#she could not burn: victorian

[fauvester]

being nice (or at least cordial) to people I dont like has come back and saved me so so so so so many times

[astraystayyh]

An eye for an eye.

assassin!hyunjin x journalist!yn. slow burn. suggestive and angsty at times. she/her pronouns. 7.4k.

it is perhaps the most decisive night of your life. what are the odds that at the same time and place, it happens to be hyunjin’s too?

warnings: mention of alcohol, guns, bruises and injuries. brief talks of grief.

a.n: this is prompted by how hot villain hyunjin looks in the ate era 😭 it was supposed to be a drabble and i didn’t plan on it to be this long.. but i hope you’ll enjoy reading tehee it’s different from anything i’ve ever written so please feedback would be so appreciated,, muah muah 😘❣️

A ruby red lipstick. 

Your first childhood dream was to become a journalist, but not the complacent, obedient kind. You wanted to shed light on uncovered events, dig into the raw truth with your claws, and hold it up for the entire world to witness. You craved justice. You never believed in letting things flow their way, like a current that morphs into a torrent, destroying everything in its path.

No, you were a dam, forcing the water to change its trajectory. After all, you have always believed that all it took for change to happen was a trigger, a single flicker that would in turn burst into flames.

You wished to be it.

It was hard to grow into this specific kind of journalist, though. Not because you lacked drive, passion, or discipline. Especially not because you weren’t curious enough, brave enough. You were Seoul Press’s youngest and brightest reporter, after all.

But in a highly competitive field, you still needed your big story, your breakthrough which would put you on the radar of esteemed awards that all journalists venerate. Though you deemed it much easier to obtain a Pulitzer than to squelch your heart’s quest for truth, justice, and most importantly, in an unpredictable curb that life threw at you— revenge.

Your second childhood dream was to put on ruby red lipstick. Your thirteen-year-old self deemed it the ultimate show of power and confidence, each time you saw your aunt wearing one to her most important meetings. You dreamed of the day you could put it on as well, on your way to uncover the truth. 

And tonight, as you applied your ruby lipstick precisely, gliding the vibrant color across your lips, you felt nerves tighten like thorny vines in your stomach, puncturing your tender skin and leaving you a bloodied mess from within. 

Tonight, in your black gown and your ruby lipstick, in San Heo’s mansion, your country’s most prominent presidential candidate, and the man who ruined your life, it seemed like you were about to achieve both dreams at once.

… 

The clock hand points nine on Hyunjin’s Tank Louis Cartier watch. He throws a fleeting glance at the Victorian watch, before eyeing the people mingling at San Heo’s party. 

He knows all of the guests, memorized their faces and their habits. He knows the school where they drop off their kids and what bar they frequent every Sunday. He memorized their mannerisms and antics, knows what set them off and what did not.

This is the fruit of two years of work, after all.

He knows exactly why everyone is here, tonight particularly. Three politicians’ families and friends gathered as a show of power, to prove that they weren’t afraid of whoever’s been forcing politicians to come clean about their crimes for the past three months.

In the least glamorous manner, at that too, to put it delicately—ten bloodied tapes sent to the country’s most prominent media channels, where ministers and heads of multinationals are bound by ropes to a chair, recalling their most heinous crimes: money laundering and embezzlement for most, theft and murder for some.

The latter is Jung Cho’s case, San’s most successful competitor for the presidency, who has also mysteriously vanished from the police’s grasp since the release of his tape. No one can get a hold of poor Jung Cho anymore. 

Hyunjin smirks lightly to himself. His knuckles seem to have healed well since he last dislocated Jung Cho’s jaw. Well, that was before he shot him through the roof of his mouth.

The golden cuffs of Hyunjin’s Versace blazer reflect the light of the dangling crystal chandeliers, and he runs a weary hand through his black locks. He never chose to gel them back; he wasn’t one for structure, preferring the feeling of his silky strands brushing against his fingers. 

His eyes catch those of San’s across the room, who tips his glass of whiskey towards Hyunjin—a job well done, he reads in San’s stare. Hyunjin raises his red wine back, before settling it across the table once more.

It is a boring half an hour that awaits Hyunjin.

That is until he sees you.

You weren’t here two minutes ago, Hyunjin is sure of this. And, judging by the way you are leisurely sipping your sparkling water, your eyes gliding across the room in search of someone in particular, you had just stepped foot into the party.

Fashionably late, if he were to add.

But that is none of Hyunjin’s concern. What intrigues him the most is that your face isn’t familiar to him. That isn’t normal.

You weren’t supposed to be here, then.

Who are you?

As if hearing his question, your gaze locks onto his. He cocks an eyebrow at you; you mirror the gesture like clockwork.

Thus ensues an intense game of eye contact. You don’t break away from his gaze until two minutes later, a light scoff escaping your lips that he can discern even from afar. You then turn to look at San, your eyes morphing into something fiercer, more determined— a sniper finally locking eyes on its target.

Hyunjin feels a slight headache growing at the base of his temple. He downs his drink, before taking long strides towards you.

It’s official, you’re going to be his nuisance for the night.

27 minutes.

“Care to dance?” Hyunjin inquires as he materializes before you, a hand extended towards your body.

“Pardon?”

“A dance? To the lovely music we are hearing right now?” 

“I know what you mean,” you roll your eyes, leaning your body against the chair right next to you. Hyunjin’s eyes glaze over your legs peeking through the high slit of your dress. Had it been another setting, the sight of your black sheer tights would have made this night turn much differently.

Your voice dispels his thoughts like morning fog. “I mean why are you asking me?”

“Because I’m bored.”

“How flattering,” you grin sarcastically and Hyunjin feels the smallest urge to return your smile, although he knows it isn’t genuine.

“I know. Shall we?”

Your gaze flees to San once again, seemingly debating something in your head before finally sighing.

In the few seconds of scrutiny you consecrate to his boss, Hyunjin’s gaze lingers on your bright red lipstick, and the way you tuck your lip slightly into your mouth as you ponder.

A beautiful nuisance, he corrects himself.

“Fine,” You place your manicured hand in his in response.

“What’s your name?” he asks, as he settles one hand atop your waist. The fabric of your black dress is too thin, he can feel the heat emanating from your body seeping through his palm.

Focus. You need to discover who she is.

“Julia,” your hand settles atop his shoulder, while the other entwines with his. “And you?”

“Sam. What are you doing here?” he quickly inquires.

You shake your head slightly, gliding your hand from the base of his neck to the end of his shoulder.

“Isn’t it my turn to ask you a question?”

Hyunjin tilts his head curiously at you, before smirking slightly— “Yes ma’am.”

“What do you work for?”

“I’m Mr. Heo’s political adviser.”

“You’re quite young, though,” you note.

“I know.”

“And I don’t see you by his side a lot.”

“I work in the background, mostly. I don’t do well with the cameras.” He spins you around, picking up speed as the orchestra picks up the violin. “How do you know Mr. Heo?”

“I’m Kang’s niece, you know, Mr. Heo’s economic adviser? Uncle Kang is ill, and my father is out of the country so both of them chose not to come.”

Hyunjin’s memory faintly brushes off Kang’s single niece, completing her architectural studies in Paris’ Sorbonne. 

“C’est beau à Paris?” Is it beautiful in Paris?

You don’t even blink— “Même magnifique, tu devrais visiter.” Marvelous even, you should visit. 

Checks out.

“I’ll hold you on to that offer,” he says, before spinning you around, your chest settling across his back. Hyunjin ignores how his heart skips a singular beat at your proximity.

“So, what are you doing here?” he asks, his lips tantalizingly close to the shell of your ear. He watches as your chest rises once before your airy voice floods his ear.

“Networking, though you didn’t quite allow me to speak to anyone but you,” you tease slightly.

“I fail to see what an architect has to do with politicians,” he muses, as he sways you gently from left to right.

“I want to oversee the building of Jamsil Sports Complex.”

“So you’re using your father for work connections?” he taunts and you swivel around, placing both your hands on his shoulders before interlinking your fingers behind his neck, caging him within the notes of your perfume.

“Is it a crime?” your voice is airy, too airy, everything you say sounds rehearsed, you don’t seem intimidated by him, by this setting, as opposed to how a newly graduated student, one who grew up away from her father’s world should.

“Depends on your definition,” he counters.

“Do you regard it as such?”

Hyunjin’s gaze flickers all over yours. He senses something urgent in your gaze, as if you are pushing for more, beyond what this simple question entails.

When he remains quiet for a tad too long, you let your hands drop by your body, taking a step away from him.

“I need to go,” you say. He grabs your wrist instantly. “Where to?”

“Bathroom.” And with that, you quickly turn around and walk away, leaving behind notes of your floral perfume and ghosts of your ruby lips.

Hyunjin steals a glance at his clock. 09:13 p.m.

He drags a hand across his forehead wearily. He won’t let you ruin this night.

17 minutes. 

You are washing your hands obsessively in the bathroom, lost in thought as you gaze at your reflection, all blurry from your unfocused eyes. You only turn off the water once your skin starts to sting from the force of your touch. 

The orange-scented soap doesn’t seem to get rid of the stench of blood. 

A week ago. 

“I don't understand your obsession with Mr. Heo,” Christopher Bang calmly removed his glasses, placing them next to the shiny placate reading ‘Editor in Chief of Seoul Press’.

“He is corrupt.”

“As all politicians are,” he spoke matter of factly, and it angered you how unfazed he seemed before your, you admit, far-fetched request. 

“You don’t understand, sir. He’s different.”

“Did he do something to you?” Chris asked, leaning back against his chair. You felt exposed all of a sudden, like a flower left bare without its stem. 

“Would my answer change anything?” You inquired tentatively. 

“It would explain many things, yes actually,” he got up from his chair, before sitting on the one right across from you. “You are a talented journalist, Yn.”

“Thank you—“

“But you are utilizing the company’s resources to conduct your personal investigation on San Heo.” 

He knew. 

“You’ve been working on his case from the day you joined our media. Which was exactly 389 days ago. I know that you’ve managed to uncover quite some dirt, one that would make an explosive case if you get more information. That’s why I turned a blind eye to everything you did because I trust your skills and integrity.” 

You remained silent.

“But now, you’re asking me to completely disregard my deontology by finding a way for you to break into Mr. Heo’s mansion. That is a crime.”

“Not break in. I want an invite to his party, it is the first time he organized one in his home, probably the last time, it is my only chance to—”

“Details,” he waves a hand disinterestedly in the air, cutting you off. “Your intentions aren’t to mingle with politicians, it is to dig in his office and find something of substance. While I admire the lengths of what you want to go through, I must stop you here.” He leveled his eyes with yours. “This can land you in jail, he is the most important man in our country right now.”

“What if I tell you he did something to me, that he ruined my life? Would you help me then?” your voice was hoarse, tears pricked your eyes as you tried your best not to avert your gaze. You hated displays of weakness, despised them even more in professional settings. 

“What did he do?” 

You bristled at the question, ugly memories flashing before your eyes like a blinding light, your body begging you to flee away from this question and the heavy response it entailed.

Still, you spoke. 

Christopher remained silent as you recalled what happened on your doomsday, the night in which your world ceased to spin, and simultaneously, the reason why you joined his company, to begin with. When your sniffles subsided a few minutes later, he gently handed you a napkin, a silent invitation to wipe away the tears that had escaped.

He sighed deeply, running a hand through his weary face before finally speaking. 

“I’ll give you the invite tomorrow. Say that you are Kang’s niece, her name is Julia. She went to Paris for architectural studies, and that you are back for a vacation. Kang is ill these days, he won’t attend the party, and his brother is out of the country, no one will question you.”

“How do you know this?” 

“Because I know them,” he toyed with his lower lip lightly before a tiny smile drew upon it. “An eye for an eye, right? I’m Kang’s cousin. I changed my last name because I didn’t wish to deal with them anymore.” 

“So Bhang isn’t your real last name?”

“No.” He ran his thumb across his lower lip, seemingly debating adding something. “San’s office is on the far end of the third floor.” 

You heaved a sigh of relief. 

“Thank you.” 

“Don’t get yourself killed.”

13 minutes. 

It was one thing to stare at photographs of San seared behind your reddened eyelids or to stand at the far end of his press conferences. It was another to step foot into his mansion, to stand amidst powerful people who are capable of ruining your life had they known of your motives. 

But you didn’t have time to dwell on your personal feelings. Fear, nerves, all of those feeble emotions pale before the chance you have today. So, you nod at your reflection in the mirror, count to three in your head, and finally head out of the bathroom. 

“Five minutes, were you crying?” Sam’s bored voice startles you as soon as you set foot outside. He’s leaning on the wall across from the door, hands deep into the pockets of his suit.

Not again. 

“I know that I’m very pretty but don’t you have better things to do than to follow me?” you ask, pausing right in front of him. 

“I’m not following you, I just happen to be particularly fond of the architecture of this corridor,” he jokes and you ignore his words, walking past him with a renowned determination. He pushes himself off the wall, only to grasp your wrist once again, spinning you around until you’re facing him. 

He chuckles softly, tilting his head to the side. His icy blue contacts pierce through your skin like a puncture needle.  “You know, I’m curious, Julia. You seemed very eager to get away from me.”

You take a step forward, closing the distance between you two. “Have you considered that I found your company utterly boring?”

“You wound me,” he places a hand on his heart, any trace of humor absent from his voice. His grip tightens on your wrist for a millisecond. A warning. “I need you to leave.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“I’m serious. You shouldn’t be here tonight.”

“And why should I listen to you?” you challenge and his eyes darken further. 

“I can’t tell you.”

“Then let me go,” you mutter, slipping your hand away from his grasp. 

“Julia,” he says sternly, pulling you back till your back is against the wall, his hands rooted on either side of your body. 

It is a dimly lit hallway, and the sound of the orchestra barely reaches you. Your worry intermingles with a new kind of nerves, all orchestrated by his proximity, and the way his gaze brushes against your body like a skilled painter. 

“I’m not joking, leave.” His voice is much softer when he adds, “It’s for your own good. What will happen later doesn’t concern you.”

He knows something that you don’t know, something that, from his tone, none of the guests are aware of. You see something human in his eyes, in the slight crease doting his eyebrows. He seems genuinely worried for the innocent civilian he thinks you are. 

Your eyes turn to look at his hand near your head, only to notice his faintly bruised knuckles, shades of purple and green doting a delicate porcelain skin. They have healed well, then. 

Should you unearth the memory from two weeks ago— pleas for mercy, a deafening gunshot, and an excruciating silence afterward, the quiet after the murder that you remember most? 

Then, another scene rings in your head like bells of an ancient church— a bruised hand brushing against your own in an art gallery from two days ago, raven locks, and familiar, melancholy-tinted eyes. 

Could it be? 

Your voice turns sweet, tender, “should I trust you for the night?” your thumb brushes against the skin underneath his eye, wiping away the concealer you knew you spotted.

There it is, the eye mole you thought he covered. 

It clicks in your mind in an instant, pieces of a puzzle falling into place, there are still a few missing but you manage to grasp the bigger picture.

If he’s not letting you go then he could be of good use. 

What other choice do you have but to gamble with a killer? 

Your sharp nails drag across the nape of his neck, before settling right beneath his jaw. You mimic a gun, his eyes narrow in response.

“Is this how you killed Jung Cho, Hyunjin?” 

You feel a cold barrel instantly press against your stomach. “Police officer?” he asks. 

“No.”

“Journalist ?”

“Yes,” you slowly mutter.

“What’s your name?”

“I don’t wish to tell you.” The gun only presses further onto your skin. You feel a cold bead of sweat roll down your exposed spine. 

Breathe. 

“It’s Yn.”

“What do you know?”

“It’d be easier for me to talk if you removed the gun,” you smile lightly and Hyunjin only leans further, a distance as thin as a blade between you both.

“Speak.”

“You killed the only candidate that stood a chance in front of San. You drove him to the empty deposit near Inwangsan Mountain, tortured him for three days, filmed his confessions, and then sent them to many media outlets. Ours included. I know it because I followed you.” 

“Why did you follow me?” he questions. Your eyes flee to the end of the corridor where an impossible staircase sits. You are wasting your time. 

“Because I am investigating San. And through following him I ended up getting to know you. You are different from everyone he meets. Very secretive. So I figured it’d be worth a shot following you too,” you explain as calmly as you can. You’re sure the barrel of the gun will leave a bruise on your skin. 

“And why didn’t you write a piece about me? Everyone is dying to know who I am.”

“I have, I just haven’t released it. If I don’t come back home in an hour my head chef will post the video of you murdering Mr. Cho on every SNS. The public loves you for what you’re doing. But the politicians will come together to kill you. They have a price on your head. You are threatening everything they ever built.” 

Hyunjin drags his gun up your stomach slowly, trails it across your collarbones before it settles on your jaw. 

“I could kill you too, right now.” His tone is cold, evil. Very different from the man who asked you to dance. You know that I can.” 

“My death would only sign yours.”

Hyunjin’s forehead rests on the wall right next to your head. You can hear him inhale deeply, hear the gears turning in his head. “Fuck, you are driving me crazy.”

He drops the gun and takes a step back. “Why didn’t you expose me?”

“You are not the one that matters to me.” 

“What do you want from me then?” 

“Three minutes. Open San’s office, and then I’ll go. No one will ever know of your identity.” 

He remains silent. 

“Hyunjin, please.” 

“Fuck, fine. But whatever happens next you’ll have to trust me, okay?” his hands settle on your shoulder, his eyes leveling with yours, “if you’re not leaving then you’ll have to trust me enough, for tonight.” 

8 minutes. 

“After you,” Hyunjin bows slightly as he opens the door to Heo’s office. You step in first, and he steals a quick glance behind him—no one’s here, for now.

“That saved me the hassle of breaking the door.”

“You know how to do that?” he asks, slightly impressed.

“One of my hobbies,” you shrug before walking directly to the desk. Hyunjin leans against the wall, watching as you lift your dress slightly, revealing a small packet tucked into your garter. The sight drives Hyunjin a little crazy, and he closes his eyes for a second.

He really, really wishes he hadn’t met you here tonight.

You take out a listening device, tapping the bottom of the desk until you find a suitable spot, and then you stick it in place.

“Another one of your hobbies?” he smirks.

You giggle. “Mm, aren’t I the most fun?”

“You are,” his eyes drag across your figure, and he notices a slight falter in your posture, “the most beautiful too.”

You blink, and he’s suddenly in front of you, trapping you between the auburn desk and his toned body. You don’t seem intimidated, placing a palm on his chest as you tilt your head to the side. 

“Aren’t you curious why I’m going after San?”

“No, he angers a lot of people.” His thumb caresses your cheek, a touch so soft in contrast to his next words. “A lot of people fantasize about his death.”

“Are you one of them?” you question, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“Right now, all I’m fantasizing about is you.” His voice is husky, and he finds it comes out much easier when he actually likes the person he’s attempting to seduce. 

It takes you a few seconds to speak again. “Is that so?”

“Mm, let’s dance.”

“Didn’t we dance downstairs?”

“That was Sam and Julia dancing,” he says as he entwines his fingers with yours. “You see, Hyunjin is a different kind of dancer.” His hand presses against your back, snaking against your bare skin. “Can I pull you closer?” he asks, and you simply nod, eyes fleeting widely all over his face. 

His chest presses to yours, so close he’s sure your hearts are syncing with one another, his inhales alternating with your exhales. 

“Yn,” he whispers your name, as you look up at him through the curve of your eyelashes.  

“Yes, Hyunjin?” His name sounds soft as it stumbles from your ruby lips, innocent from all the blood that drenches his soul.

“I like the way you say my name.” He glances at his watch above your head. 9:57.

“Hyunjin,” you repeat, as your hand drags up his neck, grabbing a fistful of his hair and gently dragging it backward, exposing his enticing neck to you. “You are always looking at your watch, what are you waiting for?”

He chuckles faintly, grabbing both your hands and spinning you around till his chin rests on the small of your shoulder. “You’re perceptive,” he mutters, as his fingers drag down your bare arms. “But so am I,” he says coldly as he grabs both your hands, bringing them behind your back. “Look, your hands are shaking just from my proximity. I don’t think you have it in you to film me killing Jung Cho. I don’t think you have it in you to watch me torture someone for three days.”

Click. Cold metal wraps around your wrist in an instant, handcuffing you to the leg of the table before which you’re standing. 

“I think you lied to me, Yn. I don’t like being lied to.”

“What are you doing?” you ask disoriented, panic spilling from your being like an overflowing cup.

Hyunjin pays you no mind, taking out his phone and dialing a number. “Boss, we have a problem. I caught a journalist trying to get into your room,” he taps his chin slowly as he looks at you. “No, no need for security. Just come alone. Don’t alarm the guests.”

2 minutes

“Are you serious?” you ask as soon as he hangs up, a prominent lump in your throat. “You told me to trust you.”

“Did I say I was worth that trust?” he pouts, seemingly mocking the vulnerable ordeal you found yourself in. 

A loud chuckle escapes your lips, your head thrown back as if before a hilarious spectacle of sorts. Hyunjin frowns, crossing his arms in front of his chest as your giggles slowly quiet down. 

“You’re a peculiar person, aren’t you Hyunjin? You need to hide your identity but you crave normalcy still, so you open your art gallery. You go to crazy lengths to cover your moles and wear contacts because you wish for people to look at you with admiration in their eyes, kindness. But you don’t deserve it.” There is a fire lit in your eyes, flames latching into his black suit and burning his already scarred skin. “You’ll always be as evil as them.” 

