#document bag with zipper

[poojalate]

Best File Bags for Lawyers, Executives, and Students

A file bag is an essential organizational tool for lawyers, executives, and students, helping to keep documents safe, organized, and easily accessible. Whether you need a professional leather file bag for business meetings or a lightweight and durable option for daily use, choosing the right one can make a significant difference.

In this guide, we’ll explore the best file bags tailored for different professionals, highlighting key features, materials, and buying tips.

1. Why Do You Need a High-Quality File Bag?

A file bag is more than just a storage accessory; it helps in:

✔ Protecting important documents from damage, spills, or wear and tear ✔ Organizing papers, contracts, and notes efficiently ✔ Enhancing professionalism, especially for lawyers and executives ✔ Providing easy portability for students and business professionals

2. Best File Bags for Lawyers 🏛️

Lawyers deal with case files, contracts, and legal documents daily, requiring a durable, spacious, and secure file bag.

🔹 Top Picks for Lawyers

✅ Leather Briefcase File Bag – Premium choice for professionals, offering style and durability. ✅ Expandable File Bag with Lock – Secure option to protect confidential legal documents. ✅ Zippered Portfolio Bag – Compact and portable, ideal for client meetings. ✅ Accordion-Style File Bag – Keeps multiple case files organized with multiple sections.

💡 Look for water-resistant, lockable, and durable materials for maximum protection.

3. Best File Bags for Executives & Business Professionals 💼

For executives and business professionals, a sleek and stylish file bag is a must-have for boardroom meetings and presentations.

🔹 Top Picks for Executives

✅ Premium Leather File Bag – Elegant, sophisticated, and long-lasting. ✅ Multi-Compartment File Organizer – Helps separate documents, notepads, and stationery. ✅ Laptop-File Combo Bag – Perfect for professionals carrying both documents and a laptop. ✅ Slim Executive File Pouch – Lightweight and easy to carry during client visits.

💡 Opt for a high-quality leather or PU leather bag with dedicated compartments for pens, cards, and gadgets.

4. Best File Bags for Students 🎓

Students need a lightweight, functional, and affordable file bag to carry assignments, notes, and study materials.

🔹 Top Picks for Students

✅ Plastic File Bag with Handle – Affordable, lightweight, and waterproof. ✅ Expandable Document Folder – Multiple pockets to organize subject-wise notes. ✅ Canvas or Nylon File Bag – Durable and easy to carry to lectures. ✅ Zippered Mesh File Bag – Perfect for carrying exam papers and important documents.

💡 Choose lightweight, water-resistant, and budget-friendly options for daily use.

5. Key Factors to Consider When Choosing a File Bag

🔹 Material – Leather for professionals, canvas for students, and plastic for affordability. 🔹 Size & Capacity – Ensure it fits A4, legal-size documents, and other essentials. 🔹 Durability – Waterproof and tear-resistant materials for long-term use. 🔹 Security Features – Zippers, locks, or magnetic closures for confidential files. 🔹 Portability – Handles or shoulder straps for easy carrying.

6. Where to Buy the Best File Bags?

📌 Online Marketplaces – Amazon, Flipkart, Office Depot, and stationery stores 📌 Local Office Supply Stores – Best for testing material and quality in person 📌 Brand Stores – High-end options like Samsonite, Montblanc, or Tumi for executives

💡 Compare prices, read reviews, and check warranty options before purchasing.

Conclusion

The best file bag depends on your profession and needs—a leather briefcase for lawyers, an executive organizer for professionals, or a lightweight folder for students. Prioritize durability, storage capacity, and style when making your choice.

[salmonballsss]

The Violet Hour

(Chapter 13)

You are a young, awkward historian obsessed with the Salem witch trials. One name repeats through obscure documents: Agatha Harkness. She's not supposed to exist anymore. But when you find a book authored in her name and follow the trail to a remote New England town, you're met with a woman who looks nothing like she belongs in your century—and who wants absolutely nothing to do with you…

Word count: 10k

Warnings: none

The rest of the night passed quietly.

No more questions. No more revelations.

Agatha didn’t ask if you were okay. She didn’t try to dig into your feelings or pry open your fears. She just… stayed nearby. Present.

At some point, she walked you to the guest room with slow, unspoken steps. You didn’t talk. You didn’t need to. She lingered at the door for a few seconds longer than necessary, then left with a small nod and not another word.

You lay in bed for a long time, listening to the house creak and settle around you, the memory of her lips on your temple still pressed into your skin like heat. Eventually, you drifted off.

And for once, your dreams didn’t chase you.

Now, you stand in the bathroom, toothbrush in hand, getting ready for your day out with Agatha.

As you scrub, you glance at yourself in the mirror. Your hair’s still a little damp from your shower earlier, curling slightly at the ends. You look halfway human again.

Your brain, however, is in full chaos mode. You think of everything you and Agatha could do today. The town isn’t big, but it’s still something. Coffee shops, bookstores, maybe just walking through the streets and not feeling like the world is haunted.

And suddenly a thought creeps in. 

Wait.

Was this… like… a date?

Your cheeks flush instantly. You shake your head hard, spitting into the sink and rinsing it down with cold water from the faucet like that’ll somehow flush the thought away, too.

No way it’s a date. Right?

I mean—yesterday you had a full on breakdown . You vented about how trapped you felt. You got emotional and messy and completely real.

But she was so… surprisingly nice about it.

She didn’t pull away. She didn’t make you feel dumb. She held you. And kissed your temple. You look up into the mirror again and catch your own expression—eyes wide, lips twitching—

God.

You have a giddy little smile on your face. You quickly rinse your toothbrush, flick the water off your hands, and march back to the guest room before your brain can combust.

At your duffle bag, you dig through options, settling on something simple. Nothing too dramatic—you did make a scene yesterday, and you still have that hickey and bite mark from your little… incident.

Jeans. A fitted Tshirt. A jacket layered on top—Hollow Wood’s air is way nippier than Washington’s, and you're not about to freeze trying to look cute.

Still… cute wasn’t off the table. You tug the shirt over your head, smoothing it down, then pause.

If Agatha hugged you… If she kissed your temple… Maybe she was starting to like you?

Well, hell. You two made out like crazy the other night.

Sure, she used the wine as an excuse, but… she never said it was a mistake .Your fingers slow on the zipper of your jacket.

You let out a small hum.

She never said it was a mistake…

A grin pulls at your lips—slow, smug. You sit on the edge of the bed, slipping your socks on like you’re the chillest person alive. Like you’re not absolutely spiraling inside.

Shoes next. You tie them quickly, then sit back and glance around the room, your eyes catching on the paintings hung above the dresser. You stare for a moment, letting your thoughts drift.

That night was just so… weird. 

You haven’t had any hallucinations since. Maybe the plantain leaf helped? Maybe it actually did something, warded it off for a bit.

Then there was the kissing. And the flashes. God. Those flashes . Each one burned into your brain. Like film burned too close to the projector bulb. Always distorted. Always feverish.

And always Agatha. Looking at you with those violet eyes. You could say it was a coincidence. Just hallucinations. But the way she said she knew you ?

