#shadow and the midnight misery

[lianahayze]

Shadow and the Midnight Misery: Chapter 14

Masterlist

Nothing to say; let's get to it!

Chapter 14. Then... nothing

With it being common for celebrities to seek treatment, there is little surprise at seeing the twenty-two-year-old rockstar turn herself in. Her father, lead singer of the 90s alt-band The Nixers, did his own stint in rehab for a slew of drugs, including heroin. It is unknown why she checked herself in, but according to its website, the Garver Institute “specializes in alcohol and drug addictions.” At the time of publication, Shadow Greere has declined to comment.

Bottle pressed to my lips, I chug. The more I drink, the more I can forget. And boy am I trying to forget.

The article came out yesterday, and I can’t even begin to guess how many times I've already read it. It starts out great. There is a piece about the new studio, a section about how I want the band to go our own way. But then Garver was brought up and it got real bad real fast.

The pictures are slightly grainy and had clearly been taken at a distance. However, they're not grainy enough for me to even pretend that that it’s not me. Everything in the pictures give it away: my hair, the clothes I'm wearing, a general scowl. All of it is one hundred percent me, and anyone is going to be able to tell.

The guys have seen it. I’m certain they have. They've called me a couple of times, but I haven't picked up. I'd rather wallow in self-pity. Dean’s not big on social media, so he probably hasn’t seen it yet. Always a day or two beyond, I have some time before he finds it. Either way, I'm fucked.

I did not want this to get out. I'd been hoping I could just sweep it under the rug and be done with it. Continuing to meet with Dr. Norris is fine, but having all of my dirty laundry aired out for anyone to see? No, it's an absolute nightmare.

I should have said something to Larissa. I could have made up any bullshit excuse. Hell, I could have said I was visiting or even fucking volunteering and that last paragraph would sound completely different. But, instead, I'd freaked out. I’d done this to myself.

I stop drinking for a moment. I haven't binged like this in a while and my body knows it. There's going to be hell to pay in a few hours, but, right now, I don’t care. Right now, I desperate to forget.

I switch to another bottle. It's new and takes me several seconds to open. I sway before I finally break the seal. The bottle firmly attached to my mouth, I walk out of the kitchen and into the living room.

Though I don't plan on staying in here, I turn on the TV. I need noise. The silence in the house is killing me. I turn up the volume before tossing the remote onto the couch. I walk out into the hallway.

Ugh, has there ever been a time when I haven't fucked something up? Maybe that's why the guys wanted me to put away: not because I'm a danger, but because I'm such a massive fuck up. I get it now.

I go upstairs. Not bothering to turn the lights on, I crawl into bed. I almost drop the bottle in my hand but catch it at the last moment. I continue drinking from it, chugging so quickly that it makes my brain hurt.

Everyone is going to be talking shit about me. Even more than they already do. I can't face the internet right now, but part of me is curious. I need to know what they're saying, and I need to know what I'm up against. I'm not the first celebrity whose mental health issues have been exposed, but it still hurts. I’ve been reduced to a headline and a cheap article?

My phone dings but I don't bother checking it. I want to smoke a joint. I want to smoke and drink and pass out. I don't know where my purse is, though, and that's where all my weed is. Is probably in the room somewhere, but I don't care enough to try to find it. Instead, I just keep drinking.

My phone goes off again. I follow the light from the screen, reaching across the bed to grab it. I squint as I look down.

Oh, I have missed calls. And a lot of texts. It's a good thing I have all my notifications turned off for social media because that would probably be blowing up my phone now too.

I look at the text notifications but don't actually open the messages. Most of them are from the guys, but, as I expected, there's nothing from Dean. Good. I should reach out to him and just tell him myself, but I don't think I'm going to. After all, I already had my chance to tell him; instead, I’d spent the entire time complaining about the band.

I check the calls. Most of them are from Wyatt. He's called me five times in total, the last one coming just a few minutes ago when I'd been downstairs deciding which liquor to get into. Maybe they’ve decided that he's the one who’s going to fire me.

I go through my texts from him. There are a lot of them with just one or two words, but it's the last one that really catches me off-guard.

About 5 mins away. At your house soon.

I stare at it. Not trusting my eyes, I read over it again, but still don’t think it’s right. There’s no way he’s trying to come see me right now.

Putting the bottle on the floor, I text him back:

Not here.

I stare down at the screen. A second later he says,

Yeah u are. Pulling up your street

I frown. Seriously, can't this wait until tomorrow?

Knowing that my front door's locked, I decide to get comfortable. He won't be able to talk to me if he can't get in, and there's no way I'm answering the door.

My phone goes off again. I groan and read.

He's here. Great. Just great.

When I don't respond, he sends,

Open the front door.

I huff. I don't want to talk to him; is that really so hard to understand?

Busy.

No you're not. Open the door.

Not interested.

Shadow, don't make me call the cops. I NEED to see that you're okay.

I bolt up. If he calls the cops, I’ll be back at Garver in a heartbeat, only this time it probably won’t be so easy to get out. "Fuck’s sake," I mutter, "fine." Standing up, I drop my phone on the pillow, pick the bottle back up, and slowly head downstairs.

Wyatt's finger is firmly on the doorbell when I answer. He looks down at me, surprised. I move out of the way, letting him in.

He shuts the door behind himself. "You're drinking right now?" he asks, louder than he needs to be. "Shadow, what the hell are you doing?"

"Feeling sorry for myself." I smile up at him. Feeling light on my feet, I lean against the wall. "Throwing myself a party. Whatever you want to call it, but you weren't invited."

"So, you know about the article then?"

"Hmm."

"I can't believe they printed that without telling you." When I tell him that I knew, he gasps. "You just let them?"

"No. But I didn't tell them no."

He stares at me. I can tell that he knows he in over his head and doesn't know what to do. Pissed off, angry Shadow he can deal with; pitiful pathetic Shadow he cannot.

I take another drink.

"Can you... Can you not do that right now?" He yanks the bottle from my hand. Some of the vodka spills onto the floor, causing me to say,

"Hey! Stop making a mess!"

He walks into the kitchen. I follow behind but it takes a while because my legs feel like jelly. When I finally do get to him, he's opening up all the cabinets, saying, "Where's all your booze?" I giggle. "Fuck, Shadow, I'm serious. Now is not the time to go on a bender."

"Oops." Seeing him freak out makes me laugh. It's actually very funny. Him and the other guys have been trying to control my narrative for so long and he's panicking now that he can't. It's the ultimate karma.

He walks over to me. I'm swaying as I look up at him, and he puts his hands on my arms. As he steadies me, I realize I don’t want to be standing up; laying down would be so much better.

"How much did you drink?" he says. It's a good question, but I don't answer. He gives me a slight shake. "Shadow. How much?"

He's acting like he's never seen me drunk before, but nothing could be further from the truth. How many late nights did we have after concerts, passing around bottle after bottle? I have a pretty good tolerance, but he could drink me under the table. Maybe I'm not the one who should have gone to Garver.

"You're not supposed to drink when you're depressed."

Depressed? Who said anything about being depressed? I am finnnnnne.

"Have you still been drinking and doing drugs this entire time?"

Holding back a laugh, I say, "My body, my choice."

"This is not a joke! You're going to hurt yourself!"

"My doctor thinks I'm not a danger, and we can trust my doctor. Right? After all, everyone wanted me to go see one. Remember?"

Leading me over to the table, he sighs. He tried to get me to sit in one of the chairs, but I instead choose the floor. "We wanted you to see a doctor because we were worried about you. Your cocaine habit has gone through the roof." Then, almost so quietly that I can't hear, he adds, "Apparently we should have been more worried about your drinking."

Having been kneeling in front of me, he stands back up. Continuing to go through my cabinets, he says, "We already spoke with the label. As soon as we saw it, we got on the phone with them. We wanted you to join the conversation, but you never answered your phone." He looks over his shoulder at me. "Now I can see why."

He's judging me and I can't decide whether to let it go or complain about it. Stomach pressed against the tile, I spread out on the floor like a starfish. It gets uncomfortable really quick, though, and I flip to my back. The sudden motion makes the contents of my stomach slosh around.

"I don't know what to do with you." I look over at him. "We want you to get better. When we rescheduled that interview, we thought..." I see him shake his head. "I know it's important for you--We know talking about the band is important to you." He pauses. "Even if the spread was entirely about you."

"So, you're not mad about the studio?"

He shakes his head, and I'm surprised. This is the most honest conversation we've had in a while without yelling. I should say something but can’t come up with anything.

"We just want to know what was wrong with your dad's studio, but other than that it's fine."

"Too many bad memories. Can't go there anymore."

"Because we told you that you needed help?"

"And cornered me with a doctor." I turn onto my other cheek so that I'm facing away from him. "It wasn't fair."

I hear him sigh, but he doesn't say anything. I hear the heels of his boots walking across the tile, coming towards me. A few seconds later, arms crossed, he stands over me. I don't move but look up at him out of the corner of my eye.

"Look," he says, "you can be pissed about it. I get that you're pissed about it. But we tried to bring it up before and you just weren't listening."

I frown. "No, you never brought it up."

"Yes. We did. Several times. You might have just been high, and we couldn’t tell. But we did bring it up."

He walks away, leaving on my own. I wonder if what he's said is true. Had they actually mentioned it before? If they had, why don't I remember it? And if he was right and I had been high, what does that say about me?

It means I have a problem.

Standing up, I go over to the counter. Wyatt's placed the bottle of vodka that I'd had earlier by the sink. I look around but don't see him. I'm not sure where he's gone, but, not wanting to wait for him to return, I pick up the bottle, bring it to my lips, and drink. I'm so engrossed in getting as much alcohol in my system as possible that I don't hear him return until,

"Shadow!" He yanks the bottle away. Before I can stop him, he tips it upside down and the vodka pours down the sink.

"Hey!" I start to reach for it, but he holds me back.

"Do not try my patience right now."

He's being obnoxious; why won’t he let me have a little fun?

"Why are you even here?" I ask him. "I didn't ask you to come." Plus, I'd been doing fine on my own. I'd been enjoying sitting in the dark; it made my head hurt less.

"I'm here to take care of you, apparently, because you weren't answering your phone."

"I don't need a babysitter."

"I beg to differ. When did you eat last?"

I frown. "Why, do I look fat, or something?"

"You've never looked fat a day in your life." He sounds annoyed as he speaks. "But you need to eat." I tell him I'm not hungry. "I don't care," he replies. "You need food in your system."

"Usually, I just do cocaine when I'm hungry." He looks at me like I'm crazy. "What? I don't have to stop what I'm doing to eat, and it keeps me in shape." He gives me a look over. "Duh."

"Shadow, when people talk about ‘getting in shape,’ that’s not code for developing a drug habit."

He goes to open the fridge, but he won't have much to work with. I haven't gone grocery shopping in a while, so everything that's in there is probably at least a few weeks old.

"Wow, slim pickin’s around here, huh?" He closes the fridge. Pulling out his phone, he says, "What do you want to eat? I'm going to have Ethan stop."

"Stop where?"

"Stop at the store or get takeout. He's on his way over here. So is Dave."

My heart stops. They're coming over here, too? Right now? I shake my head in disbelief. "Tell them not to come."

"They're already on their way."

I continue to shake my head. "No! I do not need a fucking intervention in my own home!" I'm panicking, ready to kick or punch him.

He puts his hands up, saying, "Shadow, we're not trying to intervene on anything. We're just checking on you."

But I don't believe it.

Abruptly turning away from him, I storm out of the kitchen. Well, I storm out the best I can. My legs are wobbly and my head is spinning and my breathing is shallow, but I storm off. Wyatt calls for me, but I ignore him. Maybe if I barricade myself in my room before the other two get here, they'll eventually just give up and leave. Can't have an intervention if they can't see me.

I stumble into my room. I press my body against the door for a moment, blinking slowly. Why is the room spinning? Doing my best to disregard the movements, I lock the door and go straight over to my bed.

I fall onto it face first. It’s pretty comfortable, so I don't move. It's only when I realize that I'm having trouble breathing that I shift onto my side.

My stomach doesn't feel so great. When I rub my hands over my middle, it only makes it worse. I close my eyes and groan. I curl up and lay like that for who knows how long. It's probably just a couple of seconds, but it's enough for me almost to fall asleep.

The only reason I don't is because of a loud thump at the door.

"Shadow! Unlock the door!"

I cover my ears. Why is he shouting? Doesn't he know it's making me feel even worse?

Wyatt keeps pounding on the door. "I seriously just came over here to check on you! The other guys just want to check on you too. We're not kicking you out of the band or whatever other conspiracy theory you have in your head."

If I do have any conspiracy theories, it's because they put them there.

"Seriously. You don't need to be alone right now."

He's wrong. Being alone is exactly what I need.

I continue to try my best to ignore him. He makes it hard, though, and I eventually grab onto a pillow, pressing it over my head. It makes my skull hurt, but I'd rather feel that than listen to Wyatt.

Eventually, though, the pounding stops. I pull down the pillow and look cautiously over at the door. I sit up; there's complete silence. Being as quiet as I can, I get out of bed and tiptoe over to the door. I lean forward and listen, but still, I hear nothing.

Maybe he's just pretending he's not there anymore to trick me into opening the door. "Wyatt?" I say. He doesn't answer. Slowly, I unlock the door, crack it open just an inch, and look outside.

He's not there. Opening the door all the way, I step out into the hallway. Wyatt is nowhere to be found. Confused, I lean against the wall. Where did he go? Did he just give up? It that's the case, the least he could have done is said goodbye.

"Wyatt?"

He doesn't respond. When I toddle down the hall, I suddenly realize why.

Standing at the top of the stairs, I hear the front door opening, Wyatt standing in front of it. In walk Ethan and Dave.

I start to make my way down the stairs.

"Get out of my house!" I yell, causing them to look up. They’re alarmed, but I don't care. "I'll call the police!"

Dave, smug as ever, doesn't buy it. "You're going to call the police on the people who came to check on you?"

"Not now Dave," says Wyatt.

"Fuck off!" I yell at them. "I didn't ask you to come here; I don't want you here. Leave. Me. Alone!"

"You don't mean that, Shadow."

I turn to Ethan. I'm still on the stairs, gripping the banister, so I have to look down at him. He looks tired, more tired than I feel. "Ethan, if you had any common sense, you'd ditch these two. All they're going to do is complain and gang up on you and ruin your whole entire life."

Dave starts to say something, but Wyatt stops him.

"No, go head. What did you want to tell me?"

"He doesn't want to tell you anything," says Wyatt. "We just came to see how you were after the article."

"I feel like shit. I think it's obvious." I start to walk towards them. I'm about halfway down the stairs now, and, looking at all of them in turn, I say, "I need a drink."

None of them seem amused. They move to block the way. I get down to the bottom step and try to push passed them but they're stronger and I fail.

"Move," I say. When they don't, I repeat myself, this time with more force. "Move!"

Ethan asks me how much I've had to drink but I ignore him. They're not my parents; I don't have to answer to them.

Wyatt attempts to reach for me, but I push his hands away. I almost lose my footing, but Dave catches me. I yank myself out of his grasp.

"Shadow," says Wyatt, "you need to calm down. Let's find a place to relax. You're going to drink water and I'm going to order you food."

I don't like his plan--and not just because he's talking to me like I'm a child.

I shake my head. "No."

I start back up the stairs, but he reaches for me. This time his grasp is strong, and I can feel a bruise forming on my wrist. I try to wriggle away but can't. Either he's been working out or I'm way more inebriated than I thought.

It doesn't stop me from continuing to pull away. I tell him to let me go, but he doesn't. I try to push him away, but he doesn't budge. All the while, he's asking me to stop moving but all I want to do is run away. It gets so bad, that, as I'm yelling and pulling, my foot slips, I lose my footing, and go flying.

Only this time, no one catches me.

I crash against the stairs, first my arms, then my shoulder. I cry out in pain, looking up at the guys. They look horrified, but I can't keep my focus on them for too long. Soon, everything goes blurry and my vision cuts in and out.

Then... nothing.

-

This is probably one of my favorite chapters I've written for this story so far. Thanks for reading.

-L.H.

[dilf-docs]

Misery Reigns My Lonely Neon Nights

old man!logan x younger fem!reader

summary: logan should've said no. should've just drove the pretty waitress home. that's his job. hers is to serve his cup of coffee to the brim. so why is he riding you to his house?

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap (cause we have a small daddy kink going on here.. hence the blog name BUT I DO HAVE A GOOD DAD), smut, this reeks of corruption kink for no reason other than me being a virgin whore, like he gets stalker-ish for a second but its logan howlett so we forgive him<3 ya está viejito, brief mention of suicide, sub logan edging on praising kink (if u squint), no protection but u gotta put the hat on the cowboy to ride the horse alr, riding, breeding kink??? angst (the depressing vibes are there cause they follow my writing like a shadow ijbol)

word count: 6,102 words (at the v crack of dawn.. i think i've gone insane FR it's 02:07 am and my brain its eating itself like im gonna start seeing logan in the corner of my room)

side note: newbie here after reading so many fanfics on tumblr but never publishing my own!! its hugh's birthday (well, its past midnight so no more but still!!! it was a couple hours ago) so i figured i should give it a try today cause that man does things to me ESPECIALLY as old man logan i can't lie and say the thought of him fucking me good and slow hasn't crossed my mind too many times 😩 we love sad hot old people in here so naturally my inaguration fic had to be done by him. also, i'm tired of scrapping for votes, comments, and interactions on wattpad so please treat me well during our first:// it's me moving to tumblr it's me hi i'm the problem it's me. i'm a feedback whore so pls leave tons of those!! also, english isn't my first language so if i make a grammar mistake pls do not tell me bc i have no respect for this language ―it just makes me cringe less to write smut on a language that isn't mine lol<3 but if there's any other mistake yes pls do tell me thank u OKAY BYE i needa quit yapping ENJOY dilf town<3

So it started something like this.

It was another simple nightshift for Logan. The weather humid, uncomfortably sticking the fabric of his white button shirt onto his skin. Even with the windows down. Those nights that the driving dragged on for long, like those cigarettes that now made him cough more than relax. The roads felt too long; his eyes too heavy.

Nothing new. Just about what to expect: money short, clients and traffic equally annoying. But that was the problem; nothing was new anymore.

He'd just finish dropping a customer close by, and since the tiring feeling didn't seem to leave his body just yet, a coffee wouldn't hurt. As a matter of fact, the need for a boost to make it home makes him get out of the car and limp his way into the first place his tired vision sees.

The rim of his recently adquired reading glasses slips as he climbs the stairs into the decades old diner, the decoration outdated. He understands; he feels the same way.

Neon lights flash his face when he enters the place and sits in the farthest booth he can find. The air is impregnated in grease and cheap coffee, but he waits at least fifty minutes to order, giving his body some time to rest. In the meanwhile, he tries to distract himself with the newspaper resting on the table, but God knows his eyes are too tired and his mind drifts every two words.

He hopes he doesn't get kicked out, judging from the attentive look he's receiving by a waitress resting on the bar. She looks as bored and tired as he does.

Maybe that's why he chooses her, raising his hand with order in mind. A black coffee. The waitress slides from her position and takes some steps to where he sits.

Her voice is sweet when she introduces herself, and Logan finds himself asking her again what her name is, pretending he's half deaf just to listen to it again.

"It's y/n" you repeat, oh so sickeningly sweet, he might have to skip on asking for sugar.

"Y/n" he savours the name on his lips, trying the tender sound, his eyes darting to the name tag, like he's confirming it. Testing to see if the young woman in front of him is real. Maybe his eyes linger a little too long, and the tip of your ears start to heat. Its the way he examines every feature on your face, like memorizing it in a sense, that makes you squirm. But maybe, just maybe, it's the small―brief, peak he gives to your exposed cleavage, pushing itself against the tight fabric of your uniform what truly gets your heart beating fast.

He looks like what your parents would warn you to stay away and your friends would talk behind your back. Rugged in a way that screams heartbreak, rough around edges your kind nature wishes to soften. It's unresonable to feel this way about a client you just met, but his aloof demeanor peaks your interest, so different from your usual costumers and familiar faces that pop up at the diner.

"Can I order you, darling?" his voice comes out deep, almost passing as a grunt. Just what you imagined it to sound. Why he's acting as his past self so effortlessly, after closing himself off to the point of going by entire days without talking more than three words, is concerning. Why the cute waitress who looks at him with doe eyes, expectant to take his order, is making him break the promise he made to himself not to get attached again―just live by enough to make it to the sea and put a bullet in his head.

"Well, that's just about my job" you joke, feeling confident for no reason. "But you can't order me".

"A damn shame" he chuckles, the sound deep, rumbling on his chest. It's been so long since he's laughed like that: carefree, without that pressing weight on his chest, that despite the sinking notion, sometimes feels more like a hole carved where his heart is supposed to be.

"So..." you trail off, unsure where to proceed after that sound that jolted your entire system awake, "what will you take?"

The banter dies, and Logan is dissapointed when she scribbles the dark coffee on her pretty round letter and walks away. He doesn't miss the sway of her hips, and almost calls her back just to hear her voice again. But he stops himself, because it's getting pathetic.

When she returns with her order, he almost regrets the comeback of his enhaced senses, her honeyed perfume mixed with the bitter smell of the freshly brewed coffee, creating an intoxicating mix.

His lips burn when he sips it, but that doesn't stop him from emptying the cup. Again. And again. All in the name for asking for more coffee, a magnetic force pulling him to the ground, making him forget he's a 200 and something year old man begging like a starved man for at least a fraction of her attention. He feels unworthy of your warmth.

He feigns interest on the newspaper when you return again (he's been stuck on the same paragraph ever since he sat down), the pot in your hands. If you've noticed he's emptied the cups faster than a normal person, you don't ask questions. He's thankful, but can see the amusement and confusion laced across your pretty face.

"More?" you ask, but it's unnecesary. He only nods, and you miss the chatter.

The closeness it's a challenge itself, the uniform's neckline practically shoved down his nose while she fills the cup to the brim. He hears his own heartbeat, the sound averting his attention from another "brief" glance at the cleavage. Is it intentional? Is your goodwill and act? Are you this cruel, playing with an old touch starved man like that?

God knows it's been long since he's had a helping hand during his relief hours.

He can't help it; he's a man, after all. So he seizes the moment and steals a glance. But his eyes meet yours, the wary green clashing with the cozy chocolate. There's warmth on your eyes, and he's looking at your tits like an animal. He pulls away, ashamed. The shirt feels a bit suffocating, and there's sweat on his forehead again. Great, you'll think he's a perv.

"Excuse me" you say, leaving his table. Logan is afraid of having fucked it up for thinking with this dick and not with his head. You were messing too much with his head, and now he'll pay the price. Fair, he thinks, for a perverted old man trying to woo a girl younger and far more innocent than him.

There's benevolance on her smile and blood on his hands.

The whole situation is stupid.

But then he's thinking of excuses (like saying it's his failing eyesight's fault) and something close to an apology, as if he cares a little too much about what you think. And then you come back.

"I forgot to bring you a napkin" she lies, leaving the piece of paper in the middle of the table. You laugh, and Logan let's you because 1. He deserves it, and 2. It's a sound as saccharine as the smell the freshly heated pies emit on the table across him.

You leave before he can even open his mouth, so all he's left with is the napkin that seems to have something written on it. Pervert, he reads, on the same calligraphy you scribbled on your bloc. He can't help but laugh, even with your watchful look on him.

That's how it continued.

Even if he had other rides and more energy to drive, he kept coming to the decaying diner just to see you. Almost as if he was forgetting his desperate need for the money, the boat goal further and further.

"You've forgotten about me" complained Charles, although his tone lacked of bite. "But I'm not mad that you've had".

He'd go on, rambling about living life but Logan just laughed. Yet, maybe he was right. Didn't even need his powers to know it.

Now, you? you simply couldn't get enough of your favorite costumer. Of his late stays until you closed, sometimes not muttering more than necessary, yet his company, even if curt, proved to be what you needed to make it through work, giving you a legitimate reason to yearn the before tedious night shifts.

Despite this two month weird relationship, Logan is as a stranger to you as he was the first day, no matter how many times you've tried to get him to talk. In the end, all your conversation efforts feel more of a monologue than a chat.

He knows about your mom and your dad, one strict the other dead. He knows most of your friends names, what you're studying and what you wanted to. Your dreams and your hopes, your aspirations, failures, and some other things you'd never say to anyone else out loud. All and nothing. And he listens, sometimes asking questions, but never about himself. He never takes the lead.

