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ficsandcatsandficsandcats · 5 years ago

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but seriously, how about the punk!au group doing brunch? 💛

Fandom: The Witcher Pairing: Vicious Mockery Family Word Count: 1,691 Rating: G Taglist: @heroics-and-heartbreak @whatevermonkey @mynamesoundslikesherlock @kemmastan @magic-multicolored-miracle @writingstudent @mlleecrivaine @coffee-and-stories @amirahiddleston @ultracolorfulnerdcollection @astouract @your-not-invisible-to-me @mycat-is-mylove a/n: There is a lot of potato talk. I apologize, I couldn’t let it go, I love potatoes so much. xo

Valdo considered the table, expressive brows furrowed in consternation. A pair of arms slipped around his waist from behind and a kiss was pressed between his shoulder blades.

“What is it, V? Is a napkin off-center?” Aevryn asked, tone playful but affectionate. She loved how much care he took with preparing for things though sometimes he took it a little far. Right now, for example, he stared down the beautiful table as though it were the greatest disappointment of his life. There were seven place settings at the table which could easily seat eight. When he’d bought the table Aevryn had teased him about living out his dreams of being a King with his banquet table but she knew that he secretly loved that he had people in his life enough to nearly fill every seat. He’d been wanting to host brunch for a while but between tours and album recordings and life in general it had been put off. But finally it would happen and he was determined to make it such a wonderful experience that they would all clamor to return, possibly once every other week if they could make it happen with their schedules and certainly no less than once a month. He had taken great care to make sure that Sam, though six now and much more careful around sharp edges, sat in a middle seat with her own special plate that she’d decorated in a pottery shop with Aevryn on one of their Aunt & Niece days out. She had her own calligraphy printed sign to indicate where she should sit and he had placed her between Jaskier and Y/N, right across from where Aevryn, Yennefer, and Geralt would sit. Valdo would sit at the head of the table but only, he argued to a bemused Aevryn, because it would be easier for him to get up and get things as they ate. And she hoped they were in the mood to eat because he had prepared enough for a small army.

“Babe do you think perhaps we would be alright with, say, just two kinds of potatoes?” Aevryn asked tentatively. He looked up at her with a thoroughly dumbfounded expression.

“Aevryn, I’m Irish. Are you trying to tell an Irish man to serve fewer potatoes? Bloody English,” he muttered the last part under his breath and she threw a dish towel at his head which he deftly avoided as he went to pull the warming tray full of hashbrowns out of the oven. The doorbell rang and Aevryn ran to answer it excitedly. Yennefer and Geralt stood on the doorstep, Yennefer holding a bottle of champagne and Geralt with a freshly baked loaf of rustic looking artisan bread. Aevryn gave them both a quick hug and ushered them into the kitchen where Valdo gave them a greeting nod.

“Jask and Y/N here yet?” Geralt asked, looking around for any signs of Sam.

“Not yet, you’re the first to arrive,” Aevryn answered. On cue the doorbell rang again and Valdo smiled as he heard Sam’s voice.

“Hi Auntie Aev! Where’s Uncle Valdo? Are Uncle Geralt and Aunt Yen here? We saw their motorcycle. What’s that smell? Something smells REALLY good. Did Uncle Valdo cook it? I told daddy that I bet he’d cook it all but he said he’d order in and just pretend but I know that he really cooked it, didn’t he?”

Somehow she said this all in one breath and he heard Aevryn tell her that yes, he had cooked it all, and then the sound of Aevryn thwacking Jaskier on the arm. There was a hurried clomping sound with Y/N calling for Sam to walk and then she was there in the dining room, bright blue eyes wide with excitement as she took in the sight of all of the food. Jaskier, Y/N, and Aevryn followed not far behind, the former carrying a basket of croissants and a glass bottle of orange juice. The little group mingled and talked as Valdo focused on getting the last of the food ready, fretting that he’d forget something. Sam came around to his side of the counters and offered to help.

“I do have an important task for you if you’re feeling up to it,” Valdo said, crouching down to meet Sam’s eyes with a solemn expression. Her eyes widened and she nodded intently.

“I have made crepes but I want to make sure they’re satisfactory. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to try one out for me before I put it out for everyone else to try,” he explained.

“I can do that,” she said emphatically with the stoic expression of a cadet crossing enemy lines. He lifted her up and deposited her on an empty spot on the counter and put together a little crepe with some Nutella and strawberries and bananas. She took a large bite and then closed her eyes, a little smile crossing her hazelnut smeared face. Valdo watched her fondly and when she opened her eyes again and he asked her if it was satisfactory she nodded confidently.

“Alright everyone, the sous chef has spoken, brunch is served,” he announced. He helped Sam fix her plate with two of the types of potatoes (she wasn’t sure if she trusted the roasted ones which looked suspiciously like there may be vegetables mixed in), a crepe, a piece of bacon and a little piece of ham.

“Are there any potatoes left in Seattle?” Jaskier joked right as you said, “Oh thank god, someone who understands that the true hero of any brunch is the humble potato.”

Valdo beamed at your praise and shot Jaskier a smug look before graciously offering him one of four kinds of eggs he’d prepared. Before long they were all seated and eating, murmurs of praise for the food rippling throughout conversation as a new thing was tried.

“How has school been, Sam? Your mom tells me you’ve made a friend,” Aevryn asked. Sam’s eyes clouded a little bit and she shrugged.

“Well, I did, but her family is moving so it’s just me again,” she said. The adults all exchanged looks over her head of varying levels of consternation, sadness, and regret.

“You’ll find your people yet,” Valdo assured her, “I didn’t meet your Auntie Aev til we were 10.”

“And I didn’t meet your dad til I was 17,” Aevryn said.

“17?” Sam echoed incredulously as though she’d said they were 100.

“Did you tell your Uncle Valdo about the book you’re writing?” you prompted, trying to steer the conversation someplace a little less tender for Sam. Though she was a vibrant, outgoing, loving child she struggled to find friends that would stick around without moving for a parent’s job or just found different interests. You felt sure that Valdo and Aevryn were right now. She was still so young, there was still time for her to find her little family as you’d all found yours. Sam perked up and began to regale Valdo with the story she was working on about a wolf who found a fox and became its friend. Geralt grinned as she spoke, knowing full well who had inspired the story. It was also clear who the violet eyed panther they met was based off of and Yennefer smiled through a mouthful of croissant as Sam talked. By the end of her story Valdo insisted it would be a bestseller and then mentioned to you that he knew someone in children’s lit publishing who’d eat this up but you insisted she was fine without a book deal before her seventh birthday.

After they were finished eating they retreated into the large, open living room where Valdo and Sam sat by the piano while the rest of the group sprawled around on various seats. Geralt gazed appreciatively at the wall of vinyl records Valdo collected, glad that he’d had the forethought to buy Valdo a knife instead of an album for his birthday. Jaskier had you curled up against him, sipping from the mimosa that had been expertly crafted by Valdo, of course. Yennefer sat with her feet tucked under her on the large armchair that spun, rocking side to side lightly as she digested the large brunch. The uneven tinkling of piano keys was the backdrop of their conversation as Valdo taught Sam how to play chopsticks to your dismay and amusement.

“We should do this more often,” you mused aloud. Valdo’s head snapped up in attention and the barely restrained excitement on his face brought a smile to Aevryn’s lips.