Not this you. Not this body.

There’s no way she could’ve known you… unless she somehow stalked your tiny, barely followed blog about early colonial court records. And even that wouldn’t explain the certainty. The pull. 

You rake a hand through your now-drying hair and sigh. You try to think back—try to reconstruct the night, though the wine blurred it. Just little moments come through.

The kiss. The heat. Her breath brushing your jaw. And then—

She leaned in closer. So close you could feel the heat rolling off her skin. So close you could taste the wine on her breath. 

"I can't lose you again," she whispered. 

Wait.

Wait.

Your eyes fly open. Your pulse spikes. Your mind finally catches up.

Again?

Again?! 

You shoot up from the bed like you’ve been electrocuted. Pacing. Chewing your thumbnail. Eyebrows drawn together in a sharp, panicked knot.

“Okay, okay, okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Holy shit. ”

Did she mean that? Or was it just the wine—some drunken, overly passionate nonsense? But… who the hell says that while kissing?

“I can’t lose you again.” 

Not “I Want you.” Not “You’re so hot.”

Again. 

Meaning—

Your stomach twists.

Meaning those flashes—those fragmented images you keep brushing off as hallucinations—could actually be something . Not just a trauma response. Not just your brain glitching under stress. But maybe… a memory . A story. A thread leading somewhere.

You stop pacing mid step, heart thudding wildly. But your spiral is immediately, violently interrupted by a knock on the door. Three firm, composed raps. Your spine straightens like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t.

You scramble to look normal. “Uh—Y-yeah?” you call out, trying to sound casual. Like you weren’t just pacing in a death grip over the phrase I can’t lose you again. 

Your voice cracks slightly anyway. You wince. Smooth. So smooth.

The door creaks open, and there she is. Agatha stands in the hallway like she owns it. Which—fair, she does. But still.

She’s in a Tan puffer jacket, sharp slacks, and a soft charcoal sweater that does unspeakable things to your brain. A black purse slung across her body. Her hair’s down today, messy but intentional. Effortless. Cool. A little intimidating.

Her eyes flick over you—up, down, amused. “You planning to overthink our outing to death or are you coming?” she says, voice dry.

But the corners of her mouth twitch. The tease is there. Light. Easy. You blink. “Oh. Right. Sorry. I’m—uh—just finishing up.” 

Agatha leans on the doorframe, arms crossing loosely over her chest. “Don’t rush on my account. It’s only a small town. Doubt it’ll implode before noon.”

You nod mutely, scrambling to your little duffle bag mirror and makeup pouch. She’s still standing there. Watching.

So you pretend you don’t feel her eyes on you as you swipe a bit of tinted balm across your lips, dab under your eyes with concealer, and brush through your lashes.

Then you pause. Your gaze drops to your neck. To the mark. Faint, but definitely there. Still dark. Still shaped by her. You stare at it. One hand hovers over your concealer.

And then slowly… you lower it.

You don’t cover it. You don’t even try. Just to see what she’ll do. Just to see how far you can push… this. 

Behind you, you swear you catch a shift in the air. Like Agatha noticed. But she says nothing. You cap your concealer, slide it back into your bag, and stand. “All done.”

She raises a brow. “You sure?” she says. “You didn’t even look in the mirror after.”

You shrug. “Didn’t need to.”

Agatha’s lips twitch again. Like she’s impressed. Or amused. Or maybe both. “Cocky,” she mutters, and turns on her heel.

You follow.

Back when you were still holed up in that little hotel, desperate to kill time and chase leads, you walked these same streets. Took notes. Peered into shop windows. Hollow Wood was small, yes—but it had its charm.

But now?

Now you were walking through it with Agatha. 

She stops at the purple door, turning to look at you over her shoulder. “Okay. Stay close to me. No straying, no wandering. If you do wander, I want to see where you are.”

Her tone is firm. Final. And despite how annoying that should be, it sets a small, shameful pool of arousal between your legs.

Which is super inconvenient, because you literally just put on clean underwear. You grumble. “Yeah, yeah, fine.” You wave her off and reach for the doorknob, but Agatha catches your wrist—fast and unyielding.

“Let me check first.” You scoff quietly. But when you meet her eyes, she gives you a look . One of those Agatha looks. The kind that shuts you up instantly.

She steps outside, her boots crunching lightly on the porch. Her head turns slowly, listening. Watching. Still.

You swear she’s listening past the trees. Past the birdsong. Past the wind.

Then, deep in the woods, a crow caws. Agatha tilts her head. Nods once. Like she understands it.

Then she turns back to you. “Okay, let’s go, hon.”

Hon. 

Your cheeks a small pink. You follow her out the door, heart thudding slightly faster. Your steps get a little more pep in them as you trail after her down the porch steps. Jacket zipped, boots scuffing the gravel path. The air is sharp and cold, but not unpleasant.

This time it feels different. Because this time it’s not research. Not work. Not survival. This time… it’s her. And yeah, you might be overthinking it. But it feels a little like something close to a date.

You glance at her back as she walks ahead of you—tall, sharp, completely composed. Her coat moves just enough to hint at the way her hips sway when she walks.

Agatha’s lived here for a while, right? She bought the house in 2022, according to the county records you found during one of your more intense sleuthing spirals.

That part checks out. But still… She doesn’t walk like someone who moved in two years ago. She walks like she’s always belonged here. Like she remembers the bones beneath the town. The dirt. The secrets tucked behind every shuttered window.

Like she’s memorized every crack in the sidewalk, every crooked branch hanging over the path.

You jog a few steps to catch up. “Hey,” you say casually, pretending not to examine the way the sunlight catches on her jawline. “So… any plans for where we’re going first?”

Agatha glances sideways, eyes flicking over you before returning forward.

“That depends,” she says, lips curving slightly. “How public are you willing to make your crimes?”

You blink. “What?”

She smirks. “You let the crow inside. That’s at least a misdemeanor.”

Your face burns. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.” You don’t answer. Because she’s right.

Especially considering the dumb little smile threatening your face and the way you’re biting your cheek to keep from giggling like an idiot . You even try to walk with a little more purpose, a little more academic detachment—but Agatha’s smirk makes that impossible.

She knows what she’s doing.

You shoot her a look. “That wasn’t even a real crime.”

She hums. “Breaking and entering with a feathered accomplice? Sounds pretty criminal to me.”

“Okay, first of all , the crow broke in. I was only being nice and feeding him.”

“Mm.” She tilts her head. “I don’t remember the feeding part, just where you shoved him up your shirt to hide your crimes.”

You groan and swat at her arm, but she easily sidesteps you, smug and untouchable as always.

The two of you fall into step as youwalk.

You cross the familiar wooden bridge, worn down at the center from years of use, its rails smooth under your fingers.  The stream below burbles lazily beneath your shoes.

Then comes the willow lined path—one you’ve taken before, but never like this. The branches sway gently in the breeze, brushing across the dirt like ghostly fingers. You catch Agatha glancing at you out of the corner of her eye. You don’t say anything. Neither does she.

