#tsoc

[carp-from-space]

Not yet babe.

[Sasha pulled out a plank and wrote on it]

[popcornaddict500]

this comic is so stupid but I love it so much

[ladylaviniya]

Spirit of Christmas Past

Masterlist || Chapter 1 || Chapter 2 || Chapter 3

Chapter Summary: You are greeted by the Spirit of Christmas and he decides to confront your past and punish your stubborn behaviour.

Pairing: Chris Evans x f!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Manipulation, Dead Parents Description, Verbal Abuse, P in V sex, Rough Sex, Choking, Fingering, Humiliation, Heart Break, Ghosts, Swearing, Alcoholic Use, Classism.

Word Count: 9k

A/N: Please to all readers, understand I don't have a beta editor and I can miss some mistakes because most my typing is on the bus to work when I get the time to write. ALSO this is my attempt at the naughty or nice challenge using: 18. “If you didn’t want this, you’d behave.” @the-slumberparty an event challenge created by @navybrat817 & @darkficsyouneveraskedfor

12:59am 25th December 2023, New York City.

Among the nothingness of sleep, you could hear in the distance the sound of little bells jingling. You groaned, cracking your eyes open slowly. The sound was becoming more persistent and volumed.

It was freezing! The management still hadn’t fixed the heating system. You shivered and dug deeper into the duvet layers of your bed. You reached for your phone to check the time.

“Merry fucking Christmas,” you grumbled before rolling over onto your back. All memory of Marlene’s visit had disappeared from your mind.

You stared up at the plain ceiling. Your eyes grew hazy while your mind dissociated into thought. A single tear rolled from your eye.

God, you hated Christmas so much. You tried ignoring all the years. You tried pushing back the pain. You tried thinking about your jobs and tasks still incomplete. You tried not to think about how lonely you were, how unfulfilled you felt deep down. A mean tug at your chest made you hiss.

The ceilings image morphed into spots and shapes of different kinds...and when you chose to focus your eyes you could see the flecks of shadow clashing with light, wrapping and drawing out the shape of a person walking towards you.

You leant back and felt the mattress still under you. What you were seeing had to be part of some strange dream. You concluded you’d fallen back to sleep.

Gravity didn’t apply in this scenery.

The ceiling opened up, glowing in a soft calming light. The figure kept walking it’s way towards you. The closer he got the more you could acknowledge his face and good looks. He was lean and clean shaven, a depiction of youth. His hair was the colour of dark roasted chestnuts. He wore a white sweater.

‘Woah, what a weird dream...but look at how handsome he is.’

As if he heard your thoughts loud and clear he smiled with sparkling white teeth. Still unsure of reality, you lifted your hand up high to the ceiling. He did the same. He reached out with his palm out.

Your finger tips touched and you gasped at how warm and inviting he felt. Your mind ran filthy. You bit your bottom lip before lurching off the bed to the ceilings opening window into the handsome man’s arms. You swore you knew him. Something about that smile. You couldn’t place it though. Butterflies filled your insides.

His eyes were a blue that matched mountains. His cheeks sharp and strong but that smile was ageless.

You shyly bit the tip of your finger and giggled, “Kiss me.”

He cupped your face and accepted your advance without hesitation. His lips leant forward and met your starved mouth.

He was slow, sweet like vanilla. He pulled away and nibbled at your lips, sucking and licking with you. He was perfect. You were the first to pull away, panting and mewling. Your body rubbed up against his again. One of his arms cupped your back while his other hand cupped your cheek and ran his thumb over your bottom lip.

You felt his muscles, his hot body. His arms tightly held you, protecting you from the world and claiming you as his.

In your head this all made sense. Deep down you had met before, but where...God where had you met him? It ached not knowing fully.

Pulling away you moaned, “Fuck me. Please.”

You took his ginormous hands and pressed them against your breasts. Only a thin piece of satin separated your skin to his skin. You knew he’d be able to feel your nipples pebbling under his palms.

You kissed and nibbled along his jaw, panting, “I���m not wearing anything underneath.” And that was true. You underwear had gone missing after you had played with your toy while imagining a rape play scene. You looked up at him with doe eyes fluttering. Your fingers pinched the hem of your night gown. He smirked, his fingers danced up your thighs, and by your surprise....he forced your hem down.

His eyes burned bright blue, almost glowing as the world around you both faded black. His head shook lightly at you, his wet lips parted, and he whispered into the open air, “Be not afraid Y/N as I shine the light on your past.”

Your head jerked back, your eyes squinted, ‘What the fuck?’

The question filled your mind and escaped through your lips, “Who are you?”

The handsome stranger rubbed his thumbs into your palms and said with heralding tones, “I am he who sees past, present and future tidings upon the grandeur of Christmas day. I am The Spirit of Christmas. But you…may call me Chris.”

“Chris?” You blinked and rebuffed in an fit of laughter. You shook your head, disbelieving and feeling that heat of anger rise.

“The Spirit of Christmas,” you cackled, “I really did have too much to drink to be having weird dreams like this. You kiss me and tell me that you’re some mystic being?”

His lips flicked up, bemused, “You asked for that kiss, I merely obliged such a sweet request.”

Humiliation bloomed in the pit of your belly. You felt hot in the face and grit your teeth.

His thumbs ran over the pulse of your wrists, his eyes were crowned in a false innocence.

Your eyes glowered in seconds, “Go fuck yourself, Chris,” you fumed.

You shoved his hands away and turned around trying to imagine something else, hoping the dream would change or you would wake up. You stumped short and jumped back as your path was blocked by a horrific sight. A naked woman in the darkness, chained and kneeling at your feet. Marlene.

The memories flood back into your mind. Her ethereal form floating your bed with her frozen heart and warning words. Except she was no ghost in this form. She was hauntingly thin like a skeleton, the loos skin of her belly and breasts hung down, her skin was discoloured and sickly, her cheeks hallowed and her hair thin, balding. Her teeth were black, gums rotten, her chest made this awful whistling noise as she struggled to breath. Her finger nails were red and cracked. She was chained to the floor. She looked up at you with sad bloodshot eyes, shaking her head at you.

“Go with him Y/N, he is your last chance…” she shivered as if a cold wind had prickled her flesh. Her head hung low.

His heavy hand laid down bearing weight onto your shoulder. You gasped and looked back at him with fear. His face appeared mournful as he acknowledged Marlenes decrypted state. Those blue eyes you were enchanted by moments ago sent an icy chill down your spine as his attention turned to you.

“Come,” he softly beckoned, “Let this soul pay it’s penance…”

You licked your dry lips and tried to keep your cool without revealing your fear. You nodded, not chancing your voice breaking in an exchange. His palm held back out to you. You glared at him. With defeat and the tiniest tremble in your fingers, you finally tucked your hand into his, feeling his warm fingers wrap around you, you had to admit, it felt nice. He squeezed it softly and walked, guiding you away from the living corpse of Marlene’s soul.

After some time of walking away until Marlenes image disappeared.

The shadows felt literally heavy, weigh you down in what felt like a fight against gravity. You recalled a time you trudged through the snow up to your waist. It felt like this, yet there was only silence.

His hand was still wrapped around yours, tugging you forward mercilessly.

You felt like you could have tripped in the black abyss.

“Sp-spirit?” you finally dared to ask, “Spirit…where are you taking me?”

And then he stopped. You could hear his sigh and felt the air around you grow colder. This sexy dream had quickly turned into a foreboding nightmare. A flame of light flickered in the palm of his other hand, it was like supernatural magic.

He pulled you in closer and his other hand came around and slapped your backside.

You shrieked and tried shoving him back, “Ow! What the hell! That hurt!”

He chortled, “Yes, the past can hurt, especially yours,” his finger scratched under your chin, “But it can also heal if you learn from it.”

The floor beneath your feet disappeared and you both plummeted into the darkness again. You screamed as your belly lifted up into your chest. You squeezed your eyes shut and felt the spirit hug you tighter, your fingers desperately squeezed the wool of his sweater.

And then the falling stopped, and your screaming died down into violent pants. He still held you and then placed you softly down onto the ground below your feet.

His smile was gentle, “Here we are.”

05:00pm Christmas Eve, 1999, Texas, Austin.

Finally, you dared to open your eyes. Your hands were still clawed into his thick sweater when you looked around at your surroundings. It was a living room inside a trailer home. Red tinsel had been taped to walls. A small Christmas tree stood in the corner between the space of a couch and a basinet. Poorly drawn pictures of baubles, stars, Santa and elves had been scattered over the floor.

‘Ugh.’ Christmas decorations…but no, hold on…you knew this place.

And a soft hum of Jingle Bells filled your ears. You gasped. You knew who it belonged to in an instant. You let go of the Spirit and looked behind you.

A woman in the kitchen was opening a packet of biscuits, placing each one on a plastic plate. She was younger than you while sharing a likeness in appearance. The home smelt like gingerbread while she began to pour a cup of milk. She placed the cup on the small coffee table, sighing as she ran her palm over the swell of her protruding belly under her dress.

“M-mom?” you said shakily, “Mom is that…oh god mom! I missed you so much.”

You raced forward with your arms spread wide, seeking to hug her. As you closed your arms around her, you stumbled and fell hard to the floor onto your knees.

“Fuck!” you hissed and heard the mocking snicker come from the Spirit.

You twisted your body and sat back on your hands. You looked up and back at your mother, confused and dazed. Her feet were not on top of you, standing on you, but rather, she was standing inside and walking through you. You jumped in fright and crawled backwards, watching how she walked through you transparently.

“M-mom?” you whimpered, scared and confused. When she didn’t answer your voice filled with panic, “Mom!”

The Spirit, holding his hands behind his back chuckled, looking between you both.

You shouted, “What the hell is wrong with her!?”

His laughter pulled back and he hummed with a smile, “There’s nothing wrong, she can’t see you or hear you. These are but shadows of things that have been. They have no consciousness of us.”

She totally ignored you as she lowered herself onto the couch.

The Spirit held his hand out to you to help you up from the floor. You slapped it away and used the wall for stability. He didn’t appear offended or surprised by your viperous habits. You shoved past him and fell to your knees in front of her.

“Mom?” you said a little more gently.

You reached out to touch her shoulder. Your fingers went straight through her. Your eyes watered. She looked up from her belly and her lips spread into her perfect smile. Her eyes glittered, “Honey, can you please grab the cookies for Santa?”

Your face lit up and you nodded desperately, scooting back off your knees to fetch the cookies from the small kitchenette, but before you could step forward, you heard the tiny squeak of a child, “Okay, mommy!”

And from the corner of your eye you saw her... next to the tree was a little girl in a plaid dress and pig tails with plaid scrunchies, laying on her belly, kicking her feet back in forth with a crayon in her little chubby hand scribbling a poor drawing of a reindeer. It looked more like a cow with antlers.

“Is that…”

The little girl crawled to her feet and skipped to the kitchen, she looked so small compared to the plate she carried back to the living room and placed it onto the coffee table proudly put the beside the milk.

You stood up and took a small step back. You bumped into the Spirits chest, “Is that me?”

He laid his hand on your lower back. He watched you watching your much younger self.

He hummed, “Yes, you were seven years old here I believe.”

‘Yes, just before Caroline was born.”

Your mom leant forward and grabbed the little girl by the waist, tugging her back and peppered kisses all over her small giggling face while her fingers tickled her sides until she begged her to stop.

“Love you my little troublemaker,” she whispered against the tiny cheek.