“Well, we’re happy to host,” Valdo said, forcing himself to sound casual, “If people wanted to come around again sometime. Maybe sometime week after next?”

“I’d have to check the calendar and doublecheck with Andrzej but that work for us I think,” Jaskier said.

“Hmm,” Geralt said with a nod that Yennefer echoed.

“We’ll have to order more potatoes, though,” Aevryn joked. Valdo squinted at her and she stuck her tongue out which made Sam laugh.

After the last guest had left Aevryn and Valdo wandered back into the kitchen but she pulled him into a hug before he could start putting things again. She pressed a soft kiss against his lips which he returned, wrapping his arms around her and pressing her close as he deepened the kiss.

“What was that for?” he asked as he pulled back, emerald eyes twinkling.

“It was a good brunch,” she said simply, brushing back a wayward curl and grazing the curve of his jaw with her fingertips as she withdrew her hand.

“They seemed to like it,” he said.

“They loved it,” she emphasized, “They love you.”

“I love you,” he murmured, expressive eyes hardly able to contain his emotions.

“I love you too,” she said, brushing her nose against his, the whisper of a kiss brushed against his lips, “Almost as much as you love potatoes.”

He pulled back and she yelped as he reached down and gave her a swat.

“Right,” he said, “Get upstairs. I’ve had about enough of this English sass. Time for your reckoning.”

#joz-stankovich #Punk!Valdo x Punk!Aevryn #Punk!Geralt x Punk!Yennefer #Punk!Jaskier x Reader #Punk!Sam #Punk!AU #Vicious Mockery #Vicious Mockery AU

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glottia-arts · 5 years ago

Text

Sweet smells lead to sweet memories

What do you mean I can write for other fandoms?

This writing piece is just something based on this drawing that @emizel did, so it's a little short. Probably should have asked more about what Hilda was like, both alive and dead, but I guess I'll die in a volley of arrows.

Word Count: 2,526 _____

“W-we’ll be back! Lord Zarok’s wishes will be met!”

Turning tail with their leader slumped over their shoulders, the team of Boiler Guards fled from the battlefield created by their superior and would be hero of Gallowmere.

Said hero sighed in relief as he slumped to the ground, exhausted from the battle that had just taken place. Practically every one of Dan’s energy vials had been depleted from that attack. Taking out his last flask, it was clear how close he was to losing this fight. The remaining vial looked to be filled about twenty percent. Removing the cork, he toasted to his own self victory before downing the odd healing substance.

The commander of the Boiler Guard troops, Kesten, certainly was a wild card. At first, the metal menace faked him out with his standard rifle, before moving close. The attacks alternating between hitting the skeleton with said weapon or roundhouse kicking him where his gut used to be. Once Daniel began to use his crossbow and regular bow to keep the guard at a distance, he grew surprised.

Kesten tossed aside his rifle in favor of his newly displayed weapons, two knives. Chef knives at that. Daniel wasn’t one to judge, he used his arm as a weapon from time to time. Heck, he even received Chicken legs from the witch of the Enchanted Earth. So blades utilized for the culinary arts weren’t too odd of a thing.

Daniel’s long distance weapons were rendered useless once those came out. The Boiler Guard batted aside the projectiles and even sliced through a few of them. Kesten made short work of his health, it was practically laughable. Daniel almost didn’t have time to ingest one of his health vials, but with the interference of his companion, Hildegard, he seized his chance of recovering.

The mage’s distraction had worked, a little too well. Kesten’s sights turned on her and he rushed at the undead as quickly as he had Daniel. The skeleton attempted to follow, but the metal guard reached her first. It confused him that he did not strike her down as he feared, but had instead flung a knife towards her feet. Thrown off balance, the woman would have tumbled to the ground if not for the Boiler Guard grasping her arm with his free hand, hoisting her off the ground.

Kesten was a tall piece of work, even without the signature Boiler Guard hat adding to his stature, but as he raised Hilda with ease, it became glaringly so. As he lifted her, he still leaned down, a sense of foreboding rippling through Hilda’s body. She could feel the chill of his stare pierce through her, even before a set of burning green eyes flashed behind his visor.

“I believe this is a fight between Sir Fortesque and I, I do not tolerate interference. Especially by traitors.” The last word held venom and not wasting further time with the intrusion, Kesten tossed Hildegard a few feet away, ignoring her complaints.

Snapping his fingers, he pointed to the woman. “Don’t injure her, but make certain she doesn’t interfere again.”

“Yessir!” his lackeys saluted, focus shifting from their boss to the mage. Guns directed at her, they made sure she would remain complacent.

Discarded blade back in hand, Kesten charged towards Daniel, picking up where they had left off.

He started intense as prior, but something became apparent. He was slowing down. Daniel noted this after pulling out his magical sword, trying to apply its broadness for a more defensive advantage. Landing a blow to the guard with the weapon tipped Daniel off. Kesten had a weakness to magical items.

With this new revelation, Daniel did his best to use the newly acquired sword to combat against the metal man.

There was nevertheless a struggle to fight against Kesten, but in no time he was flat on his back, black and green steam emitting from his body.

His lackeys abandoned their duty the second they heard metal collide with earth. Scrambling to their leader, they examined the extent of his injuries. In the end, they concluded it was best to evacuate.

Daniel had been thankful for them choosing to pull out, gods knew if they came after him now, he might not make it to his next destination.

Hoping his friend was fine, he peeked in her direction. She showed to be in good condition, but she was sitting with her knees pulled up to her chest, deep in thought.

Shakily he rose to his feet, walking over to her.

“Hilda!”

No response.

Hovering over her, he tilted his head in confusion. “Hildy?”

Blinking, she looked up to the knight “Oh Dan… you’re ok. That’s good… that’s good.”

Frowning, he jabbed his sword into the ground, leaning against it. “Yes, but are you ok?”

It took her a bit to process his words. “Oh yes, yes just fine.”

“You sure?” A short delay before she nodded and turned her head to stare back at the ground. Lowering her knees slightly, she placed an elbow on one as her palm rested against her cheek. “Just.. thinking about something.”

Sitting down near her, he tiredly leaned against the glowing blade. “Like what?”

“... it’s just that.. I can tell Zarok’s done something to the guards. Or at least him. It was quick, but I saw there was that green glow the villagers had present in their eyes. Course, that could be Zarok’s magic flowing through the odd thing.”

Her eyebrows soon raised, now troubled. “Strangely enough, the scent coming from him smells oddly familiar to me…”

It smelled like.. A much better and different era…

__________

Castle Peregrin, the Kingdom of Gallowmere’s finest jewel. A castle that was acclaimed for good laughs, pleasant hospitality and a cut above the rest staff.

The Kingdom appealed to several people all across the realm. Many claim they traveled to Gallowmere for the gorgeous scenery, some appeared for the untold hopes of grandeur, and others? Well… some wished to live a quieter life.

Those who settled in the province had their reasons. With all the appealing things there was to offer, many interesting characters joined the populace of the vast kingdom. These folk often lived in hiding, though some were found and recruited to work secretly in or near the castle.

The ordinary staff had no clue where or why these new recruits entered their ranks in attending the King, but they tried not to ask questions. If they were there, they evidently belonged. Many of them established names for themselves, both good and bad.

“Hildegard!”