When you reach the cobblestone bridge—the one with the cracked edge and the ivy curling along the sides—she turns right without hesitation.

You follow, your shoes clacking softly on the uneven stones. “You really do know every inch of this place, huh?” you ask.

Agatha doesn’t slow. “Like the back of my hand,” she replies. Then, after a beat “Sometimes I forget how much it’s changed. Sometimes I forget how much hasn’t. ”

You glance at her. Her tone isn’t heavy. Just… distant. Like she was talking to herself more than to you.

You want to ask more. But you don’t.

Instead, you quietly match her stride, the soft click of your shoes falling in time with hers, the quiet stretching out between you again—comfortable this time.

Almost peaceful.

 Once you reach the town’s main road, you stop leading and just… follow. You let her set the pace. Let her choose the path.

Your eyes scan the familiar storefronts as you walk—quiet, small- own charming. The coffee shop you frequented during your hotel days comes into view, tucked between a florist and a used bookstore. The one with the slightly crooked sign and the smell of fresh ground beans wafting out the door.

Your steps slow a little as you spot it.

You glance at Agatha—and find her already looking at you. Her eyes catch yours. Blue and unreadable. You offer a small smile. “Uh… while I stayed in the hotel, I went to that coffee shop,” you say, nodding toward it. “It’s pretty cool. The lady who made the coffees even remembered my order after, like, two visits. Made me feel like a regular.”

Agatha’s gaze flicks toward the shop, then back to you. “She probably thought you were cute,” she says dryly.

Your brain short circuited. You blink. “Wait—what?”  Agatha’s mouth twitches, but she says nothing else. Just keeps walking.

You scramble to follow, face warming under your jacket collar.

“Okay well that’s one theory,” you mutter.

“She’s not wrong,” comes Agatha’s lazy reply. You almost trip over a crack in the sidewalk. The smugness radiating off her is illegal. 

You side eye her. “Did you have caffeine this morning or are you always like this?”

“I’m just in a good mood,” she says.

You raise a brow. “Because I’m suffering?”

“Exactly.”

You snort, shaking your head, but there’s a flutter in your chest. A lightness you hadn’t felt in days.

Not because things are suddenly easy.

But because—for once—they almost feel normal.

“So you take pleasure in my own suffering? What are you, a sadist?” you sass, walking alongside her, hands tucked in your jacket pockets.

Agatha just gives you a look. That look. The kind of smirk that wasn’t her usual teasing curl—it was slower, sharper, and sinister in a way that made your eyes widen for a second.

“Oh my god,” you say. “You are. ”

She shrugs, noncommittal. “Only when the company’s good.”

You blink. You almost trip again. “Okay.” Your voice comes out higher than intended. You pretend that didn’t happen. Agatha—mercifully—pretends not to notice.

The two of you round the corner, the coffee shop’s purple awning coming into view again. That same little bell above the door. The same chalkboard menu still advertising pumpkin spice.

Agatha slows slightly, glancing at the place with an unreadable expression. “You want to go in?” she asks, voice casual—but there’s a slant to it. Like she’s curious what you’ll choose now that she’s here too.

You nod. “Yeah. I kinda want coffee… and I skipped breakfast.” She nods once, like she expected that answer, and reaches for the door handle before you can.

You almost point out that you can open your own doors, thank you very much, but then she holds it open for you without a word.

Oh. Okay. You step past her, and the smell of roasted beans, sugar, and warm pastries hits you like a blanket.

It’s cozy in here. Soft jazz hums from the corner. The lights are warm.  You feel the tension in your shoulders start to ease again.

That is—until the barista looks up. Her smile freezes. Just for a second. Like she’d seen something—or someone —she wasn’t expecting. You glance at Agatha.

“Welcome in,” the barista says after a beat, her tone recovering, the forced brightness snapping back into place like a rubber band. She looks at you—grateful for the familiar face. “Oh hey, you’re back! Do you want your usual?”

“Oh! Yes please!” you say quickly, offering a friendly smile.

You step up to the counter like everything’s normal, like there isn’t a woman with eldritch energy and cheekbones sharp enough to draw blood standing half an inch behind you.

The barista’s eyes flick to Agatha again—quick, uncertain. You pretend not to notice. “I’ll get that started,” she says, turning away a little too fast.

You can feel Agatha’s gaze on the back of your head. You look over your shoulder. “What?”

Agatha leans slightly closer, not enough to make a scene—but enough to send a thrill down your spine. Her voice is low, amused. “Popular, aren’t you?”

You shoot her a look. “You’re one to talk.” She just hums, eyes lazily scanning the chalkboard specials as if she’s not making your heart pound.

You move to the side while she orders—something black, no sugar, no sweetness. Of course. The barista tries to smile through it, but her voice is thinner this time. She keeps glancing at Agatha’s face like she’s trying to place her.

You and Agatha take your spot at the pickup end after Agathas pays. It’s quieter here. You can feel the warmth of the espresso machine, hear the milk being frothed, but still—your eyes drift to Agatha.

She’s still looking around the shop, cool as ever. Observing. Cataloguing.

“So… you lived in town for a bit now. Have you ever been here?” You say off handedly making small talk with her.

Agatha just hums. “A couple years back when it opened.” You nod softly, letting the answer hang between you.

When your coffees and bagel are finally ready, you grab yours and—this time—you take the lead. You head straight to the corner table. Your table. The one you always picked when you stayed in town. 

Agatha follows without a word. Once you both sit, she takes a slow sip of her drink, eyes flicking briefly toward the other patrons before settling on you.

“Secluded, are we?” she asks, voice mild but knowing.

You smile a little, already unwrapping your bagel. “Yeah. I’ve always preferred it. Plus, you can people watch.”

You wiggle your eyebrows and take a bite, talking around a smirk. Agatha gives you a small smile in return. Barely there.

But it wrecks you.

Your eyes drop to her lips instantly. The curve of them. The way that smile softens just the barest edge of her usual sharpness. Like she’s letting herself settle. Just for a moment.

And God—you wish you could lean in.

Just lean across the table and steal her lips for your own, warm and quiet and slow, like the other night. Your stomach twists. It wouldn’t take much. She’s sitting right there.

You swallow the bite in your mouth a little too hard and force yourself to look away, suddenly far too you focused on your bagel.

Your eyes flicker to hers, and her lips curve slowly.

“Staring’s considered impolite, you know,” she says, voice warm and teasing.

You blink. “I was not.”

She lifts a brow. “You were practically tracing my smile with your eyes.”

You feel your face go hot. “Was not.”

Agatha takes another sip of her coffee, her smirk deepening behind the rim. “You keep telling yourself that.”

You grumble into your bagel. “I hate you.”

“You’re very repetitive this morning.”

You shoot her a look, and she laughs—soft, genuine, low in her throat. It hits you harder than it should.

Conversation flows easily after that. The kind of quiet, natural rhythm you weren’t expecting from someone like her. She doesn’t press, doesn’t interrogate. She listens. She asks just enough.

You talk about your thesis for a while—how you were drawn to the social dynamics of the Salem Witch Trials, but also broader periods of religious panic and mass hysteria.