So frustration from the Logan enigma pours into you, the puzzle pieces layed out over your mind, consuming your thoughts. So now you're stubbornly cleaning the same grease spot on a table you've already wipped before, and that, coincidentally, it's the booth in front of Logan, the permanent resident of your head during these past weeks. You might as well make him start paying rent by now, his power and hold over you ridiculous.

"It's not going anywhere. Take it easy" he mocks you.

There's a bit of annoyance when you reply back, although it's mostly superficial. "Don't know what you're talking about" comes out your dry response, earning a low chuckle from him.

"How about you sit for a moment?" he offers, ignoring your apathy. "You're almost done cleaning up".

If his ever changing attitude isn't enough, closing this night's shift is as tiring.

Logan doesn't expect you to obey, but now you're sitting across from him, and a voice in his head says you maybe feel sorry for this lunatic old man.

You're so close, he can see the eye bags and sorrow you are far tired to try to hide.

"I have to finish cleaning" you explain, "we're about to close".

He doesn't know why he says it, or what takes over him when he says:

"I could wait for you"

He surprises himself and surprises you too.

"No need" you assure, and why does he feel so dissapointed. It's stupid. "My friend picks me up".

Ah, yes. The friend with the perfect stupid smile that picks you up every night. Not like he parks his car until you leave and sees the scene unfold each time, his white knuckle grip on the wheel a bit too much when the young boy opens up your door. Makes him see red, knowing he's your age and maybe the breathe of fresh air you need. Not a man far older, who bears too many sins and scars in and out.

"I see" he says after some minutes in silence, retracting his impulsiveness. "I'm sorry if I made you-"

"No!" you clarify hastily, "it doesn't bother me".

He smiles unconsciously in relief.

"Well, me neither. I insist. If you change your mind" he's practically begging, despite his monotone tone.

But you don't.

The place closes and Logan is forced to get in the car. He lights a cigarette, in no hurry to return home. The lighter lights up while the diner's light goes off. You and your boss come out, biding each other goodbye. She leaves and you're is left alone, hugging your body in the early morning cold. 

He sees you wearing particular clothes, for the first time. He takes a slow drag on his cigarette, eyes running up and down your bare legs, the fragile fabric of the skirt fluttering in the wind. He exhales, watching as you dials your phone several times, getting no response, obviously frustrated.

He mutters something under his breath, and maybe there is a God after all. He starts the car, approaching her, who has already noticed it, probably because of the noise of the engine.

She looks scared, but Logan rolls down the window so she can see it's him.

"Need'a ride?"

Just by his reverberant sound you could accept. But you try to play cool for a while, despite your aching bones and need to get home.

"He doesn't answer" he was right, "my friend".

I know, he wishes to say, but he's the same hot headed asshole who walked through the doors of the X mansion for the first time, so his tone will be laced with irony. He doesn't want you to see him as an intense hot blooded mouth.

I could take you. His head pounds but he shuts the emotions down.

He shoves the knot on his throat down and asks as casually as possible, "do you live close?"

"Just around the corner" you answer. A beat, your frame bending so he can see your face from the driver's sit, the cleavage saying hello again. How considerate of you. "Do you really want to do this?"

Do you really want to do this?

The question rings on his ears. It holds more than just the favor. Logan knows they have a certain tension between them that he no longer wants to ignore. For the first time it seems to be reciprocated; palpable, and he is surprised to hear his heart beating loudly, so accustomed to hearing others' with his sharp senses, constantly forgetting what his own sounds like. Yours also beats erratically, despite your calm composure.

You arch an eyebrow, amused. "I can't believe you waited for me. Your family must be worried."

Logan realizes you're trying to test waters. So he raises his hand discreetly and places it on the door, so you can see the lack of a ring. As expected, your eyes travel to his free finger, and he can swear he sees you breathe with relief, which is funny, because in case you hadn't picked up until now, Logan is very much fucking alone.

"In case you changed your mind," he answers. "I have nowhere else to be."

That is enough of an invitation for you to get in the car.

"I was going to open that door for you" he protests.

You only laugh as you buckle the seatbelt. "It's not that big of a deal, really. You've already done enough for me by doing me the favor".

"It's not that big of a deal" he repeats your words, "as long as I'm of help, that's enough for me".

He smiles wistfully, remembering better times. A part of him still aspires to be that hero everyone loved and remembered, something that clearly doesn't happen anymore (or if it does, it's rare), given the lack of recognition of his former identity in El Paso. He shakes his head, focusing back on the street in front of him. It's too late to get fucking sentimental.

"I like to help too…" you confess, meekly. Logan sighs, how could he not know? "My father used to say that I had the kindest heart he'd ever met. I hope it stays that way, and that when he looks down on me, he's proud".

It hurts Logan to see you be so hard on yourself, as if he didn't do the same.

"I bet all the customers in the place would say you're the sweetest thing they've met", he sees you smile from the corner of his eye, and can't help but emulate it. "Believe me, you're their favorite".

"Thank you, Logan" you say sincerely. However, the affliction that he hates to see crosses your face. So gloomy that you don't even seem the same person.

You wipe away an unexpected tear, but Howlett is faster and notices. You turn around, looking towards the window. Then, you catch a glimpse of his license.

"So… you're a driver" you try to break the silence that Logan has put without knowing why. Maybe to give you some space after being sentimental and opening up again to this closed off wall name Logan, but he knows it's a lie. He's scared. After wanting so much to be closer to you, he cowers, not trusting himself and what he would do trapped in a small space with such an attractive woman. Besides, the tension from the previous conversation was still there.

"You judging me now, honey?" the pet name rolls off his tongue before he catches it. He tries to play it cool, continuing the banter, carrying the same tone. "The only thing necessary to make you trust me was to give you a free ride?

"I'm in your car, Logan. I got in without thinking" you laugh. "I believe that's enough trust"

"Then, I'll keep doing you favors. Maybe if I do…" he trails off.

Your voice drops an octave, provocative. "Maybe what?"

His knuckles grip the steering wheel until they turn white.

"Maybe…" he hesitates, "maybe…"

"It's here" you point out. Shit, Logan curses, braking abruptly without meaning to.

"See you tomorrow" you bid as a goodbye, getting out of the car. Logan misses your smell.

So he sticks his head out the window, like a begging dog.

"How about now?" he says a bit forcefully.

Your face shows surprise and something else.

"You're getting attached" you reply, and he doesn't know why there seems to be sadness in your voice.

"I just keep coming back for the coffee" he defends himself.

You laugh, shaking your head "Now, then. For the coffee, clearly."

"I can leave" he says. Yet, makes no move to leave.

You sigh, giving him one last look. Surrender, he reads.

"You're a driver, right?" he nods, taking in every word coming of your pink plush lips. "Then let's drive off. Anywhere" your voice trails off, and you're just so tired of everything, you'll just let go yourself with the flow. "I'll go wherever you go..."

And this is how it ends.

When you wake up, it's almost dawn.

Logan had suggested you to sleep, claming the road where he was taking you to be long. He had covered you with his jacket, even if your body was burning from nerves.

Why had you agreed? Your mom would probably smack your head in search for some sense, and your reckless friends would encourage you to do it for the sake of a story. But something about Logan makes you feel safe, despite not knowing anything from him. It's sort of a sense of protection―like he would never hurt you, that envelops him. Everyone else would call you crazy; only you can understand that.

When your eyes adjust to the light, you realize you're in a line of cars.

"Did you bring me to the border?" you exclaim groggily, still in a sleepy voice.

"Good morning" he answers instead.

You rub yoou eyes, settling into the passenger seat.

"You're not going to kidnap me, right?" you question, half joking half serious.

Logan laughs, "Not only that. I'm also going to throw your body in a mass grave"

"It's not funny," you pout, although you're laughing too.

Once you've crossed the border, Logan drives a few more minutes, until he reaches a restricted area.

“I live here” he answers before you can ask, “saves rent and questions”

After opening the locks, you can better appreciate the place. Well, appreciate may not be the right word.

“It's an abandoned smelting plant” you voice out loud.

Logan just nods. You realize that he didn't like the comment, so you try not to talk about it anymore.

“Come” he gets out of the car, going to open your door. He offers you a hand, and you fail to hide your smile.

“You didn't miss this time, huh? Quite a gentleman” you praise. Then, add jokingly, “if you choose to kill me, at least I'll die taken care of".

“Stop talking nonsense and go inside” he scolds but smiles.

Inside, the abandoned plant is exactly what you expected.

"We're alone" Logan says, after leaving to check. He opens the door to his room, letting you in. There's not much inside, just a bed and scattered things. A yellowish light begins to filter through the broken glass. "I'mma change. Be right back".

You begin to explore your surroundings, to avoid thinking about the impact of the situation. Two things could happen: leave or stay. Maybe everything was going too fast, but you prided yourself on your spontaneity, often confused with impulsiveness. Others would say it was your naive nature: too innocent for your own good.

What had led you to accept without further ado? Was trust enough, that you had even fallen asleep in his car?

"S'rry for the wait"

You notice that Logan's gotten rid of his formal attire, leaving him in just slacks and an old white tank top. His muscles flex with every movement, making you swallow involuntarily. He still retains his extraordinary physique, despite his greying hair. She can't help but stare at the scars that cover his exposed skin, her fingers itching to trace them.

"Haven't they told ya' t's rude to stare?"

You look away, embarrassed. Logan walks over to the bed, bumping into you in the process, bodies barely touching. Still, an electric shock runs through you. You hug yourself, scared, aware of the effect he has on you.

"Logan" she dares to ask, "what are we doing?"

He finally looks at you. You feel naked under his intense gaze.

"What do you want us to do?"

His voice comes out low, like a growl. You stand in place stiff, unable to form a word.

"Come on, honey", the nickname comes out of his lips so easily, it hurts. "Are ya losing your voice now? Got into my car a while ago without thinkin', what's changed?"

You slowly approach Logan, each stride calculated. He watches you in silence, a silence as hostile as the wind hitting the broken windows, watching you remove your clothes, until all that's left is your bra and that skimpy skirt, as if you knew he liked it.

"Logan…" you whisper his name like a prayer, letting yourself fall on his legs. He holds you with his hard calloused fingers, like a promise.

"Use your words, sweet thing" the trepidation condenses between, "we're grown up now, aren't we? Use your words"

Don't let me fall. Don't let me go. Don't leave me.

If by words he meant feeling your lips against his, it's enough to have Logan following his impulses, using his strength to embrace your body until they feel like one, the scars on his hands feeling like your own. Your lips move in sync, and it's almost so casual, so learned, so meant to be, that fear appears in Logan, soon forgotten with the symphony of moans that come from your lips.

"Tell me" he pauses, breaking away from the kiss (something you don't like and express in the form of a pout), "what do you want?"

Logan tastes like cigars and whiskey, a combination you hate and the reason you quit your old job at the bar, but on his lips, it's an intoxicating taste.

"I want you, Logan" you whisper, hot breath against his skin, “you”.

He resumes the kiss, an electric shock of hunger and need between you: lips parted, colliding, teeth almost clashing against each other.

His fingers hesitate with a delicacy that belies his rough touch, the tips of his worn fingers lifting the fragile cloth of your skirt first, revealing soaking wet panties he goes crazy just at the sight of. The smell is sugary, sicklingly, so now he's hard and pulling at the clasp of your bra first, exposing your nipples, which he rolls and pinches mercilessly. A gasp escapes you—then another, and another as Logan pushes his thigh between your legs. The friction is delicious, almost painful against your pulsing center.

His hand firm up his position, securing itself onyour bare legs as you digs her nails into him. His labored moans turn into a guttural growl.

“You think I’m not capable?” he mocks, stealing another moan from her, “that I can’t keep up with you, you pretty young thing?”

You deny it, but Logan takes it upon himself to show you that he can take you like he's in heat, the ghost of his old self taking over in his almost animal way of fucking you, hips arched, muscles flexed and tense, his teeth appearing every time he opens his mouth, reminding you of fangs. They dig into your exposed skin, leaving bruises that will take time to disappear from your shoulders and neck, marking what belongs to him.

The hardness of his skin meets your soft when he grabs you by the waist.

"Look at you" it slips from his tongue, ecstatic. He's a goner, saliva dripping from the messy and sloppy kisses he leaves through your collarbone, "so good and so pure. I bet you're innocent, that you haven't seen what I've seen..."

His pupils darken, a strange mix between torment and desire in his gaze. Hungry and violent.

"Will you let me show you how's a real man s'ppossed to treat a woman?"

He feels shame settle in his belly, the hunger to possess her almost virgin body fueling his dark desire of errasing her sweet smile until she's an unintelligible mess of sobs. To show her what she would complain about, so she'll never slettle for less. So you can feel what it's to be taken care of―handled. And then he'll fill you up with his seed, so no other man will take what's his. His sweet little thing. Oh, he's so going to hell for this.

But maybe he likes pain.

"That's it, honey" he plays with the fabric of your wet panties, pulling at the loose threads in the delicate fabric. "Let me show you".

You take it off, and Logan lies back against the bed, spreading his legs and unbuttoning his belt and pants―a clear invitation to repeat the previous position, except this time, his hands are on top of your hips, squeezing the soft skin. He doesn't take his eyes off you, his gaze reserved only on you. If the adrenaline from before pushed you, now the confidence gained motions you to finish the task. It's just the push you need, remembering that this is what it feels like to be with a real man as you throw a leg over his hips, sitting your ass right on top of the bulge marked on his underwear.

“Right… there…” he barely manages to formulate a coherent train of words, the years of lack of help in attending to his needs leading to overstimulation, “good girl.”

The compliment makes you increase the pace of your hips, his labored breaths a sound so rich and so manly it makes you squirm.

You need it desperately, rubbing your increasingly wet clit against him, riding the fabric. His scruffy beard barely hides the smug smile that graces his lips.

“Like this?” she whispers, and Logan can no longer contain himself, staring at his sweaty, ripped body failing to please her completely. It feels so good it aches, and he can't believe this is how he's ended. But if that means having your pretty face on top of him, covered in his marks, dripping on your joint sweats, well maybe it isn't so bad.

“How can I repay you, honey?” he pleads. He'll try he's best. He just wants to give you a glimpse of the way his whole world has light up ever since he stumbled in that greasy diner.

“You said you were going to show me” it comes out almost as a purr, expectant, “and I’m waiting”.

Logan takes it as his cue, pulling down his underwear until his member is exposed, chuckling darkly when you swallow at the sight.

"Don't tell me you're scared already" he teases, "look how you have me… you can't leave me like this…"

You stifle a scream as you feel every inch of his thick cock enter your sensible walls, trying to fit his member inside of your needy body.

"So tight for me" he stammers, using his hands to keep you in place, on top of him. The only sound in the silence of that place that smells of death is that of their skin colliding―vulgar, the obscenity highlighted by being the only thing that can be heard in the small room.

Even though his stamina has dropped over the years, he thrusts into you relentlessly. Logan fucks you senseless, his balls buried deep in your dripping pussy, a constant rhythm of avid suction with each entry to your walls.

He takes a moment to see you as you take something from the nighstand he doesn't remember putting there.

"Look what I found" you whisper in the middle of your moans. Logan recognizes the shine of metal in front of his eyes, "so Wolverine?"

You say it so easily, like it's not the first time. With acceptance; it scares him.

Do you recognize him? Are you not scared? Why haven't your eyes go from curiosity and kindness to cold and rejection?

He should panic, rip off his dog tags from your hands and pretend he doesn't know who he used to be, but he's so deep inside you and so enraptured, he can only manage to gently take them from between your fingers and put them around your neck, the cold metal against your warm, bare skin creating an electric shock.

"I want to see them on you"

He likes to watch it hang over his face while you're on top, panting heavily as she repeats his name, slurring her words. It dangles with every thrust, the silver glistens in the seeping sun, just like the sweat that adorns her skin.

"Are you that needy of your old man? " he teases, caressing her. He smacks the curve of his ass, “You want more?”

His veiny length makes quick work of your needy hole, more moans escaping your lips.

“Shit,” you curse, wincing at the pain that begins to increase. “Yes, Logan. Just like that. Nobody ever treated me like that, nobody's made me feel like this-”

He moans, pleased with the praise, seeing he isn't as lacking as he thought. Making you feel good is his priority, but he won't lie and say he doesn't want to feel it too.

In an attempt to distract yourself, your eyes try to focus on him: searching his features, memorizing every scar, every wrinkle, every little grey hair.

“You’re perfect, Logan,” you mumble through a moan, the confession hiding more than you want to say and more than he cares to admit.

Before he can process it though, the fire in his stomach signals the arrival of his impending orgasm.

There's something delightful about the way you can barely speak, a mess of moans that sound like his name, eyes half-lidded and lips swollen alongside your messy hair.

He feels almost sick to be consuming something that doesn't and shouldn't belong to him. He doesn't deserve to have such a beautiful, young woman riding him while she clings to him like he's the last thing in this world, him: a worn, old man who can't keep up with her.

His member spasms, and it's got you feeling it all inside your walls, causing him to close his eyes in the process as well.

It's too soon, Logan thinks in shame, but it's been so long and you feels so good, he let's it go:

Thick whips of his cum shoot out of his member, drawing out more than you would've imagined. You don't have much time to think about it, for the orgasm hits you immediately, fingers curling and eyes rolling to the back of your skull.

Logan feels his tip getting wetter, and the extra lubrication is a nice finishing touch.

“God,” he gasps, “what a mess…”

You avoid looking at him, taking one of his hands in yours, kissing the red and violet painted knuckles. If you do, you'll give away what you feel, the same way her memory burns in Logan's chest, more now than ever, as his mouth tastes just like you.

Dependency.

Devotion. Absolute. Sick.

Maybe that was what he felt. This weird feeling. That abyss piercing his chest but never killing him (so much for regenerating...), pressing his heart with a crushing force whenever it threathened to beat again. Logan was content with rather nothing, always a man who didn't ask for much, and since the death of his family―the X-men, less.

"You should go" he mutters in defeat, the shame washing over. Even if he'll miss your warmth, even if he doesn't want you to leave at all. "It's for your own good, y/n. Pretend you don't know me and turn around. Go away" he insists yet gets stuck on his words, "you're not stupid. Then you'll know it's good for you and you'll never speak to me again"

He looks at the ground, cowardly, because he wants your lust filled warm look to be the last memory he remembers. Not whatever look you're giving him now.

So Logan closes his eyes and counts to ten. When he opens them, you'll be gone. It'll be a dream, something too good to be true. Short lived, like every good thing in his life.

"Logan..." you calls his name. So softly it seems like a breath.

You're still here.

"Logan" you call again, more firmly.

"Logan" you don't give up, cupping with one hand his face gently, "look at me".

When he looks up, he comes across a heartbreaking vision. You cry, tears falling like waterfalls down your cheeks. But that's not the most devastating thing, no: it's the look in your eyes, as if you've shared his pain. As if you've had suffered the same things he had suffered; a twisted reflection of him.

"Of course I understand you" you take his hands, and Logan feels that same strange warmth he felt the first time when your hands brushed his with the diner's menu. "I've also lost people… people I loved. Don't you think it hurts me to see the world go on as if nothing happened? Everyone forgets, Logan. But I can't; there's not a day that goes by when I don't think about them"

For a moment, you stop crying, and the hidden internal turmoil he tried so hard to decipher finally makes sense.

"I don't know what you've been through either, but I can promise you, that I understand you more than you think…" it seems like you'll say something else, but you stop and say instead. "Think, Lo: would these people want to see you like this?"

"It's what I deserve" he murmurs barely, his voice constipated but without shedding a single tear.

"It's not what we want, Logan. Please" you sniff, pained "stop being so hard on yourself".

"I'm not who you think I am" he insists. You're still naked on his bed, and he feels dirty for having you like this. For taking you to his home and fucking you raw out of your innocence. "I'm not a good person."

"No, Logan" you seem hurt by that statement. You trace one of his most recent scars with a touch so compassionate, that he feels your fingertips burn, "you are a hero".

Your words were so sweet, so comforting. He wanted to sink into your lap, which smelled like flowers and tasted like safety. A home; a life that had been taken from him. He wanted to believe everything you said―feel who you believed he was. Not this pathetic, tired and apathetic version of himself, but the old version: the version that inspired respect, that despite his tough exterior, had a family he loved. Because he had a heart. Now he feels like he has no soul: no purpose, nothing.

But maybe you are the answer.

Before he can change his mind, you blurt out “can I stay?”

That morning, in that old bed that creaks under his weight, Logan discovers that feeling alive again isn't so bad.

[separatist-apologist]

The Prophecy

Summary: No one has seen or heard from Elain Archeron in two months…until she turns up one day in the Spring Court with no memory of where she's been or what she's been doing.

Tamlin and Lucien will have to work together to untangle the mystery of Elain's missing memories.

Surprise, @olenvasynyt- I was your secret santa! I hope you enjoyed spending time together as much as I did- and I hope you enjoy this gift as well!

@acotargiftexchange

Read on AO3

-

She woke up on the damp, forest floor beneath a blanket of twinkling stars. Her breath curled around her face like shadows, dancing through the cold, midnight air like lovers. Elain Archeron lay flat in the grass, her skin so cold it burned. 

Elain Archeron had merely closed her eyes for a moment on the Summer Solstice, exhausted from the constant partying that kept her up into the wee hours of the morning. How she’d gotten here was a mystery. 

Where was she? Elain forced herself to sit up, her once beautiful, purple gown stained with mud and what appeared to be blood. The sleeves were ripped, the dress itself tattered and torn so it appeared to be more rags than anything. No shoes, which meant she had to walk. Elain took a step, causing shooting pain to scream up her left shin, settling in her knee.

She gasped, leaning against a nearby tree trunk as she tried to gather her bearings. It should have been warm—it was still summer. This felt more like the final frost before spring than a warm, summer evening. 

“Hello?” Elain called out, surprised to find her voice cracked, the words burning in her throat. It was as if she’d screamed at the top of her lungs for hours, shredding her vocal cords. She was terrified to see herself in the mirror.

“Hello?” she tried again, noting that the forest had become eerily still. No bugs chirping, no wind rustling leaves, no animals scurrying about. Just the sound of her breath, waiting for whatever had silenced the world around her. She’d noticed when a High Lord approached, the world seemed to react with the same reverence so many others did. As if it could sense all that power, too.

“Rhys?”

It wasn’t Rhys that appeared. She knew that creature, with the glowing green eyes and the massive, elk like horns, that suddenly appeared before her. He’d once broken into her home and stolen away her sister. Elain wrapped her arms around her body to try and hide the trembling that overtook her. It hurt to stand, to hold herself upright.

She wanted to lay back in the grass. “I…” she tried to say something, swaying ever so slightly on her feet. In a moment, the creature was gone, replaced by a man she’d seen, too. Tamlin, of the Spring Court, caught her before she collapsed.

“Elain Archeron?” he asked, the disbelief in his voice plain. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Dead?” 

Why would she be dead? Elain pushed weakly at Tamlin’s chest for all the good it did. He was warm and strong and uninjured and she was none of those things. He’d begun walking, holding her close enough to leech some of the heat from his skin. “What did you do to me?”

Tamlin only shook his head, his jaw clenched. “Archerons,” he grumbled softly, offering her no other information. Each step jostled her body, causing her bones to rattle beneath her skin. It was agony, pure misery of the highest order.

“Take me home,” Elain tried to demand, but the words came out small and soft as though a child spoke them. Tamlin didn’t acknowledge her, either. He merely stared straight ahead, his expression unreadable. 

He didn’t take her home—not that Elain was sure she had one. Instead, he took her to a sprawling manor adorned with creeping ivy and slumbering roses. The drive was dotted by tulips, peeking from just beneath that first frost as though to warn the others it was safe to erupt. The world was still in his arms, though behind her, she could hear life reemerge, chattering loudly like the gossips they were. 

“Is it just us?” she asked when he took her into the warmth. Had Feyre truly lived here, she wondered? It was so quiet, so empty and clean. Tamlin’s boots echoed off the checked marble floors while each inhale of air seemed to echo, making it seem as if a million frustrated men lurked just out of view.

The manor had seen better days. Walls that had once been papered were torn apart, the strips still hanging where the glue held fast. Wooden railings were splintered and doors missing entirely, only noticeable as they passed. Tamlin took her up the stairs, past a room that was entirely covered in ivy. 

That wasn’t the room she was put in. Several doors down, in a room that reeked heavily of dust, Elain was set back on her feet.

“Don’t move,” Tamlin ordered. She wanted to ask where she’d go given there seemed to be no one around. She could have screamed, she supposed, though what good would that do? Elain did as she was told, assuming Tamlin was going to get someone helpful. Someone she wanted to see—like Feyre, or Nesta, or even—

“Lucien?”