Speaking of..

“Hildegard von Bartles! Where are you!?”

The young woman in question was at her post, yes, but was she doing her duties? Not really.. She was alarmed at hearing the head of staff yelling for her, but as she continued swallowing her newly gained treats, she found she didn’t fully care.

“Hildegard there you are!” The head honcho came into her sight of view, marching right up to her. They were about to yell at her for her lack of progress, but paused as they noticed the treats entering her mouth. “ARE YOU EATING ON THE JOB HILDEGARD!?”

The blond shifted aside, continuing her consumption. A muffled ‘maybe’ escaping her lips.

Sighing, the head of faculty rubbed their temples. “You cannot be eating while on duty! I don’t care how delightful those pastries are, you have a duty first and foremost! King Peregrin is getting ready to host a banquet in honor of Sir Daniel Fortesque and his platoon’s promotion. You need to be on the ball!” They punctuated every word in their last sentence by smacking their hands together, hoping it emphasized how important this was.

Finishing her current treat, Hilda pouted “But these are so good…” she trailed off at the menacing glare shot her way. “Ok, ok! I’ll get back to it… promise!” She smiled as she set the basket down on an adjacent stand.

Staring at the girl for a few moments, her boss nodded their head once before spinning and making their way back down the corridor. Murmurs echoing something or another about the young blond.

Once they were out of sight, Hildegard exhaled and studied at her tools she was supposed to be using today with an uninterested expression. She was out of it today and working just seemed tiring. The little gifts she had found outside her doorstep this morning was the sole thing she had enjoyed about the day. Maybe if she ate another one, it would motivate her to continue working? That sounded like a solid plan.

Reaching for the basket as she smirked, the girl noticed after a moment only air met her grasp. Confused, she twisted her head to see the basket had disappeared.

Stunned, Hildegard patted the table, not understanding what she saw. It was here just a minute ago. Tapping the wooden surface several more times, she glanced around the top and near the floors, wondering where she put the thing. She was going mad trying to solve this mystery. About to lift the darn stand off from the floor and throw it, a tap to her shoulder almost made her scream aloud.

“Excuse me, are you looking for something?”

Stiffly, she turned her head to catch that someone had been behind her. What scared her more was that this individual towered over her. They were even taller than Sir Daniel. Eyes gliding higher to determine who it was precisely eased her nerves. She wasn’t all that familiar with the man, but she recognized him as the chef that often came on the request of the King. Hilda couldn’t quite recall his name, as the first time he introduced himself, she was… intoxicated.

Doing her best to offer a charming smile, Hilda patted her dress nervously as she spun to face him, waving her hands in front of her face. “Oh hello! Sorry, I.. Seemed to have misplaced something! Clumsy me!”

He raised a brow at this. “Oh? Well, that’s interesting.. I seemed to have found something. Is it perhaps yours?” holding a handle with just his pointer finger, the man lifted the basket filled with her pastries into sight.

Eyes widening, Hildegard jumped up and down in excitement. “Oh yes, yes! That is indeed it, now if you would just-”

As she reached for the basket, he raised it higher into the air. Blinking in confusion, she questioned this action. Had today been a different day, she might put up with this. But today wasn’t a different day and thus she wasn’t in the mood for games right now. Her tone was still friendly, but held a little more of an edge to it. “Haha yes yes, uh if you would, please hand over my basket.”

Glancing between the girl and the basket, the chef seemed to think about this. “... no.”

“Excuse me, what?”

“I said. No.” Flabbergasted, the woman pouted. Normally, she might have let this go. But those pastries, ones that are only as flavorful as ones she’s eaten from town festivals, are worth fighting for. She doesn’t care even if she had to fight the king himself, she would get those back even if it killed her!

Much to his surprise, Hilda jumped for the basket, fingertips grazing the underside as he hoisted it higher just in time. Smirking at her antics, he chuckled. “Well.. seems someone really wants this back.”

“Of course I want it back, that has breads and sweets in there given to me!”

“Hmm.. well my answer is still no-”

Getting a little fed up, Hildegard jumped for the basket again, provoking him to lift it higher above his head. Wholly focused on the task at hand, she didn’t even acknowledge how bad this could look to outsiders. She was essentially pressed against some man, fruitlessly reaching for baked goods.

“Give. It. Back!”

He seemed to mull it over, tapping his foot on the ground as he did so. After a moment, his free hand moved into view, displaying a portion of sweet bread. “Kind of rude to have all these baked goods and not share, don’t you think?”

Seeing the delicacy, Hildegard attempted to snatch it, but failed to do so as with the basket. At this point, she was glaring at him so hard she wouldn’t be surprised if he caught on fire. Her stare did little to nothing on affecting him.

“Don’t you dare!”

Smirking the man kept his eyes on the roll. “Well, I didn’t hear a please at throughout this, so… no.” The pastry never quite made it to his mouth as someone else interrupted their little moment.

“Pardon me, Orell, sir! I was wonder-” both the castle staff members spun their heads to the new voice, noticing a man from Sir Daniel’s group, Canny Tim. At both of their glances and observing their position, he anxiously chuckled. “Am I… interrupting sir?”

Chuckling, the man now known as Orell shook his head. “Of course not Tim. Just teasing one of the other staff members. Wanted to see where my assistants extra baked goods were running off to.”

Lowering his hands, he handed the basket back to Hildegard before rubbing the back of his head. “Sorry about that, I find it fun to tease at times. In truth, I get my fill of those pastries for the celebration periods, so your treats weren’t in any real danger.”

Hildegard never got the chance to reply as before she could utter a word, he stuffed the piece of bread he held into her mouth.

“Stay safe kid.” He ruffled her hair before making his way towards Canny Tim. Waving over his shoulder at her, both men departed from her sights.

Blushing, she chewed the pastry angrily. She might need to eat the remaining pastries to help her feel better… and pay Mr. Orell a visit in the kitchen later for a little payback.

__________

Recalling that moment ages ago was random but not unwelcome. She was certain if blood could rush to her cheeks it would happen. Wanting to smack her face for the second hand embarrassment, she wishes she could chastise her alive self for the awkward moment. Canny Tim never mentioned it, but did she ever feel self-conscious around him remembering that particular interaction with Orell.

Hilda now wondered why the scent of the Boiler Guard commander brought back such an old memory…

Tilting her head towards Daniel, her tone grew even more puzzled. “Dan… did that Boiler Guard remind you of anything?” Or anyone?

Pondering her question the skeleton shook his skull, a quiet “Nuh-uh” leaving him.

“Ah ok.. Guess I’m randomly recalling the good old days!”

Glancing to the sky, stars were noticeable among the sea of darkness.

“I think we should set up camp here. I’m sure you need the rest after fighting that mad contraption!”

Dan couldn’t agree more, the battle had left him exhausted. Hopefully, they wouldn’t encounter the Boiler Guard or his goons for some time. He could only pray that their paths never crossed again. But he’s never been so lucky, has he?

#MediEvil #Boiler Guard #Kesten #Hildegard von Bartles #original character #Sir Daniel Fortesque #glottia writes

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panda-noosh · 6 years ago

Text

Coldthistle House {Lance x Reader}

Words: 8k

Summary: Coldthistle House is where people come to die.

Genre: angst – gothic horror

Warning: creepy descriptions - blood and gore – demons and stuff.