“You know,” you say between sips of coffee, “people always treat Salem like a one off, but there were so many other examples. Europe was a disaster for centuries. And the American trials weren’t even the most deadly.”

Agatha nods, fingers absently circling her coffee lid. “Bamberg. Würzburg. Trier. The Germanic states were brutal. Entire towns purged.”

You blink. “Exactly.” She smiles slightly, like she’s pleased you caught on.

You shift in your chair, growing more animated. “But even outside the trials—there’s so much overlap with political transitions. Even something like the discovery of the Gokstad ship changed the way people understood Viking history.”

Agatha tilts her head. "Mm. Norway. 1880."

You pause, brow lifting. “You know it?”

She lifts her eyes to yours, amused. “The first Viking ship burial fully excavated. Almost perfectly preserved. Found in a burial mound. Oak planks, overlapping like fish scales. Two dozen shields lined the sides.”

You gape slightly. “Okay, show off.”

Agatha shrugs, feigning modesty. “You brought it up.”

You laugh, cheeks flushed. “Most people haven’t even heard of the Gokstad ship.”

“Most people aren’t very curious.”

You lean in, elbows on the table now, energized. “Did you know they found a gaming board inside? Like a precursor to chess? And a sled?”

Agatha’s lips twitch. “And remnants of silk. Which means the Vikings were trading further east than people assumed at the time.”

You gape again. “Okay, seriously. Are you just… a walking textbook?”

“I prefer the term well read,” she replies dryly.

You narrow your eyes. “Alright then, Ms. Well Read—who was buried in it?”

“An elite male,” she says without missing a beat. “Possibly a chieftain. Around 40 to 50 years old when he died. Bones were missing by the time they uncovered it—grave robbers, probably.”

You blink. “Okay. Yeah. Fine. You win.”

Agatha’s smile is smug, but there’s something soft in it, too. Like she’s enjoying this. You sit back, sipping your coffee again, heart still thudding faintly in your chest.

She’s looking at you now—not amused, not calculating. Just… quietly fond.

But she’s still smiling as she sips her coffee. And under the table, her foot brushes yours.

“You're insufferable,” you whisper, unable to stop your grin.

“Yet you keep finding excuses to be around me.”

You wave your hand dismissively and change the subject, desperate to reclaim a shred of dignity.

“So,” you say, setting your drink down, “do you have a favorite era of history?”

Agatha tilts her head, thinking. “Depends on the century. The 16th was chaos. The 12th? More interesting than people realize. The early modern period had its charms, if you could ignore the plagues.”

You grin. “That’s vague.”

She shrugs. “History is layered. You can’t pick a favorite when every piece connects to another.”

You hum in agreement. “I always liked the Tang dynasty. Poetry, philosophy, science… It felt like an explosion of culture.”

Agatha nods. “The Dunhuang manuscripts. Discovered in the early 1900s. Hidden for almost a thousand years. A goldmine of everything from medicine to math to religious texts.”

You stare. “You’re unreal.”

She shrugs again, but her eyes are brighter now.

You don’t notice how long you’ve been sitting there. How natural it feels. How rare it is for you to click like this with someone. But Agatha—she challenges you. Matches you. Softens you.

And when you glance up from your empty coffee cup, she’s already watching you. Soft eyed. Slightly amused. You wonder, not for the first time, who she really is. And why every moment with her feels like you’re remembering something you haven’t lived yet.

Your lips part, about to say something more to Agatha—maybe something stupid, maybe something brave—when you're cut off by a voice like a firecracker:

“ Agatha Harkness. ”

Both your heads whip around.

There, standing just inside the coffee shop, wrapped in a burgundy knit shawl and holding a mismatched purse, is Irene. 

You light up. “Irene!”

“I see you finally crawled out of your bat cave,” she says, eyes twinkling, “with a pretty girl , no less.”

She turns from Agatha to you and winks.

Agatha goes very still. “Hi,” you say, already laughing. “What are you doing here?”

“I come here every Thursday. You think I live off ghost stories and black licorice?” She eyes your bagel. “And apparently someone forgot to bring me one.”

You scoot over instantly. “Sit! Please.”

She doesn’t need to be asked twice. Irene slides into the booth beside you, purse dropping to the floor, shawl unraveling slightly over her lap.

Agatha hasn’t moved.

“Well,” Irene says, settling in, “you two look cozy. I hope you’re not letting this one boss you around too much.” She jerks a thumb at Agatha.

You smother a laugh. “Only when she’s feeling particularly feral.”

“Oh, so hourly.”

Agatha levels a look at her. “Irene.”

Irene waves her off. “Don’t give me that tone. I’ve survived worse. Married Harry, didn’t I?”

Agatha’s lips twitch—almost a smile—but it’s brief.

You glance between them. “So you guys were… friends?” Sure you knew that they know each other but you didn't think of them as friends… just acquaintances.

Irene smiles, soft for just a moment. “Oh, we go way back. Though Agatha aged a hell of a lot better than I did.”

Agatha’s expression sharpens. “Irene,” she warns.

Irene lifts her eyebrows, grinning wide. “Oh, so you haven’t told her yet. Okayyy, Agatha. ”

Your head tilts. “Told me what?”

Agatha drinks her coffee in a way that says I will throw this cup across the room. 

You watch her. Irene watches you watching her. Then, with zero shame, Irene pats your hand and says, “Well, at least one of you’s finally getting laid. Progress!”

You choke on your latte.

Agatha blinks. Then mutters, “Oh my god.”

“You love it,” Irene says smugly.

You’re bright red, caught between laughing and hiding under the table.

Agatha doesn’t deny it. After a moment, Irene leans back with a sigh, her voice softening just a little. “I remember when this one used to actually have fun. We’d sit on the back porch, drink rosé, and she’d mock every man that looked at me sideways.”

“She flirted with the mailman for six months,” Agatha deadpans.

“He had arms. ” Irene shrugs. “And good pension.”

You grin, watching them. It’s the first time you’ve seen Agatha like this—with someone who remembers her from another lifetime. A glimpse behind the curtain.

But there’s still so much you don’t know. And so much she’s not saying. Yet.

Irene turns to you with a conspiratorial look. “So what’s your deal, sweetheart? You doing okay in that big creaky house of hers?”

You blink. “Oh. Uh. Yeah. Mostly. It’s… definitely not what I expected, but it’s fine. Quiet.”

“Quiet?” Irene cackles. “Not how I remember it. Back when Harry and I used to visit, it sounded like a damn séance was happening upstairs half the time.”

Agatha sips her coffee very pointedly. You frown. “Séance?”

Irene waves it off. “Oh, you know. Books slamming, weird music, candles lit all over the place. Agatha’s always been theatrical. It was cute back then. A little spooky now, maybe.” She glances at Agatha. “You still hoarding candles like they’re going out of style?”

“Some of us believe in ambience,” Agatha says dryly.

Irene grins, pleased. You shoot Agatha a mock glare. “You do have… a lot of candles.”