“I love you too mommy,” you and your younger self said in sync. This, the Spirit noted with a calm expression. He walked around the room. The smaller girl version of yourself ran through him as he perched himself on the arm of couch and cocked his head at the drawings scattered along the floor.

“You had talent, you know?” he mused.

A slam of the front door made you jump. Your father with a big welcoming grin came home shortly after. The little girl cheered excitedly, running off to show him the drawing she drew for him. He picked her up and threw her in the air before catching her again despite the disapproving look your mother gave him.

“Daddy! Daddy! Look!” the little girl said giving him the picture, “Merry Christmas!”

He laughed with pure mirth and delight, his eyes squinted at the image, and he nodded.

You smirked; he had no fucking clue what the kid version of you had drawn.

“It’s beautiful babygirl, it’s ah…ah…”

He glanced over at your mother who mouthed the word back, “Reindeer.”

His eyes widened and his voice lilted, “A reindeer! Just for me!? Thankyou sweetheart,” he kissed her cheek, “I can’t wait to show all my friends this at work.”

He placed her safely down on the floor and walked over to your mother before sitting on the couch beside her. He put the picture on the coffee table and leant in to kiss his wife. Child you turned away and stuck out her tongue, in total disgust because ‘boys kissing girls was gross!’

“And how’s mommy been?” your father purred, laying a hand on her belly, his thumb lazily rubbed back and forth.

“Tired,” she groaned, “Little peanut is coming any day now. I can feel her kicking my rib cage, I think she’s planning her escape and wants to rocket out,” she breathed hard, her hand softly laced into her, holding it over the spot where your baby sister was kicking her feet.

You chewed your bottom lip and glanced at the Christmas Spirit who was grinning at the little girl in her pig tails and plaid.

You felt strange. And the strangeness was uncomfortable. Nausea filled your tummy.

“If this is a memory of just the past, “ you started wobbly, “Does that mean...everything is the same as it once was?”

“Yes, that’s right,” acknowledged the Spirit.

You smirked, “Good.” You twisted around on your heel and marched down the hallway that connected to your tiny bedroom.

A small surprised noise escaped you at seeing how pink and purple everything was coloured. On the walls was a my little pony poster. On your floral bed covers was your favourite Bratz doll. You sat down on the tiny bed and sighed before burying your face into your hands.

You tried sneezing. You tried slapping your face. You even got up and started doing jumping jacks. You would do anything to try and wake yourself up! A tiny knock broke your concentration, and you gasped coming face to face with the Spirit of Christmas. He was leaning against the doorway, holding back his laughter.

You sneered at him and sat back on the bed, panting softly. You tried remembering his name; calling him Spirit felt tedious.

“Chris was it?” you spat mockingly, “Is that because your name's Christmas?”

He dug his hands into his pockets, his smile unfaltered, “Nah, I just liked the name, it fits. My real name you wouldn’t be able to say because it hasn’t been said by the tongue of man.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Yea okay whatever,” you dismissed sourly, “So, what the fuck is this? Huh? Is this some kind of sick game, are you trying to hurt me?”

Your throat grew tight. You couldn’t believe what was happening and why of all people this was happening to you. What did he even want? Was this just some insane plot to blackmail you?

“Well, guess what,” your chin jerked out at him, “I’m not scared, I’m not hurt. In fact I’m thrilled!” you showed off your laughter, forced from your lungs.

His smile softened, “Ah, but why is your lips trembling? And...what’s that I see?”

He took a large step forward and stood above you. You laid back, flinching at his hand reaching down to you face. Your heart thudded loudly.

His finger was hot on your cheek, it rolled up and brushed your skin. He pulled back the finger, rolling it into his knuckle and moved it between your eyes to show you something

On his finger was a drop of moisture.

“A tear?” he whispered, “What ever for?”

Your face felt hot and you blinked away the others that escaped your lashes, you sucked in a deep breath and rubbed your nose.

You let out a fake nervous laugh, “Please, you think I’m crying? Have you not seen how dusty this house his? I’m just having allergies.”

Little did you know, the Spirit could see beyond your lies.

He sat down beside you on your bed and placed his large hand on your knees.

You felt vulnerable. You didn’t want him here, you didn’t want to be here. And what was worse was his silence. He did not speak for a long while. The only noises were the sounds of the little girl and her parents in the living room.

You sighed and looked at the floor. You missed this point in your life. Things were simpler. You were so oblivious to the world and it’s harms.

“Your father sounds incredibly proud,” The Spirit said, his thumb ran over your skin.

Your eyes fluttered and you nodded.

“Did you know he told you the truth? About your picture?”

You eyed him cautiously.

He snapped his fingers and your bedroom faded into an office space. You were sitting on a dark oak desk. Seeing the boxy computer with twistable speakers struck you with nostalgia.

11:00am 26th December, 1999, Texas, Austin.

Your dad came through the office door, holding a piece of paper. Your picture.

He pinned it to a cork board and one of his colleagues that followed him in jokingly asked, “What’s with the Picasso cow?”

Your dad huffed back, “Hey man, it’s a reindeer and for your information, my daughter made it for me. And I’m lucky to have it. What did your kids get you?”

The coworker snorted and muttered under his breath, “A phone call asking about Child support, always check if the condom is ripped my friend.”

The two men left, bantering between each other.

You looked at the photo of your dad, your mom, seven year old you and a baby Caroline. It was a Polaroid taken in the hospital. Your mom had little Caroline just before the new year. You all looked so happy. You loved being a big sister, you couldn’t stop leaving baby Caroline alone, eager for her to grow up and become your best friend. Were there times she annoyed you? Yes, she was your sister after all. But Caroline had a heart of gold.

The Spirit touched the photo and asked with mirth, “Such a beautiful family...whatever happened?”

You didn’t answer. You slid off the desk and marched out of the office door only to somehow walk right back inside...you gasped and turned back around but when you opened the door to leave it was like staring into a mirroring space.

You poked your head out of the office only for it to be poking back inside through the same door.

It was the strangest paradox that you had come to find.

The Spirit sucked his teeth and shook his head, “Yea, funny that...so here’s the deal...you are going to follow my rules.”

��Asshole doesn’t know what a deal is.’

He stood away from the cork board and sat down in your father’s rolling desk chair, stacking his feet up onto the wood loudly.

Your hands protectively wrapped around yourself. His pupils seemed to expand and shrink quickly like a cat. Your skin crawled.

“What rules?” You scoffed, “Are these a part of your test?”

He nodded once, “Yes. See for this whole thing to work, you have to comply and participate...meaning,” he shoved away from the desk and launched from the chair to walk fast towards you, causing you to walk backwards and hit the wall behind you, his hand grabbed and squeezed your jaw, from his teeth he seethed, “When I ask a question.. you answer it. Or I could just leave you here...forever.”

Your eyes watered, your chest heaved sporadically, “L-leave me here?”

His eyes fluttered, “Oh I’m sorry, you didn’t think this would have consequences?” His nose pressed to yours as he remarked, “Your little friend Marlene is stuck haunting your apartment for that reason. She’s stuck in a loop in which she can never escape. She gets to watch you everyday moving into her apartment and moving all her possessions around. I could leave you here and do the same. I could let you re-watch your father hang up your picture for eternity.”

His bright blue eyes darkened almost totally black. At that point you couldn’t tell if he was a good spirit or an unholy one.

You swallowed hard with a whimper and squeezed shut your eyes. His hot breath tickled your ear.

“I can be merciful...so...” his thumb rubbed over your bottom lip, peeking out from your eyes you thought he might kiss you, “Let’s try again...”

When he released you and turned back to the cork board he clicked his fingers. You collapsed from the wall to your knees, too weak and shaky to hold you up after his dominant spell. Piles of work paper flew around the room, around his head, his eyes raced over the pages, the words turned glowing gold as he read over them with his supernatural powers.

“Your family looked stable enough for their poor income. You lived a decent childhood...” He looked over his shoulder, his eyes hard and demanding, “What happened that changed it all?”

You bowed your head cowering as you whispered, “You already know.”

The papers that swirled in a storm around him floated softly down to the floor in front of you. The ink of the printed words began morphing into swirling shapes and colours.

The Spirit said, “I’d like it if you told me. That’s how this works. We analyse what really happened compared to what you think happened.”

Your eyes stared at the colours in the ink rise, painting the image of a snow covered alley way from nightmares years ago. You gasped. Your mother, you and your sister were all walking down from the entrance. You clenched the front of your nightgown and desperately blabbered into begging. Tears ran down your face. It didn’t take much effort knowing what was to come.

“Please don’t make me watch it.”

You tried to move the papers away but the pages fought back in nasty stinging paper cuts.

Your covered your face and eyes before hearing the mystic being bellow, “Put your hands down!”

Half screaming you sobbed, “No, please! I can’t do it! Please!”

You stood up on your feet and threw yourself into him. He did not hold you and let you fall at his feet. He did crouch down and rub both his thumbs over your snot covered lip.

“Please,” you choked, his finger pressed to you mouth. He shook his head and softly hushed you. He cupped the back of your neck and moved his mouth to ghost along your lips.

You hiccuped and opened your mouth, waiting for him to just conquer a kiss. He almost did with how his tongue tickled your lips and teeth when he icily repeated, “Dont forget I can leave your here. And you can watch it over and over and over. Be a good girl. Tell me what happened.”

He sat on the floor and tugged you into his arms and lap. You buried your face into his neck and hiccupped again.

“C-caroline was nine and I was sev-seventeen...Mom took us Christmas shopping. We were gonna buy something for Dad. A watch. A really fucking nice watch because dad had a big promotion in New York coming up...on our way back home, a drunken asshole with a broken bottle threatened to kill us if we didn’t give him our bags. We complied and mom made sure to step in front of us. He got angry because it wasn’t a Rolex...he then...”

You broke down again and clenched Chris’ white sweater tightly. His fingers raced up and down your spine slowly and tempered, hushing you until you managed to start talking again.

“What did this man do?”

The pages turned dark burgundy red.

Your but your bottom lip and sniffled, “He punched the broken bottle into Moms’ belly. It was so sharp it cut through her jacket, her skin and fat all the way into her liver. There was nothing Caroline and I could do. We tried to stop the bleeding with our coats. But When paramedics arrived ....she had bled to death. I watched her choke on it.”

You wiped your tears and snot across his shoulder, the soft wool soaked it up. His strong hands pulled you closer into him. You straddled his hips, curling your legs around his back. Your night gown hem rose up around your nude hips. His body was so warm. He was like a blanket around you.

“She died, protecting us,” you gulped, “She died over a fucking watch because some greedy homeless drunk wanted money for some booze.”

The Spirit clucked his tongue, “Your mother passed and your father?”

Your tears had calmed down significantly, you covered yourself to sit on his thigh instead of balancing on just his lap. You twisted your body and stared at the moving pictures on the papers.

Your dad came to image. The black beneath his eyes and the sunken cheeks were not the man you wished to remember. He lit a cigarette and pressed a bottle to his lips.

“Dad got his promotion and we moved to Manhattan but...Mom’s death really took a toll on him.”

You were making paper angels on the floor with your sister. You hung them up together in her room. There was no Christmas tree. It was the Christmas after your mom’s death and before you left for college. It was the last Christmas you shared with Caroline.

The sweet ten year old was wise and emotionally matured than others her age. It was how she processed your moms death. Caroline at only ten was able to keep you and your father from experiencing more heart ache and grief.

