important to me.” She stated, seemingly trying her best not to cry. “I just wish I realized it sooner.”

Thatcher carefully removed the poster from the wall, lowering it before staring at what was behind it with furrowed brows and a look of confusion. It was scribbled drawings on the wall itself, seemingly drawn with a black marker of some kind. It seemed to depict what looked like nerves and veins; organs and eyes. In the middle of the drawing was what seemed like a clock with scribbled wings protruding from it. Thatcher backed away from the drawing, all before he grabbed his camera and pointed it towards the wall, taking a picture with a white flash and a click. He looked at the picture as it developed before he looked back at the drawing, confused as to what it meant or why it was there. As he stared at the strange, organic drawing, something from the hallway stared, watching him as he moved around the bedroom and continued his search, unnoticed by the lieutenant.

“You moved here…how long ago?” Ruth asked.

“Oh…around…16 years ago, if I remember correctly.” Arthur sighed. “Mark was just a year old at that point…moved down here from Yonder.”

“Mandela seemed like a more…quaint place to live at the time.” Leah stated. “Smaller, more…homey, I guess.”

“Yonder’s just…a buncha people who have a lot of money.” Arthur said. “Big houses…but not a lot of character.”

“I get it.” Ruth responded. “I used to live in Werksha myself…” She paused as she considered her next words. “I’ve been considering moving back because…I just…don’t know if this is the right place to raise my daughter.”

“You’re a mother?” Leah asked.

“Yeah; I have a little girl at home.” Ruth smiled. “She started kindergarten earlier this month actually.”

“What’s her name?”

“Amelia.”

Thatcher pushed open the slotted closet doors, looking into the messy storage space to see if anything out of the ordinary was there. He saw more of the same; trash and unfolded clothes on shelves. He sighed, preparing to close the doors before his eyes spotted something underneath a shirt. The corner of what appeared to be a yellow notebook was peeking out from underneath the article of clothing, and when Thatcher pulled it out, he saw “REASSURANCES” written on the cover. He looked at it before opening it, flipping through the pages quickly. It seemed to be a personal journal of some sort, with diary entries taking up most of the pages, with small doodles on each one. He closed it, deciding to look through it later as he grabbed another evidence bag.

Ruth continued to listen to the Heathcliffs until she heard footsteps coming down the stairs, turning to see Thatcher entering the room with a few bags in hand. “I found a notebook, Camcorder, and tape recorder so far,” Thatcher said as Ruth approached it. “I’m going back to search for anything else.”

“Alright.” Ruth stated as she was handed the bags.

Thatcher sighed as he looked over to the Heathcliff’s sitting on the couch in anticipation. “Are you aware of the analog TV in Mark’s bedroom?” Thatcher asked.

“Yes, we are.” Leah answered. “It’s unplugged though.”

“No, no, no you…you need to throw it out, unplugging isn’t enough.” Thatcher stated. “You know how many kids have been going missing lately?”

“…Yes.” Leah said softly.

“Yeah…I’d get rid of it as soon as possible, alright?” Thatcher said before turning back towards the stairway to continue his search. He walked up the stairs, passing by a cracked open door to his left, unknowing of the eye peeking at him from behind it. He walked into Mark’s room once again, sighing deeply before he began to rummage through the dresser’s drawers.

Ruth sighed, gently placing the bags on a table before she turned towards the Heathcliffs, who were still sitting on the couch. The look of pure worry and sadness in Leah’s eyes especially made her gut churn, though she wasn’t sure of how to lighten the mood without it feeling mean-spirited. She leaned against a chair, holding herself up with her arms as she thought to herself, hearing the sound of Thatcher’s footsteps overhead.

After finding nothing but more clothes, Thatcher shut the last dresser drawer, moving back towards the bed before lowering himself to his knees, leaning over to look underneath it; nothing, once again. Thatcher thought to himself as he stood up, walking over to the nightstand as he hoped that the little things he found in there would help find the missing teen. He pulled open the drawer, seeing loose papers covering the junk in there, also seeing a sketchbook resting on top. He pulled it out, looking at it for a moment before placing it on the bed next to him. He went back to rustling through the drawer before he paused. He saw something angular and made of metal, with it being a dark grey color. It seemed purposefully buried underneath everything else, and when Thatcher moved everything out of the way he froze, his eyes widening slightly when he saw the object in full.

“Ruth?” Ruth’s radio went off, Thatcher’s voice surprising her slightly before she held it up to her mouth.

“Did you find anything?”

“Come upstairs.”

“…Is something wrong?” Ruth glanced over towards the Heathcliffs, seeing them staring at her with a tinge of confusion and fear in their eyes.

“No, just…I need you to come up and…see something.”

Ruth lowered her radio, pinning it to her chest before quickly walking up the stairs. She stormed down the hallway, seeing Thatcher with his back facing her, seemingly holding something. “What’s going on, you alright?”

“…Ruth, did either of the parents mention owning a firearm?”

“…No?”

Thatcher turned around, revealing what he was holding; a semi-automatic pistol. Ruth stared at it with confusion and concern before looking up at Thatcher’s darkened expression. “Desert Eagle. Mark one.” He stated in a low, quiet voice. “50 caliber.”

“Oh…God, how did someone Mark’s age find a firearm of that power?” Ruth questioned softly.

“I don’t know.” Thatcher responded, carefully placing the firearm in a bag. “I suppose we’ll have to ask around…see if anyone in the family owns one.”

“Does it appear used?”

“Thankfully…no.” Thatcher stated. “Safety’s on…though…it was loaded.”

“Oh God.” Ruth felt a pit form in her gut, lightly holding a hand over her mouth as she thought.

“We’ll have to find out if it’s registered or not and who it was sold by.” Thatcher said. “Maybe then we’ll get an idea of how…Mark…got it.” Thatcher’s voice lowered before he suddenly went silent, looking towards the hallway with an intense, yet troubled gaze. Ruth turned to see what he was looking at before seeing someone standing in the doorway, staring at them.

A young girl, no older than six.

She had long, brown hair, and wore an oversized, faded shirt over her body, along with pajama pants printed with characters from a cartoon. She was holding a blue stuffed bunny in her arms, holding it close to her chest. She stared up at the officers standing in her brother’s room, her expression blank as she remained still, as if not moving meant that she was invisible to them.

Thatcher looked towards Ruth, seeing that she was staring at the child with a look of somberness in her eyes. “…Why don’t I go downstairs and…talk to the parents.” Thatcher stated quietly.

“…Alright.” Ruth responded very quietly as Thatcher quietly left the room, looking down to see the girl staring at him with a distrustful look as he passed by. Ruth carefully approached the child, crouching down before clearing her throat.

“Hey!” She said in a soft voice. “My name’s Ruth, I’m here to help you out. What’s your name?”

The girl didn’t answer right away, instead looking at the ground and hugging the toy in her arms tighter. Ruth looked at the toy, seeing its button eyes and red bowtie before letting out a smile. “What’s his name?” She pointed at the bunny.

The girl looked down at the toy before looking back up at Ruth’s face. “…Mr. Bon.” The girl stated quietly.

Ruth smiled. “That’s a wonderful name.”

“…Where’s Mark?” The girl asked quietly, with her voice seeming more like a squeak.

Ruth’s smile faded as she glanced away, thinking of an answer. “…That’s what we’re trying to find out.” Ruth responded. “We’re here to help, both me and my friend you just saw. It and I are looking for him.”

“…I want my mom.”

Ruth nodded, standing up and holding out a hand towards the girl. “She’s just downstairs; I can take you to her.” She said softly.

“…Okay.” The girl lightly held Ruth’s hand as they walked down the hallway, all while Thatcher paced back and forth downstairs.

“I-I have a pistol in my office, but it’s locked away.” Arthur stated, staring at Thatcher with a dark expression.

“Does anyone in your family own a Desert Eagle?” Thatcher asked.

“No, not that I know of.” Arthur responded. “I mean…his grandfather’s a hunter but…he didn’t own any guns aside from a hunting rifle or two.”

Leah looked over towards the stairway, seeing Ruth walking down into the living room, lightly holding the girl’s hand as they entered the room.

“Sarah!” Leah said, holding out her arms as Sarah ran to her, embracing her the second she was close to her. Thatcher looked at Leah and Sarah before looking back at Arthur.

“…Throw out that TV.”

“What?”

“The TV in Mark’s room is a hazard,” Thatcher stated with a stern tone in his voice. “Especially with a small child in this house.”

“…I don’t think it’s a problem—”

“Yes it is.” Thatcher responded. “There’s a very serious threat going around; children around your daughter’s age are at risk, almost more so than adults.”

“Look, I get it…fear tactics.” Arthur stated.

“…What?”

“You want us to be scared cause of ‘alternates’.” Arthur’s voice seemed accusatory, as if he had something against Thatcher specifically. “My kid will be just fine, and once Mark comes back, I’m sure things will go back to normal around here.”

“…You don’t believe in alternates?” Thatcher questioned out of disbelief.

“Not the way you want me too.” Arthur stated. “I pray every night for protection, and it hasn’t failed yet, and if alternates are as dangerous as the government says they are, then don’t you think something would have happened by now?”

“Mark.”

“…Excuse me?”

“Mark is still missing.” Thatcher reminded, trying his hardest to keep his words professional. “I believe you can call that something happening, don’t you think?”

“His disappearance has nothing to do with alternates.” Arthur claimed. “He’s just…unwell. He needs help…not more paranoia to add to his already poor mental state.”