Notes: masterlist – based off of a book I recently read called House of Furies by Madeleine Roux {also yes i’m aware i posted two long fics in two days but i had like four hours to waste today in the library and i started this and then finished it at like half 11 at night please accept my constant, angsty content ily}.

---

The lightening shattered the sky. You watched it; didn't flinch.

You counted the seconds it took for the thunder to follow suit. 2...3....4....5.... BANG!

“Five seconds,” you told Keith. “It's a safe distance away from us.”

Keith looked over at you through lidded eyes. You could feel his gaze on the back of your neck – you always could whenever he was looking at you. He always called it one of your 'special powers' that nobody could ever sneak up on you, because you could always sense them. You felt their energy. You felt their presence rippling through you, and Keith's dark glare was never subtle in the first place.

Now that the thunder and lightening were taking a break, you listened to the scratchings of Keith's knife as he sharpened it behind you. He was using only the firelight as a guide; the fire that Mr Shirogane had told him not to light, but he had done so anyway. You hadn't bothered warning him; Keith did his own thing. You were only along for the ride.

You were only here because they needed you. Because the guests had been bad. Because you were the only one brave enough to do something about the bad people of the world.

Mr Shirogane gave the orders, but you did the deed. That was how it worked. That was how it had always worked.

“You're an odd thing,” said Keith. You had yet to turn around and look at him. You had been sat with him for hours now, watching the sun hide away behind the mountains, replaced by the moon which cast a silver shadow along the field Coldthistle House was located. Your knees were bunched up to your chest. You enjoyed the feeling of your heartbeat sinking through your skirts, thundering against the skin of your thighs.

Your heartbeat was your own little secret, something nobody else could hear. Although sometimes, you thought Mr Shirogane could hear it. Mr Shirogane heard everything.

“You say that to me often, Mr Kogane,” you replied. “Perhaps it's not me that's odd, but you.”

“I integrate into society well enough,” was Keith's response, and he seemed to think that was enough. The flame-lit room fell into silence again, the only sound coming from Keith as he sharpened his blade.

The weird thing was, Keith was no butcher. He was no chef. He just liked knives.

----

The guests for the week arrived as the roosters rose to rouse the hotel into awakening.

Dawn had barely broken. You were wide awake, darting around the halls with your fresh skirts billowing out around you – they had been washed by Allura after you had gotten rid of a man who had murdered his wife and children. Oh, his blood had gotten everywhere.

“Eighteen years old and you don't even know how to wash your own silks,” Allura scolded whenever you had handed over the billowing pile of blood-stained clothes.

“I have no time for that, Princess,” you said. Allura grimaced. You always called her Princess. You thought she liked it. Anyone would like being called Princess.

The doorbell clanged through the foyer, replacing the usual alarm clock of the roosters outside. You were buzzing with excitement, skin bristling with the excitement of finding out who you were going to be dealing with next – perhaps another murderer? You didn't want that to be the case. You had seen so many murderers these past few years, and were slowly growing tired of the same old story – a man losing control, thinking he was better, killing innocents.

It grew tiring after a while.

Keith, Allura, Pidge and yourself waded towards the door. You put your fake smiles on. They were good fake smiles, really believable – they distracted people from the blood stains engraved in the wood, hid the smell of death that lingered in every room.

Keith opened the door, and standing in front of him was a single man – an odd sight, but not unheard of. Usually people came in groups, but you liked the idea of your job being a little bit easier this time around.

He couldn't have been much older than you – eighteen at the youngest, twenty at a push. He had mousy brown hair, cut unneatly at the front. It was clear he had tried to slick it back, but his uneven fringe just made him look like a young boy who had somehow gotten into his fathers gel.

“Good morning,” said Keith, forever the usual drawl to his voice. “You must be Mr Lance McClain. You're early.”

The stranger flustered. “I am, yes. I hope that's not an issue.”

Keith grinned. Again, it was a good grin. It hid the past.

“Not an issue at all,” he replied. “Come on in. We had your room set up for you days ago. Your visit has been quite anticipated.”

Lance bowed to you, Allura and Pidge on his way past. Keith barely stopped to glance in your direction, instead leading the guest directly up the grand staircase to his room. Even after Lance and Keith had disappeared and their voices had become nothing but whispers in the dawn light, your smiles never faded.

“Young,” said Pidge. “Such a shame he's probably scum.”

“As all our guests are,” said Princess. You always found it amusing how she was able to look so grand, even as she spoke about killing people. “You will have a good time with him, I assume, Y/N? I suggest you treat yourself this time around – maybe you could even seduce him before you kill him.”

“Always such a bad influence,” you said. “Shame on you, Princess. Shame on you.”

The three of you laughed, the noise echoing through the grand foyer.

---

Lance was a struggling business man, you had learned.

The Residents told you that much. You sat with them in the darkness, knees curled up to your chest, the sound of dripping water mingling with the deep drawls of the creatures voices. They liked talking to you. You didn't say much, and you were never afraid of them. They brought you comfort. Something about their towering forms, their white slits for eyes, the way you couldn't make out when one started and one ended. There was something about the mystery of them that had you settling down so casually in the water-worn cellars that Mr Shirogane locked them in.

They told you all about Lance.

Your interest had most definitely been piqued, a feeling that was new to you. It felt like attachment, though you had banished that thought with the claim that such a thing was impossible to feel towards a man you didn't even know. He had bowed to you once, and you had made fun of his hair.

He had bowed to you once, and you had plotted his death.

Because nobody who came to Coldthistle House was innocent. Mr Shirogane didn't make mistakes.

Lance McClain had run away from home when he was only fifteen, had lived with strangers for the majority of his life. He would pay rent whenever he could, which was the main reason why his sword-sheath business was struggling. He had rent to pay, meaning he had no money left behind to put into his work.

He was only meant to stay in Coldthistle for two weeks. Apparently his last home had kicked him out after he had failed to pay the appropriate amount of coin, and Coldthistle had been his last resort. Cheapest option. Of course it was – the smell of death lowered price a little bit.

It was more the bargain, in your opinion. A couple of coins for a room – a room you would never leave. Where else would you find service quite like that?

“And what is he here for?” you asked after The Residents had finished telling you about Lance's backstory.

The creatures were silent for a moment. The water dripped, creating a puddle in the centre of the stone room, a puddle the creatures would eventually drink whenever their thirst got too much.

“He isn't here for a crime,” the dark and deep voice drawled out at last. You perked up, lifted your chin from your knees to look towards the dark figures blending into the corner of the room – they weren't human. If you looked at them too quick, you could even mistake them for hiccups of vision.

“What do you mean?” you asked. “Mr Shirogane hasn't brought an innocent man in, has he?”

A dark laugh. “Are any of us innocent, young mistress?”

“More innocent than the guests who stay here.” You tilted your head. “Rule one: Mr Shirogane never makes a mistake. Who is Lance McClain, and why is he here?”

A pregnant pause. You waited. You listened to the tapping of the water, the shallow breathing of the dark figures that once brought you so much comfort, but were now doing nothing more than frustrating you.

“Lance McClain is one of us, young mistress. He was always destined to be at Coldthistle House – just not in the way you had expected.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but there was a sudden weight pressing down upon your chest. Another member of the team. Another person to help you clean out the scum of the world. Another person to take on the burden of killing people every other night.