Hyunjin doesn’t respond for a while, his eyes simply softening at your words.

“I know,” he whispers. 

“Who’s this?” San’s voice booms loudly as he sets foot into the office. Hyunjin’s eyes break apart from your figure to look at San, bowing slightly to greet him. 

“Julia, she infiltrated the party,” Hyunjin explains, stealthily locking the door behind San. “She’s been investigating you for quite some time now. And… She knows about the murders.”

“Mm, she’s clever. Should we hire her?” San jokes and Hyunjin smiles politely, dragging his eyes over your face. You simply roll your eyes, seemingly more bored than scared. 

Cute. 

“Anyways,” Heo stares at you for a fleeting second before tapping Hyunjin’s shoulder. “She looks easy to kill. Just get rid of her. But don’t stain my carpet though, it's expensive.”

“Sure thing,” Hyunjin nods, taking out his gun and pointing it at your temple. He steals a final look at his watch— 9:30 p.m. he reads. 

Time’s up. 

“You didn’t think I’d let you go?” Hyunjin mocks, cocking his head at you. In a split second, a bullet ricochets loudly, but not at you. It grazes San’s ear, making him pause near the door, his back towards you both. 

“Right boss?” Hyunjin’s tone is slightly whiny, annoying is the best way to describe it. You can hear police sirens blare loudly outside, see the red and blue hues reflect off the window. Loud shouts erupt downstairs, Hyunjin leisurely reloads his gun, one hand deep into his pocket, San’s posture slightly falters, his fingers digging into the skin of his palm. 

“Do you hear that Heo? Your mansion is surrounded. All your filthy dirt is exposed. The police officers are arresting everyone downstairs right now. And they’re coming for you. The man of the hour.” Hyunjin makes a show of curtsying deeply. You stifle a giggle at his theatrics.

“You dare turn your back on me?” San yells, pivoting around to face Hyunjin’s barrel, the latter simply yawns as if it’s a regular Saturday activity for him. 

“Oh, don’t get emotional on me,” Hyunjin pouts, before his eyes narrow down coldly. “Now kneel. Let’s end this without staining your carpet.”

You see San slowly lowering himself to the ground, Hyunjin’s gaze sets on you for a millisecond, his pupils dilated in apology, in concern, you don’t know, you don't get to decipher his look because San is taking out his gun from his back pocket, aiming it at Hyunjin. “Watch out”— is all you manage to shout, and hyunjin ducks in an instant, propelled by the sound of your voice to the ground.

He could have died, he could have died because he looked at you. 

It all happens so fast, Hyunjin diving into San to take away his gun, both their weapons flinging into the air, San punching Hyunjin’s mouth and the latter retaliating by flinging his fist up against his nose. You’re struggling with your restraints, trying to reach out for the lone gun that fell to your right. 

A bit more, tune out the sirens, tune out the punches, slowly, only a few centimeters left, your wrist is on fire but that is the least of your concern, almost, there, you grab it.

You fire the gun.

It’s quiet once again, for the first time in two years, it is quiet in your head.

It’s over. 

You close your eyes, tilting your head back into the desk. The sound of your mother’s laughter floods your ears, her airy giggles as she brushes your hair and tucks you into her chest, her being a vision of beauty underneath the sun’s caress. 

“Are you okay?” Hyunjin kneels before you, wiping away the tears rolling down your cheeks with his bruised knuckles. He is worried, even behind those icy blue contacts, you can still grasp his worry.

You nod, swallowing the sob that is lodged within your throat. Hyunjin is quick to unlock your handcuffs, entwining your fingers with his as he pulls you off the ground. 

You slightly push him aside, your eyes set on San’s bleeding figure. He’s still alive, rugged breaths escaping his chest, his palm pressed to the bullet that punctuated his stomach. 

“I want him dead,” you mutter, grabbing Hyunjin’s forearm to support yourself, “but I want him to rot in prison too.” 

“He will, for all his crimes. I have it all documented. The police have it too,” his palm rubs soothingly against your back, you lean further into his touch.

“He’s a monster.” 

“I know. They all are. That’s why I killed them,” he simply says, before guiding you back to a couch on the right of the office. He shrugs off his suit, draping it over your trembling shoulders. 

“Give me a minute.”

You watch as he grabs the gun you fired off of the ground, before taking a handkerchief out of his pocket. He wipes your fingerprints, making sure to leave his all over the gun. He then walks to the table, taking away your listening device and crushing it to the ground.

He’s calm and collected as he rearranges the scene to his liking, it looks like he has done this a million times before, as if this is the element in which he thrives— a sunflower turning to face the sun, at long last. 

He kneels before your freezing figure one last time, tilting your chin to the side so you’d look at him.

“I fired the gun. You had no idea any of this would happen, you’re just an ambitious journalist who wanted an insider scoop.” He senses you’re somewhere far, pulled by the ropes of memories that had long haunted your dreams. His warm palm presses to your cold cheek, your eyes are glossy as they rest on him. 

“You didn’t do anything. I’m the one who used you as a scapegoat to bring San up here, just like I agreed with the police. Alright? You did nothing.You know nothing.” 

“Alright.”

Hours pass in a cold blur, the weight of time lost on you as three police officers take turns questioning you. You repeat the lines Hyunjin taught you, your voice flat, devoid of emotion. Even as you step out of the police station, with Hyunjin's hand resting gently on your back, you feel nothing. A slight tremor runs through you when he mentions that San survived and will be transferred to prison once he's healed.

You don’t know why you’re disappointed you didn’t become a killer.

You don’t know anything, don’t feel anything as Hyunjin drives you home. You don’t question how he knows your address or the code to your elevator. It’s only when you unlock your door and he starts to pull away that reality snaps back.

Without thinking, you grab his wrist, suddenly aware of the loneliness that awaits you inside, an uninvited guest preying on your vulnerable heart.

“Would you like some tea?” you ask, your voice tinged with hopelessness, knowing just how silly you sound. Why would he stay? He has so many loose ends to thread after his finishing blow, you know he’s part of something far larger than you. 

As if mocking your question, his phone buzzes for the tenth time in the span of five minutes.

But then, to your surprise, he turns it off.

“Yeah,” he says with a soft smile, “I’d like some tea.”

As you bring the water to a boil, Hyunjin rolls up the sleeves of his white shirt, casually wandering around your apartment as if it’s not his first time setting foot in here. He’s always at ease— with a gun pointed at him or while looking at the souvenir magnets on your fridge. 

His calmness helps instill some peace in your heart too. 

“I like your apartment,” he says, accepting the cup of chamomile you hand him. “It’s cozy, feels like a home.”

“Thank you,” you whisper as you sink into the couch, your head hung low. So much has happened in just half an hour, too much for you to fully comprehend and process.

“Let me see,” he says a few sips later, as he gently removes the cup from your clutch, before sliding his thumb across your right wrist. The bruises have already begun to form, the red marks from the handcuffs clear evidence of your struggle to reach the gun.

“I’m sorry I involved you in this,” he murmurs, frowning as he avoids your gaze, staring intently at your wrist as if he could will the blue hues away. “I didn’t plan for you to be at the party.”

“I involved myself,” you chuckle softly. You’re not one for physical touch, but you don’t feel the usual urge to pull away from his grasp. His hands are warm, the roughness of his fingertips a stark contrast to the softness of your skin.

“You’re a stubborn journalist,” he says with a small smile, finally meeting your gaze. you suddenly yearn to look into the rich brown of his eyes once more. Was its shade as deep as you remember?

“And you’re an excellent painter,” you retort, eliciting a surprised laugh from him. The sound is unexpectedly endearing, and you’re caught in a whirlwind of contradictions. Is this really the same man you saw taking a life? The same man now holding your wrist as if it were made of porcelain?

“Right, you figured out my identity. What gave me away?” he asks, still smiling.

“I heard about this new gallery where the artist’s only clue to his identity was the name signed on his paintings. So, I decided to see for myself. While everyone else was captivated by the artwork, I noticed you, standing in the corner, observing the reactions of everyone around. You smiled when someone smiled, and your grin grew wider with each compliment. That’s when I started to suspect that the artist was you, all along.”

“I remember it now. I bumped into you as you were leaving,” he says, and you nod.

“What stood out to me were your sad eyes. That’s what I remember most. Well, besides your bruised knuckles.”

“And that’s how you connected the dots.”

“Yes, and your eye mole, too. Even though you tried to conceal it with makeup, it still showed.”

“Very perceptive,” he says with a grin.

“Thank you.”

“Aren’t you worried I’ll expose your identity?” you ask, as his hand gently slides into yours, his fingers resting lightly on top of yours. A simple, innocent touch, yet it stirs something unknown in the pits of your stomach. 

“I trusted you when you said I’m not the one who matters to you.”

“Why would you trust me?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because I miss putting my faith in someone, even if they end up failing me. Isn’t that the most human trait of all?”

How could an assassin create such heartfelt paintings, overflowing with emotions too hard to explain with words, let alone colors? Perhaps because this isn’t the life he always wanted.

“Did you choose this?” you ask softly, your voice barely a whisper. Maybe it’s the exhaustion from the interrogation, or the near brush with death, or perhaps the relief that this chapter is finally closing for both of you. But something compels you to keep talking, to ask, to hold on to Hyunjin just a little longer.

“Being a killer, you mean?” His voice carries a tenderness that seems at odds with the weight of his words. He’s a walking contradiction, balancing two identities within himself—Hyunjin and Sam. One feels heavier on his bones than the other. 

“I grew up in this world,” he continues. “My parents run a large network of assassins—or vigilantes, depending on how you see it. Some people hire us, and sometimes we act on our own when we see injustice or corruption festering for too long. We conduct thorough background checks. We only kill those who truly deserve it. We always make sure of that.”

“An eye for an eye.”

He nods, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I always feel good in the midst of a case. One less evil in the world. But after, there’s just this emptiness. Now what? I always wonder. So I try to fill the void with painting.”

“Now what…” you repeat, your voice trembling as a lump forms in your throat. “Now what? What should I do now?” Tears well up and spill over suddenly, streaming down your face in an unstoppable torrent. “San is behind bars, but my mom isn’t coming back. So what now? What was all of this for if I can’t get her back?”

You find yourself burying your head in the crook of Hyunjin’s neck, his arms wrapping tightly around you, holding you close as if he could contain your sadness, preventing it from seeping from your soul and reaching your mother, wherever she may be.

You haven’t allowed anyone to hold you like this in two years, denying yourself any comfort until you could bring your mother’s killer to justice. It was a promise you made to yourself after San drunkenly ran her over and fled the scene, leaving you alone to hug her cold body in that sterile hospital room.

“It drove me crazy,” you sob, your words broken and incoherent. “He bribed everyone—the doctors, the paramedics, the stores nearby. Everyone acted like my mom didn’t d-die because of h-him,” you hiccup, and Hyunjin only holds you tighter, closer, enough to stitch your wounds with time, only if he remains this close to you. If he wishes to, if you allow him to.

“But now he’s behind bars, and I still don’t have my mom. What do I do now that I can’t bury myself in revenge? Hyunjin, what should I do when I miss her so much and I can’t see her?”

Five hours later.

“The article is perfect, no corrections needed,” Chris says, removing his glasses and looking at you with approval. “Excellent work, Yn.” 

“Thank you,” you nod, feeling a mix of relief, but mostly exhaustion. “I stayed up all night working on it.” 

“Goid, it’s only 6 a.m. so we know that no other media outlet has touched this yet. Our article will be the one to shape public opinion. This is a big win for us. It’s a thorough investigation, and I’m confident you’ll get the recognition you deserve,” he writes something down onto his notebook before looking at you once more. “Take a few days off—you’ve earned it. I’ll reach out if anything urgent comes up.”

“Thank you, sir.” You bow slightly before turning to leave the suffocating office. Or maybe it’s your own mind that’s suffocating you. You don’t have time to dwell on the question before Chris speaks again. 

“Oh, Yn?” Chris calls out just as your hand touches the doorknob. “One last thing, did you ever figure out who was behind all those tapes?”

Your grip on the doorknob tightens imperceptibly. “No sir, no clue.” 

One month later. 

It’s a few minutes before the art gallery closes when you walk in. Hyunjin spots you before you see him, your distinctive walk etched in his memory as vividly as if it were only yesterday that he had seen it.

He approaches quietly, stopping behind you as you gaze at the newest addition to his collection.

“Is this us?” you ask, not turning around. Hyunjin’s eyes follow yours to the abstract painting of a couple waltzing in a ballroom, their hands intertwined just like yours were, four Saturdays ago.

“Yes,” he replies softly.

“It seems I left an everlasting impression on you,” you tease, he can hear the smile in your voice without seeing it. 

“You did. You looked beautiful.”

“So did you.”

“I’m glad you came,” he says sincerely. “I missed you.”

“But we only spent a day together,” you giggle quietly, and Hyunjin wishes he could capture your laugh and tuck it away in the veins of his heart.

“Didn’t that day feel like a year, though?” he muses, resting his chin gently on your shoulder. You lean back into him, closing the space between you.

“It did,” you admit before nervously clearing your throat. “Are you free right now? We could grab a drink, if you’d like?”

“Chamomile tea?” he chuckles, and your laughter vibrates through his being.

“No, something stronger this time.”

He hums, hesitating as he despises the words that would stumble out of his mouth. “I have some things to handle tonight. Urgent matters.”

“Ah,” your voice dips slightly, the disappointment clear in your tone. “Well, it’s okay. I’ll see you another time, then,” you say, finally turning to face him. 

He really missed you. 

“Okay. I’ll see you.”

“Okay.”

“Congratulations on your award, by the way,” he says, watching your expression soften, a delicate smile forming on your lips.

“You saw it?”

“I did. I read your piece, too. I’m sure your mom would be proud of you.”

Tears of gratitude well up in your eyes, and you squeeze Hyunjin’s hand tightly as you whisper, “Thank you. Really. Thank you, Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin’s words linger in your soul, echoing through your mind for the rest of your day, his voice the only sound that seems to fill the silence within you. That is until three loud knocks resonate through your apartment, just minutes before midnight. 

You open the door to find Hyunjin standing there, a fresh bruise marring his jaw, his knuckles freshly scraped and bloodied.

“Let me guess, you had nowhere else to go?” you joke, trying to regain your composure at the sight of him once more.

“No,” he replies, his tone earnest, “I wanted to come to you.”

Your smile falters at the sincerity in his voice. You can’t quite place what it is about Hyunjin that pulls you toward him, how amidst everything that’s happened in the past month, the most vivid memory is how he held you gently as you cried and cried.

“I forgot something,” he says, pulling a tube of cooling cream from his back pocket and offering it to you. “I meant to give this to you for your bruised wrists.”

He’s a month late, you both know your wrists have long since healed.

“I… yeah,” he sighs before your silence, turning to leave, a light blush tinting his cheeks. But before he can, you drop the tube and grab his hand, spinning him back around.

“I forgot something too,” you say quickly before pressing your lips against his.

You don’t fully understand what draws you to Hyunjin, but you know his lips taste as sweet as cherry chapstick, that his hand around your waist feels like water flowing gently over your skin, warm and encompassing. That his brown eyes remind you of sunlight dancing on autumn leaves, that no one has touched your soul as deeply as he has.

You know you wish to make him feel as human as he makes you.

[stevieschrodinger]

Part One Two Three Four

Steve sits with his head pressed against the steering wheel.

In the passenger seat, Robin’s doing her make up.

“What are we doing here, Rob?”

“You mean like, in the cosmic soul searching sense, or here specifically?”

“Here. Specifically.”

“Well, your beautiful brunette boyfriend-”

“You don’t score points for alliteration. And he’s not my boyfriend.”

“All right then, the man who is under the distinct impression that he’s your boyfriend, suggested we all hang out together. So we are here. At the place I suggested.”

“Because you know I hate it here.”

Robin makes a non committal noise, Steve looks, she’s pulling the horrendous mascara face. He goes back to resting his forehead on the steering wheel.

Steve does hate it here. Reminds him of...fucking work brunches with his father and Sunday lunches with his mother and he just. Hates it.

Steve sighs like a Victorian maid who’s betrothed has not yet returned from sea. He’s certain he’ll die from consumption at any minute.

“Shut up you big baby,” Robin tells him as she fluffs her hair, “all I want is to finger bang this chick in the bathroom and then rub my cunt on her face, is that too much to ask?”

And Robin has been wholly supportive of Steve so far, so, “no, I suppose-what the fuck Robin? Did you choose this place because-”

“I like the bathrooms-”

“-the bathrooms are nice-”

“What?-”

“Oh you fucking-”

“They’re romantic kinda’.”

“They’re bathrooms, Robin!”

“The lighting is good. I like the vibe.”

“Oh my god.”

Steve’s stares mournfully after his best friend. She’s at the bar with Chrissy, because Chrissy wanted to watch the guy make their cocktails, look he does tricks with the thing, like in that old movie with Tom Cruise.

Steve could physically feel himself ageing as she spoke.

“It’s so cool they’re dating.” Steve does not point out that whatever Robin's about to do to Chrissy, it will be a four letter word, but that four letter word is not ‘date’.

“You think?”

Eddie smiles big. The dimples come out. Huge happy brown fucking cow eyes. He’s not attractive Steve reminds himself viciously. He’s playing with his cutlery because he can’t sit still and...his chins too pointy. Or something. “Well yeah. It’d be so cool if they get married.”

Steve nearly chokes on his drink.

“Hey man, you okay?”

“Fine, fine,” Steve’s nose is burning from the bubbles going up there, “what makes you think they’ll get married?”

“Well...why would you date someone if you can’t see it going somewhere?” Steve hopes this is going somewhere; like to a bed, specifically, “so there’s a chance, right? I can tell Chris really likes her. I hope it’s like, a long term thing.”

Steve feels himself slow blink. He doesn’t explain to Eddie that you date someone because you want to stick your penis in them. Eddie turns to watch the girls again, they laugh, and Eddie grins at them, all happy and fond.

Steve sighs.

“You okay?”

“Sorry?”

“You just...you don’t seem so happy to be here man. Kind of tense.”

Steve has no idea how Eddie even noticed, usually people don’t notice. Or usually people don’t care, but it amounts to the same thing because coming to somewhere like this is just the step you take before you step into a bedroom.

“I...I actually don’t really like it here much.”

Eddie looks at him, leans close. He’s ready to really listen. He...cares. About Steve. Steve wonders if he’s going to come up in a rash; it feels like the sort of thing he should be allergic too. He wonders vaguely if there’s antihistamines in the glove box.

“Why?”

“Well...I.” Steve pulls a face. He doesn’t talk about...meaningful things, but he figures it can’t hurt this once, he can be vague. Especially if it increases the chance of doing the no pants dance with Eddie, “I don’t have the best relationship with my parents. I mean, they’re good parents, I had really good nannies growing up, had a great education, the best boarding school, they funded my degree, gave me a solid start at work, so they are great...we just don’t exactly get on all the time. We used to come here for pretty much every family meal.”

Eddie’s frown deepens the more Steve talks, “how often were the...family meals?”

“I don’t know,” Steve hums, “holidays I guess, when I was away, and then...maybe fortnightly? We don’t do it now, obviously.”

“Oh. Me and uncle Wayne had one meal a day together, at least, when I lived there. It was like, a house rule.”

“Oh that’s...you’re close?” To Steve that already sounds like something out of the fucking Brady Bunch.

“Yeah. Speaking of which, he’s invited you to dinner.”

“Dinner?” Steve asks weakly.

“Yeah, since you’re courting that boy, he said.” Eddie puts his hands up to do the air quotes. And then he grins. That big stupid grin. He looks so happy. So genuinely happy to see Steve. So happy about the prospect of just...seeing him again.

Steve does not point out that a blow job at a garden party, humping each other in a public bathroom, and one co ed BBQ does not courting make.

“Right.”

“Awesome, I’ll let you know when,” Eddie drums two forks on the edge of the table. Steve stares at his bony wrists. His mind suggests phrases like, ‘slender’ and ‘delicate’ and Steve ignores those and thinks about how he could very easily hold both of those wrists in one hand. “listen, do you want to get out of here?”

“Sorry?”

“Well, the girls won’t care,” and he’s probably right there, “and you don’t like it here, and I don’t care where I am as long as it’s with you.”

Steve riffles through his internal Rolodex and comes up blank; no one has ever said anything that sincere to him in his life. And Eddie means it too; he means everything he says in a completely unguarded way Steve has literally never encountered before. It’s like meeting an alien. Steve wants to put him under a microscope.

“I just want you to have a nice time, you know. I want you to be happy.”

Eddie reaches out and takes Steve’s hand.

Steve lets him.

Part Six

[mitchellnman]

Always Hungry.

MDNI.

PAIRING: Martin x reader

WARNINGS: pwp, mentions of bruises and scrapes (martin) pussy eating. Reader is afab, but there's no gendered pronouns or use of y/n. Hastily written, no beta reader we die like victorian children.

WORD COUNT: 942.

A/N: Hi hello I haven't written a fic in 2 years but Martin made me crawl from my grave please enjoy!

—

Martin's room smelled like incense. Cheap incense, bought online with a holder that made the smoke look like a waterfall. Martin only burned the incense to cover up the smell of sex and sweat, in case the landlord came knocking. It mostly worked, unless you pulled back the blankets on his bed. Then, it was all him, musky and heady and sweet, and you, more or less the same.