“Would telling you that the possession of analog technology is a crime change your mind?” Thatcher stated, barely cloaking his pure annoyance.

“…What, you’ll arrest me for having a TV?”

Thatcher’s brows furrowed, staring at Arthur’s face with an intense glare.

“God reigns, Davis.” Arthur said. “And even if alternates really did exist…they wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Thatcher paused, maintaining eye contact with the priest. “…I wish I had your ignorance.”

Arthur’s glare turned into an almost appalled expression as Ruth approached them, tapping Thatcher on the shoulder. “It’s time to head out.” Ruth said quietly as Thatcher turned around.

“…Alright.” Thatcher sighed. He glared back at Arthur, him staring back with a tinge of revulsion in his gaze. Thatcher passed by Leah and Sarah, the latter of which looking up at him as he walked by. Ruth followed, though hesitated, stopping in the middle of the room, even as Thatcher made his way to the front door. She looked back, seeing Leah and Sarah’s eyes staring at her, all before she sighed and dug out a notepad from her pocket.

“Mrs. Heathcliff?”

“Yes?” Leah watched as Ruth quickly wrote down something.

“From one mother to another.” Ruth handed her a slip of paper with a phone number on it. “If you need anything or…just want to talk…call me, alright?”

Leah stared at the phone number for a second before looking back up at Ruth’s friendly face.

“…Th…thank you, officer.”

“You can skip the formalities,” Ruth smiled. “Just call me Ruth if you want to.”

“…Thank you, Ruth.”

Ruth stood up, taking one look at Arthur’s sour expression and shooting him a glare, all before turning back and leaving, shutting the front door behind her. Silence fell, Leah holding Sarah close as Sarah hugged both her mother and her toy, staring at the door with a blank expression. Maybe Mark just went on a walk into the woods again and got lost; she remembered he liked to do that during the night. She just hoped he’d find his way back soon.

September 22nd, 3:47 PM

Thatcher sat at his desk, staring at the closed orange folder in front of him, his tired eyes grazing over it as he tried to shake off his ever present exhaustion. He glanced over to his left, seeing a couple VHS tapes stacked neatly next to a small television, which was resting on a small table to the side of the desk. There was also a notebook, along with the tape recorder he had recovered the previous day resting on his desk. He thought of how lucky he was that they were in good condition, considering the time crunch and the fact that he’d rather not bother Dave again to fix them in such a short time frame. He rubbed his eyes, planting his elbows on the desk as he sighed, opening the orange folder to see what he was dealing with.

“MARK HEATHCLIFF

AGE: 17

SEX: MALE

ETHNICITY: CAUCASIAN

EYES: GREEN

HAIR: BROWN”

Thatcher read over Mark’s file, eyes glancing over the paragraphs of information known about him. Words typed out on the page about his diagnoses, his academic history, and even previous incidents and injuries he might’ve had. It was all very detailed, yet as Thatcher grazed over the page, he saw nothing much of use that related to the case aside from what he had already heard the previous day. He sighed, shutting the file before sliding it to the side, instead choosing to focus on the tape recorder, staring at it before gently grasping one of the cassettes, one labeled “Insomnia” and placing it into the player, it clicking shut before he pressed play.

It was silence for a few moments, with only the sound of faint, shaky breathing being heard underneath the static. Thatcher waited for something to happen, wondering if it was a blank cassette before he finally heard a voice; Mark’s voice.

“…Ninety years without slumbering,” Mark tiredly sung, his voice raspy as if he hadn’t used it in a while. “Tick, tock, tick, tock. His…l…life seconds numbering, tick, tock, tick, tock. Then the clock…stopped…never to go again, when the old…man…died.”

Silence fell once again for a little while.

“Fuck…Just…let me fucking sleep.” Mark’s voice sounded muffled, as if he was holding his hand over his mouth. “I don’t know how long I can count sheep before I go insane.”

Thatcher sat back in his seat as he once again listened to the gap of silence, staring intently at the tape recorder before Mark spoke once again.

“…I don’t know what to do.” Mark stated. “…I feel…uncomfortable in my own skin. I don’t…I don…feel…safe.”

Silence once again; longer than the last gap.

“I haven’t slept in a couple days now.” Mark mumbled. “Every time I try, I…have those…fucking nightmares. I don’t…kn…know if I…really do want to sleep…all because of them.”

Another pause.

“…Then th…st…stopped…never to go again when…the old…man…God fucking help me.”

The cassette stopped, leaving Thatcher with a sense of confusion before he ejected it and placed it on the desk, all before grasping the next one, a cassette labeled nothing at all, and placing it inside of the recorder, hesitating before pressing play.

Silence, though he could hear something that sounded somewhat far away; muffled, harsh breathing. It sounded as if someone was hitting something repeatedly, or someone hitting their own head.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up,” Was heard over and over, Mark’s voice sounding distressed, like he was sobbing. Thatcher listened intently as Mark continued. “Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT THE FUCK UP, JUST FUCKING LEAVE ME ALONE!” Mark took in a shaky breath, sobbing more before shouting, “GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HEA—”

The tape stopped abruptly, with Thatcher staring at it with furrowed brows and his hands folded in front of him, his fingers clasping his own hands before he ejected the cassette. Thatcher sat still for a moment as it processed what it heard, all before its eyes fixated on the next piece of evidence; the notebook. A part of it dreaded reading through its pages for a reason it didn’t know as it picked it up, looking at its cover first and reading what was written on it.

“Reassurances

God bless all!”

Thatcher flipped open the notebook, and saw just that; reassurances. It appeared to be small prayers, with a new one on each page. However, around halfway through the notebook, he paused, seeing a drawing on one of the pages, with it being completely blank aside from it. It was a messily drawn picture of two eyes in the middle of the lined page, their gaze looking oddly crazed. Thatcher flipped the page, and found that the next entry wasn’t a prayer or reassurance of any kind, rather being a journal entry.

“9/02/1992

He’s been ignoring me again.

He’s been doing this for over a month now, acting like whatever I’m saying doesn’t matter. I’m tired of him turning a blind eye to what I’m seeing. He has to hear the breathing too, right? Why would he just brush be aside like this? I am his friend right? Sooner or later, he’s going to have to open his eyes to this. Else it’ll bite him later.”

Thatcher looked towards the bottom of the page, seeing a drawing of what appeared to be a House, with more writing below it, reading: “I keep going back and I don’t even know why. It calls me by name, Cesar.”

Thatcher stared at the picture of the House, his eyes fixated on it before he shook his head and flipped the page, seeing yet another journal entry, this time dated “9/05/1992”.

“I heard my parents talking downstairs today. Dad is suggesting that I’m not ‘faithful enough’. Says how I need to pray more and maybe I’ll feel better. My mom said I just need more time with my therapist, as if he’s helping me any. They think I’m crazy, don’t they. I was already put on multiple different anti-anxiety and depression meds, and they don’t work. They don’t know what I’m actually going through. And I don’t know if I want to tell them.

If this is how they act when they’re clueless, I dread to know what they’d say if they knew.”

The drawing on the page was of a pill bottle. The label was mostly gibberish, with the only recognizable word being “lies” written in bold letters.

Thatcher felt the pit in his gut only growing heavier with every page, flipping it before reaching a journal entry without a drawing. It appeared to be from a few days after the last, seemingly sloppily written, like Mark had just woken up when he wrote it:

“09/8/1992

I had a dream tonight.

I was at the House, yelling at Cesar for a reason I can’t remember. He was so angry at me. I felt a deep hatred towards him, more than I’ve ever felt towards anything. I don’t even remember what was being said, or what had caused us both to be so mad. I remember looking past him and seeing It looking at me.

I feel sick recalling the sound and feeling of his neck cracking under my hands. The rest is fuzzy, and all I remember was that I threw him to the ground in less than a second. His horror filled eyes still haunt me. I remember looking down at his body propped up against the clock, and then I woke up.

I don’t know what this means. I’m not a killer. I wouldn’t do that. Would I?”

A short sentence below it, written in neater handwriting read: “Thinking about it now. I don’t recall who the body actually belonged to.”

Thatcher flipped the page, looking down at the noticeably worse handwriting in the next entry before he read it.

“09/10/1992

I’ve lost another one.

I’ve never seen him that furious. He acted as if I was the worst person he ever met. The nightmares haven’t ended, the halls still calling my name. I can taste iron, though I don’t think its my own blood. My right eye feels like it had been pulled out of socket and shoved back in. Everything feels so alien now, even though nothing has changed. I hate these rooms, the scent of blood still stinging my nose. I feel homesick laying in my own bed.”

The drawings on the bottom of the page were scribbled and hastily done, depicting spirals and what appeared to be some kind of grandfather clock. Thatcher stared at the clock before focusing on the last drawing, one depicting a young man sitting up in bed, staring at something with wide eyes. A simple statement was written below it, reading: “He looked at me like I was not me.”

Thatcher paused, processing the previous entry before he reached for the next page, his hands feeling strangely cold as he flipped the page, being greeted to what was only an empty page. He turned the page, seeing yet another empty page, then another, and another. He sped through the pages, all before reaching one last entry. Thatcher flipped the page only to see black scribbled letters covering the entire page. Dried splotches of red stained the paper, seeping into the pages after it. The writing only said one thing, repeated over and over like a skipping record:

“THE BELLS TOLL FOR ME.”