You smiled to yourself, gently set your chin back down on your legs. You counted your heartbeat, just how you had counted the seconds between lightening and thunder the previous day. 1...2....3....4....

“And does he know of his new role here at Coldthistle House?” you asked quietly.

“He will find out soon,” the Resident replied. “In the meantime, we have to ease him in.”

“You will give the poor man the fright of his life if you show yourself so soon.”

“Perhaps that's what a young business man needs to be eased into the world of death, young mistress.”

You hummed.

10....11....12....13....

“Perhaps you're right.”

----

Of course, you sensed him long before he had started speaking. You didn't turn around, simply continued dusting off the drapes.

“Does this place ever see proper lights?” said Lance. You didn't bother pretending to jump at the sound of his voice; you continued working. “Every room I've looked at has the drapes shut closed. The sunlight outside is being wasted, I think. Quite tragic.”

“Are you insulting our drapes, Mr McClain?” you asked. You had yet to turn around. Lance would be able to hear the smirk in your voice.

He stammered. “My apologies. I didn't mean – I mean, of course not. They are indeed lovely drapes, but I was just saying-”

“The sunlight is better than the light from lanterns,” you finished for him. You slowly turned around, reached out and gently shut off the lantern at the side of you. The room was immediately shoved into an uncomfortable darkness – it was dark enough that you would have to watch your feet as you walked, but not dark enough to be completely blinding.

And apparently it wasn't dark enough to hide the way Lance gulped, gripping the edge of the open mahogany door so tightly that his usually tanned knuckles turned pale.

“Yes. Yes, sunlight is better, I think,” he said. “But perhaps if it's a last resort, the lanterns would be best kept alight.”

“You cannot have it all, Mr McClain,” you said, turning back around to continue your work. “If you have nothing better to do, maybe you could help me dust down these drapes you despise so much – I'm only small. I can't reach the top.”

He paused. He still thought he was a guest. He thought he was the one to be pampered, served breakfast in bed whilst you and your peers worked around the clock to make the place presentable – in any other establishment, those would be the arrangements.

But Coldthistle House was a lot different from other establishments.

After a moment, you turned to glance at him over your shoulder. His eyes met yours, immediately bulged out of his head when he realised he had been standing there gawking instead of answering you.

He nodded quickly and dashed forward, very nearly overturning an old writing desk in the process. You smiled lightly at him when you handed him the red feather duster, stepped back and watched him as if he needed monitoring for such a simple task.

He reached up, started shifting the feather duster towards the top of the drapes. His shirt untucked from his trousers, revealing a lick of tanned skin. You reached forward and tugged the shirt back down. Lance yelped at the contact, blushed.

“Apologies. I've never been good with formal dress.”

“No need to apologise,” you replied. “It's all fixed now.”

Once Lance was finished with dusting the drapes, he rocked back on his heels and handed you back the feather duster. He bowed at the waist, wiped a hand over his brow and motioned towards the door.

“Don't think of me as rude for asking,” he started. “But I'm curious to know where all the other guests are.”

You raised a brow, fiddling idly with the red feathers in your hand. Lance's eyes snapped down to your twitching fingers. He was distracted by the simplest of things.

“Other guests?” you parroted.

He swallowed. “Yes. This is a hotel, is it not? A fairly cheap one, I must say. I expected a lot of people to be crowding the hallways, but it feels as if I'm the only one here.”

“And is the solitude not refreshing?”

“Well, uh, I've always been a social man-”

“So I can see,” you giggled. Lance's eyes widened at the innocent sound. You loved those type of reactions. “Not everyone would just walk in and start talking about the issues of the place they are calling home for a little while.”

Lance's face paled. “I didn't mean to be rude with my comment about the lighting-”

“No. It wasn't rude. It was honest.” You grinned then. That same grin – that good grin. That grin that hid secrets. “We like honesty here at Coldthistle House, Mr McClain.”

“Is that – Is that so?” His eyes were shifting towards the door now. He wanted to leave.

You nodded. “I think you'll fit in just fine amongst us. Who knows? Perhaps we can even open a few drapes.”

----

Mr Shirogane was a man of silence.

That was what you had been told the moment you stepped foot inside of Coldthistle House for the first time all them years ago. He ran the place, ruled over everything and made every decision final – but he very rarely showed his face.

You were bustling around the kitchen whenever he appeared in the doorway on this particular day. It was warm outside. Whenever you peeled back the red curtains to get a glimpse of the field outside, you noticed the windows were heating up rather nicely.

You shut the curtains quickly, shivered at the sunlight as if it had burned your skin just by looking at it.

Keith was sitting on a stool by the counter, one booted foot swinging back and forth whilst the other was tucked up under the high wooden chair. He had a newspaper in his hand, but he folded it up neatly almost as soon as Mr Shirogane appeared in the doorway. He wasn't in a rush – not like you, who immediately stopped running around the kitchen to gawk at the man. No. Keith wasn't like that. He looked up, caught sight of his boss and ever-so-calmly folded the paper, setting it to the side.

Mr Shirogane was taller than you had remembered.

His hair had even gone grey at the front, a sure sign of stress though you were unsure as to what he had to be stressed about. There was a black crow perched on his shoulder – you had no doubt in your mind that the bird possessed the soul of one of your victims. You had to resist the urge to wave at them.

“Mr Shirogane,” said Keith. “What a pleasant surprise to see you. Care for a drink?”

“A tea, please, Y/N,” your boss replied. Keith turned to you. You glanced at him. Even though Keith had been the one asking, it was always you who had to fulfil the orders; you felt as if you weren't welcome to join in on the conversation Mr Shirogane was planning to have.

Either way, you would be a fool to wait around much longer. You bowed at the waist, span on your heel and darted towards the tea-set.

You could hear Mr Shirogane moving. He was a big man, but his steps reminded you of mice. He was one of the few people who you found it difficult to sense. Sometimes you turned around and he was just there, forever giving you the fright of your life.

Yes. There was something different about Mr Shirogane; he wasn't human.

Some people called him the Devil.

You strained to listen to them talk over the sound of the water boiling.

“Lance McClain seems to be getting more comfortable in his chambers. It won't be long until The Residents are making their appearance known to him,” said Mr Shirogane.

“So soon? It's only been three days,” replied Keith.

“We need to move this along rather quickly if we want him working by the time our next guests arrive.”

“And do you know when that will be?”

“Next Saturday. They're coming in from London, so they'll be arriving fairly late, but it still doesn't give us a lot of time. We need to rush things forward or else we'll have to dispose of him.”

“I'm sure Y/N wouldn't mind.”

“But I do, that's the thing.” Mr Shirogane sighed. You heard the chair creak as he leaned back. It mingled with the sound of the boiling water, and you idly plucked at the handle of the boiling pot, as if doing so would quieten it down so you could hear better.

“You know, forgive me for saying this,” said Keith, “but Lance is very far from who you would expect to be working here. There seems to be very little . . . . wrong with him, for lack of a better term.”

You smirked, lowering your head. Oh Keith. Forever the one to say there was something wrong with you, as if you weren't the one getting rid of murderers on a daily basis. If anything, you were the most mentally stable person the world had ever seen – you were a superhero, almost.