He was feeding his skink some blue worms, to match his blue eyes, and the blue candy that poked out from between his lips. He smiled. Martin always smiled when his skink ate, her blue tongue flicking out. She was a silly little creature, lacking a few brain cells, but cute nonetheless. More importantly, she seemed to like you, when you scratched under her chin, or held her little hands with your fingertips. Martin liked it too.

He was shirtless, only in a pair of black jeans that hung low on his hips. You followed the curve of his spine with your eyes from under his hair, down to his waist, and further down, his pants only halfway covering his perfect ass. He was covered in bruises, scrapes, and what you supposed you could call rope burn, from seatbelts digging into his skin. He was beautiful in a nihilistic sort of way, as if Chuck Palahniuk had specialized in paintings instead of novels.

You pushed away from the wall you were leaning on as you watched him, unable to resist touching him anymore. Your cheek brushed over his shoulder, fingers tracing up his sides. He smelled like you, and like sugar. His jaw flexed as his tongue rasped over the candy. Your hands moved up his back, cold fingers on warm skin.

Martin set the skink down in her tank and turned around in your grasp. He regarded you for a long moment, his eyes piercing as he tried to read your mind. You had half a mind to tell him everything you thought. His fingers cupped your chin, and tapped your lips. A wordless request for you to open your mouth. You did, and he brought his lips to yours, pushing the blue raspberry candy into your mouth. You kissed around it, your senses overwhelmed by the artificial flavor. Blue raspberry, what was it, really? Certainly nothing that occurred in nature.

His black hair fell around both of your faces, shielding you from the sunlight that was streaming in through the window. He made an obscene moan, and pushed the rest of the candy into your mouth with his tongue.

"Finish it." He whispered. His blue tongue darted out, and licked your lips. He smiled, a devilish thing that could only mean sin was on his mind. With that knowledge, you took his hands, and walked backwards to the bed. Your thighs hit the mattress, and you fell back. Your tongue pressed the candy to the roof of your mouth so you didn't choke on it.

He descended upon you like an animal, ravenous after starving for days, his hands pushing your shirt up over your ribs. His blue tongue darted out and licked your skin, teasing for only a moment. Then he bit down, nipping at your stomach with that same grin. His large hand squeezed your crotch, concealed by a pair of his sweatpants. His palm pressed against you, slowly massaging you through the fabric.

Martin sucked a mark into your skin, below your belly button. His head dipped down further, sniffing at your crotch, his nose pushing against your clit.

You smiled, and your hands found a home in his hair. It was a little greasy to be sure, but it was soft on your fingers, and he moaned so sweetly when you tugged on his dark locks.

His clever hands tugged your pants down around your ankles, and he didn't give you a moment to breathe. How could he, when you were the best thing he'd ever tasted? Vaguely, he wondered if he could make a candy that tasted like you.

His tongue swiped over your clit, and you shivered with want. Your thighs pressed against his cheeks as his head dipped lower, intent on devouring you.

"Martin," you gasped. "I have to go to work—"

You could feel him smile against you, his breath hot against your cunt as he laughed.

"Should have thought of that before..." He teased, utterly merciless. He pushed two fingers inside of you with ease, still slick from last night, and this morning. In fact, he could still taste himself inside of you.

Your back arched as he found your sweet spot with a practiced ease. Your hands curled in his hair, and the moans he made sent vibrations straight up your spine, like a low bass played from a quality speaker.

He coaxed you to your peak, and you came with a loud cry, your vision going utterly white with previews of heaven. He held you in place as you thrashed, a large hand pressing into your thigh.

When you opened your eyes again, his head was on your stomach, cheek resting against your skin. Martin was smiling, obviously pleased with himself. His nose and chin were shiny with spit and slick, his chest pressed against your core, just enough to keep your body thrumming.

“Call out. Spend the day with me.” He said. His fingers traced over your skin, drawing nonsensical patterns, writing invisible sheet music that only made sense to him.

“Martin…”

“Please.”

It was hard to resist him. Him with his blue lips, and shiny chin. Him with his black, messy hair. You sighed, and admitted defeat.

“Fine.”

[whereserpentswalk]

People don't realize how liminal it is to be a time traveler. How you don't ever really feel like you're in the time you are. Even when you're in your own time, everything is off, your coat was something you bought in interwar France, the book you're reading on the train is from a bookstore you had to visit in Victorian London, even your necklace was given to you by a Neolithic shaman, from a culture the rest of the world can never know. You find yourself acting strange even when in the present, much less in the past you have to work in.

You remember meeting a eunuch in 10th century China, and having him be one of the only people smart and observant enough to realize you were from a diffrent time. You could talk honestly with him, though still you couldn't reveal too much about your time. And it was still so strange hearing him talk casually about work and mention plotting assassinations. You're not allowed to but you still visit him sometimes.

You remember that the few times you were allowed to tell someone everything it was tragic. You knew a young woman who lived in Pompeii, who you had gotten close to, a few days before she would inevitably die. On your last day there you looked into her eyes, knowing soon they'd be stone and ash, that the beauty of her hair would be washed away by burning magma. And you hugged her, and told her that you wanted her to be safe, and told her she was wonderful and that you wanted her to be comfortable and happy. And you let her tongue know the joy of 21st century chocolate, and her eyes see the beauty of animation, knowing she deserved to have those joys, knowing it wouldn't matter soon. And you hugged her the last time, and told her she deserved happiness. And when you left without taking her it was like you were killing her yourself.

You want to take home everyone you're attached to. There's a college student you befriended in eighteen fifties Boston. And you can't help but see him try to solve problems you know humanity is centuries away from solving. And you just want to tell him. And it's not just that, the way he talked about the books and plays he likes, his sense of humor. There's so many people you want him to meet.

You feel the same way about a young woman you met on a viking age longship. She tells stories to her fellow warriors and traders, stories that will never fully get written down, stories that she tells so uniquely and so well. She has so many great ideas. You want so dearly to take her to somewhere she can share her stories, or where she can take classes with other writers, where she can be somewhere safe instead of being out at sea. She'll talk about wanting to be able to do something, or meet people, and you know you're so close to being able to take her, but you never can, unless she accidently finds out way too much then you can't.

You remember the longship that you met that young storyteller on. You were there before, two years ago for you, ten years later for the people on it. The young woman who told you stories wasn't there ten years later, you had been told why then but you only realize now, her uncle, who ran the ship, had been one of the first people to convert to Christianity in his nation. He killed her, either for not converting or for sleeping with women, you're not sure, but he killed her, and bragged about it when you met him ten years later.

You talk to the storyteller on the longship, ask her about the myths you're there to ask her about, the myths that she loves to tell. You look into her eyes knowing it's probably less then a year until her uncle takes her life. You ask her if you think that those who die of murder go to Valhalla. She tells you she hopes not, she doesn't see Valhalla as a gift but as a duty, she hopes for herself to go to Hel, where she wouldn't have to fight anymore. You slip and admit you're talking about her, telling her that you hope that's where she goes when she's killed. You hope to yourself you'll be forced to take her to the twenty first century, you're tempted even to make it worse, you want to have ruined her enough to be able to save her.

[monamipencil]

— venus in furs | l.cn

⋆ summary; portraying lee chan as an example for simp from the 19th century. or in which, he's the biggest loser for you.

⋆ pairings; chan x fem! reader ⋆ genre; smut, fluff, friends (?) with benefits, 19th century! au ⋆ w.c; 2.5k+ ⋆ warnings; chan is the biggest simp, lots of praising and body worship, oral (f. receiving), foot job (m. receiving), service top! chan, also subby! chan, unprotected sex (19th century condoms are horrendous), multiple orgasms, SIMP CHAN ALERT ⋆ a/n; here she is!! i'm always down for writing simp! chan. this is my first time writing a victorian era fic, let me know how you guys like it <3

your heat throbs between your legs as the man before kisses down your knees with a passion that rivals the fire crackling behind him. you card your fingers through his soft brown locks and sigh softly, leaning back on the canapé.

“we should stop this,” Chan freezes at your cold yet tender voice. he looks up at you, distraught brewing in his beautiful eyes.

“my lady, have I done you any wrong? have I offended you?” he says, tone laced with a desperateness that breaks your heart.

but you're in no place to enjoy the worship he bestows upon you. you, a small village girl, and he, the heir to a powerful business. and though you rot your days away, fantasizing about marrying him, you know it is not practical.

you think of the gasps and the sneers that the news of your relationship would elicit from society. this was all a game of cat and mouse. you escapes his pursuits and chases and he revels in it, pushing him to pursue you further.

what started as a playful banter ended up in flames of passion and pining. if not careful, it could burn you and leave you with scars. the world is forgiving enough for a rich man but not a poor woman. any woman at that.

“it is not as simple, dearest.” you sigh, resolve, breaking with every passing second.

Chan has never been as devasted. he couldn't imagine a day without kissing your skin and worshipping you as if you were Venus. which you were, in his eyes.

with all his honesty, Chan never thought when he was with you. any rational thought slips from his mind, and you infect him with your warm, soft skin and deep, lusted eyes. the only thoughts that conjure are how to please and make you happy.

even now, as you hold a stake to his heart and threaten to pierce him, he can only think of pleasuring you.

“can I taste you for the last time, my lady?”

his offer knocks the air out of your lungs, and you try not to embarrass yourself by sucking in a sharp breath. your eyes dart towards the darkness of the room, searching for anything to look at but him.

even with the only light in the room behind him, he looks ethereal with Selene resting in his orbs. with hesitancy in your breath, you nod, unable to deny him.

he doesn't waste any time, slipping his hands under the rich silk covering your body. you undo the robe he bought you, one of the many decorating your wardrobe.

he drags his hands up your skin, pushing the robe off you. his groan echoes through the marble walls of his chamber, and his eyes dart over your naked figure.

the glow from the Renaissance fireplace casts you in a mesmerizing light. these are some of the times he envies the hands of a painter. oh, how he wishes to paint and immortalize you in this world.

your nipples harden under his touch, and your heat glistens with desire. you spread your legs, welcoming to have a taste. he places hot kisses on your thighs, slowly moving closer to your core.

you hold in your breath, anticipating his tongue as his breath wafts against your heat. he presses a kiss to the pearl between your folds before placing his tongue flat against your lips.

the sounds that fill the chambers are blasphemous. you toss your head back on the rich fabric of the canapé. your lips turn red, trying to hold in moans as his tongue works wonders on you.

his nose brushes against your clit, sending waves of pleasure through your body. his tongue prods at your core, sucking and slurping. he hums, drinking your sweet nectar as if it's water. one could only describe him as a starved man with the hungry laps of his tongue and lustful moans from his chest.

moon-shaped prints form on your hips under the pressure of his nails. he looks up at you with a passion that trembles you to your core, and your walls break down. wanton moans echo from the back of your throat, and your hips thrust up to meet his starving mouth.

heat courses through your nerves, and sweat coats your body. pressure builds in your stomach, causing you to gasp and thrash under his hold. he slips in a calloused finger to rub the small nub, filling you with pleasure.

your hands fly up to your breasts to play with your nipples. you roll them between your thumb and forefinger. you lock your ankles behind his back, pushing his head further into your core.

the familiar pressure builds up in your stomach, causing your moans to grow louder. you tug his hair roughly and move your hips against his mouth. with another tug of his hair, you come undone. your moans quiet down, but that doesn't stop Chan from licking you dry, not wasting any of your fluids.

he pulls away from your throbbing heat, and your arousal glistens on his chin and lips.

“what would your loved ones think?” you ask between bated breaths.

“what?” a pout graces his lips, and he tilts his head. big, brown eyes tinted with confusion. you suck in a sharp breath and resist the urge to pepper kisses all over him.

“that you love to have your head between a maiden's legs.” it was his turn to breathe sharply, jaw tensing ever so slightly.

“what would they think of you, knowing you begged to have a taste of her?” you lean towards his kneeled figure, tracing a lone finger on the side of his face.

“that you neglect yourself to please her?”

you whisper against his cheeks, lips brushing against his soft skin. he gasps when you press your foot against his crotch. you fall back on the canapé, continuing your ministrations on his groin.

you trace the outline of his shaft with your toe and apply pressure specifically on the tip. he groans and wraps his fingers around your shin, letting you have your way.

he presses a kiss to your knees as if it's your knees that are bruised from passion. you press your sole against his hard cock, and toe his balls.

chan never complains. he always accepts whatever you have to give him with open arms, whether it's an orgasm or a heartbreak. and it's a pity that you only want to bask him in love, but you know it will destroy you in the end. so you gave him cold eyes and snarky remarks. but who knew that he would rejoice in your indifference?

“my love!” he moans, rutting his hips against your foot. even now, he baffles you. he accepts the bare minimum with no complaints and always gives his best in return.

the pet name never fails to make you flush and throb with yearning. you stop your movements, the ache between your legs growing stronger. he whines at the loss of friction and looks at you with longing.

you swiftly pull the robe on your body and stand up. you grab his collar, pulling him up with you. he groans when you roughly push him down on the mattress.

climbing on the bed, you straddle his hips and slot your lips against his in a hot kiss. he immediately responds, one of his hands wrap around your nape and the other rests on your lower back.

he pushes his tongue past your lips and moans at the warm of your mouth. the robe is again stripped from your body and he flips you over, gaining control over you.

the yellow-orange flames paint his skin a beautiful glow and you find yourself lost in his beauty. chan kisses you like a man depraved from any touch all his life. it's all teeth and tongue and gasps for breath.

he inhales in your scent and kisses your neck in a rushed manner. his hands wander all over your body, trying to find purchase anywhere he can. his teeth bruises your skin and his lips soothe the bruises right after.

and his clothes come undone one by one, till you're both laying naked on the velvet sheets of his bed. his cock grazes the inside of your thigh, a premonition of what's about to unfold.

his lips descend to your nipples, wrapping his lips around it. an undignified moan leaves you as his warm tongue swirls around the sensitive bud. he sucks obediently on the bud, occasionally teething on it. he switches to the other bud, doing the same before continuing his descent.

he leaves a trail of kisses from the valley of your breasts to the mound of your heat. his eyes are closed and eyebrows knitted in concentration as he does so. he stops and looks up at you, the flames in his eyes burn brighter than that of the wood fire.

he offers a small kiss to your clit before mounting you again, placing his hands on either side of your torso. you're rendered speechless when he kisses your forehead, gently.

“I could not care less about what others think.” his breath is even and the assurance in his eyes sends a flurry of emotions coursing through your veins.

he chuckles at your gaped mouth and the break in your character amuses him.

“what did you expect from this fool that can only think of you? hmm?” a gentle yet playful smile plays on his lips. your flushed expression overjoys him.

he shifts, positioning himself before your slick core. the bulbous head of his shaft prods your lips and he gently caresses the soft skin of your waist. he leans down, pressing a series of kisses from your temple to the corner of your lips.

“I burn for you, by my body and heart.”

he kisses you with burning passion and his sentence is punctuated by pushing his cock inside you. the stretch is delicious and you moan at the contact, hips rushing to meet his.

your slick arousal makes it easier for him. he enters you with ease and you moan in unison when he bottoms out. he pulls out before sinking back in. he follows it till he finds a comfortable pace to split you open.

you hook your arms around his neck and your legs around his hips. the heel of your foot digs into his back, and your nails leave red imprints on his skin. your lips has a mind-numbing grip on his cock. he pursues a relentless pace that molds your insides to the shape of his cock.

your walls flutter around him and you cling to him, desperately. he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him. he thrusts harder, the sound of skins slapping reverberate off the marble walls.

the bed creaks with each movement of his hips. you moan, and throw your head back with a roll to your eyes. the sound of your slick every time your hips meet is sinful.

“kiss me, please. please.” Chan begs you with urgency. as if he'd succumb to death if you didn't oblige.

you rake up your nails up his back and eye his bruised lips, licking your own. a sultry haze swirls in your eyes and he's mesmerized by them. his pace slows down, involuntarily and you cradle his face before smashing your lips to his.

Chan whines and whimpers into your mouth, his hips meeting yours erratically. the orange embers from the fire place illuminates him in a heavenly aura. you dig your heels into his back, forcing him to move harder.

the pressure builds in your stomach again and you feel light-headed. Chan thrusts into you with passion and your slick drips down from your thighs.

“I love you,” you gasp at a certain hard thrust, and his confession kindles a new fire inside of you.

“I admire you,” he punctuates with a soft kiss to your temple and thrusts harder.

“god, you're so beautiful.” he cries, holding you tighter. you do the same, and rest your head on his neck. you kiss his neck, peppering him with red blemishes.

with another hard thrust, you come undone, moaning and whimpering his name. he pulls out, jerking off before he spills warm, white ropes of semen on your stomach and thighs.

he falls on the mattress beside you and pulls your body closer. soft apologies spill from his lips as he peppers kisses on your skin to make up for his roughness.

you catch your breath and melt into his arms. the fire has died down, leaving the room cold and dark but Chan keeps you warm. his hands caress your skin and he looks at you with such admiration that makes him cry.

the heat of the passion died down, leaving room for soft vulnerability. his fingers entwine with yours and he holds you as if you're the most sought after price in all of the world.

“I love you,” you admit and he freezes, mind buffering as he processes your words. he searches your face for any insincerity but he's met with none. you offer him a gentle smile and a warm hug.

he melts into your embrace and you hear a few sniffles. you chuckle, rubbing and patting his back. but he pulls away, leaving you confused.

you see his naked back disappear behind the room divider and he soon emerges with a wet cloth. a hiss falls from your lips when he presses it on your heat, cleaning you up. he apologizes with a sheepish smile and a blush on his face.

a few minutes have passed and you're laying on his muscular chest, waiting for slumber to take you over. he clears his throat and stops his caresses.

“so, what do you think of marriage?”

he maintains a emotionless visage but you can see the fear dancing in his orbs. you try not to chuckle and give your answer with an even voice.

“a burden,”

“a burden?” he parrots, voice laced with hurt.

you hum, feeling your heart thrum wildly beneath your rib cages. if it weren't for the bony cage, your heart would've ripped it's way out, begging for him to touch it.

“but not to me,” you whisper, kissing his skin. you snuggle into his neck, and you can't see his face but feel him hold in his breath.

“not if it's you.”

he switches positions, hovering over you now. he silently asks for assurance and you nod. he breathes finally, and thanks the lord for answering his prayers. you laugh at that and return his embrace.

he peppers kisses all over you and chuckles with you.

“but dare to cross my heart, and your dick won't be attached to your body anymore.” you threaten but he smiles at you, clearly lovesick.

he kisses down your neck, to your breasts and stomach where he rests his head. he hears your heartbeat thump and he smiles.

“my heart would break before yours, if I were ever to do so, my lady.”

you caress his head, slumber rooting in your body.

“my soul is far too intertwined with yours.”

tags; @seungkwanschicken @aaa-sia @dokyeomkyeom @bangantokchy

@asyre @armycarat2612 @bewoyewo @gyuguys @embrace-themagic

@aaniag @nurihihi (send an ask to be added on the taglist!)b

[trashmouth-richie]

♔ 𝖑𝖎𝖑𝖎𝖙𝖍: 𝖜𝖎𝖈𝖐𝖊𝖉 𝖌𝖆𝖒𝖊

♔eddie x female reader (lilith au)

♔ tw: 18+ minors get fucked. as all of the lilith au—can be read as a stand alone fic, nicknames, voyeurism? nude in public, driving while receiving head, driving while fooling around sexually, mentions of hickies.

♔a hot summer day calls for a drive out of hawkins out of indiana, but when your boy toy looks as delicious as Eddie does, you can’t keep your hands (or mouth) to yourself

more lilith here

“What does she say in that movie?” 

  Examining your neck in the mirror of Eddie’s visor, your fingernails poke the purpling marks adorned with deep swelled red pocks from his teeth. Some faded, others fresh and still slicked with your lover’s spit. 

  A joint burning fresh extends across the center console to share with you from ringed hands, nudging your bare shoulder with knuckles that were scuffed and scabbed over. 

  “Shit, not sure princess,” Eddie mouths around a cloud of smoke, “that cheesy musical?” 

  Taking the joint you flip the visor up, cranking the window down a few more notches before putting your painted toes on the dash, one foot on the vent. 

  “Something about looking like a leper, anyway, these….” you say pointing to the string of hickies on your neck, “are the prettiest necklaces I’ve ever owned.” 

  Eddie smiles a wicked grin, barely able to contain control of the steering wheel at you admiring his handiwork. 

  He was covered in marks from you as well, pink scratches down his chest and back, a permanent swell on his bottom lip from the way you sucked and bit on it, teasing him whenever you could. 

  He winks and nearly growls, “it’s a collector’s item, one of a kind, baby.” 

  “count me rich then, how much further?”  

  “Border is coming up I think,” he reaches his arm towards you playing with the steel bar between your bare nipple, “I love seeing you like this, but you might wanna put some clothes on.”

  It was hot in the van, hotter yet after Eddie had enough of your teasing tongue on his earlobe and decided to pull over for a quickie on an abandoned road. Pounding you raw until tears split from your eyes. 

  You were sitting completely naked, pussy bare as you fiddled and finagled with the air conditioning levers. “It’s so hot, and I’m sweaty, clothes are staying off… or is it bothering you?” 

  Eddie was shirtless as well, his skin sparkling with a sheen of sweat, fresh claw drags across his torso. 

  He grabs for your leg making you swivel in your seat as he pulls it towards, ass cheeks sticking and rubbing on the itchy fabric, “nothing you do bothers me little vixen,” his eyes flutter to you and then his crotch, eyeing you again so you can see the bulge growing in his jeans already, “you know that.” 