You watched the two girls climbed under a blanket and play with a flashlight. You pushed over her wrist a rubber band loomed bracelet with her favourite colours. She gave you three fruity scented rubbers and a pencil she had been rewarded by her teacher at school.

“I used that pencil until the tip was impossible to hold,” you whispered and felt Chris’ warm wet lips press against your temple, he rocked you like you were the most fragile thing in the room. Maybe you were.

“She still keeps your rubber band bracelet in her bedside table...she wore it to the birth of your nephew,” The spirit stated.

You choked and cupped your hand over your mouth. You hadn’t cried so hard and so much in years not since-

“And then you left for College.”

You sucked in a deep and painful breath. You nodded and clenched your hand into a fist.

“College wasn’t so bad. I had my fun like everyone else,” you lied.

“Did you?” Chris smirked, “Let’s have a look at that then? Shall we?”

8:00pm 23rd December, 2012, New York University.

Your father’s desk morphed into a pool table.

It was the party of the season. Sororities and fraternities came together. You weren’t a member of a sorority. You chose to believe stand offishly that sororities were of a hive cult mind. It wasn’t worth networking in such a unnecessary club and housing.

You didn’t have friends in college either. You didn’t make yourself approachable. Always sitting at the front of the class room and never smiling. You were the dedicated pupil and that made you into the coldest fish of the school.

Your professors approval and marks is all you cared about. The more successful, the more opportunities and the more chances of gaining success enough to maybe look after your little sister. That originally was the goal.

You watched with Chris as a gaggle of Kappa delta girls giggled passed by a young girl no older than nineteen holding a red cup close to her chest. She looked disdainful and tired. She was wearing a basic white thankyou with a cotton scarf and jeggings. Thick black glasses at on the edge of your nose. You laughed awkwardly looking at the past youth. Your recalled your hipster phase in college but didn’t remember you looking this horrendous and mismatched. Your hair...you shuddered. You never did that style again.

“Fun party!” Chris called over your shoulder. He wore a red Christmas hat and in the crook of his lip was a party blower. The lights and music were obnoxiously jolly and hip hop rap remixes found on YouTube. You know YouTube? When it’s common the iPhone one was still a little television and not the red play button we know today. So many people were growing nuts over these two Neanderthals on a channel called “Smosh” at the time, maybe they were trying to mimic that movie of dipshits called Jack Ass.

Yes...party...you had been invited and you almost said no...but your mother’s death anniversary was coming up and you felt it appropriate to seek the comfort of other people and illicit items to take the pain away for a night. The young woman continued to help herself to the eggnog, standing right beside the table, spooning the goop into her red cup

You tried forgetting about the drunk monster that stabbed your mother all those years ago.

“A naughty freshman?” Chris chuckled, breaking you away from your thoughts.

He floated to the eggnog bowl and grinned,.“Barely a woman and breaking the rules, I wouldn’t have pegged you as a rebel.”

You rolled your eyes, “Hardly,” before walking over to sit on the edge of the pool table. Some guys were playing with their cues and balls. They walked through you as they passed by. One of them you remembered very well and tried your best to not acknowledge.

“It’s how you met him though...isn’t it?” said Chris, looking between the young woman and a young man playing at the table.

The man was handsome. Tall and dark. His eyes a burnt burgundy that sent the younger you thrills down your spine.

The young woman leaning in her corner and sipping her sorrows away was eyeing the game keenly. It looked...fun.

The very ass she looked upon was found and shaped with strong thighs and calf’s under those denim jeans. The ass belonged to a man. And that man turned around once he caught her staring in the corner of his eye.

He smirked and finished the game before swaggering over your way. Even now you still admired how good looking he was.

Chris was looking him up and down, smiling and cockily mimicking the walk but this time back to you so you could both watch the events of your forlorn past.

“Hey, aren’t you in my maths class?” The man asked leaning over her with just his right arm.

She ignored him initially, shrugging as a reply.

He chuckled, “You’re that weird chick that sits at the front right?”

Her eyes flickered back and her lip curdled, “And you’re that obtuse moron that doesn’t know the difference between algebra and calculus equations?”

Chris chuckled, “There you are. I was wondering when you’d come out to play.”

You felt a twinge ashamed. Is that how others saw you all the time? An uptight, haughty bitch? You remained quiet.

“Well...I find I act my dumbest when I’m around beautiful ladies,” said the confident man, “I get all nervous and stuff.”

“Nervous and stuff?” She repeated slowly, flicking her tongue deliberately against her teeth to sound out each precious syllable.

God, it made you cringe to watch yourself.

He leant in closer and pressed his nose to hers, his eyes glanced up and he said heatedly, “You’re standing beneath a mistletoe.”

Before he could officially kiss her, Chris clapped his hands and world the room around. He grabbed your wrist and made sure to stand you on his shoes as the people and party disappeared into books on shelves.

4:00pm 23rd December, 2013, New York University.

The pool table melted down into the shape of a smaller desk and chair. That same girl was sitting at it with her head in a book and her pen against the page. The sky outside was dark. It was snowing lightly beyond the windows.

That man from the party now wore a dark blue jumper and sweatpants, he wandered up beside her, sipping a starbucks milkshake.

She moved the thick black rim glasses from her face. Her fingertips rubbed circles into her eyes before returning back to the important reading material. Dark shadows bagged beneath her eyes.

“You were a dedicated student,” said Chris, his hands lingered up your spine and wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer to him. You nodded. You were.

The loud sucking of the man’s Starbucks cup made her slap the book close.

With her tight voice she snootily scolded him, “You know you’re not allowed food and drink in the library.”

He smirked, “Whatcha gonna do miss goodie goodie? Gonna tell on me? Gonna take my drink away?” he shook it, the ice cubes rattled I side.

He chuckled and chewed the straw. His eyes glanced at you up and down.

“Youre kinda hot...in a weird nerdy way you know?” he chuckled.

Both younger you and the you if now rolled your eyes and scoffed. But you knew the younger version was naive and how so many of those one liner comments got you into the most destructive relationship of your life.

The young man stole her book from the desk and ran off with it. Her shriek became laughter as she quickly collected her bag and pencils to chase after him.

The Spirit held you when he stood behind you His hands cradled your arms and hip, rocking you slowly, side to side. He watched the interaction of two young people deep into their puppy love with a great fascination over his face.

“Who was the handsome beau?”

“Anthony Mackie...the schools best hockey player and class clown idiot,” you muttered.

Chris hummed with pleased curiosity, “Is that all?”

You grabbed at his wrists and squeezed them tightly. You pressed your head back into his chest and sighed.

“He was my boyfriend,” you said quietly to Chris.

The library seemed to fast forward. Outside the seasons changed from winter, spring, summer fall and back to winter again. She was sitting back in the same desk again. Her eyes were still tired and now she wore a little more makeup to conceal it. Her eyes were glued to the pages, racing to read and write notes. Her ipod shuffle earphones were half broken, crackling each time unless you held the cord in a specific way.

And a soft humming slipped from her lips, totally immersed in her study.

“Oh, oh, where do we begin? The rubble or our sins?”

Chris side glanced you and you side glanced him. Without the music, her crackly voice just sounded like a dying bird.

“And the walls kept tumbling down in the city that we love. Grey clouds roll over the hills bringing darkness from above.”

“An awful drawer and a terrible deaf tone singer,” he laughed, “I didn’t think I would learn so much about the things you’re bad at.”

You had to admit, he was right. You stomped hard onto his foot. His lips puckered and his eyes squeezed in his silent pain.

“Oops,” you feigned ignorance, “Guess I’m bad at watching my step too.”

“But if you close your eyes,” she sang a little louder and you felt that second hand humiliation wave through you hard, “Does it almost feel like nothing changed at all? And if you close your eyes..Does it almost feel like you’ve been here befor-”

Behind her, Anthony came whistling around a corner and stuck his head into the study nook, stealing her head phone from her ear and kissed her cheek hard.

She smiled and just as quickly frowned.

“C’mon babe,” said Anthony, “Sebastian’s throwing a killer basement bash for the holidays. Let’s go to the party.”

The college girl laughed mockingly at her boyfriend, “I’m sorry, did you forget that we have a test tomorrow? I don’t have time to go out wasting it away with your degenerate friends.”

Chris hands sneakily ran down over your thighs and slipped beneath the night gown to cup your belly. Your breath hitched. You couldn’t tell if you were aroused or disgusted anymore. Why of all times and places was he groping you now?!

“Baby,” the hockey player sighed, “You’re the smartest chick I know. I’m sure you’ll pass tomorrow. A little bit of dancing and drinking won’t change that.”

“No,” she firmly hissed and turned her head back to your book. Anthony’s chest deflated.

“Anthony just wanted to party all the time,” you scoffed to Chris, “He was so horny and stupid I can’t believe I actually dated him.”

He gave you a side ways glance, his thumb rubbed tiny circles into your skin.

“So you dumped him?” he asked looking between you and your younger studying self.

Sheepishly you looked away and shrugged, “...not exactly...it’s complicated.”

“Enlighten me,” he whispered into your ear, kissing your cheek after.

Your body grew warmer by the second especially in places you wouldn’t have guessed. Your insides felt alive and buzzing. It was so wrong.

“...I...” Anthony paused and took a few moments to break out his voice, “I can see your studies are more important than me, huh? We haven’t hung out in ages and...you’re never taking a break from study to enjoy life with me... Is this really more important? I mean, c’mon...” his eyes softened, “It’s almost Christmas break.”

And it was violent. You jumped watching her turn and announce cold cuttingly, “As a matter of fact, this is. I don’t have time to waste on dumb doornail guys when I need to succeed. I guess I can’t expect a hopeless hockey player to understand. Go skate on some ice and hit a put, it’s not like you’ll be able to feed your future family.”

His eyes widened.

Your eyes widened.

Her eyes darkened with scornful hate.

He kissed her head and shook his head, he whispered, “Merry Christmas Y/N. I wish you nothing but the world in your palm, I just won’t be in it.” He stood away shakily. Tears were pearled in his eyes as he walked away leaving her to her own devices. She grunted and went back to her studies... The next morning you had earned the top score of the class.

You knew the break up was quick, you didn’t remember saying such a mean thing to the guy you had fallen mad head over hill in love with.

You couldn’t believe you had been so cruel.

But you had. And there was nothing you could do to take it back. It happened. It was done. Finished.

And Anthony did nothing wrong except invite you to a party, a party you never went to, a party where he met his future wife.

“Spirit remove me from this place,” you choked as your chest began trembling.

Chris hushed you and kissed the side of your head, “It’s alright, I told you before, these are merely shadows of the past, things that have been.”

He wiped the unwilling tears coursing down your cheek.

You shook your head and wailed, “I don’t fucking care! Remove me! Take me somewhere else!”

A vile sobbing wail screamed from your lips. You didn’t know where it had come from. Your knees gave way and you fell, Chris’ arm caught your waist in time and laid you down across the carpet.

The vision of time phased away to the darkness. You felt your heart get louder, fearing the unknown pitch black. His hot hand cupped your cheek and you found yourself cowering into his chest.

1:40am 25th December, 2023, New York City.

There was a faint light in the area around you. Dim and blue. Your eyes struggled to open...you lifted your head from what you originally believed was Chris’ chest. Yet it revealed to you quickly that the warmth was only your soft pillows. You were back in your own bedroom again. The sheets has been wrapped around your waist and legs.