Lucien Vanserra appeared in the doorway with his shirt half on, hair a mess. He was barefoot and his pants were unlaced which made her nervous. 

“You’re…” he yanked his shirt wholly over his toned chest, swallowing audibly. “Do you have any idea how worried everyone has been? Where were you?”

“What are you talking about?” she replied, drawing her legs up to her chin as he stalked into the room. With a snap of his fingers both the fireplace and the faelights overhead ignited, illuminating the dark room. 

“You’ve been missing for two months,” he told her, his voice lethally soft. Lucien was angry. 

She shook her head back and forth. “No, that’s not…that’s not true—”

“Where were you, Elain?”

“Nowhere!” she exclaimed, holding up a hand to keep him from coming any closer. “I haven’t—you’re lying.”

“You sound just like your sister,” he hissed, half turning for the hall where Tamlin stood, watching the pair warily. 

“Take me back.”

“No.”

That came from Tamlin, who’d entered the room quietly. “She stays here for now. No word to anyone until we know where she was and what she was doing. After everything Rhys did…I want to know exactly where she was.”

“I wasn’t anywhere!” Elain repeated, but Lucien and Tamlin weren’t listening. They were facing off with one another, some strange tension hanging in the air.

“I don’t work here anymore,” Lucien said in a whisper soft voice.

“Then leave,” Tamlin replied, stalking toward Lucien. They were matched for height, for strength, though Elain suspected Tamlin still had the upper hand given the power he commanded.

She’d never quite figured out how magic worked in Prythian, though to be fair, she’d never really tried, either. 

“Run off, and tell Rhysand what we have…and let him know I’m not sending her back. She’s a threat, and for all I know, she’s his spy.”

“I’m not a spy,” Elain chimed in, though it didn’t matter. Neither one of them acknowledged anything she’d said, too busy with whatever argument was clearly about to erupt. 

“You’re a fucking asshole, you know that? Just ask me to stay,” Lucien snarled.

Tamlin wasn’t going to. Even Elain, who barely knew him at all, could see that pride, or stubbornness, or some other emotion entirely, would prevent him from asking what Lucien wanted to hear. Lucien’s gaze flicked back toward Elain, though all she could see were the brutal scars and the mechanical eye, visible from his profile. 

“You know where my allegiance lies,” Lucien murmured, unclenching his fists. Elain didn’t know, though she assumed it was not to Rhysand. 

“Then she remains here until we learn what she was doing out in the forest and where she’s been. I doubt it's a coincidence she just so happens to show up here after I closed my borders.”

They both glanced back at her with matching expressions of distrust. 

“They’ll realize she’s here after a time,” Lucien said slowly. “Rhys’s network of spies are endless.”

“Then we close the estate to everyone but the three of us. Ward it so no one comes in or out—”

“Ward it with blood?” Lucien breathed, his brown skin paling ever so slightly. 

“Mine and yours,” Tamlin said, his jaw set. “She doesn’t leave this manor until I know what Rhys was doing with her. This reeks of one of his games. You scent it, too.”

Lucien and Tamlin both looked at her again. “She smells like magic.”

“I have magic,” Elain snapped, frustrated with the pair of them. “And you can’t hold me here.”

“Watch me.”

“Not forever,” she breathed, noting how they both took a healthy step backward. “No wards can hold me.”

Tamlin blew out a sigh. “They will for now. Go,” he added, sending Lucien into the hall. Elain considered who she felt safer around—neither, truthfully, but she thought she’d prefer if Lucien remained in the room with her. Lucien, too, hesitated for a moment before doing as he was told. 

“Traitor,” she whispered at his retreating back. He stiffened, but swept out of the room just as he was told to do. 

“The only traitor is you,” Tamlin voiced, the words empty of ire or malice. He didn’t give her an opportunity to respond, leaving just behind Lucien so she was alone in that room. Alone in the Spring Court, which Feyre sometimes likened to the Court of Nightmares. This is where it had all begun, truly. Had Feyre not killed that wolf, had there never been a curse swirling around her youngest sister, Elain would still be human. A familiar anger rose through her, heating her blood until she felt the urge to scream.

She didn’t, though. 

Elain merely stood, looking about the dusty room. The cell was different, though the manner of prison remained the same. Feyre and Rhys offered the illusion of independence though she’d often caught Azriel trailing her in the markets—reporting back, if she knew him. 

And she didn’t. 

At least Tamlin was up front. He wasn’t allowing her to leave until he understood where she’d been and what she was doing. What, then, she wondered? When she herself didn’t know what she’d been doing. She knew one thing, though—she wasn’t spying on behalf of Rhys or Feyre. She’d offered to help scry only once, and after a little pushing, had been told she’d been voted against.

Lucien appeared in the doorway again, pulling his long, thick hair up off his face. “It’s the kind of thing he’d do, you know.”

“Lock up a woman?” Elain snapped.

Lucien’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment. “Erase your memories, Elain. Though…I think he’d do that, too.”

Ah. She’d assumed he was speaking of Tamlin. “You don’t know Rhys very well.”

Lucien’s temper seemed to flare, causing his cheeks to darken. “I know him better than you ever could. Sending you on some absurd mission only to erase your memories is the exact kind of thing he’d pull. He wouldn’t even be sorry, he’d just say it was for some greater purpose.”

“Let me go,” she ordered, well aware he wasn’t going to. 

Lucien shook his head. “Tamlin is right on this account.”

“Even if I knew where I’d been, I’d never tell you,” she whispered, hatred crawling up her throat. Elain felt like luggage, dragged around without any say in where she went, and forced to be wherever she was placed. She didn’t want to be in the Spring Court, but…she didn’t want to be in Night Court, either.

The realization was a revelation. Getting out of Night Court was next to impossible because Elain was always being watched by someone. If not Azriel, the twins who moved from room to room with her, or her sisters, or Rhys or his friends, or—

But here she was alone. Only Tamlin and Lucien for company, and they were already fighting. They’d barred the manor from anyone leaving or entering that wasn’t them, had used their blood to key the lock. Elain, though, knew there was always a way out of magic. She could see it in her dreams, with her eyes closed, could visualize all the threads of Tamlin’s wards. 

And perhaps, if she was patient and unassuming, she could simply pluck one of those threads, slip in between the warding chains, and make her way into another court. Another continent, even. Somewhere she could live a life of her own making and not one ruled by more powerful men. 

Lucien was watching her, the silence between them stretched thin. Both eyes of russet and metal were narrowed and she wondered if he, too, couldn’t hear her thoughts. 

“Get some rest, Elain,” he told her, before adding he was just two doors down the hall. Elain waited for him to sweep out before she jumped off the bed, her own temper besting her as she slammed the door. That wouldn’t do. She needed to let them see what they wanted to see—soft, sweet, unassuming. No one to concern themselves with. Practically a child, too stupid and helpless to do anything for herself.

Gripping the handle, Elain forced herself to breathe. She’d felt like this before, had felt the rage building too often as of late. Darkness blurred the edge of her vision, and if she wasn’t careful, she’d lose herself in the world in between the one she currently stood in and what lay beyond. 

Deep breaths.

She was in control.

—

Lucien had always been a practiced liar. 

That didn’t make walking into Feyre and Rhysand’s home, armed with multiple lies, feel any better. He had to remind himself to breathe normally, to keep the stench of fear off him. Tamlin had shifted into the beast beside him which should cover anything related to Elain, though he’d also refused to see her that morning and scrubbed his skin raw.

It wasn’t like he’d been fucking her, anyway. Whatever traces of her could be easily explained by the items of hers he did have. Lucien was supposed to be tracking her, an impossible task when Rhys had so much of his territory marked off limits to anyone but his innermost circle.

That didn’t include Lucien. 

Rhys was at his desk, Feyre in a chair facing the fireplace. Thankfully the spy master was nowhere to be seen, meaning fewer eyes to witness the lies about to come out of his mouth.

It would be the last time Lucien came into this home and he knew it. Rhys and Feyre didn’t seem to, given the warmth in which they looked at him. They’d know, soon enough. Lucien could by himself time, but inevitably someone would spread word that would reach Rhys’ network of spies.

Tamlin wasn’t prepared to handle the wrath of Rhys. Lucien would have to make him ready. Or they’d hand over Elain—either way, Lucien knew he was never going to get the life he wanted. There was peace in the realization. Life would go back to how it had been before Feyre dropped into his life.

“How is Spring?” Rhys began, just as he always did.

Lucien launched into his report, handing the paper to Feyre who merely scanned it over. This was all perfunctory. 

“He’s closed the borders to Spring,” Lucien added casually, hoping Rhys, who was back to scanning his own paperwork, wouldn’t care. That was too much to hope for. Violet eyes snapped to Lucien’s face, searching his expression. Lucien knew better, now—his walls were well fortified. If they wanted to break into his mind, they’d have to use force to do it.

“Why?”

“He’s tired of Azriel circling over his home,” Lucien replied dryly. “Isn’t he supposed to be stealthy?”

Rhys didn’t respond to that, though Feyre’s brow furrowed. “Is he allowing you back?”

“Tentatively,” Lucien lied. Better to keep up the ruse as best he could. “I’ve been searching the grounds, but no one has seen your sister. Tamlin doesn’t have her.”

Feyre sighed, running her fingers through her hair. “I don’t understand where she went.”

“Are you sure she even left Night?” Lucien questioned like the liar he was. “Maybe she ran off with someone.”

Rhys’s eyes narrowed. “Like who?”

A knot formed in his stomach, a memory slamming into him with such ferocity it stole his breath. Solstice, a near kiss, and an argument had loud enough Lucien had heard it echoing upward through the vents. “You know.”

“He wouldn’t.” Rhys said it so flatly, inviting no follow-up conversation. Ferye’s eyes were wide, her curiosity palpable. So Rhys hadn’t told her? Lucien guessed he wasn’t the only liar in the Night Court. 

“Did you question him like you questioned me?”

They both knew Rhys hadn’t. Cassian and Azriel were excluded from the prying Lucien had willingly subjected himself to. While Nesta was out combing the streets of Velaris and begging Helion and Thesan to help her, Rhys was still spying on Tamlin. 

Rhys didn’t respond to Lucien’s challenge, though his fingers curled tightly around the arm of his chair in a mockery of what he’d like to do to Lucien’s throat. The feeling was mutual. Lucien stood, delighted he could storm out with the air of a wounded male. Turning Rhys’s attention inward would only last so long—but there was doubt there. Just enough to make Rhys question his own friends.

Oh, what a gift. If he and Tamlin were getting along better, Lucien would have brought Tamlin the news alongside a bottle of wine. 

“Let me know if she was with him. I’ll send them a gift.”

“Lucien,” Feyre called, but he’d made his dramatic exit and wasn’t going to stop so Feyre could try and convince him to see reason. Feyre should have been his friend—she’d been his, at the expense of every other relationship in his life. How had she repaid him? Lucien knew if Azriel had hidden Elain, Feyre wouldn’t tell him the truth. She’d lie, she’d cover, she’d let him continue searching beneath every stone, every fresh mound of dirt, trying to find her. And she wouldn’t be sorry for any of it.

That was what stung the most. She’d always pick Rhysand over everyone, even the people who’d loved her when no one else had. It wasn’t personal, he decided as he stepped into the crisp autumn air. He simply had to look out for himself for once. 

Feyre caught him just at the edge of the ward, finger’s curling around his wrist. Lucien didn’t jerk back, though he didn’t immediately stop what he was doing, either. He took another step so she was still within it, he without. Just in case he needed to make a quick exit. 

“Azriel wouldn’t—he wouldn’t—”

“He would,” Lucien replied flatly. “Whatever they had going on, your mate knew and concealed it from everyone. If he doesn’t want to look at his friends, fine. I’m done being interrogated, though.”

Rhys must have told her everything, was likely listening to the conversation in Feyre’s mind. He’d never have a moments peace when it came to Rhys, the nosy fuck. 

“He would have told us.”

“And you would have told me?” Lucien questioned. 

Feyre shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

“Right. No one in Prythian has seen Elain in two months, and every court has been thoroughly searched—”

“Except Autumn,” Feyre told him. “Beron won’t…he wouldn’t tell us anything.”

Of course he wouldn’t. Beron jealously guarded the borders of his home and hated Rhysand. He wasn’t about to let a foreign court's troops into his territory. Even Helion had bristled, vocalizing that it felt more like a mapping of territory than a search for a missing woman. After all, they’d all agreed to use their own manpower to search for her, which hadn’t been good enough. It had to be Cassian’s warriors or Azriel’s spies—no one else could be trusted. 

“Ask Eris.”

“We did—he’s a liar, though.”

“So is your mate,” Lucien snapped, frustrated with the same circular conversation. “What do you even know about any of this, Feyre?”

Her eyes sharpened. “Excuse me?”

Lucien shrugged, jamming his hands into his pockets. He was so, so angry. “From where I’m standing, it looks to me as if he doesn’t tell you much. Lies of omission are still lies, you know.”

“I don’t think you get to tell me about my relationships,” she bit out. Cruel, but fair. 

“Maybe not. But I’ve done my part in this, and I’m tired of being viewed with hostility and suspicion. I’m not returning for the time being—Tamlin needs help strengthening Spring, and frankly, it would be nice to be around people who enjoy my company.” Elain notwithstanding.

“Lucien—”

There was a warning to her voice, likely echoing whatever threats Rhys was making in her mind. Feyre, ever the good little mouthpiece. She’d say it all softer, sweeter, but she’d say it all the same. 

“I know. If I leave, I’ll never see Elain again. So your mate has all but said—but she’s gone, and I don’t think she wants to be found. That’s her choice, and this is mine.”

And then he winnowed off, needing both to have the last word and to get away from them before he dug his own grave. Lucien’s feet slammed against springy, fresh grass and the unchanging season before him. It was sunny, the bird chirping merrily as a lilac scented breeze wafted his hair. Gods above, he shouldn’t have said any of that. Regret slammed against him hard as he plodded back to the manor, replaying the conversation with Feyre and Rhys over and over. Why had he said any of that? He should have kept it cool, should have shut his mouth.

Who cared about his feelings? He’d made a mild enemy of Feyre when he’d meant to slip out unnoticed entirely. 

Though, it did amuse him to think of Rhys going through Azriel’s life. Had Lucien planted enough doubt? Just enough to cause a small rift among the inner circle? Probably not—Azriel would allow it, Rhys would endure, and their gazes would turn toward the south once more.

Still, a little time was better than nothing. As Lucien stepped through the shimmering ward, his blood reacting the key that allowed him in, he figured he had just enough time to figure out what Elain had been doing before he dropped her back off at Rhys’s doorstep.

Whether her disappearance was yet another lie from the High Lord of Night. 

Lucien plodded up the stairs, pulled by the knowledge she was there, hostage and still close enough he could see her, if he wanted. And he did—he’d been dreaming about her the night before. He’d be thinking about her until the day he died, which, if he was lucky, would be mercifully short. 

She wasn’t in her room. Lucien followed the thread between them, winding down the empty, ruined corridors of the once splendid manor. It was as if he could see the damage through her eyes and all of it spoke to Tamlin’s temper, his rage, his refusal to let Feyre go. Lucien sighed as he stepped into the music room. Elain was seated on the bench, her fingers hovering over the keys.

“Do you play?” he asked, reclining against the door frame. Her back was to him, long, thick curls half pinned by a pretty, white bow he distinctly remembered being given to her sister among all the finery Feyre had once had, here. Not that she’d ever worn any of it. It was pretty in Elain’s hair. 

She didn’t respond. She didn’t move, either—Lucien expected her to tense up, to betray she’d heard his voice. Strange, he thought, pushing off the frame to walk to her. “Elain?” He reached the piano, overlooking the ruined gardens just outside. Dust covered the keys and the chaise nearby, though it did little to stop her from coming in. He was hit with a visceral memory of he and Feyre, embarrassingly drunk while he played at the keys and taught Feyre all the filthy lyrics to songs he’d once found impossibly amusing. 

“Elain?”

Lucien dropped to one knee at her side, head cocked. Elain was staring at a sheaf of paper without moving save for her eyes, which seemed to be reading the notes on the page at impossible speed.

Lucien touched her knee, hoping it would bring her back. She turned so suddenly he would have fallen backward had he not been stabilized on his knee. It wasn’t her, he realized, but her magic staring out at him through a blue gray film akin to the fog that had once poured from the cauldron. 

Elain opened her mouth, but it wasn’t her voice that emerged. 

Blooming rot and ruined sun

Brought forth with magic to a golden land

Wind and flame see the night undone

Brings new life into a barren land. 

She slumped forward, saved from crashing to the floor by Lucien’s quick reflexes.

“Elain?” he asked, genuinely afraid of her for the first time since he’d met her. What did it mean?

“Why are you touching me?” she asked, pulling away. She sat on the floor while Lucien crouched over her, unsure what  to do.

“What you said…the prophecy…Elain, what does it mean?”

She blinked those wide, doe-like eyes up at him.

“What prophecy, Lucien?”

[marvelstoriesepic]

Angstober (day 18)

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

Prompt: Falling Stars

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: Two idiots not being able to confess their feelings; sad!Bucky, sad!Reader; Bucky is a playboy; hurt myself with this

Angstober Masterlist

You wince at the sharp clinking of your keys as you turn the right one in the deadbolt of your front door. It echoes around you, sounding in the hallway, way too loud for this hour.

You hadn’t intended for it to get this late. But Wanda had been bubbling over with stories about this new guy she was crushing on, Vision, and Nat just couldn’t resist tossing in sly jokes about his name every few minutes.

Also, there’s that something you have to talk about with Bucky. That something you’ve been trying to work up courage for to finally tell him. But you rather spend your time with distracting yourself.

So, you’re not that surprised that the planned girls' night out stretched far after midnight.

Fortunately, you’d kept yourself in check with the drinks, just enough to stay warm but not enough to make the way home fuzzy. You’re grateful you’ve got nothing to do tomorrow, besides perhaps a bit laundry, as you feel the tiredness creep in. Slipping off your shoes with a quiet sigh, you let the relief flood through your slightly sore feet.

The apartment is shrouded in soft shadows, and you decide against switching on any lights. The last thing you want is for that sliver of brightness to seep under Bucky’s door, disturbing his sleep. Instead, you use the wall and furniture for guidance, fingers skimming the cool wood.

Something halts you in your movements.

There is a hunched figure sitting outside on the fire escape, motionless, his silhouette outlined by the dulled glow of stars, the moon, and the city lights. You would have been scared, would have felt a shudder running down your spine, if you weren’t so familiar with the figure sitting there.

Concern replaces the tiredness in your veins and a frown pulls at your brows and twitches at the corners of your lips. What would pull Bucky out here, so late in the night, with all lights off, his gaze so intently fixed on the heavens as though he hopes for answers to questions too heavy to voice, too ingrained in his mind for you to know.

Though you have to admit to yourself, maybe you do know.

Things between Bucky and you have been distant lately, for the past few weeks. And that’s nobody’s fault but yours.

He’s been nothing but patient and kind as you’d started retreating from your usual nights spent watching movies, your late-night talks, mornings in the kitchen where you surrounded yourselves with freshly made pancakes and coffee, playing silly games as to who would find the loudest creaking floorboard of your apartment.

He noticed, and it was clear in his eyes how much it troubled him, throwing you a dim smile and a no problem doll! We’ll catch up on that later, yeah? after you gave him another excuse.

It’s not like you haven’t endured this before. Hell, you have. But it never gets easier to have sleepless and plagued nights filled with muffled sighs and moans creeping into the quiet of your room, haunting your rest, fending off nice dreams, and what hurts the most - penetrating the feelings you never planned on letting out. The misplaced feelings for your best friend that are nothing but the cause of your rising misery.

And, well, everybody has a breaking point.

It came one morning, just a few weeks ago when you left your room in hopes of covering up the bags under your eyes to find a trail of clothes scattered from the hallway to his door. His shirt and jacket tangled with something feminine and delicate - clothes they seemingly couldn’t wait to get rid of, hurriedly shedding them to leave them where they’d fallen.

It stung. God, it stung.

You were frozen, standing there and staring at the vivid remnants of the night he shared with someone else. Someone who either left with Bucky’s clothes on or was still lying there in his bed, perhaps wrapped up in his arms, relishing in the intimacy he gave so easily to others.

It hit you all at once, like a punch to your gut, your back, your face, even your legs because they felt so weak, so damn wobbly, and you thought about curling up on the floor, sinking into your sorrow, letting it wrap its arms around you if Bucky’s wouldn’t do it.

The pain was so sharp you could scarcely breathe through it, feeling it slice and tear, unraveling in your chest as each shatter of your heart was pulled in a different direction. A foreign ache pressed horribly against your ribs and you were almost too numb to feel the hot and unbidden burn of tears gathering under your lashes. You turned away, but the hurt followed.

And that’s when you decided you couldn’t keep doing this. Couldn’t keep hearing the muffled grunts and groans slipping through the walls more nights than not, the aching signs of yet another conquest tucked under his sheets. While you lie awake, barely breathing, as if being still enough would somehow make it hurt less, though it never did.

Then, after staring at the ceiling blankly even after it had gone silent, morning would inevitably come and you’d listen to Bucky usher the next girl out. He’d always keep his words polite but you hear that undertone of frustration easily crawling into his voice. It’s masked, but you hear it. You hear everything. Because he’s Bucky and you know him better than yourself.

Or that’s what you think.

You’d grown adept at reading the pauses, the tired restraint in his tone when she wants to make breakfast with him, refusing to leave. Even that barely audible sigh of relief as the door clicked shut, and the way he always stays rooted a few seconds too long before moving over to the kitchen and making you breakfast and coffee.

You only ever manage to leave your bed, trying to unhook this secret ache from your heart, when the smell of pancakes reaches you behind your door.

There was one time when Bucky couldn’t hold himself back like he usually did. You heard a girl tinker around in the kitchen through the door but weren’t in the state of mind to do something about it. But when your best friend left the bathroom to rush to the kitchen there was a loud crash, resounding around your shared space. It led to you sitting up in bed. Or perhaps you sat up because of the frustrated curses that left Bucky’s mouth.

They weren’t directed at the girl but then she started laughing, only exclaiming an oops that held a seductive tone, not sounding sorry at all for dropping something that wasn’t her own. It had been your favorite mug, you later found out.

“Alright, you need to go. Now. Come on, don’t make this difficult, I want you out.”

Bucky’s tone was clipped and tense, not necessarily raised but there was an edge to his voice you were surprised to hear. Never had he spoken to you like that before, never would you imagine he even could. And although this wasn’t at all directed at you, it surprised you nevertheless.

The girl left without a fuss.

But unfortunately, she didn’t leave with your bleeding heart. None of those girls did.

So, no you couldn’t keep doing this. And that’s when you started looking. Quietly, behind your closed door, without a word to your best friend, scrolling through endless apartment listings, combing through flatmate ads and real estate sites in search of an escape. You need distance, a new place to gather yourself and your feelings, even if that means giving up the ease and warmth of sharing a home with Bucky.

A few days ago you found a bright, little one-bedroom in Brooklyn, neat and sunlit, with a price tag that didn’t make your stomach drop. It was clean, affordable, everything you could want.

It just didn’t have Bucky.

He wouldn’t be just across the hall anymore.

No more of him, sprawled out on the couch with that boyish grin, claiming he didn’t wait for you to come home but whining when you were about to retreat to your room.

No more cozy breakfasts together with you making scrambled eggs or him making pancakes, the start of the day only just lighting up your kitchen.

No more laughing until your rips ached or sharing a blanket while trying to decipher the faded star constellations on the light-polluted night sky out on the fire escape.

No more rearranging your bookshelf in the hallway because Bucky’s nimble fingers deliberately destroyed your system once again, just so he had a reason to keep you out of your room. You never even thought about placing the shelf in your room in the first place.

And even though you haven’t yet found the courage to tell him, you know you have to. Because the appointment is set, a visit to your potential new apartment already on your calendar, and a part of you is resolved, even if it stings.

So yes, perhaps you do have an inkling of what’s weighing on Bucky’s mind tonight, might know some of the questions he’s casting into the unresponsive night sky. The thought twists inside you, pulling tight until it leaves a bitter taste at the back of your throat. The distance you built between you was never meant to hurt him. You never wanted him to feel confused, to wonder what had gone wrong, or to turn his gaze inward, picking himself apart in search of answers to questions you hadn’t dared voice.

But here he is, shoulders hunched under the weight of his own thoughts. Thoughts you had put there.