  Your eyes hood as you look at him through your lashes, a smirk slithers to your lips, “good.” Shifting sideways in your seat your bare toes rest on his lap, dangerously close to his erection. 

  Cranking the window down the entire way you stretch your arms and head out into the lazy breeze. Your body is on full display for him to feast his eyes on. Resembling a Victorian styled painting. 

  He drank in the way your skin stretched over your ribs as you bent out of the window, chin pointed to the cerulean sky, fingers twirling in the wind. The sun sparked hot against your tits, glinting a hue of seafoam blue from the windshield visor. Neck prickled sweetly with his hickies. 

  Your black painted toes circle around his cock, working him gently with the arch in your foot, a silver ring on your second toe. 

  “Baby, baby, baby…” Eddie groans, shifting himself deeper into the driver's seat.

  The wind chilled your fingers enough to cool you down, they felt like ice on your burning skin as they slithered further down to the warmed wet heat between your legs. 

  “Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he groans as your feet stroke him again and again. 

  Middle finger deep inside of yourself you only smile, spreading your knees apart to show him, “don’t I always?” 

  “Fucking Chriiist,” his arm stretches out over your knee, reaching for any part of you he could without killing you both by going off the road, his lips press tight together when you whine out from your own pleasure. And you can feel his dick kick up, “goddamn sweetheart.” 

  Minutes pass of Eddie glancing between the open road and your fingers feverishly rubbing at your clit and slipping in and out of your slick folds— trying to focus on his task at hand. 

  A pretty little pout crosses your brows, frustration painted on your face, “your fingers are bigger than mine, it doesn’t feel the same.” 

  An idea crosses Eddie’s mind, filthy and genius. 

  “Want me to do it for you, angel?” he half mocks, pushing your feet back to you, “sit up straight.. normal.” 

  You do as your told, legs stretched open with a foot out of the window. His middle and ring finger curl towards your mouth and you open with no hesitation, sucking, tongue rubbing softly on the pads, his blood boils at the warmth from your mouth. 

  Popping his fingers out with a little pop, he works on your clit first. Teasing, rubbing, pinching. Your angelic moans fill the van, music to his ears. When his thick fingers push into you, your eyes roll at the pained pleasure, coloring your vision to a dim onyx, seeing spots. 

  “right there, huh?” Eddie grunts when you gasp and pant his name, “sucking me in deep princess holy shit.” 

  Your release hits fast, gushing over his fingers like a faucet, nipples tweezed between your pinched grip. Eddie encourages you through it, his hot breath steaming up the window, sweat on his brow.

  Opening your eyes, the sun seems like a hot iron poker to your retinas, the blissful high coming down as your body heaves deep breaths, lips pursed. 

  Eddie’s fingers pull out and you groans at the way you’ve coated his fingers, “look at you, making a mess.” 

  “Let me fix it,” you purr before grabbing his hand and wrapping your tongue around his fingers, sucking your taste from them, licking them clean. 

  “Fuck,” Eddie pleads inaudibly, and you only bat your eyelashes and smirk. All hope is lost when your cheeks hollow and you look at him with innocent eyes. 

  “That mouth of yours.. I need it on me, now.” 

  You oblige all to giddily, planting your knees on your seat and leaning over to unthread his belt, licking at the claw marks on his skin as his cock flops out from his boxers in all its veiny glory.  

  A dribble of spit falls from your tongue like honey, trickling on the head of his cock, “should we pull over?” 

  Eddie’s eyes are nearly shut as he holds your chin, “nah, I got it, just need you… please.” His hand rubs down the bare of your back, cupping the fat of your ass, breaching your pussy lips open with his middle finger and you let out a satisfying moan. 

  “You good, baby?” he asks, “so fucking dirty for me.” 

  Pumping him slow with your hand, you lower your mouth to the soft velvet of his cock, sliding him in and out of your mouth, nodding along to his question, and popping off to mutter a gasped, “mm only for you, Eddie.” 

  He cants his hips up to your open mouth, nearly cumming when you gag and slurp him up, bruising your throat. He works his fingers the way you like, stretching you open and going deeper than your own could reach. Your vibrating moans around his length have him squirming in the drivers seat, swerving over the yellow lines and back into the lane again. 

  You cup his balls, rubbing a thumb between them in circular motions, and Eddie yells out. 

  “fuuuuck, take it baby,” his hand falls from the wheel and holds your head down as he cums hard. Coating your throat in his second orgasm in less than an hour, aching sensitivity pulsing through his throbbing cock. 

  Your name falls from his lips like a chanted prayer in a backwoods church, soft and quick. His warm cum stays in your mouth as you suck the soul from him— hungry for more.

  When you pop off of him and tuck him back into place, he looks wrecked, fringe of his bangs frizzy, dripping from sweat,  navel pooling with perspiration. 

  Opening your mouth to show off his spend on your tongue, he about comes undone. It took him a while to get used to this but now he knows you’d never spit, not his girl. 

  Swallowing, and brandishing off your empty mouth, you lick lips like a cat after a meal, “you taste so fucking good, Eddie. How the hell did your previous girlfriends never do that?” 

  “Fuck princess,” Eddie groans, pulling your lip down and watching as the plump flesh thumps back into splace, sending a shiver down your spine, “I dunno, still trying to wrap my head around how I got lucky enough to find someone who loves doing it… fuckin’ won the lottery with you, my little sex addict.” 

  Relighting the joint from earlier, you press your lips to his, shotgunning smoke from your lungs into his mouth, letting his heady taste go from your tongue to his. 

  He inhales and you sit back on the sticky mess you had made earlier, ashing the joint out the window lazily, “only thing I'm addicted to is you.” 

[cas-kingdom]

The Night Shift

A/N: First NCIS fic! Decided to keep my OC's name instead of reader as I'm pretty attached to her.

If you're alone on V Day, here's some Gibbs. <3

Title: The Night Shift

Summary: What's worse than a sick Gibbs? A sick mini Gibbs.

Words: 2568

It was two am, and Emmie Gibbs was tired.

She wrinkled her nose as something tickled at it and sat up to reach for the packet of tissues sitting dutifully by the pillow.

It was two am, and Emmie Gibbs was sick and tired.

Tony, the shit-stirrer that he was, leaned precariously back in his swivel chair to stare at her. If it weren’t for the squeak of the chair itself, she still would have noticed his sudden attention by the feeling of his eyes boring into her for perhaps the tenth time since they’d set up camp in the NCIS building about five hours ago. He was relentless.

Emmie paused. Tissue wedged in her nose, sinuses burning, she looked up and stared at him. Tony rose an eyebrow. Emmie hardened her stare. Tony, because he was Tony, purposefully leaned further back so she could see the exact moment he dramatically cupped a hand to his stupid little mouth and—

“Giiibbs!”

Emmie’s jaw tensed. Tony grinned in superfluous victory.

Another squeak, a more familiar one this time, and Gibbs’s swivel chair glided along the carpeted floor around the divider between the cubicles until he could see Emmie. She was still sitting up, looking quite the sight with a tissue halfway up her right nostril and her hair sticking at all angles. On any other day she would have responded to Tony’s pure gall by glaring him straight into the ground. But today was not that day. Today was a bad day. Today, her week-long, just-about-bearable cold had decided to manifest into sinusitis, and she’d woken with a face that felt as though tiny little men were mining for gold in her skull. Ducky had liked that metaphor.

Partly because she was absolutely awful at caring for herself when she was ill, and partly—mostly—because he knew he wouldn’t have been able to concentrate on work if she was left to fend for herself at home, Gibbs had dragged Emmie into the office with him. She’d made her rounds all day—curled up on Abby’s little couch at first, then bundled off to an empty room when Abby found working in silence too impossible. At lunchtime, a meeting had been scheduled in the room, and she’d been forced to accompany Gibbs and Tony in the car to a naval base connected to the case they were working on, sniffling and groaning in the back seat like a Victorian child on her death bed.

And here she was now, at two a bloody m, lying on an ungodly amount of blankets, wrapped in Gibbs’s jacket and Tony’s hoodie, on the floor, feeling like her body was readying to explode. Life couldn’t get worse.

Unless you were acquainted with Tony DiNozzo. In which case, life could, and most certainly would, get worse.

Gibbs dipped his head and rose an eyebrow at Emmie. Emmie couldn’t do much in her defence but sniff. Hard. A slight protest only she had the guts to attempt. It was when he pointed a finger at her and motioned with it for her to lie down again that Emmie tossed her arms up.

“Do you know—” Another sniff—“Do you even know how hard it is to lie down and feel your sinuses drain into your throat?” Her voice was so nasally she couldn’t sound stern, even if she put every ounce of effort into it.

Tony, naturally, did not try hard to cover his amusement at that. He snorted and crossed his arms over his chest, spinning from side to side absently in his chair with the tip of his tongue held between his smirking lips when Emmie turned narrowed eyes on him.

“I was getting a tissue, FYI,” she said to him and only him. “So, you can stop being a kiss ass, Anthony.”

“Emmie.” Gibbs disappeared behind the divider again. “Back to sleep.”

Tony, meanwhile, gaped. “Kiss ass who?”

Emmie ignored him and shuffled back down again. She shut her eyes and swallowed. Already the disgusting stuff had decided the place it wanted to be right now was her stomach, and was meandering slowly down her throat towards it.

“You were being a bit of a kiss ass,” she heard Gibbs agree.

“Oh, come on. You said you wanted her to sleep!”

“Yeah, and I do.”

“But you’re gonna call me a kiss ass when I tell you she’s not sleeping? Kiss my ass.”

“What was that?”

“Sorry, Boss.”

In all honesty, there was nothing more that Emmie wanted least right now than to sleep. True, she was exhausted, but the part of her brain not currently still enshrouded in said exhaustion wanted to be up and active again, helping Gibbs with the case like her internship allowed.

And yet, the man still believed she needed her head on a pillow.

The team had been working on a case all day, one she didn’t know the specifics of. It wasn’t exactly often that they stayed in the office well into the night to continue their current case, but it appeared Gibbs had a weird feeling about this one. From the snippets of conversation that she’d picked up and actually retained in her decrepit brain, a potential witness was lying unconscious in a hospital bed somewhere, and Gibbs wanted to speak to him the moment he woke up, which, according to the doctors, could be at any time. That apparently required the entire team to stay behind which, considering the fact Emmie was currently holed up on the floor of Ziva’s empty cubicle, not everyone had complied with.

The moment Tony got out of his chair to help Gibbs with something and disappeared from her line of sight, Emmie eased herself into a sitting position once more. She reached for the tissues again, rubbing at her leaking nose with the sleeve of Gibbs’s jacket and not possessing the brain power to regret that decision. She blew into a tissue, paused to catch her breath, then—

“Gibbs.”

Emmie deflated completely. Wow. The world truly hated her today.

She looked up to see McGee walking in with a bag of takeout. He barely glanced at her as he passed, choosing to instead spend that energy alerting Gibbs to the fact she was, again, not lying down.

Before either Tony or Gibbs could come into view once more, Emmie sighed, stuck two bits of tissue in both nostrils, and scooted backwards to sit against the wall.

“Can’t breathe lying down,” she said before anyone could say a single word. “And I’m tired of being tired. I don’t want to sleep anymore. Leave me alone. Don’t talk to me. Shush.”

Tony’s head appeared around the corner, and he snorted again. Then the squeak of Gibbs’s chair as he got up. A rustling. A moment later he appeared with a takeout box in his hand, walking towards her. He lifted it so she could see, and she groaned, shaking her head. A corner of Gibbs’s mouth lifted but he wasn’t about to back down on this fight. He never did.

He knelt in front of her, close enough to see the pallidness of her face and the slight sickly tremble of her small frame. Emmie visibly relaxed when he reached out a hand to press against her forehead, the coolness of his skin momentarily dowsing the heat of hers.

Gibbs checked the watch at his wrist. “Another couple hours and you can dose up again.”

“Thanks.”

“Yep. ‘Till then…” He went to withdraw his hand, but Emmie’s own hand shot up and pinned his to her forehead.

“No,” she said simply.

“No to my hand leaving, or food?”

“No.”

“You gotta eat. You know the drill. Eat or sleep.” She grumbled something and Gibbs reached with his free hand to lift the lid on the box. The smell of warm chicken soup filled the space between them, and Emmie wrinkled her nose. “Come on, kiddo. It’s only soup.”

“I feel too sick to eat.”

“Sleep it is, then.”

“Dad—”

“Hey. The cure for alll Emmie-related illness is sleep. Always has been, always will be.” It was true. Gibbs knew his daughter better than she knew herself, after all. Everyone was different, but Emmie’s medicine was sleep until she could look him in the eye and confidently tell him she felt a bit better. If years of being a single parent had taught him anything, it was that.

With a bit of reluctance, he pulled his hand from her head and leant forward on his toes. “You don’t have to lie down to sleep,” he told her. “Here—” Emmie wasn’t quite sure what he was doing with the pillows and blankets behind her, but when he sat back and she turned as much as her aching neck would allow, there was a nice little DIY upright-bed against the wall. Gibbs, seemingly proud of his work, was met with a look of absolute discontent on his daughter’s face.

He puffed his cheeks out and glanced at the soup. “Aeroplane?”

“Seriously?” Emmie deadpanned.

He reached for the spoon, a teasing smile pulling at his lips. “Worked when you were a kid.”

“There’re a few keywords in that sentence, Dad. Are you trying to give Tony more fuel to embarrass me?”

Gibbs glanced over his shoulder. Tony had returned to his desk, leaning dangerously back in his chair to gain the best vantage point. The man had absolutely zero shame.

Gibbs jerked his head. “Check with the hospital about Lupin, would you, DiNozzo?”

Tony visibly deflated. Emmie sent him a smug look and he stuck his tongue out. Reluctantly, he wheeled back to his desk and picked up the phone. “Do this, DiNozzo, do that, DiNozzo,” he grumbled to himself. “Oh, while you’re at it, why don’t you polish my boots and write a thesis on my intellectual prowess, DiNozzo? Sure, I’ll get right on it, Boss!” He dialled the number and put the phone to his ear. “Should I get your laundry and your coffee too, Boss? Should I do—hi, there! Anthony DiNozzo, NCIS, calling for an update on a patient? Ryan Lupin. Yeah, I’ll hold. Thanks.”

“Dad.” Such an exasperated voice could only belong to the resident invalid, and after only a second’s hesitation, Tony—slowly—wheeled himself back, as far as the cord to the phone still held against his ear would allow. Emmie and Gibbs were still on the floor, the former looking most disgruntled at the spoon in the latter’s hand.

“I’m being serious,” she said then.

“So am I,” Gibbs said, “very serious. I’m being very serious right now. Soup?”

Emmie rolled her eyes, but a smile was pulling at her lips all the same. She shook her head. “Go back to your desk, old man.”

Tony’s brows shot up and he grinned. “Oohoohoo!” He was close to rubbing his hands together in sheer glee. “You gonna let her get away with that, Boss?”

“Lupin, DiNozzo.”

“I’m on hold!” The fact that Gibbs made no sign that he was going to pick his daughter up on her insult, when Tony knew that if he’d been the one to call his boss elderly he’d be getting a bit more than a slap to the back of the head, hit a sore spot. “Wait,” he said, looking hilariously appalled, “you’re actually gonna let her get away with it?”

Gibbs, defeated in this part only, dropped the spoon back in the box and put it on the desk. “I’ve been called worse,” he called back, “believe me.”

“Grandpa,” Emmie said.

“Thank you, Em, that’s very helpful.”

“Ninnyhammer, pillock, douche canoe, old man—”

“You already said that one.” Gibbs chuckled. “Douche canoe?”

Emmie shrugged. “Dunderhead.”

“Alright.”

“Ugly…nut.”

“Jemima.”

McGee, who’d since been silently working and eating at his desk, paused. Mouth open, forkful of noodles on its way, he turned confused eyes to the ground.

“Her name’s Jemima?”

Tony rolled his eyes. “How long you been here McGee?”

As soon as Emmie looked the slightest bit like she was about to resume her name-calling, Gibbs put his palm over her mouth. He rose a brow in warning. She blinked. Blinked again. Then—

“Aw, come on!” Gibbs’s face contorted into one of absolute disgust as a rush of air and wet stuff flew at his hand. He withdrew it immediately, holding it away from him, while Emmie sniffed and nonchalantly used the jacket sleeve again.

“You little crapbag.” It was the best he could come up with.

“What? You think I plan my sneezes?”

Tony, up until now quite enjoying the performance, rolled quickly back to the desk with the phone at his ear. “Hi, yeah, I’m still here.”

Gibbs stood and walked briskly to his desk so he could grab the stack of napkins the takeout had come with. “I don’t doubt anything when it comes to you.”

“Thank you.” Emmie rubbed at her red eyes with her hand and slumped against the back of the wall. Gibbs, coating his hands with sanitizer, watched with a knowing eye. He shook his hands and walked back around to Ziva’s cubicle, perching on the desk to look down at her.

“You’re sick,” he said.

“I know. And?”

“And, sick people eat soup, and they sleep. Okay? They don’t stay up at all hours of the night—nooo, no, no. I’m talking now, kiddo. I know you’ve been sleeping all day, I know you wanna get up and back to work, but that’s not happening until your fever’s gone. No point in fighting that, and you know full well. Clear?”

Any other day. Any. Other. Day. The protests were practically clawing at her throat. But a sudden wave of nausea rushed over her and she backed down immediately. Still, the thought of lying down again was awful, and the tired eyes she turned on her dad somehow translated that.

Gibbs sighed. “What’s it gonna take, huh?” Emmie didn’t need to think about her answer to that. She wasn’t even sure her expression had changed at all when Gibbs shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “No,” he said, “come on, now. I gotta work.”

This time, she did change her expression, putting it on in the way she knew worked best. Gibbs, naturally, relented.

“Fine,” he said, motioning with his hands for her to move over. She did, though admittedly it was a bit of a pitiful move with her aching body. He breathed a short laugh but came to sit in the miniscule space she’d made beside her anyway.

“Thanks, douche canoe,” Emmie whispered.

Tony put the phone down. “Still knocked out, Boss,” he said, pushing his chair backwards. When he saw Gibbs on the floor, arm wrapped around his daughter, who had her head on his shoulder, he crossed his arms over his chest and positively pouted.

“Hey, why do you get to sleep?”

Gibbs chuckled and shut his eyes. “When you’ve got a sick kid, I’ll let you sleep on the office floor with her. Wake me before Lupin does, would you?”

“How am I—Boss? Boss?” Tony threw his arms up in the air and shook his head, grabbing a notebook from his desk to doodle in. “Kiss my ass.”

“Heard that.”

“I wanted you to.”

Well, one thing was for certain. Gibbs may have won this fight, but so had Emmie.

NCIS Masterpost

[houdikoo]

Lacrimosa

You never expected your apathetic husband to suddenly die. Even tho you never loved him enough to care, the general public made sure to make your widow life harder. With no interest in love, all you wanted was to finally be independent. Until you met a certain count, who just couldn't seem to leave you alone.

𝙋𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜: Vampire!Jungkook x widow!Hesperia(OC)

𝙂𝙚𝙣𝙧𝙚: Victorian era au, vampire au, angst, fluff, slow burn(Ig?)

𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: (Unimportant) character death, mourning, ignorant OC, toxic social expectations, stigma & discrimination, blood, financial struggles, false murder accusations, manhandling, simp jk, vampire jk(that needs to be a warning).

Note: This is random idea which came to me. It's kinda inspired by Anna Karenina, like the time period and the style. I haven't written anything(like ffs) for quite some time, so kindly don't mind any errors T-T

The delightful cool air entered my lungs, as I stepped down the carriage. Warm yellow lights shunned from the now bustling mansion in front of me.

The trembling pain in my temples grew, giving me a sign of what was to come. It has namly been 2 months since the death of my "dear husband".

It would be lying if I said I wasn't tearful, on the contrary, I was saddened by the problems he left me to deal with it.

The enormous layers of my black mourning dress swayed in the light breeze as I moved thru the doors, stepping into the lightened ballroom.

Numerous of familiar and unfamiliar faces turned towards me. Coming here today, I clearly knew what I was putting myself thru. The so called "appropriate" mourning period; which included no social events, wasn't even half done.

Most women I have known, tended to mourn to at least a year, if not longer. Me coming here, so early will be seen as "disrespectful" to many, but I could care less.

As he, was nobody to mourn over. A man with his ego and lust had no place in my heart. I ought to at least wear black, as to respect the death.

By now, the stares turned away. Turning into whispers and careless giggles. I strodd towards the small corner where the white wine was served in dazzling glasses.

From the corner of my eyes, I saw my lovely sister, Annemarie, stepping closer towards me with a sincere yet confused glance. Sighing, I picked up a glass and took a sip, patiently waiting for the interrogation.

"Hespe! Why have you come here?" her voice calm as ever, yet I sensed the anxiety in her voice from a mile away. I answered nothing, giving her my smile and continued to sip on my wine.

"I know you never cared for that man, but he was still your husband, you ought to at least think of the consequences" she grabbed a hold of my sleeve fixing it slightly as it got wrinkled.

"And you also know, that I don't care even if they throw me on the street for me so called ignorance"

An audible sigh was passed thru the air, and I could only chuckle at the way my sister turned away from me to look at the staring strangers.