You didn’t know how to feel. You just cried. You buried your head and sobbed. You missed your mother and the father you once had. You missed Anthony and regretted how much you might’ve hurt him. And you missed being touched...you missed Chris’ warm hands holding you and the foolish grin he wore. You barely knew up but you mourned his existence that might’ve not been real at all.

Sitting up sniffling and sighing hard, you got out of your bed and walked to your kitchen. You reached for your coffee machine and paused. No, you need something stronger. You went to the fridge and grabbed the bottle of wine from earlier. You intended to finish the damn thing and forget everything for a while.

Turn back around you returned to your room to lay back in your three thousand dollars bedsheets...

Except you didn’t recall buying him too.

Chris, still here. Now laying across your very luxuriously soft duvet. He made it dramatically obvious, running his cheek into your pillow smelling the essence of your tears.

Your spine shot up and down hot. You tried not to smile. You were pleased he was here. You didn’t know where he came from or where he was hiding before but seeing him again welcomed something into your cold heart.

His eyebrows wiggled, “Oh, Merlot? For me? You shouldn’t have.”

You hummed feigning your displeasure, “Its Pinot Noir... I didn’t think you’d be so uncultured.”

He chuckled, looking down at the soft fabrics he was pinching, “Yea, well I’m probably more knowledgeable on hot chocolate and eggnog more than anything.”

He pat the spot beside him, inviting you to sit on your own bed. You felt it was ironic and ludicrous.

“Maybe...anyway...don’t you have somewhere else to be? Someone else to bother?” You snipped and cocked your hip.

“As a matter of fact...” he rolled onto his back and placed his hands behind his head, “I don’t, so be a good snowflake and join me, the covers are incredible!”

You snorted softly rolling your eyes, “I know,” you sat on the bed and unscrewed the bottle, you took a deep sip and cringed a croak, “I bought them.”

He took the bottle from his hands, not asking if he could. But really what was the point in fighting him. He stole your wine and took his own sip. You couldn’t help stare at his bobbing Adams apple.

He passed the bottle back. You were going to take another drink before Chris said, “It all makes sense now.”

You eyes him putting the bottle down....he was daring you to ask it, you knew it...and you complied.

“What?”

You crawled onto your knees on the mattress and waited with your curious eyes. The wine warmed your belly. You tossed your head to one side, staring up and down the Spirit. He had such an appealing form for something so inhuman and supposedly holy.

He smiled.

“What!?” you repeated needfully.

He sighed, “This,” he waved his hand towards you.

“You just gestured to all of me.”

“Exactly.”

Your eyes narrowed and a bold bolt drove through you, the twinge of annoyance mixed with frustrated anger, “If you’re going to talk in riddles, you can get the fuck off my bed and get the fuck out of my apartment. Merry fucking Christmas.”

His smile remained but his eyes sparkled with mischief. He lifted his chin.

“How you became a holiday hating, grievously malicious, uptight little cunt.”

Your eyes could have popped out from your head, “Excuse me?!” You gagged on nothingness. Your fists curled...‘What happens to people who punched Spirits in the nose?’

He shrugged and sighed, “You wanted to know. Don’t blame me for telling you the truth. I don’t do white lies, that’s not in my books.”

You grabbed the wine again and took a mean big gulp, glaring at him from the corner of your eye, “If that was the case,” your voice said with barbs, “Children wouldn’t believe in Santa and the north pole and his company of elves.”

He pursed his lips and nodded before he snatched the bottle from your hand and vanished it from existence.

“Hey!” you snapped, “I wasn’t finished with that! It cost me-”

“Nothing,” he interrupted and tapped his fingers on his chest, “It didn’t cost you a penny because you got a refund when you lied to the winery that it’s wax seal was broken upon delivery when it very well wasn’t...but upon tasting it you felt it wasn’t worth the price you paid therefore it shouldn’t cost you a dime...it didn’t cost you a damn thing.”

You sat back and gulped, ‘How the fuck-‘

“Christmas past remember? I see all...so don’t bother trying to convince me that you needed to finish that meaningless sip,” he curtly said, “You need to focus on bettering your mindset and yourself. It’s important.”

You crossed your arms over your chest and pouted down at the floor. You wanted to cry and scream with embarrassment, you wanted to kick or break something.

He smirked and picked up your chin with a long finger. You sniffled and jerked your head away. You crawled down to the very end of your bed. You pulled the covers back and kicked the sheets before sliding your feet under them and pulling them up to your chin.

You huffed softly, feeling the prickling heat of tears behind your eyes, why did he have to shame you so easily, “Or what, you gonna chain me up like Marlene? Go on then, call me a cunt again. Put me on your big ol’ scary naughty list.”

You shook your head and rolled your entire body away from him. A tear rolled from your eye and soaked down into your pillow, meeting the rest of its previous brethren tears.

Chris gazed down at you with sad hope. He really did want you to pass the test. He knew you had the potential, but did you have the drive? Maybe you just needed the push...

You were lonely in life more than ever before. You were miserable despite convincing yourself you were incredibly successful in all parts of life.

His arm circled forward and bodly rubbed down your middle and curled around your waist. You sniffled again, ignoring his touch all together.

He laid his cheek ontop of yours and whispered, “Do you want to know what happens to naughty girls like you? You want to really know what they get?”

You shut your eyes, you didn’t want to look at him. You were upset and too ashamed. You didn’t want to be teased again.

You mumbled grumpily, “Coal up their ass?”

“Oh it’s not coal that goes up there,” he hummed deeply

Your eyes fluttered awake.

His hand reached under the duvet and touched your bare thigh...his finger tips wriggled in between your thighs and attacked your clit...your breath hitched.

“I gather you need motivation if you are to improve your outlook on life,” he breathed huskily into your ear.

Your lips parted, your eyes squeezed tight. A gurgling moan crawled from your throat. You rocked your hips into his hand and savoured his controlling hand.

Tiny pants left your lips as he pushed two fingers inside of your salivating pussy. He twitched them back and forth at an average steady pace.

His hot wet tongue licked from your shoulder up to your ear. His loud sucking on your skin cause a small keen shudder to glide down your spine. He kissed your neck and sighed into your skin.

His knee curled up and pressed between your thighs, he fully intended to keep your entire pussy open and available to his instrumental fingers.

“Look at you,” he muttered, “So compliant when I have my fingers up this stubborn cunt. Are you going to promise you’ll behave and obey me from now on? Cease you insistent fight?”

“Pl-please Chris,” you gasped,

He smirked against you skin, “Please what?” he purred

“F-fuck!” you whined and pressed your ass back against him, trying to rub against his hidden cock.

He slapped your backside once making you jump. He chuckled wickedly, “I will if you promise to obey and listen.”

You panted and groaned, “Make- make me!” you wouldn’t submit so easily....not even for unworldly dick.

His noise was feral, rising from the back of his throat like a growl. He pressed his mouth to yours. You whined, his tongue choked you and pressed your tongue down, dominating you even in kiss.

He gasped pulling back, “Very well you stubborn slut.”

He snapped his fingers and poof- the blankets, your night gown and surprisingly all his clothing vanished from the bed all together.

You gasped at the feeling of his hot skin pressing up your back. Your hands clawed the pillows as he thrust his fingers fast and hard. Your eyes started to roll until the sensation was totally lost. He selfishly took his hand back, moments before you hit the high. You whimpered and trembled. You couldn’t breathed you were a mixture of frustration, anger and needy obsession. You would have done anything for him to finish.

He sat up and rolled you until your belly was laid over his legs. His cock you could not see but feel touching you made you excited and eager to know how it would feel to fuck you. His hands roughly kneaded your thighs and bottom.

‘No...he wouldn’t...’

His hand came flying down cracking across the skin of your ass. You squealed and felt your hips launch up in the air. The sting was like a cutting burn that lasted for around thirty seconds. He did it again and again. His flat palm struck you and would the pain absorb before rubbing the flesh. You didn’t fight him and that did not surprise him.

Your hips wriggled and twisted. His hand was harsh and fiery. You groaned and savoured it. And when it felt almost too much and you tried to wiggle free. He pinned you down hard by your neck and shoulders.

You bit your lips and cried, really cried. You grit your teeth and sobbed through each striking spank on your naked ass. Your hands clawed the bed and the skin of his thighs. He hailed into you harder. You screamed and choked on your sobs. It wasn’t fun anymore. It hurt and he wasn’t stopping even when you began squealing and kicking your legs on the bed trying to twist your hips away.

“Stop! Stop please! Please! It hurts! No more, no more.”

“If you didn’t want this, you’d behave.”

You swore he had to have been flaying your skin by his hand until you reached back and cupped or own hot cheeks, protecting yourself from his whiping palm.

You sobbed and trembled. You flinched and whimpered with shining tears when a surprisingly soft knuckle brushed your cheek and his husky voice hushed you softly.

He slowly turned you over off his lap and dragged you close to his chest.

He shoved his thumb into your mouth. You didn’t fight or pull back. You sucked on this digit, wrapping your lips around it. You felt his arm wrap around you and pull you closer. Your breasts pressed to his chest, he was warm

And his thumb gave you something to focus on instead of your burn sore bottom. You whined and laid your head back on the pillows. You rubbed to cheek on the warm skin of his shoulder while he soothed you from your tears using his soft cooing and thumb you greedily kept in your mouth. You moaned and mewled over it, licking the pad and scratching your tongue along his nail.

His fingers ran up and down your back. He pulled his thumb from your mouth with a gentle pop.

“Look at you,” he whispered, “Greedy, spoilt, but once you’re faced with real consequences you come to heel...”

You tried shaking your head, denying it. No. You were an independent woman with control.

A false mocking awe came from him as he said, “Oh yes, yes that’s exactly what you are. But you’re going to promise to be a good girl from now on or else you’ll never cum again.”

You were speechless...you wanted to be fresh with him and state that you still owned a vibrator...but what if he took it away like your wine.

He spread your thighs, he tugged your knees over his hip and rubbed your clit with his fingers until you were wet enough to his liking. He kissed you again, laughing as you pressed yourself up into him, stealing any physical touch you could possibly gain. He ran a soft hand across your cheek, tender and loving. His lips suckled their way down to your chest. Those red cherry lips plucked at your nipples and soft breasts.

Finally the tip of his pink cock touched your pussy. It was firm and from what you could see in the faint dark, it was lengthy. Your arms reached up and held onto his shoulders, you dug your nails sharply into his shoulders as he entered.

He grunted and sighed, struggling to stuff himself in and would pause when your noises were whines of pain. He made sure to avoid any tearing.

And when he managed to press himself taut into you, his balls touching your ass and thigh, you felt like you had been through a workout.

The walls of your cunt were filled to every crevice of his fat cock. You moaned when he moved tiny thrusts into you instead of brutally slamming.

You pressed your mouth to him again, his eyes looking back at you with adoration. He jerked his hips back a little meaner watching you gasp. He mocked your gasp before kissing your nose and then your mouth. He did it again to taste and feel your gasp.

He moved you back, dislodging quickly so that he could climb over you and enter swiftly inside. He picked your legs up with the backs of your knees and anchored himself down, harder and faster picking up the speed.

“You hear that?” he asked and moved himself in smaller jerks, “Dirty little slut, you’re drooling syrup all over my pole.”

And if you weren’t so close to cumming you would’ve laughed. His hand pressed down on your throat. He barrelled into you and slapped a breast.

The sensations of being prevented to breathe as straight and the slap intensifies all your senses. You groaned and choked.

He hissed, bending down to press his nose into yours.