You can’t let him bear this.

Your feet carry you forward, steps carefully as you make your way to the fire escape. Slowly, watching for reactions from him, you slip out the window and settle down beside him on the cold metal. He gives you such a quick look, it’s hard to make out his features and angles his face downward a little, shadows lining his eyes.

With a heavy sigh, the sound trembling slightly, deep and unsteady, he readjusts his place on the ground, sitting up a little straighter and making enough room for you.

A dark blanket is draped around his shoulders and you watch him shift his arm, opening the space underneath it for you to sink into the warmth of the fabric. Without a word, you inch closer, settling into his side and he makes sure the blanket covers your form. You feel the warmth seep into your bones, though it’s not the blanket that gifts it to you.

Bucky doesn’t look your way, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the rooftops, but his arm settles securely around you. There’s a hesitance in his movements that makes your stomach churn uncomfortably but you try and let him ground you.

“Are you okay?”

Your question is soft as a breath, barely a whisper between the two of you. You search his profile, hoping he’ll at least give you anything, but his eyes remain fixed forward, jaw set tight, stubbornly resisting your gaze.

“I’m fine,” he then rasps, though the words sound brittle, cracked, like he hasn’t made use of his voice the whole day, roughened by hours of silence. His voice is thick, thicker than the blanket around your shoulders that’s supposed to keep out the cold, but a shudder runs down your spine nonetheless.

You keep watching him, unblinking, because he knows you see the lie. But he doesn’t take it back, doesn’t soften or explain, or even try to make it seem like he’s okay. Instead, he just sits there with those sad, distant eyes and slumped shoulders, lips pressed into a frown as his brows draw together in tired lines.

“No, you’re not.”

It’s gentle as you say it, careful. You can’t take your eyes off of him, watching his lips twitch in a humorless huff, a hollow, empty sound that’s swept away with the nightly breeze as soon as it leaves him. He takes a slow, steadying breath, as though the air itself might offer him something solid, and he clears his throat softly, eyes never leaving the stars.

You sit in the stillness, not even hearing the sounds of the city below, only hoping to hear him again, waiting for him to ask you what he meant to ask the night. But the silence stretches on, unbroken and filled with a tension you’re not used to feeling around Bucky.

Eventually, you avert your gaze and look out at the lights yourself, that’s wrapped in a darkness that usually feels comfortable. You’ve been in this position so many times before, sitting on the metal, cozying up against his side, with his arm slung over your shoulder, but there is so much space between you even though you feel the entirety of his left side pressed against your right.

You take a breath that fills you with a realization you’d like to swallow down again. This isn’t the moment to lay everything bare, to tell him what you know you have to, but in order to break through the barriers that built between you and Bucky, you’ll have to be honest. Yet, if you can’t bring yourself to speak of the feelings you’ve held so closely for him, then you’ll have to tell him the other truth. The one you’ve kept hidden for now. You’ll have to tell him you’re leaving, that soon there will be no more shared walls, no more lingering mornings, and touches on the couch during movie nights.

It’s the only way to unburden both of you, to allow him - and yourself - to stop searching the night for answers that have been locked in your heart all along.

This step away is the only way forward.

And he deserves to know. He deserves to experience it for himself.

“I have to tell you something.”

Your voice is once again just barely a murmur and this time it’s his turn to watch your profile, his eyes tracing your features as yours remain trained on the blurred constellation of city lights and their surrounding darkness, unseeing and unfocused.

Maybe he catches the undertone in your voice, that tremor of guilt, of reluctance - the suffocating fear that, once spoken aloud, your decision will become real. It won’t just be a simple hope to a relief anymore, it will be your reality and more than that - it will be Bucky’s too.

You pause, pulling in a shaky breath, feeling his steady gaze on you, waiting and patient like he always is. “I’ve been thinking. Lately. And I guess, maybe… I mean I believe it’s for the best-”

You let out a frustrated sigh, pressing your lips together, summoning every ounce of courage, forcing the words past the tightness in your throat.

“I’m planning on moving out.”

The words tumble from you in one rushed breath and you feel empty of air for a moment.

There’s no way you can keep breathing normally ever again at the sharp, strangled sound of Bucky’s own breath hitching, a choked inhale that makes your lungs gasp for a reprieve you’re not able to give, despite it being so easy.

Bucky goes impossibly still beside you, his shoulders no longer slumped but rigid, his body stiff as a board and his arm around you retreats slowly, almost mechanically. The warmth of his shoulder, which once felt so comforting, is now a firm weight against you. His gaze leaves needles prickling into your skin, so intense and confused, it fills you with a dread so unbearable, you wonder if you’ve made a mistake by telling him.

But there is no going back now.

“It wasn’t an easy decision, okay?” you start, trying to keep your voice as steady as it would go, but you know you fail. “And it’s not because of anything you did, or anything that’s happened between us, alright? I just… I just need this. For myself.”

Bucky still doesn’t say anything and you force yourself to meet his eyes. However, you couldn’t prepare yourself for what you see. The usually glowing blue of his eyes is pale and fractured with confusion and an exposed hurt so intense and laid open, it feels like a physical blow. You feel your heart screaming to take it back. To make what you said unheard.

You never meant for this - never intended to put that look in his eyes, to shove this desolation in his beautiful gaze, that sears its way into your chest, ripping it open to leave a gaping and bleeding wound.

“What did I do?” He doesn’t seem to manage anything other than a whisper, so soft, so fragile and broken it barely reaches you. Yet, it cuts deeper than anything he could have shouted, each word strained, painted with vulnerability. He sounds so small, so lost, a part of him crumbling in front of you, and the sight is enough to leave you torn.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Buck! Please, please believe me,” you beg, reaching out, but stopping short, fingers curling into your palms as you fight to keep yourself from holding him, from touching him like you always have. “I just… I have to deal with something, and I- I think it might be better this way.”

But his gaze doesn’t change, doesn’t yield to your explanation. The ache in his eyes is unforgiving, swirling in the wet sheen that has appeared with shock and a torment that seems to merge into something deeper, something that’s cutting him from the inside out.

You feel the sting behind your own eyes, hating how the tension pulls you further apart. Bucky’s eyes are rimmed red, faintly puffy and the sight grips you with fingers so bony, they leave marks on your skin. It’s a sign that whatever he’s holding inside, it’s something he’s struggled through alone already, something he’s been carrying before you came out here, something that’s been eating at him since the day you pulled back.

“You really want to do this?” It sounds as broken as the first time. Though this time he doesn’t seem to care what he sounds like anymore.

“I have to.”

He doesn’t respond. You don’t say more. You realize that no words, no explanations, could ease the ache you’ve cast into his eyes. No further explanation you could give him would uncoil the tightness in his shoulders, or soften the tension that has locked his body into a posture of heartache.

Even if you wanted to speak, you can’t. The knot in your throat has cemented itself, strangling any thought or apology before it can reach your lips. You hate it for letting anything pass in the first place.

You turn your gaze back to the city lights and hate the way they press on you. The glow of the streets and buildings you had looked upon so many times now feels lifeless, like an uninspired haze. There seems to be no color anymore, as though all the meaning has simply faded away, leaving only the dull aftermath of what you’ve set in motion.

A strained breath only leaves you, offering you no relief, and minutes stretch onward in excruciating stillness - one, two, five, maybe more, each one heavier than the last.

You still feel Bucky beside you, but never had you felt so detached. So apart from him in ways too painful to feel. But you have to feel it. Because it’s there. In every inch of space between your bodies.

It’s as though he’s fading from you, retreating into himself, covering himself with the hurt you laid out on him.

He’s sitting in the corner of your eye, breaths ragged and unsteady, yet he makes no move to contain it, no attempt to mask the sorrow that already drew him out here in the first place but feels so pronounced now. He’s letting it settle, letting it sink into him, surrendering to it.

You hate yourself for it. For the way, the words took shape, for the way they slipped past your lips, for the pain now etched into his features, and for the distance that feels too expansive to ever close with simple words.

He’ll understand eventually, you tell yourself, as if willing it into truth. Once you’ve moved out, once there’s finally a boundary between his life and yours, you’ll be able to breathe again, to find refuge from the endless loop of moments where he’s wrapped up in someone who isn’t you.

Maybe then you’ll be able to clear your head. Maybe the feelings twisting up your insides will loosen and fade if you’re lucky. Maybe you’ll be able to unravel them, to make sense of the longing that’s burrowed so deep it feels as if it’s become a part of you.

You could find a way to purge yourself of this deeply ingrained ache that thrums through your every thought of him. And then, with a little hope, you’ll be able to talk to him, as you used to, with honesty, ease, and that playful banter you miss so much, and this knot in your chest will dissolve, returning you to the friendship you both know best. So, maybe, freed from this unspoken tension, you’ll be able to look at him without feeling like you’re losing a little more of yourself with every passing glance.

You just need distance first.

And patience. A brutal patience, to endure the space that stretches between what is and what might be, to trust that the emotions which hold you close now might one day fade into the background, into something manageable, something you can breathe through.

And yet, sitting here beside him like you did so many times before, the silence heavy with words left unsaid, a part of you already knows that this patience you’re counting on, this idea that distance alone will fix what’s broken, may be the hardest illusion to cling to. But you have to try, for both your sakes, to believe there’s relief on the other side of goodbye.

Another minute goes by, stretching like the distance between you, pulling the silence tighter until the space between you feels like a chasm. You lift your glistening eyes to the night sky and something catches your attention. There is a streak of light brighter than the rest, sliding toward the earth in a slow, fading descent.

A falling star.

Its light shudders, then vanishes into the void, leaving you staring at a dark spot. Then, another appears, arcing through the dark sky, flaring for a heartbeat, and blinking away. Another follows, and another, an endless parade of wishes burning up in the night to disappear again.

You watch them fall, though with no joy. There’s no wonder, no awe, only an aching hollowness. You watch another of them light up and disappear because, at this moment, there is nothing else left to hold onto. These brief, dying sparks feel almost mocking, reminders of wishes made too late, of moments slipping out of reach before you even had the chance to claim them.

Out of the corner of your eye, you make out Bucky’s gaze lift, following the same fleeting lights. Make a wish. The thought echoes bitterly in your mind. The irony feels cruel, an old superstition dredged up in a moment where wishes hold little comfort.

But, despite yourself, you wonder what Bucky’s wish might be - what he might ask of the stars if he believed they were listening.

And as you think this, a truth rises, too sharp to ignore. You know your wish, the one you’ve been carrying all the time, the one sitting inches from you, close enough to touch but impossibly far. And there’s a twinge in realizing that he may never know, that your wish lives and breathes beside you, and he has no idea.

But you have no idea that the only thing Bucky Barnes could ever wish for is sitting right beside him too, equally unknown, equally close and painfully out of reach.

So, all you do is hold your breath, feeling the night press in, the stars disappearing one by one as their light flickers out, swallowed by the dark once again.

🍁 October Writing Challenges Masterlist 🍁

[tamiart]

I wrote a little romance scene between Halsin and Tav, mostly imagining Halsin’s POV.

Summary: Tav is breaking down under the pressure of the enormous task ahead of her, and Halsin happens upon her.

Since I don’t consider myself a writer, I have never tried to write anything like this before. But I love this game so much, and especially when it comes to these two characters, my imagination is continuously running away with me. I need more material with them, so I tried to create some of my own. I hope you like it.

Midnight Solace

Everyone was finishing up their duties in setting up camp. Halsin looked over to see Tav talking to Wyll and Gale, who were arguing about something as they tried to come up with a strategy for some fight or other, which was now an almost daily occurrence. Tav looked worn out, barely listening to the two of them bicker as she studied a map they had drawn in the dirt. The others were always going to her for help with their problems, and by Silvanus did everyone in this group have catastrophic problems. In all his many years, Halsin had never met such a varied, volatile bunch of individuals. They reminded him of his younger years when every mishap, every mistake, felt like the end of the world.

Tav was the most intriguing to him. She couldn’t be half his age, and yet this young, unassuming slip of a girl had gone out of her way, putting aside her own troubles and fears, which must be plentiful though she never voiced them, for weeks throughout their perilous journey to help many along the way, including himself. She was helping him find a way to lift the shadow curse, which had haunted him for a century as his greatest shame and failure. She had risked her life to infiltrate a horde of nasty, treacherous little goblins to free him - a huge, threatening wild bear that could have tried to kill her too for all she knew. But even in his most savage form, she wasn’t afraid of him. 

Halsin had never met anyone like her. He often found himself watching her from across camp as she went about the daily routine that everyone had settled into - helping to prepare their meals, eating, talking and laughing with everyone around the fire, getting ready to go to sleep, preparing to head out in the mornings. He wondered about her as he performed his own duties. He felt himself drawn to her, and realized he was reluctant to leave her side. He was sorely tempted to forsake his druidic duties and stay with her, to be there for her and protect her for as long as she would let him during her quest to save them all. She stirred long-dormant feelings in him. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this way about anyone.

Later that night, after everyone had sought their bedrolls, rest seemed to elude Halsin, so he gave up and headed towards the woods to lose himself in a hunt. As he walked past Tav’s bedroll, he noticed she wasn’t there. He looked around briefly, but did not see her. Slightly alarmed, he enhanced his senses and picked up her scent trail heading into the forest. Wanting to make sure she was alright, he followed it.

As he approached the stream nearby, he heard the sound of someone crying. He stopped and peered through the trees in that direction and saw that it was Tav, sitting by the water, her head resting on her bent knees. He felt a sympathetic pang to see and hear her so distraught. Not wanting to frighten her, he made his footsteps audible as he rounded a bush and approached her, and she started up and noticed him, and immediately turned away to surreptitiously wipe away the traces of her misery. He felt his heart stir.

“Oh, Halsin,” she said, “what are you doing out here so late?”

“I could not sleep,” he responded, “so I was going for a walk. I could ask you the same thing. Are you alright, my friend?”

At that, she failed at reigning in her emotions and burst into sobs once more.

“I’m sorry,” she sputtered through her tears. “I don’t know what’s come over me tonight.”

He hurried over and sat beside her. “It’s alright,” he tried to reassure her. But she could not stop, and he hesitantly reached out to touch her shoulder.

His touch seemed to relax something in her and she leaned towards him. He put his arm around her and held her closer. The feel of her sobs shaking her slight frame melted away his final resistance, and he knew then that he would do anything to help this girl. He was lost to her. He held her until her sobs quieted into sniffles. 

“What is it, my friend? Can I do anything to help?” He asked her gently.

“No, I’ll be okay.” She sighed.”Ugh look at me, I’m such a mess.”

“You are still beautiful. But stay here, I’ll get something for you.” Halsin quietly returned to his tent and found a clean cloth, poured a cup of water and grabbed a blanket as well, then returned to Tav’s side. She had calmed down and sat quietly staring into the stream with a troubled expression on her face. He draped the blanket around her shoulders and handed her the water and cloth.

 “Thank you. I didn’t want anyone to see me like this,” said Tav, wiping her tear-stained face. “They’re all depending on me to be strong. I need to be strong for all of us if we’re going to get through this.” She took a sip of water and put the cup down on a rock.

He placed his arm around her again and pulled her close. “No one expects you to be invincible. You don’t need to carry all of it alone. We’re all here to help you. I’m here to help you.”

She looked up at him, tears glistening in her eyelashes. The distance between them was too close. The urge to kiss her was overpowering, and it took all of his will to resist. She needed him to be strong just now, and he would give her his support.

“Thanks, Halsin,” She closed her eyes and sighed, leaning her head on his shoulder. “That’s nice to hear. I just… I’m so afraid. I don’t know what I’m doing half of the time. Why does every decision have to fall to me? Every time one of us gets injured, I wonder if I should give it all up. Maybe I’m just leading us all to our deaths.” Her voice choked on those last words, and she covered her face with her hands and pulled away from him. “I can’t… that thought… it’s too much to bear.”

“Your fears are completely understandable under the circumstances. We have far too much leveled against us, with no end to our journey in sight. What an incredible amount of pressure to undertake. But Tav, you’ve been amazing thus far. Why do you think everyone trusts you so implicitly? No one else could have gotten this eccentric group of misfits this far, to survive as much as we have. Honestly, I don’t know how you’ve managed it. You don’t realize how extraordinary you truly are. My dear friend, we would all follow you anywhere. I would follow you anywhere. If anyone is going to get us all through this, it’s you.” 

Tav looked up at him again, a new light and curiosity in her glance. “You truly believe that?”

“With all my heart.”

Suddenly she threw her arms around him and buried her face in his chest. Oak father preserve him, Tav had him wrapped around her finger. “Thanks, Halsin,” she whispered into him. She looked up at him again, and her face finally softened into a smile. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Tav, I - “ he tried to find the right words. “Please know that I’m always here for you, if you ever need to talk about anything. I will do my best to help you, in any way that you need.”

She was still looking up at him, her gaze searching. She was so beautiful, he could hold back no longer. Cautiously, he lowered his face down towards her, watching her expression as he did so. She did not pull away, and her lips parted as her glance fell to his mouth. He closed the distance and pressed his lips to hers. He tasted the salt of her tears as he kissed her, and she kissed him back, tentatively at first, but quickly growing more eager. Her lips were full, soft and warm. Finally they both had to pull away, gasping for air. He had to stop now before he took things too far. He couldn’t ask that much of her just now in her current vulnerable state.

Tav stared at him, stunned. Then as if suddenly realizing where she was, she blushed and gave him a shy, tentative smile. “Wow,” She gasped as she found her voice. “What was that?”

“I’ve dreamed about kissing you for a long time,” he confessed to her.

“Really? But I didn’t… I thought… you’ve never…” Tav stammered.

“I know. I didn’t want to do anything to upset you or harm our friendship. And I didn’t want to distract you during such a crucial and difficult time. I’ve been trying to keep my distance, to let you focus.”

Tave let out a breathy laugh. “Well, it’s a very welcome distraction.” She hesitated, then looked up at him shyly once more. “I’ve been thinking about that as well, with you.”

He wrapped her in his arms once more and held her in silence. They sat together, listening to the night sounds of the forest and the babble of the nearby stream. Gradually, he felt her relax in his arms. Her head began to droop against his shoulder. He could have stayed this way all night. But reluctantly, he gently shook her awake.

“You should try to get some sleep,” he told her. “Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”

She sighed. “You’re right.” She stood up and handed the blanket back to him. She tried to return the cloth as well, but he told her to keep it. She seemed reluctant to go. “Thank you, Halsin. This was… it means a lot.” She smiled at him once more.

And she was gone before he could respond, leaving him alone once more in the woods, the blanket in his arms, all of his senses full of her, and his mind a whirl of thoughts, emotions and desires.

[modernsuperhero]

Who are these fun characters and why are they taking over my dash? /pos /please tell me abt your blorbos

i'm assuming you mean these little guys:

These guys are my newest silliest dudes from the webcomic School Bus Graveyard! It's free to read on webtoons here and is currently in talks to get a TV adaptation soon so now is 1000% the time to be getting into it!! It's basically a supernatural mystery about six high school freshmen from Georgia who go on a field trip and end up sucked into a demon dimension every time it hits midnight! It's super cool - the pacing is very good imo, a good balance of the Main Plot (oh no we need to survive the Demon Dimension again, also Why Are We In A Demon Dimension) with character development and backstory stuff!

The characters are badass but in a way I feel is very realistic? Like, not just "oh i'm the protagonist suddenly i know how to judo flip armies the moment i'm in danger" but more like "i'm going to train for months in self defense classes to build up some basic muscles" kinda way. The characters themselves are also pretty well fleshed out - they're not just the typical archetypes. Like, the "weak bullied nerd kid" isn't JUST a weak bullied nerd kid, he has well developed motivations and backstory and simultaneously realistic and satisfying character growth.

There are implied potential/future romances but it is so NOT the core point of the story, so whether or not that's your thing you can either ignore it or get excited about it in equal measure. The characters also aren't just edgy and gritty "we must deal with this alone... augh misery woe is us..." they actively do what they can to use all the resources available to them (including trying to get help from their parents, which is an ick for me in other media when the kid protagonists just refuse to ask for help? or assume they can't without trying? anyway).

I would say to be careful about any warnings at the beginning of specific chapters, because some can get quite violent.

The six main characters, without giving to many spoilers, are as follows under the cut (cuz this got long):

The protagonist Ashlyn, an asocial ballerina with her loving ex-military parents, who has a condition that gives her incredibly sensitive/enhanced hearing (she ends up using this to help detect the monsters after them, since they're otherwise silent to the other protagonists!)

Aiden, a creepily-smiley ex-homeschooled rich kid who has no concept of social convention or personal space. Has forcibly chosen Ashlyn to be his friend during his first year in school against her will and ends up accidentally setting off the chain of events leading to the Plot. (I love him. He definitely has Every Mental Illness <3)

Ben, Aiden's incredibly physically intimidating cousin, who is mute and so, so sweet and gentle and follows Aiden like his shadow, in part to take care of him when Aiden's antics get him injured and in part because Ben's muteness makes it incredibly difficult for people to understand him. Aiden, however, can understand his nonverbal communications with ease

Taylor, a friendly girl's girl who tries (often in vain) to befriend Ashlyn. Is also a talented mechanic who ends up putting googly eyes on her weapon once they end up in the Demon Dimension. She's the most Emotionally Aware Person Here but also she's like, 15, so, the bar is on the floor

Tyler, Taylor's twin brother, a somewhat aggressive and rude baseball jock who mostly Minds His Own Damn Business aside from his clinginess to Taylor. In fact they wear matching outfits in almost every episode of the comic it's so funny and cute. Is often found fighting bullies to defend their victims so i forgive him for all his own asshole crimes he's just a dude. he's one of my little guys

Logan, who is canonically compared to a puppy. Shy, intelligent, and incredibly empathetic! My partner's favorite character who has one of the best character arcs so far imo. Likes photography, astrology, and gardening. I think they should give him more guns, as a treat. He can never have enough

anyways thank you for the ask! overall i highly recommend - it's still ongoing, we're currently in the middle of season two!! the mystery is unfolding, there's funny and sweet moments along with the intense ones, and i am INVESTED. :DDDDDD

[todorokies]

DEATH AND THE MAIDEN - choso kamo

✩࿐ choso finds meaning in this hellish world within the confines of your bedroom . . .

contents: nsfw, softdom!fem reader, cunnilingus, hair pulling, implications that reader is someone with high status of royalty, choso is reader’s courtier, sub!choso, slapping (just once), power dynamics, choso calls reader ‘m’lady’, nineteenth century gothic victorian era, installment of my spookfest event

a/n: this is a bit more lengthy than my usual work however i hope u all enjoy !! pls support by reblogging

the haunting hours of midnight has struck causing the grandfather clock from above to make its presence known with three loud echoing chimes rumbling the surface below. the silent night was perfect for the noticed to go unnoticed within the dark palace.

choso finds himself hurrying his pace, swiftly avoiding the huge stained glass windows that reflected the moonlight throughout the long corridor. leaning towards the shadows despite the residents having long blown out their candles that rest on their nightstands the fear of getting caught cannot be shaken out of his psyche.

with each thudding step he took it felt as if the corridor was elongating on it’s own preventing him from reaching his one and only, his small taste of spring after an everlasting winter, the only one to pull him out of the ongoing cycle of misery.

soon enough, he finds himself stationed infront or your detailed baroque door. his body thinks faster than his mind raising his chuckles to knock a specific tune to notify you it’s him.

the door opens with faint creaks revealing you clad in a white frilly nightgown that hit just above the knees. the sheer and delicate fabric cascaded your body and heavily outlined the curve of your tits. choso silently cursed himself for already feeling his cock pathetically throb at the mere sight of you,

“would you care to come in?” you break him out of the enchanting spell you unknowingly cast upon him.

he sheepishly clears his throat, “yes of course, m’lady.” he steps in, taking note of the spike in temperature compared to the cold hallway.

“you can drop the formalities when it’s just us, you know?”

“i rather not m’lady, i still want to show you respect despite how improper we act towards each other.” you simply hum in acknowledgment, moving to face him, to soak in his beauty that must only be examined under the divine moonlight.

the hefty dark circles that clings onto his skin leaves you in awe. as you lift a finger to graze his thick birth mark that gracefully paints over his nose, he stills his breath, leaning his forehead against yours with his eyes closed.

“something on your mind, cho?” he falters a bit due to the nickname —the concept of improper name calling is foreign to him— having to catch his own footing before tripping; your voice is dipped in honey. it stirs warmth in the pit of his stomach.