"Well, isn't it Lady Selwyn… oh excuse me I meant Lady Dosett"

The sleek smirk painted his face, contrast to his actions as he bowed down in front us. Lord whitmore was never a "pitiful" type. His words striking venom everytime he speaks.

He also took the pleasure of degrading every pitiful women in his are. Who else would have been a better target, then a newly widow like myself.

"Pleasure to see you again, Lord whitmore" I crossed my arm over my waist, turning towards the middle aged man. Clearly he hoped for a better reaction, as his displease was showing slightly thru his happy faced.

"I would say the same, but I would be lying if I said wasn't surprised to see" His stare tighten and his smirk returned. I dug my nails into my arm, it was clear where this was going.

"After all it has been only 2 months since Lord Selwyn's death"

I looked at my sister, seeing her side eye him and tightening her jaw. She might not support my ignorant choices, but she wouldn't let anyone disrespect me.

I just look back at him, giving him back the sly smile. "I'm well aware of that, but I can't quit see how my husbands death should affect my social life"

He moved back, his posture launched, clearly he wasn't expect me to actually say this. He seemed to think, as he grasped a glass of wine, stirring and sipping quietly.

I looked away, staring into the distance. Taking a sip from my glass, calming myself down. He will leave sooner or later.

I watched the over the top dressed figures, coming down the grand red carpeted stairs. Which were mostly used by high class figures, trying to appear dramatic or more "important" to the rest.

Among those figures I caught a red like flare. I searched for the source, and that's when I come to contact with red eyes boring back at mine.

They appeared brown, but a hint of red was reflected on the side. I was a bit dazed, looking to see who this individual was who bestod such unique, or rather weird beauty.

To my unhappiness, my thoughts were interrupted as Lord whitmore coughed, rather intentionally loud. I twisted my head to the side staring into him.

" I guess it makes sense, since you didn't really seem to care for the lords death" His gaze being not so friendly anymore, like he was challenging me for a imaginary duel.

"Almost like the news pleased you…"

I held my breath, but continued to look at him with a blank stare. I see, he couldn't make me ashamed, so he decided to implant the idea that I was behind my husbands death.

"Hope you didn't take it the wrong way, I'm not accusing you of anything dear" The words flow out like posing, and that sanistic smile came back. I held still, keeping my gaze on him.

He poured the last drops of his wine, putting the glass on a random tray. My sister fluffed her skirt, and grabbed me by my elbow.

"I would be carefull with such accusations. We shall get going, the dance is about to start" she spoke it softly, but you could hear the slight anger in her voice.

Lord whitmore let out a chuckle and stroked his chin in amusement. "Oh dance, right, well I'm looking forward to see both on the dance floor", he smiled and bowed down while staring straight at me.

The word "both" being emphasized more then the rest. Clearly he wasn't expecting anyone to ask me. Who would even want to dance with a widow like me, right?

I decided to keep quite and just nod to his words. Anna tighten her grip on my elbow, and guided me away from Lord whitmore.

"Lady Dosett, I'm waiting for an invite to the vigils"

I stopped and turned towards him. The vigils, I almost forgot. One of the traditions of mourning, inviting people over to "pray" for the death. I needed to throw one whatever I liked it or not, just to show respect.

"Of course, I make sure to send an invitation soon, Lord whitmore" I answered with a quick smile at the end, before turning around.

We continued on our way towards one of the doors, dividing the two huge ballrooms. We stood side by side, until the extravagant music started playing.

Within a few seconds people already moved towards the middle, starting to move along with the violin and organ sounds. I loved the ball before.

The warm atmosphere and the dancing figures, along with the smell of faint lavender and the not so lovely scent of sweat throughout the last hours.

Sadly, things changed after my wedding. There was no more excitement, with a man standing right beside, gripping my waist tight enough to make me stiff up.

My husband never loved, he called it being possessive over his "belongings". Another one of his disgusting fantasize. Now that he was gone, I could enjoy those things again.

To an extant. A widow was free, free from her family who wanted nothing to do with her, and her death husbands side who felt like a burden was taken away from them.

On the other hand, the society wouldn't leave me alone. Everyone would know me as a widow. According to most, I was doomed. No man would marry me now. Apparently, I crossed the right age for marriage and now I was "used".

I saw a few young man stare at my sister. Of course, she was young and pretty, everyone was interested in her. In this day and age, for a woman beauty and youth was her only weapon.

All she needed was to get herself a rich husband, give him a son, and she would be left alone be hima and free to do most of what she wanted.

That's how it worked, for us. I all I hoped was that she would end up with someone who respected her. Because there is no way to find love with those men.

I looked at Anna, seeing her give a shy smile towards one of the man's way. Giving her a teasing smile, I looked back at the man.

Count Ashcroft, was indeed a handsome fellow. Out of all the young men his age, he seemed least of a jerk. I looked towards my sister, pushing her forwards towards him.

She gave me a frightened look, but shaked my head giving her a genuine smile. I guess she got the clue, as she smiled and speed walked over to the man.

I was left standing alone, in the crowded room. A few giggles and glaces here and there, but I tried not to be distracted. I focused on the view in front of me.

I wandered back to my youth, the time when dreams of a life full love were still alive. I looked forward to the day I met the one for me, but it never came.

All the man around me were nothing but scoundrels. Their words full of empty promises. They say they love, but the only thing they do is their freedom of doing whatever they please.

As of now the turned more calm with elegant flute in the background, leading the flow. I felt footsteps behind coming closer. I shrugged it of thinking it was someone random walking by.

Sudden, lt the air felt colder than before. It wasn't comfortable rather soothing for my nerves. I heard a short and quite inhale from behind.

Goose bumps ran down my spine, as I stood there awaiting the unknown. I thought it might have been on of those young girls who came to give me fake pity while making fun of my now vulnerability.

"Dance with me"

A smooth like ocean waves voice said softly behind me. I chuckled lightly to myself. Well, this wasn't what I was expecting. It wasn't even a question, rather sounding like a demand.

I turned around, expecting to see a possibly underage lad who decided act cool be dancing with an elder women.

To my surprise, there stood a shallow man, black striped suit with pearly white shirt underneat.

His short hair slicked on the sides, as some strands framed his sculpted face. I moved higher, seeing the familiar red flare in his eyes.

His face was determined with no sign of nervousness. "That's not so gentleman way to ask a lady for a dance" I kept my face straight, focusing my gaze on his reaction.

Was this another one of those pranks pulled by the bachelors when they are so drunk they can't remember their name?

"Excuse my actions, I must have forgot myself while being unconsciously blinded" he spoke taking a step closer to me. I furrowed my eyebrows, crossing my hands as I stared at him.

"Blinded by what possibly?" The question lingered in the air, as he raised his hand laying if flat for me. "None other than your beauty, my lady".

I giggled, it was long since I heard such words from a man. I put my hand on his, as he raised it towards his mouth before planting a tender kiss on my knuckles.

"I rather be called by my name, Hesperia Dosett" He slowly put my hand down, but i felt his grip linger on my wrist before letting go.

"A pleasure to meet you, lady dosett. The name is Jungkook Everhart"

I thought a bit, trying to remember if I heard this name before. That's when I remembered a month before my husbands death, a man of the name count everhart took over a large state of land from my husband, leaving him grief over it with bottles of rum for the continuing 3 days.

"I must say, my eagerness is striding me wild, my lady" his voice taking an impatient tone, but still holding that charming note.

I let a audible sigh, thinking it thru before answering. "It's a dance you wanted, alright then" with that said he wasted no time putting his hand around my waist while softly leading me to the dance floor.

I felt shivers down my spine, as his cold fingers touched me thru the dress. He spun me slightly to stand in front of him as we got into position, and the music started.

I would describe this moment as peaceful. At one point it felt like there were only two of us. I saw and felt only him, the deep brown eyes staring at me with intensity and the mouth which opened a bit every once in a while.

This man was a beauty, maybe if I met him before, I wouldn't hesitate in being his partner. Although knowing the situation now, this would end up being a one time thing.

A simple dance, maybe a kiss if we get this far. His eyes made my want to stay, keep swinging and swaying till the morning.

He had the soft yet calm look on him, something I haven't seen that often. It didn't felt lustfull, but admiring?

The dance ended before I even knew it. I looked still dazed from the moment we had. I saw people staring at me, judgingly. My sister, standing amongst the crowd, stared at me confused.

That's when I realized that I was doing. Being called an ignorant wife was one thing, but getting the title of a "bed warmer" would definitely get me on a bad side.

I looked at him, holding myself from wanting to stay. "It was pleasure, but now I must be on my way" I stepped back holding up the corner of my dress.

He didn't let go of me and moved down to hold onto my wrist softly as he leaned in and whispered in my ear.

"This won't be a one time thing, meet me in the abandoned opera house tomorrow at 10pm. I wanna show my type of romance away from those cunning eyes"

I licked my lips, unsure of what to say. I didn't waste no time and turned around walking towards the exit. I stepped into the chilling air, I wasn't expecting leaving this place with shy smile on my face…

The doors of the old abandoned opera house as I stepped in, making sure to close the doors behind before anyone could see me. This place was restricted to norms, so anyone coming in here could be immediately evicted.

I glanced thru the spaces room with dirty swept red curtains hanging heavily around the stage. The dust lifted up, when I walked closer to the stage.

I questioned my arrival here, I couldn't believe a simple few minute accountant with a unknown man, made me travel to such pace at near midnight.

I sighed putting the strands which fell in front of my face, behind my ear. I stiffed as I heard slight movement somewhere above me.

I hesitated, but nevertheless looked up towards the small balcony just beside the stage.

There, in front of the washed up curtains, a well known figure sat on the railing looking at me with a delight expression.

"I didn't expect that you would come" his grin was big enough for me to see from below here, not to mention the view of his shiny pecks was almost to clear for my purity.

"Maybe I shouldn't have. Who knows, maybe you take innocent girls her to murder them" my voice flew out as a flock of wasps, even though I didn't necessarily feel threatened, I needed to make sure he knew that I wasn't some naivy girl.

On the contrary, coming here was the most naivy move I could have made. But something about him, made me invested.

He giggled heartly at my words, as reached his hand to grab the hanging rope beside him. "Well, I'm glad you gave me the benefit of a doubt".

He stood up pulling the rope closer to his body, before putting the tight clothed leg around it. I raised my eyebrow staring at him closely.

"Are you trying to impressive me by acting like a pirate?" I asked, even tho the motive was clear. He was indeed, going to swing with the rope down to me.

"It's the fastest way down, don't wanna walk down all those stairs"

I chuckled lightly, wondering why he got up there in the first place. He swung forward sending his body to slowly glide down the rope, landing a few steps away from me.

I turned towards him, crossing my arms. "So? Did I come here just to see this, or is there something more you got to offer" the question lingered in the air, as he didn't answer and instead chose to walk closer towards me.

He stepped right in front of me, a thin layer of air being the only thing between us. He was mesmerizing to say the least. The way his hair fall down like oceans waves down the sandy beach.

And the glittery red sparkle in his eyes, and his stare, oh the shivers were real. A thin smile spread over his lips, as he took my hand gently.

He grabbed the rope hanging close by, before staring at me with a wide mischievous grin. "Ready to fly?" his question made me glance at him confused.

His arms, tho they looked masculine enough, I had doubts if he could hold me. He seemed to notice me concern, as he put his arm around my waist, before almost roughly, pulling me towards.

A small gasp left my mouth from the impact. I looked up at him, my fingers clenching his white ruffled collar. I felt a chuckle escape his mouth as stared down at me.

"Only a fool, would drop a girl like you"

The next second, he tucked the rope down, sending us both high up. He used his body and swinged down towards the broken stage. I set my foot down, still clasping his shirt tight in my grasp.

My eyes which I closed a second after being in the air, opened and stared back at the man who looked at me alluringly.

He moved back, letting go as I unclasped my grasp. He tucked his knee back and slightly down, crossing his one arm in front.

He kept his gaze stuck at me, as bend over. "Can I have this dance, my lady?". His words send shivers down my spine, as if that sentence was the scariest of this night.

I felt my cheeks flush, but confusion rose within me. We did just dance last night. Even so, I put my hand forward, letting him take my hand softly. He pulled me closer, almost as close as we were a second ago.

As we got in the correct position, with him holding my waist and hand tightly to the point of blood stop, and me resting my hand on his shoulder. We swinged around the stage, at one point I heard the music from last night in my head.

The notes struck my heart, as my eyes turned tired and glossy. Last night felt intimidating, while this feels soothing. I was away from the eyes of the judgeful people around me.

I thought I enjoyed it, but now I think I just hoped I did. I stared at Jungkook, who closed his eyes as he swayed to the non existing music.

He must have felt my stare, cus he opened his eyes and looked at me. His stare turned soft, almost admiring. His lips parted and slow calm puffs left his mouth.

This felt stupid, we met barely a day ago. Dancing like two strangers at a party. And now I was standing questioning my feelings. I felt attracted to him, in a weird way.

"Last night, wasn't our first ecounter"

His words left his mouth like a calm whisper. My curiosity rose, I never remembered meeting him before. Even tho I heard of his name from my ex husband.

"A year ago, I saw you at your engagement party. And from that moment on, you become someone special to me" He spoke in his deeper tone, and his eyes turned sharper.

He stopped swaying, as his arm moved from my hand towards the back of my neck. "I watched you silently for the past year. Waiting for my time, even tho I believed it would never come".

His face leaned closer, the hand gently grabbed my neck. I let a desperate sigh, I never felt so needy for a connection before know. His words flew past me, I only focused on the fact that he waited for me, for almost a year.

Inside me, I felt he was speaking the truth. His heart did desire me, and only me. He must have felt my anxiety, as his lips met mine. The slow and tender kiss, left me feeling thirty.

He once again stared at me, but this time his eyes sparkled red. My heartbeat stopped as I thought back to a rumour I heard months ago.

A man of the name Jungkook Everhart, possessed red gleaming eyes which both scared and enchanted. Pale skin, which glittered in warm sunlight. It all made sense now, he was a vampire ladies and gentlemen.

That voice range in my head, as I continued to stare at his eyes. He leaned closer, I thought he was gonna kiss me again, but no.

He went passed my lips towards the nape of my neck. His cold breath, fammed my skin as I felt goosebumps form over my whole neck.

I felt two sharp points, grazing my skin. Before I heard his low voice call out my name, trying to grasp my attention. "Hesperia, oh my dear Hesp…".

His voice shivered, like if holding himself back. His arms stroke my waist softly enough to make me melt. "I knew you were gonna be mine, and now… I'll make sure to never leave you alone in despair".

He puffed out, my lips felt dry and my hands held tightly on his arm, almost digging my fingers thru his skin. Before the sharp pain of sharp like dagger teeth sinked in my flesh, he spoke again with honeyed voice, causing my heart to swell with admiration.

"I love you, my dearest…"

[blacknedsoul-blog]

The divorce of the White Raven was the chronicle of a foretold death

Now that the White Raven divorce officially begins tomorrow. I wanted to do a little review of why I've been looking forward to this moment for over 40 chapters and the delicious drama to come. 

The chapters of Annabel and Lenore talking in the greenhouse are wonderful for many reasons, but mainly because they lay the groundwork for what the conflicts in their relationship will be from now on, simply put: these two just aren't on the same page. 

Annabel wants to save them both, Lenore wants to save everyone.

Annabel calls Lenore "my favorite," "my darling," and "my petal"; Lenore understands "my companion animal" (and Annabel doesn't bother to clarify). 

Lenore says they are friends; Annabel clearly knows they were a couple.

Annabel tries to kiss her goodbye on the lips; Lenore kisses her hand. 

As the comic progresses -and especially with the last chapter released by the Freepass- the more fundamental root of this problem becomes more apparent: the White Raven don't really know each other, they think they do and, incidentally, insist on not listening to each other.

The Annabel Lenore Knows

The "disappointment rooms" are a Victorian myth (I say "myth" because there is no evidence that they were a widespread practice, although there are cases like Blanche Monnier's, they did not seem to be particularly common. But they exist in this comic, so they will be treated as real in this essay) were isolated rooms where a family member with a mental illness or physical deformity was kept isolated from the world, making him or her an outcast. 

We don't know the real reasons why Annabel wanted to get close to Lenore (this scene make it clear that it was of her own free will, something Lenore knows), but anyway, this was extremely strange at the time, the kind of thing that could severely damage someone's reputation if it became public.

In other words, for Lenore, Annabel not only pulled her out of the spiral of madness she was in, made her feel alive again, and treated her like a person (something that hadn't happened since Theo's death); she also put her reputation on the line to get closer to "the crazy woman in the attic". 

Add to that the fact that Annabel, like Lenore, is someone with an extremely protective personality, albeit in a much more subtle way: containing Lenore's outbursts by trying to distract her, complimenting her when she doubts herself, trying to give her a sense of purpose by asking her to write her a song, and automatically containing her own panic attack when she sees Lenore's horrified expression. 

To Lenore, Annabel is someone who would rather destroy something that makes her happy and be hated than let Lenore suffer for her absence.

This is a gigantic contrast to the Annabel readers know, yes, the basics are there: she is seen to genuinely care about Prospero, and gratuitous violence against someone who cannot defend himself infuriates her. But Lenore does not dimension how Annabel's methods of survival (shaped by her trauma of not being heard, reasons why she machines her way through people) make her a Machiavellian, manipulative and cold-blooded person. 

The last time Lenore saw Annabel in a situation where she could do nothing, she saw her give up. But readers know that this time, Annabel is willing to burn absolutely everything down to get them both out of it.

That is why the Duke affair takes her by surprise. Never mind that Annabel has said she's willing to destroy or trample anyone to get out of Nevermore. The Annabel Lenore knows would not be capable of that.

The Lenore Annabel knows

This part is more difficult to analyze, because unfortunately Annabel's memories are tied to big mysteries within the plot. On the plus side, this comic is excellent at dropping large amounts of information at the point of detail. 

The most obvious: Annabel is carrying around the ring Lenore had when she burned down her house, in other words, "Leo's" charade worked so well that the two of them got engaged. In other words: Annabel has seen this woman burn down a family home (perhaps with servants inside), fake her own death, steal, take a continental trip, change her identity and pose as a man, all to save her from an arranged marriage. 

A very "you and me against the world" situation. A scenario Lenore made possible by lying to basically everyone, even Annabel herself, who must have spent at least a few months believing Lenore was dead until "Leo" knocked on her door. 

Add to that these two scenes: in the first, Annabel seems pretty convinced that Lenore has a good idea of what's going on here...

And in this one, Annabel thinks Lenore is doing this out of guilt.

Again, this is a huge contrast to the Lenore we readers have seen throughout the comic: a person who desperately wants to show others the affection and security that no one (except Theo and Annabel) has given her. A mix of a naturally vivacious and caring personality with traumas from which her need for control stems from anxiety and a terrible fear of abandonment. 

In this light, Annabel putting Duke in danger to keep Montressor away from Lenore was something that was informed, known, and something that Lenore would agree with, because the Lenore she knows would be willing to sacrifice anything to achieve her goal. 

In that sense, that scene is foreshadowing. Not only did Lenore trick her into using a memory that Annabel does not have, but it comes right after Annabel confidently says that "no one knows Lenore better than she does.

The masks

One of the most painful tragedies of the White Raven relationship (besides the fact that it ended with both of them dead) is that one of the two has had to wear a mask on both sides of it: Annabel pretending that this relationship isn't as deeply ingrained in her as it really is, and then Lenore doing the whole "Leo" thing to be "the perfect fiancé" in everyone else's eyes.

Their divorce is imminent because both of them (especially Annabel) are projecting onto the other the expectations they have that are a product of the few memories they have been able to recover, rather than really looking at the person in front of them. 

I'm going to enjoy all the beautiful character development that comes from here on out, because they both have a lot of unpacking to do separately from this divorce arc. And, I hope that, when they can finally reconcile, we also get to see how, for the first time in the history of their relationship, Annabel and Lenore can actually see eye to eye.

[ominous-feychild]

✦ MY WRITEBLR INTRODUCTION ✦

Hey! I've been here for a while and I've somehow amassed a shocking amount of followers and mutuals, so I figured it's finally time for me to force one of these out for you guys!

(And you know... a masterpost... when I get around to it. 😅😭)

About me:

✦ Barlowe (she/her)

✦ In my early 20s

✦ A writer of 10 years ✦ working on novels for 6 of 10!

✦ Less dedicated to—but still interested in!—drawing, animation, photography, and cinematography

✦ AuDHD and a grey lesbian (aka I'm leaning asexual) ✦ (my writing may or may not be a special interest)

✦ I have a whole bunch of other neurodivergencies besides AuDHD but I don't think y'all want me to get into all of them, haha. ✦ oh, and I say "haha" a lot. I apologize in advance.

✦ I think I'm hilarious and make jokes constantly

✦ I use a lot of emojis and tone tags to help convey tone. Please forgive me if it's annoying, it's to cope with my inability to communicate. /lh /hj

Masterlists:

✦ General ✦ Worldbuilding ✦ Sun and Shadow ✦ The Arcane Rifts ✦ Rising From the Ashes

(will be added eventually)

My Obsessions:

✦ Fantasy, horror, mystery, action, and exploration of realistic characters' reactions to the things they go through.

✦ Fairy tales, mythology, and folklore

✦ "Ye Olde History" and language

✦ DIVERSITY!!!

✦ Explorations of "evil-coded" characters and abilities--aka, not just showing them as evil. Show them as people (for characters) and tools (for abilities)!

✦ Traumatizing my characters just like I've been

✦ Traumatizing my characters in ways I haven't been!