Your legs wrapped tight around his waist trying to lift your hips up to meet him.

“You want to cum?” he snarled? You nodded trying to not cry again. God you needed it.

“Pl-pl-please,” you gasped through the violent thrusts.

He licked your cheek and growled, “You promise to be on your best behaviour from now on?”

You whimpered and nodded.

His thumb attacked your clit as he fucked you.

“Cum,” he whispered, “Cum for me on my cock little slut.”

Your body contorted, muscles strained as you released a soundless scream. You threw your head back let you body be consumed by the orgasm you let tear through your entire body. Your bones and chest rattled. When air finally came to your lungs you let out a powerful sob. But Chris gazing down at you bore joyful vision at your smile as you cried.

You felt incredible, hit by a bus made of all things delightful.

His cock was still inside you. You didn’t take a moment to think about him or whether he cummed. You selfishly enjoyed the gift he gave you and forgot about the promise you had vowed.

He pulled away slowly. You hissed at the departure. So sensitive.

You curled lazily up into a ball and fluttered your eyes shut.

You only recalled feeling his hot lips against your ear, “I will return to you when the bell chimes once more...” his pecked your cheek and left you to lay in your mess, exhausted and falling into your own sleep again.

[bl00dbite]

this is Zalli , she is one of Cristians Exes. All im gonna say is tht bro fumbled the bag big time

[ashleys-doodle-corner]

But it was a crisp, clear morning when your parents died, wasn't it?

Only saw this dude for like a minute on Mr. @fictionfactorygames' stream, but I still cobbled something together because I'm built different (read: hyperfixation).

Just looking at him already makes me think his voice is like coated with static when he speaks. Also gave me vibes of a radio host of some sort, especially with the first line he says. Can't wait to see more!

[crowlysium]

Alright, I won’t write a mini-dissertation about this topic, but it’s time to discuss how Steven turning to stone in the Duat represents dormancy.

First, let me explain what dormancy is. Dormancy is the term for when an alter becomes inactive. They don’t front and you can’t find them in IW. It’s kinda like a volcano. A dormant volcano isn’t gone, it’s still a volcano, but it hasn’t woken up. Many systems describe dormancy as an alter sleeping for an indeterminate amount of time. It isn’t death, however.

Now that we know what dormancy is, we can compare this to Steven turning to stone and Marc’s dialog in the Field of Reeds after.

Marc says to Taweret, “We need to go back for him.” This prompts the very correct response of “It doesn’t work like that,” from the Hippo.

Forcing an alter back from dormancy can have a lot of negative effects on the alter and system. It’s something that shouldn’t be done unless absolutely necessary, as dormancy happens for a specific reason. This is a show with a hippo goddess, though.

Taweret says “You don’t need him anymore, Marc.” Alters go dormant because their role has been fulfilled. All alters have a purpose, not determined by if the system chooses to follow those labels that denote the role. When the body died, Steven had no purpose.

-Steven Grant

[thenickelodeons]

A lot of caring people who do community work tell themselves that they don't do enough or that they wish they could fight. There are already people who want to fight and there's more than are willing to openly admit. People who take care of communities, even just one person at time are extremely important to the wellbeing of the people that fighters are defending. People who care about me convince me there's hope for a future at all.

If everyone were a revolutionary there would not only be no people to defend but nowhere to take them and no one to help them when revolutionaries are fighting wars.

[brynnterpretations]

Lonely Avenue

“You weren't really spared when it came back to haunt you."

🔗 Read on AO3

⌗ traveler/reader ⌗ stalking ⌗ phone calls & telephones ⌗ coffee shops ⌗ non-consensual voyeurism ⌗ self-harm ⌗ substance abuse ⌗ post-traumatic stress disorder - ptsd ⌗ gender-neutral reader ⌗ no sa just creepiness ⌗ song: one way or another (blondie) ⌗ song: in your room (the bangles) ⌗ song: coldsweat (the sugarcubes) ⌗ title from 'lonely avenue' by ben waters & pj harvey

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  According to Sarkowski, you had left when the team needed you most. You couldn’t disagree with that.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  You’d managed to keep working at Los Angeles Airport for a month after the attack — the one that ended up in the news, with every outlet (big to small to bullshit) asking the same question. You were supposed to be in the TSOC, but after your friend Olivia, a single mother scrounging for money to take care of her daughter, had begged you to take check-in instead to boost her chance at a promotion, you obliged.  Four hours later, she, the Sky Pilot and crew, and 252 passengers were dead.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  In the time that you stayed there, everyone undergoing some form of verbal abuse at least twice an hour of each shift. You saw three different therapists in a matter of weeks, who all told you the same thing: it’s not your fault… survivor’s guilt… mindful thinking…

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  And, of course, that went nowhere. 

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  You’d moved to Los Angeles after earning your degree in criminology, only for your rather impressive resumé, your tall GPA, and your passing for the police academy to go nowhere. You imagined it on a pink letter, stamped LAPD: other people were better. Best wishes. Peace and Love, LAPD. You had no friends or family nearby — you’d burned all your bridges long ago — and considering the hair-trigger everyone seemed to think you operated on, you didn’t even want to bother trying again. So, miserably, you applied to every minimum-wage job you could, not hearing anything back (“probably from other transplants like you,” snarked Reddit user Detail-Linen-5674) until a crappy second-wave coffee shop begged you to put on an apron after a five-minute interview. Apparently, their cashier had passed in her apartment two weeks prior, and the man had to pick up double the shifts he normally worked. Apparently, death would be wherever you went.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “You headed into work, adjusting your cap, feeling like there was a rock in your throat. Your two-week resignation was dampening in your sweaty hold as you headed to Sarkowski’s office.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “This it?” he asked, barely looking at you.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “Yes,” you said quietly, devoid of any fight you once had.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  He sighed and shoved it to the side. “Well, you can go on and fuck yourself, then.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  The coffee shop was located thirty-minutes away from the airport and only ten-minutes away from your apartment, which was an admittedly welcome change. Upon your latest therapist’s advice, you switched up your schedule: morning shifts instead of night shifts. “It’ll remind you less,” she said, the motions of her scribbling looking more like doodles than words.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  It was low-stakes — almost embarrassingly so. Even customers were so much less threatening that you could barely will yourself to follow BLAST, because it was such a non-issue. Coffee being a little less hot than desired was nothing compared to missing a flight to your dying grandmother’s house for Thanksgiving.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  Your shift ended at 8 PM, and you started closing at 7:30. Usually, the only people who came in were a small trickle of nurses from the nearby Kindred, and they were manageable enough, considering the Starbucks nearby had more options and later hours. 

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  You finished flipping over the chairs onto their respective tables — as to say, hey, come on in, but don’t take your time — as Blondie whistled through the speakers above. One of the two owners, Paul, curated the store playlist, but didn’t make it longer than an hour until it started going on loop, and it started driving you crazy not even two hours into your training.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  And if the lights are all out, I’ll follow your bus downtown, see who’s hanging out…

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  Ding. One of your regulars, a tan, lanky man in a plumber’s uniform. He was fine. Per his name-tag, he worked at Kindred, and was nice enough, even if perpetually disgruntled. You couldn’t blame him. Olivia’s brother was a custodian there some years before, and she’d told you about all the bedbugs he’d gotten.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “Hi there,” you said, voice weary as you dust off your apron and head back to the counter, “same ol’, same ol’?”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “Yep,” he grunted, fishing a five out of his wallet. You punched in a large pour-over.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “Two dollars for you,” you said, giving him his change with an empty smile. 

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  He left to lean against the wall as you worked on his coffee. Blondie grated into Barracuda as the pot trickled. You heard that most people died with vomit pooling on their shirts when they were found crashed into the Sonoran.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  The wet plap of the pour-over made you feel nauseous.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  Slam. Pour-over at the pick-up counter. Take it and go. “Order thirty-one,” you called out, like it could’ve belonged to anyone else. The man grabbed it, looked at you briefly with neither disdain nor kindness, and left with a hand in the air as a curt goodbye. 

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “Have a good day,” you chirped, voice cracking.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  You lasted two minutes before you threw up bile.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “Fuck,” you hissed.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  A trickle of blood slipped down your leg. You dropped your razor, slamming your fist into the wall of the shower. The hot water cut into your body, the water pressure in your apartment too punishing to feel like anything other than a punch.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  It was your first day off since your work week started, and you’d spent it the only way you knew how to: ordering an obscene amount of Chinese takeout and binge-watching a crappy sitcom. You’d managed to force yourself down to the nearby liquor store for the biggest bottle of Barefoot you could before taking a shower. You didn’t know why you tried to shave.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  Rolling your eyes, you headed out of the shower, swaddling yourself in a towel that you knew would be stained with your blood in minutes. You headed to your room, shrugging off your towel. Since you quit, it’s become more barren than a mess. Nothing about it felt like home.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  You snatched years-old underwear and a baggy t-shirt from your dresser as your night-time playlist blew with the air heating. It was getting cold in Los Angeles. 

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  After miserably scrolling through your phone for ten minutes or so, you forced yourself to stumble your way to the kitchen, where the bottle sat upon the tiny kitchen island. Cork-top. 

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  You didn’t have a wine opener.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “Fuck me—“ you cut yourself off, stomping to the kitchen and pulling out your kitchen scissors before spearing the mushy cork. One turn, two turns, three turns, a deeper stab, and finally, it came out.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “Alexa,” you grumble, “turn up the volume.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  You didn’t bother pouring a cup, instead taking a swig from the bottle; it was room-temperature and sour-sweet, tasting like it’d been left uncapped for two long. You looked around your kitchen; your dishes were piling up in the sink, the overhead light was flickering into a bleak dimness, and the air heater whirred like hell.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  Your music paused. You grabbed your phone, about to aggressively turn it on again, before your ringtone started playing. Your phone lit up: NO CALLER ID.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  It rang twice more as you frown, taking another swig from the bottle. Three more times and, against yourself, you pick up. You’d heard there were a lot of telemarketing scams going on, and with your lack of plans for the night, fucking with some random trying to steal your credit card information sounded more fun than doom-scrolling on your phone to Friends.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “Hello?”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  There was a crackle as if the call just got connected. Silence, then a low, intentful voice. “You know it wasn’t supposed to be her, right?”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  You went rigid, all the warmth leaving your body. Your hands became wet in a cold sweat. “What?”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “Olivia,” the voice replies, “it was supposed to be you.” 

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  You’d watched enough horror movies to have an idea of what you’d do if any situation arose, but you never imagined how different it would be when it was actually happening. “This isn’t funny.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “Do I sound like I’m telling a joke?”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  Your breath hitched. You hung up the call.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  A week went by without anything else, to the point where you started imagining if it really happened. You’d had enough spam calls for whatever number it was to be drowned out in it, and even when you narrowed it down to three calls, you were too scared to try calling again. That made it real. Currently, it was just a memory of a dream — frighteningly scary, but far enough away for it to not feel real.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  You quit smoking a year ago, but you start up the habit again, getting two packs of Newports and the biggest bottle of Barefoot you could every two days. On your breaks, you’d blister your thighs with cigarette butts, your skin turning hollow and ugly.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  Your regulars stayed the same, and, eventually, it brought you a cold comfort as you slipped into your former routine. Two weeks from the phone call incident, you were closing up the store, the speaker above you crackling. Paul had been talking about changing it for a month, but he’d just had to have surgery for his trigger-finger, and you heard from Aaron, one of the gossipy afternoon baristas, that he didn’t have insurance.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  I love it in your room at night, you’re the only one who gets through to me…

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  You glanced at the clock: 7:50 P.M., which was good enough for you. You grabbed the remote and aimed it pointedly at the ceiling. It paused for a moment, but the song kept playing. Click. Click.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “Come on—”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  Crack.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  You stared at the speaker. It wasn’t blinking red like it typically did when you turned it off. You pressed on. Off. On. Off. On again. Off.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  You broke it.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “Goddammit,” you said, taking out your phone and pulling up Slack as you still tried to get the remote to magically work in your non-dominant hand. You had no clue how Paul would react, and you bit your lip trying to figure out a way to tell him hey, I broke your speaker, sorry, get fucked!