“same old stuff that usually sits on my mind.” he grimaces and you sport a frown knowing he is hinting at the stubborn thoughts that trouble him at night.

he notices a few creases on your forehead and plants a chaste kiss to calm your nerves, “don’t worry, that’s my job remember? i’m here to service and cater to your needs.”

“is that why you’ve ask me to accompany you tonight? you need my services?” he refers to the note you slipped in the palm of his hand earlier in the day regarding a fitting of a dress. when in truth, it was a hoax to lure him in your quarters alone.

if anything in that note was truthful, you wanted him to take off the current sleepwear that covers your body.

dismissing his inquiry, you wrap your arms around his neck with your fingers finding solace at the nape, leaning in to enclose the small distance of air between the two of you.

soft mostizured lips captures his icy cold ones, it’s uncomfortable at first, jagged with errors and teeth clashing until choso’s hands sneak around your waist to pull you closer, finding himself relaxing to your scent that engulfed him.

feeling him melt against your figure, you take the initiative to dip your tongue into his mouth swirling around, exploring new territory. his knees buck wildly, feeling his bulge graze over the feathering fabric of your nightgown; feeling everything he beholds.

you’ve got him right where you want him.

you abruptly break the kiss, a thin string of saliva shimmers in your retreat from his lips as you lead him towards the foot of your bed.

with gentle force you send him onto his knees and a light thud echos from the wooden floors. you then take a seat on the bed positioning yourself directly infront of him.

“i do demand a unique kind of service only you can preform for me.” with furrowed brows, he looks up at you with curiosity. not understanding your vague statement until you hike up your thin nightgown and widen your legs to give him a closer glance at your glistening cunt dripping with arousal.

choso’s breath gets caught in his throat. his mouth suddenly runs dry as his eyes flicker from your face and back to your slicked folds, needy and ready for him.

just for him.

a sharp stinging pain across his check snaps him out of his daze, “it’s rude to stare choso, especially at a lady waiting for her demanded services.” your stern voice combined with the quick slap has him scrabbling to attach his mouth immediately onto your throbbing clit.

he uses his tongue to expertly swirl around it, lewdly lapping at the sensitive nub. slick smears his chin as faint suckling and squelching bounces off the walls. his cold callused hands etch soothing patterns on your outer thighs. your hands grips at the root of his black locks of hair tugging occasionally to serve as encouragement.

soft whines and angelic moans carelessly leaves your lips. his tongue moves in vertical strides from your hole to your puffy clit then finally dipping his wet muscle in your drooling hole. he moans as he can taste you better like this.

so sweet and savoury.

he darts his tongue in and out at a slow antagonizing pace. wanting nothing more than to collect every last drop you’d offer for him —a privilege he refuses to take for granted— however his speed did not please you in the slightest. you forcefully tug at his hair to bring him eye to eye, his already fucked out expression proves he wasn’t thinking clearly.

“you are in no position of power to prolong my pleasure, remember that choso.” you warn him cautiously.

he nods profusely seeking your forgiveness, “my apologies m’lady. you just taste so sweet, can i please continue?” you don’t give him an answer instead you tug his face back at your pussy.

he moves his tongue vigorously with confidence this time, even adding his thumb to rub tight circles on your clit. the room gets even hotter as if the fireplace was roaring it’s scorching flames, breathy groans seep out of choso’s mouth bringing you closer to your release.

for as long as he can remember, choso has always questioned his existence. what sole meaning does he serve on this earth?

but once he sees your face scrunch up in pleasure and thrashing your pretty little head around whilst gently pinching at your perky nipples, everything clicks.

his sole purpose is to serve you. to please you in very aspect of life and in return he gets filled with a warm sense of belonging and love that softly kneads at his usually cold heart.

you cum hard on his tongue with a loud moan that would surely awaken the entire palace.

but at that very moment, choso would only gently lick you clean while being mindful to not overstimulate you, kiss you with devotion to calm you down and help you hydrate yourself.

you are his hopeful source of life that accompanies his woeful death; hand and hand you both complete each other’s soul.

tags: @chososwhoresblog

reblogs and feedback is extremely appreciated !! <3

[kaimeioneclipse]

A Dark Wedding of Misery

Pairing: Wednesday x Male Reader

Summary: They said you two would never make it this far but you did. Y/N and Wednesday Addams are getting married. From Nevermore Academy to the Alter

WordCount: 1.3k words

WARNINGS: Kissing

The moon hung low in the midnight sky, casting an ethereal glow over the sprawling grounds of the Addams mansion. It was a night of foreboding, yet one tinged with an unusual excitement. Wednesday Addams, the somber and enigmatic daughter of the Addams family, was on the precipice of a life-altering event—an unholy matrimony that would defy the boundaries of the living and the dead.

The mansion, with its ivy-clad walls and twisted spires, exuded an otherworldly charm as Morticia, the epitome of Gothic elegance, supervised the final touches of her daughter's wedding gown. The dress, a masterpiece of darkness and grace, clung to Wednesday like a second skin, its midnight-black fabric cascading around her like a shroud.

"I will need some more black ash for the rest of your dress, Possibly your grandmothers would suffice. I shall return" Morticia says as he scurries out the room.

Wednesday scoots herself over to the dusty mirror in the Library that the family turned into a fitting room for the occasion. She looked at the black dress and felt it unsettling that her time was coming.

Wednesday looked at THING who was working on some dead flower arrangements and for the bridesmaids to hand out to them later.

"Thing" she called to him

Thing stopped his task and moved his hand body in her direction

"Find Enid, I wish to speak to her" Wednesday requested

Thing saluted and scurried off.

Wednesday waited for a few moments and then went towards the door and checked if the coast was clear. She picked up her black dress and began to run down the eerie hallways of the Addams Mansion towards the other wing.

_____________________________________

In a distant wing of the Addams mansion, where shadows played upon the walls like phantoms in the night, Y/N prepared for the unholy union. The air hung heavy with a sense of anticipation, and the dimly lit room seemed to echo with the echoes of centuries past.

Y/N, adorned in a suit as black as the void itself, stood before the ornate mirror. His hands trembled ever so slightly as he adjusted his tie, and his eyes, a mix of excitement and nervousness, reflected in the polished glass.

Ajax Petropolus, a towering figure with a beanie on his head stood behind Y/N checking themselves to make sure they looked good. He observed Y/N with a subtle nod, understanding the gravity of the moment. Eugene Ottinger, with his mop of unruly hair and penchant for the bizarre, fidgeted with the boutonnière, offering a lopsided grin. Beside them, Xavier Thorpe, with his piercing gaze and enigmatic aura, stood as the voice of reason.

Ajax: (In his deep, resonant voice) You'll do just fine, Y/N. It's not every day you get to marry into the Addams clan.

Eugene: (With a mischievous smirk) Remember, weddings are just like funerals, only with better food!

Xavier: (In his calm, soothing tone) Relax, Y/N. Tonight is a celebration of the unusual, and you, my friend, are stepping into a realm where the extraordinary is the norm.

As the trio provided reassurance and prepared Y/N for his impending union with Wednesday, the mansion's eerie silence served as a stark contrast to the bustling emotions within.

Once the boys left, Y/N stood alone in the room, the weight of the moment settling upon him like a heavy shroud. He looked at his reflection, contemplating the path that had led him to this peculiar crossroads.

As he ran his fingers through his hair, a knock echoed through the room. Y/N turned, expecting one of the boys to return with some last-minute advice. However, when he opened the door, there stood Wednesday—a vision of darkness and mystery and soon Y/N Wife.

Wednesday: (Expressionless) Y/N, the time is nigh.

Y/N: (Nervously) Yea it is, Wednesday. The boys were just helping me gather my composure.

Wednesday: (Observing him) Composure is overrated.

Without another word, Wednesday took Y/N's hand, leading him through the labyrinthine corridors of the mansion. The moonlit hallway cast an eerie glow as they approached the entrance to the backyard—a gateway to the dark forest that concealed secrets untold.

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

The forest, with its twisted branches and shadowy depths, beckoned them into its enigmatic embrace. The rustling leaves and the distant hooting of an owl added to the mystical ambiance as Wednesday and Y/N ventured into the heart of the darkness.

Wednesday: (Stopping at the forest's edge) We stand on the precipice of eternity, Y/N. Tonight, we embark on a journey that transcends the mortal coil.

Y/N: (Nervously) Yes, Wednesday. I…

Wednesday: (Interrupting) Nervousness becomes you, Y/N. It is an emotion as genuine as the shadows that cloak our existence.

Y/N's gaze met Wednesday's, and in that moment, the moonlight revealed a vulnerability beneath her stoic exterior—a vulnerability mirrored in Y/N's own eyes.

Y/N: (Softly) I never thought I'd find someone as extraordinary as you.

Wednesday: (Expressionless) Extraordinary is subjective. Tonight, we become a tapestry of darkness and peculiarity, woven together in the moonlit dance of fate.....But I'm content that I've met you

Y/N, captivated by the haunting beauty of the dress, stood in awe of the enigmatic figure before him. The moonlight played upon the black fabric, casting an ethereal glow that accentuated the mysterious allure of Wednesday's presence.

Y/N: (Breathless) Wednesday, you're… breathtaking.

Wednesday: (Expressionless) Brevity suits the moment.

As those words hung in the air, Wednesday reached for Y/N's face with a gentle grace that belied her typically stoic demeanor. Her cool fingers traced a delicate path along his jawline, an intimate touch that transcended the shadows around them. In the dim moonlight, her left hand emerged, adorned with a striking black obsidian ring—a gem as dark as the night sky.

The ring, an exquisite piece of craftsmanship, held an otherworldly allure. A seamless integration of black obsidian and silver, it seemed to absorb the moonlight, casting a subtle, mesmerizing glow. Etched into the obsidian was an intricate pattern reminiscent of ancient symbols—a visual ode to the peculiar legacy they were about to deepen.

As Wednesday caressed Y/N's face, their eyes locked, and in that shared gaze, they found solace and understanding. Their intertwined fingers, now adorned with the weight of the black obsidian ring, rose together, and they turned their attention to the moon, hanging high in the velvet expanse of the night sky.

The moon, a silent witness to their journey, bathed them in its silvery glow. In that moment of quiet reflection, they let their minds drift back to their time at Nevermore Academy—the place where their paths first crossed.

Y/N: (Softly) Remember the nights we spent beneath the moon at Nevermore? The laughter, the secrets shared?

Wednesday: (Nodding) Nevermore was a chapter, and tonight, under the same moon, we begin a new one.

Y/N: (Smiling) I never thought this would be my ending.

Wednesday: (With a hint of mystery) Endings are illusions, Y/N. This is but the beginning.

Their hands tightened in a silent agreement, and in the tranquil moonlit glade, they kissed—a union of darkness and passion that spoke of a love destined to defy the ordinary. As they embraced, the moon bore witness to the promise of their unholy matrimony.

With the moon as their guide, they turned away from the clearing, fingers still entwined, and made their way back to the Addams family mansion. The shadows welcomed them like old friends, and as they crossed the threshold, the doors creaked shut behind them, sealing the pact of an eternal love that echoed through the haunted halls of the Addams legacy.

And so, beneath the watchful gaze of the moon and within the enigmatic embrace of the Addams mansion, Wednesday and Y/N embarked on a journey that defied the boundaries of time and tradition—an odyssey into the unknown, where each step marked a new beginning in the tapestry of their peculiar love. They walked hand in hand, ready to be officially married and embrace the darkness that awaited them—a love story destined to be inscribed in the annals of the Addams family's peculiar history.

(Author Notes)

Hey Everyone it's been a while. I know I've been away and I haven't finished ALOT of stories. I kinda fell off with writing, especially with content creation and work. Life be LIFEING! But we are back and I got inspired to write again due to the picture above. It was nice to write more Wednesday fanfics hopefully the fandom isn't dead but if you enjoyed it let me know and we can work on more stories.

Check out my MASTER LIST!

[verse-under-the-cowl]

“Yeah, I’ve tried crack, but have you ever heard of the doomed siblings trope?”: A poem in which Dick stumbles upon Jason after the events of Under the Red Hood and is horrified by what he sees.

OOC: Not a Jaydick poem! Please never twist it to seem as such.

“ Gone like before . ”

In midnight deep , withdrawn from light , Where Gotham’s secrets brew and fight , I found him there , my heart aghast — A ghost , a boy , a haunting past . No warmth flickering in those glowing eyes , No trace of love , no soft goodbyes .

The mask he wore , so stern , so red , A symbol wrought from years of dread . Once, he was mine — my brother dear , A child of light , devoid of fear . But now he stood , with vengeance sworn , A soul reborn from pain and scorn .

“ Jason ? ” I whispered , voice a plea , But he turned away , no face to see . The boy who laughed beneath the moon , The knave with magic , gone too soon — Now lost to shadows , draped in wrath , A warrior stranded on a bloody path .

The laughter gone , replaced by cries , And in his voice — no smugness or sly . The boy who wore my Robin mantle , Now dawned another , much harder to handle — A symbol forged in blood and strife , The mask of death , the end of life .

My chest aches , my heart dies , To see him wear that foreign guise — I do a double-check , To a slice on his neck A scar from fate , a wound so deep , A promise lost — forever to keep .

“ What have you become ? ” I cry undone , The brother I knew , the child once spun In threads of hope — now tangled tight , In anger’s grasp, in misery and plight His voice , so cold , it chills my soul — The one I knew has lost control .

A care I gave , a trust once pure , Now fractured , shattered — gone , obscure . He’s not the boy I lectured that day , The one who teased , the one who’d play . Now a shadow — dark and grim — His light extinguished , stolen dim .

" I thought you left , " he says , so stern , But I can forgive , he can return . He can come back to annoy me again — To tag along and pester my friends — I won’t complain , not anymore . I opened my mouth , but he was gone like before .

[letters-from-dekarios]

midnight tears

summary: stricken with grief, anxiety, and the shadow of his former, prouder, self, gale takes to seeking comfort in the swift end he dreamt up many moons ago. tav finds him before it’s too late.

or: gale considers exploding and tav stops him

word count: 2.1k

tags: PLEASE READ BEFORE CONTINUING: this story contains themes of self-harm/suicide. it is not my intention to trigger or harm anyone who comes across this story, but, rather, to share a side of a fictional character I’ve taken a liking to. please do NOT read if these themes, discussed in a reasonable concept of detail, could potentially harm your mental state.

other tags include; gn!tav, act 1 storyline, major gale angst, im still a part of the mystra hate club

He had it all planned out. Written down. He had a failsafe in case things went wrong. Timed it down to the letter, against all the knowledge he had on the orb within him. If worse came to worst, Gods he hoped it wouldn’t, he knew precisely how he wanted to go.

When he first gathered the understanding of the Netherese orb within him, its desperate need to consume the Weave, he was confused. Which was a rare occurrence for him. He was always so knowledgeable that confusion rarely ever happened. He’d question things and soon find an answer, but with this.. no, this was different.

In his quest to prove his love, he only proved his egotism. Something he had tried to stay away from and here he was, indulging in it. How proud was he that he could be able to love the Goddess and Mother of all magic and still be unhappy? Still try to attain more power, more love? How dare he, a mortal man, try and capture the Weave for himself?

Was it really out of love, or was the idea of power and the concept of Godhood too tempting to be toyed with? How did he get this far? How did he manage to do it in the first place, if not by his handling of the Weave itself? He had all the power he could hold and still wanted more.

He was the epitome of a power-hungry, egotistical, jackass.

He deserved the consequences he now had to suffer. He could blame no one other than himself for Mystra’s decision to make him live with it. She could have, very well, killed him right there. But she, by her merciful graces (or what the larger part of Gale perceived as merciful), allowed him to live. He would sacrifice himself to right the wrongs he had created.

As he lay in his tent, one uneventful night, staring at the stars, he pondered the plan he had in his back pocket. He had it figured out for years now, so it wasn’t a question, but he questioned the actual statistics of it. He pulled out a little vial from his bag and turned it over in his hands, reading the neat handwriting over and over again. Midnight tears. A poison whose consequences would only take effect at midnight exactly. If he consumed it in the early morning, traveled far into the Underdark and waited, he would avoid injuring any innocents in the process.

It was a desirable end to his misery, he concluded. If he woke before Tav and the rest of the group, he could be gone before they arose. He doubted they would notice he was missing.

He knew Tav had accepted him for his faults, his lies, and everything else with him. They had encouraged him to stay traveling with them, but he didn’t feel as though he deserved to.

He wondered what the poison would feel like, how it would taste. The seller who gave it to him was vague on the details, and Gale didn’t know if he preferred that or the horrid truth of receiving every component.

He set the poison to the side and conjured a dagger in his hands. He twisted it between his palms, considering the other option to poison. It wasn’t the preferred way to go, but it was his failsafe in case the poison went bad. All he had to do was plunge the magic knife into his chest, and off he would go.

It wouldn’t be the prettiest, he knew that, but it would be better than nothing. His blood pooling out onto the ground, pained cries filling the air- he’d apologize again and again to Mystra, his goddess, his first love, telling her how sorry he was for the stupid mistakes he’d made.

His mouth would taste like copper, eventually, and by then he’d begin slipping away. His body would go numb, he figured, and then his hands would drop. He would fall onto his back, staring up into the vast sky of Faerún, before everything disappeared.

He had a letter written already for his soul to pass on to Tav and the others. He’d apologize to them, too, for letting them down. For not becoming the man they hoped and wished he was. For everything. There wasn’t enough time in all the realms where he could be forgiven for his mistakes.

The longer he sat there, with his thoughts, the more he twisted the knife between his hands. The more he sunk into himself, the harder he pushed it in his palms.

He didn’t even realize he was bleeding until he felt his hands become oddly slippery. He sat up and looked down, his eyes going wide as he saw the blood trickling down his fingers. His heart began to race, his chest becoming tight. He couldn’t live with himself if he died now and took out all his companions with him. Though, maybe he was just being dramatic.

The knife in his hands disappeared and he looked clearer at the cuts on his hands, cursing himself under his breath. He grabbed a nearby carafe of water and poured it over his hands, hissing in pain while they stung.

“Goddess forgive me..” he sighed under his breath, looking around for some cloth he could use to cover his wounds. Then, during one of their battles, he could play it off as an injury received. Why did he do this?

Why was he like this?

He could never know the answer to those questions. The questions that pulled at his heart and broke down in his mind- they had no real answers, they never were able to be answered to begin with. In all his years living as some high, extraordinary Chosen of Mystra, he never found the courage to become insightful of himself. He never understood why he was never enough, or why he couldn’t do things right. Why did he feel the need to lie to cover his imperfections? Why was he so scared that if he messed up, he would never be exonerated?

Mystra had planted the seed in his head that he was not worthy of forgiveness, that death would be the only thing to balance his scale. It got to him. Terribly so, Gale began to believe that she was right. After all, how could one commit such a sin against a God and not be considered unworthy of their forgiveness? He had tried to usurp her authority, whether for love or pride, and had to deal with her wrath. She had every right to not pardon him. She had every right to make him feel how he did.

Though he was rather calm in these situations, no matter what was happening around him, right now he was panicking. His breath picked up, his chest rising and falling faster by the second. Why couldn’t he find a damn cloth?

“Gale?” Tav’s sweet voice broke him from his thoughts. Was he crying, too? He couldn’t tell anymore. He was a whole mess and a half.

“Tav-“

“What happened?” The way they spoke, so much concern in their voice, he couldn’t help but be ashamed of what he had become. How could he sit here, hurting, and hurt others around him? The look Tav gave him was enough to break a thousand realms over again, and he felt awful for making them deal with him.

“I- I don’t know…” he replied, the panic in his eyes as evident as ever.

Tav disappeared for a moment but quickly returned with more water and some towels. They sat down beside him, sighing softly as they took his hands in their own.

He winced, pulling back for a moment before Tav eased him, gently cleaning the wounds.

“Gale..” they started again, and he looked away, ignoring the wounds on his hands. Gods, he was so stupid.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened,” he replied, taking a breath as Tav made sure his hands were okay.

“Gale,” they repeated, glancing down suspiciously at the poison beside him.

He looked to his side, sighed, and then opened his mouth to speak. How could he even begin?

“You promised me,” Tav sighed, waving their hands and muttering a small healing spell. Soon enough, the wounds closed, and his hands were clean again.

“I wasn’t going to-“

“Gale-“ they sighed again, running a hand over their face. “Why do you even have it? We discussed this. It won’t come down to that.”

“We don’t know that.”

Tav looked at him with those sad, puppy-dog eyes. Hurt laced their words, how could Gale be so cruel to himself?

“It’s for safety.”

“Safety of who, Gale? What happens if you accidentally drink it instead of a healing potion? What happens if it ends up in your food?” They asked, eyebrows furrowed together.

“I wouldn’t do that-“

“Oh, come on. We’ve all done it. These damn bottles look so alike! I hardly know the difference between a feather fall and an angelic sleep spell, Gale. It could happen to any of us.” Tav replied, their words rather sharp. Gale flinched, looking down at his fully restored hands.

“I cannot live on if I do not have a clear source of escape should things turn the wrong way,” Gale replied, honest-hearted words clashing with the things he was actually thinking. Yes, he felt that way, but did he think that way? Hardly.

Truth be told, Gale was angry with Mystra. At least, a small part of him was. He had done everything to love her, to prove his love, going so far as bestowing this upon himself, and instead of helping, she cast him aside. If she truly loved him as she claimed to, would he even be here? Why had she left him like this- surely death would have been much kinder. This was just plain cruel.

“I don’t want you to think like that, Gale. I want you with me, with our party, for as long as you can be. You’re supposed to stay by our side, not have a plan to leave us,” Tav took his hands in their own again, looking him in the eye. “Please, Gale. I want you to live. I need you to live. Planning your demise does no one any good, especially not yourself.”

“Mystra-“

“Enough about Mystra!” Tav dropped his hands, frustrated now. “We know. I know. Why are you so devoted to her when all she’s done is bring you pain? It makes no sense to me that you would continue to suffer in her name. You need to be free, Gale. Netherese orb or not, and whether you like it or not, you’re in this tadpole journey with us. I don’t give two damns what Mystra thinks or feels. This is about you, not her.”

Those words struck him. Yes, that tiny part of him agreed, Mystra was harsh for leaving him like this. She was rather harsh to toss him aside after doting on him and his abilities for so many years. But the larger part of him outweighed that piece, and he could only help but feel guilty for thinking such things about her.

“But-“

“No buts, Gale. You’re going to stop this stupid ‘I’m going to blow myself up for Mystra’ nonsense. I know it’s a part of who you are, we all have things we have to deal with, but please. For me, for all of us, you can’t go on with this weight on your back.” Tav sighed, taking his face gently in their hands and wiping away his tears.

“I’ll try to do better, I promise,” Gale replied, letting his face rest in their soothing hands. Why did he always hurt those that he loved? He couldn’t answer that. He never could.

“The next time you start contemplating your death, please, Gale, talk to me. Talk to any of us! We all want to be here for you, and I know I would be so incredibly miserable if we lost you,” They looked into his eyes and pulled his head against their own. Their foreheads touched, Gale’s eyes shut, and for a brief moment, he felt at peace. No matter what happened he knew he had friends to rely on. And for that, he was thankful.

Tav made sure he was alright before returning to the campfire to rest. He tucked the poison into the furthest part of his bag, laid himself to rest, and let his mind slip away into the night.

He would keep the poison and the letter handy, just in case, and it would take quite some time for him to be fully able to talk to the others when he was feeling like exploding, but it would happen. Eventually, he would be okay. Eventually, he would find peace.

[jestercake]

Finished some writing for you lovelies! Sorry for the delay but the concept piece to go with it took more time than I expected it to.

Preliminary Before Reading:

This short story is based almost entirely off of Disney’s Haunted Mansion 2023 film, with some allusion to the 2003 film adaptation. All of the characters within this story belong to Disney and I have adapted many of them to my own personal interpretation. This storyline takes place the night before Ben Matthias enters the mansion and Kent has gone back to New Orleans in order to seek him out. This story is a tragedy! (NOTE: I often capitalize the pronoun “He/Him” in most sentences in order to identify the Hatbox Ghost.)

Word Count: 10,414

DISCLAIMER:

Before reading, this story has specific and mature content listed: Necrophagia, Suicide by manipulation, poisoning, implied assult, explicit violence to ghosts, and implied enslavement.

The Dining Room

…

Almost every night at midnight, many ghosts were forced to set the elongated dining table for dinner. Some servant spirits had no trouble setting the table for their previous masters of the house, William Gracey amongst them. However, those times were far behind them. Now that Gracey had fallen victim to what others called, “the Hatbox Ghost,” dinner was a time of misery and melancholia.