Agatha raises an eyebrow. “You’re welcome to leave in the dark, if you’d prefer.”

You blink. She’s teasing, but there’s an edge to it. A flicker of something you can’t quite place. Irene’s eyes flick between the two of you, and then, after a moment, she shifts the tone. “Remember when we went to that antique fair outside Concord?” Irene says to Agatha, like she’s pulling something up from the bottom of a drawer.

Agatha exhales like she’s been caught off guard. “Vaguely.”

Irene huffs. “You mean vividly . We got caught snooping behind the tents, and that one guy—what was his name? Redhead, beard like a Brillo pad—he tried to sell you that old compass that didn’t work?”

“Because it wasn’t a compass,” Agatha mutters. “It was a paperweight with delusions of grandeur.”

You laugh.

Irene’s delighted now, leaning into the memory. “You scared him off so fast. What did you say again?”

Agatha takes a slow sip of her coffee. “I told him it was cursed.”

Your smile falters just slightly. She says it like a joke. But doesn’t look like she’s joking. Irene doesn’t catch it. “Right! And he tripped over his own feet getting away from you.” She sighs. “God, we were a menace.”

Agatha’s expression softens faintly. “You were the menace. I was the adult supervision.”

“Please,” Irene scoffs. “You just had better boots.”

You glance between them again, trying to picture it. Younger Agatha. Younger Irene. The idea tugs at something in your chest. Something warm and… off.

“How long have you guys known each other?” you ask.

Irene answers before Agatha can cut in. “Oh, God. Long time. Too long, if you ask her.” She winks. “Harry introduced us. Said she was the only person in town who knew what the hell he was talking about.”

You nod slowly. You already knew that—knew about the notebooks, the strange references. The whispers of what Harry and Agatha studied together before he died.

Still, it feels heavier hearing it spoken aloud. Like putting another puzzle piece in place.

Agatha stays quiet. She’s looking at Irene now—not irritated, just… watchful. Irene doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to.

She pats your knee lightly. “Just be careful with this one, sweetheart. She’s got more history in her than most textbooks.” Then she leans closer, stage whispers, “And she’s about as forthcoming as a locked drawer.”

Agatha exhales sharply through her nose. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Always have been.”

You smile softly, watching them. And you file every word away. Because something about this whole exchange only confirms what you already suspect.

Agatha’s older than she says. Way older. And if Irene’s right, she might just be full of stories you’re not supposed to hear.

Irene then leans in, patting your shoulder with affection. “Well! I have to get going. Workout class at one—gotta stay sharp, you know. Even if it’s full of old grannies like me.”

She throws a playful glance at Agatha, then back at you. You smile warmly, already missing her chaotic energy. “And hey,” Irene adds, rifling through her purse like a woman on a mission, “I’ve got a few more documents for you from Harry’s study.”

You practically light up. “Really?! Okay—okay, I’ll text you!”

She gives your arm a light squeeze. “Don’t wait too long. I’m not immortal, you know.”

You grin. “Don’t say that.” She just winks. Then, as if she can’t resist one last jab, she looks at Agatha— smirking —and says 

“Bye, Agnes. ”

Then turns and waddles off like a woman who knows she’s just thrown a lit match into a gas leak. 

You sit there, blinking. It takes you a full three seconds before you whip your head around to Agatha. “ Oh my god. ” You gape. “ Agnes? ”

Agatha doesn’t even flinch. She picks up her coffee with the slow, unbothered grace of someone who’s had centuries to master deadpan denial .

You stare at her like she’s grown a second head. “You went by Agnes?! That’s adorable. No— insane. I—how did I not know this?”

Agatha sighs. “It was a name. That’s all.”

“Oh no no no,” you say, leaning forward with a grin. “You don’t get to shrug this off. Agnes? What, did you wear bonnets too? Was there a rocking chair? Please tell me there was a rocking chair.”

She levels a flat look at you over the rim of her cup.

You giggle— actually giggle —then lean back, still grinning. “God,” you murmur. “You’re such a mystery. First you know everything about the Viking age, then you’re friends with Irene, now you’ve got a secret nickname—what’s next? A secret child? A cursed painting in your attic?”

Agatha scoffs, rolling her eyes—but you can see it. The tiny twitch at the corner of her lips. The smile she’s trying not to let you see.

You take a victorious final bite of your bagel, still giggling, and brush the crumbs from your fingers with a sigh. “You know, you could just admit you’re kind of fascinating. Would save me a lot of theorizing.”

Agatha raises an eyebrow, gathering what’s left of her coffee cup and standing. “Where’s the fun in that?”

You follow suit, As you step around the table, you feel it. Her hand—light but steady—pressing to the small of your back. Guiding you. You blink.

It’s casual. Thoughtless, maybe. But it sends a flicker of heat down your spine. She doesn't pull away, not right away. Just lets it rest there, warm through your jacket, as you both make your way to the door.

The bell chimes overhead as you step out into the cold.

You glance at her, trying to read her face, but Agatha’s back to her usual self—cool, composed, unreadable. Except her eyes linger on you a little longer than necessary before flicking to the road ahead.

You breathe in the crisp air, trying to calm your suddenly too fast heart. And then, quietly—playfully—you say, “Thanks for the coffee… Agnes. ”

She doesn’t stop walking. But her fingers press just a little firmer into your back.

Just enough to make your breath hitch. And that almost smile is back. “Irene’s going to regret that.”

You laugh again—light, free—and fall into step beside her, your shoulder brushing hers as you both walk

You tug your coat tighter as the two of you start down the sidewalk again, the air crisp against your cheeks.

“Sooo,” you drawl, falling into step beside her, “what should we do next?”

Agatha arches a brow, clearly about to answer, but you cut her off with a dramatic gasp, grabbing her arm and leaning in close. “Unless…” you whisper, eyes wide with mock fear, “the beast is going to eat me alive! Oh, the horror!”

You clutch her arm like a damsel in distress, then giggle.

Agatha sighs. Loudly.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

You beam. “You think I’m cute.”

“I know you’re a menace.”

You loop your arm through hers anyway, grinning like the problem you are.

The two of you walk like that—side by side, quietly brushing shoulders—as you drift through town. The wind rustles through the trees, tugging at shop signs and fluttering scarves in window displays.

You stop at a little antique shop tucked between a bookstore and a bakery. Agatha pauses outside it with a look that reads almost… nostalgic? “What’s this?” you ask, peeking in through the frosted glass.

“Nothing,” she says quickly.

Which is absolutely the most suspicious response you’ve ever heard.

You drag her inside.

It’s cramped and warm, the air thick with the scent of cedarwood, old paper, and incense. You poke through stacks of strange trinkets while Agatha casually avoids everything with a cross or Latin engraving.

At one point you hold up a framed oil painting of a goat and whisper, “Does this scream ‘doomed romance’ or ‘please summon Satan in my hallway’?”

Agatha doesn’t even look up. “Both.”

You pass through a few more shops—one with mismatched tea cups that you end up buying just because Agatha mutters “typical” under her breath, and another that sells used records, where you catch her tapping her fingers to a Fleetwood Mac song and pretend not to notice how hot that is.