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “Maybe if you try that one more time, it’ll go through,” someone said.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  You jerked. You hadn’t heard the bell ring. A man, maybe 5’9 or 5’10, with long, scraggly hair smiled mirthlessly. He sounded like he had a cold, and looked like he’d been dragged through the street. Trucker, maybe. He wore a clean flannel and a faded Cubs cap.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  You let out a rather panicked sounding laugh, wiping your hands on your apron. “Yeah, I’ve been trying,” you say. “Sorry, got a bit distracted there. What can I get for you?”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “Medium americano, please,” he replied with a smile. “And that’ll set me back how much?”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “Two-fifty,” you replied.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “You take fifties?”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  You stared at him, his face expressionless. He had a nice face, albeit weathered, tired, and looking a little mean. “Um—“

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “Fucking with you,” he said flatly before taking out exact change. 

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  You chuckle, half-relieved, half-irritated, as you cashed it in. “It’ll be out in a minute, sir.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  He nodded, a tight smile on his face, as you got to work on his coffee. Americanos were your favorite to make: espresso, water, done in seconds. Unlike most customers, he waits at the pick-up counter, though his attention seems to be elsewhere.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “Here you go,” you said, smiling. Your head hurt, and all you could think about was your bed and the latest video your favorite YouTuber had promised to upload that night. 

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “Thanks,” he replied, squinting at you before saying your name.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “What?”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  The man blinked, gesturing to your name-tag. 

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  You forgot you had it on. Since you’d received the phone call, you stopped wearing it, only starting a couple days ago. “Oh. Sorry. It’s been a long day.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  He gave you a blank look and left without saying anything more.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  December came quickly without any hitches. You had no one to celebrate Christmas with, and were pretty sure your Christmas Eve and day would be spent with another bottle of Barefoot and Chinese takeout like last year. 

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “You think you can get this one for me?” asked Paul, leg dangling dangerously off the ladder. You looked up. All but one snowflake had been hung from the ceiling.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “Of course,” you said, “you get down from there. Can���t have you breaking on me.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “Yeah, yeah.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  You climbed up the ladder and squinted as you held the strung-up paper snowflake to the ceiling. It needed a good dusting; you were barely able to hold in a sneeze. You stretched out so far that your arms hurt and squeezed your eyes shut as you stuck it to the wall. Please stick. Please stick. Please stick.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “Thank you,” breathed Paul, “Jen would have my butt if I didn’t get that all up there.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  Jen was the other owner, as well as his wife. She was nice, but a stickler. Paul, while sweet, seemed a bit absent-minded, so you could see her concerns. You gave him a sympathetic smile and smoothed down your apron, which was speckled with gray. “No problem.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “Say, you got any plans for Christmas?” asked Paul. “Aaron mentioned you didn’t to Jen and I. You’re welcome at our place, especially since we’re empty-nesting.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  Fuck you, Aaron. “Oh, yeah, no. I don’t have any plans. I wouldn’t want to impose.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “You wouldn’t be imposing,” Aaron replied with faux indignation. “No pressure, of course. Just let us know. You got our numbers.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  You smiled at him. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, but with how much you’d been drinking lately, you weren’t sure how much you trusted yourself to be able to survive there sober. “Sure, I’ll let you two know.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  Today was one of your few shifts that ended in the afternoon, so after Paul excused himself to file taxes for the shop, you had about thirty minutes of nothing before heading out. You grabbed your winter coat, thin enough to not suffocate you in L.A., and put on your headphones. 

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  Los Angeles winters were pretty; you had to admit it. Even with the absence of snow, there was still that magic feeling hanging in the area that kids felt whenever Christmas time was near, and it made you feel young again. You smiled to no one in particularly as your nose darkened from the cold.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  In ten minutes of walking, you were at your apartment. You fumbled in your pockets for your keys when someone bumped into you, knocking your phone and keys to the ground. “Jesus, seriously?”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “Watch where you’re fucking going,” slurred an audibly drunk man. It was 2 P.M. 

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  You considered snapping something at him before thinking better about it. You picked up your keys and phone. Your phone’s screen had splintered into a glassy web.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  While your phone still worked, it was difficult doing anything a phone could do with the damage done to its screen, so you’d called every cheap phone repair place in the valley. None of them called back. You wallowed with a tub of ice cream on your couch, surfing through the channels on your T.V. as you pondered the lifespan of cable television. You didn’t have enough money to renew your streaming subscriptions. 

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  You settled on an underwhelming Sharknado sequel as you attempted to play Wordle. If you tapped very, very hard, you could get a letter in. As beautiful, bikini-clad women screamed in terror, you managed to get two letters in, both a filthy, sewer-water gray. 

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “Man, fuck this,” you grumbled, setting your phone down and reaching for the neglected glass of wine on your coffee table. You were too tired to drink, but not tired enough to fall asleep. You supposed some wine would help you.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  Right as the clock struck 12:00, your phone rung. Too relieved at the possibility of one of the emergency repair shops to mourn your lost Wordle streak, you picked it up, having to tap not three times, but four, to get it to open. Your heart thrummed in your chest. “Hello?”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “I’m surprised your phone’s still working after that,” someone said, “that was a nasty fall for a phone like that.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  It took a few moments for you to register it as the voice that you’d heard a few weeks before. Your face fell. You stared at the T.V., where a spread-eagled woman was falling into a shark pornographically. 

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “You know, I didn’t peg you for a Sharknado type of person.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  In any other circumstance, you would’ve laughed at the ridiculousness of it, but there was nothing you could feel but a frigid sense of dread in you. You got up, looking around your living room. No cameras you could see, nobody in your windows, nothing. 

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “You’re not going to find anything.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  “What do you want?”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  There was a silence before there was a slow, measured hum, nauseatingly fake in its thoughtfulness. “A conversation, I suppose. We never met like we were supposed to.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  You attempted to hang up, but your phone didn’t respond, electricity gleaming in the cracks. It sounded like he was laughing, but you couldn’t be too sure. His voice came in dull, sarcastic. “Yeah, you’ve got it.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  Your phone left a resounding click. You locked yourself in the bathroom and fell asleep on the shower mat.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  You kept going to work, but not without anyone noticing your anxiety. You asked Jen to switch you to night shifts — you were having nightmares, you said — and, graciously, she did. Even when you asked about a music change after Björk started singing about hot meat and open sweat, she obliged. You supposed you must have looked just as bad as you felt. 

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  After a normal, slow eight-hour shift, you came home with three packs of cigarettes and a half-eaten banana-nut muffin to an envelope on your small kitchen table. A gorgeous bouquet of flowers laid atop it.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  With shaking hands and a sense of dread so thick you fear passing out, you open it. Two hundred-dollar bills are entwined in a piece of scrawled printer paper. 

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  I’ll help out, it read. We’ll be talking more soon.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎  When you looked out the window, mouth parted slightly, all you saw was the first falling snow in L.A. in years. 

[magicalmysteryperson]

Someone better change that quick

I don't think I'll be ready for another perfect 50/50 split

TUMBLR'S SEXIEST OC: ROUND 3! Match 1

[carp-from-space]

Who do u think u r?

[popcornaddict500]

Adam can never cook in peace...

[ladylaviniya]

The Spirit of Christmas Eve

Masterlist || Chapter 1 ll Chapter 2

Chapter Summary: After an unexpected visit from your younger, overly pregnant and concerned sister- you are yet again put into a terrible mood. You receive a night visit from the ghost of your predecessor and fall into an abyss of confusion.

Pairing: Chris Evans x f!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Disrespect to Homeless People, R4pe Fantasies, Masturbation, Dark Joke about Abortion, Hinted Xenophobia, Humiliation, Ghosts, Swearing, Alcoholic Use, Drug Use, Classism.

Word Count: 5k

Author Notes: This is a parody of the classic "A Christmas Carol" story by Dickens, I hope you come to enjoy it even though the pov holds cruel, toxic and abusive traits.

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09:00am, 24th December 2023, New York City.

Oh how you hated the holidays. You hated the red and green colouring, you hated the carolling groups and bands singing every day in December leading up to the wretched twenty fifth. You hate the baby Jesus in a manager nativity set ups.

‘Jesus wasn’t even fucking born on Christmas. He was a January baby according to Jewish scholars. It was all a ploy to satisfy and celebrate Yule with pagans before encouraging indoctrination!!’

And the smell of peppermint, gingerbread and fatty sugary foods left you feeling sickly.

“Unnecessary calories to dissolve the enamel of my teeth when it comes back up in the  goddamn toilet.”

The cold air and the slippery frost brought you no delight. Along the way you would kick the snow men in your walking path. You despised the bratty children sitting on the Santa laps in the malls.

‘Their parents should know half of those fat ass Santa actors are just paedophiles getting their kicks once a year? Yea I’d love a little boy all prim and plump to sit on my lap if I was a sicko in a red suit too.’

You hated the fact they were bringing Christmas trees in the day after Halloween.

“Sure, it spins the wheel of capitalism but God, do they have to look so trashy? Christmas is once a year, not two months long.”

You rolled your eyes and scoffed as you strutted the street to your work place.

Your senior associate Marlene who you could’ve considered your friend had a heart attack early that year. She was a woman in her prime, at forty years old she had managed to build her business empire. No husband, no kids, no pets. She didn’t need those things, not when she raked in over four million dollars a year. She drank and smoked like a chimney, you wondered if it contributed to her death in the end. She was rumoured to be found naked, getting fucked by some no name sexy twenty-one year old playboy from South Korea. And among her blissful orgasm, her heart just couldn’t handle the pressure and faltered.

Imagine his horror. Balls deep and not knowing she had died. Little shit tried getting her money in the inheritance scheme. He tried pushing that he was her long committed boyfriend. One threat to the immigration department sent that kid running for the kills back to Seoul.

You were named successor in her Will. Now, it’s not like you needed her millions, you already had a full pocket. At twenty five you’d made your first million all because you picked the right pattern in your investments and put every cent into them. You worked instead of partied. And many had said behind your back that it made you a miserable sourpuss bitch with no friends. You didn’t need friends. Marlene was just a funny coincidence.

Some might have called you careless, impulsive, and greedy. But what that translates to you was the word ‘Wealth and Success’. You were wealthy and money made you happy. The more numbers, the more joy in your cold heart.

You entered the building that was now yours. Oh did I forget to remind you...you were the CEO of your tax collecting firm. I think that’s important for you to know.

Entering the sleek grey, white and black minimalist foyer you sighed in relief. No Christmas or holiday bullshit in here. You had banned all decorations and affiliations.

And you refused paid leave to anyone asking not to work on Christmas day. You remember scoffing last night at the amount of requests you had received about time off for the holidays.

‘I’m running a business, not a charity.’