“I thought that as well,” said Mr Shirogane. “But trust me; there's a lot more to Lance McClain than he shows on surface level. I'm hoping the Residents can crack him a little bit, make him realise that he's home.”

“Or perhaps he'll start screaming bloody murder.”

“Just like they all do.” Mr Shirogane's chair groaned again. You looked over your shoulder to see him looking over at you. “Y/N, where's that tea?”

“Perhaps I can talk to Mr McClain,” you said, ignoring his request. You weren't entirely sure where the interest had sparked from, this sudden need to prove yourself. “The Residents and I are close. If anyone can keep the situation under control, it's me.”

“You say that because you're young,” said Mr Shirogane.

“I say it because it's the truth. I speak to the Residents more than any of you do. I can introduce them to Lance slowly, perhaps even keep the situation under control. They'll listen to me a lot more than they'll listen to any of you lot.”

“I was hoping Allura would do it.” Mr Shirogane shrugged, popping out his bottom lip casually. You knew he was joking. Allura would have been useless in a situation like that one.

“Princess would kill him before he got down into the cellar,” you said. “What do you say, hm? I can do it tomorrow night! He'll be acquainted with our friends in no time!”

Keith ran a hand through his thick black hair. His eyes bore into yours as you spoke, and you saw the faint hint of a smile pressing upon his lips; Keith had been your mentor of sorts, though he wasn't much older than you. Still, you found yourself shrugging your shoulders back in a confident stance at the sight of him looking so proud.

Mr Shirogane sighed. “Okay. We may as well. You're young – the same age as Mr McClain as far as I know.”

“Really?”

“Mm. He'll most likely trust you a lot sooner than he'll trust anyone else.”

“My point exactly, sir.”

Mr Shirogane nodded. “Very well. Tomorrow night you will introduce our newest member to the Residents, and you will do it with as much poise as you can muster, do you understand? Very little ruckus would be appreciated.”

He had a habit of not finishing his sentences appropriately. There was never a 'goodbye' or a 'thank you.' This time around, he didn't even acknowledge the fact that the tea you were supposed to be brewing for him had never even been delivered. He simply stood up, tugged on the tails of his jacket to rid it of creases, before he was turning and walking out of the kitchen.

The sound of the water boiling over rang out behind you. Neither you nor Keith moved to fix it, instead staring at Mr Shirogane's back as he fled from the room.

----

Allura patted your hair gently. Her hands were still smothered in gel, causing you to bunch up your shoulders and wince away from her touch.

She tutted, tugged you back against the chair roughly. “Sit still!”

“I hardly see this as a necessary thing,” said Pidge from the other side of the room. Her sharp face was lit only by the fire she was sitting beside, her using the flames to illuminate the words she was trying to read from her newspaper.

“It's not technically necessary,” Allura replied. “But it will certainly help. Y/N walks around looking like a busted mattress most days – what man is going to trust her word whenever her hair isn't even slicked down?”

“My heart breaks,” you grumbled. You glanced at yourself in the mirror, not entirely fond of what was staring back at you. You tried to blame it on the lack of efficient light in this room – the only light was coming from the fireplace once again, and Pidge was obscuring most of that by sitting in front of it.

Your hair was slicked down far too much for your liking. It reminded you of a helmet. The gel made the hairs shiny, making you look like you had just stepped fresh out of the shower. Allura was right, of course – you took very little care in your appearance nowadays, meaning your hair was often bulked up and frizzy, sitting rigid on your head. But Lance had spoken to you before with little to no issues with such a trivial thing – you weren't sure why Princess thought today would be any different.

“This isn't part of your plan to make Y/N seduce our guest, is it?” said Pidge. She had an odd habit of holding proper conversation without once breaking the flow of her reading.

“No,” Princess replied. “I'm just making her job a little easier.” With that said, she started scrubbing at your roots roughly. Your head bobbed back and forth until the hairs were pulling against her fingers so much that a headache started to appear. You grunted, tugged out of her grip and whirled around to look at her; she had gel dabbed on her cheek. You didn't tell her.

“Enough now,” you scolded. “It's going to be too late if you keep me trapped in here for another second. I'll be off now.”

Allura frowned. Pidge chuckled.

“Fine. Good luck.” And with the most casual of hand movements, Allura removed her blade from her boot and handed it to you. You smiled at her gratefully, tucked it into your own boot and started out the door, silently murmuring Lance's room number under your breath.

Allura was kind for giving you the knife, but you very rarely used weapons as a means of killing.

---

You knocked on the door to Lance's room, counted the seconds it took for him to open it.

1....2....3....4....

“Miss L/N!”

You looked up at him. You had very clearly caught him at a bad time; you could see his dinner still sat on the table behind him. He was wearing his striped pyjamas and his hair was a dishevelled mess, slightly damp from the wash he had given it.

You didn't care. You wouldn't turn back now. Not when the Residents were expecting a guest. If Lance didn't come to them tonight, they would come to him, and that would end up being disastrous.

“Mr McClain,” you replied, bowing.

“You look nice tonight,” he said. He leaned against the door frame on one shoulder. You reached forward, yanked his other shoulder to the side to make him straighten up. He stumbled, shocked at the sudden movement, but you continued on before he could question it.

“Thank you. I just came up here to ask you if you would accompany me down in the cellars for a few moments? My co-workers are all busy right now, and I have to carry some heavy crates up – as I said before, I'm only small. I struggle with the heavy lifting.”

Lance's lip twitched. You sensed amusement radiating off of him, was slightly confused by such an emotion. Had you said something funny? Why was he taking this as some kind of joke?

“I would be honoured to help,” he replied. “Just give me a moment to cover my food. I'll be out in a second.”

He closed the door and you waited outside. The Residents never liked being made to wait. You were already planning out your apology to them in your head; if you arrived and they were already angry, the entire situation would be cast from your hands completely. There would be nothing you could do to save Lance after that.

Not as if they would kill him – the Residents didn't kill. You were the only one who did that in Coldthistle House. But they would make Lance wish you had killed him the moment he walked in the doors.

It only took a few minutes for the door to open again, and in no time, you and Lance were walking down the hallway towards the cellars.

“Did you do something different with your hair tonight?” Lance asked.

“Mm.”

“I think it suits you.”

“I think it looks off. And the gel is going to take ages to wash out. Not worth the hassle in my opinion.”

Lance bit down into his bottom lip. “You look a lot more . . . feminine.”

You raised a brow and glanced over at him. Try as you might, there was no denying that his comment had sent something physical coursing through you. Never before had a man said such a thing – never before had you been kind to a man. Nobody but Keith and Mr Shirogane, and even then you were sometimes hostile.

“Feminine,” you echoed. “A weird word to describe me, I think.”

“Why? I find you quite pleasant.”

You chuckled, didn't tell him why. He had no idea, and you had to remind yourself of that. He had no idea that you killed people. He had no idea what you did before he got here.

But he would know soon.

He would be a part of it soon enough.

You and Lance arrived at the door of the cellar. You opened it, nudged Lance inside. The stairwell was extremely dark, and Lance made his discomfort for such a fact known when he yelped. You could hear his foot slipping over the top step, caught his arm just before he went head first down the middle of the stairwell.

“It's dark,” you said.

“Thank you,” Lance panted.