William Gracey watched the upper levels of the grand dining room with a sunken heart and a sunken soul. How, in retrospect, it used to glow with warm orange candlelight, full of life and merriment, especially when guests used to come round. Now, the only light was an ominous, cold purple, gloomy and wrong.

William decided to ignore the subtle beat of the grandfather clock, thumping akin to a metallic heart. It would soon strike the thirtieth hour, signifying evil was on its way. He dematerialized down to the grand hall with a fair swoop of blue light as he grappled his yellow lantern. He was fond of it, for it was reminiscent of Elanore’s warmth.

“Quiet night tonight, isn’t it?” The ghost of a footman seemed to exclaim with a mellow tone to Gracey.

They patted the obvious pillows upon the largest dining armchair. Gracey exhaled as if he still had life within his lungs, folding the napkins as if to make himself useful.

“Yes...it always seems so.”

“It’ll get lighter!” Another spirit had said rather optimistically.

“It was lighter then…” Gracey finished the rest of the napkins off as if he were a footman himself, contemplating how many would be eating here tonight.

Every night was different now that the new master of the house had taken authority. The unfortunate souls that had seemed to disturb His presence spent the rest of the night locked away in objects of his choice, or worse. Sometimes, it was any object He’d set eyes upon— such as a lamp or a curtain hanger. William particularly remembered a time where He trapped a soul inside a chaliace and started to drink from it. Really, it was all who enviced such cowardice that were selected, brought forth to their ferocious master, and were led off immediately to be punished as an atonement for their offense. It was quite tortuous actually, being trapped inside something inanimate just to further the idea of enslavement. Being used was another abuse.

“Oh don’t let Him get to you now, Master Gracey. Grief wants something in all of us, y’know.” A parlor-maid spoke after she had set the chairs in their places.

William Gracey looked around in anxiousness after the maid had called him ‘Master Gracey.’

“Don’t say that dear, not at this time. He could be listening.” Another parlor-maid had said in a sudden response.

William then noticed a much wilder, tall-stature spirit materialize across the room, but it was not black like a shadow. It was the Hatchet Ghost, titled that way by the Hatbox Ghost, where his mortal name was once Vincent Gracey. William’s shoulders ran tight when he spawned near the rest of the maid-servants and footmen.

Vincent wore the same tattered dark suit and tailcoat, accompanied by a straight Victorian bow tie. More noticeably, there lay a prominent and raw wound across his neck. He grimaced, side-glancing at one of the maids who addressed William as ‘Master.’

“Ah…I thought I’d heard something out of you few. Still resisting, are we?” Vincent sneered with his strange, grotesque smile and sickly bulged eyes.

His skin remained a ghastly color with somewhat sunken features. William Gracey watched the Hatchet Ghost paced past the two maidservants, skimming the decorative table once or twice. Then, he stopped at the dining armchair, scoffing.

“Who patted the pillows!? Our master likes them rather billowy! Was it you?” Vincent suddenly pointed at a servant who’s back had faced the scene.

Suddenly, the soul turned with a terrible expression while the Hatchet Ghost forced them to the floor with a strange unseen power. The ghosts screamed and were blasted out of the dining hall in a matter of seconds. The other servants cowered after the event, looking toward the floor with dreadful expressions, while others retreated themselves.

“That’s better...” Vincent grumbled as he turned his head back to the chair.

He took the time to readjust the pillows so that they were perfect. After he did so, his eyes met with William Gracey. Although William wanted to react, use what little power he could to resist, he had no control over the situation. Any situation, in that fact.

“Oh, William. Why the long face? You of all… specters should know these rules…” Vincent made his way over to his nephew.

There was a small moment of silence between the two until William decided to speak.

“I don’t care, Vincent. I don’t serve devils like you do.”

With subtle fury upon his face, Vincent closed his fists tightly in response. However, he was cunning enough to know William’s mannerisms would be dealt with rather soon.

“…I’m..sorry to hear that, William. I expected more from you. But…” Vincent paused for a moment as he neared his distant relative with an unforgivable face.

“I remember you’re just a coward who lives in the past.”

William Gracey stood his ground, but in response, the slight flame within him was snuffed out in a matter of seconds.

“…You’re stuck, Gracey, just like the rest of them. Stuck mourning over some dead drab that wouldn’t even remember you.” Vincent spoke with such poison.

William brought his head down to where it was less painful, contemplating those words that were sharp as spears. He knew his uncle was right and it sickened him. It almost made his bones twist deep within the Earth, as he knew the truth. No matter how much he tried to resist, how much he’d tried to better himself, nothing would change the fact that this was all his fault. All his damn fault.

“…Perhaps if you did your job you wouldn't be so…useless. Besides, I won’t be the one to help you when you’ll inevitably pay Him for your actions.” Vincent continued to speak.

“And I’m sure you know His punishments quite well…don’t you…William?”

The Hatchet Ghost smiled unpleasantly at William and watched him return to a submissive state of sorrow and regret. It wasn’t hard to degrade him, and he knew that all too well.

“Now then…How about you go and pour our Master His glass before he arrives. Make yourself useful for once…”

William kept his eyes off of Vincent as he passed him. However, it was obvious to him how the other spirits watched as he carried himself in misery towards the end of the table. As he passed the maidservant, she returned glances with him, truly sorry that he’d fallen victim to this darkness.

He poured a large chalice full of arsenic for the Master of the house. Arsenic was His favorite and quite a strong delicacy for dark spirits to consume. It was like any other form of alcohol in the mortal realm, though much more potent. Devil’s whiskey, he thought.

William set the glass back down as more spirits were forced into the grand hall without liberty. He could recognize a few of them in the large crowd, some of them distant friends he’d once known in his past life. However, many of them were new acquaintances that he’d met during his purgatory. He made his way to Victor, a pipe organist, and Dorian Gracey, a distant relative to himself. He was also good friends with a harpist who had no name, for she couldn’t remember what it was, but she was a kind spirit. Dorian was the first to speak.

“William, I wish I could say good afternoon to you, but…” Dorian’s voice faded slightly.

William Gracey only smiled with his lips in response, but his expression hadn’t changed.

“It’s good to see you intact, Dorian.” William said half-heartedly.

He knew Dorian was cursed and would soon start to deteriorate, but it was always good to remind him of his obvious beauty.

“I didn’t know you were helping tonight, Gracey. And if I’m being quite frank I’m not even hungry.” Victor had said afterwards as he met up with the small group of spirits.

“One is always…particularly hungry. We don’t even need to be here.” The flutist caught up with Victor, adding into the conversation.

“It’s good to see you both. The realms haven’t been so kind to me.” William spoke with a dreadful undertone, knowing the reasons why.

“Don’t dwell on the past, William. At least we can see each other now.” Dorian patted William’s shoulder in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“Yes, In the grand hall….Which I can never seem to escape…” Victor Giest scoffed in slight annoyance, though he was glad to be with his fellow spirits.

William exhaled a small laugh as the four of them continued to converse with each other. However, he couldn’t help but notice the darker spirits around them, maintaining the proper order of their master. Constance was one of them, corrupted by the Hatbox Ghost and forced to do his bidding unwillingly, despite her general liking to frightening mortals.

“You know, I sometimes wonder why He invites so many of us. One should not invite fewer than the Graces nor more than the Muses.” The flutist had commented upon the obvious, uneven amount of spirits present.

Constance met eyes with William suddenly, her eyes blinded with a strange blue light. Even for a ghostly entity, she was quite awful to look at. He inhaled suddenly, turning his head towards the upper levels of the house in a moment.

Suddenly, the grandfather clock echoed throughout the entire realm of the mansion, refracting perfectly as if to evoke fear upon every sorrowful soul. The painful ticking heartbeat seemed to cease after the twelfth stroke, as every spirit turned heads without content. William inhaled and watched as every exit seemingly faded away within the walls of the grand hall, which had stretched effortlessly in every direction. All spirits were lively, some even attempted to flee. However, an unknown presence forced their standing as if the floor became an ethereal cement. Even William had come to find himself stationary, which made every particle of his plasmic form circulate with worry and anticipation of what events would unfold.

Soon, the last chime of the clock echoed through the atmosphere and the repeated loud tapping of a cane’s ferrule could be heard everywhere, as if to snare the helpless souls once and for all. Every loud clap was a disturbing reminder of agonizing pain, akin to the sound of a whip to the abused. Each stab noisier than the last until the final blow came to a halt almost suddenly.

William Gracey looked around for the rest of his small group, no sign of the Hatbox Ghost anywhere. His eyes found movement when Vincent walked from the table effortlessly in silence. As he watched the spirit near one of the walls that had recently closed off, everything ran cold and still. Not a single Spector made a sound once the world around them grew dark with a black smog. He was near.

Trapped in thought, Gracey gripped onto his lantern in means of comfort, hardly able to make out his friends beside him in the thick fog. The feeling of grief began to overwhelm him without control, as he began to recall his beloved Elanore’s passing. Frightened souls wailed in the darkness as they heard the Hatchet Ghost’s calling.

“Everyone in their places…”

William shut his eyes as he was engulfed in terror, unable to escape. Every move seemed torturous as a now present sinfulness resonated throughout the endless realm, pure and maddening. The void of the fog started to reabsorb itself into one large, singular entity. An evil spirit of tyrannical might and manipulation. An infamous, malevolent entity.

“…Sir Hatbox Ghost…” Vincent exclaimed softly as he stood behind a nearby dining chair, arms folded.

The remaining section of a wall was ripped open as the dark spirit entered the room, only to have it close quickly after he’d entered. The air was deathly still as his cane tapped mockingly against the cold tiles. An animalistic growl escaped the entity as His great dark, ghostly cape dragged shortly after His grotesquely discomforting limp, a hatbox held in His left claw. The dark spirit had about him a spectral aura of blackness, something unnatural for even the ghost realm, where a strange bright orange light illuminated within the hatbox.

“…No reason to be…afraid…” came an omniscient, dark echo.

William Gracey attempted to move his feet, but to no avail. It was unwise that he had to stand so near the end of the table, for that was where the Hatbox Ghost approached. The Hatchet Ghost followed his master shortly after, making sure he drew the seat from the table.

However, before Hatbox Ghost took a seat, he stopped. Suddenly, the light within his hatbox faded to reveal a dark and desolate face of demoniacal features upon his hunched shoulders. He stared across the lengthened grand dining hall without a single sound, looming above them all. Only His great yellow eyes sifted every soul within His vicinity, followed by a deep, breathless inhale and a low snarl with bared teeth.

Many ghosts never saw his true face upon his shoulders, for he was a cursed entity, head bound to his hat box. Only during midnight was he able to soothe his own pain, once his head rested upon his shoulders.

The darkness within the dining hall never ceased as long as the Hatbox Ghost was present. No one held a voice, for he was too powerful to be spoken with. The only way one could stay below the radar was to disengage Him. But that was inevitable.

“Ah, what a…delightful bunch I have here tonight. I’m sure you are all…ecstatic upon my arrival.” He spoke through his booming, guttural, accented voice.

“Yes, Sir—Marvelous indeed!” One of his goons had said suddenly without context.

The Hatbox Ghost turned to face the outspoken spector, only to have them fall to silence instantly. Then he exhaled, finishing off his strained cycle towards his enlarged dining armchair.

Every eye watched with underlying dread as the Hatbox Ghost first analyzed the pillows. He glared with some content upon the work, akin to a critic, then held out his cane for a footman to take. Then he set his hat box beside him, still standing. Quickly, the footman took the large object in complete, almost robotic sync against his very will.

Something upon the entity’s face painted an impatient and ferocious expression in such a gradual manner as He stalked the still atmosphere. Then, He grimaced with sharpened, decayed teeth whilst he set himself down with a bit of strain. Within an instant, every spirit had made their way to the table without their will present. They all waited for Hatbox Ghost to sit before anyone could. Only after, did everyone take their seat in a repetitive manner.

William Gracey had found himself bending down until he and the rest of his friends were glued to their seats, unable to get up. It was an engaging, yet terrible entrapment caused by the evil spector’s supernatural abilities. Only He was in control.

After a moment of long silence, The massive ghost lifted His dark spell upon the spirits so that they could move freely. However, no one could leave their seat after He turned his clawed hand in a strange manner. Some whispering and vickering came shortly after the Hatbox Ghost had done so.

“Ah, yes. There’s no need to thank me, for I am rather…generous tonight.” A deep bellowing growl escaped His thin lips.

Then, He set his folded claws upon the edge of the table. It was in such terrible grace it made William Gracey feel quite weary. No one responded, in fear of what Hatbox Ghost might say or do to them. It was something every old spirit had painfully adapted to. However, some still spoke, for they were rather young and oblivious.

“Generous you are, Sir Hatbox Ghost! But, I was wondering something myself of late...” A rather plump spirit had responded, for it was Phineas, as most ghosts went by.

The Hatbox Ghost lifted his chin a bit, eyes now gazed upon the ghost irritatingly. His chest rose and one could notice the sheer width of his ribcage through his eccentric clothing.

“What do you…want, Phineas? Or should I say…you three.” Hatbox ghost snarled, for this has happened almost every evening occasion.

“Well, Phineas is just being quite chaste! If you—your uh—excellency…can lend us a car—” Another ghost beside him, Ezra, was brought into the conversation rather swiftly.

William Gracey, as for many of the other spirits at the table, observed the Hatbox Ghost as He pressed two of His long fingers against the sharp bridge of his sunken nose, closing His eyes in annoyance. This was the usual, everyone presumed.

“Yes Sir! I think we could be a great help if we weren’t—well, y’know—all cooped up in this house. Of course we all know you can't even leave the grounds yourself!” Another spirit, Gus, added his voice as well.

After a short bit of laughter, the trio changed expressions upon a quick thought. They noticed the Master’s widened, yellow eyes, beaming back at them unpleasantly. It was enough to even frighten the Hatchet Ghost, who sat closest to Him. It was rather animalistic and unnatural how small His pupils were slit.

Ezra looked away quickly, nudging the two others to quit their useless bickering. Then, he grinned back as if to relieve the thick atmosphere.

“We’re sorry, Master. Please…Do carry on in ignoring our requests. They are stupid requests…”

“Oh yes, childish!” Gus added.

The Hatbox Ghost exhaled with bared, slimy teeth. However, His terrible look was drowned out with a sudden, strange and false smile. Then, He spoke with sound gravel.

“The…only reason why I seem to be..stuck here…”

Suddenly, Hatbox Ghost clenched his fists and the three spirits were lifted slightly from their seats, which encouraged distressed cries. Then, they were all forced to face the evil Spector.

“Is due to the pitiful failures of little souls such as YOU THREE!” He bellowed.

Suddenly and by force, the Hatbox Ghost made the three of them strain painfully midair as if they were foolish puppets. Then, after enough torment, he brought them back down as they scrambled to their seats in a panicked frenzy. It was quite a terrible spectacle.

“Tedious old fools…” The Hatbox Ghost muttered.

William Gracey exchanged looks with Dorian, who now looked deathly sick as he reached the decomposition process of his curse. William turned his head in an instant, too overwhelmed to deal with Dorian’s malformations. Instead, he’d begun to fidget with his translucent, skeletal fingers underneath the table with his eyes shadowed.

“Now, where were we…” The Hatbox Ghost spoke with undertones of latent ravening. He was, however, quite capable of hiding such fury.

“The...mortals, Sir.” Vincent had imposed as he subtly whispered beside Him.

Slowly, the evil Spector wore a strange, deathly grin in light of the news, as He glided His vision across the table.

“Ah…yes. As many of you know, we have some new…guests with us of late.” He sneered.

The Hatbox Ghost grappled his chalice as he brought it to his gaunt lips with great emphasis. He took a rather considerable gulp, as he knew that all eyes were upon him.

It was strange to see the dark fluid melt into His ghostly form. William could see how it passed down His body, through His ribcage, every time lightning flashed into the room. It made him shudder. It was unnatural.

It brought Him much pleasure to be surrounded by the horror of others. Many souls knew He was not one of them, a cursed demon of sinfulness and lingering desires. Upon setting His toxic refreshment down, the Hatbox Ghost dragged his lengthy tongue across the surface of his teeth with such unpleasantness. His stare soon caught up to Victor, then to William Gracey, which made both of them presently unsettled.

“A priest, a mother and her…boy. What a bright little bunch if I do say so myself.” He spoke.

There was some short murmuring from the souls after the Hatbox Ghost addressed the news, most of them up to date. However, it was more due to their anticipation of the mortal guests that made them apprehensive.

“Oh…what will become of these most sorrowful souls?…” He spoke almost rhetorically, masking a wicked chuckle.

A grumble escaped the Hatbox Ghost as he failed to hide his content. It wasn’t unclear what the dark spirit would inevitably do to the mortals. For the entrapped souls, such as William Gracey, it was enslavement.

“Well, never mind that…for now. Let us dine together as acquaintances…”

After a moment of silence, the Hatbox Ghost raised his right claw and administered the footmen to leave the dining hall at once. As if it were almost routine, the ghouls headed towards the kitchen for the first course. That’s when the murmuring started up again.

“I heard the mother’s name was Gemma, or Gabbie, or something of that sort. Wonder where they’re from.” Victor spoke quietly from across the table to William Gracey and the Flutist.

“I do wish them well—That poor kid. He must be a bright young lad.” The Flutist had said to Gracey, who glanced back at her.

William attempted to disregard the obvious gaze from the Hatbox Ghost as he spoke to the spirits beside him.

“Uh—yes. Poor kid…” he muttered.

William Gracey now sifted his view upon Dorian, who’s skin had completely fallen apart from putrefaction. He was now an acrid skeleton, left in humiliation beside his friends. From the gratified look of Vincent, he enjoyed this quite awfully.

Dorian lifted the bare bones that were his hands, in an attempt to shield his brother’s gaze. However, William Gracey had stopped his relative before he could take any action, staring at him. Dorian looked back in slight bafflement.

“Don’t let them get to you..” William managed to say as he shook his head.

Vincent, among other goons, watched in subtle fury as the other spirits conversed, and perhaps even schemed, against the superintendency of the Hatbox Ghost. What dishonor they had for their glorious overlord, sitting in the very company of Him as if it meant nothing.

Willam Gracey set his eyes upon Vincent, and gave him a stern look. However, that soon vanished as the Hatbox Ghost suddenly gave him a look of absolute intent. It sent an unanticipated shiver down his entire form, filling him with despair, as he found himself frozen upon the deathly eyes. He couldn't help but relive those memories so long ago.

…

A pen had taken itself to parchment, he remembered. It was filled with words written in her handwriting. Every curve, every dot was hers. Instinctively, he wrote back to Eleanor, longing to see her again.

“I miss you as I loved you so. Why must death do us part?” He wrote in an expression that reflected his soul.

Madame Leota had warned him about this entity weeks on end, but he was blinded by grief and sorrow. He had seen Eleanor at times- as pretty as a picture and all the more. Sometimes she’d appear in a mirror or glass, refracting in a similar nature to water or dew. And sometimes, he heard her whisper things in his sleep. But mostly, she appeared in his dreams, and it was a presence that had wrapped him tight. A presence he couldn not escape.

“Gracey, my dearest love…” Eleanor had said within Gracey’s dream one night.

She caressed his false body, moving up his back and shoulders from behind. When William attempted to look at her, she set a hand upon his eyes and said,

“Mortal eyes cannot look directly upon the deceased…”

Gracey inhaled, soothed by her soft hand almost instantly. He moved his fingers across hers as he felt into complete darkness.

“…But why? Why can’t I look upon you, my love?” William remembered saying.

“…No man can gaze at My face and live. look at Me and you shall be lost for all eternity…”

“Then I beg of you to let me indulge in other senses! I want to picture you—remember you so that I don’t forget!”

After a subtle silence, Eleanor responded.

“…I will give you something…you will never forget.”

Her voice echoed within the darkness, giving off a shallow, uncanny feeling. It was as if it were doubled and strangled out in some strange way. But nonetheless, Gracey disregarded it.

With great dread and longing, he attempted to get the most out of his once lost love. He could remember her breath—absent of warmth—as she set her lips upon his. Together, they were in complete, desolate harmony as Gracey felt overcome with this lustful addiction. He continued to kiss her and so did she, arms intertwined as he felt her body like a blind man would with the world around him. He could almost picture her face clear in this dream until he felt hers draw away from his.

“…Eleanor…” Gracey exhaled, eyes locked away from sight as he shivered from the cold.

He gripped at her clothes, begging for more. However, slowly Eleanor had pulled away from him.

“—please—don’t leave me…” He uttered mournfully.

Gracey’s hands shook desperately as he held onto her.

“My time with you grows shorter. Listen to me, my love…”

“…no—please.”

“…Only the force of life has parted us from one another. You must give the life you have to Me. Only then will we reunite on the other side.”

“No!…”

Gracey reached out at nothing but ice-cold blackness as Eleanor faded away. On his knees he cried out, but she was no longer there to listen to his dreadful groans. In silence, he cupped his face with both hands until the dream slowly grew faint. But one echo was still heard from within the void, deep and omniscient.

“…Only through death can you see me once more…”

With the words reverberating infinitely in his mind, Gracey finally awoke in a sweat. Rapid breaths overcame him and quite suddenly, he drew away the covers to light a nearby candle. As he made his way towards the study of the mansion, the sound of spirits began to accompany him. Whispers filled the halls as he ran down them, trying to escape the chaos yet to unfold around the mansion. Nothing in the world would stop him from seeing his lost love tonight.

Upon entering the study, Gracey lit the fireplace to draw the darkness away. He stood within his office, noticing a piece of parchment enveloping an object on the large desk. with great anxiety and desire for action, he took the note and small object into grasp and brought it close to the light. He read the note first:

“Tonight we will meet on the other side. —Eleanor.”

Then, with terrible anticipation, he unraveled the note from the object, revealing a small bottle of arsenic. Poison.

Grasping the small bottle at hand, he covered his mouth and inhaled. It was all loud and true, and he knew what had to be done. However, even in grief something never set with him right. He started to quarrel with his morality as he paced in a panicked frenzy. Someone had told him once not to be envious of death, but Gracey felt as if even the malice of Hell would be meek compared to the torment of grief.

Gracey’s pacing subsided as he stopped to look upon the light of the fireplace, face wet with tears of confliction. It was warm and radiant— something he longed to feel again. Without Eleanor, he felt lost in the mortal world. Even after months of performing the same repetitive seance, it all felt futile, for he finally had a chance to see her again. He wouldn’t just let her fade away as if nothing had happened. It was only terror that seemed to engulf him. To live or to die, that was the question. The question that had brought him more pain than poison or hellfire. Finally, he felt as if he was in some control of his decision. He felt something other than misery.

And with this in mind, he slowly unscrewed the cork of arsenic as if it were a bottle of strong liquor. A liquor strong enough to stop a man’s heart. A subtle pop was heard and William Gracey glanced at the bottle with great apprehension, palms sweaty as his heart thundered. He winced away his fear and thought of Eleanore’s desperate command. With this in mind, his jaw tightened as he gradually brought the bottle to his lips. And finally, he slipped it down his throat with curled lips.

Upon finishing the bottle, he grimaced at the pungent and sour metallic flavor of the poison. He searched the room with rapid, uncontrollable thoughts, knowing there was no turning back. He gazed upon the table, setting his hand on the hard leather surface while he dragged his fingers across it. Then, he walked towards the fireplace, standing by it.

Hastily, Gracey’s breath started to stagger as he felt incredibly nauseous. His intestines screamed in anguish as he clutched his torso, for the pain never ceased afterward. It felt as if every organ and bone within him started to break apart and leak out in puddles upon the floor. He wretched out what he could in an attempt to free this sudden agony, but this acute state had him snared.

“AGH—” He screamed only once, gurgling a mixture containing vomit and foam.

His muscles had lost all control and he stumbled around the room with such terrible pain. Objects fell and broke all round him as every sinew within his body was electrified with excruciating pain. It was absolute Hell— something a simple poison could not inflict upon a mortal. This was something far greater.

Eventually, gravity had taken Gracey’s weight down to the cold hard tiles within the study. His eyes blurred the images about him as he faded in and out of consciousness. Now, in a deep state of paralysis, he only twitched in an attempt to move. The agony had overcome his state, for death would shortly arrive. Blood creeped down his lips in a deep red stream, indicating internal bleeding.

As William Gracey heaved his last breaths on the ground and awaited death, a cold presence overcame him. From what his eyes and mind could barely comprehend, he noticed a black silhouette on the left side of him, carrying a fog-like shadow as it moved across his lens. It was no angel like he’d imagined.