The chaos of the repeated text continued with every single page until he reached the final one, being nearly completely blank aside from a drawing of a clock, and one last message: “I’m running out of time.” Thatcher shook his head, shutting the notebook shut before thinking hard. He sighed, holding his hands over his mouth with his elbows on the desk. He couldn’t help but begin to connect the dots; the date of the entry was the same date as Cesar Torres’s disappearance. Mark was clearly falling off the deep end at that point, and appeared to have been increasingly angry with Cesar, so what if…he…

“…Jesus.” He muttered under his breath. “…N…No, that…it can’t be right, that doesn’t make any sense—”

Before Thatcher could make anything of what he just read, a knock rang on his office door, Thatcher yelling “come in” before someone walked into the room. It was Ruth, having a look of concern plastered on her face.

“What is it?” Thatcher asked as he rubbed his eyes again.

“Leah Heathcliff’s here for her questioning.” Ruth answered.

“…Ah.” Thatcher coughed, standing up, taking a glance at the VHS tapes before deciding he’d look at them later. He grabbed the notebook and the orange folder, all before approaching Ruth, looking at her face, his brow twitching slightly. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Ruth said. “Though I suppose you should get going.”

“Okay…alright.” Thatcher brushed past Ruth, leaving her in the doorway as she sighed, looking at the ground before turning towards Thatcher’s desk. It was a complete mess, with documents strewn across it and other pieces of evidence placed on it. She couldn’t help but notice that the chair Thatcher had been using was still the same worn, on the verge of breaking office chair he refused to replace. Ruth sighed, closing the door to the office as she silently reminded herself to talk to Thatcher about keeping a clean workspace.

September 24th, 1992. 7:24 AM

“It was dark out. I couldn’t really see that well in front of me as I stumbled through the woods. I could barely stand up straight, as if my legs were trying to work against me. I was breathing hard, my breath clouding the air in front of me as I continued to walk. I didn’t know my destination, or at least I don’t remember it, but I knew I needed to get there.

Then I saw a house. One that looked familiar. I stopped for a second, staring at a window on one of the outer walls before I began to approach it. I stood in front of the window, placing my hands on the window frame, but when I looked down at them, I saw they weren’t mine. They were a pale grey, with two elongated fingers with broken, long fingernails at the end of them like claws. I looked inside, through the glass before I saw something. It was a bedroom, and on the bed was a sleeping man.

It was me. Sleeping on the bed without a clue. I opened the window, slowly crawling through until I was looming over myself, staring down at my own unconscious body. I was smiling, but it almost hurt to do so. I continued to stare at myself barely moving, still asleep even as I grew closer, saliva dripping from my mouth onto the sheets.

Then I woke up.

The window was locked when I checked it. Though I saw mist on the outside of it, as if someone was breathing on it. Something tells me I was very lucky last night. I’m not telling Ruth about this one. She already worries about me enough. I know now that I’m going to be checking every window before I sleep. I don’t want to know what would’ve happened if I forgot.”

Thatcher closed the notebook before sighing, leaning over towards the nightstand beside his bed before throwing it into one of the drawers. He sighed, grasping the bed sheets under him as he stared at the beige carpet below him. He looked forward from where he sat, seeing the window leading outside, the sun beginning to rise, allowing him to see the small patch of trees outside of his house. It felt a pit forming in its gut as it looked, all before shaking its head and standing up, deciding it needed to get dressed and start its day.

Thatcher stood by his kitchen counter, leaning against it with a cup of coffee in one hand, with his other crossed over his chest. He wore a lazily put on, faded graphic T-shirt, which was a couple sizes too big for him. With his less than professional appearance came worn out jeans, a pair of sneakers, and an overall haggard expression on his face, only complimented by his equally unkempt hair. He stared blankly into his living room, seeing that it too was a mess, with the coffee table being covered in documents and papers, and having no room to actually use it to put coffee cups on. He sighed, placing his cup on the counter before looking towards a landline phone on the wall, walking towards it, dialing a few numbers, and holding the phone up to his head as he waited for a response.

A few moments passed as Thatcher waited, leaning against the wall as he sighed, pushing his free hand into his jean pocket before he finally heard a voice on the line.

“This is Dave from MandelaTECH, how may I help you?”

“Dave, hey, it’s…it’s me.” Thatcher sighed, his voice especially gravely from just waking up.

“Thatcher! How’s it going? We haven’t spoken in a while.”

“It’s…yeah, it’s alright, I guess.” Thatcher stated. “How are you? You feeling better?”

“Ah, I’m…managing.” Dave said with a lighthearted chuckle. “Definitely better than I was. No longer…using that rickety old wooden cane that they gave me. Got a new one; one that’s…less hard on me.”

“That’s…good.” Thatcher said. “Good to hear it.”

“…You alright?” Dave asked. “You sound like you’ve…been through it.”

“I’m fine, alright? Just…” Thatcher paused for a second. “You…hear anything last night?”

“…No?”

“Any…weird…feelings, or did you see anything odd or out of place?”

“No. Can I ask why you’re asking me this?”

“Just wondering.” Thatcher lied. “Just…things have been weird, alright? Was wanting to check in and make sure you’re doing alright anyway.”

“I appreciate that, but…you do know you have to take care of yourself too, right?”

Thatcher paused, looking at the ground for a few seconds. “…You kept your windows and doors locked, right?”

“Yes.” Dave answered. “Thatcher…you…sure you’re alright?”

No.

“Yeah.” Thatcher reassured. “Just a weird…dream I guess. Whatever, I’ll probably talk to you later. I have a couple tapes I need restored for the police department anyway.”

“Alrighty, just…remember to actually take a break.” Dave stated. “It’s your day off, isn’t it?”

“Yep. Supposed to be.”

“Well, call me if you need anything, I’ll be happy to help out.”

“Thanks. See you later. Bye.” Thatcher hung up the phone, placing it back on its hook before sighing deeply, looking up and shutting his eyes for a second. He looked up at the ceiling, hearing nothing more than the sound of cars outside, the faint ticking of the circular clock on the wall, and his own thoughts running through his head. He shook his head, walking towards the couch and grabbing a jacket that was draped across it before pulling it over his arms and walking towards the front door, deciding to go walk around town. Maybe it would get his mind off of things.

Thatcher walked down the sidewalk as the sun rose in the sky, smoke billowing out of the cigarette in his hand. He glanced towards the road, seeing some cars pass by, though not very many people were out on the streets at that point. As he walked further into town however, there were more people seen, though the groups of people he remembered seeing gathering around certain hang out spots a few years back were now more scarce, with people no longer staying in one spot for a while. Did Thatcher blame them? No. It understood why people spoke in hushed tones and stuck together, only doing what they needed to get done before going back into the safety of their home. If Thatcher could, he’d do the same. There’s a comfort in locked doors and covered windows when the outside is full of things that stalk the meek.

Downtown had a haze of uncertainty to it; emptier than usual. The recent broadcast was doing its job, Thatcher supposed, judging by the dumpsters full of old, broken TVs, closed businesses, and people refusing to make eye contact with each other. It felt odd, though Thatcher couldn’t remember the last time Mandela felt more comfortable than not. He wasn’t even sure if it ever had that feeling of hominess. Mandela’s color had been draining for a long time, and he wasn’t sure if he ever noticed it. Seeing how the town was slowly becoming less welcome to its residents made a pit form in his gut. So much for “getting his mind off things.”

Thatcher passed by a few local businesses and stores, some urban homes, and more empty parking lots as he walked, feeling his joints getting sore as he went further. His cigarette was close to snuffed out, Thatcher pausing before flicking it to the ground, stomping it with his foot and pressing it into the concrete. He sighed, looking around before his eyes spotted something on the other side of the road; the park. A large patch of grass with a few trees, gazebos, and a small playground for children to play. To his surprise, there were people there, being parents keeping a close eye on their kids as they went down the slides and sat on the swings. However, he stopped when he spotted someone sitting at one of the benches, looking over her own kid. Ruth.

Thatcher glanced down the road despite knowing no one was coming before jogging across the road, slowing down when he reached the other side before stepping onto the grass, walking through the metal archway leading into the park. It approached the playground, seeing Ruth was fiddling with her prosthetic, presumably because something was loose or out of place in it. Thatcher sighed, silently walking towards the bench and sitting next to her. She glanced up, double-taking before looking at Thatcher, letting out a breath.

“Hey, I…didn’t expect you to be here.” She said as she sat up.

“I didn’t either.” Thatcher stated. “Just figured I’d say hi.”

“Well…hi.” Ruth smiled, crossing her leg and looking at her prosthetic. “…It got loose when I was running around with Amelia. Almost fell off.”

“Hmm.” Thatcher looked around, his tired eyes observing the children playing and the parents joining in with them. It was sweet, though he still couldn’t shake the pressure he felt in his chest.

“…Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” Thatcher answered as if it was second nature to him. “Just…things have been on my mind lately, that’s all.”

“Do you want…to talk about it?” Ruth asked.

“It’s nothing, just…thinking about what Leah said.”

“Thatcher…”

“It just doesn’t make any sense, why would a normal kid like Mark just…break all of a sudden?” Thatcher continued.

“Mommy!”

Ruth looked up to see one of the children on the playground approaching her, walking towards her before grasping the sleeve of Ruth’s jacket; Amelia. “What is it honey?” Ruth asked. Amelia simply pointed towards a bag that was resting next to Ruth, and despite nothing being said, Ruth understood, grabbing something from it. It was a small bag of what appeared to be some kind of snack, which Ruth gave to Amelia before she began to run back to the rest of the kids.

“Be careful, don’t go too far.” Ruth warned before softly sighing.

