#Spectr Magazine | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yandere-toons · 5 months

Text

IN MY DEFENCE

Bakugou Katsuki – Platonic Scenario

WARNING: yandere, strong and bloody violence, guns, swearing throughout, morally ambiguous reader, toxic mindset.

WORD COUNT: 4.195

"Does he even want us on this mission?"

From out the darkness overhanging an awning slunk a blending of scales and skin. A man below the neck; a viper above; a triangular skull bisected by diamond-shaped eyes; a forked tongue undulating and licking; a rounded crest mottled and flared—nature's grotesque experiments had found a new beast to assemble.

He wound a coil of tongue around lead, colouring it morbid yellow, before stuffing it into the top of a magazine and locking it in place. A ring of light spiralled off the barrel as he took aim, the oblong proportions of his head forcing his neck to twist hard.

A lone bullet whistled low before the crack alerted Katsuki; and you collapsed at almost the same instant to one knee, and thence to the road.

Kirishima dove to catch your head before it split on the asphalt, and the skin on his arms metamorphosed into flesh-coloured rock. He hunkered down close against you, his back to the noise, his body crumbling to grit, then growing back stonier by the second.

A fever of resentment cooked inside Katsuki as though he'd been fed hot charcoal fresh out of a furnace. "What the hell did you do?" his voice rose ten decibels with each syllable, and the skin on his cheeks turned purple as he bellowed out a heap of breath on the last word.

Many a young heart cried out in fear at the depth of his rage, which flowed without ceasing, as foam at the mouth of a rabid dog.

Katsuki charged the villain faster than he could blink, arms outstretched to the point of aching, palms up to reveal the flex of his hands. There ignited the essence of a bomb, the biological incarnation of a lit match, of flint against steel, glistening and accumulating sweat in obeisance to him.

A thunderous roar and hiss on par with artillery fire wrested peace from every eardrum in the district. The maw of this inferno drank up the earth's light, engulfing it in a near infinite storm of colour. The sun returned swiftly, but the spectre of the bomb danced still in the eyes of each observer, clawing out bursts of black and white that fuzzed round the edges like sparking wires.

You shooed away the hand of another and hovered your own above the gaping wound. There arose the song of metal bending, and the bullet levitated from where it had lodged in your femur. The sudden collision with bone shattered the bullet into tiny, gore-drenched chunks.

Kaminari went rigid as a drop of blood snaked along the bullet, bloated at one end and splattered down. He reeled towards Kirishima, his hands spread wide, grasping at the air. "Can't you do it? Your Quirk makes you way better at this kind of thing than me!"

A few metres away, an explosion devastated the road, and a golden glow of embers flashed across Kirishima's serrated teeth. "Listen to me, you gotta man up!" his expression hardened by the sobering reality of the battlefield, but his voice remained clear and true: the sound of encouragement passed from friend to friend. "I've only got two hands, so I need you to pick up the slack!"

Gulping his last protest, Kaminari crossed his hands over the wound and steeled himself against the slippery flow of blood. "Bakugou's gonna kill me." His chest heaved with a breath so deep he seemed keen to disappear underwater, and he dove into the mess of blood gushing from your thigh.

Kirishima listened to the string of obscenities running amok, some he'd heard before, others mixed in with profanities he'd never imagined in his darkest days. "I think he's a little distracted."

Blood spurted from the wound, bubbling over his fingers, lapping at them with a warm tongue, and Kaminari struggled to keep down the lump in his throat. "Gross," he whined, scrunching his face to the brim with wrinkles. "I so wish I had gloves right now." Kaminari glanced wistfully at Katsuki, whose hands lay shielded in puffs of cloth.

The laughter of the nearly departed wheezed out from under your haggard breathing. "I'll remember that when you take a bullet."

As the pallid white waves swept across his cheeks, Kaminari pronked with a start, his mind's eye now teeming with grisly visions. He let out a weak laugh, almost choked with comic horror, and hoped the levity would ease your pain a little. Every hinge of his smile begged to collapse, but Kaminari forced his muscles to hold it together until you once again propped your neck against Kirishima's arm.

With a flick of your hand, the bullet reversed its course and sliced clean through the wasted left ear of he who had fired it.

A drizzle of red encircled the road beneath his feet as the villain wrenched wide his mouth, hissing, teetering towards escape.

Before Katsuki could bound forth and give chase, Kaminari leapt in front of him and pressed both hands to his chest. His whole body spasmed at that moment, and Katsuki jumped back, his fists twitching. He swallowed down the urge to knock Kaminari out of his way, wrenching a shred of control from what burned through his entrails.

"Dude, we got him! He's totally on the run!" Kaminari laughed goodhumouredly. A glob of blood hopped from his palm, smearing his fingerprints on Katsuki's costume, but as Katsuki fidgeted, the shape mangled into confusing streaks.

Shame churned in his stomach as Katsuki watched the blood fall and answered for himself who had spilt it.

A whisper laden with groans drew his attention over his shoulder, where you had wormed your way into the fetal position. Kirishima knelt at your side and took your hands in his own, sweat trickling down his face. "Squeeze as hard as you can, buddy, you know I can take it!"

"I'm not done yet," muttered Katsuki, dazed by the state of the mission and your deteriorating health, his eyes fixed on the retreating figure's battered form. He seized Kaminari by the back of his jacket and flung him to the pavement. "Until I blow his fucking head off!"

Kaminari braced, rolling until his elbows pressed against his chest and his screams of terror faded into the air. He winced at the scrapes on his hands as he slammed his palms down and lurched to a stop on his belly, the shock propelling a jolt across his spine as he reached out for Katsuki.

The path forward, now unobstructed, promised the sweetest opportunity to crush and dominate his enemy, and it thrilled Katsuki; the ambition to inflict upon this villain a pain like none had suffered before, or indeed ever would again, rampaged ahead of all other desires.

His pulse throbbed in every limb, threatening to burst from his neck, and the details of the world round him warped in and out of focus. Hearing nothing but his own breath and heart, he threw his arms back, splayed his fingers, and bent his knees.

Blast after blast sent Katsuki sprawling into the street, each one picking up speed and hurtling him closer to the villain. Smoke and flames streaked across the Musutafu skyline, obscuring that entire part of the world, the black of the smoke and the red of the flames as intense as a sunrise after a moonless night.

The villain had fled into an office building, the door riven and clashed shut, pinned with a chair. He walked backwards into a cubicle, counting the seconds, pistol trained on anything that broke through the barricade. Yet putting his other hand on the grip to steady the first hand seemed too great an effort;—sweat beaded on his palms, turning his limbs to mush.

Katsuki wove in the air with the tenacity of a guided missile, landing with such force that steam billowed everywhere. He pulled himself up to his full height, rolled his shoulders, and cracked his neck back and forth over one shoulder. But first, he thrust a laugh between his teeth, then heaved in another breath and took aim.

Bricks and mortar flew into every corner of the office on wings of smoke, one smashing into the villain's face. The trauma ripped the pistol from his hand the instant after his index finger clenched the trigger on impulse. With a scuff of his shoes on the concrete, he tumbled backwards, his skull caroming off the floor.