By the time the sun starts to dip behind the trees, your hands are full of a paper bag and your cheeks hurt from smiling.

Agatha’s walking a little closer now. Just enough that your arms brush. She hasn’t said much in the past few minutes.  As you walk, the path curves slightly—and you realize where you’re headed.

The ranger park.

The same trailhead you'd taken to get to the old cemetery. Back when you were doing “field work.” God, it already felt like a lifetime ago. But the hike had been fun. Kind of exhilarating. Even with the looming spookiness, it had felt real —tangible.

And maybe… once you figure out how to stop the beast. Once the black vein infection was handled— if it could be handled—you could go exploring again. The right way. Safely. With Agatha.

You smile a little to yourself at the thought. Her pointing out old trees and hidden paths. Maybe even a picnic.

Today had been… really fun. But the sun was dipping low now, bleeding through the trees in long streaks of gold and rose. Thanks to the season, it was only 5PM—but the shadows were stretching longer and the temperature was beginning to drop.

You glance sideways.

Agatha’s gaze has drifted away again. She’s watching the tree line, sharp and still. Throughout the day, you’d noticed the way people kept glancing at her—subtle, but present. Like they knew her. Or thought they did.

Like they weren’t sure if they were seeing a ghost or a legend. You clear your throat. “Uh… wanna stop by the ranger park?”

Agatha doesn’t answer right away. Just keeps staring into the distance. Then her eyes slide to you. “We have to get back before dark.” Her tone is even, but the warning coiled in it makes your brows furrow.

“Come on ,” you huff, nudging her arm. “Just for a bit.”

Agatha exhales through her nose. It sounds like she’s about to argue. But instead she mutters, dryly, “Okay… it’s your funeral.”

You snort. “Wow. Comforting.” She doesn’t answer. But she follows you anyway.

As you walk through the park, your eyes sweep over the people scattered along the cliffs and trails—some teens laughing too loud near the edge, a few old couples holding hands as they watch the sun sink into the horizon. The light paints everything in gold. Like a picture. Almost too perfect.

You smile and drop down onto the grass with a soft oof , setting your paper bags down beside you. The ground is cool under your hands, a little damp. You glance up.

Agatha’s still standing. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable. Her silhouette rimmed with sunlight like something out of a gothic novel. “Get your ass down here,” you say with a giggle, patting the ground next to you.

She gives you a long, unimpressed look. “I won’t dirty my clothes to sit in the grass with a 24 year old.”

You roll your eyes and flop backward dramatically. “I think you’re just too old and you’re afraid your knees will snap.” There's a pause. Just the wind. Some birds. The faint sound of teenagers screaming about god knows what.

And then— thump. 

Agatha plops down beside you with a theatrical huff , muttering, “So stupid.” You grin wide, eyes still on the horizon.

The air smells like sea salt and cold pine. It reminds you of when you first arrived here—nervous, eager, carrying too many books and not enough answers. You had so many ambitions then. Prove something. Discover something. Become Something .

And… well. You’ve done a few of those things.

Even met Agatha.

You sneak a glance at her. She’s leaned back on her hands now, staring out at the sea with that same distant focus she always gets when she’s quiet too long. Like she’s not just watching the sun set, but remembering every time it ever has.

It makes something twist in your chest.

But before you can spiral too hard, your gaze shifts to your right—where a couple teens are currently devouring each other’s faces under a tree like it’s the end of the world.

You make a loud , exaggerated sound of disgust. “Ugh. Get a room.”

Agatha snorts. “You’re one to talk.”

You whip your head toward her, eyes wide. “ Excuse me? ”

Her lips twitch, just slightly. “You didn't seem to have many complaints when I was doing it to you”

Your jaw drops. “Oh my god. I was emotionally processing trauma and alcohol!”

“Mmhm.”

“Not the same!”

“You moaned.”

“I did not! ”

Agatha leans back further in the grass, completely unbothered. “You definitely moaned.”

You groan and cover your face with your hands. “That’s because you bit me!”

You peek through your fingers, already half laughing—until you see the look on her face. Agatha is watching you. But not with amusement.

Her gaze drifts, slow and sharp, down to your throat. To the same marks you very purposefully didn’t cover this morning. The bruise dark just beneath your jaw. The one shaped almost obscenely like her mouth.

You watch her eyes trace it. And something in her expression shifts. “Mmm,” she hums, low and unapologetic. “That I did.” Your breath catches. The way she says it— like a promise, not a memory —sends heat pooling between your legs, molten and immediate.

You open your mouth. Maybe to joke, maybe to challenge her. Maybe to say do it again . But she’s already moving.

Agatha leans in, one hand still braced behind her, the other lifting slow. Her thumb presses lightly to the hickey—right where it throbs under your skin.

Not hard. Not soft. Just enough to make your pulse stutter. You freeze. Her eyes flick up to yours, unreadable. “You’re not very good at hiding things,” she murmurs, voice low, almost lazy.

You blink, trying not to fall into whatever this is. “I wasn’t trying to hide it.”

“No,” she says softly. “You weren’t.”

Her thumb stays there, and for a second, neither of you speak. Your heart is pounding. Her scent hits you with the breeze, curling around you like a spell.

You swallow hard. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like that.”

Agatha’s smile is slow, dangerous. Her thumb is still on your neck, and her eyes haven’t left yours. The sun is setting behind her like the sky’s on fire—and honestly, you might be too.

You stay like that for a moment, eyes locked, your breathing quickening. You’re not drunk this time. You feel everything. The warmth of her hand. The weight of her gaze. The electricity rising in the space between your bodies like a wire pulled too tight.

Your fingers curl gently around her wrist. Not pulling her closer. Just… touching. Your lips part—your breath catching softly in your throat—and her gaze flickers down. To your mouth. Slowly. Deliberately. And something flashes across her face—something hungry. 

Your heart is thudding so loud it drowns out the wind. And then—déjà vu. It slams into you like a wave.

This moment. Her eyes. The way the air feels. You've been here. Not here here—but somewhere. With her . Like this. Like always.

You barely register the word before it slips from your lips. A whisper. “Agatha—” She exhales, just once. Like hearing her name from your mouth knocked the breath out of her.

Her hand tightens slightly around your throat—not rough, just anchoring . Like she doesn’t trust the ground to hold steady without you. “Don’t,” she says. Quiet. Frayed.

But you can’t help it. “Don’t what?”

Her jaw tightens. “Don’t look at me like you remember.”

You blink.

Like you remember? 

Your brows pull together, confusion swirling, but then your eyes meet hers—and like always , you feel it. That pull. That magnetic, impossible thread that’s been tugging at you since day one. Your voice is barely audible. But it’s steady. “I’ll remember… if that’s what it takes.” 

You don’t even know what you’re saying. Not really. But it feels true. Like your heart knows something your brain hasn’t caught up to yet.

Agatha’s eyes widen—just a fraction—but it’s enough. Her breath hitches, her lips part, and you swear the air between you shifts. Thickens. Your gaze drops to her mouth. That mouth. And the hand still wrapped around her wrist?