“Do you think what Arthur said has something to do with it?” Thatcher asked as Ruth looked back towards him. “Maybe he said something that caused Mark to run off—”

“Thatcher.” Ruth interrupted. “I’m sorry, but…you’re not really using your day off wisely.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re stressing yourself out about the case all the time.” Ruth said as she strapped her prosthetic on properly. “I understand, it’s something…I really wish didn’t happen, but you have to understand that worrying about it all day everyday isn’t going to help.”

“Ruth, I just need a lead.” Thatcher said. “What if we find something tomorrow at the Torres house? We could possibly solve what happened to Mark…and Cesar.”

“We’ll have to wait and see—” Ruth flinched when she started to hear crying, turning to see Amelia on the ground with a scraped knee. She quickly stood up, leaving Thatcher behind as she went to go tend to her. Thatcher watched with mild concern as Ruth looked at the minor scratches as he sat in silence, sighing as he tried to think. He had to stress about a case he was working on, otherwise nothing would get done. He had to be close to figuring out something, right? He was snapped out of his thoughts when Ruth approached him again, this time holding her daughters hand. “We’re going home, Thatcher. If you want to talk later, I’ll be there, just call.”

“…I see.” Thatcher watched as they walked away, once again leaving him alone as he wondered. Maybe Ruth had a point; maybe he should go home and try and relax for once.

11 PM

Thatcher had been staring at the files on his desk for the past hour without anything new coming to mind. A few cigarette butts were already in the ashtray as he extinguished the one in his hand in it, all while he stared at the papers with a blank look in his eyes. He scribbled something onto a blank piece of paper, the graphite of the pencil scratching against it until an image came together. Thatcher paused, looking at the drawing, one that depicted the face of a humanoid…thing, one with an elongated “snout” and a far too wide smile. He sighed, placing his pencil on the desk before grabbing the paper and standing up, turning towards the wall and pinning it to a corkboard, allowing it to join the countless photos, journal entries, notes, and drawings that already littered it, making the corkboard itself barely visible from under it.

Thatcher stared at the board, crossing his arms as his dull eyes grazed over everything on it, his brain working overtime to compute it all. Mark Heathcliff, Cesar Torres, Dave Lee, Ruth Weaver; all people who had experienced oddities in the past few months alone, with even Thatcher itself not being exempt. The pale, inhuman face of the alternate he drew had been one he saw not too long ago, and one that he couldn’t shake off. It looked so vaguely familiar, though morphed and deformed to the point that it was barely on the precipice of recognition. Thatcher hated that some parts of its face were features he shared, albeit heavily distorted. Animalistic, and not even trying to act human. Was it even an alternate at all?

Thatcher blinked, rubbing his eyes when the wave of exhaustion he had been pushing back finally hit him. He looked back towards his messy desk and the corkboard, all before turning back and shutting the light off, closing the door shut behind him as he headed towards his bedroom. He stepped into the room, shutting and locking his bedroom door as he stared at the window on the opposite wall. He stared at it, feeling a strange discomfort before he checked it was locked and shut the curtains. He got into bed, sighing deeply as he lazily pulled the covers over him, staring into the dark as he laid on his side, all before closing his eyes and attempting to get some sleep.

??:?? AM

Thatcher was awoken by the sound of a distant window breaking. His eyes flicked open, staring forward to see that the window in his room was still concealed by the curtain, and still intact judging by the lack of wind coming from it. Thatcher wanted to grab his gun and investigate the noise, though despite how much he tried, his arms remained still. He couldn’t even speak or move anything aside from his eyes, which darted around the small part of the room he could see from his limited view. His breathing quickened slightly, realizing he was paralyzed.

Thatcher could hear something bumping around in the hallway outside of his bedroom, pushing aside furniture and stepping towards the door. Thatcher couldn’t do anything, hearing the footsteps grow silent as he tried not to hyperventilate. He attempted to move, only being able to slightly shift in place, still unable to move anything a meaningful amount. He stared forward, blinking when he heard knocks ring out from his bedroom door behind him. He heard the knocks pause, then come back, even harder that time, all before they ceased. Thatcher heard the door creak, opening despite him locking the door before he slept. He still couldn’t move aside from shaking slightly, hearing something behind him, creeping towards his bed. He couldn’t see it, or hear anything coming from it until he felt warm air hit the nape of his neck. His chest heaved, feeling a deathly cold hand be placed on his shoulder before he could finally move.

Thatcher shot up out of bed, swinging around to see what it was, only to find nothing at all. The door was shut, and nothing else was in the room with him. His breath was heavy as he glanced towards his pillow, reaching under it to grab a pistol before he walked towards his door, throwing it open before pointing the gun into the hallway. He flicked on the light, seeing that it was completely intact, with nothing out of place. He paused, hesitating before lowering his gun, looking at the ground and placing one of his clammy hands on his head. Something about his house felt claustrophobic all of a sudden; was it always that cold?

2:27 AM

Ruth was awoken by the sound of a knock at the front door. She slowly sat up, looking around her room before she heard the knocks ring out yet again, sighing as she turned on her bedside lamp and reached towards her prosthetic. Thatcher knocked on the door for a third time, his body covered by a quickly thrown on, somewhat oversized grey trench coat. He remained silent, preparing to knock again until the door swung open to reveal a tired, somewhat annoyed Ruth Weaver, who was still in her pajamas, being a black tank top and sweatpants.

“Ruth.” Thatcher said quietly.

“…It’s two in the morning.” Ruth stated, blinking sleepily. “What are you doing here?”

“I just…I wanted to talk.”

“About what? What is so important that it can’t wait until morning?”

“I just wanted to talk to you.” Thatcher said. “I won’t be long.”

Ruth paused, staring at him before shaking her head slightly. “Be quiet; Amelia’s in bed and she has school tomorrow.”

Following Ruth into the house, Thatcher closed the door behind him, walking into the dimly lit living room before sitting on the couch, with Ruth sitting in a chair across from him. Thatcher remained silent for a moment, staring at nothing in particular before Ruth spoke up.

“Organizing files or something?” Ruth asked. “Or are you just staying up late worrying about the case again?”

“Don’t worry about it, I’m…it’s fine.” Thatcher stated, despite not fully believing the statement. “I wasn’t wanting to talk…about just the case with you anyway.”

“Do tell.” Ruth glared at Thatcher, wishing she could go back to bed, but refusing to due to the feeling of worry for her friend.

“Everything happening lately…it feels…connected.” Thatcher said. “Ever since the report at the…Murray household, it seems like everything’s been…off.”

“Really?” Ruth asked. “How do you think it’s all connected?”

Thatcher stayed silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “That alternate. You know the one that attacked Dave a little while back?”

“Yeah, I heard about it, though…I don’t really see what you’re getting at.”

Thatcher paused before speaking again. “I think it’s the same one from the Murray house.”

“…How can you be sure?” Ruth asked.

“I can’t.” Thatcher responded. “But the way it…stared into me. The look in its eyes…it was the same.”

“I don’t know…maybe.” Ruth spoke with a tinge of uncertainty. “But didn’t you say it looked…different?”

“It did.” Thatcher stated. “But that’s what’s getting me; it’s wrong. More so than it was.”

“Thatcher, are you sure?” Ruth asked. “It could be a different one entirely. I mean…why would it do something like that to itself?”

“I don’t think it did.”

Thatcher and Ruth became silent, Thatcher hunched over with his hands clasped together and his elbows resting on his knees, all while one of his legs bounced up and down. He took in a deep breath before speaking again. “Ruth?”

“Yes?”

“I came here to apologize.” Thatcher looked up to see Ruth looking at him with a fraction of confusion. “That’s what this is really about.”

“For what?”

“For…everything.” Thatcher looked down again, his hair draping over his face. “For…what happened back at that fucking house.”

Ruth sat up from her relaxed position as her brows furrowed slightly.

“If I…if…if I kept an eye on you…if I kept you safe…” Thatcher’s voice shook slightly. “You’d still have both legs.”

Ruth felt her heart sink slightly at that statement, thinking hard as Thatcher continued.

“I didn’t…protect you, I didn’t look after you like a fucking friend should.” Thatcher said. “You got attacked cause I was a fucking idiot and didn’t pay attention—”

“Thatcher—”

“No, listen, I’m sorry that I couldn’t be there for you; for the one fucking person in my life that is there for me—”

“Thatcher.” Ruth said, standing up and approaching the couch before sitting next to her friend. “If you truly weren’t there for me…I’d be dead.”

Thatcher looked up at her face, seeing that she still had a friendly look in her eyes.

“You couldn’t have predicted any of that; I mean…I barely saw it coming myself.” Ruth continued. “If you didn’t come running in to scare it off, or help me get to the hospital…I would’ve lost more than a leg.”

“…I’m sorry.” Thatcher said under his breath, his throat tight. “I’m just…sorry I can’t…be the man this town needs me to be. E-Every time I go into that fucking station, I see more and more missing persons reports, more bodies found, more altercations, more shit that is only getting worse. I don’t know what to do, and I can’t fucking show it cause if I do?” Thatcher paused, trying to hold back its tears. “…I’ll be painted as nothing but a fucking coward…and that’s not what this town needs right now. It needs someone it can count on…and…I’m not that person.”

Ruth remained silent, thinking hard before she wrapped her arm around Thatcher, lightly side-hugging him. Thatcher appeared surprised at the gesture, though after a few moments, he hunched over, covered his face with his hands, and cried.

September 25th, 1992. 5:45 PM

Thatcher had a pit in his gut the entire day.