The muzzle blast revealed the dark spread rushing down his chin, the numbness of his dislocated jaw, and the silhouette rising from the edge of the rubble in the distance. In the darkness of the ruins, everything touched by sunlight appeared fulgent and blurred.

The demoniacal passion that beat in the throat of anyone bold enough to summon it drove Katsuki's voice to the brink of distortion. "Come out and fight me!" every remaining window in the building cracked at the sound of his challenge.

Katsuki stuck his boot atop the heap of rubble nearest to the entrance and listened, controlling every breath and holding every upset. Amidst the rustling of dust, the injured man's grunting stirred the blood in his veins, and Katsuki let out a yell and leapt towards the source, releasing every bestial urge he possessed.

Two explosions, one from each hand, propelled him higher, reaching their apogee above the murmurs of pain. There, Katsuki swung his arms overhead, blasting the ceiling with precision, setting it ablaze, and plunged downwards with his legs outstretched, poised to stomp the life from the voice. Instead of the crunch of bones under overwhelming pressure, he heard the sound of splinters.

The concrete fissured beneath his feet and a shockwave went up in a puff of smoke, followed by a faint scream from ten paces away. Katsuki lifted his head to see the outline of the villain, who shuddered before him and scrambled in the opposite direction. Periodic whimpers and curses escaped from the gap between his fingers, and each time Katsuki seemed to take pride in this weakness.

Every few seconds, his hand snapped with a crackle of sparks. A mist of light draped in ribbons across his face, the glint of burning orange shining more clearly than ever against the sea of black. At that moment, his canines shone prominently, baring and grinding his teeth until his mouth vibrated with menace.

The villain looked into the abyss of smoke, and in the eyes that looked back, there was no reflection of the hero, only the light of a mind that shrieked with primal hatred and fed on vile fantasies. The same red colour that poured from his nostrils floated in the darkness, shadowing him.

Katsuki swung his arm, puncturing the column of smoke and drawing it back as a curtain. The longer he beheld the villain, the more veins bumped along his temples and muscles bulged like sinewy ropes in his neck. There came the sound of an old record scratching and a firecracker popping, flanked by a flash of light on either side of Katsuki.

As soon as the villain staggered away, a gloved hand struck him in the chest; that horrible moment of death pierced him and the inescapable realisation that he was seeing his own through the eyes of another.

The force of the blast doubled in intensity, pain and heat flooding through his body like a grenade, splintering his sternum and filling his ribcage with shrapnel. A crater opened up in the wall behind him as concrete slammed against his spine, and his feet lifted high enough to never again touch the ground.

Through the din, the hero roared in a trance of vengeance, his voice growing more and more animalistic. Katsuki reached for the villain's heart, his arms tremulous, barely able to catch his breath. He struck with all the strength of his body, his eyes bloodshot from the smoke that sucked the air from his lungs.

From the inside of his gauntlet protruded a metal pin;—as he bent his finger to hook it, an instantaneous surge of rage shot through him. When he loosed the pin, a single word, "Die," burst forth, a word that packed a lifetime of contempt and rancour.

A swirl of the most vivid reds and oranges, hot and unquenchable as the core of a forest fire, tasted the air through the tubes of his gauntlets and soared infernal. An explosion more powerful than the loudest clap of thunder rang out, and everything opposite Katsuki burst into embers and spatter.

A whirlwind of flame and smoke pushed the unburnt pieces of concrete into darkness. Thick soot and ash blackened each window, and with a loud crash, shards of glass rained down into the street. The hiss and echo of shrapnel cascaded through the air, flying on the wind, before the explosion waned to a booming rumble.

Sizzling steam wafted through the air, exhaling the sticky fumes of sweat and blood. The hard soles of his combat boots thudded against fissures in the pavement. Smoke arose from his slick forehead, stinking at the hero as he stalked through the clouds of dust, and the threads of his costume stretched as his chest grew heavier.

These huffs and puffs fell short of his eyes, which glowered at all before them. The wildness that had possessed him withered to its usual ache once the sun gilded his face. With each step more driven than the last, the gloom of the wreckage and those whom it buried slipped further and further from his mind.

Katsuki hovered as close as he could without stepping on you. Dollops of blood dripped from the spikes of his hair and stood vibrant against the black of his costume.

"Hey, Bakubro!" Kirishima scanned the street in the vain hope that he would find the villain handcuffed, not reduced to the meat paste one wiped from their shoe. "Where's the villain?"

The muscles in Katsuki's face contracted, as did the muscles in his fingers, which curled inwards to throttle even the memory of the villain. For a moment, a sour calm passed over him, and the twitching in his cheeks subsided. "I blew his ass to pieces."

"Serves him right." You spat out a glob of blood and phlegm onto the asphalt.

A swell of pride drew from Katsuki a chuckle both brief and spirited, for his eyes lit up as the glow of his brightest explosion. The primordial anger that boiled within him gave way to the triumph and bloodlust espoused only by those who relished the battlefield.

Kirishima, whence he sat with hands clasped about your own, slackened them and recoiled a tad, his face blanching and on the verge of contortion. "What? But we can't just..." he bit his tongue as Katsuki swooped down on him.

"We made a judgement call, shitty hair!" He swung his arm wide. "So back the hell off!"

Another wheezing gasp escaped you, but it shrank to a torn, guttural pant as the moribund life inside failed to regain its strength.

As the short distance from the pavement drew his eye back and forth, back and forth, Kaminari eased his hands about your underarms and hauled you up to his chest. The first step to the pavement shot through your body a convulsion of spitting, flailing, and snorting. Froth and drool gelled in your mouth, and blood emptied from your nose into your throat.

The instant Kaminari dropped you and flinched back, wincing at his own carelessness, the skin on his arm erupted with invisible flame and rocketed closer. The centre of his face seemed to cave in on impact, spewing viscous strings of snot in blood and saliva in tears.

Katsuki struck him hard on the wrist, and Kaminari fell over backwards, cracking his nose with his own hand.

"Dumbass!" thundering footfalls commanded his attention, snarling out a venom that would give even the fiercest of beasts pause. "What the hell are you doing?" Kaminari shivered at his reflection, for in the same eyes that brooded over him, there lay a familiar glaze of fear.

With one hand clamped over his nose to stymie the flow of blood, Kaminari squinted through tears. He pulled his knees close and curled into a ball, his side to Katsuki. Despite the congestion in his throat, which Kaminari fought down to the best of his ability, he looked Katsuki squarely in the face.

"We have to move them! We can't just leave them in the street!"

A howl of an outburst so rancid it transcended words, a drive to demolish anything that moved, poured out of Katsuki between teeth squeezed so tight his jaw cried for relief. Nightmarish tension warped the muscles of his face, and he pivoted away from Kaminari, intent on checking your condition.

"Shut up and let me think for a minute!"

You had fallen into silence, the fatigue taking over, the road seeming fused to your skin, the agony so sharp your heart thrashed and stole the light from your vision.

"Go for Recovery Girl! Tell her we need a medevac!"

Kaminari slapped a hand on his earpiece, flooding every hero channel he could locate with a distress signal.

Katsuki spied it moments before Kirishima drawled his name: the swirl of fog over your eyes as Death trotted near.