It tugs.

Softly. 

You lean in. So slow. So careful. Like if you move too fast, you’ll break whatever this moment is made of. Agatha doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. Her eyes are locked on yours—open, almost vulnerable—and in that second, she looks nothing like the sharp, composed woman who teased you in bookstores and corrected your historical citations.

She looks like something older. Something aching. Something waiting. Your noses almost brush. Your lips barely a breath apart. She doesn’t kiss you. But she doesn’t stop you either. And the silence? It’s not empty. It’s loud —with everything unsaid, everything denied, everything you’re both trying not to feel. 

Then—very quietly—her voice breaks through, husky and almost wrecked. “If you remember… you won’t look at me like this.” Your heart twists. And you don't know what she means. But the way she says it— You know it hurts her.

Your eyes flick up to hers, and she’s still right there , her breath ghosting against your lips. the world narrows to just this—her, you, and the heavy thrum of whatever’s pulling you together.

You can’t even hear the waves anymore. Or the teens laughing. Or the wind. Just the way Agatha looks right now. Like a goddess worn down by memory. Like a woman who’s been waiting too long to be seen. You breathe in. Soft. Steady.

And then, gently—without teasing or bravado—you murmur  “Then show me who you really are.”

Her lips part. Just barely. Her eyes search yours like she’s trying to find the lie—but there isn’t one.

There’s only you. Holding her wrist. Waiting. Still here. That’s what breaks her. Her hand slides up to your jaw, slow and hesitant, like she still doesn’t believe you’ll let her.

But you do. You lean in the rest of the way, your forehead brushing hers, and then— Finally— Her mouth finds yours. Soft. Intentional. Like she’s memorizing the shape of you.

this kiss isn’t like the other night. It isn’t drunk or frantic. It’s not about impulse or hiding. It’s slow. Steady. A dance of lips and breath and restraint that trembles at the edges. Your hand slips from her wrist and rises to her shoulders, settling there as you pull her closer. She exhales against your mouth, a sound so quiet you barely catch it—but you feel it.

Agatha tilts her head, brushing her tongue gently across your bottom lip. You gasp. And that’s all the invitation she needs. She deepens the kiss—deliberate now—as her tongue slips into your mouth, tasting, teasing, claiming in a way that sends heat ripping down your spine.

Her left hand drifts to your waist, tugging you closer with slow, confident pressure. You groan into her mouth, your hands sliding up into her coat, fisting in the fabric like you can’t stand to be apart for even a second.

The kiss turns messier by the second. Controlled fire giving way to something wetter, hungrier, your tongues stroking together as her teeth catch gently on your lip and your hips shift closer without meaning to.

Your knees brush. Her thigh presses against yours.

You suck in a breath through your nose, chest rising to meet hers. That low simmering ache that’s been pulsing in your gut all day flares hot—sharp, needy —settling thick between your thighs.

Her scent floods your senses and You’re dizzy with it. Drunk on her. And still—neither of you rushes. Because this? This feels like the beginning of something neither of you have had in a very, very long time.

Her lips part just enough to let out a soft noise—low, quiet, but unmistakably a sound of pleasure.

You feel it vibrate through her mouth, through her chest, straight down to your spine. And it spurs you on. 

You kiss her deeper, more urgently now, your hand sliding up the curve of her neck and threading into her hair. Agatha groans again, muffled into your mouth, and her grip on your waist tightens.

The world around you disappears. There’s no park, no cliffside, no teens probably watching this unfold like a live action forbidden romance.

Just her.

Just this.

Your hand drifts lower, then slips beneath the hem of her shirt, fingertips skating up warm skin— smooth and real and somehow still too much and not enough. Agatha pulls back suddenly with a low, breathless chuckle, her lips pink and kiss swollen.

You chase her mouth instinctively with a needy whine, barely registering how desperate you sound. She catches your face in her hands with a smirk that should not be that devastating.

“Needy little thing,” she purrs, voice honeyed and smug. You pout up at her, panting, still trying to catch your breath. She’s not much better off.

Her cheeks are flushed, her chest rising and falling fast beneath her coat, lips slightly parted like she’s only just reining herself back in.

And then she rasps, “We’re still in public.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh, shit. ”

You both glance toward the tree line and throughout the park, where it’s not clear if anyone saw anything… but someone definitely heard something.

You duck your head into her shoulder, face burning.

Agatha laughs softly, her hand rubbing a slow circle against your back. “Come on,” she murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Let’s get home before you start dry humping me in front of the retirees.”

“ Agatha! ” you hiss, but you’re already half laughing, half melting.

You swat at her, flustered and laughing, but Agatha catches your wrist easily—her grip warm, steady.

Then she tugs you forward, and before you can blink, she leans down and presses a firm , dizzying kiss to your mouth.

Not drawn out. Not messy. Just certain. When she pulls back, you’re left there blinking, breath shallow, lips tingling, and entirely undone. She stands, brushing off her coat like she didn’t just kiss the soul out of your body.

You stay where you are for a moment—still planted in the grass, cheeks hot, lips swollen, panting softly as you look up at her like you’re trying to figure out which century you’re in.

The sun is nearly gone now, dipped fully beneath the horizon, leaving behind a wash of deep purples and fading rose.

Agatha’s silhouette cuts sharp against the sky, framed by the darkening trees. “You coming?” she asks, glancing down at you with a brow raised, voice deceptively casual—like she didn’t just press you into the earth and kiss you like it was the only thing keeping her alive.

You swallow thickly, rising slowly to your feet and brushing off your jeans, trying to compose yourself like anything about you is composed right now.

“Barely,” you mutter under your breath.

She smirks.

You and Agatha walk side by side, boots clicking softly on the cooling pavement. Every few steps, your shoulder brushes hers.

You keep glancing over—like you can’t help it. Like your body is still on fire and your brain hasn’t caught up. You don’t know if you want to hold her hand… or push her against the nearest tree and pick up where you left off.

But something starts to shift. Subtle.

The sun is nearly gone now, just faint smudges of gold at the edge of the sky. The streetlamps buzz faintly to life, casting long shadows on the brick walls and empty sidewalks.

And Agatha?

She starts glancing around more often. Not at people. Not at you. At the edges. The dark corners between shops. The stretch of woods beyond the town square. The alley behind the diner. Her eyes move with sharp calculation, scanning like she’s reading the shadows.

Her hand flexes once at her side. Then again. Tensing. You frown. “You okay?” She hums in response, but her lips are pursed, the muscle in her jaw twitching faintly. “Agatha,” you press, softer. “What is it?”

She exhales through her nose. “Nothing.” But her voice is tight. Flat. You slow a little as you walk, your heart rate picking up—not from the kiss this time. Not from her smirk or her touch.

From the look on her face. Like she’s hearing something you can’t. Like she’s waiting for it.

You’d usually spiral. You’d assume you did something wrong—that maybe the kiss was a mistake. That maybe she regretted it, that this silence meant distance.