He wasn’t sure exactly what was causing it as he gathered what he needed to bring to the Torres Residence, though it was beginning to become nauseating. The lack of sleep could’ve also had something to do with it, or maybe even the fact that he hadn’t eaten anything that morning, though he couldn’t be sure. He looked up to see Ruth gearing up, putting her belt on and pinning her radio to her chest. Thatcher sighed, standing up straight before approaching her, lightly pressing a hand on her shoulder.

“Try and stay in sight this time, alright?” Thatcher asked quietly.

“I will. Besides, we have the radio. If necessary I’ll call you from it.”

“…Yeah…yeah, alright.” Thatcher exhaled. “You ready?”

“I guess so.”

“Then we should head out.” Thatcher stated. “Doesn’t seem like anyone else is going to head over there so…suppose we’re going to be the ones to do it.”

“Figures.” Ruth said with a slight chuckle. “Last time we had to do this, the officers pussied out.”

“Let’s get going,” Thatcher grabbed a jacket. “It’s almost sundown, and I’d like to get this done before it’s late.”

It was a completely silent drive to the House, with neither Ruth nor Thatcher speaking a single word. Thatcher felt a sense of unease when he turned down Wisteria Avenue, and when he glanced over at Ruth to see her having a troubled look on her face, Thatcher figured he wasn’t the only one. It clasped the steering wheel, staring forward as he drove by the houses in the neighborhood, seeing that only a few of them had lights on, as if most of them were no longer lived in. Thatcher decided to try and ignore the eerie feeling it had, as when it parked on the side of the road in front of the Torres Home, it realized it was time to get to work.

Thatcher exited the police car, looking towards the House, noticing how dark it appeared to be inside of it. He glanced back at Ruth, checking to make sure she was standing close before he stepped onto the concrete driveway, approaching the front door before reaching towards it and knocking against the dark wood.

“Police Department, open up.” Thatcher called, hoping for an answer but not receiving anything more than silence. He slammed his fist against the door again, harder and louder before calling again; “Police, open the door!”

No response.

Thatcher sighed, preparing to kick open the door before it cracked open slightly, despite Thatcher not touching it. He glanced towards Ruth before pushing open the door further, expecting to see someone, but seeing nothing standing there. Thatcher shook off the strange wave of unease he felt when he stepped inside, convincing himself that it was just the wind that opened the door as he ushered Ruth inside.

Thatcher was greeted with the faint ticking of a clock when he entered the living room, glancing towards the opposite wall to see a tall, red-wood grandfather clock towering over everything else in the room. He looked up at its face, seeing that it was still in perfect working condition considering its hands twitched with every second, without fail. As Thatcher walked into the living room, shining his flashlight along the walls, Ruth looked to her left, seeing a small off-shoot of the living room. A piano was resting next to the wall, with note sheets placed on it. Ruth approached it, seeing the bookshelves beside it and a mirror above it. Ruth looked at her reflection before examining the frame of the mirror itself, brows furrowing when she noticed something around it; water damage.

“Ruth?” Thatcher called from the living room, turning around to look at her.

“I’m here, don’t worry.” Ruth sighed, stepping away from the piano to join the lieutenant, all while a deep red liquid leaked from behind the mirror.

“I don’t really see anything in here, at least nothing abnormal.” Thatcher stated as he looked around the living room.

As Thatcher walked around, Ruth looked towards the clock, staring up at its clock face. Thatcher walked towards a small table resting against the wall, picking up a picture frame that was resting on it before examining the photo. It appeared to be a photo of Maria Torres, along with her son, Cesar. Thatcher sighed, feeling a deep somber feeling looking at the happy faces of the two, knowing, or rather not knowing, the fate of the young man in that very photo.

“Weaver, have you found—” Thatcher paused when he noticed Ruth was still looking at the clock, he slightly shaking flashlight pointed up at its face. “…Ruth?”

“Yes?” Ruth shook her head, turning around towards Thatcher.

“You alright?”

“Yeah…I’m fine.” Ruth answered, though the strange disturbed look on her face made Thatcher believe otherwise.

The two soon passed through the archway leading into the kitchen, pointing their lights into it. There was a square dining table near the corner, with only three chairs accompanying it. The kitchen seemed tidy, with countertops looking as if they were cleaned just the night before. There were some decorations on the walls and some porcelain dishware in an antique shelving unit.

Ruth looked towards a door to the left of the entrance to the kitchen, opening it and looking inside, seeing that it lead to the cluttered garage. She turned to the left, though something felt off, despite nothing being there. She walked back into the main Home, looking into the living room and seeing the piano room. It looked as if it would’ve cut into the garage judging by its location, but when Ruth peeked into the garage again, there was nothing but a straight wall, with no room for the piano room to feasibly fit. She wasn’t sure if it was an optical illusion or simply her mind playing tricks on her, but it made her headache worse just thinking about it.

Thatcher looked to his right, seeing a door on the opposite wall of the kitchen, one that would lead into the living room judging by its placement. He walked towards it, reaching for the doorknob before gagging and backing away, covering his mouth and nose. Ruth looked back towards him, seeing that he was staring at the door with a look of disgust on his face. “Something wrong, Davis?”

“Something behind this door smells…rancid.” Thatcher explained, hesitantly removing the hand covering his face to try and open the door. The doorknob didn’t budge when he attempted to turn it. “…It’s locked.”

“You think it’s a storage closet or something?”

“It’s the only thing that would fit there…hoping it’s just…mildew or something.” Thatcher stated. “Though we’re gonna have to get this open before we leave. Maybe there’s a key around here.”

Thatcher and Ruth passed by the sliding glass doors to the side of the kitchen, staring down the back hallway, seeing that it had three doors; one on the left, one on the right, and one straight forward. The hallway itself bent oddly, with one of the walls feeling like it was placed there abruptly, with its wallpaper being a slightly different shade than the rest. Thatcher and Ruth walked down the oddly built hallway, with Thatcher opening the door straight in front of them, seeing that it led into the bathroom.

He shined his light across the bathrooms walls, soon stopping when he looked into the mirror. Water damage stained the walls around the medicine cabinet, with hundreds of small holes in the wallpaper seemingly oozing a substance Thatcher was unsure of. He stared into the mirror, looking himself in the eye before he attempted to open the medicine cabinet, being unable to for a second until he tore it open. Strands of some sort of red, vine-like substance was torn apart, finally allowing the cabinet to be opened, only to reveal nothing much of use. ADHD medication, bandages, and some miscellaneous items were all that was in there, though as Thatcher stared and pointed his light at the strange “veins” that had held the doors shut, he decided he was done looking in the bathroom.

He closed the cabinet door, turning back towards the hallway without seeing the second pair of eyes looking at him from the mirror. Ruth backed up as Thatcher exited the room, looking at him with a blank look on her face. “Find anything?”

“…I don’t…no.” Thatcher stated, closing the door and covering up the faint sound of tapping he heard from inside there. “I think we should call for reinforcements.”

“Why?”

“Something about this place, man…” Thatcher looked around with a worried look in his eyes. “…Did you find anything?”

“I looked in the bedroom,” Ruth gestured towards the bedroom to the right of the bathroom. “And there wasn’t much of anything in there. Looks like it belonged to Cesar.”

“Then the other one must belong to his mother.” Thatcher sighed. “I’ll look in there real quick, then we’ll…head out.”

“…So soon?”

“We can get a second look later.” Thatcher stated. “For now, let’s just…get this wrapped up.”

Ruth watched as Thatcher approached the other bedroom on the other end of the hallway, sighing deeply before she began to follow him, only pausing after only one step. She could hear something, coming from Cesar’s bedroom. It was faint, and muffled, but as she turned around she could hear it clearer; screams. She glanced back at Thatcher, seeing that he had already entered the other room before she grabbed her pistol and took it out of its holster, holding it by her side as she entered Cesar’s bedroom.

The screams sounded pained, and as she looked around, she saw an opening in the wall, one that she didn’t remember being there when she was last in the room. She swallowed hard, pointing her gun towards the opening, seeing that it led into a short hallway. On the other end of it was an old, wooden door, one that didn’t match the white painted doors that were in every other room in the house. A figure watched from the closet as Ruth stepped towards the door, entering the short hall as she heard the screams become louder. Her heart felt like it was beating heavier than normal, and her hands felt clammy and cold, unsure of what was causing it aside from a deep feeling of dread. “Hello?” She called. “Whoever’s there, please answer!”

No response, though the screams seemed to wane, becoming more like pained, muffled whimpers and groans. Ruth hesitantly put her flashlight onto her belt, reaching for the doorknob and turning it, seeing that it wouldn’t budge. “Damn it.” She swore under her breath before she called once again to the voice she swore she heard behind the door. “Look, we’re gonna get you out of here, okay? Just hang on—” Ruth turned to yell for Thatcher’s help, only stopping when she looked back towards the bedroom. The screams had stopped, and when she pulled out her flashlight to point it into the bedroom, she felt her heart sink. Her widened, horror-filled eyes stared forward, her face pale as if she just saw a ghost, and her body was as stiff as a statue, absentmindedly dropping her gun to the wooden floor.

There was a blank wall where the entrance to the hallway was.

Thatcher stared at the only half-made bed of Maria Torres before walking around the room. He sighed, realizing there was nothing of use in that room either, though with the lack of any useful evidence came the realization that it was time to leave. “Ruth, There’s nothing he—” He turned around, seeing that Ruth was nowhere to be seen, as if she had simply vanished. “Ruth?” Thatcher felt his heart pounding against his ribcage.

No.

No not again.

Please God not again.