You took a torch off the wall and lit it using a match you had bundled up in your dress skirts. The stairwell was immediately lit up by an uncomfortable red light. Lance squinted against it, looking down at his feet which were set at an awkward angle after his slight stumble. You kept your hand on his arm, dragged him down the steps. You made it seem as if you were merely making sure he didn't fall again, but you really just needed him to quicken his pace before the Residents got restless.

You opened the door to the main cellar, blew the torch out so the room was engulfed in darkness again.

“Uh, Miss L/N? How are we supposed to see where these crates are if it's dark?” Lance asked.

You pushed him into the room and closed the door, locking it quickly. “We'll make do, Mr McClain.”

“But surely it would just be easier to-”

“You never told us he protested so much.”

Lance screamed.

They all did. You had heard this exact same reaction be given on multiple occasions, to the point where you had become immune to it by now. Lance jumped, stumbling back so quickly that he trod over your feet. If it wasn't for you grabbing him by the shoulders, he would have fallen back and perhaps smashed his head against the concrete floor.

“This is him,” you said. “Lance McClain. The one you've been excited to see.”

The first dark figure arose from the corner. Lance whimpered. He had no shame any more. He was gripping you tightly around the waist, tugging you into his chest as if ready to volley you out of the way if things got too much.

“We're aware of who he is,” the Resident said. “Bring him closer. I want to see his face.”

“What are you?” Lance exclaimed. “Y/N, get out of here now. Go and find your boss, the manager of this place – anyone!”

You paid him no attention, instead shoving him forward. He screamed again as he got closer to the creatures looming above him, but his scream was abruptly cut off, replaced by a strangled gargling noise. You knew instantly that his body had touched the hands of the Residents – it was always a shock to the system. You remembered the first time you had made contact with one, the chill that ran through you, the way you weren't able to forget the feeling for months afterwards.

“Oh my,” the Resident grumbled. “We've definitely got a little trouble maker with us, haven't we? What secrets have you been hiding, Mr McClain?”

You raised a brow. “You can see into him?”

“I can see into you all,” replied the creature. “It's been a while since I've seen something so . . . dark, so sinister, yet so well hidden. Yes. Mr McClain is definitely one of us.”

“We established that.”

“But not to the full extent, I don't think.” Lance was no longer talking. The only sound coming from him was the gargling. You could imagine Pidge calling him rude for doing such a thing, resisted the urge to laugh at the thought.

“Harsh family life by the looks of things,” the Resident continued. “Not very close with his parents – not very close at all. He tells people he ran away, but I can see him as a little boy. He's standing in their doorway and there is blood everywhere.”

“He killed them?”

“He witnessed the murder. Did nothing about it, which is why he's been on the run for so long.” The Resident hummed. “A lot of guilt. A whole lot of guilt coming from this young man. His soul has been ripped to shreds.”

Lance continued to gargle. His head was tilted back, his eyes darting around the room, clearly looking for you but you gave him very little attention during his time of need. You instead continued to stare at the creature before you, pondering over the information it had just given to you.

“The guilt has darkened his insides,” the Resident continued. “He feels . . . less. That is why Mr Shirogane has permitted him access to Coldthistle House. He has seen true nightmares, Y/N, and that makes him numb. That means he will do our bidding with little argument.” The Resident turned to look at you. It had no eyes, merely white, rectangular slits that cast a bright light in the darkness. “Just like you, young mistress.”

It released Lance.

The man gasped and collapsed to the floor. There was no screaming, no call for help like you would have expected. He simply fell to the floor in a heap of limbs and panting breaths, one hand travelling up and grabbing at his throat; that was where the Residents hand had been, apparently, though you hadn't been able to see the contact in the darkness.

You hovered over his gasping frame, looked down at him curiously.

“Mr Shirogane was right then, hm?” you said. Lance looked up at you with wide eyes. “You do have secrets. Yes. I think you'll fit in just fine with us, Mr McClain.” ---

“What was that?” Lance demanded.

He was being a little bit overdramatic, you thought. The meeting hadn't gone badly. The Resident may have been a little bit too rough with him in the beginning, but it hadn't lasted as long as it could have, and Lance still had all of his limbs attached.

You idly picked at your nails, leading Lance back to his room. He was stumbling with every step, still grasping his throat and shooting panicked glances over his shoulder.

“That was a Resident,” you replied. “I believe you got the friendly one, though I can't be too sure. In case you didn't notice, they don't have bodies that are all that visible.”

Lance choked on air before continuing. His voice was high and shrill, reminding you of Pidge for some reason. “This is . . . This is insane! What is this place? What was he saying about secrets?”

“The creatures are not male or female,” you corrected. “Very sexist of you to just assume like that, Mr McClain. I'm disappointed.” Lance's hands were clamping down on your shoulders in seconds.

You didn't flinch. You barely even made a noise at the sudden contact. You had sensed his frustration, saw his fingers getting jittery as he tried to resist the urge to no doubt slap you across the face.

He span you around, his startled blue eyes pouring into your own. You merely smiled up at him sweetly – that grin. The good kind.

“I want out of here,” he said. “I will pay full price, but I want to leave now. I'll be packing my things and checking out as soon as we get back to my room. Is that understood?

You folded your hands in front of you and tilted your head. “A shame, sir. We quite enjoyed your company.”

You nearly giggled at his naivety. He had walked through the doors of Coldthistle House on his own accord, had paid for a room, had ate your food and spoken to you like an old friend – he wasn't leaving. Nobody who entered Coldthistle House just left.

“You're all crazy,” Lance breathed, before he was pushing you away and marching towards his room. How independent of him – he didn't even need your assistance.

You watched him go, keeping that twisted smile on your face until you heard the sound of his door slamming closed and the hallways went silent again. You had done your job. That was all that mattered at the end of the day – the situation was now in Pidge's hands. Whatever she decided to do with him, you were not to be a part of.

Although, as you made your way back down the stairs to the foyer, ready to inform Keith all about what had happened, you couldn't help but let the curiosity overtake you. How much could Lance McClain really endure? How much of this twisted lifestyle would come as second nature to him, just like it did for you?

---

Lance's presence became scarcer the next few days. You could still sense him within Coldthistle House, though, parading around upstairs, darting between the different rooms in any attempt to get from one place to another without being spotted by one of you.

You acted the fool. You all did. Allura, Pidge and Keith all pretended as if they thought he had left, not once going up to his room to see to his things. You and Keith still sat by the fire every night, pretending like you couldn't hear him chuntering away to himself, all alone in the darkness of his own room upstairs.

The weekend came around. The sky was lit up purple tonight, white wisps of clouds streaking through the gorgeous colouring. You were waiting by the door with Allura, Pidge and Keith, hands folded in front of you, the good grin placed upon your features.

The door creaked open. The men hadn't bothered to knock. You decided then and there that you would make their deaths extra brutal.

“Evening, gentlemen,” Keith greeted, bowing at the waist in his usual manner. “You must be Harris and Thomas Corvette. A pleasure to be of service to you tonight.”

The two men tried to smile, but it seemed more of a scowl in your eyes. The two of them were clearly brothers, both brutally ugly with bruised faces. Harris even had dried blood staining his stubbled upper lip.

“Our room is ready, I hope,” said Thomas. “We've been travelling for hours, and I want a nice bed to finally rest in.”

“Of course,” said Keith. “Pidge here will lead you right to it.”