He snapped his head up and fixed his most intense stare, a mixture of madness and wrath, on Kaminari's back. "Now!" Katsuki lunged for Kaminari, who cowered back, gnashing his teeth and pushing out searing breath. "I don't care who she's with! Bring her here now!"

A miniature explosion shimmered and evaporated from his palm, which Katsuki shoved into Kaminari's face. A line of froth trailed after each word and splashed Kaminari, who wrenched one eye shut and turned to block the droplets with his hand.

Upon seeing Katsuki towering over him, blotting out the sun, Kaminari hunched forward to make himself smaller.

In that instant, as another frantic shout dangled from the tip of Katsuki's tongue, a wretched terror stole the sound from his world. The shrillest ringing, like bullets raining down on him from all sides, shook his sanity, and a cold sweat plunged down his spine. Warmth drained from the most blistering explosions, and chilling tendrils writhed in his stomach.

The phantom pressure of breathlessness, of a sharp heel against his chest, dug at his heart.

Where reinforcements should have charged in unison, the vacant, lifeless road stretched on, beguiling his wide eyes into staring, twitching with the sickness of a revelation most dire. As Katsuki watched the bend in its infinite, absolute distance, one thought of dreadful proportion stuck in his mind: "No one's coming."

The cacophonous voice scratched at his ears again, but the sharpness of his adrenaline-fuelled senses directed him towards the smell of blood.

Kirishima opened his arms as a final, desperate obstacle, lips drawn narrow, flesh bared and hardened. "Bakugou, you saw what happened with Kaminari! If you move 'em now, they might die!"

Katsuki stopped short, reaching one upturned hand. "Take a look at 'em, shitty hair! They're dying anyway!"

First casting his eyes behind, Kirishima meditated on the truth in those words.

The metal shells of his knee guards skidded across the asphalt as Katsuki shouldered Kirishima aside and hurled himself on the ground before you. Freed of all hesitation, he cradled you for a moment, secured you on his back, and made sure to keep his eyes forward.

Black blood, curdled and rancid like old soup, matted his gloves. The tremor in his legs and the stone in his throat came not from his nauseous spring up, nor from the sweltering rush on which he arced through the sky.

* * *

Katsuki paced a uniform sea of white sandstone, staring into the distance at an unreachable target, a target that chased him from sterile wall to sterile wall. He cursed under his breath, as if chanting a spell, at himself for not acting sooner, and at all the scum that abandoned you on the field. His gauntlets rattled with every swing of his arm, skin smeared with soot and blood.

Every three or four laps, a new wave of doubt seized him, and Katsuki paused to watch your breathing, assuring himself that it hadn't ceased or grown errant. Each time, he searched for the barest hint of consciousness, and each time, the pressure of frustration clenched his chest a little tighter.

His shadow loomed over your bedside, slathered with debris and reeking of scorched death, silent as though he could menace the wound out of you.

At the faint creak of a handle turning and a door sliding open on its hinges, Katsuki wheeled round on the entrance and flung out his arm. A light that rivalled the sun bathed his palm with sweat, but Aizawa's dark eyes peered out still from beneath a veil of shaggy hair.

"Where the hell were you?" Katsuki thrust his hand forth, each word aloft from the bombilation of sparks.

Shota Aizawa, a man whom the undead would welcome into their ranks, faced this threat with reddened eyes half overcome by slumping lids: "Your actions today broke more laws than I can count."

Katsuki swiped a ribbon of smoke through the air and neared the foot of the bed, a strip of muscle in his cheek bulging and pulsing. "I ain't apologising for shit! That bastard got every bit of what he deserved!"

A glimmer of scarlet flared to life from deep behind Aizawa's eyes, and the tips of his frayed hair began to levitate. "If you value your career, I suggest you stand down immediately."

Recovery Girl trudged over, her eyes closed in exhaustion, her legs still moving with an impeccable sense of direction. She trailed the hem of her coat on all the dust of the hospital floor. "I told him to take a break I don't know how many times, but he won't leave his friend's side."

The pulp of Katsuki's stomach knotted, and the hairs on his neck bristled. "We're not friends!" He dragged on the last word, voice heavy and exasperated, as though it were an accusation he fought off daily.

Recovery Girl scolded him, pursing her lips and shaking her head, then took up with Aizawa, who lingered on him for a minute.

"They're just some idiot on my team." Katsuki turned to you again, eyes frozen and puffy, haunted by the thought that your hollowed skin looked fit for a casket.

All signs of the convulsion had been wiped from your mouth and dumped inside a steel bin. A blanket, bleached and prone to tangles, pooled thinly over you, and Katsuki drew it forth into a more complete covering. "Hey," he called, as though pulling you out of training, "I know you're hurt, but don't die."

There was a gentleness of mien then, followed at once by a droop in his posture. "Okay?"

The chatter of flapping gums and popping saliva was a needle down his ear, and Katsuki stiffened, his face gnarled once more, before rounding on the noise. "Old lady, get your ass over here and fix this!"

* * *

The head of the academy, his white fur neatly tucked behind his suit vest and chequered trousers, crept up the slope of the chair. A diagonal scar ran from the centre of his forehead down his right cheek, exposing a stripe of pink skin, dulled with time and deprived of fur. A cup of steaming tea in hand, he sat no taller than a small child.

The autumnal air flowed in, cool and refreshing, through the ajar window that Aizawa had hastened to shut.

Principal Nezu replaced the sound with a most pleasant and disarming one, his voice lowering everyone's blood pressure until it cheered death and destruction. "Bakugou's conduct was no doubt reckless, and we shall assign him extra duties for the remainder of the month."

"That's it?"

A forepaw shot out, silencing him.

"We all agree it was excessive force, but young Bakugou acted in defence of a fallen comrade. The fact of the matter is, villains outnumber heroes ten to one, and they will only grow larger unless we as a school do our part." Principal Nezu set his teacup down carefully on his saucer, his head bowed and his eyes closed.

His beady eyes turned black as stone in the reddish haze of dusk. "It falls on our shoulders to train the next generation. Like never before, we need students who can meet this threat. Students who can push the limits of what heroism means."

Nezu slid forward with his elbows, linked his forepaws, uplifted his mouth with permanence, threaded each finger through the others, and rubbed his hands. "We must never encourage lethal force, but if our students are to succeed, they need also recognise when it may be necessary."

Aizawa took one last look at the after-action report before pulling himself to his feet, leaving the folder open to the description of the villain: "Unidentified, body recovered in pieces from a ten-kilogram detonation at close range, all other remains vapourised in the blast."

Do anything you want with my work, but never make me boring!

111 notes · View notes

assortedseaglass · 8 months

Text

The Seamstress & The Sailor - Chapter Twenty One

[Masterlist]

Tom Bennett x Bess Vaughn (OFC)

Warnings: Strong Language, Angst, Smut (so mild),Violence, Depictions of War, Mentions of Death, Depictions of PTSD, Injury Detail, Mentions of Sexual Assault, Depictions of Reproductive Health, Suicidal Thoughts, World on Fire Spoilers.