“Ruth?” Thatcher was unsuccessful in cloaking the panic in his voice as he quickly left the room, looking around and seeing no sign of life. He searched through the other bedroom, seeing and hearing nothing more than his own footsteps and heavy heartbeat before he opened the bathroom door, looking inside to see no sign of his friend. “RUTH?” He grasped onto his radio, holding it up to his face before turning it on and speaking into it. “Ruth where the hell are you?” There was no response; complete radio silence. “Ruth, do you copy?!”

The sound of music from the living room replaced his panic with dread, with Thatcher slowly turning down the hallway towards the kitchen as he listened to the song. The light to the living room was on, with the light spilling into the kitchen from the archway connecting the two rooms. It was from the piano, being an old classical piece Thatcher felt was familiar, but not enough to name it. He swallowed hard, pulling out his gun from its holster before pointing it ahead of him.

The music became louder with each step the lieutenant took, its hands shaking slightly as it inched ever so closer to the archway, soon standing right beside it and pressing its back against the wall. It peeked around the wall, looking into the living room, just barely able to make out a figure sitting in front of the piano from where he stood. Thatcher sucked up his fear as he took a step into the living room, hearing the clock behind him as he quietly approached the piano room, soon being able to see who was playing the piano.

He saw the back of what appeared to be a young man, one wearing a stained, stitched together black suit and a white dress shirt under it. His spine stuck out from underneath the suit, as if the clothes were melded to it. His black, greasy, messy hair was swept to the side, neatly combed despite how dirty the hair itself was. Thatcher watched as he continued to play, seemingly unaware that Thatcher was even there. It stopped, its gun trained on the figure before it spoke. “Hands where I can see them.”

The figure paused, sitting completely still before looking up at the mirror above the piano itself, with Thatcher finally able to see his face through the reflection. It looked like Cesar, though it barely kept the façade together. Its left eye was replaced by dull-colored veins and arteries, coming out of the eye socket and fusing to the rest of his face and head. Its one remaining eye was wide open, along with its smile. It looked towards Thatcher from the reflection before speaking.

“Don’t you know it’s rude to interrupt a performance, Lieutenant?”

The figure turned in his seat, placing his folded hands on his lap as he stared at Thatcher with a single, unblinking eye and a soulless smile.

“…Who are you?” Thatcher couldn’t help but notice his voice shook as he spoke, despite him wanting to retain a sense of stoicism.

“…I don’t think that’s important right now.” The figure stated. “Just refer to me as your Host for the night. Besides, I don’t even know if I could tell you my name even if I wanted to.”

Thatcher remained silent as the alternate went on. “Now tell me…who are you? Why are you and your friend here at all?” When Thatcher didn’t respond to the question, the alternate laughed. “Oh who am I kidding…I know your name, Mr. Davis. You two aren’t very quiet…I can at least gather what you call each other.”

“Where’s Ruth.” Thatcher questioned, his tone dark and his expression darker.

“Fodder, dear.” The alternate responded as if it was a stupid question, standing up and causing Thatcher to follow its head with his gun. “Now…why don’t I help you get settled in? I can make dinner, if you’d like.”

“Stay right there.” Thatcher ordered. “…Don’t move.”

“Oh…I suppose I can chat for a little while longer.” The alternate sat back down, staring up at Thatcher’s face, its own expression not changing even slightly. “Though please…I’d like this to be quick.”

“Where…is…Ruth.” Thatcher repeated, his voice more intense than before.

“…You two came at such a perfect time.” The alternate ignored the question asked. “She just wanted some visitors; she’s going to need the company before she sleeps.”

“…She? Who the hell is She?”

The figure chuckled before looking around. “Look around you, Davis. She’s the walls, the floors, the ceiling…she’s made a Home for you, one that welcomes all…even you.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You’re so tense…I figured the concept of a place that’ll accept all company would be…relaxing.” The alternate stated. “I imagine a place that won’t judge you based on your faults would sound inviting for a man like you.”

Thatcher remained in a confused, horrified silence before the alternate stood up. “You know…you remind me of a story I heard once…one of a man named Icarus.”

Thatcher didn’t respond, wordless as the alternate continued. "Ever hear the tale of Icarus? The one who flew too close to the sun...whose hubris became his downfall? Burned, and fell all the way down.”

The figure chuckled, though it sounded more like a wheeze, before continuing. “It's funny. You feel like you can save everyone, don't you? If you just fly a little bit farther, you can keep everyone in this town safe? You've saved Dave. Ruth that one instance. However, you failed to save some. Ones that haunt your conscious despite never meeting them. Is that not why you’re here? To try and save those you failed to protect?”

The figure stared into Thatcher’s face, leaning in closer before he muttered, “Believing you can save everyone will cause you to fall, and I have to ask you, Mr. Davis. Is your case one of flying too close to the sun? Or not flying far enough?"

Thatcher glanced behind him, seeing the front door and living room before staring the alternate in the eye. Thatcher stared into the pure black pupil of the alternate’s bloodshot eye in silence, before slowly and shakily pointing his gun at the figures leg and pulling the trigger.

The alternate didn’t scream, but fell to the ground on its injured knee, looking down at the steadily bleeding wound as Thatcher ran into the main living room. He reached for the front door, attempting to pull it open only to see that it was jammed shut. He backed away, looking back at the alternate to see it stumbling back to its feet, its joints clicking and cracking with every movement. Thatcher turned towards the couch sitting in front of the large window, seeing a small table resting beside it. He scrambled towards it, grasping it by its legs and throwing it as hard as he could into the window.

The glass shattered as the table careened through it, with the alternate beginning to scream behind Thatcher as he began to vault over it. “NO, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE…WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HER?!” Thatcher placed his hand on the windowsill, hopping outside as fast as he could, trying to ignore the burning feeling he assumed was from cutting his fingers open with the shards of glass leftover. However, he found he couldn’t move his hand as soon as he was outside, letting out a pained yell as he looked back to see what it was caught on. Two of his fingers were fused with the windowsill itself.

Melted skin and veins attached the fingertips and the entirety of his ring and pinkie finger on his right hand to the House, being immobile despite how many times Thatcher attempted to separate himself from it. He turned his head around, seeing the alternate staring back at him, for once without the smile on its face. Thatcher saw no choice; he had to force himself off of the windowsill, so he took in a deep breath, jerked his hand away once with no success. He tried to free himself by ripping his arm away from the window, feeling his shoulder tear and his fingers dislocate with every tug. He tried to pull his hand away once, then twice, then three times—

CRACK.

Thatcher screamed, not daring to look at his hand as he scrambled towards the police car on the side of the road; away from that damned house. He swung open the driver’s side door with his left hand, holding his right, rapidly bleeding hand close to his chest as he hopped into the car and started it after fumbling with the key for a second. He placed his clammy, trembling left hand onto the steering wheel, all before hesitantly holding up his right to see it.

The fingers that were stuck on the windowsill were missing.

He couldn’t calm his breathing as much as he tried, instead focusing on not vomiting as he drove away, using only his left hand to do so as he could barely feel anything in his right hand other than agonizing pain. He couldn’t even think properly, his mind going too fast to pick out anything from the mess. He muttered under his breath as he escaped, only worrying about one thing.

“I’ll come back…I’ll get help, Ruth, I will…I will…” He gasped. “I’ll get help…just…sit tight…I’ll be there.” He paused to take in another pained gasp.

“I’ll be there.”

October 6th, 1992. 12:00 PM.

Thatcher’s finger prosthetics itched.

He had been scratching the skin around it the entire day, with the skin in that area becoming red from it. He almost wished he could simply not wear them, but the new scars and the fact that he was missing fingers in general made him keep them on. As he sat, hunched over outside of the church auditorium, he stared blankly at the floor. He was wearing a black suit and tie, his hair being barely considered neat. The sound of the clock ticking on the wall made him sick, though it was better than the sound of people talking in hushed and somber tones around him. If anything, the distracting ticking helped him, if only a little, forget that he was there for a reason. A funeral.

No body was found yet the bastards decided to pronounce Ruth dead. Thatcher had told them Ruth wasn’t confirmed to have passed whatsoever, and could still be out there, yet they didn’t listen. Maybe the cost of a funeral was cheaper than the cost of sending more officers to the scene to get potentially killed. No matter the reason, Thatcher felt a deep hatred in his heart, past all the pain and sadness. How could they? They acted as if she wasn’t a person, only another fucking statistic. Though what was the worst part?

Thatcher could’ve prevented it.

How stupid was he to bring Ruth into danger again? Did he truly believe he would be as lucky as he was last time? Ruth was gone because Thatcher ran away. He was a coward; the very thing he feared becoming the most.

The bells tolled. Service was starting.

Thatcher sighed deeply, standing up before walking into the auditorium, not once looking up as he joined his fellow officers in the pews. He couldn’t bear to look at the casket in front of him, nor the photo of Ruth put up next to it as he sat on the cold wooden bench alone. He stared at his feet, absentmindedly scratching his knuckles with his dirty nails. He could barely think, his mind blank and his expression dead. He could barely even process what was being said by both the priest and whoever was giving the eulogy, simply staring forward before he finally looked at the casket. He knew it was empty, and somehow that made everything feel worse.

He looked to the right, noticing members of Ruth’s family sitting on the opposite side of the church. Parents sobbing, uncles and aunts mourning in silence, however the sight of little Amelia Weaver, sitting with her family, being embraced by her grandfather in an attempt to comfort her, made Thatcher’s heart heavier than a ton of bricks. She was so young, yet she was losing her only parent. Thatcher silently apologized to her, mentally telling her how sorry he was that he failed to protect her mother. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything out loud, with his throat tight and his chest tense. He turned back towards the casket, blankly staring at it as he wondered what would’ve been different if they never went to that House. Maybe she’d still be around. Maybe Thatcher wouldn’t have been a filthy coward.