Christmas was the best time of year for your job. So many stupid people take out stupid loans they can’t afford especially during the holidays period when gift giving is the centre cause of financial stress. You got a thrill out of denying loans and upping payment interest rates for those suckers who didn’t make their payments on time because they chose to spend the money meant to be going into your pocket on some disposable wrapping paper and a cheap pharmacy gift last minute.

As you stepped into the elevator you smiled cynically at the empty space. You could look at yourself in the mirror and pick apart all the things you loved and hated about your body. It was strangely therapeutic. Something about the critiques gave you a massive high.

But just as the elevator doors where closing a hand slammed hard through the gap.

“Wait!” came a familiar cry. Your face fell and you felt a tight discomfort seeing the face of your younger sister. Caroline.

Your eyes shot down to her belly. Big as a house in the ugliest knit Christmas sweater.

‘Pregnant again. Jesus Christ. What’s this? Number four now?’

You clenched your handbag tighter. You tried recalling some sort of baby shower invite from months ago, you totally forgot about it once you moved it to junk mail.

‘If she fucking asks me for money again, I swear to god she’s risking an abortion voucher in a Christmas card...are abortion vouchers even a thing?’

Caroline had married her highschool sweetheart, he was some sort of mechanic or something. A bum, like your Dad. You couldn’t believe she was dumb enough to breed with an imbecile like him. Mind you, her first son was clearly an teen pregnancy accident that sealed them together. And every year, she just seemed to pop out a new one. And every year that meant you gave her a fat cheque, usually six thousand dollars.

You ground your teeth as she forced herself inside and pressed the button of the doors shut immediately, not at all taking notice of you until mid way moving up in the building.

Her face lit up and she shrieked in delight at seeing you.  You strained a smile.

‘Yea, definitely looking for a handout.’

“Oh my god! I was about to fight security to come see you sissy!” she forced her arms around you. You bit your tongue. You hated hugs.

“Well…lovely seeing you too,” you muttered before awkwardly patting her back.

Her breath hitched at seeing the look on your face, “Sorry about not pre-warning, I did try calling you but your phone keeps going to voicemail.”

‘Oh good, she still hasn’t figured out I let them ring out.’

“And you didn’t reply to my emails.”

You fought a smirk, ‘because they go straight to junk mail’.

She smiled and babbled happily, “Anyway, I had to come here because I need to give you-“ she huffed and swiped a bead of sweat from her forehead before reaching into her nappy bag (that she treated like a handbag.) and retrieved a thick red envelope.

She handed it to you. Your manicured nails pinched the ugly stickers one of your nephews or nieces had chosen. Scribbled in absolute chicken scrap handwriting was your name, most likely also done by your nephew or nieces.

The elevator opened and you sighed, marching out to enter the offices with your solo office space down the hall with the largest window and finest view of the city below. You didn’t expect your sister to tail you. She waddled like a fast duck following you.

“I was thinking you should meet this guy that babysits-” She was talking to you about something but in all honesty, you weren’t listening until she mentioned the cursed words, “-Christmas Party.”

You deposited your handbag on your desk and spun on your heel. Your eyes wide, your smile straining into a sneer.

You snickered cruelly and laced your fingers together, “How many times have we discussed this? I. Don’t. Celebrate. Christmas. I don’t do presents, I don’t do carolling, I don’t do secret Santa’s and I sure as fucking hell don’t do Christmas Parties. I’m glad that you and Tim have fun with your kids and do all that meaningless stuff to shield them from the big bad world. I however am not in the mood for it. Work comes first. This is one of the busiest years of my life, the market is at an all time high in interests rates.”

She looked like she was growing smaller with every foul word that dripped like acid rain.

“It’s just one day, not even a full day. Just a few hours, not far from you,” she whispered and rubbed her belly comfortingly.

You shook your head and circled around your desk, “Might as well get this over with, you don’t need to ploy me with booze.”

You pulled out a cheque book from your drawer and slapped it down. You bent over and fished out a pen, pressing the ink to the slim piece of paper.

Your voice came out like a bark, “How much are you wanting this year?”

“Wh-what?” your sisters eyes grew wide.

You sighed and rolled your eyes, with a condescending tone, “How much money do you want to cover all the gifts? I hear Disneyland is great this time of year in Florida. I need a number. I have a busy day ahead of me so I’d just like to get this over and done with.”

Your sister didn’t answer. You glanced up. Her face was no longer smiling. She looked in pain. Her hand sat on top of her belly. She hissed and breathed out hard.

Her eyes were dimming down. She lost the joyful spark. She waddled to the guest chair in front of your desk and sat down.

She put the nappy bag on the floor.

 ‘great, thanks for the smell of cornflakes and breast milk on the carpet.’

Her breath turned husky and you started to reach for your desk phone ready to call a bloody ambulance to take her to the hospital. You couldn’t tell what the hell was wrong with her and prayed she wasn’t going into labour. You didn’t need to waste five thousand dollars on a carpet replacement because her waters might break.

Her eyes glared up at you as she tried to focus on pacing her breath. God, she looked like your mother with that look. It hurt. She got the best genes you had to admit. Even while pregnant she had this way about her that made men just want to beg for her number. You couldn’t tell if it was her ditsy personality or just good looks.

“Jim," Caroline corrected with strain, "-and I don’t need your money. We don’t want it. We have never have wanted it. This year, I just want you to put in the effort to spend Christmas with us as a family. You and I haven’t shared a Christmas since I was in middle school. My kids want their aunty to visit because I tell them you’re the coolest person alive...” her eyes narrowed, “Put the fucking cheque book away, and come to fucking Christmas dinner at least. It’s going to be at my house if you look at the invite that your nephew and nieces made special for you. They don’t want presents, they just want to see their aunty. Besides.... I told them you’d come if they put extra love into it.”

You chewed your inner cheek and stood up straight, crossing your arms and sat on the edge of your desk.

“You shouldn’t lie to your kids, Caroline,” you coolly said with icy impact.

You watched her eyes start to shine and water.

“Jesus,” you muttered, “Don’t fucking cry.”

She broke down immediately. You sighed with annoyance. ‘why did she have to come today of all days and act like this. It’s not a big deal. God.’

“You’re such a bitch and my kids have done nothing to you except love you unconditionally. The least you can do is show up,” Caroline struggled to stand out of the chair and when you reached out to help, she snapped like a firecracker and hissed, “Don’t fucking touch me.”

She groaned as she bent down, holding her belly and reached for her nappy bag, that she let you help her with. She suddenly looked so tired and deflated compared to when she had ducked into the elevator. You started to feel a tick of that itchy sympathy. Pregnancy always looked hard. Her first birth was so difficult, the second slipped right out but she didn’t have an epidural and the third time was an emergency c-section. In fact you weren’t even sure if she was meant to be having this fourth baby. It would be too risky. She could honestly kill herself. Now that was a bolt of fear that coursed through you.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” you sniffled, trying to distract your little sister from her anger.

She looked even more offended and scoffed, “You know, if you had even tried to come to my baby shower, you could’ve eaten one of the gender reveal cupcakes.”

‘Ouch.’

You looked down at your Valentino pumps. Seven years younger than you and she still managed to put you in your place with the snap of her fingers.

She rubbed her wet eyes with the tips of her fingers.

“I worry about you...” she mumbled, “You might have a lot of money Y/N, but money can’t buy you everything. Don’t you want to share memories?”

You tried hiding the laugh limbing your throat,, “Not this argument again...come on, I’ll walk you out and hire you a cab.”

You escorted her back to the elevator, all your employees watching and whispering about it. You knew your office needed thicker glass.

As you quietly pressed the button down, your sister finally said, “It’s twins. A boy and girl.”

You didn’t say anything for a while. Eventually you only nodded and whispered, “Congratulations. You and Tim must be excited.”

“Jim," she grounded, "-and I are flat out on our feet with the others but yea...I’m thinking about naming the girl after mom.”

Again you didn’t respond. You wanted this interaction to be finished. You wanted to go to work and drink away the days leading up to New Year’s. Maybe you should take a trip overseas. You might run into a handsome one night stand with an attractive accent.

Your sister turned and hugged you again, she rubbed her sweet face into your shoulder and sighed, “I’m sorry for snapping. Please don’t be mad. Please promise me you’ll come to the party, even for five minutes.”

Her pleading eyes finally cracked your ice wall.

“Fine. Five minutes.”

The squealing giggle of delight made you groan internationally instantly regretting your words. Nonetheless you took it upon yourself to at least hug her back. God help you, you didn’t know how you’d survive.

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10:00pm, 24th December 2023, New York City.

On your way home you discovered with aggravation all the cabs and ubers nearby had been booked up and the traffic in the city horrendous. Of course. On Christmas eve it would look like this.  You decided to march your way to the subway. It would be the quickest way back home.

You had to cross the park to get there though.

And among your walking you passed a man laying down on a bench. He wore a baseball cap that hid his face. He wore a blanket over his shoulders. A puff of cold air escaped his pink lips.

His shadowed face peered up at you and held up a piece of cardboard that read the following: Homeless, please donate a food and blankets.

And something inside you cracked again. You fought the urge to pull out your purse and give him the only hundred dollar bill you had. You looked him up and down. And froze. Next to him was a bottle of liquor. Something malicious dripped from your lips. Words filled with cruelty and hate. It was bold and dangerous. But you bet he was drunk.

“What’s wrong? Aren’t there any shelters taking in scum? Are all the prisons full? Maybe if you got off your ass and got a real fucking job, you would be too busy making money instead of swilling down booze!”

He did not react in the way you expected. He smiled at an ankle, winked and held a finger up to his lips.

Your face curdled in disgust and hacked back your throat, spitting on him.

“Booze bum,” you muttered, and marched on, away from him.

Your chin jerked high. It was a method of teaching you had learnt in your youth. Shame someone until they commit to a goal and out perform it. To this day you are still doing that very thing, why not share that gift of knowledge with others?

You scowled the entire train ride home and flicked through your emails.

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11:10pm, 24th December 2023, New York City.

Alone in your penthouse apartment, you padded your way to bed scrolling through your phone. In your hand you cradled a wine glass and set it on the bedside table.

Beneath the soft cotton covers you sighed happily and used your phone to command the fireplace to be lit up. A fake flame on a flat screen tv with heaters all around you, filling your place with warmth.  Laying back into your pillows you scrolled your phone and frowned at all the Christmas themed posts online, all the tutorials and recipes you’d never follow and all the Christmas stories you’d never read.

Tossing the phone beside your wine glass, your hands snuck down into a drawer and retrieved your absolute best friend in the world. She was thick, long and quiet, totally sky blue and had twenty different settings. You slid the vibrator under the covers and shimmied out of your underwear. Your fingers fumbled, touching your wet cunt.

The alcohol was finally hitting you, warming you up. You weakly reached for your vibrator. You knew it would be a comfort to take away the anger and stress away from your day at work.

You pressed the silicone to your clit and switched on the toy. A soft sigh came from you as you rubbed it along your lower lips. You fluttered your eyes shut and tried to imagine a person and you having sex.

‘A policeman? No. College professor? No. Loser doorman? No…’ and then your eyes flickered in a quick vision of the homeless man from the park… ‘Yes. He must be miserable, pissed off, angry, he smiled but that would have been a lie, his long finger he held to his mouth should stuff itself inside me.’

Your hand slid up and pulled down the front of your night down. You dug your nails into your breast before tugging your nipple hard. You whined as you bucked your hips into your toy that you playfully prodded and tore out of you. You imagined that same stranger ripping your dress from your body and dragging you into the snowy woods.