Pidge bowed in greeting, stepped forward and led the men to their room. As always, you kept your smile firm on your face until you were positive they were gone, and even then there was a giddy buzzing in your stomach that made it close to impossible to hide the amusement. Keith sighed, pushing his hat off of his head and stomping towards the front desk. You and Allura watched as he busied himself beneath the mahogany before he stood up again, now holding a bottle of white wine.

“Two men wanted for murder,” he said. Neither you nor Allura had asked. “Make their deaths harsh, Y/N. Not only are they killers, but-” He popped the cork on the wine and took a long swig directly from the bottle. “-they also have no manners.”

---

You finally saw Lance again the very day after Harris and Thomas Corvette showed up at Coldthistle House.

It was about time the man wised up and stopped hiding, you told yourself. You had been listening to his footsteps for days now, pretending you had no clue where he was or what he was doing. He must have seen himself as some kind of spy, scouring the manor with the full belief that everybody was completely oblivious to his presence.

You leaned against his door frame. It was dark outside. The drapes had been closed once again, and the hallways were lit up only by the flickering torches perched upon the walls; this side of Coldthistle House was much older than the other side of it, meaning the electrical lanterns were not in use at the moment. You watched the flames tinker back and forth for a little while – until Lance McClain was slowly opening his bedroom door and popping his head out.

“Enjoying your stay?”

Lance screamed, stumbling back. He tried to slam the door closed, but you had already stepped forward and lodged your foot between the frame and the bottom of the door, keeping it open.

“Y/N!” Lance exclaimed. “I thought I said I didn't want to see any of you ever again.”

“Have you forgotten that you're currently taking residence in my place of work?”

Lance frowned. Sweat was lining his forehead now, illuminated harshly by the torches. “Miss Gunderson said I wasn't allowed to leave – something about snow storms.”

You resisted the urge to grin. So like Pidge to come up with such a simple excuse for something that was not simple at all.

You folded your arms over your chest. “She certainly has a way with the customers, that one.”

Lance swallowed thickly. “What do you want? I need to go down to the laundrette and collect my-”

“You have other matters to see to first, Mr McClain. Matters we can no longer avoid.”

He raised a brow. He looked oddly handsome in this lighting, his jaw stubbled now. You noticed the scatter of papers upon the mahogany writing desk behind him. He had been spending his time in hiding writing. Whatever it was he was writing, you didn't care.

It was about time he started doing the job he was meant to be doing.

“We've got guests,” you said. “Two men who arrived late last night. I think you should meet them.”

“Why would I need to meet these guests?”

“There's nothing wrong with some friendly socialising, Mr McClain.”

“But I'm a guest here myself. I don't want to mingle with the other-”

“The Residents will not be lurking the hallways during your meeting,” you snapped. You were unsure why you were growing so frustrated – maybe it was because your scenarios were so different. All them years ago whenever you had stumbled into Coldthistle House, it immediately felt like you were home, like this was the very place you had always belonged. The gargoyles guarding the front pillars, the massive front doors, the way every single footstep either echoed or thumped against the ground – it was everything you had ever wanted, and the people within it had been everything you needed at the time.

Yet here Lance was, ready to leave as if this place didn't have some kind of connection to him. It was obvious it did; anybody who was destined to work at Coldthistle House had a connection to the building. It was common knowledge. The surge of belonging had been felt by every single member of staff, and Lance was lying if he claimed to not feel it too.

“I would prefer not to speak about them creatures,” Lance mumbled. “I would also prefer it if you left me to do my own thing. I am the paying customer, and I request privacy.”

You shook your head. A simple movement, but it got your point across.

Lance almost seemed to flinch at the action, putting his hands in his pockets as if afraid you were going to reach out and touch him. “Who are these guests and why do you want me to meet them?”

“So many questions.”

“Tell me, or I will leave here right now.”

“I'm getting deja vu. You made that threat last time.”

Lance clenched his stubbled jaw. “Miss L/N.”

You sighed. “Very well. If you must know, they are two men called Harris and Thomas Corvette, and they are staying here for a few days. Since you three are the only-”

But Lance didn't let you finish.

The air got stiff all of a sudden. The walls seemed to be closing in for no reason at all. Lance's gaze was firm on your own, unmoving, his jaw open and his hands bunched up so tightly in his pockets that the material crinkled against his legs.

His gaze was so intense that you stopped speaking just to observe what may have gone wrong.

“Mr McClain?”

“Harris and Thomas Corvette?” he repeated. His voice was hollow. There was nothing there.

You nodded. “I believe so.”

“Where are they now?”

“Dining as far as I-”

Lance shoved past you, rougher than you were expecting. His shoulder clashed with your own and suddenly he was storming down the steps, you stumbling after him. You passed Keith on the stairs. He had a tea towel draped over one of his shoulders, a tea tray in his hands but he paused as soon as he saw you both. You smiled at him. He knew what you had done.

“Oh, you are conniving,” he said.

You didn't reply, merely continued following Keith into the dining room.

This was the only room were the drapes were ever opened within the manor. Even now, though it was dark outside and the sight of the boggy field was quite a depressing sight to look out at, the drapes were pushed wide open to reveal the moonlight glistening down. The moonlight which was currently illuminating the two, bulky men sitting at a table for two in the far corner of the room.

“You,” Lance growled. There was no stopping him. You didn't know what to do, whether to stop him, whether to ask him what he was doing – you weren't even sure you wanted him to stop. He looked murderous, blue eyes now dark, his pace picking up the very moment he caught sight of the two men.

They looked up whenever they heard Lance enter. Pidge and Allura looked up from their space behind the bar. The two of them shot you confused looks, but you paid them little attention. Instead, you stopped by the door and watched Lance – inspected exactly what it was he was going to do.

And there was no words to describe the scene that took place then and there.

There was a blade in Lance's hand. You remembered the blade being the one Keith had been sharpening on the night before you had met Mr McClain. It was now held firmly in Lance's grip, and then it was covered in blood, and there was blood on Lance's untucked dress shirt, and suddenly there were two dead men in the kitchen.

If Lance had been expecting a reaction of horror, he most certainly didn't get one.

“I didn't think I'd need to clean up their blood for at least another few days,” Allura moped. She groaned as she stood up and headed towards the kitchen.

You and Pidge stayed put. The room had gone silent. The bodies were still. The blood was drying. The world was free of two more people who did nothing but taint it.

Lance's hand was trembling. “They killed my parents.”

As if either you or Pidge needed an explanation.

Lance dropped the knife to the floor. The sound of the blade clashing against the ground reverberated through the dining room, followed closely by the thud coming from Lance's knees when he followed it. He curled his hands into his stomach, drenched in blood. It was always confusing how the blood could get on your hands, even though you had been holding a knife, even though you had the handle between you and the body. It was one of your pet peeves. Your hands got very dry from the amount of times you had to wash them.

Slowly, you dropped yourself beside Lance and inspected the bodies.

“They deserved more than just stab wounds,” you mumbled. Lance was sobbing at the side of you. “But you did a good job for your first try.”

Lance's head snapped to look at you. “What are you saying?” And you grinned. You grinned the good grin, only this time it was real. It was on your face, not because you needed to hide something, but because the things you had once kept hidden were no longer needed to be kept a secret any longer.

“Welcome to Coldthistle House, Mr McClain. You will make a great addition to the family.”

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