Slowly, the unlighted entity dragged itself toward him, circling him like doomed prey. It drew closer and closer with terrible rapping rhythm until it stopped close to Gracey’s face. It seemed to heave a deep and terrible breath, something that made his soul quiver in terror. This was not Eleanor…

Unable to escape, Gracey drew his last, long breath and the dark entity took it in like life. It groaned with terrible pleasure as it watched Gracey’s mortal form fall limp on the floor, bottle and note still at hand. The rest of his soul was devoured and trapped in an endless cycle of fear and grief as the entity had seized it from its eternal rest. This terrible entity was the first to greet him in the afterlife.

A demon.

…

All the painful memories flooded back as he stared at the Hatbox Ghost with fear and terrible regret. He held no conception of time as he did once so, never quite snapping out of it, heavy and lifeless breath engulfing his ribcage.

“Well…William Gracey. Once again pestering your relatives…” The Hatbox Ghost’s voice came, which accompanied a grim smile upon his face.

William opened his mouth to say something but quickly stopped himself. He stuttered, not knowing what to say to the evil Spector that sat before him. He was wrong— he was just attempting to ease Dorian’s humiliation. But, he knew he was just trying to convince his mind otherwise.

“I—” William stammered.

“Perhaps I should put an end to your…pestering…hm?” The Hatbox Ghost shifted slightly in his seat.

And before another stutter could escape, William Gracey was forced from his seat beside his friends and led down the table to where Hatbox Ghosts’s ghoulish goons sat, right beside the looming dark spirit that had entrapped him for eternity.

William, though persisting in his defiance by stance, could only withstand the agonizing pain of resistance for so long. Eventually, he stayed seated in order to keep the agony he felt at bay. It was a terrible feeling— to have the devil force one’s spirit like a puppet. With a widened lens, William looked around at the entities he sat with. They all stared at him with an occulted hatred as the Hatbox Ghost sat to the right of him, encompassing sinful pride with every expression. William looked down almost immediately.

“You see…That’s much better now. No more pitifully distracting side shows that squander my valuable time…”

Dorian attempted to comfort William from across the table, but it was obvious that he wasn’t responding to anyone, too frightened to do so.

“Speaking of wasting time…” The dark spirit spoke with prolonged groans in between.

He watched as the footmen carried in a multitude of silver platters, all of which were covered quite beautifully. Every spirit watched as the food came in, curling in their chairs with loads of anticipation. Despite the Hatbox Ghost’s torturous, inhumane mannerisms, he still allowed the ghosts to dine through offerings. It was a sick way of manipulating naive souls, causing them to almost believe He cared for them.

Normally, the feast was carried out with a variety of specific smells and memories found only in the past lives of the spirits. Whether it was the meaty scent of Jambalaya, or the pungent and delectable crawfish Étouffée with crispy crab cakes, it was a dish fit for a soul. And of course, a subtle glass of red wine on the side never hurt anyone. He knew that of all entities.

However, something was quite different as soon as the silver platters were placed in a manner that appeared planned. William slowly turned his head curiously and noticed the Hatbox Ghosts’s rotten grin when he spoke.

“Finally…something to celebrate my success. Satiate my hunger…”

Gracey inhaled without breath and winced almost immediately at a sudden odor. With terrible speculation, his fears were eventually portrayed through every spirit within the room. The platters were lifted up, revealing the nightmare.

Upon the long table was a rotting corpse, still fresh in a sense that it gave off a significantly horrific odor of death and decay. On everyone’s plate was a random piece of it— a hand or cheek alike. However, a lifeless body formed across the table in front of the Hatbox Ghost. It was enough to make all the souls’ wretch back within their chairs or simply stare in shock. Even the hitchhikers and goons had sat in silence as they gazed back at their plates.

Many spirits watched in utmost terror as the Hatbox Ghost inhaled the putrid scent of the corpse as if it were a dessert. He let out a sickening cackle afterward as he pressed his palms against the table, his gloved hands squeezed involuntarily. It was absolutely horrid, and many of the souls would rather die again just to get away from the situation. Even Vincent, the Hatchet Ghost, found that ideal hard to resist.

The Hatbox Ghost then shifted his cruel gaze upon every expression, for he found a gruesome pride in the fact every spector had a new and profound fear of him. He traced his green tongue against his rotted teeth, chuckling in the back of his throat.

“What seems to be the matter? Haven’t any of you had your fair share of tartare before?”

The dark spirit bellowed out in maniacal laughter again shortly afterwards, akin to a madman, as he covered his chest as though he had a heart. Even when he joked, it was as if the sorrowful souls had perished again all those years ago.

“Please…let us dine together now on this fine evening…”

The Hatbox ghost adjusted within his seat as he began to remove his black gloves one finger at a time. He acted in a manner of which every ghost could watch him with grueling anticipation as he revealed his monstrous claws.

Too frightened to look upon his friends, William Gracey’s skeletal hands shook underneath the table as he stared onto his plate. He had to look more than once to realize it was. A heart— a mortal heart—on his plate, covered in an array of dull greens and purples. There wasn’t any blood pouring from what he could see, just holes deep within the ventricles and shriveled, brown fat encasing its shape. If he were alive he would have evacuated himself. But now, he just felt paralyzed as the heart gazed back at him quite menacingly.

It all made devastating sense as William watched the Hatbox Ghost’s prominent side-eye. It was as if He vouched for such a dish just to vex him. In fact, the dark spirit had been tormenting him ever since the beginning, and He would do the same now. There was always madness within Him, but it was madness with an underlying method to it. There was always something the Hatbox Ghost wanted.

Vincent among other ghosts continued to watch his master once he set his large talons upon the table. The dark spirit’s elbows and wrists ceased to touch the edge of the cloth, which was a rather polite courtesy. He even picked up the silverware neatly placed upon the cloth as he examined its condition. He brought the fork to his eye level and slowly turned it before his hands began to tremble subtly.

It was His humanity slowly disappearing.

Then, as if something had snapped within the Hatbox Ghost, immediately the pupils within his yellow eyes began to wane as he dropped the utensil. He then violently grabbed the atrocious corpse in his massive claws as he began to devour it vigorously, revealing his truly famished presence.

Some airless gasps and mourns could be heard from the ghosts present, for it was an utmost horrible sight to see. There was strenuous struggling within the dining room chairs as the souls attempted to get away, unable to watch the beast take fourth in His sinful actions.

The Hatbox Ghost’s eyes evinced his pleasure as his whole massive frame hunched forward, continuing to partake in the gluttony. He felt a joyous impulse as he saw the fluids of innocence flow through his fingertips.

William nearly gagged as he watched Him, thoroughly revolted by His manners. But he knew the Hatbox Ghost was cursed to feed off of the living and deceased alike, truly unable to enjoy memories of food He had once indulged in. He knew this dark spirit truly felt hunger—something that all of the trapped souls did not.

The ghost’s claws were covered in the grotesque green and brown coloration, but nevertheless, His talons grabbed what was left of the slimy entrails. He seemed to devour most of them within minutes. However, time was irrelevant in the realm of darkness, and to some ghosts, it felt like He was eating for hours on end.

The souls that sat nearest to the Hatbox Ghost were quickly splashed and dirtied by the gush of old blood and gruel. William Gracey couldn't help but shed tears of misery and pain of what had unraveled before him. He was filled with agony, for the lifeless corpse returned him to his constant bereavement.

Oh—Why must this be so! To live among Satans whilst Eleanor lived in the realm of kings and queens? Was she even watching from above? He felt torn apart at the thought of her forgetfulness of him, mangled from the infinite pain, with no hope and no home. This was not the region beyond as he was promised. This was Hell. Because, unlike the eternal dream, this was the land where souls dwelled in torment and agony, forced to watch the Hatbox Ghost take his share of blood, flesh, and marrow. It was, of course, the acrid flavor that He desired, barely enough to satisfy His superimposed gluttony. The way He ate was enough to degrade even the toughest of souls.

William Gracey kept his face hidden, reminiscent of his dread. Normally, the Hatbox Ghost’s goons would’ve helped out with his wicked pestering, but they were all strictly preoccupied with his latent ravening. It was enough of a distraction until Gracey started to sniffle. Goodness—why did he have to sniffle?

Nevertheless it was heard, which had caught the attention of the monster to the left of him. The Hatbox Ghost’s claws unsheathed the mess intertwined in them, which fell from his hands slowly like a bloodied slime. Then, He quickly looked toward William with an unkenneled pleasure.

William, who shielded himself from many lingering eyes, wiped the tears and purged the marks from his face in an attempt to alleviate his constant dismay. However, he couldn’t stop pouring himself out with dreary wet tears once he’d started, which was no help to him in the end.

The Hatbox Ghost slowly leaned closer to Gracey and smelt the almost tangible atmosphere around him. He emitted a terrible groan—the sound of a monster as he widened his mouth to taste the addictive sensation. His ghostly hair seemed to stick on end subtly. In the Ghost Realm, sensations were like memories that gave off the scent of nostalgia, sorrow or any other deep emotion as a replacement of taste. Of course, they weren’t as pungent as the feelings of mourning spirits and mortals. And how pungent grief was to Him.

It didn’t take long for the Hatbox Ghost to become addicted to it, eyes maddened with the same inherent voracious prodigality. Many ghouls and spirits attempted to leave their seats again, aware of the inevitable outcome of this display. Eventually, The Hatbox Ghost would lose any mannerisms he had previously held before dinner, and would leave behind a madman. This needed to be stopped before anyone was permanently harmed. Vincent quickly proposed this ideal as the evil spector moved Himself closer to Gracey.

“Now, Your Excellency— Master of the Realms— perhaps you should finish devouring your lovely meal?” Vincent exclaimed quickly.

Other spirits had started to add onto this distraction in an attempt to draw the Master of the House away from the stench of grief. However, The Hatbox Ghost had already started to drool ferociously with every spectacle matching his inward appearance.

“Yes!— I think we all enjoyed the courtesy of your meal! Perhaps we should be excused before you—”

“SILENCE!” He roared.

And presently, not a sound was heard afterward, other than the mourns of William Gracey, who’d attempted to cease his internal dilemmas rather quickly.

William shut his eyes and only sniffled now that he had shielded his rather robustious cries. Though it was hard, he couldn’t let the demon before him get what He desired so desperately and with such ease. Even with eternal blackness to cloud out his vision, William pictured Him perfectly. It was disturbing how every component was laid out within his mind with no comparison to a painting. And it was that same painting that had been stuck within his mind ever since he’d died so many decades ago.

Slowly, the evil spirit made His way towards William Gracey, not hesitating to push his chair away from the long table. As He stood tall over William, many heads turned in utter terror, for they knew they were nothing against the wrath of their unwilling Master. This was quickly proven as Hatbox Ghost looked at everyone with a sudden animalistic fury.

“…What are you all looking at?! DINE!” He spat.

Almost suddenly, every ghost took up their forks and knives like puppets that feasted without hunger or desire. It was such an ugly sight to anyone, even the deceased, that some spirits would much rather suffer for years trapped inside an airtight box than have to face eating the remnants of a human. The spitting of sludge and crunching of bones was a bitter enmity to anyone forced to participate or even listen, the crimes justified only by Hell itself. After all, it was His realm now.

Even William was forced to take up the fork. He unwillingly sliced off a stiff piece of the old, wretched heart, much like the rest of the thralled spirits, forced to bring it to his tongue and eat it. Nothing in the mortal realm before prepared him for the disgust as he began to chew without will. Every empty tear fell to the floor without a stain, almost as if every one of them meant nothing in a dimension of infinite sorrow. They were tears in the rain, pointless to remember even if they meant something. Once William swallowed with great misery, he’d given into the inevitable that was The Hatbox Ghost’s eternal torment.

“—Why…” William had said rhetorically with a cloudy and woeful expression.

He spoke aloud but with little volume, for his spirit felt low and chained from within. It was more than just a spell that he and the ghosts were under— it was a curse. A terrible curse.

As if the deathly dimension couldn't take any more away from him, William was quickly torn from his seat by a large set of claws that had tightened painfully around the rest of his torso. He yelled only once, before the large hands suffocated him as if he had air to breathe. He couldn’t escape it.

The Hatbox Ghost ceased his terrible laughter as he neared William Gracey to his monstrous facade. His ferocious and lifeless breath exited the emptiness of his nose cavity. It was truly His face altogether that expressed His violent yearning towards such helpless and innocent souls. There was no exaggeration as He savored the grieving spirit’s aroma grotesquely, full of content.

“Mmm…You smell of…Misery…”

It was William's fragrance of grief that He’d found irresistible. It was enough to impose the sins of Gluttony and Lust simultaneously. What a mistake it was to show this heartfelt pain. He’d begun to feed a demon.

“…In-toxicating…”

William felt his ghostly form ripple painfully as the Hatbox Ghost took fourth in his own obscenities. He fed off Gracey’s grief, which caused his spirit to cripple and lose all thoughts that were dear to him during the process. The love he held for his friends turned sour, into dread and sorrow instead. He began to focus on Eleanor’s death once again.

“Leave him alone!” One of the maids screamed toward the Hatbox Ghost with a small spark of resistance.

The Hatbox Ghost let out a deep chuckle as he violently grabbed Williams neck instead, allowing him to dangle midair. William let out a strained noise as the grasp tightened like a serpent around his neck, firm and constricting.

“Oh, you really care for him, don’t you?…” The Hatbox Ghost’s voice seemed to grow darker as he gazed at the parlor maid with monsterous eyes.

“…Willing to share the same fate?…”

Suddenly, the maiden fell into the floor that stretched open beneath her. She let out a shrill scream of terror as she fell into a large pit of black sand that emitted a dark aura. The ghosts around her gasped audibly as some peered into the gaping hole next to them, which began to fill up quickly and swallow up the poor soul. Her screams ceased as the floor closed up afterward with a strike of lightning from outside.

The Hatbox Ghost let out a horrendous, boisterous laughter afterward, and it was clear he gained sickening satisfaction from the event.

William gripped at the Hatbox Ghost, almost in a pleading manner, desperate to be set free from the torment. This elicited the dark spirit to focus his gaze back toward him. He bared his slimy teeth as He fought His ferocious desire to confiscate and devour Gracey’s kind spirit in an instant.

Even in sorrow, William was so full of life—brilliant and caring—everything Hatbox Ghost was not. But He was patient.

“Don’t you recall…that night…” The Hatbox Ghost muttered as he neared William’s face closer to his own.

William scrunched his expression horribly as he struggled to relieve himself from the monster's grip. His translucent, skeletal fingers grappled the Master’s tough dark claws in an attempt to relieve himself from the constant, agonizing restriction.

“The night Eleanor deserted you…” The Hatbox Ghost whispered through a chuckle.

His eyes fiercely studied William’s, for He still desired much more delicious grief from him. William quickly felt the torment burn down on his soul again, which had forced his sorrowful tears to pool in his sockets. And those terrible words repeated endlessly within his head. It was all his fault…

“She never loved you…” The Hatbox Ghost uttered through a masked grin, eyes pulsating with a strange, yellow aura. Soon, He would get what He desired. And how He deserved it.

Gracey mouthed “no,” too weak to project any resistance. Even if he were a strong and enduring spirit, nothing could withstand the excruciation of this Devil.

“…She…left you here, allowing your torment. To waste away and rot in your own home…Just to suffer.” His words came again like poison.

William let out a strained sob as he shut his eyes. The misery was almost too much to bear, for tears began to stream rapidly down his face without an end, almost forced out. The Hatbox Ghost’s eyes widened at the tormented soul with an exhilarated pleasure. Only He noticed the visible aura of misery and grief illuminated around William. This is what he longed for.

William kept his eyes shut tight as he felt the Hatbox Ghost lean in towards him. He could feel a demented chill wash over his spectral form as he realized quickly that he was being drained of his life force slowly—feasted upon.

William understood the enslavement he constantly found himself under—all willing souls shared this fate. Many of the willing souls He fed on were wasted away into entities too weak to move or speak. In other words, they only existed for Him and his desires to satiate Himself. They were the true course— the reason why the Hatbox Ghost hosted the demeaning dinners. Why was he to be damned for all eternity this way, devoured into nothingness—Left with empty torture and grief?

The Hatbox Ghost groaned pleasantly as he began to consume William’s soul, exhausting him in the process. His jaws opened extensively whilst he drew in the concentrated anguish and suffering from Gracey. It roused and stirred the madness within, rather thrilling to Him.

“You’re…Mine!” He growled.

The Hatbox Ghost wheezed airily as he took in another lifeless breath full of grief and pain. lightning crackled in a much more electrified manner outside the windows, which had flashed in strange shapes of purple and green. Every loud crack against the immaterial realm sent a shrill scream of terror throughout the dining room, adding onto His deranged symphony.

Even Vincent, the Hatchet Ghost, had taken recognition of this most demonic sight, watching his very nephew waine and weep as he was feasted upon by the new Master of the house. He couldn’t help feeling an indiscretion deep within his spectral form, for he found the execution incredibly hard to watch. He suddenly intervened on behalf of any ghost unwilling to make the sacrifice.

“Master— Must you stop this…this madness?!”

A jolt of loud thunder was heard afterwards, silenced through the ferocious stare of the Hatbox Ghost. His beady, yellow, and menacing eyes were enough to stop any mortal heart— any soul’s at that. And it sent a terrible, antagonizing might that stunned Vincent into a state of pure shock. The only movement he could bear was his own trembling. It was only through this reaction that The Hatbox Ghost temporarily recessed his gruesome mannerisms, snarling as he spat.

“You DARE…disrupt ME?!”

The Demon roared with great severity towards the Hatchet Ghost among the other trembling spirits. The dining room had darkened all around them and all fears had been brought forth to their salacious Master. William, still trapped beneath the claws of the massive spector, held only the strength to look toward Vincent Gracey, who stood his ground even in fear. He winced in appealing agony with tears that could’ve burned at his skin if he were still alive. Why was he doing this for him— a ghost weak and pathetic beyond comparison? This was all his fault…

“Sir—” Vincent had managed to say before the fear had restricted his lifeless vocal chords.

Although he loathed his nephew, he couldn’t face the fact that he too was a willing soul just like him.

And how He craved the Willing.

“Even my most…Loyal adversary…Seeking to betray Me?…”

The Hatbox Ghost sifted himself towards the Hatchet ghost with William Gracey still snared in between his massive talons, much like a hawk with its prey. He bared His gray, rotten teeth at the demented, meek spirit with no desire to blink even once. The darkened aura seemed to engulf most of His cape now as if to stretch His shadow across the room, which gave Him a much larger expression than before.

“Of…of course not—” Vincent managed to speak.

The darkness around him started to crawl close to the putrid scar embedded across his fleshy, green neck. It made him grunt due to the sudden enforced agony.

“You’re not…caring for him, are you now? Much like…the others?”

The Evil Spector studied the Hatchet Ghost’s perturbed expression, His eyes enticed with such insanity and deception, they were enough to entrance any ghost who gazed directly at them. Every spirit hid their eyes from Him. All except Vincent Gracey.

“I…” Vincent muttered, enraptured by the Hatbox Ghost’s pulsating yellow eyes. He couldn’t resist them.

William Gracey watched in horror as his relative fell under the hypnotic and tractable spell. His eyes— Why must he look into those eyes?! He had almost seen Vincent Gracey’s true self, shrouded out within an instant through the manipulative power of the Hatbox Ghost. He almost had his uncle back. He almost had hope.

“Besides…I won’t be the one to help you when you’ll inevitably pay him for your actions…Right?…” He chuckled.

The Hatbox Ghost restated the Hatchet Ghost’s previous statement to William Gracey as if He’d known of their recent encounter. It sent a petrified chill down William’s spine.

He listens. He heard everything. And all roads lead to Him in the end…

The Hatchet Ghost strangely inhaled as the darkness faded around him, seemingly done with him. Then, those hypotonic clouds ceased within his eyes and revealed the same bitterness William Gracey had always seen in him. Hatred.

“...Of course, Master. Thank you for your…assistance.”

William Gracey faintly struggled within the Hatbox Ghost’s claws and watched as the Hatchet Ghost got up from his seat without hassle. It was quite alarming for the rest of the sorrowful souls, still glued to their seats without content. It was a statement which meant the loyal were favored over the enslaved. A terrible statement that meant one had to give into the dark spirit’s bidding just to be free. It was all an illusion, however. No one was free.

The Hatbox Ghost’s perpetual smile sneered all the more wider, now that the Hatchet Ghost had gazed at William with such unpleasantness. It made William shed more empty tears, no longer recognizing Vincent Gracey in those addhorrent, misshapen eyes.

“What do you think of…poor William Gracey now?…” The Hatbox Ghost snarled in his guttural voice.

Presently, He lowered William Gracey back down to the hard tiles so that Vincent could gaze upon him. William’s knees buckled from his lack of strength, kneeling as he held a heavily depleted expression. The Hatbox Ghost still kept an intense hold of his neck and torso while he wheezed, watching Vincent walk up to him with a sadistic grin upon his face.

For a moment, the Hatchet Ghost lingered his daunting smile at William Gracey, who had no choice but to gaze back with tired eyes. After a moment of silence, he spoke…

“I want him to…suffer…” He spoke through an inhale.

“I want to…watch you break him. Only I…”

Vincent’s voice was layered with darkness as he knelt down in front of his tormented relative. What was said was something imparable and vile, addressed to no one except the once luminescent soul before him. Now, he was nothing but an eternal feast for the demon before him.

“…And let the others’ blindness overcome them with a fear far greater than the sweet escape of closure…” The Hatchet Ghost added, looking up to his dark ruler.

William shook with a sunken head, eyes glassy and darkened by the condition of his very being. He could only listen to the quaked voices of his fellow friends, for they too always winded up paying for his actions. Why must this always be so? This was all his fault. Always his fault.

“What a…pleasant surprise…” The Hatbox Ghost uttered through an utmost sinister chuckle.

He was infatuated by the animosity He’d caused between a once happy family. How he loved the capability of destruction caused by His own making. He was a monster, vain and vile, created with misanthropic power and the disposition for committing atrocity.

“Wouldn’t you agree…William? He bellowed.

The dark spirit hunched down with a most wretched snarl, one claw upon the floor, while his eyes gazed upon William Gracey. He was once again lifted off the ground with such ease and carried back towards the Hatbox Ghost’s mummified facade. It was acrid and dark, his face. Void of any life or pleasantry it had once possessed in a forgotten timeline. His nose cavities enlarged after every powerful, lifeless inhale, eyes but yellow fragments of hellfire as they stared back at William. William had made no effort to voice out even a feeble ‘no,’ too dreadfully exhausted to do so. All he could muster was a heart-wrenching stare at the dark spirit before him, eyes blurred from tears.

“Well then. I shall see to this manner…personally. Within a more…confined setting...”

As the Hatbox Ghost straightened himself up back into his menacing, overbearing stance, he fixed his eyes upon every quivering ghost and spirit within the room that had watched the grimful spectacle commence. He groaned and bared his spear-like teeth as he made his gaze known across the room, then inevitably stopped at William’s acquaintances.

Victor, the Flutist, and Dorian Gracey couldn’t help but share the same alarmed expression with each other, the rules made known to all of them clearly. The Master was never wrong. The Master was always listening. And if He shall ever look upon you with greatness, He will do so with great reason. And ‘great’, He was. It was this final oath that had made them tremble with anticipation.

The darkness began to ripple throughout the massive dining hall, which had echoed its deathly sweet lullaby into the infinite chambers of the mansion. Sometimes it thundered like lightning or rippled akin to waves. Nevertheless, it taunted every soul under His mighty curse. Haunted them.

“Oh, I hate to be a terrible host and run, but I do think it’s time for me to go. You see, I have some…important matters to attend to…”

The Hatbox Ghost’s aura had begun to ripple and mystify him as he took a gradual step back from the chair that was his throne. Everyone had eyes on the Master of the house as he took William Gracey with him into the blackness that had been summoned. The Hatchet Ghost was beside his Master, and observed as the black veins started to crawl and intertwine around them. Although it was inevitable to show fear, he’d embraced it long long ago: something his nephew did not.

“Enjoy the dinner…Ta-ta, now…” The Hatbox Ghost muttered in an exaggerated voice.

The dark spirit quickly dematerialized within His own darkness alongside the other two spirits. He always spoke the final word. Even after He’d vanished just as elegantly as He’d come, no one was allowed to leave until they were finished with their dish. And Every ghoul alike held this deep and unforgiving punishment, the solemn supper being only the beginning of it all.