Someone was walking down the aisle as Thatcher looked back down towards the ground, the person clad in a police uniform staring at Thatcher as he thought to himself. Thatcher listened to the words the priest was saying, though as the seconds ticked by his words became nothing but muffled speech in Thatcher’s mind. Thatcher heard the clock ticking again, this time giving him a headache that worsened with every tick. He kept scratching at his hand, not even noticing the thin, red lines his nails left behind. The figure in the aisle slowly walked towards Thatcher, soon standing directly behind him. Thatcher felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, looking up at the casket before he felt a hand be placed on his shoulder.

He flinched, turning around to see no one in the pew behind him. The sound of the clock was quiet again, barely audible. He stared down at his now bleeding hand, seeing the scratches he dug in his own skin that were bleeding ever so slightly. He let out a shaky breath as he covered his face, wanting nothing more than the service to be over.

Thatcher stayed behind even when the service was over and done with, staring blankly at the casket as if he was incapable of leaving. Even Ruth’s family had left a little while before, but Thatcher simply couldn’t make himself follow them out the door. He sighed deeply, standing up and grabbing a metal folding chair he saw leaning against the wall before placing it in front of the casket, sitting down on top of it in silence before he spoke.

“…I don’t think you can hear me, but…I guess this is for more my peace of mind.” Thatcher muttered, his voice raspier than usual. “…I’m sorry. I can’t even convey how sorry I am.” He let out a brief, forced scoff. “God…I’m fucking pathetic. You’re probably looking down at me…laughing at how God damn stupid I am.”

Thatcher paused, forcing out his words after a few moments of silence. “I failed you. I failed you twice…and…now…you’re gone.” He stifled a sob. “…All because I was scared. You’re dead because I was too fucking scared to protect you. What kind of fucking cop am I? I can’t even protect the people that actually fucking matter.” Thatcher looked up at Ruth’s picture, her smile feeling sunny, though it didn’t help the cloud of guilt over Thatcher’s head.

“If you’re still out there…” Thatcher muttered under his breath. “…I’ll find you. I don’t want forgiveness, I just…I…I-I just…want you here.” He grasped his hair as he hunched over, trying to hold in sobs as tears ran down his face. “I just need you here…”

“Mr. Davis?”

The sound of a deep voice behind it caused Thatcher to turn around, its eyes red from crying. It was Dave, standing in the aisle, staring back at Thatcher with a look of worry in his eyes. He was wearing tinted glasses, along with a black suit, though it was missing a tie. He limped over to Thatcher, supporting himself with the metal cane under his right hand as he approached the lieutenant.

“What.” Thatcher growled, not in the mood to talk.

“I just…wanted to…offer my condolences.” Dave stated quietly. “…I know how close you were to her. She…she was a good woman.”

“…She was.”

Dave looked away for a second, seemingly to think. “…Y’know, I’m…always available to talk.” He said. “I mean…it’s the least I can do.”

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t do that.” Dave said. “I know you’re not…and you know what? That’s okay. You need time to…mourn. I don’t think you should be so hard on yoursel—”

“Leave me alone.”

Dave became silent, staring at Thatcher as it looked away, once again staring at the casket with a dead look in its eyes. Dave sighed quietly before speaking again.

“If you need anything…just ask.”

With that, Dave began to walk away, leaving Thatcher by himself once again. It clasped its hands together hard enough to hurt, feeling like he had run out of tears to cry. He shook his head, standing up as he stared down at the casket in front of him. He placed a hand on the wood, standing in silence before whispering, “I’ll find you, alright? I promise.”

Thatcher hesitantly left the casket behind, putting his hands in his jacket pockets before walking down the aisle, finally leaving the church through the front door. His guilt couldn’t be described in words, and the emotions he felt clouding his mind were too much to handle, but one thing rang out from his mind, more than everything else; anger, both towards himself and the police station for deeming Ruth a lost cause. He was going to find Ruth, dead or alive. He made a promise, after all.

Until we meet again, Ruth.

#the mandela catalogue #mandela catalogue #tmc #tmc home sweet home au #hsh thatcher #hsh ruth #Leah Heathcliff (tmc)#arthur heathcliff (tmc)#host (hsh)#Home (tmc)#body horror #injury tw #blood tw #gore tw #character death tw #shmorp writes sometimes #tell me if I failed to tag anything!!#Wowee. the horrors sure can horror huh.#Won't say much else. the fic speaks for itself I believe :)

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lovelylovely-stims · 23 days ago

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dividers by cafekitsune

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theroseceleste · 5 months ago

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Pilot Miguel - Part 2 - Trouble in Paradise

Hola! You've landed in Acapulco, Mexico. Now begins your two days of fun in the sun before flying back to Nueva York.

Word count - 3022

Not much in the way of any triggering content, apart from alcohol consumption.

This fic will have smut, but not in this chapter. Minors DNI

Enjoy! xx

Part 1

If you enjoy this fic, please consider liking, commenting or re-blogging. Many thanks xx

You have never been to Acapulco before, but you definitely want to come back again if you get to stay in this hotel next time. The next two days are going to be perfect, full of sun, sand and sea.

The first thing you do when you get into your room is chuck your uniform off, remove that thick purple jacket and change into something much lighter and free.

Your room is brightly decorated with pale green walls. Light wooden headboards crown not one but two double beds. You even get a balcony with a sea view. Paradise…

Stepping out onto the balcony, your soft, bare feet pad onto the smooth beige tiles, heated by the afternoon sun. The coastal breeze whips your long beach dress around your legs. With your hair still up, the warm, rushing wind caresses the skin on your neck like a lover’s tender kiss. You could get used to this.

To catch up on a much needed intake of vitamin D, you sit on the balcony and soak up the sun for a short while as you connect your phone to the hotel’s WiFi.

Taking a few snaps, you post them up on Instagram for your jealous friends at home to drool over. You smirk as you hit the post button, knowing full well, your phone will buzz constantly with notifications in a few moments time.

The prominent sound of the waves crashing along the sandy beach fills you with joy. It’s a constant noise that relaxes you. With each wave coming in and ebbing away again, it’s as though the sea is breathing, deep, long breaths, in and out.

You close your eyes as you enjoy your moment of peace…

(Thirty minutes prior)

Captain O’Hara grimaces as he steps out of the bus as he and the crew arrive at the hotel. While the rest of his colleagues gawp and stare at what they consider an impressive hotel, he regards it more of the opposite. A large rectangle-like building with a slope down one side, gives him the impression that it’s a modern take on an ancient Mayan pyramid, how… original... But, it’s a place to stay at least. He can shut himself in his room and not talk to anyone for two days.

A chorus of rollalong bags fills the air as the entire crew make their way inside the hotel. Some girls talk excitedly while he notices others catching a glimpse at him. He keeps his head down, looking at the polished grey tiled flooring as they approach the reception.

While you check in, the Captain approaches another available hotel receptionist after they call him forward. A few moments later he’s presented with a room key and a door number.

“Gracias,” he mumbles to the person behind the front desk and moves off, to go looking for the elevator.

He sees you disappear behind a set of closing lift doors as you get your room key before him. It isn’t long before another lift arrives.

Stepping out of the elevator, he turns the corner and sees you enter your room. Your door clicks shut as he looks down at his room number, 928.

925, 926, 927… 928… Huh…

His room is right next to yours.

He inserts his key into the slot and a green light flashes. Then, he pulls it out and turns the door handle to enter.

The door slams behind him as he lets go of his case. His long fingers negotiate his golden buttons on his jacket, pulling it away once it’s undone. Then he tugs at his tie, loosening it so he can yank it over his head.

After being out in the stifling Mexican sun, his crisp, white shirt clings to his skin uncomfortably. One by one, each button is undone, revealing his perfectly toned chest. The cool, conditioned air kisses his skin, soothing that gross sticky feeling.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, another email no doubt. Unlocking his phone with one hand, his other unfastens his belt buckle.

An email from his lawyer is the latest notification on his screen. His considerably sized thumb presses on it to read the message.

“Dear Mr. O’Hara.

We’re writing to inform you that as of this morning, the court has approved yours and Mrs. O’Hara’s divorce agreement.

We thank you for choosing us to represent you…”

The email continues but he stops taking it in. His hand lowers, the phone slips from his long fingers and falls onto the bed.

That’s it. It’s official. Divorced and not even forty - that’s still a few years away. He feels a total failure. He knew this email would arrive today, but it still doesn’t soften the blow.

Being a pilot means spending a lot of time away from home. When he was dating his now ex-wife, she was aware of his career and even embraced it. However, it seems a few years down the line, she wasn’t quite as prepared for it as she thought.

Despite her changing her mind on what she wanted in their marriage, he still feels he was a disappointment. It’s not that he didn’t try in his relationship with her; on days that he was home, he took his wife out on dates, or even went away for a couple of days. But she wanted more than what he could provide, despite making it plain to her from the get go.

He thought that a change in airline would do him some good, new company, new people… So far, not the best start. Unlucky for him that the court’s verdict on his divorce settlement coincides with his first day at his new job.

Kicking his smart, black shoes off, across the floor, he strips off completely and ambles into the hotel room’s ensuite. His defined muscles flex with every lazy footfall. Shortly after, the pattering sound of water hitting the shower tray echoes out from the bathroom as he has a much needed soak and freshening up session.