✦ Learning!!!

✦ Talking way too much about the things I like to the point that I need to make a whole separate post to share it so it doesn't clutter my intro post... oh, hey, why is this linked?

✦ THE AESTHETIC!!!!

My Aesthetics:

Those who've been following me for a bit probably know that I adore "the aesthetic" and try to make my posts look nice... even if there's no real reason to besides that it gives me a little serotonin. Here's my favorite aesthetics!

✦ Starry; night sky ✦ Dawn / dusk ✦ Sunrise / sunset

✦ Nature! ✦ Forestry ✦ Cottagecore ✦ Rustic ✦ Ocean

✦ Literally all of them, please and thank you

My Writing:

✎ Sun and Shadow

Everything goes wrong for Freya Ula when she leaves her simple life as a fisherwoman to get engaged overseas. Her ship gets wrecked, she finds out her dad's been hiding secrets from her for her whole life, and, oh, she gets framed for a terrorist attack. Wait, WHAT!? After the city's greatest detective is attacked and disappears before she could consult with him, Frey has to enlist the help of his kid and her would-be fiancée to find out who framed her and clear her name. If only Crow was half as good a detective their dad was supposed to be.

Main characters: Freya, Crow, Daleira

✦ Urban-esque high fantasy ✦ purposely very tropey in places ✦ however, as always, I love throwing in curveballs. Wonder what's played straight and what I'm going to emotionally destroy you with. Definitely won't be Crow.

✦ Slow-burn romance between Frey and Crow ✦ immediate interest between Frey / Daleira ✦ oh, look, it's a love triangle? ✦ JOKE'S ON YOU, IT'LL ACTUALLY BE POLY ✦ it's just... going to take a while.

✦ Lesbians, lesbians everywhere ✦ though Crow is actually genderfluid and uses they/them for the first book ✦ despite barely having anything written I've already plotted a bit of book 2 ✦ I desperately need help.

✦ Unsurprisingly is a detective mystery with action mixed in ✦ I'm not typically a romance writer, I excel in action fantasy ✦ please have mercy on my soul

✦ Lots of magic, it's high fantasy + victorian aesthetic ✦ (aka "gaslamp fantasy" if you've heard of it) ✦ Frey's got sun-themed magic ✦ gasp, I know ✦ Crow's got shadow magic ✦ wonder why this sounds familiar ✦ Daleira's got, hm, well it's also shadowy! ✦ spoilers 😘

✦ About to be updated en-masse for a writing contest!!!

✎ The Arcane Rifts

Ghosts of past tragedies haunt the town of Kavo after decades of neglect. Fantastical creatures desiring nothing but fear and destruction hide in invisible tears in reality. Gangs and the police are at constant war with one another, there's a shapeshifting monster running amok, and the mayor's assistant suddenly wants a disabled orphan kicked to the streets. A year ago, Gene was discovered in the forest on the outskirts of town, half dead, amnesiac, and unable to even speak the local language. As he had nowhere to go, he was brought to the orphanage of Kavo for a place to stay. Now Caspar, the assistant of the mayor and the man who funds the orphanage, wants him kicked out. When Gene's left to the cold, cruel streets of Kavo on his own, he has to navigate through a town ravaged by decades of neglect and intrigue. Has the corruption truly been purged from the government? Why are godly forces active in Kavo, a small town in a backwater country? And most importantly--will Gene survive?

Main Characters: Gene, Tazin, Mislav, Ludmila, Rada ❧ Gene and Tazin for book 1 ❧ the other 3 start being MCs books 2 and 3 ❧ I guess Nikolai is also a MC tho

❧ Industrial-era rustic high fantasy ❧ mixes fantasy, action, horror, and mystery! ❧ oh helloooooo "ominous feychild" origin? ❧ very strong folkloric and traditional fantasy inspo ❧ except I mean "traditional fantasy" as in ❧ "we don't understand this magic stuff but we're used to it" ❧ not "travel the world adventures!"

❧ VERY involved story with strong themes of discrimination, poverty, exploitation, trauma, and the recovery from trauma ❧ each main and secondary character is one flavor of discriminated against or another in-universe ❧ obviously I try to write it respectfully, but you can't really write bigots being bigots "respectfully"

❧ Has two "main plots" going on simultaneously; technically three ❧ I periodically give the reader updated "character guides" ❧ like they get more recent plot info added kinda like a red-string board to keep you, the audience, up-to-date with info you might've otherwise missed ❧ I think it's really cool and people seem to enjoy it ❧ I know it seems like a lot but please give it a chance

❧ I've literally plotted out pretty much the entirety of the first and second books, and know most of how book 3 will go, yet there's very little out for the current version of the story ❧ part of that is because I'm paused on the 3rd draft

❧ There's lots of timeskips throughout the first two books, but they're mostly to age up the protagonists! Gene, the MC, starts the series at 7. I promise it's not a kid's story though.

❧ The "secondary MC", Nikolai, is the police chief investigating magical stuff going on at the same time. They tie in with the main story involving Gene, though won't appear to for a long while.

❧ The "golden child" series I love more than SaS; however it's on hiatus because I promised people to work on SaS first and SaS is more popular as a romance-focused story. :/ ❧ I would never be salty about that.

Taglist:

For everything: @honeybewrites @the-golden-comet @illarian-rambling @ashirisu @urnumber1star

@the-letterbox-archives @48lexr @aalinaaaaaa @thecomfywriter @an-indecisive-nerd

@seastarblue

For Worldbuilding: @paeliae-occasionally @pluppsauthor @thelovelymachinery

For the Existentials: N/A

For the Avatars: @thelovelymachinery

For Sun and Shadow: @mysticstarlightduck @paeliae-occasionally

For the Arcane Rifts: @paeliae-occasionally

For Rising From the Ashes: N/A

For the Storm Avatars: N/A

For the Order Avatars: @thelovelymachinery

For the Magic Avatars: N/A

For the Fire Avatars: N/A

For the Water Avatars: N/A

To be tagged in tag games: @honeybewrites @aalinaaaaaa

Ask and ye shall be added

Divider by @cafekitsune

[osunari]

⚠︎ s i l e n t t e m p t a t i o n s (18+)

— ch.2

➤ s t a r t

Mr. crawling x MC

- h o m i c i p h e r 𒌧

"Unspoken Affection”

(please read ch.1 first)

"This again?" you muttered, glancing down at mr. chopped. His severed head was settled awkwardly on the cart, his brows furrowed in a mix of irritation and embarrassment. He looked quite funny, despite the level of seriousness the situation he got himself caught in.

"卄乙(not)丨千 乂(funny) , 几乇(need) 卄乇Ҝ尺(help) !” he grumbled, his tone sharp but his eyes softening ever so slightly. "卄ㄩ卩ㄖ(hold) ! 卄ㄩ卩ㄖ(hold) ! 千乇尺(fast) !”

As you caught your breath, the memory hit you like a chill down your spine. The last time you'd seen him like this— rolling around helplessly—it wasn't by accident. It was her. That hooded child with the sheep-like head. You had watched as she toyed with him, like a predator playing with its prey, her quiet amusement twisted and unsettling.

And now, as if summoned by the thought, she appeared again.

Kids are nuisances even in this world.

At the end of the dim hallway stood a small figure in a pristine, lace-trimmed Victorian dress. The innocence of the outfit clashed horribly with the severed sheep’s head draped over her shoulders, its glassy, lifeless eyes staring into nothingness, the fur matted and stained.

She tilted her head slowly, an eerie, playful energy radiating from her stillness. Her hands hid behind her back, fingers twitching slightly as though ready to move. She didn’t feel malicious—just wrong, like a child who wanted to play a game you couldn’t possibly win.

“That annoying child again?” you muttered in your native language so she wouldn’t understand, your grip tightening on the cart as mr. chopped’s troubled expression worsened.

“千乇尺(fast) ! 千乇尺(fast) !” mr. chopped raises his voice, his eyes closing tightly after he feels a comforting sensation as you wrap him around your arms and run away—completely forgetting about the man on all fours in spite of the situation.

The hooded child didn’t move, but her gaze burned into your back, cold and unrelenting. The sound of your heart pounding overcome the loudness of each step you took on the hardwood floor, a cruel reminder of how close she’d come to taking him away. You didn’t dare look back, each step faster than the last, as if you could outrun the suffocating weight of her stare.

The sound of your hurried footsteps echoed through the endless corridors as you cradled mr. chopped in your arms, his weight surprisingly easy to manage despite the growing tension in the air. His voice was your guide, calm but firm, as he barked directions like a map brought to life. “爪ㄚ几(left) !” he snapped, his tone clipped but steady.

You skidded around the corner, barely catching your balance before dashing down another dim hallway. The walls seemed to stretch endlessly, the flickering lights above casting distorted shadows that made it feel like you were being followed.

“尺千ㄚ(us) 匚几 ﾌ乇(careful) , 千匚(child) 几ㄚ乇(sneaky) !” he added, glancing back from your arms.

You straightened your posture, gripping mr. chopped tighter as determination flared within you. “So she’s quite the prankster, huh?” The playful unease from earlier was gone, replaced by a sharper focus—you couldn’t afford to underestimate the hooded child again. Your movements became quicker, more calculated, your eyes scanning every corner for signs of her. “I got your back.” The air around you felt charged, your resolve cutting through the fear like a blade.

Meanwhile, in the room you had left behind, mr. crawling stood alone in the dark, his towering form oddly still. He had managed to find a solution—a way to trap the hooded child in the room you and him once resided.

“ㄥ尺几ﾌ(play) ! ㄥ尺几ﾌ(play) ! ㄥ尺几ﾌ(play) !” the loud banging and ringing of the doorknob didn’t help release her from the room she was kept in, wherein the culprit stood in silence from the other side of the door. “几ㄩ(you) 千ㄚ尺 (bad) ! 几ㄩ(you) 千ㄚ尺 (bad) !” the hooded child’s cries failed to overpower the cloudy thoughts of her foe, whom was now lifelessly staring up at the ceiling—his body hunched down while his mouth open agape.

Where had you gone? His hair shifted slightly as if mimicking his unsettled thoughts, the quiet stillness of the room making your absence more noticeable. You were fine one moment, and then gone the next—chasing that severed head.

His lips twitched with unease, a strange jealousy gnawing at him. That head had taken you away, dragged you into danger without a second thought—while you fully consented to yourself being in light of danger instead of the other. The thought of losing you again made his chest feel heavy. He turned toward the doorway and spotted the faint trail left by the cart you had pulled on earlier.

Without hesitation, he dropped on all fours, his long limbs propelling him forward as he started following your path. He had no exact idea where you might have gone, but instinct and worry pushed him on, his glowing hair brushing against the cold floor as he moved. Whatever trouble you’d run into, he would find you before it was too late.

The wooden stairs groaned beneath your feet as you made your way into the dim basement. The air was heavy and thick, carrying the faint scent of meat and something metallic that prickled your nose. You reached the bottom, your fingers brushing against the cool wall for support, and pushed open the familiar door. The room inside greeted you with its worn-down charm, a space cluttered with some tables, scattered chairs, and a few more familiar details. This place had always felt like a strange mix of horror and comforting—a haven for those who didn’t belong anywhere else.

Your eyes darted around, searching for mr. silvair, but the soft, grumbling sound in your arms pulled your attention downward.

“ㄖㄚ千(put) ! ㄖㄚ千(put) ! 几ㄩ(me) ﾌ乂ㄩ几(want) !” mr. chopped muttered after seeing his favorite blue beanbag that rested on a small table. His small form wriggled in your grip, his frustration almost comical given how utterly exhausted he looked.

You rolled your eyes, adjusting him in your arms as you walked further into the room. “Okay,” you muttered. “Hooded child get you in your sleep.” you teased and attempted to translate in their native language, earning a look of puffed cheeks from the severed head.

You lowered him onto the well-loved beanbag nestled in the corner of the room. He flopped back with a dramatic huff, his sharp features relaxing almost immediately as his eyes began to flutter closed. “几ㄩ(me) 千几ㄩ(feel) 乂ㄚ几(good) ! 几ㄩ(me)丨ㄖ千(sleep) . . .” Within seconds, he was asleep, his tiny form now looking oddly peaceful against the worn fabric. You crossed your arms, watching him for a moment. Not even a thank you? you thought with a faint scoff, but his soft, even breathing made it hard to stay annoyed.

In all suddenness, the sound of a door creaking open broke your thoughts. You turned just in time to see mr. silvair step into the room, tall and composed as always. His sharp features were highlighted by the flickering candlelight, his pale white hair trailing softly behind him as he moved with a kind of quiet grace. In one hand, he carried a syringe filled with an unknown liquid that gleamed faintly under the dim light.

“山ㄚ(we) 乙乂乇(meet) 尺 ﾌ几(again) .” he said smoothly, his voice low and even as his gaze locked onto you. His eyes scanned your figure, lingering on the pale sheen of your skin and the faint bluish veins visible beneath it. A flicker of concern passed across his face, subtle but unmistakable. “几ㄚ(you) 丂乃乇ㄥ(unwell) ? 乃卄丂 (maybe) 匚千 (can) 卄ㄩ几卩(help) .” he informed, gesturing you to take a seat on one of the chairs not far from him—his crossed arms indicating a sense of interest and worry.

Something in his tone made you comply, and you sank into one of the worn chairs nearby. Exhaustion was catching up to you, and the weight of the day seemed to pull your shoulders down. Silvair remained standing, studying you with an intensity that made you feel like a puzzle he was determined to solve.

“千ㄚㄩ(feel) ﾌ丂ㄩ几(pain) ? 乃乂乙(body) 几ﾌㄒ(not) 乃乙卩ㄥ(healthy) .” he said alarmingly, his voice calm but edged with curiosity.

You glanced down at your hands, at the strange, translucent quality of your skin that hadn’t been there before. Even now, you weren’t sure how to explain the changes overtaking you. “Don’t know. Me not feel sick.” you admitted in their language, your voice barely above a whisper. “No pain. Yet, not healthy.”

“卂乇卄(when) ㄚㄖ(change) ﾌ几千(occur) ?” he pressed, his tone more focused now.

“When met with red man, mr. scarletella.” you said, the name sending a shiver down your spine.

At that, silvair’s calm demeanor cracked. His lips pressed into a thin line, and his sharp gaze darkened. He took a step closer, his presence suddenly heavier. “scarletella,” he repeated, his voice low and filled with an unspoken weight.

“Why? Something wrong?” you asked, your stomach twisting as unease crept through you.

Silvair frowned, his hands clasping behind his back as he began to pace slowly. The flickering candlelight threw long shadows across the walls, giving him an almost spectral appearance. “几ㄩ(me) ㄖ乙几(unable) 千ㄩ(to) 匚 山乇(lift) ㄩㄚㄒ(curse) .” he said after a moment, his voice measured. “卄几(he) 乙乇尺(want) ㄒ千(you) . 卄ㄩㄥ(want) 几ㄚ尺(your) 千卩几(soul) .”

“Curse?” you echoed, the word leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. “Soul??” you uttered in your language, wishing it was something as little as a mistranslation, but your instincts told you otherwise.

Silvair turned to face you, his expression unreadable but his eyes filled with a quiet intensity. “乃乇(time) ㄩ乂乇(pass) , 乙乂(you) 丂匚(turn) 千卄ㄒ(less) 卄ㄚ尺卩(human) . ㄥ爪几(similar to) ㄩ卄尺匚ㄥ(everyone else) .” he said carefully, “匚尺(he) 乂千卄(like) ㄚ卩(you) . 几乇 (he) 山几ㄒ(want) ㄚ几尺(take) 卄ㄩ(you) .”

Your heart pounded harder in your chest. “What the hell does that mean?” you thought to yourself as you run a hand through your hair—leaning down the chair with a slouched position, your face almost intact with your knees.

Silvair looked down sympathetically at your troubled figure, although he didn’t comprehend your last sentence, it’s like he could read the words your body language revealed. He hesitated, having difficulty finding the right words to not provoke your mind any curther. With a heavy sigh, his chest shifted—opening his mouth agape to reveal more information about the curse, to which you anticipated. But before a sound could even escape from his mouth, the world around you began to blur. The dim room faded, its edges smearing into darkness, and you felt a sudden weightlessness as though you were falling. Panic clawed at your chest, and you reached out for something to ground yourself, but there was nothing.

Once the transition halts, the world felt impossibly small. You were enclosed in a tight, suffocating space that pressed against you from every side. The smooth, cold walls brushed uncomfortably against your arms and legs, confining you like a prisoner in an unyielding cage. The air was thick and stale, each breath harder to draw than the last, and a faint, metallic tang lingered in your throat. Your pulse quickened, the rhythm of your panic pounding in your ears.

This is so fucking strange.

You tried to shift, to move, but the limited space made even the smallest motion feel impossible. Your fingers searched the surface above, sliding across the smooth, unbroken material. The darkness was absolute, making it impossible to orient yourself. The thought crept into your mind: Was this a trap? Had you been buried alive?

Adrenaline surged through you, and with a burst of desperation, you pushed upward. Your arms trembled as you strained against the weight, and for a moment, nothing happened. Then, finally, the lid above you gave way with a groaning creak that echoed loudly in the stillness.

You gasped as fresh air rushed in, cool against your overheated skin, filling your lungs with a sharp, almost painful relief. Light flooded in through the open space, blinding you momentarily as you struggled to adjust. You blinked rapidly, the blurriness giving way to the sight of a strange, unfamiliar room. Disoriented and still breathless, you peaked half of your face through the opening of the box you were in, immediately taking in the blurry form of two very familiar individuals.

“尺几ㄚ(funny) ?”

“heh-he , 尺几ㄚㄩ(funny) !”

Mr. masque stood with his usual flair, a theatrical magician with his broad-brimmed hat casting shadows over his face, his robes swirling with impossible patterns of monochromatic colors. His every movement was deliberate, calculated, as if every inch of his presence was part of some grand performance.

And then, there was mr. crawling. His lanky form crouched low on the ground as usual, uncomfortably so, beside the magician, his eyes, if they could even be called that—shrouded in shadows beneath his unkempt hair. His posture was stiff, strained. He wasn’t acting like the wary, defensive figure you were used to. No, he was pretending, and it didn’t take long for you to realize why.

Mr. masque was finishing one of his dramatic moments, head slightly tilted toward you. “尺几ㄚㄩ(funny) ? 尺ㄚㄩ(yes) ?” he asked monotonously, anticipating your response.

Mr. crawling, though, did not seem to share his excitement. Instead, a hollow giggle escaped from his lips, forced and shallow. “尺几ㄚㄩ(funny) ! 尺几ㄚㄩ(funny) !” he said, his voice shaky as he clapped his hands together a little too enthusiastically, the laughter too loud, too desperate. His hair flickered erratically, a sign that the effort to play along was a struggle. The tension in his limbs was perceptible as if he knew the consequences of failing to feign interest, failing to show enough interest for mr. masque’s performance.

Is he…? mr. crawling—he’s helping me.

You watched the scene unfold, understanding far too well that mr. crawling’s laugh was just that—a facade. His own discomfort radiated from him, and yet, he didn’t stop. His fingers twitched, and you knew deep down that he was afraid of what might happen if he didn’t play his part. He had approached mr. masque himself to perform the teleportation trick, to bring you back—to return what was once his—and now that it was done, he needed to keep the magician appeased.

But as you stood there, caught in the uneasy aftermath of it all, your mind began to drift. Mr. silvair’s words echoed in your head, still unfinished. He had been on the verge of telling you something important, something that might have explained the sickness gnawing at you. The pieces had been right there, hanging on the edge of revelation… but then, the magic had pulled you away, and now, you were stuck in this strange limbo.

You felt a pang of devastation in your chest. Your thoughts were tangled, the curiosity and the need for answers battling with the reality of being pulled back into mr. crawling’s grasp—summoned, as though you were a mere possession.

Mr. crawling noticed your sudden change in demeanor, his own false smile faltering as he awkwardly shuffled closer, his glowing strands brushing against your skin. He didn’t speak, but there was a fleeting softness in his expression, a rare moment of vulnerability hidden beneath his usual eerie confidence. Yet, despite his attempt at calming you, it was clear that the moment of truth, of answers, had slipped through your fingers. The mystery of your curse and the warning from mr. silvair now felt like something distant, something left behind in the wake of your summoning.

As mr. masque grinned, unaware of the turmoil that had washed over you, mr. crawling silently reached out, his touch gentle but insistent. Without a word, he began pulling you away, the magician’s laughter still ringing in your ears as you were guided swiftly out of the room.

.

.

.

Once you were both left with no company but each others’, the tension in mr. crawling’s posture seemed to break. His usual eerie calmness shattered like glass, and the unsettling facade he wore had melted away in an instant. His glowing strands of hair flickered anxiously, his movements almost jerky, betraying just how much your well-being had rattled him that badly.

He stopped abruptly in the hallway, his head tilting slightly as if sensing your presence, his hair shifting in the air. The intensity of his attention was unmistakable, despite the absence of eyes. “千尺几卩(okay) ? 卄丂ㄩㄥ(pain) ? 千尺ㄒ(need) 乙乇山尺(medication) ?” His voice was low, almost breathless, as though he had been holding his worry in for far too long.

Before you could even respond, his hands were already reaching for you, gentle but insistent. His fingers brushed over your skin as he checked over and under your arms and shoulders, searching for any sign of injury or harm. His touch was soft, but the urgency behind it was clear. His eyes never left yours as he carefully inspected you, looking for any clue that you might be hurt in some way.