Word Count: 5.3K

Tom didn’t know what to expect when he knocked on the door of Connie’s home. Perhaps a bohemian flat filled with records, make up and magazines scattered about the place like the room the Vaughn sisters shared. His grand imaginings dwindled, however, as he hovered on the steps of the two-up-two-down on Bury Road. He banged on the door. An acne-scarred man of about his own age answered instantly, as though he had been waiting behind the door, and Tom noticed he leant on a wooden walking stick.

“Is Connie about? Or Lois?” The man ran his eyes over Tom’s uniform, then looked at the ceiling.

“Upstairs. Door’s usually open.” Tom didn’t stop to worry how the man knew this, pushing past to ascend the stairs. “You watch yourself out there, lad. Don’t want to end up like me.” The stranger tapped his leg with his walking stick and the sound of wood on wood rattled off the thin walls. Lad. The war had aged them all. Tom sighed, and yet couldn’t bring himself to feel sorry for the man, as the stranger leant over the stairs and watched Tom’s backside disappear around the banister. He was barely at the top of the stairs before his heart sank. From behind the door, the soft babbles of his infant niece could be heard, and that meant only one thing. Lois was home. He tapped on the door and pushed it open.

A basket of washing at her feet and her head in her hands, Lois sat at the window table.

“I’m just about to hang it up, Con,” she nudged the clothes horse with her foot. Tom wasn’t ready to talk, not just yet, and ignoring his sister, made his way towards the cot. Kicking her feet in unbounding glee, Vera Vaughn gazed up at her uncle. In the few months since he last saw her, Tom’s niece had doubled in size. Where she had been long before, an encasing of baby fat covered her tiny body, from the small balls of her fists to the rolls of fat about her elbows and legs. Forgetting all that he had learnt in the day, Tom was overcome with the urge to pick her up and bury his face in her soft stomach.

“Hiya, Pet,” Tom whispered. Vera gazed back up at him, all gummy-grin and bright-eyes.

“Tom?” Lois’ voice was small, as though waking from a dream. “Tom!” Without warning, she flew from her seat and wrapped her arms around his neck. Tom stumbled.

“Alright, Lois?”

“Ifyoudhavesaidyoudbebackearlyidhavecometothestation!”

“Hey?”

Lois extracted herself from her brother’s shoulder. “If you’d have said you’d be back early, I’d have come to the station!”

“Yeah well,” he straightened up so as to put distance between them. “I’m not entirely sure you know how the naval postal system works, Lois.” From the pocket of his slacks, Tom withdrew a packet of Marlboro and sat in Lois’ vacated chair by the window. Lois knew her brother. Recognised the pinched eyebrows and set jaw. The siblings remained silent as Lois watched him. The strike of his match and Vera’s gargling were all that coloured the small room with life. Who would break first? Not one utterance of the word, and still thoughts of him loomed over both the Bennetts like a spectre. Dad.

Tom’s leg bobbed up and down, the rhythm rattling the table and causing Vera to stir. At the sound if her daughter’s rustling, Lois sighed. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong!? WHAT’S WRONG!?” Tom’s fist slammed on the table and Vera whimpered.

“Careful!” Lois hissed, gently rocking Vera’s cot. “I’ve just got her settled!”

“What’s wrong!?” His urgent whisper would have been comical were it not for his wide, white-eyed stare. “That’s what’s wrong, Lois!” He pointed to the photograph of Douglas on the small table, next to the steaming cup of tea and folded napkins. “You didn’t think to write? To let me know that the house got blown up!? And our dad along with it!?”

He was wielding his cigarette like a weapon, ash flying from its end as he pointed it at her. Lois blanched at anger rising to her cheeks. No “hello, Lois”, no “how have you been?”. Not even “it must have been awful, alone with the baby”. No. Instead he waltzed in with a blinding rage, convinced the world had set itself upon him and him alone. Nevermind anyone else. Lois tried to measure her voice.

“I did write, Tom, I-”

“Well I didn’t fucking get it!” He bellowed, standing up to kick a stool. With a startled scream, Vera began to wail. Harsh, strangled cries and, as if pulled between two hearts, Lois fought with who to comfort first. Her brother, hunched over the hearth, his hands white-knuckling the clothes horse as his shoulders shuddered with grief? Or her daughter, helpless and vulnerable, bawling in her cot as the two people who loved her most, the two people that hadn’t left her, argued? Lois’ head pounded with the sounds of their crying and, moving without thought, reached over the cot and scooped Vera into her arms. With pleading shushes,she swaddled her baby in her cottons and made her tentative way towards her brother. Vera cradled in one arm against her breast, Lois reached out, pressing her hand on Tom’s back. For a moment he didn’t move, and Lois feared his rage was simmering below boiling point. But when he turned, and she saw the tear tracks streaking his face, barrelling over his gaunt cheeks, Lois fought with all her resolve not to cry also. Not with grief, as Tom was, but with the stark reality that once more it was she, Lois, who remained to pick up those around her, as she had always done. She shook her head, and reminded herself that while her mourning was old, stale, Tom’s was a fresh wound. A renewed splutter of Vera’s tears seemed to startle Tom and he looked at his niece, instinctively reaching out to stroke her cheek.

“Pour yourself a cuppa,” Lois whispered. “While I get this one settled.” Tom merely nodded and sat himself at the table, listening as Lois murmured to her daughter. He lifted the lid on the teapot. Cold. He hadn’t the energy to boil the pot and instead retrieved another cigarette from his pocket. Lois sat beside him. He held the cigarette out to her, expecting her to refuse but she took it, inhaled a long drag and passed it back, her hand resting atop his as she did so.

“I’m sorry, Tom. I thought you would have got the letter. But there was no way you would have made the funeral-”

“So there was a funeral, then?” Lois watched him, confused. “You didn’t just leave him where he was?”

“Why are you being like this?” Lois snatched her hand away from his.

“Why did you leave him alone?” Tom looked directly at her, his cigarette aloft.

“What?”

“Why did you leave him alone?” His voice was incredulous and Lois wanted to slap him. “You knew what dad was like, you know how scared he got.”

How dare he make her feel guilty. “I’m an ambulance driver, Tom. I was trying to do my bit-”

“Your bit?” Tom stood abruptly, waving his cigarette wildly. Lois eyed, scared it might fly and spark. “Your bit? Your bit was looking after the baby and looking after dad. Not anyone else. If you’d have done that, he might still be alive!”

She ignored the heartbreaking crack of his voice. She couldn’t mother him too. Not anymore. “It was a direct hit, Tom! I’d be dead and Vera’d be dead too if I’d been there. You should be thankful that I wasn’t and not lashing out at me. Just because-”

“Just because of what?” Tom knew what Lois was about to say. Lois knew he’d heard it unspoken. They stared each other down, and as Tom’s nostrils flared in anger, Lois made her decision.

“Just because you feel bad that you made his life hell when he was alive and now you can never make it up to him.”

Silence. If Tom’s heart wasn’t broken already, it certainly was now. He tried to blot them out. The disappointed looks in the mornings. The arguments. The hushed words as he collected him from the police station. The way, when he arrived home after Dunkirk, Douglas had looked proud. Happy even, truly, for the first time, to see his son. Tom took a deep breath, eyes never leaving his sister’s.

“He was my dad. I didn’t have to like him, and he didn’t have to like me. But he was my dad.”