Many had known what this celebration had meant, for it was all loud and clear what the Hatbox Ghost had in store for the delicious mortal souls entrapped within the mansion. Eventually, they would all share the same fate as every ghost had—forced to abide by the dark spector’s command. And the willing souls? The willing were special to Him; potent to Him. It was something He craved ever since his arrival, something eternal that would fuel his insatiable hunger for more. Because, unlike the mortal realm, there was no escape from the infinite oblivion waiting for them on the other side.

And how He waited ever so patiently…

…

[lianahayze]

Shadow and the Midnight Misery: Chapter 12

Hi all! You know the drill; chapter is below the cut, previous chapter is here, and you can find the masterlist here. Enjoy!

Chapter 12. Arguments

"Shadow, you're here!"

Coffee in hand and sunglasses covering my face, I lightly smile. Wyatt, Dave, and Ethan. They’re all standing outside waiting for me. Out of all of them, Ethan is the only one who looks excited. The other two already seem annoyed at me, even though I’ve only been here for less than ten seconds.

I’m exhausted. The rest of my night had been terrible. After trying for a couple of hours, I had finally drifted off to sleep. It hadn’t been a good rest, though; I’d tossed and turned all night, dancing with my demons. Though I’m pretending that everything is fine, I’m barely awake and only half aware of what’s going on, so I hope none of them give me any bullshit today.

As we go inside, I tell Ethan, "Of course I'm here." Over my shoulder, I add, "Somebody had to open the door."

If Wyatt hears me, he doesn't say anything.

Once I've unlocked the door, I make a beeline for the studio. Not really in the mood to deal with any of them, I immediately start to set up. Initially, I keep my sunglasses on--I didn't have time to do my makeup this morning and don't want them to see how tired I am--but it’s making it difficult for me to see. I stare down at my notebook and pull them off, dropping them into my bag.

Dave enters the room first. Without even turning, I can feel him staring at me. "What?" I ask.

"Nothing." He sits down on the couch. "It's just long time no see."

I roll my eyes but refuse to bite. Swiveling the chair so that I'm facing away from him, I curl up and continue reading.

"What's our plan for today?"

When Wyatt enters the room, I don't respond to him. After all, he's the one who called this rehearsal; he should know what we're doing today.

For a few minutes, the three of them talk amongst themselves. I don’t want to get involved, so I don’t. Not having the energy to fight with them, I keep to myself. All I want is my bed and several interrupted hours of sleep, and the sooner we can get through this, the sooner that's going to happen.

"You ready to go?"

"Hmm?" I look up at Dave.

"Are you ready?" He asks. I nod but barely. Dave gives me a look over before saying, "Late night?"

There's skepticism and sarcasm in his voice but I ignore it. "You could say that," I tell him.

"What were you doing?"

I sigh. I know where he's heading, and now's not the time for it. "Nothing. I was home all night." I look back at my notebook. I flip a few pages, hoping nothing else is going to be said.

Of course, nothing ever goes according to plan, and Wyatt asks, "How's therapy?"

Jeez, I really just want to curl up on the floor and go to sleep. "It's fine."

"Yeah? Helping you stay centered throughout the day?"

"Sure."

A small silence sweeps through the room, and, out of the corner of my eye, I see them exchanging looks. Honestly, I don't know what they want from me. Do they expect me to blow up at them? Is that what they’re trying to make me do? Because if it is, it’s just not going to happen. Right now, all I want to have as little contact with people as possible, arguments included.

"You okay, Shadow?" I nod at Ethan.

"Probably just going through withdrawals," said Wyatt.

I huff. Withdrawal would only happen if I had an addiction, which I don't.

"We've been working on some stuff to show you. Not that we've been working a lot without you or anything. It's just that..." Ethan clears his throat before continuing. "Well, we just all had some downtime when you were at Garver, so..."

I understand what he's trying to say. "Sure." I wave my hand. "Let me hear it."

They get set up. As they start to play, I close my eyes. I'm somewhat drifting off, yes, but I'm also listening. I wonder if they'll be expecting me to put lyrics to this or if they were just screwing around when they came up with it. It's not half bad, but it's definitely missing something.

"Stop, stop, stop." My eyes open at Wyatt's voice. I look at him; he's staring at me. "Are you seriously trying to sleep right now?"

"No."

"Are you high right now?"

Resenting the accusation, I frown. "No."

"Then what the hell is wrong with you?"

"Wyatt, I'm here." My voice is calm as I speak. "I don't know what you want from me."

"I want you to be a functioning member of this band!" he yells. "I want you to stop being so erratic!"

His shouting makes my ears ring. I groan but don't argue. I should be defending myself, but maybe he's right. I get where he's coming from. And though I could easily tell him that, without me, there wouldn't even be a band for me to function in, I don't. Instead, I close my eyes again, saying, "Fine."

"'Fine'?" I hear him scoff. "'Fine'? What the fuck is your problem?"

"Everything is my problem, but every time I try to tell you that I get shit on." Realizing that we aren't going to get much done, I close my notebook. "So that's that."

"You're not supposed to be on drugs right now," he says.

"I'm not." Discounting the joint that I'd smoked last night.

"You act like you are."

"And you're acting like a crazy person. If you're not careful I'll have Dave and Ethan scheme behind your back to get you committed."

Ethan says, "That's not funny."

"I guess I just have a weird sense of humor." I look back over at Wyatt. "Look, I don't know what you want. I'm here, I'm on time, I'm listening to you play." I wonder if they can hear how tired I am. "Can't you tell I'm trying my best?"

He doesn't say anything--none of them do, actually. Instead, they just stand there, not moving. I don’t know if they’re holding back, or if they’re finally ready to get off my back, but, a few moments later, I find out:

Clearing his throat, Dave says, "Well... I guess we'll get started then?"

With that, they drop it, and we finally get going.

-

So excited to be back on track with my updates. Thanks for reading; come say hi here. See you in chapter 13!

-L.H.

[zeenmrala]

━ stay alive

summary: your depression is tearing you apart, and you do not think you can survive the night. darth maul reminds you of your strength. pairing: darth maul x reader (no pronouns used) tw: suicidal ideation, depression, trauma, mental health. angst and hope and comfort. word count: 1k a/n: this short fic is for the maul lovers who experience mental health distress and find themselves lost and exhausted in this life. for those who need a reason to stick around. it may feel impossible to stay alive, but try to survive the night. there may not be peace. but there is always hope. music: i always wanna die (sometimes) by the 1975

please click here to view international suicide hotlines.

“if you can’t survive, just try.”

Stay Alive - [Read this story on AO3]

Your body succumbs to the weight of your fractured mind. All the pain, loss, trauma and hardships that have been stacking up like rancid bricks in your skull over the long years of your life have become a burden too great to bear. The wall of sorrow has collapsed above you, raining down in crashes of devastation, pinning your body beneath the wreckage: you are anchored to the ground by the breadth of your mental anguish.

That wretched hollow ache in your chest is devouring you whole: you are imploding with despair and emptiness and the harrowing truth of your colossal depression. The tears come, streaming down your cheeks, the saltiness settling on your skin, in your ears, pooling in the skin of your collarbone. You hold yourself with your arms on the floor in a last ditch effort to keep yourself from falling apart. 

You are languishing so entirely in your misery that you do not hear him enter the room. You do not notice the muted whirr of his cybernetics, the soft thud of his metal footsteps, the glaring weight of his gleaming amber eyes. You don't register his unique midnight scent, the usually notable gravitas of his presence. The entire galaxy, including him, has slipped away into complete sorrow. 

But then he speaks, that rich velvet voice you know and cherish so dearly breaking through the oppressive cloud of sadness. Darth Maul speaks your name with a mix of concern and confusion. A wash of shame steals your breath from your lungs as your hazy mind acknowledges his presence. 

He shouldn't see you like this. 

"Why do you weep?" He asks in a rare gentle tone, his usual severity is muted. Do you really appear so pitiful?

"Leave me," you snap at him, the emotional turmoil sharpening your shame against him. You wipe your face with your sleeves, pulling yourself up against the wall at your back, resting your head in your arms, hiding. "Don't look at me."

He ignores your demands and wordlessly approaches. You hear him settling beside you on the floor. 

"Gods, it’s disgusting," you whisper, embarrassment washing over you like a tide.

"What is?"

"These feelings," you admit between gritted teeth as you shake your head. "This weakness."

He is silent, and you refuse to look at him, your face still hidden behind your arms.

"Why do I live with it?" You ask, not him or yourself or anyone in particular. The question just comes out, a stream of truth pouring from your lips. "This gnawing distress and despair. It's a constant shadow. It will never go away. There is no use in fighting it's will any longer."

"Explain.”

"I should let the waves of it take me," you whisper, your arms falling forward, your flushed and wet face revealed to the chilled air. "Let the inevitability of mortality wash me away."

He immediately understands. "To an early grave?" 

"A timely one. A just one. Perhaps it is my fate for this to consume me tonight." A pause, weighty and loaded. "I'm just so tired, Maul."

He stays silent, allows you the relief of a confession, of his listening. 

"I am defective. Broken. This rot within me is me. The part of me that has been slowly decaying has spread so deep that I have become it. The damage is done and I cannot undo it or repair it. I cannot stand it any longer."

"You suffer," he acknowledges. "There is strength in that."

You scoff. "There is no point to my suffering. I cannot harness its power like you. At least there is some purpose to your pain, a boon you can claim from it. I have nothing." You inhale and close your aching eyes. "I am nothing."

"No," he counters softly. "Not at all. Not to me."

You look at him, bask in the sweetness of those words, the unique beauty of his strange face. He returns to his silence, and does not look at you, but straight ahead. 

"Death is not what I want," you whisper, clarifying. "But what I need, I think. It is not that I want to give up, but I want...to..."

"Give in," he finishes for you. 

"Yes," you reply, the relief of his understanding both a balm and a heart wrenching revelation. "Yes."

He turns to look at you then, his golden eyes meeting yours. "The scars of your past will always be with you,” he says clearly, “they may weigh you down, consume you, haunt you. But they do not define you."

You blink, your eyebrows slightly furrowed in confusion, such kindness and candour coming from him is a sweet surprise.

"It is true that I gain power from my suffering. My fear. My hatred. But all of that...it is mine. I own it. Your anguish is yours. And though you cannot rid yourself of it, it is part of you.” He reaches towards you, places a gloved palm on your chest, directly above the emotional ache. “Feel it. Embrace its wrath, note how brutal and relentless it has been. How it has battered you and worn you down over the years.”

You close your eyes and do as he says, delving into the ache, recalling the long years of pain and despair, how broken and lost you are…

“Now think of how you have endured it. That you are, despite everything, alive. What kind of person could have survived such an ordeal?”

Alive. You feel the heat of his palm on your chest, the sting of tears on your cheeks, the scent of space that lingers in the starship. You notice the cool chill of durasteel beneath your back, the beat of your heart, the breath in your lungs. The miracle of life, of experience, of tolerating the suffering and joy to this point in time.

“You have achieved that. You. The person that has endured all of that has the strength to survive another night. Stay alive. You owe yourself, - ” he pauses, moving his gloved fingers to your wet cheek, caressing your skin, “- this person that has fought and overcome so much anguish, another day.”

You lean into his touch, and his palm cradles your face. You nod softly, and almost whimper because yes, the pain is still there and it hurts and it is engulfing you entirely and it’s overflowing yet empty all at once. And it may always exist, eternal and timeless. But you have proven to yourself that you can endure it, again and again, as you have before, surviving those countless nights of misery that you have put behind you. You can stay alive. You breathe in the scent of his crimson skin, feel the weight of his strong arms tighten around you. You allow him to hold you for the remainder of the night, and you hold him in return, finding strength and the will to survive in yourselves and each other.

-

suicide hotlines

click here to join my taglist

taglist:

@stardustbee @kimageddon @corona-one @frogunderarock @herbalinz-of-yesteryear @dukeoftheblackstar @burningcoffeetimetravel

[theelderhazelnut]

WIP Wednesday

tagged by @aceghosts @nightbloodbix @cloudofbutterflies92 @cassietrn <3

I’m one hour late lol. Okay so this is what I have written so far for the first chapter of “Rise of Villains: The Shadow”. Atoosa (Ombra) has lost everything, and she meets Raiden for the first time. (Güney is a minor character)

Also, this is not proofread!

I had never truly felt it until that night when I was sitting beside the road. I had never wished to be anyone else, even that middle-aged man making tea for his customers, but this lost little girl. What did people do when their parents are suddenly killed in an airpalne shot by two rockets, and when they were suddenly left with nothing but an old luggage?

I stared at my fingers, trying so hard not to bury my face in them because then my life would magically go deeper into this abyss. What was I supposed to do really? A psychiatry student in a foreign country who had lost her financial support last week and her rented apartment this morning.

I went into my pocket to check the time, but remembered that my phone had just died. I took a deep breath to protect my sanity for just a few more seconds until I arrive at the restaurant, the temporary workplace I opt because I wanted to be this independent woman. The money it provided me for working there part-time would never heal any scars, but it was better that nothing. But now it was everything I had left.

I pushed glass door open after walking for fifteen minutes, and dragged my luggage behind me. There were only two couples left out of all the customers. Güney, the cashier, looked at me up and down.

“Where are you going?” He continued chewing his gum while his dark eyes were begging to be shut.

“Can I stay the night?” It was weird to hear my own voice after hours of silence in the pavement. Also when I was trying to hide the pleading tone shaking my voice.

“Uuum-yeah you can sleep in the kitchen, but why? Are you okay?” He raised his eyebrows in concern.

Güney was never the friendliest collaege to me, and I definitely did not need his sympathy right then.

“I-my landlord kicked me out I’ll just stay one night I promise I’ll fix everything and-“

“What do you mean he kicked you out?!”

“Because I didn’t pay the rent.” Even talking about what happened this morning made me feel ill and dizzy. I shook my head and walked up to the kitchen.

“You could stay at my place.” He offered in a low, cautious tone, standing awkwardly in the doorframe. Trusting a stranger I see almost everyday? Nope. Never.

I stared at him dead in the eyes. “I’m good. Thank you.”

He creeped out of the dark room with measured steps. And I was, once again, left alone. I sat on the counter for the next couple of minutes, staring at the distance while the fridge continuously beezed in my ears. I would lie if I claimed that I wasn’t scared to be all alone in a restaurant at midnight. Surely, the doors were locked, but my mind was a bastard who enjoyed visualizing diverse scenarios of a psychopath suddenly breaking in. Fortunately, the knives and axes were at reach, hanging gravely from the rank.

I tightened my grip around the edge of the counter. I could hear the already ruined house of my life collapsing into the deep abyss of misery. I would turn into a poor girl drowning in povert while she carries her dead dreams on her hunched shoulders. I would be useless. I would fail.

A vague, booming sound from afar rang in my ears. I found myself totally frozen when I only moved my eyeballs towards the door. I greeted my teeth as though it would magically create a shield for me. The sound was heard again; now three times in a row like knocking. I held my breath to hear every single noise resembling footsteps.

Knocking again. In utter silence, I picked one of the huge knives, and [walking silently] out of the kitchen. White knuckling the handle, my nails were penetrating my sweaty palm.

Before I knew it, a thunder striked just a few meters away. My eyes went blind and my ears went deaf for a brief moment, my heart skipping a beat. I stumbled, but maintained my balance by holding onto one of the tables. Gathering my mind, I aimed the tip of the knife to where it just exploded. But to my shock, evrything was in its place. Not even a single crack could be seen on the windows.

Instead, there stood a tall, masculine figure. Due to darkness I could only see the blackness of his robe and a triangle on his head. Two balls of blue light were shining intensely where his eyes supposed to be. Even though he seemed to be totally alright, tiny fractions of electricity lit up his fists, and occasionally connected the edge of that triangle to his neck.

My lungs begged to empty themselves, but even a small noise was deadly threatening. Was he an alien?

“Atoosa Aryan?” He called.

My heart dropped down to my belly. My thoughts stuck in a tight knot, and so did my tongue.

“I am Raiden, the god of thunder.” He lifted his gloved hand. “There is no need to be afraid. My mere intention is to save you.”

A few minutes later, I found myself sitting before him on one the tables.

“Do we know each other?” I mumbled weakly, afraid that if I blinked for a second, he would rip my throat out.

“I am certain that you have never heard of me untill this moment.” There was a soothing hint of patience in his nonchalant tone. “However, I have heard about you many times in the past two decades. I am well aware of your iron-bending power, Miss. Aryan.”

My heart skipped a beat. He knew too much about me, even the tiniest bit of control I have over iron which I had concealed even from myself. Was he really a god? No, it would be too stupid of me to believe him. He was probably a very professional thief who had taken his job a bit too seriously. What did he want to steal from me though? I had nothing.

He continued. “I am here to offer you a place among the defenders of the realm.”

If he wasn’t a well-trained thief, the he was definitely a psychopath. But that didn’t make sense considering how everything about him seemed too real.

In the next half an hour he took his time to explain about how those defenders defend our realm which he called Earthrealm. He was a god whose main responsibility was to protect this realm. And seemingly, one of his minor duties was to find miserable people like me - with supernatural powers - and train them to be fighters.

That was ridiculous. But a part of my heart begged my brain to believe it.

Writing Taglist(to be added/removed): @vivilovespink @scentedcandleibex @darialovesstuff @confidentandgood @spacestephh @takiisieju-moved @inafieldofdaisies @carlosoliveiraa @shegetsburned @bloody-arty-myths @zoetheneko @hi-thisiszira @admin-pipes @mitsuko-saito @malewifefirestar @krysta-cross @elderglocks @breakfwest @middlechildwhoescapedthebasement @ninibear3000 @sinclxirx @gavincruikshanksexhusband @voidika @orbitinytheworld @strangefable @bihanspookies @valyrra @simonxriley

[aroaessidhe]

this post of Sapphics With The Voice Of An Annoying Guy In Their Head is still going around and I thought I should make a broader list of Guy (gender neutral) In Your Head books

-----

A Psalm of Storms and Silence - when the malevolent god you made a deal with attaches himself to you until you complete your end of the bargain

The Scratch Daughters - when your soul gets stolen so your witch coven's book demon sits in your body to keep you alive until you get it back

Vespertine - when you touch a saint's relic and get possessed by a petty ancient revenant

This Dark Descent - when the voice in your head telling you to give into the darkness might not just be your conscience, but have something to do with the book you learnt illegal magic from

A Memory Called Empire - when you're the ambassador going to the centre of the empire with a copy of your predecessor implanted in your brain, investigating his death together

Ninefox Gambit - when you're a space army captain and you get the ghost of a traitor general put in your head in an attempt to win a war

The Genesis of Misery - there's an angel in your head that leads you to the centre of the space empire where you become a messiah

Fever Crumb - you have machinery in your blood that your grandfather put there and you keep seeing his thoughts and memories

Wolfpack - when you escape a cult only to become the host for an angelrobot that uses you to help it on its revenge mission

Odder Still - you have a sentient alien parasite attached to you and you become the voice to save its species from extortion

The Midnight Bargain - when you practice sorcery in secret and summon a spirit to help steal back a book, and its price is to possess you while you experience your first kiss

Drunk on All Your Strange New Words - the alien cultural ambassador you translate for died and his ghost stuck around in your head and wants to you figure out who murdered him

Black Water Sister - when you move back to Malaysia and your dead grandmother posesses you and wants you to exact revenge against a gang boss who offended her god

Asunder - when you save a guy you find dying in a cave by magically bonding yourselves together except he ends up permanently becoming your literal shadow

[baedreamverse]

SERENITY — Schedule Two

word count: 945 [SERENITY] previous | next

synopsis: Who knew ‘We Got Married’ would bring back the heat for this upcoming season with an “ACE” couple, let alone a couple who ended terms with each other before their debut. Would their old flame spark once more or would they pass each other instead? With the exciting news starring Lee Heeseung from ENHYPEN and Choi Areum from SERENITY, would the old lovebirds be able to show us their profound partnership through challenging missions under one roof?

[SERENITY Dorm]

“Soo,” Lihua begins, nudging my shoulders as she grabbed a chicken from the takeout box, “When were you going to tell us you were getting married?”

I glanced at her wide in shock, “Who told you??” Though I figured my group members would’ve known by now. They usually know everything before me, well the leader and oldest member.

“A little birdie told me,” Lihua’s brows raised, grinning towards our leader. Of course, I forgot she had the first notice from our manager.

I groan, slumping in my seat as we continued watching a horror movie as we ate our dinner. We concluded our Weverse live stream waiting for our food to get delivered forty minutes ago. It was past midnight, our movie closing in to an end, our food halfway finished as we talked in our living room.

“Our maknae is going away,” Jaemi jokes, wiping a fake tear. “We finally have peace at the dorms.”

I rolled my eyes at her as the members laughed along. Our manager chuckling as she watches us banter. “I can never catch a break from you guys.”

“We will though,” Hyejin retorts, finishing up her ramen as she focused on the television screen.

“Come on, you don’t think you’ll miss me?” I said, looking at my members face with my puppy eyes, well I tried.

“Nope,” they all said in unison, laughing their butts off with my misery. Yui spares me a glance as she stops laughing, giving me a reassuring pat on my shoulder. Ahh, I don’t think I’m ready to be sent away from my own safe space, especially going away from my dog Yuki. She is a four-year-old female Samoyed. I took her in when I figured I needed a companion that’s different from family members and friends, someone with who I can share my concerns and happiness with ease even if I don’t get a proper response. I’m happy to have Yuki by my side. She’s kept me sane these past years even during hard times.

“I’m so not missing you guys,” I pout, petting my dog’s head resting on my lap. “I will miss my baby Yuki though.”

“Is it not possible to take her with you?” Hyejin asks, gesturing to Yuki who is calmly sleeping throughout our bickering.

“I’m not too sure.. I think I have to ask the director.” I reply, “If I can’t take her with me, I’ll leave her with my parents for now.”

“That’s good. I’m sure she misses her grandparents more than you.” Jaemi jokes, ruffling my hair in the process.

I huffed, slapping her hand in the process, “Oh whatever. Let’s just focus on the movie ending.”

“Let’s hope our maknae ends up with a nice guy,” Lihua says, trying to enlighten the mood. “Maybe once the show is over, you’ll actually be in a relationship with him.”

“Hmm, who knows.. If he ever tries to play with your feelings, you have us as your protectors.” Jaemi said gesturing to shadow box the air.

“If he ever thinks about messing with one of us,” Yui clicks her tongue, shaking her head. “He’s got a bad rep with all of us.”

“Did any of your friends mention being on the show recently?” Hyejin asks me, taking a bite of the fried chicken in her hand.

“Not that I know of,” I sigh, trying to remember our past conversations in the group chats. “Even if they did, they’d probably kept it as a surprise.”

***

[HYBE Building]

“By any chance, do you know who will be my partner?” I ask Yui as we walked down the hallways to one of the meeting rooms.

“I’m not informed yet,” Yui chuckles, “Are you anxious to meet your partner of a few months?”

“I need to know if he’s a person I’m aquatinted with,” I say, “It’d be great to have a good person.”

“Hopefully they’re a good guy and not some creep,” Yui shakes her head, “You know what to do if they make you uncomfortable right?”

“Of course I do.” We looked at each other briefly before turning into the corner. I follow Yui behind as we both stop in front of a door with a sign beside it “Conference 4-1”. She knocks on it before opening and peaks her head in.

“Hello Director,” Yui greets with a smile, “I have your star of the show.”

“Welcome, thank you for coming in today,” the director smiles, standing up from her seat to greet us. I smile, taking her hand with a firm shake as I bow. “Please take a seat. It’s so great to finally meet you.”

Within thirty minutes of discussion, the director gave me the contract to look over the terms and conditions for the show. I scanned through the form, briefly going over them and signed my name.

The director informed me my partner would stay anonymous until our first encounter the day of shooting. She hasn’t given me any hints as much as I asked her throughout our conversation. I’m assuming she wants our reaction to be genuine along with the audiences and hosts.

Starting the next two weeks I’ll be leaving the dorms for three months for the show, luckily I’m able to attend the work schedules, accomodating to the time. Unfortunately, I’ll be separated from Yuki as I’m unable to bring her with me for the show, although they allowed Yuki to make a brief appearance for one of the episodes.

Saying our final goodbyes with each other, we continued our day to the schedule, meaning the girls and I would be getting ready for our last day promotions at Music Bank.

a/n: lowkey going at a slow pace but at the same time felt like it was rushed.. ermm hope you enjoy tho :3 istg the first few chapters are slow... pls bear with me huhu.

taglist: @enhagvrl @lilifiedeans

pls like, comment, & reblog <3