Peter waves at you as you enter the bar. Earlier, you arranged to sit, eat and drink with him instead of being a major party animal like the rest of the crew. It’s not your style and it isn’t Peter’s either, not any more anyway. He’s married and has a little girl at home, and feels that getting hideously drunk and dancing into the early hours of the morning is no longer appropriate. His head thanks him for that the morning after while the rest of the crew hide away in dark rooms feeling ill.

He taps his room keycard on the waxed table as you approach and sit.

“Hotel’s great isn’t it?” he asks as he watches you take in the surroundings.

The bar and restaurant is on the third floor. Windows on the inside, show the tops of the palm trees growing on the first floor in the lobby. Wooden support beams are dotted between tables.

“I love it. Definitely want to come back here again,” you reply as you tuck your chair in further under the table.

“Certainly makes it worth putting up with a hellishly boring flight with the new Captain.”

You frown sympathetically.

“That bad huh?”

Peter gives a laboured sigh.

“The dude hates speaking sentences longer than one word. And when he has no choice in having a conversation, he’s an ass about it.”

You chuckle. It’s funny when Peter gets animated and grouchy; the latter being a rare occurrence.

“Maybe he just needs a good fuck,” Peter says flippantly, picking up his drink and raises it to his mouth.

“Who needs a good fuck?”

Peter nearly spits his drink out in shock and you turn your head towards whoever just spoke.

At the side of your table, the giant Captain approaches, dressed in a white button up t-shirt and cream coloured shorts, complimenting his gorgeous skin tone. He knows that Peter was talking about him, but wants to see the First Officer squirm - or choke, he’s not fussed either way…

The sound of a chair dragging along the floor fills the room as Captain O’Hara takes a seat, joining the two of you. His expression, full of mock expectancy for Peter to answer his question.

“Uhh, just someone that both (Y/N) and I know,” he responds finally after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

The Captain sits to your right while Peter is opposite you on the square table.

“Uh huh. Right,” he pauses as he places his large hands together and rests his elbows against the table.

“And is this something to do with the guy who ‘hates speaking sentences longer than one word’?”

As your eyes flit between the two pilots, you notice a lighter band of skin around his ring finger, as if he used to wear a ring but doesn’t anymore.

“Oh, fine - I was referring to you,” Peter concedes.

“I still stand by it though…”

You think Peter is being rather feisty, maybe he has gained some courage from drinking. He does seem more relaxed than usual.

Captain O’Hara squints at the First Officer’s comment, but before he can retort, you speak up.

“How long have you been flying, Captain?”

He looks at you in a stunned silence. Your question and tone of interest totally disarms him. Those dark brown eyes scan your face momentarily while Peter watches him and then you.

“Uhm…” The Captain has to think for a second, counting the number of years he has been flying for.

“Coming up to nine years. Why do you ask?”

His arms fold on top of the table.

You give a slight shrug, you were just simply interested in knowing, but you offer up a reason anyway.

“Today’s landing was probably the smoothest I’ve ever had.”

The Captain’s face turns slightly pink as his gaze drops away from yours. You notice a slight vibration under the table, as his knee bounces up and down rapidly.

“Oh… Um… Good flying conditions help - uhm… don’t they Parker?”

Peter is almost grinning watching this display of awkwardness from Captain O’Hara, but that cheeky expression drops when the pilot turns to face him.

“Oh, yeah, cross-winds are a nightmare. We had good and calm weather on our side today.”

As the conversation continues, the Captain finds himself surprised that he hasn’t felt tempted to leave. He originally wanted to order room service, but it turns out the hotel only does buffets so he was forced to leave his room. As you and Peter go in search of food, he watches over the table and your small bag containing your phone. While he waits, he orders a beer which will be his third this evening as he had already raided the minibar before leaving his room.

At the expansive buffet table, you decide to give fajitas a try. You place a couple of tortilla wraps on your plate and place some grilled food in the middle of them both. A small bowl of spicy Mexican rice gets your attention, so you pick that up too. The food smells amazing, and you’re surprised you’ve never given much Mexican food a chance before.

Peter looks like he’s in heaven, such a wide variety and one plate to fit it all on. You can tell he’s going to be there for a while.

Sitting back down at the table you tentatively try to negotiate the wrap. You fold one side over and then the other, but realise that will end up in a great, big mess. Captain O’Hara is taking a mouthful of Corona when he spots you having trouble with your food. He quickly gulps it and puts the glass down.

“Oh, no. Here’s how you do it,” he reaches towards your plate but pauses and looks at you.

“May I? I washed my hands before I came down.”

You give a nod in response to let him touch your food.

“Okay,” he begins, “you fold this bit here upwards, then fold the side over and do the same on the other side, like so...”

As he speaks, he demonstrates the folding technique.

“Nothing falls out the other side when you bite into it then.”

The Captain nudges your plate back towards you with a weak smile.

“Oh, right! That makes sense. Thank you.”

Picking up what now resembles a parcel of food, you bite into it. The flavours of the marinade and spices burst in your mouth and you give a contented hum of approval.

“Mmmm! That’s so good.”

You cover your mouth as you chew and swallow.

“Do you eat much Mexican food?” you ask with interest to maintain a polite conversation, before glancing over at Peter with a plate piled high with food; you suppress a laugh.

“Well, I’m - half Mexican so, I kinda grew up with it.”

“Oh - of course. How silly of me,” you reply before taking another bite.

He gives a slight shrug before he gawks at Peter’s mountain of food.

As you eat, you think about the Captain’s last name. O’Hara…

“So, you’re half Irish too?” you ask.

His gaze drops slightly again.

“Yes, that’s right. But, I don’t really recognise my Irish heritage. My father was a good for nothing piece of shit.”

As he answers, you can detect a hint of venom in his voice. Perhaps a story for another time - or never; you won’t push him.

Peter finally sits at the table, carefully setting his plate down after treating the journey like an intense balancing act.

“Are you going to eat all of that, Parker?”

Too late, the man has already started eating. There won’t be much sense coming from him now.

“Oh, he’ll eat most of it at least,” you answer for him and receive a look from Captain O’Hara as if non verbally asking you if you are serious.

“Well, I’m going to go and see if there’s anything left.”

He stands, suddenly reminding you how tall he is while you crane your head up to look at him as he heads towards the buffet.

A little later on, you’re all fed, watered - kind of, and feeling a little weary after a long day. Peter nurses a huge food baby and looks to be settled in his chair for a little while. You stifle a yawn just as the Captain finishes his fourth beer of the evening.

“Well boys,” you begin as you stand, “I’m going to get some shut-eye. Got to prepare myself for a day of doing absolutely nothing tomorrow.”

You sling your little bag over your shoulder.

“I’ll come with you - we’re neighbours,” the Captain stands up too and begins to follow you while Peter waves lazily.

“G’night!”

The both of you begin your leisurely walk back to your rooms, chatting along the way. You can tell that the beer has loosened him up quite considerably and seems more willing to talk. It’s been fun learning a bit about him. Then you realise, you don’t know his name.

“What’s your name, Captain? Seems a bit odd calling you that all the time.”

He gives a very small chuckle as he realises he’s neglected to tell you the most basic bit of information about him.

“Oh, my name’s Miguel,” he reaches out for something that you think is your hand which you offer him to shake.

Miguel slaps it lightly out of the way.

“No, your phone, gi’me your phone.”

“Oh…”

Unclasping your little bag, you bring out your cell phone and unlock it. Then you open your contacts and hand the device to him.

The keyboard clicks as he enters in his details, although he has to use the backspace several times until he types it correctly.

“There,” he hands it back to you. “Text me, and I’ll have your number too.”

Taking the phone, you press the message button and you begin to type.

“Hello Miguel. :) xx”

Then you hit send, hearing a deep buzz from his pocket just a moment later.

He knows it’s from you, but he looks anyway; the ‘xx’ catches his eye.

“Do you send kisses to all your Captains?” he asks as a pink hue glows on his cheeks, feeling the heat rising in his face; unable to tell if he is blushing from the chemistry or the beer.

“I don’t text any of my other Captains,” you reply, sounding more flirty than you originally intended.

You reach the door to your room but before you pull your keycard out of your bag, Miguel takes your hand and pulls it towards his lips. Your eyes widen at the surprise, but they soften when he plants a tender kiss against your knuckles.

Photo by Colin Lloyd on Unsplash

“Well, I’m honoured to be the only Captain you have stored in your phone.”

Now it’s your turn for your face to go bright pink. It’s impossible to tell who’s blushing more.

Eventually he releases your hand, letting it fall back to your side.

“Goodnight,” you say softly, your voice almost non-existent.

He bids you goodnight in return and watches you enter your room before he unlocks his door.

Flipping his lightswitch, his room is fully lit once again. He flops down on his bed after kicking his flip-flops off and grabbing another beer from the minibar.

As he lays there, he thinks about his divorce and how much of a fuck up his marriage was. Then his mind visits the memory of you bumping into him that morning, and the smell of your

perfume. After that, he thinks about Peter saying that Miguel needs a good fuck; to not be so grumpy, he presumes. Perhaps he’s right. It has been a while… Speaking of… He feels a twitch under his cream coloured shorts and groans.

“Not now…” he grumbles to himself.

He’s too tired, too depressed and too drunk to pleasure himself right now, but it persists. Picking up his phone from his pocket, he tries to distract himself but sees your message when he unlocks it.

Another groan spills from his lips before he sets his beer down on his bedside table and unzips his shorts…

I hope you enjoyed Part 2.

Next Chapter >

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