Lois didn’t flinch. Didn’t apologise or even waver. She was lost to him now. He could see it in her eyes before she turned away from him. “He was my dad too.”

Bess was laying her small kitchen table with plates and napkins when the flat door burst open a few hours later. Tom lolled against the doorframe, watching Bess’ moment of domesticity. He smiled.

“Evening, sailor.”

“I could get used to this,” Tom said as he strolled towards her and placed his hands on her hips. “No sneaking around Mrs Russo, coming back from the pub to your cooking-”

“Been at the pub have you?” Bess turned to him and looped her hands behind his neck. The faint taste of lager lingered on his lips as he kissed her.

“May have had a quick pint at The Crown,”

Bess hummed in non-surprise. “And if you want to “get used” to any sort of life with me, boy, you best learn to cook more than corned-beef hash.” Tom laughed and kissed the corner of her mouth. Bess batted him away. “If you think I’m joking you’ve got another thing coming. I’m already working two jobs, and when this is all over,” she waved a tea towel in the air, neither wanting to admit that it may never be over. “You’ll have to do more than taking odd labouring jobs and flogging stolen car parts.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He saluted and sat down, taking out his packet of cigarettes. Bess snatched it from his hand.

“Not before dinner. Make yourself useful and get the butter from the fridge.” Tom, for once, did as he was told. He had enough experience to know not to upset Bess Vaughn. “How was Lois?” Bess asked as she placed the vegetables on the table.

“Yeah, fine.” Tom scraped a small helping of the butter in the pan and said no more. Sensing the topic out of bounds, Bess asked no more.

“And Vera?”

He perked up at this. “My God, she’s grown. We’ll be sending her down to Trafford Park in no time.”

Bess laughed. “She’s a dear little thing. I know she can’t understand but imagine being born amongst all this and still smiling. Thank God for her, she came along to make us smile at just the right time.”

Tom was tempted to tell her that he thought Lois disagreed, but just as Tom was hot-headed, Bess was stubborn, and once she knew he had argued with his sister there would be no letting up. Instead, he contented himself to silence, watching Bess fill his plate with vegetables that Hattie and Jude had sent from the farm. A hunk of bread on each side of the plate and the meal was complete. It wasn’t much, and certainly not what they were used to before the war, but compared to the slop onboard, Bess’ cooking was Michelin starred. It wasn’t until the first forkful of carrot and cabbage hit his lips that Tom realised he hadn’t eaten since stepping ashore earlier that morning. Bess watched with undisguised amusement.

“I’m sorry I can’t give you anymore.”

“It was perfect.” Bess tutted at this. “Really! I dream of this when we’re at sea.” Bess watched him smiling at her. While still gaunt and exhausted, something of the old Tom Bennett took over his features. The blue-eyed glint of mischief in his eyes, the relaxed slope of his shoulders that came with only the most confident of people.

“You should smile more, Tom Bennett.”

“So you’ve said.”

A minute’s more silence passed, and Bess began tidying the plates when Tom’s hand stilled hers. “Leave it. For now. Let’s just sit a while.” She watched him in that way he always loved. Wily, dark-eyed and knowing. She sat back down.

“I know something happened with Lois, but I won’t ask,” she said as he tried to interject. “But come on, you’ve been gone a while. What were you doing?”

Tom at last took out his cigarette and lit it, leaning back in his chair. He took a drag before speaking. “Went to see mum. And dad,” he added sadly. “It helps to talk to her when I’m angry. And to say sorry to dad, for not being there when-” His voice faltered and he stopped to flick ash onto his empty plate. “Left some flowers for your mam. Didn’t know what to give Albie so I left a ciggie by his memorial.”

Bess would have jumped across the table were it not so cluttered with cutlery and china. When Tom let go of his pride, and his silly reputation, it was clear what Bess had known all along. He was a good man.

“What?” A smirked played at the corner of Tom’s lips. Damn. He’d caught her staring.

“Nothing,” Bess blushed as he watched her. She liked it, knowing she had been caught admiring him. She stood from her seat opposite him and, one hand skirting its edge, made her way around the table. Tom’s smirk grew broader. God, he could read her like a book. His light eyes never leaving her dark ones, he pushed his chair away from the table and rooted his feet firmly on the floor. How inviting he was like this. Without a word, Bess straddled his widened legs and took the cigarette from between his lips. Placing it between her own, she made a show of pouting around its end as she inhaled. Tom’s pupils grew dark and she smirked. When she pressed down into his lap, her core grazed over his clothed length, he growled.

“Nice girls don’t behave like this.” His voice was hoarse with anticipation. Bess blew a delicate cloud of smoke at him and placed the cigarette back between his thin lips. Lowering her mouth to his ear, pressing herself firmer against him, she sang lowly.

“All the nice girls love a sailor, all the nice girls love a tar,” Tom’s throaty laugh rumbled in his chest and Bess’ breath caught. It all but left her completely when he gripped her thighs and stood, kicking the chair aside, to carry her into the bedroom.

As Tom lined himself up at her entrance, a prickle of fear washed over her. Where Tom’s lack of caution may have concerned other girls, should have concerned her were she sensible in her need for him, Bess found she could barely bring herself to worry. It was not the first time they hadn’t used a sheath, nor would it be the last. Hadn’t she told him once before that any consequence of loving him fully could be damned? No, it wasn’t that. It was because she knew, somewhere in her subconscious, it did not matter at all.

Next day, they awoke in time for elevenses. As Robina Chase was not expecting Bess until the afternoon, they spent their morning idly chatting, or else engaged in what Sister Stern so often called “the contempt of mankind”. By noon they had worked up such an appetite that Bess had to dash to the corner shop early for her week’s rations.

“Why don’t you come with me? To Mrs Chase’s?” She said, brushing her hair and holding it back with a scarf. Even if she dressed as Mrs Chase pleased, the besom would have something to say. Better to be comfortable with her hair flying free than pinned femininity into like a voodoo doll.

“And do what?” Tom said through a mouthful of bread and butter.

“Play football with Jan? He’s stuck up in that house with Mrs Chase and his sister, and I know he misses your dad. He could do with the company.”

Tom nodded and grabbed a jumper from Bess’ wardrobe. With the house gone and only his uniform and one change of clothes, Tom had little clean to wear. During his ill-fated trip to see Lois, Bess had hurried home to fetch some of Albie’s clothes that Fergal still kept in the house. From the wreckage of his old home, she had also managed to salvage his blue jacket. It was torn by the blast here and there, but she had patched it up so now it was almost a new garment entirely.

“We’d better leave soon love, it’s a fair old way and you haven’t got my old man to give you free bus tickets or bike rides.”

“A-ha! There’s something else I managed to save.” Bess appeared at the door, red jumper tucked into her slacks, and pointed out of the kitchen window. In the courtyard below, resting against a trough full of anemones, was Douglas’ bike.

“Crafty bugger, aren’t you?” Tom raised his eyebrows appraisingly. “Nevermind me flogging scrap metal, we best get you at it.” Bess laughed and picked up her tailor’s basket. “And how do you suppose I’m gonna get there?”

“I’ll pedal and you sit on the handlebars?”

“Piss off.”