Rape fantasies weren’t uncommon for you. It was something about the power struggle that sent thrills up and down your spine. You liked the pain. You liked being forced to give up your control. You slid the plastic cock deep into your slick pussy and mewled.

The homeless man would hold a knife to your throat and bend you over a log, no, no, that bench, so out and open and public for anyone to catch him tearing you apart. His hand would lick your skin in stinging slaps. The alcohol on his breath would be putrid. He’d call you names, whore, slut, bitch, cunt, fuckpig. And you would be totally helpless…

You lazily rolled over onto your belly and forced your ass up, your bed sheets falling down your thighs.

You pushed the dildo back in deep and turned on the highest setting, biting the pillow under you. You fucked yourself hard until it hurt.

The homeless man fantasy went on and on, forcing you to cum and cry. You didn’t care if neighbours or tenants below you heard. You imagined this terrible man after fucking you raw making you sit in his filthy lap, fucking you with the empty liquor bottle neck and letting strangers walking past the chance to spit on you and slap you until you cummed.

The fantasy didn’t have a fanciful ending fleshed out. You could only imagine him dragging you back to some ghetto homeless tent village under one of the city bridges and whoring your cunt out to his homeless buddies. You wanted to submit, to be used like that…

But not in the real world. Fuck no. Your reputation mattered greatly. You were too stubborn to willingly date a man and ask him to do something taboo like consensual non-consent play.

You tore the blue cock out and pressed it to your clit, riding out an ultimate orgasm that left your body feeling like jelly. Slumping forward you groaned into the pillows, you knew you had to eventually get up and pee. The alcohol still in your system made the journey feel almost impossible. But when your bare ass hit the seat, you leant back and sighed. 'UTI prevented!'

Getting back to bed wasn’t as hard as getting to the bathroom. You breathed in the smell of your own sexual prowess. No shame. You put away your toy and before you could search for your discarded underwear, you heard your phone pinged. You grunted with annoyance.

You glanced at the screen; it was a text from Caroline.

*Told the kids you are coming tomorrow! They’re so excited to see their aunty! Xoxo*

‘oh right…her Christmas party…it’s tomorrow…' you still hadn’t even looked at the invitation. Anger started burning its way into your chest when you saw the emojis and gifs she attached. Santa and reindeers and snowmen. God you fucking hated Christmas!! She didn’t need to remind you. You didn’t plan to be there longer than the strick three hundred seconds. The miserable evil stabbed your heart again.

It out you so over the edge you began to type, *Tell them I changed my mind, I’m busy.*

Before your thumb could slam on the message send, something strange occurred. The penthouse apartment lights started to flicker on and off repeatedly.

‘A circuit must’ve snapped. I know I turned off all the lights.’

You slammed your phone down and ripped off your bed sheets. Marching over to the telecom beside you door you prepared the mental speech of anger and abuse you’d deliver on whatever poor soul was handling the front desk of the apartment complex tonight.

You pressed the button hard and when no welcoming comment came you decided to wait.

You waited and waited and still no one acknowledged you over the telecom. There was a noise coming from it though. It was a sound of ragged breathing. Squinting with absolute judgement you hissed into the microphone.

You sobered up your voice and rubbed your eyes. Your wine was knocking around your insides at that point, it had polluted your blood. You just needed to stay awake for a little longer.

“This is penthouse three. Your lights are dimming and flickering out. I want someone to change all that bulbs and check the power wires immediately. Do I make myself clear?”

The unusual panting was still there and getting louder. You shook your head. Someone should’ve been repeating back your request and discussing a mode of action.

“Hello?” you angrily huffed into the microphone when no answer came for a long time.

You hissed, “Now you listen here. I don’t give a fuck it’s Christmas eve. You’re job is on the line if you cant fix my fucking lights.”

And then the line went totally dead and your apartment was entirely darkened. You groaned with anguish. Using your phone flash light you returned to your room.

“Fine,” you grumbled as you pulled the covers Of your bed back again, “Probably too drunk on eggnog to give a damn. Say goodbye to those two dollar tips dickhead.”

You laid back and fished out your bonnet, carefully lipping your hair inside the protective layer. You rolled onto your side under the covers and shut your eyes.

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12:00am, 25th December 2023, New York City.

For some reason at 12am you received a very obnoxiously loud phone call. Blindly you reached for it and accepted the call. You had a suspicion it was a prank call from overseas.

“Y/N,” said the caller. Your eyes cleared up fast at the sound of a voice you knew too well.

You almost dropped your phone. Surely it wasn’t her calling. You had seen her body at her funeral. She chuckled on the other side, her voice was just as rusted as you remembered. In the dream she had come over to your house and had a sleep over together.

Your eyes widened, “Wh-who is this?” you asked, “Do you fucking know what time it is?”

The identical voice of your passed companion echoed back, “In life you knew me as Marlene Jeong.”

You hung up the phone fast and sat up straight. Her hands trembled and the phone screamingly made another phone call from the same unknown number.

You answered it and heard her shriek, “Don’t you know hanging up like that is rude.”

You took a deep breath in. And shut your eyes. No. It couldn’t be.

“This prank isnt funny,” you barked into the receiver.

“Well I’d hope not. You know I wasn’t a fan of funny,” she grumbled back.

You picked up the phone and huffed, “If you’re really Marlene...tell me something only I would know...”

The phone went quiet and clicked off. You smirked, 'Yea, that's what I thought you sick fuck.'

The air around you grew colder. With the power out you accepted that the central heating was out too. Getting out of bed you stumbled down the hall to the linen cupboard and pulled out a few more thicker blankets. When you returned back to your room you screamed and jumped ten feet in the air, dropping the load of blankets.

Marlene was sitting on your bed, scrolling through your phone. She was not herself and yet was at the same time. She looked the same except for the fact her entire body was a light blue and translucent. She was naked. And you could see her translucent organs. In her hand was a false spiritual cigarette. Smoking rising from the tip and faded into the darkness. And don’t let me forget a important detail. She was floating and parts of her body wrapped in chains.

Hearing you, she turned her face away from your phone and winked. You slammed back into a wall, trying to get away from her as she floated closer to you. She took a mean drag of her cigarette and blew the smoke into your fear filled face. You could’ve fainted. The smoke didn’t smell like anything and was rather a cold breeze to your cheek.

You flinched and whimpered, “Marlene...what the fuck.”

She smirked and rolled mid air upside down,

“Long time no see. Or well...you can’t see me but I see you basically every day,” she cackled.

Your lips fell apart, “Wha-how- why...why are you hear? Should you be dead?”

She flicked the cigarette of ash that turned into blue light specs and disappeared before touching the floor.

“Oh trust dear, I’m dead, dead as a doornail. Little Kyong gave me a killer orgasm, literally,” she took another long drag, “I had no clue what was coming and poof! I’m on the floor choking and groaning and next thing I wake up to, is you moving your shit into my office and my penthouse. But I digress sweet snake...I’m not here on a social call...I’m here to send you a warning.”

Your head felt dizzy, “A warning? The fuck? Am I going to die soon or something?” you wrapped your arms around yourself.

She smiled and shook her head, “Oh no...no, no....something a tad more painful. See, I have been sent to play 'angel Gabriel' so to speak and inform you of a supernatural message.”

She floated around, chains at her wrist dragged behind her as she did. Marlene sharpened her gaze at you.

‘Woah did I take one too many Percocet with my wine...I must be high.’

“You are saveable unlike my dead cold self,” she said flying back to your bed and lewdly laying down, “My dead frozen heart could not thaw,” she sighed and tapped her chest.

You could see inside her at the organ most resembling heart was literally made of icy and was not beating. It was disturbing.  

“I’m destined to float while tethered to the world unseen, unheard, unloved…forgotten. But you? You still have a chance to atone. A spirit shall arrive and come to you in three shades…Christmas past, present and future. It shall greet you hourly between one and three o’clock.”

You timidly stepped closer.

“You need to open your mind and open your heart or else-“ she floated above you and groaned, “This will be your future fate.”

You rubbed your eyes and slapped your cheek. Marlene’s ghost was still there. She held up her wrist, showing off the manacle around it, “This is a fate no one wishes, trust me on that.”

Her face leant in closer to your face. Her hair floated around her like water tendrils.

She rattled the chains together, clinking them and explained, “The spirit will test you. And they will test you fairly. They will decide what to do with you after. They call themselves, Christmas past, present and future.”

When she had said these words, Marlenes ghost faded away, disappearing into the cold, quiet night. It took you a few minutes to catch your breath. You couldn’t believe or make sense of it and no matter how many times you pinched of slapped yourself, you found yourself still in the unexplainable dream. You tossed the blankets from the floor onto the bed. You had another drink of wine before you chose to return to bed. You tugged the warmest and softest blanket up to your chin. You were scared and confused. Your eyes grew heavier as you forced yourself to forget and ignore the apparition of Marlene chained nude and talking in riddles.

You laid your cheek into the pillow and fell into a deep slumber.

HELPINES:

If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline services

India Helpline Services

[bl00dbite]

some doodles i did of my ocs while listening to my fav songs

[ashleys-doodle-corner]

So that demo showcase of The Shadow Over Cyberspace that FictionFactoryGames did, huh. Totally didn't get super hyped for that by drawing like three pieces of fan art, not at all (sweats).

It's very good already. And I'm Very Excited.

[himawari-candyy]

vent post

cryptic on purpose because i’m embarrassed. i just have to get it off my chest even if it isn’t understood

evivrus ot redro ni thgilnus eht ecaf srewolfnus

secneuqesnoc elbativeni dna tliug si kcab em gnidloh si taht lla .yad eno niaga nus eht ees ot teg ll’i yllufepoh

eromyna ti htrow ton s’ti ,sraey ynam os retfa dna ,gnireffus ym si ssenippah s’esle enoemos fo tsoc eht

[crowlysium]

Today I want to talk about how the psych ward from then later Moon Knight episodes represents both the Duat and the IW (Inner World)

We know from Tawaret outright stating it that the psych ward is the Duat, where souls are judged in the Egyptian afterlife. She states that the ship holds the memories of a person and that it takes the form of something comprehensive to the deceased.

In systems with an IW (Not all have one), it can be just about anything. For example, ours used to be various places from all of our introjects sources, but it has recently changed to be our original fantasy world from our wip. Some others could have a simple house, or a void with singular rooms. They could, such as with Marc’s system, have a mental health facility.

How is the psych ward both the afterlife and the IW?

Marc and Steven are able to interact in a physical manner and are also able to view memories, things that do happen in IW. They also go there when the body dies, which means neither of them would front.

For systems with IWs, it is where alters live when not fronting. In the episode where Steven isn’t fronting, where he says he is imprisoned, he is in their IW, though he (and Marc) may not have access to visualize that yet. It is also possible neither could visualize it as they were largely co-fronting during their time together and for some systems, when alters are cofronting this limits their connection to their IW

It is likely intentional that this place works as it does so that it involves the Egyptian mythology of Moon Knight and also subtly represents DID in a way that isn’t too far off from the realities some systems may experience. As a singlet, it is hard to accurately portray our experiences, but by putting it in with the afterlife, it does so very well. A system might be able to relate to some of the things in that psych ward, where singlets can simply enjoy a plot about escaping the afterlife.

Steven turning to stone represents dormancy, by the way, but that’s a topic for later.

-Steven Grant