The air between you both felt charged, and when his hands moved to lift the edge of your dress—gently, and cautiously as though checking for any unseen bruises or wounds, you froze. The movement was intimate, too close, and something inside you fluttered with the sudden tension of it all. But before he could lift it further, you placed your hand over his, stopping him with a soft, almost hesitant touch.

“N-no…” you whispered, your voice quieter than you intended, a mix of fluster and vulnerability in your tone.

His hand stilled, hovering over your dress, his expression softening as if realizing how invasive his actions had been. “乙丂ㄚ(sorry) , 几ㄩ(me) 匚乂ㄚ千(worry) .” he murmured, his voice tinged with guilt. “几ㄩ (me) 千ㄚ几(worry) 尺山卩乙 (somebody else) 匚乂ㄚ(take) 几ㄚ(you) .” His words were sincere, filled with an anxiety that made your heart ache. “几ㄚ(you) 千ㄥㄒ(leave) , 几ㄚ(me) ﾌㄩ卩(look) 千尺(for) 几ㄩ(you) .”

The raw honesty in his voice made your chest tighten. You could see the genuine worry in his eyes now, his usually intimidating demeanor replaced with something softer, more vulnerable.

His hands slowly dropped to his sides, and he looked away for a moment, his hair falling lower around his face, hiding the faint blush that had appeared on his cheeks. “丂尺匚ㄚ(sorry) , 几ㄚ(me) 匚尺ㄩ千(trouble) 几ㄩ(you) .” he said, his words stumbling slightly. “几ㄚ(me) —” He cut himself off, looking back at you, his gaze filled with an emotion that was both endearing and intense. “几ㄚ(me) 匚尺乙ﾌ(want) 几ㄩ(you) 千尺乇(safe) . 丂尺匚ㄚ(sorry) .”

You could see how conflicted he was—guilt and affection warred within him. But as he stood there, his posture a little more relaxed, you realized just how much he valued you. He wasn’t just the unsettling figure you’d come to know. In this moment, he was… worried. He was worried for you because he couldn’t stand the thought of you slipping away, just like that.

“Why, sorry?” you said softly, your voice quiet but filled with warmth. “Me okay. No trouble, not mad.” You smiled gently at him, crouching down to reach his height and caressing your hands on his head full of hair—hoping to ease some of the tension that still clung to the air because of his conduct.

He looked up at you, his nonexistent eyes softening, and for a moment, his usual jagged grin was replaced with something tender. “几尺ㄚ卩(good) .” he replied, his voice quieter than usual, the weight of his emotions still lingering. “几ㄚ(me) 卂爪千(happy) .”

You sank to your knees on the floor, the weight of everything pressing down on you, and an overwhelming need to feel close to him overtook you. Without thinking, you reached out and pulled him into a tight, desperate hug. The moment his form melted into yours, your heart skipped a beat, as the warmth and solidity of his body washed over you, filling the emptiness you’d been trying to ignore. His scent, faint yet oddly comforting, wrapped around you like a delicate blanket, and for the first time in a while, you felt safe. You lingered in the moment, arms tightening around him, wishing the world outside could just disappear. His closeness was intoxicating, and you realized that you never wanted to let go, never wanted this peace to end.

The silence between you stretched longer than you expected. Until finally, he broke it with a soft, amused giggle—“heh-he”, almost like he couldn’t believe what was happening. His voice, though light, held an undeniable warmth, a mix of surprise and something deeper, something you couldn’t quite name. He realized what was happening—you had wrapped yourself around him, had pulled him close, letting your body speak the words you couldn’t say.

The realization made his heart flutter in his chest, and for a brief moment, he felt exposed. But, instead of pulling away, he let himself fall into it, his arms shifting to hold you just a little bit tighter, his voice dropping low and teasing. “几ㄚ(me) 匚千尺ﾌ(want) 几ㄩ(you) .” he whispered, his breath warm against your ear. And in that moment, the air between you both thickened with something new—something unspoken, but undeniable.

⚠︎ s i l e n t t e m p t a t i o n s (18+)

- ch.2

➤ e n d

[stonesilhouette]

Affections of an Apparition

Yandere Ghost England x GN. Reader

TW: Yandere Behavior | Character Death | England tries to kill (Y/n) more than a few times but then he becomes a simp | Magical Kidnapping | Imprisonment | Magical Induced Forgetting | idk if I forgor something

Uhhhhh I wrote this in literally a day, I don't want to talk about it okay :(

(There is technically one use of the world 'she' by another character but I'm pretty sure that's it. This was originally fem. reader and I don't want it to differ from my other publications so I'm gonna leave it)

Word Count: 5916

Perhaps you should have thought a little harder and dug a little deeper inside of yourself when deciding to buy a haunted house… But it was just so cheap!

Sure the shutters creaked during the frequent storms like a man in unpeaceful rest and the wind howled past the house, desperate to invade, but the view was beautiful… When it wasn’t completely enshrouded by a heavy mist so thick that you could get lost and find yourself in another realm altogether. But inside!... wasn’t much better; with winding corridors that created an inescapable maze and sharp corners filled with shadows. Every eave and crevice hid strange noises and eyes; some days you could swear that you heard the whisperings of a man rush by your ear, stiffening your hair to stand on end. You never found any evidence of rodents or even spiders, only a thin layer of dust that blanketed the entirety of the house.

Though there had been an attempt to add electricity to the estate, power surges and complete blackouts rendered it useless. All wiring would alight until it was charred and unusable and bulbs burnt out within days. Things often overloaded and it was a gamble whether or not the outlet you were using would choose to spark. There was a backup generator but it was in worse condition than the wiring and often didn’t work.

That meant that on nights like tonight, where the storm had knocked out your power –again– you had to rely on candles lit around the large manor. You were half sure that you contributed to most of the candle market in the small town.

The ancient Victorian home had belonged to an old noble family whose only surviving member had been assassinated. It had floated through many hands over the years, including yours. The house overlooked the nearby town, of course, that depended upon if the fog would break. The town itself was small and quaint, only a few hundred people and a few large families. Gossip spread fast and you did your best to click with the ‘in’ group. When your wi-fi wasn’t feeling spotty, you often texted with a few local people. They were in their twenties like you and were positively bored of the small amount of people that their hometown had to offer.

It was from them that you learned that the townspeople wholeheartedly believed that the restless spirit of the old manor lord haunted his home with a vengeance. At first you took it as a small town’s superstitions, nothing more than a fantasy or a spiraled rumor. You had lived there for about nine months but it was starting to get ridiculous.

Can you punch a ghost? Because if you can, you were totally going to. All you wanted was toast and tea. You were drinking tea because the ghost absolutely abhorred coffee and would spill your coffee grounds all over the hardwood floor. It didn’t matter where you put it or how tightly you secured it. Every morning you would come downstairs and find the brown powder spilled all over the floor like a crackhead had rifled through your cabinets. You thought, at first, that it might be the brand of coffee. But no, alas, it was the coffee itself. So you were now a tea drinker. Thanks, ghost.

Anyway back to the current toast issue. You had jumped back a split second before the sparks from the outlet would have reached your skin. Eyes blown wide, you could feel your entire body shaking. A second longer and you could have been dealing with multiple-degree burns. Unconsciously, you rubbed your bare arms over where the injury would have been. Suddenly the lights went out, encasing you in total darkness, save for the low silver light filtering through the windows, bathing what it touched in a blue tone.

You and this stupid ghost were going to have to have a chat.

Stomping angrily down the long hallway, you did your best not to huff the dust you were kicking up. You passed by countless amounts of old Victorian furniture, all in the same place they had been since being placed there over a hundred years ago. It was entirely in vain to try to move the furniture as any time you or any other previous owners had tried, you would just find it straight back in its spot the next morning. Save for the times that pieces would be moved just slightly so you would run into them or stub your toe.

A large portrait caught your eye even through your mad march. It was a painting of the lord of the house. Your current tormentor: Lord Arthur Kirkland. His toxic emerald eyes burrowed into your soul, curling inside and freezing you from the inside out. His shaggy blond hair framed his face, carved into a permanent scowl. Above his eyes lay two thick eyebrows. Oh great, the bane of your existence had caterpillars for eyebrows. He was wearing the ruffles and coats of the period but the tightness of the clothing had you gasping for air just looking at it.

Wait… Nothing filled your lungs when you tried to inhale. Fear struck itself across your face and you thrashed violently, scratching at the air in a desperate attempt to remove the block to your airflow. Finally, like sweet nectar, air rushed into your body and you collapsed to your knees. Tears had formed in the corner of your eyes and a single droplet fell down your soft cheek. Your face erected a scowl of your own as a strand of hair fell down in front. Okay, ghost. Now this was personal.

If this assholic spirit wanted to make your life a living hell, then you’d make its death a living hell.

“Oh it is on.” The fight had begun.

Clearly, he had a very strong hate for any change being done to his home. The constant destruction of cables and any other foreign objects made this clear. So you thought about it. What would a Victorian ghost hate more than anything to have in its house? Most of the decoration was already intricate and ornate to a slightly tacky degree. Then it hit you.

Grabbing your car keys, though quickly stopping to get dressed, you raced out the door towards the only home improvement and building store in town. It was run by a local family, as most things in town were, and you happened to be friends with the oldest son. Dashing through the front door, the brunet looked up at the sound of a jingle. He smiled and stepped out from behind the counter.

“Hey (Y/n),” he said, waving as you bounded over. “What brings you here?”

“Revenge,” you answered simply, stretching the upper half of your body to look at the wallpapers set up past him.

“Against who?” he asked, clearly not sure if he wanted to know.

“The ghost,” you responded, bouncing over to the racks of paper. “He tried to kill me and so I’m going to ruin his precious house.”

“He what!?” Ben’s face dropped. He spun you around and grabbed you tightly by the shoulders. “(Y/n) you can’t stay there anymore. If he’s actually trying to kill you…”

“Sure I can,” you reassured him, prying his arms off and patting him on the shoulder. “I’ve got it all figured out.”

He sighed, exasperated. “(Y/n) you can’t win this fight with house decor. Also if he’s hurting you...”

You ignored him and continued your perusing. “I’m hearing a lot of can’t and not a lot of can and that’s just not a growth mindset my dear Ben.”

“(Y/n) you are dealing with an angry and vengeful ghost who has now expressed interest in murdering you.” You felt the texture of an especially pink wallpaper between your thumb and index finger. “(Y/n) don’t ignore me.”

You sighed, turning back to look at the man. “If you’re really that worried” –he rapidly nodded his head like a dog– “then I guess you could come with me to put the wallpaper up.”

After a few moments of contemplation, he spoke in a defeated tone, “I’m not going to talk you out of this, am I?”

“Nope.”

You opened one of the double doors in a wide, exaggerated movement and it skidded into position with a thud. Humming, you trotted inside with Ben a few paces behind you carrying the roll of wallpaper and the bucket… and the brushes and everything else needed for this little makeover. The door slammed shut loudly after the two of you had reached the inside with no input from either of you. Though you were unbothered, Ben jumped and stood petrified like a deer for a moment. His eyes were wide but he reluctantly took another step, then another, then another and then quickly followed after you.

Hopping up the wide grand stairs, you watched as Ben struggled up the twin staircase with all of the materials. Once he reached the top, you were waiting for him and grabbed a singular paint brush daintily and then scampered into a large room.

Ben’s honey eyes went wide as he took in the grandeur of the room. The ceiling was inlaid with swirls of gold depicting handcrafted patterns that framed a large crystal chandelier. Heavy curtains hung above the imposing windows, filtering the little light that came through. Similar gold patterns continued on the wall, outlining the four walls bathed in a shade of dark, luxurious blue. That was a good word to describe the room: luxurious.

“Do you– Do you sleep in here?” Ben asked, astounded.

“Nah. I think it’s the ghost’s room and I’ve already had enough of him.”

“Then why are we doing it in here?!” You just gave him a smug look. “Right. Revenge.”

You snapped your fingers, having remembered something. “I forgot the glitter!” you exclaimed, leaping over towards the door. “I’ll be right back. Don’t have too much fun lovebirds!”

Snickering at your own teasing, you quickly hiked down the stairs and out towards your car. Left behind, Ben twiddled his thumbs, too nervous to sit down on anything for fear of offending the ghost. He chuckled nervously and swayed from one foot to the other. There was something in the room, he could feel it.

“So…” He paused, unsure of what to say. “That’s (Y/n) for you. Always running around with no sense of self-preservation.” He sighed, this wasn’t making him feel any better. “She’s like a little gremlin sometimes… an adorable little gremlin.”

You burst into the room, shouting at him, “Ben, I’m back!” He froze with fear for a second and you waved your hand in front of his face as he blue-screened. You spoke with a wispy and falsely ethereal voice, “Earth to Ben. We have revenge to do. And lunch. Definitely lunch.”

Once you got your things set up and prepared, you started to work right away. You made Ben take the high spots. He was like 6 '3, it would be a waste to have yourself do it. Standing back, you took a moment to admire your half-finished handiwork. It would be so ugly when finished. It was perfect.

“I don’t suppose I’m getting paid for this?” Ben asked, and you looked towards him.

You looked back at your masterpiece. “No.”

There it was. A full room covered entirely in four different wallpapers. On one wall, the first contender: leopard print. On the second: pink flamingos with googly eyes. On the third: something that could only be described as Picasso meets impressionism. And the fourth and final contender, the most ugly of all: banana leaf print that doesn’t match any of the other decorations in the room. Not to mention they’re all covered with glitter so no matter how much the ghost cleans, he’s never getting rid of the memory.

You snickered evilly in the background, rubbing your hands together like an old-timey villain. Suddenly, you snapped back to normal.

“You wanna get lunch?"

The two of you sat at a table outside, happily basking in the sunlight. Behind you was the dumbass manor you owned. It was surrounded by fog and looked cartoonishly evil. You were starting to understand why the townspeople disliked it so much. It interrupted the view.

“So–” You took a moment to ravenously take a bite and swallow it. “Why did your parents stock that hideous wallpaper anyway?”

“For people like you, (Y/n). People like you.”

Because you felt bad, only a little, you decided to pay for lunch. Ben still tried to insist upon paying but every time he got close to the check, you would swat his hand away. He drove you back up to your house and the two of you ended up sitting on a porch swing. It wasn’t original to the house but it was one of the only additions the ghost seemed to approve of.

“You know,” you started, swinging the bench. Ben lifted his legs up so it could move. “I think I figured out the ghost’s problem.”

“Really?” Ben questioned, humoring you. “What is it?”

“Well, he never got married, right?”

“Yeah?”

“Given the time period, that probably means he never… you know, too.”

“(Y/n), really?” Ben face-palmed.

You argued back with impassioned earnestness, “No, no, no, no. Hear me out on this. He’s like all mad and angry and stuff because he’s a bitch loser virgin boy.”

Something cracked in the background.

Ben tried his best to stifle his laughter and push down the smile threatening to stretch itself across his face. “I’m– pfft– pretty sure that the ghost– pfft– is not upset because he’s a–” He stopped for a moment to center himself. “–a ‘bitch loser virgin boy.’” He airquoted your words and you harrumphed, crossing your arms.

“Fine. What do you think then?”

He blinked at you, almost as if asking ‘are you serious?’ “He got murdered, (Y/n). My guess would probably be that.”

“Orrrr.” You dragged out your ‘r.’ “Maybe we’re both right.”

Ben sighed, agreeing with you if not to just end the conversation before the ghost decided to kill you both. You waved him off about a half hour later and headed back inside. Though you wanted to check in on your ‘artwork,’ you didn’t really want to run directly into the spirit again.

Walking through the manor, you found yourself in front of another portrait of the man. He looked as judgemental as ever, his lime green eyes piercing even as an inanimate photo. You don’t know why you talked to it, or even why you stopped. But you did.

“You know…” you started, hugging yourself tight. “For a bitch loser virgin boy” –A ghastly hand illuminated in a cold blue glow stretched out for your neck– “You’re actually pretty cute.”

The hand froze in place. You blew a strand of hair out of your face, readjusting to take another look at the portrait.

“And for how ridiculous that clothing is, you kind of pull it off.” The hand backed away, the light dimming. “I know I keep making fun of your house but I wouldn’t have bought it if I thought it was ugly.” It was barely visible at all now. “I mean, sunshine and a working heater beyond a centuries-old fireplace might be nice but otherwise it’s actually a very nice home.”

You blinked up at the portrait. Somehow, the expression the lord was wearing seemed softer now. There was less disdain and more of a quiet loathing on his face. Nothing could fix those caterpillar eyebrows though.

“The coffee thing was annoying but I guess I’m healthier now because of it. I was really tired that first week though. Anyway…” you trailed off. “Thanks, I guess.” You sighed at what you thought was only yourself. “What am I doing? I should… take a nap.”

Soft breathing filled the room; it was utterly quiet besides the faint sound. Your face contorted into uncomfortable expressions from the rapidly dropping temperature and you curled into the heavy blankets of the large bed. Only your head remained above the covers, the rest below like a figure bobbing in the waves on the open sea. The sun was slowly sinking below the horizon, a low orange light just barely slipping through the mist. The copper colored light spread across the wooden floor and stopped at the edge of glowing, blue feet, creating a soft purple.

They stepped out of the light and into the shadow, the illumination of the azure color growing brighter with each passing step. A face appeared from the foot of the bed, slowly coming into view. Unkempt hair cut in every direction floated lightly, encapsulating the face of Arthur Kirkland, last lord of the Kirkland manor. He watched with calculating yet curious eyes, looking for any sign of guilt or deceptiveness. He found none.

Though the man walked to your side, it would better be described as gliding. The tailcoat pieces of his jacket hovered to the same slow rhythm as the rest of the loose articles on his body. He brought a gloved hand to your face, lightly brushing his fingers across your cheek. Your face contorted from the biting cold and he quickly drew his hand back.

A low thought crossed his mind. If he hovered his lips above yours, could he suck the warmth and life out of you? To make you like him? Arthur stopped himself. Those were improper thoughts. No matter the time period, he shouldn’t think that way, especially of a lady he was not in courtship with.

Still… No!

He suddenly faded out of existence, his presence slipping out of the crevices and with it, the freezing cold. The warmth had returned to the room and in response, you had pulled the covers back down to adjust to the temperature change. Thank goodness he left when he did, you were wearing a tank top. Shoulders, scandalous!

Ben called you the next day, worried about what might have befallen you and your tricks.

“So, is it still there?” he asked, voice scratchy over the phone.

“No. He took it down.” 

Ben sighed. “All that work for nothing.”

“Not nothing,” you said, sitting comfortably on the couch. “I think we finally called a truce.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh. I guess I’m just too wonderful to hate.”

“Who are you talking to?” A third voice interjected.

“Oh I’m talking to Be–”

You dropped the phone.

“(Y/n)? (Y/n) are you there? (Y/–”

You weren’t listening, instead, you had slowly turned behind you, eyes wide as saucers and body as stiff as a board. There, in glowing blue glory, was the man from the paintings, bushy eyebrows and all. Blinking a few times, you kept expecting the visage to disappear every time you opened your eyes again. But he never did.

“Well don’t look so shocked now, love,” he huffed, crossing his arms and carrying that signature scowl.

“I– I– I–” It was your turn to bluescreen and the ghost rolled his green eyes, tapping his arm impatiently.

“I say, with how chuffed you were over that last stunt, I’d thought you’d have more to say than that,” he insulted, drifting through the couch and watching as you astonishedly followed him.

“(Y/n)?! (Y/n)?!” Ben implored through the phone.

“Oh, I recognize that voice,” Arthur answered his own question. “You can continue on with your nonsense conversation later.”

With a wave of his cerulean hand, you watched in horror as your phone short-circuited, sparked and then burst into flames. It was the threat of fire that knocked you out of your stupor and you quickly ran to the kitchen to grab the nearest fire extinguisher. The white foam drowned your phone but also safely put out the fire. You dug through the froth to find the piece of metal and silicon, uncaring for whether or not it got on you.

As soon as you got it, you dropped it again, the heat from the searing flames had left the metal as hot as if it had been outside on a summer’s day. The ghost seemed oblivious to your plight and as you shook your hands off, he waved one of his own and the floor returned to how it had been before. He looked towards you, cradling your steaming phone with a pair of oven mitts you had grabbed. You felt like crying and clearly the blond could tell.

“Oh don’t cry over spilled milk. You can just get another one.”

No. He was wrong. You couldn’t just get another one. Sure you could get another phone but you hadn’t backed up any of your pictures or videos or documents and there was no way in hell you possibly remembered all of those contacts. From the sorry state the melted rectangle was in, you could pretty much guess that the SIM card would be unsavable. Years worth of memories; gone.

The spirit looked down at you in slight curiosity; you weren’t usually this quiet. He watched as you silently stood up, solemnly placed the phone into the sink, removed and put away the mitts, and then quietly walked up the stairs and back to your claimed room.

You didn’t come back out for dinner. Or for breakfast the next morning. He hadn’t even blown out a fuse this time. By lunchtime, he could feel himself starting to get worried. Well not worried, because he couldn’t possibly be worried about you but simply concerned what your mental state might mean for the physical state of his house. You had lasted the longest out of his tenants because that's all you were: tenants. You didn’t own the house after all, he did. And he was quite sick of people thinking otherwise.