By the time they arrived at the Chase home, shrieking and giggling as Tom tried to keep the bike steady, Robina was already stood at the door.

“I thought a Stuka was going over. Or perhaps a victory parade?”

“Afternoon, Mrs Chase.” Bess hopped off the handlebars. “I hope you don’t mind but I brought Tom, to keep Jan company.”

“Yes, that’s fine.” Mrs Chase already sounded exasperated as she made her way back into the house. “As long as he plays football better than he dances. I don’t suppose you play chess, Mr Bennett?”

Tom followed Bess and Robina into the house. “Never had the patience, Mrs. More of a betting and instant gratification man, myself.” Mrs Chase ignored this comment and, when she wasn’t looking, Bess smacked him in the stomach.

“Jan!” Robina called up the stairs. “Jan? Honestly, that boy. Can I get you some tea, Bess?”

Bess barely had time to reply before Mrs Chase was calling for Joyce. “Joyce is the housekeeper,” she whispered in Tom’s ear.

“And did the tea come from China?”

“Stop,” Bess hissed through her teeth.

It was then that a girl appeared in the doorway of the study. Like Bess, she had left her hair down, but where Bess possessed a confidence born of solitude, this girl’s seemed rooted in defiance. “My brother is already outside.”

“Ah, Kasia, there you are.” Mrs Chase stepped forward with her arms up as if presenting Kasia like a specimen. “This is Bess Vaughn, my tailor. She’ll be making you some new clothes. And this is her-um-her-this-” she was flapping her arms in Tom’s direction. “This is Tom Bennett.”

So this was the girl Harry had dumped Lois for? What a po-faced misery. He gave her a cocky smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Alright, love?”

Kasia’s mouth twitched and she muttered a quiet “hello” before Robina ushered her back into the study.

“Full of fucking fun, this place.” Tom whispered.

“Go outside and play!” Bess gave him a shove and Tom laughed. Robina’s head popped out from the study doorway.

“Bess? We’re in here today. Joyce will be along with your tea in a moment.” She disappeared inside. Bess could already hear Tom and Jan running around the garden and, wishing she could be outside with them, followed after Mrs Chase.

The room was bright with sunlight, the desk and chair having been moved to the side to allow room for Bess’ work. Mrs Chase was pulling across a folding screen and Kasia stood awkwardly at the side, watching her. Bess set her tailor’s box on the desk, and form it produced a package wrapped in powder pink tissue paper.

“Your altered clothes, Mrs Chase. If you could try them on and let me know what you think, I’ll get Kasia measured up.”

“I’ve set out some patterns and clippings there, Bess,” Robina indicated to a small chair upholstered in green velvet. “I’ve said Kasia can pick some of her own, but really, I’d like a variation on those garments.” She picked up the pile of altered clothes and swept from the room, the click of her heels disappearing up the stairs. Bess and Kasia were left alone.

“I’ll just finish setting up so that I can measure you. Then, we’ll have a chat about patterns.” Bess crouched on the floor with her tailor’s box but Kasia didn’t move. “Alright then,” Bess looked up from her position on the floor and tapped the top of the box. “Up you get.”

Kasia hesitated. “Do you not need me in my smalls?”

Bess shook her head. “You’re fine as you are.” She tapped the box again. Kasia stepped on to it and Bess began her work, her measuring tape whipping around Kasia as she noted down her sizes. The girl above her was uncomfortable. Bess knew it from the stiffness of her shoulders and the awkward way her hands fell at her sides.

“How old are you, Kasia?”

“Twenty-five.”

Bess laughed. “Does Mrs Chase know that?”

A small smile crept onto Kasia’s face. “You would think it, wouldn’t you? Seeing as I am married to her son.”

The circumstance of Kasia’s arrival had almost slipped her mind. “How is Harry?”

“You know him?”

“A little. From dances and things, you know? And Lois-” She stopped before she could continue.

“Don’t worry,” Kasia said. “I’ve met Lois. And the baby.”

“Oh right,” Bess cleared her throat. “And what did you think?”

“I can see why Harry likes her,”

“Yeah. I can see why he likes you and all. Loves a headstrong girl, does Harry.” Bess finished jotting in her notebook and signalled to Kasia that she could step off the box.

“Headstrong?”

“Yeah. Confident. Knows who she is. Isn’t afraid to put him in his place.”

Kasia scoffed. “I only wish I could. He seems to think he knows what is best for me, what I should be doing and what will make me happy.”

Bess stopped her work and faced Kasia. Kasia got the uneasy sense that Bess was reading her mind, or else, already knew Kasia better than she knew herself. “And what would make you happy, Kasia?”

“Home.” She didn’t need to think about it. It was all she thought about. Her poor mother and father. Jan and Grzegorz.

“Well,” Bess said. “I can’t help you get home. But I can help make this feel like a home. For now.” Bess picked up the patterns Robina had left out and handed them to Kasia. “Which would you like?”

The young woman wrinkled her nose. “None of them.”

Bess guffawed. “Well, what can I do to make you feel comfortable?” Kasia looked at Bess. At her frizzy, unpinned hair and her red knitted jumper. Then her eyes fell on her wide-legged slacks and brogues. She looked like Katherine Hepburn had stepped out from the magazine and appeared in northern England.

“These,” Kasia pointed to Bess’ trousers. “I’d love some.”

“I can do that.” Bess smiled and placed her hand on Kasia’s shoulder. “If you ever need a friend Kasia, I’ll be here. My sisters and Lois too.”

“Lois? Really?”

“She’s some woman, our Lois.”

“Headstrong?”

“Exactly, and if I may speak frankly about Harry? This mess,” Bess took a step closer to Kasia and gestured around the room. “This mess isn’t your fault, or Lois’. It’s your husband’s. He just did what he thought was best.” She patted Kasia’s shoulder and turned to pack up her things as the doorbell rang.

“Joyce!” Mrs Chase’s voice shouted from upstairs and the two girls laughed. “Joyce! The door!”

“Bess?”

“Yes, Kasia?”

“Is Tom this difficult?”

“Oh, my love, even more so!” The girls giggled all the harder, covering their mouths as Robina hurried past to open the door, muttering something about her housekeeper.

“How long have you been courting?” Kasia was looking more relaxed by the moment, and Bess was happy to indulge her questions if it helped her feel at home.

“Only a few months,” Bess held out her hand for Kasia to take and they left the study together. “But we grew up together. He’s er-” Bess faltered. “He’s Lois’ brother.”

Kasia didn’t seem to care. “Ah! We’ve just met and we’re almost related. Little Vera’s stepmother and aunt!”

“And I’m glad to call you an “almost relative”,” Bess pulled Kasia closer as they walked arm in arm from the study to find Mrs Chase and the boys.

“Who’s an “almost relative”?”

Both girls stopped where they stood and Kasia dropped Bess’ hand. “Grzegorz!” She hurried to the young man standing in the hall. Bess didn’t need to ask who he was. She could see it in his eyes. He was Jan grown up. She knew him already, from Jan’s excited babbling after seeing him. The war-drawn face that Douglas told her about when he had visited the sanitorium that he himself had once stayed in. She approached the two figures and held out her hand.

“Grzegorz?” He looked over his sister’s shoulder at the red-haired woman behind her.

“Bess Vaughn?” Bess nodded and the pair shook hands. “I have heard much about you from Jan. Only good things, of course.” He added, for fear of rudeness. He was still navigating the English manner of politeness.

“Oh, that’s a shame.” Bess winked and the three of them laughed. “Come on, he’s in the garden playing football with Tom.”

“Tom?”

“Bess’ young man.” Kasia whispered, and Bess winked at her too. Stepping through the lounge’s double doors and onto the patio, they saw that Mrs Chase had already beaten them to it. Her hands were on her hips as she watched Tom and Jan kick about the football.

“Don’t get too used to Tom coming around, Jan,” Robina called as she dodged a football. “He won’t be wasting his shore leave on you.”

“Ah, it’s not a waste Mrs Chase,” Tom ran over to retrieve the football. “It’ll be nice to have some male company. God knows Lois and the Vaughn sisters are difficult company.”

“I’m right here, mister!” Bess called.

“You watch yourself, Kasia! The Vaughn girls aren’t to be meddled with!” Kasia laughed. “Nice to see you smiling!” He winked and as he made his way back to Jan, Tom’s eyes fell on the young man beside Kasia and Bess. Eyes like a ghost, wide and haunted, staring back at him. He knew them from somewhere. Fuck, it gave Tom the creeps. “Alright, mate? Want a kick about?” The young man shook his head slowly. “Suit yourself.”

Grzegorz stared at this Tom Bennett as he made his way back towards his younger brother. He knew him. Somehow, he knew him. That cocksure swagger and those mischievous eyes. It wasn’t until Tom pointed to Jan, shouting something about kicking with the side of his foot, that it clicked.

“Get to the back and wait your turn.”

He was exhausted.

“Killing you’s a small price if it stops all these fellas buying it too.”

He could taste the sea.

“We’re all fucking ready for death, mate.”

The gun was pointed straight at him. Grzegorz snapped violently back into the present.

“Jan. Chodź tu.” Come here.

The little boy stopped running. His foot had been in mid-air, ready to kick the ball towards Tom. “Grzegorz, trochę dłużej.” A little longer.

“Teraz!” Now! Grzegorz shouted. Mrs Chase’s hand flew to her chest and Kasia stepped forward.

“Grzegorz? What’s wro-” Kasia tried to calm him but he pushed his sister away.

“Come on, mate.” Tom was facing Grzegorz. “It’s only football, let him play a little longer-”

“Pieprz się!” Fuck you! Grzegorz all but screamed at Tom. Jan gasped and Kasia lunged for her brother as Grzegorz ran towards Tom. She gripped him around the arms as he spat Polish insults at Tom. Tom, for all his bravado, was flabbergasted. He held a hand out to Jan, and pushed him behind his back so he wouldn’t see his brother in such a state.

“Now really!” Robina had stepped onto the lawn, her small heels sinking into the grass. “Grzegroz, this really isn’t appropriate in front of your brother-” The young man ignored her, and suddenly swung his fist at Tom. Tom staggered backwards, knocking Jan sideways.

“Fucking watch it, mate!”

“Mr Bennett, please! What would your father sa-” Mrs Chase shrieked when Grzegorz lunged for Tom again and Bess sprinted past her. Together, she and Kasia restrained Tom and Grzegorz, one man confused, the other bursting with rage.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Tom almost laughed. This was absurd. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me? WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME!? Skurwysyn!” Son of a bitch!

“Grzegorz!” He ignored his sister and continued screaming at Tom.

“The beach! DUNKIERKA!”

Bess froze and felt, under her arms, Tom do the same.

“Dunkierka!” Grzegorz’s voice was rough from shouting. He slumped onto the grass at his sister’s feet and began rocking himself soothingly, his hands buried in his mousy hair.

“Kasia, take Jan inside.” Robina’s was voice firm. “Now!” She commanded when Kasia made to protest. “Bess, Mr Bennett. Thank you, for today. I will deliver the funds to your father’s house.” Each of them was dismissed from Mrs Chase’s garden. Each, except for Grzegorz, who still shook where he sat on the ground.

“Yes, Mrs Chase.” Bess turned to face Tom. “I’ll just collect my things. Tom?” His eyes were locked onto Grzegorz’s shaking form. “Tom?” He looked up at her and she saw the same emotion in his eyes that had flashed across Grzegorz’s before his outburst. Terror. He was back on the battlefield. “Tom, darling-” She reached out to touch his face but he jolted away from her.

“Don’t.”

“Tom-” He staggered away, around the side of the house and out of sight. From her position on the lawn, Bess heard the popping of gravel underfoot. He was running. Tom was running away. Bess sighed, in anger or frustration or worry, she didn’t know. At least he’d left her the bike. Beside her, Grzegorz let out a shuddering breath.

“Come on, honey,” Bess crouched beside him and tentatively placed her arms around him. “Let’s get you inside.”

If only Albie and Douglas were still here. What had Tom Bennett done this time?

Notes: Manchester play footie at Old Trafford, and Trafford Park also used to have fighting rings. “Contempt of mankind” is a phrase from a book I am reading called A Curious History of Sex and I recommend everyone read it immediately! Also for context in case people don’t know, Stukas were the German dive bombers that were designed to “scream”. They’re the inspiration behind the TIE fighters in Star Wars and likely what Tom would have heard in WoF1 as they were used at Dunkirk. We’re gonna be with Tom for a lot of the next chapter. Plus, we’ll be back for a night at The Palais. Barely proof-read, will check later.

P.S. don’t forget to wrap it up!

P.P.S. If anyone wants to join me and @arcielee's Robina Fan Club, give us a shout.

Thank you to @theoneeyedprince for help with the Polish!

Tags: @aemonds-wifey@multiple-fandoms-girl @jessssica1234@babyblue711 @heimtathurs @exitpursuedbyavulcan @myfandompromptsside @allthefandomtherapy @reblogedworks @valerie977 @bookwyrmsblog @phantomontheinternet @chainsawsangel @greenowlfactif @thelittleswanao3 @yentroucnagol@beiigegalx@skikikikiikhhjuuh @just-emmaaaa @mefools@aquakaris @its-actually-minicika @whoknows333 @arcielee @honeymaltgelato @girlwith-thepearlearring @fangirlninja67 @evita-shelby @cherievictore @shmexie @ewanmitchellcrumbs @blairfox04

#ewan mitchell #tom bennett #ewan mitchell x reader #tom bennett x ofc #tom bennett x reader #world on fire #the seamstress & the sailor

95 notes · View notes

shizzlepianist · 9 months

Text

“good morning, dr. spengler..”————————————————-

a/n: WOOOOO my first EVER oneshot! excuse how terrible this may be, the last time i remember writing anything related to oneshots/fanfics was when i was about 11? soo if this is terrible then my sincerest apologies 😭

this is essentially an introduction between (Y/N) and Spengs, after you call for a Ghostbuster to come check out a paranormal experience happening in your home, and it just happens to be Egon.

FYI: This story uses the title ‘Miss’, when the character is being addressed, so just putting that out there first! Also, as I’m sure you’ll already know, (Y/N) and (L/N) refer to your first and last name.