Suppertime rolled around and he still hadn’t seen you. Usually, you’d be trying to figure out how to make the microwave not explode or trying to watch the ‘television’ while you ate. He always knocked out the power when you did that. Dinner should be eaten at the table. He looked towards the kitchen. The one you had chosen as your primary was a servant’s kitchen and so was relatively smaller. It happened to house one of the few things he allowed to work in his house: the refrigerator. Even he could see the usefulness of such an advancement.

Arthur impatiently tapped his foot, it was now eight p.m. and this was around the time you liked to watch a movie or a television show. He didn’t enjoy having the loud television in his home but the drawing room you had chosen for it was far enough from the main foyer. Besides, sometimes you watched this ‘Dr Who’ story and he quite liked those nights. 

There was no one present to change the candles and it's not like the lights were in working condition so Arthur sat in darkness. He forgot how empty this felt. At nine, someone knocked on the door. He –invisible– watched as you slowly trudged down the stairs. You were wearing the same clothes as when he had last seen you and your hair was a mess. There were bags under your eyes but it was the kind from sleeping too much. You pulled open the door and looked up at Ben. The concerned look on his face became even worse as he watched you blink out of sync.

“(Y/n), are you okay?” he asked frantically, pulling you into a hug.

The front porch light flickered in and out.

You shrugged your shoulders, feeling the empty lightness of your stomach now that you were awake. Ben pulled apart from you, grabbing your face to look into your eyes. He rubbed his thumb over your eyebags and pulled you inside, uncaring for the ghostly apparition. After placing you on the couch and throwing a blanket over you, Ben ran to the kitchen to find some kind of food. His eye was temporarily caught on the burnt sockets all over the room but refocused on his mission. Though he wanted to make you something, he’d heard tales of the terror of the appliances in this place. Instead, he rifled through your cabinets and eventually just brought you a bag of marshmallows. He watched as you slowly chewed on the sugary fluff, stopping to take a sip out of the iced tea he brought you.

“What happened?” he finally asked, scooting closer. “I heard a voice and then you cut out.”

Instead of speaking properly, you pointed to the kitchen and mumbled out, “Sink.” 

Then you continued to gnaw on a marshmallow. Ben walked over, took a look inside the sink, stared with wide eyes for a moment, and then walked back to sit beside you again. The two of you stared ahead, not saying a word.

“Ghost did that?”

“... yeah”

“(Y/n) I think you should come live with me.”

You looked up at him with tired eyes.

“I–I mean.” He sighed. “I just really don’t think it’s safe for you here. And besides” –His cheeks were alight with a pink glow– “Would staying with me be so bad?”

A picture frame crashed down from the wall. 

Your heads snapped toward it and Ben pulled you closer unconsciously.

“I… I think you’re right,” you agreed with him, standing up to pack your things.

“I told you; this house is a lost cause,” Ben said, moving to help you.

The crystal chandelier high above glinted threateningly.

The two of you walked close together and as you walked under the hanging tree of diamonds, the strange shaking suddenly stopped. You didn’t take much so it didn’t take very long to pack. You insisted that you would be back after you gave the ghost time to ‘cool off’ but Ben seemed hesitant. The door closed with a creak and with it, the light.

From the shadows glowed a brilliant blue, forming into a humanoid shape. There, in all of his ghastly glory was Lord Arthur Kirkland. Alone again. A window cracked and he fixed it using magic with little thought.

As soon as you were gone the lord sank down. Past the servant’s quarters, past the locked doors and into the passageway that not even any of the other supposed ‘owners’ of the house had the key to. That’s because this door didn’t unlock with a key. Whisperings of Latin slipped out of his mouth and the runes in the door glowed and spun, turning until they clicked into place and the door slowly opened.

His magic may not have been as strong as it had been when he was alive but that didn’t mean that he didn’t still have deep and rooted connections to the ley lines that had been passed down through his family heritage. Books and papers flew open and danced around the room as he rushed through. He searched through ancient tomes until he found a heavy book covered in a thick layer of dust. His ghostly breath blew the grime away, revealing a brilliant ruby-red cover.

Arthur had never seen the point to attempt this before but now you had given him a reason. He was going to perform a resurrection spell.

On himself.

You couldn’t say that you hated the last couple of days. It was nice to be able to use modern appliances without the fear of them blowing up on you. Ben had taken time off of work to take care of you and you could feel the guilt piling up. You didn’t deserve him. Not to mention you were pulling possible profits away from his family’s store. They just gave you cheeky grins before poking and teasing you about a wedding. Small towns are just like that.

After literal hours of begging, Ben finally agreed to let you work with him in the shop. It allowed him to keep an eye on you and for you to feel less bad. Many of your friends stopped by and they were almost as bad as Ben’s family. It was still far more relaxing and less stressful than fearing that your phone charger would suddenly spark and electrocute you. You hadn’t gotten a new phone yet. You knew you needed one but it wasn’t exactly on the top of your priority list.

At the end of the week, you had been reorganized and shelving a collection of nails. Your ‘shift’ was almost over, which meant that Ben’s shift was almost over and you were positively buzzing with excitement for movie night. The bell jingled and you leaned over to shout ‘coming’ before shoving the last box of nails in and racing over.

Putting on your best customer service face, you spoke to the person who had come in, “Hi! Welcome in! What are you looking for–”

You stopped. Standing right there. In front of you. In the flesh was Arthur Kirkland. It couldn’t have been him, but it was. Who else would have that shaggy blond hair? Those horribly maintained eyebrows? Those piercing green eyes? You stuttered and buffered and the man just smiled amusedly at your short-circuiting.

“Why I’m looking for you of course,” he answered, taking a step forward.

You took a step backward. “You– you’re– you’re alive…” you gasped out, staring at him, completely stunned.

He wasn’t wearing the period clothing anymore, though what he was wearing still looked quite old. Instead, he had on just a dress shirt, black pants and similarly black shoes. When he grasped his hand around your wrist, you visibly shuddered from the cold but could not break free. You were locked in a staring match until Ben came to find you.

“Hey (Y/n)–” He froze.

“Oh good. I was looking for your dimwitted friend too,” he admitted, pulling you closer.

“Are you–” Ben stopped, looking on in disbelief.

“Goodness, you peasant people are just as slow as a hundred years ago,” Arthur huffed, rolling his emerald eyes.

Somehow, the next time you blinked you were back in the manor house. Ben was there too but he was knocked out and you couldn’t move to reach him. Arthur looked towards you, somewhat surprised to see you awake.

‘I guess my magic is still weak. It won’t matter after this,’ he thought, walking towards you.

More than anything, you wanted to struggle, you wanted to cry, you wanted to scream. But all you could do was watch. The blond snapped his fingers and you unfroze, becoming limp. Your limbs were still useless and Arthur seemed well aware of this as he carried you up the stairs. The two of you went past many rooms, including your own until you reached the site of your former masterpiece.

The door swung open and he waltzed in. The deep blue walls had returned to their normal extravagantness and there wasn’t a speck of glitter in sight. He gingerly placed you down on his bed, the soft mattress bending to your weight. You could do nothing but have your eyes reflect terror as the man manually tied your limbs to the bed. Finally, he placed a soft gag in your mouth and with it, you could feel the strange enchantment break. It wasn’t like your struggling could do anything anymore.

“Sorry, love.” He placed a kiss on your forehead and ran a hand through your loose hair. “I’ll need all the power I can get, so I can’t be expending it here.”

He walked away from your struggling form and quietly closed the door. None of your screams would make it through the walls of that room anyway. Arthur regally walked down the stairs to find his other captive missing. Instead of searching, he chose to stand completely still, hands crossed behind his back.

From the shadows, snuck a disoriented Ben, carrying the only chair he could lift. He smashed it into Arthur’s head, the impact shattering the wooden chair. The brunet expected to see blood and bits of gore. Instead, he came face to face with glowing green eyes, full of rage and jealousy. His jaw was slacked the wrong way but a simple movement clicked it back into place.

Ben dropped the remaining chair legs he had been holding onto and began to back up like a frightened deer. Arthur followed, slinking after him like the apex predator he was.

“You see,” Arthur started, stepping closer. “I’m not exactly alive per se. At least not yet. I’m on borrowed time, unfortunately.” He cornered the man. “Lucky for me, so are you.”

The next time you saw Arthur he looked different. He looked alive. His chest moved up and down, he blinked at regular intervals and you could see blood flushing through his body. Most of all, he was warm. So comfortingly warm.

Eventually, those thoughts faded and you laughed internally at ever thinking that Arthur could have been dead. He looked like a distant relative who had once owned the manor and shared a name. But he wasn’t. He was a different Arthur Kirkland, one who had come from London to learn that he should have been entitled to the estate. That’s when he found you, the person who had recently bought the house. That’s when you fell in love and… there’s something you feel like you’re forgetting.

There was always someone you felt like you were forgetting. No one in the town knew either so you had always assumed it to be a bad dream that stayed with you. Arthur had always encouraged you to forget and move on, but it always stuck with you.

Arthur had helped you properly install appliances and electricity in the house that wouldn't almost kill you and/or burn down the house. Well, he hired someone to make that happen but it was close enough. It always felt so nice to be able to flip a light switch and watch the room light up in a comforting yellow glow, though there were some days where the blond man did insist upon candles. You didn’t know why you flinched when the lights flickered or when the fire on the stove got too hot but Arthur was always just around the corner to watch you. He seemed to enjoy doing that.

You rested your head on his chest, listening to the sounds of his heartbeat and feeling the movement of his chest. The constant fog that surrounded the manor finally dissipated and the two of you were peacefully watching the sunset on the porch swing. Arthur was rocking the bench lightly and the gentle swaying movement threatened to put you to sleep.

“Don’t fall asleep now on me, love,” he laughed lightly, lifting your head to look at him.

Grumbles came out of your mouth instead of words and you burrowed yourself back into his warm chest. He just shook his head and looked towards the fading light.

“Do you still think I’m a ‘bitch loser virgin boy?’” he asked in a teasing tone, running his hand through your hair.

Stretching, you readjusted yourself to situate your head higher, closer to his shoulder. He took in a deep breath, smelling the (smell) shampoo you had used. After yawning, you gave him an answer.

“Hmm... Yes,” you answered tauntingly, closing your eyes again.

He chuckled, continuing his brushing motions through your hair. “Not for very long, love. Not for very long.”

[yikesharringrove]

Nobody knows what's wrong with Steve Harrington.

He was there one day, and the next, he was a shell of himself.

It wasn't even really the mall fire that did it.

He was okay, seen around town a few times, although more withdrawn than he had been a few years ago, but that change has been slow. It's been happening for longer than just summer break.

But then the mall burned down, and Harrington could be seen applying to new jobs, tied at the hip with some weirdo incoming senior band geek.

And then, all of a sudden, nothing.

The weirdo band geek was all by herself.

The maroon BMW sat gathering dust in the driveway of the big house, the paint getting sunfaded.

The blinds on the bedroom window were drawn.

And Steve wasn't dead.

He just wasn't really alive anymore.

He sat, well, he laid, every minute of every day, in his darkened bedroom. IN his bed.

He barely moved. He barely ate.

And nobody knew why.

There were whispers around town.

He'd gotten injured in the fire. He was on house arrest. He'd skipped town.

But really, what no one knew,

was that the second Billy Hargrove's body was locked six feet under, Steve's heart was buried with him.

It had taken a long time to arrange a funeral.

Billy's body was burned and broken.

(And government property).

So, no open casket at the Irish Catholic mass that served as a funeral.

His dad spoke.

His sister spoke.

A teacher spoke.

A friend spoke.

And Steve Harrington sat in the very back row, twisting a piece of loose thread around his finger, over and over again.

He left early, slipped out the back before anyone could see the imminent breakdown.

And he hasn't been seen since.

He's thin.

Much thinner than he's been in a long time.

And he's pale. Really pale. His olive skin tinged a sickly yellow.

But there's no point in any of it anymore.

Because the love of his life died, and nobody knows.

There has been activity at his house, people going in and out.

The band geek trying to lure him into the shower. The loud know-it-all kid speaking in a hushed tone and begging him to eat.

But he didn't feel anything anymore.

And he didn't feel there was a point to his existence.

He thought that maybe, wasting away into nothing was easier than the stabbing pain, the guilt and regret he felt every moment of everyday.

Because he can't even mourn him.

He couldn't speak at the funeral.

Nobody knew they were friends, let alone more than that.

He couldn't cry over the grave.

He couldn't wear black and walk around like some Victorian woman.

Life goes on.

But he doesn't know how to keep going.

Because his life was Billy.

They would see one another every day. Sometimes more than once.

They would spend their nights together, they would drive together. They would sit on the couch and make fun on the whatever was on the t.v. together.

And now, he's alone.

And doing everything they used to do, it's agony.

It's agony when for a split second, he forgets that his love is dead and buried, and he wants to turn to say something to him, and finds empty air.

He doesn't know how he could ever cope with the crushing disappointment of being alone.

The typewriter is his mom's idea.

He took a typing class in school, just a semester learning about how to actually use one of the clunky things.

(He and Tommy used to take out the springs so that theirs wouldn't work and they didn't have to actually so anything in class that day.)

He woke up one morning with it sitting on his desk. Brand new. A stack of paper on the right, one piece already loaded in.

It took him six days to type anything.

And when he did, it was garbage. Nonsensical feelings covered in correction fluid and typos and tears. Stupid ramblings about his absolute misery.

But, it did help. A tiny bit.

He's never been good at writing.

Which is why he left the finished product in Robin's mailbox and biked away as fast as he could. (He doesn't really like driving anymore.)

He didn't want to face her as she read it.

He left a note, explaining what it was.

She never made a comment that she got it, but two days later the draft was back in his mailbox, red pen corrections and comments covering the pages.

He took her suggestions. Edited out what she felt should go, added in where she needed more detail.

And it took six months.

But he has a novel.

Or, something like it.

It's a sort of memoir.

All the events are true. All the feelings are true.

But nobody would believe it was real.

Certainly not anyone on the list of independent publishers Robin had slipped into his mailbox with her final round of edits.

Steve typed each of the five copies by hand.

It took him months, somehow longer than the actual thing had taken him to write.

But he sent them off, manuscripts in sealed envelopes. A queer romantic science fiction novel. Something with a devastating ending.

Something that most certainly didn't happen to himself.

He didn't receive any notice for several weeks, and the waiting would've been the worst part, if all of this hadn't been born out of the gory death of the love of his life.

But it was.

And the waiting was the second worst part.

Until a letter.

A publisher asking for a meeting.

Robin accompanied him on the Greyhound to Chicago, but she didn't come into the meeting with him. She had done enough already, it's time for him to finish the story.

The person he met with told him she cried when she read his story. Told him if I ever lost my wife the way that the Steve in the story lost his Billy, I don't know how I could go on.

The book was published under the name S. Hargrove.

Because if he couldn't have Billy, at least their story could have his name.

[3584-tropical-fish]

Working my way through some Silt Verses reference sheets, part 1!

I have notes on the pages (transcribed in the alt text) but I’ll throw some bonus thoughts beneath the cut:

First image: The first drawing is basically what I imagine her wearing for most of season one, and probably for most of her life with the Parish. Something that's practical to walk through marshes in and can keep out the rain. The long coat is also good for concealing a revolver. I included the steel toed boots because I love the bit in the season 1 qna where they talk about whether she had a goth phase when she was younger, and then decide that she got a good pair of steel toed boot and kicked people in the shins with them.

The other two were largely because I have been convinced by my friend that she would wear skirts, at least occasionally. I don't think she wears skirts often, but they'd definitely make for good disguise, so I thought it might be a good episode 2 fit. However, if I remember right, episode 2 and episode 4 take place on the same day, so it needed to be an outfit that could become a little more practical for walking through the woods in, and wouldn't get her killed when she burns down the church. Hence the Victorian biking skirt-inspired design! The skirt can easily transition into pants, and the poncho is easy enough to take off so you don't have to deal with any loose clothing.

Second image: The s1 finale look was taken from clothes I'd already drawn her in that made sense to wear while walking through a flooded town. No loose clothing, and sturdy enough to last a walk through a lot of mud.

The clothes she got from Acantha are lighter in color, because Acantha is described as wearing white, which I always find cool. Big fan of the fact that it's healers and Acantha who are described as wearing white. I didn't necessarily get it across very well, but I do imagine that the clothes are a little ill-fitting on her. The backpack with the corpse could probably stand to be a little bigger as well, but hopefully he's a good bit desiccated and can fit nicely.

Third image: I probably could have put her in the same clothes as she had been wearing for the Siege of the Gulch, but I figured she would've been wearing those clothes for a while and would've taken the opportunity to change. Also maybe it would've helped some newcomers trust her more? I don't really know. I did come up with a few symbolic thoughts while drawing the first one, mainly that her color palette would be darker when she was doing stuff directly related to the Parish, to contrast the lighter colors she wore with Acantha. I also decided that she tended to wear her hair down with the Parish so she could hide her face better and avoid people a bit easier (or at least feel less vulnerable. I know I at least feel more exposed when I tie my hair back). So when she goes back to the Gulch, she has a moment where she almost takes it down again, and then decides against it because she's trying to distance herself from who she was before, and ties it up instead.

I don't really have a lot of thoughts on the second drawing besides what I wrote down, but I do like that for the third one she has a blend of who she was at the beginning of the series (long coat) and also who she is becoming (a lighter color scheme). She trimmed her hair at some point while at the Grace because it most definitely had become a mess between seasons 2 and 3, and I like to think that Paige managed to find her a cane once she noticed how her limp had worsened. It's probably not the perfect height and Carpenter probably doesn't use it unless she's having a particularly bad day, but cane user Carpenter my beloved <3

Fourth image: The alt s3 fit is largely for situations where she wants to appear less menacing, especially if once they get into Glottage. Long sleeves also hide any injuries she's gotten so she doesn't rouse suspicions with the authorities. I don't really have a lot of thoughts on the other two! Mainly i just need to do a bit more workshopping on the snare dog bite. Don't really know how that works. Luckily for me she's always wearing long pants so I'm basically never going to draw it.

[trippingontheescalator]

Snape Headcanons

He's bad at geography. Sure, he knows this super rare, obscure potion ingredient can only be found in this one area in Laos, but ask him to find Laos on a map he won't have a clue. There was a time he dreamed about seeing world, but he quickly realized he would never get the opportunity and so doesn't see any purpose in learning geography.

A lot of the Marauders' claims about him, like knowing curses as a first year, are exaggerated, but the one thing they're right about is Snape was very nosy. Part of it was because it was useful; knowledge is power, after all. He could trade gossip with his fellow Slytherins, or use it to keep one step ahead of the Marauders (or taunt them with it). But most of it is just his natural curiosity. He's a people watcher. He doesn't often understand people, is bad at human interaction, so he watches from a distance.

Severus knows half the first years think he's some sort of vampire and he revels in it. He knows exactly the kind of image he creates, dressing up in those long black, swishing robes, the spooky dungeons with the jars full of animal body parts. His taste is 33% Mad-Scientist-Run-Amuck, 33% Sad-Victorian-Boy-Dying-of-Tuberculosis, 33% Tacky-Post-Halloween-Discounted-Decor, and 1% Lucius's-Increasing-Despair-to-Make-Severus-Into-a-Functional-Human-Being.

In addition to potions and reading, Severus also does a lot of writing. He's been working on-and-off on a novel since he was fifteen. At this point, it's almost 500,000 words long. One of the few ways he's able to express his thoughts and feelings is through fiction. The main character was heavily based on Lily, especially in the early stages when they were still friends, but as he grew older he put more of himself into the character and now she's become the version of himself he wishes he could be. The night before he kills Dumbledore he burns the entire thing.

Severus knows the DADA position is cursed. Everyone knows it's cursed. He still asks to teach it every year because he also knows that it's the only way he can escape Hogwarts, and he's willing to risk death to do it.

His feelings for Lily have gone through the entire spectrum. At times, she was a sister to him, especially the years before Hogwarts. He used to be incredibly jealous of Petunia, wished he could be Lily's sibling and live in their house and have their parents. It became romantic as a young teenager, especially since she was the only person he felt safe enough with for his pubescent mind to fixate on and explore his budding sexuality. Later, as he became friends with the other Slytherins in his year, it was strictly platonic but nonetheless a very deep friendship. They were both trying to control the other, and Severus was especially worried that Lily would end up like Eileen if she gave into Potter's charms. After his failed apology, he grew angry and resentful and he tried very much to hate her (but he couldn't, not even after she married Potter). And then, after her death, it circled back around to brotherly. He liked to remember those early years best of all, and his devotion to a better cause after her death parallels that of Dumbledore's after Ariana died.

Look I know there's a lot of confusion about godparents, and HP didn't help by being coy about religion, but a godparent isn't a legally appointed guardian. Like, they definitely can be if the parents want that (as it appears to be the case with Sirius Black), but that's not the default. A godparent sponsors a child's baptism and is in charge of their spiritual upbringing, making sure they know their catechism, etc (hence the god part of godparent, its a Catholic/Anglican thing). And the most widespread religion in HP does seem to be Christianity with Christmas being celebrated and whatnot (though I do headcanon the purebloods have their own Druidic/Christian hybrid religion going on). With that being said-- Severus Snape is Draco's godfather. He's also Merula Snyde's godfather. And Pansy Parkinson's godfather. And, like, the godfather of 10 other kids of former Death Eaters. Severus Snape climbed the Death Eater ladder; he was one of Voldemort's favourites during the First War and these other Death Eaters were like, "Damn. I got to get on his good side. Please sponsor my child's baptism."