There is also a usage of the word ‘God’, used in an expression-y sort of way, so if that offends anyone then please do let me know so I can change it for next time!

enjoy!! :)

———————————————————————

An abrupt clattering coming from your kitchen was what woke you up at nearly 4 a.m.

Thoroughly disturbed, you sat bolt upright and turned on your bedroom lamp, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes and slowly moving out of bed to go investigate the mysterious noise.

Another bang.

You jumped about a foot off of the floor, before continuing and not letting your downright fear get the better of you.

Eventually, you reached the kitchen, and turned on the light. Three china plates had ‘mysteriously’ fallen out of the cupboard and smashed onto the floor. Little pieces of plate were scattered all over, much to your disappointment. As if on cue, a growling noise came from your pantry door. It took you less than a second to fling the door open and investigate what the noise was.

A vast, cloudy setting appeared in front of you, and an ancient building could be seen in the distance. “Z U U L”, cried a demonic voice.

That was it. The pantry door was slammed, the kitchen light was turned off and you were running back, screaming. Once you reached your bedroom, you wrapped yourself in the covers and tried desperately to fall back to sleep. No luck.

A few hours passed, and it was now a reasonable time to get up. You didn’t dare go near the kitchen, so you stayed in your apartment living room and turned on the TV.

You didn’t pay much attention to the TV for long, as you had your head stuck in a magazine you had found at the local newsagents. That was, until, you heard an advert on television.

“Are you troubled by strange noises in the middle of the night?” questioned a friendly-looking man, whose name tag read “STANTZ.”

A second man, named “SPENGLER”, asked, “Do you experience feelings of dread in your basement or attic?”

“Have you or any of your family ever seen a spook, spectre, or ghost?” inquired the third, “VENKMAN”.

Stantz continued, “…if the panswer is yes then don’t wait another minute. Pick up your phone and call the professionals.”

“GHOSTBUSTERS,” they said in unison.

“Our courteous and efficient staff is on call twenty four hours a day to serve all your supernatural elimination needs,” Stantz informed.

“We’re ready to believe you!” was the final sentence of the advert, but even before that you had already picked up your telephone and dialled the number on-screen.

Within seconds, a Long Island accent spoke down the phone.

“Hello, Ghostbusters, how can I help you?”

“Uh… t-… there was some strange noises coming from my kitchen this morning, like bangs, and.. and clatters, and then when I checked, three of my plates had been thrown on the floor and smashed. And then, and then… I heard snarling coming from my pantry, and there was this creature in there saying “Zuul.”Could you send someone to come check it out?” You said in one long, quick sentence.

“Absolutely, just let me know the address and I’ll send someone straight to you,” the lady replied.

Sure enough, you gave her your address. “Thank you!” you chimed, before putting the phone down and tidying up a little before the Ghostbuster arrived. Playing back the advertisement, you looked at the man whose name was “SPENGLER”.

He is incredibly handsome, you thought. You were hoping on the inside that Dr. Spengler would come and analyse the scene that had occurred in your-

Knock, knock.

Jeez, how close is the Ghostbusters’ office?

You opened the door to meet a tall, bespectacled man with a charming smile and slightly curly hair.

He held his hand out and smiled, “Dr. Egon Spengler, nice to meet you.”

“Good morning, Dr. Spengler,” you replied, your tummy filling with that butterfly feeling.

“Where was the ghost activity that happened this morning? Janine, our receptionist didn’t tell me anything except your address and that you needed some help,” he chuckled, making your heart skip a beat again.

“In there,” you pointed to the kitchen door.

“Okay, has there been any more phenomena since you called?”

You shook your head.

Egon held a device in his hand that had little arms protruding out of it, slowly lowering and then getting higher, then lower, and so on, and made his way into the kitchen.

“Oh, jeez, it seems you really did need our help,” claimed Dr. Spengler, directing his eyes to the pieces of china plate laying on the floor.

“What is that thing?” you asked, motioning to the thing he was holding.

“This is a PKE meter, we use them pretty often. It helps us detect how much supernatural activity there is in an area. If the arms are at a low height, then there’s little to no activity and no need for a full-blown bust. If the arms are right at the top, then it’s serious and we have to deal with it immediately. At the minute, the level of paranormal activity in your kitchen is just over halfway, which obviously isn’t ideal but not the worst.”

“Ohh,” you responded, nodding slowly.

Shuddering, Egon turned his attention to some gooey green slime that was collecting on the edge of the plate cupboard.

“Great. Ectoplasm,” he collected a little bit in a small plastic tub, before asking, “…would you mind coming back to the firehouse, just to run a few tests and to further investigate your phenomena?” questioned Spengler.

“No, no, I wouldn’t mind at all,” you smiled, leading Dr. Spengler out of your apartment, locking the door and heading down the building stairs to the Ghostbusters’ car.

When you arrived at the firehouse, the three scientists you had seen on TV, Venkman, Stantz (who had both introduced themselves to you as Ray and Peter) and Spengler were all asking you questions and running tests. Sticky pads wired up to a machine were attached to your temples, and you could see it was being managed by Dr. Spengler.

“What do you think it was that caused your plates to smash, Miss..?”

“(L/N). (Y/N)(L/N). Uh, I mean, I think it was a ghost or a spirit that did it, hence why I rang up this morning. I think it’s something like a… a.. poltergeist? Isn’t that a ghost that throws things?”

“You are absolutely fantastic, Miss (L/N). Absolutely phenomenal, that’s correct,” called Dr. Venkman, smiling and applauding you.

Egon rolled his eyes. “Venkman, will you quit trying to chat up our clients, please?” he remarked, while adjusting the tabs on your head and looking at the screen to his left.

Both you and Ray laughed, while Venkman’s facial expression was stone cold.

“I don’t think he found that very funny,” you laughed, which made Stantz roar with laughter again, and Peter leave the room.

“Alright, so your tests all seem to be normal, so that means whatever paranormal entity is in your apartment hasn’t reached you, thankfully,” concluded Egon, gently removing the testing tabs from you.

Picking up your bag and coat, you thanked the boys for their help, and made your way down the firehouse stairs.

You were swiftly followed by the Ghostbusters, who waved goodbye to you and asked you to call back if anything else happened.

As they turned away to walk back up the stairs, you called out,

“…Dr. Spengler?”

He turned on his heel quicker than he had arrived at your apartment. “Hm?”

“I- I’d like to give you this,” you slid a piece of paper with your number written on it into his hand, and smiled.

He looked down at it through his glasses, lifted his head up and smiled back.

“Thank you, Miss (L/N). I’ll make sure to give you a call at some point. Thanks again for calling this morning,” he put his hand on your shoulder, failing to wipe the smile off of his face. He was smiling like an idiot as he removed his hand from your shoulder and walked away.

When you had finally left the firehouse, you let out a sigh of relief mixed with infatuation.

God, he was handsome.

———————————————————————

ending a/n: help i feel like this is gonna be a flop with a capital F loool , if you enjoyed this let me know and i’ll make more ig?? have a great day/night everyone 😌😌

#egon spengler #ghostbusters #ghostbusters 1984 #egon #egon x reader

66 notes · View notes