But this time… it’s different. Because your side starts to pulse. That dull, familiar ache. Hot and sharp all at once. Your heart—finally calmed from the haze of her mouth on yours—begins to race again. Not from arousal.

From instinct. The kind that says run. The hair on the back of your neck prickles. Goosebumps rise on your arms.

Something’s wrong. You inhale sharply, your breath shuddering. “Shit—”

Your head throbs suddenly, like something’s pressing against the inside of your skull, and you let out a soft groan, stumbling a half step.

Agatha’s eyes snap to you. She’s at your side in an instant. “Hey,” she says, voice low and sharp. Her hand catches your arm, steadying you. “What’s wrong? What do you feel?”

You blink hard, vision swimming slightly. “My side. It’s—” you grit your teeth. “It’s burning again. And my head. Fuck. It’s like before—.”

Her jaw tightens. Her hand slips from your arm to hover over your ribs— not touching, just… there. As if she’s trying to feel something without revealing how. She curses under her breath—something clipped and ancient. You look up at her, breathing fast. “Is it the beast? Is it— something out here?”

Agatha doesn’t speak. But you see it in her face. The shift. The calculation. Her jaw tightens, eyes flicking toward the woods at the edge of town—narrowing, watching. Like something just moved .

Then— The wind picks up. But it’s wrong. It’s not cold—it’s wet. Heavy. Like it crawled out from underground and wrapped its fingers around your throat.

You freeze. Shadows stretch unnaturally across the pavement, pooling like liquid from places no light should cast them. Curling at the edges. Breathing.

You smell it before you see anything else.

Blood. 

Rot.

Like something spoiled and deep and old. Like wet soil and iron and something dead. “Agatha,” you whisper, your voice shaking. “Agatha—what the fuck is happening?” She doesn’t answer.

She’s staring at the treeline now, expression stone still—but her entire body has gone rigid. Her coat flutters in the wrong direction. Her hands curl slowly into fists. Then— A crow.

It screeches— loud , unhinged, sharp enough to slice through your eardrums—and dives from the trees above, wings slashing the air in erratic arcs. It lands hard on the road a few feet away, hopping and cawing like mad, feathers ruffled and wild, beak snapping like it’s trying to warn you.

Agatha flinches. That’s what scares you most. Because Agatha doesn’t flinch. Ever. She grabs your hand. Tight. Too tight. And that’s when you know. Something is here. 

“Don’t look at it,” she says, voice low, teeth clenched. “Just walk. Now.”

“But what is it—”

“Move.”

She doesn’t wait. She drags you forward, fast and silent, her grip vice like and shaking. Behind you, the shadows pulse. The crow screams again. And the woods exhale something that smells like death.

Agatha yanks you forward, pace brutal, grip bruising.

The world around you is dimming—like the sun dropped too fast, or someone turned the saturation all the way down. The streetlamps flicker above you like they’re struggling to hold back the dark.

And then—

The growl. 

Low. Guttural. Wrong.

It rumbles through the trees, the pavement, your bones. It doesn’t sound like anything with a throat—it sounds made , constructed from every nightmare that ever lived under your bed.

You gasp and stumble, twisting around toward the sound—toward the edge of the woods just past the sidewalk—and that’s when it hits.

The hallucinations.

Again. 

Just like before.

Only worse.

The trees start to move. Not in the wind. They twist. Bark buckles, limbs stretching like they’re reaching for you. Roots tear through the soil and pulse like veins, snaking toward the road.

Your vision warps—edges rippling, shadows folding inward like the world is collapsing on itself.

You blink.

And Agatha’s face is changing. 

Flickering.

Not disappearing—but layering. 

A woman in black, her hair streaked silver, blood on her lips.

Then—

A vision of her in a 1600s gown, pale hands outstretched, voice echoing in a language you don’t understand.

Then—

A burn mark across her cheek, firelight behind her eyes.

Then—

Agatha again.

Modern. Real.

Her mouth is moving but you can't hear her anymore.

Everything’s shifting. Your side pulses hard—like something in the wound is feeding off this. Like it wants you to see this.

You stagger backward. “I—I can’t—”

Agatha’s eyes widen. “Fuck—no—no no no—” She yanks you forward so hard you nearly fall. “Don’t look at it!” But it’s too late. The woods are alive. Faces in the trees—warped, eyeless. The air hums with static. The crows scream like they’re dying.

You see a flash—yourself. But not yourself. In a dress. Crying. Screaming for someone. Agatha’s voice rips through the static. “You’re not there. You’re HERE. With me. Keep walking.”

Your breath catches. You can’t even feel your feet anymore—you’re floating, falling, burning from the inside out. Agatha grabs your face, yanks it toward hers, forcing your eyes on hers. “I know what this is. I’ve got you. You have to hold on, understand?” You nod—barely.

She pulls you again, faster. The growling follows. The hallucinations claw at the edge of your vision. The wind howls like it wants your name. And Agatha just keeps going—furious, terrified, dragging you through hell itself—because she knows what’s hunting you. And she knows what’s waking up inside you. 

Branches scrape at your arms—no, fingers, they feel like fingers—and the path beneath your feet is warping, bending, laughing. 

You trip again, body jerking as the ground tilts sideways, as the roots reach up like hands to grab you. Your ribs are burning— screaming. The black veins feel like they’re alive again, writhing under your skin, hungry.

“Make it stop—” you gasp, voice cracking as another wave of nausea crashes over you.

“Almost there,” Agatha spits, practically dragging you now. One of your feet barely touches the trail anymore.

You don’t even see the trail anymore. The woods have become something else. Every tree has a mouth. Every shadow whispers your name. And Agatha’s face keeps shifting —one second her eyes are glowing violet, the next she’s the woman from your visions again, then suddenly she’s skeletal, face hollowed out, her voice a thousand whispers layered on top of each other—

“No,” you whimper, shaking your head, trying to cling to the real version of her. “You’re not—you're not her—you’re not real—”

She curses under her breath— harder this time—and pulls you so forcefully you slam into her side. “Don’t look at me,” she snarls—not cruel, but desperate . “Don’t listen to it. None of it’s real. I’m real. I'm real. Stay with me. ”

You sob into her shoulder, stumbling as your vision goes white for a second. You think you see fire. A noose. A woman screaming.

Your voice screaming. The next thing you know, your knees are giving out, and Agatha scoops you up like you weigh nothing—arm under your knees, the other braced behind your back.

The smell of rot follows you. So does the growling.

Something howls deep in the woods behind you—and the crows explode from the trees, screaming, spiraling above. You don’t even register the door until she kicks it open with a grunt and slams it behind you both— hard —the sound echoing like a gunshot.

There’s a flash—something glows briefly at the corners of the door, and you hear her muttering something under her breath, in that language again.

And then… Silence. The hallucinations snap off like a switch. Your body collapses into hers, shaking, drenched in sweat, breath coming in jagged gasps. Your eyes sting. Your ribs ache. Your voice is shredded.

But the silence holds. The house is safe. You’re safe. Or at least you think.

Agatha doesn’t let go. Not yet. She just holds you there, arms still around you like she's trying to keep all your pieces from falling apart.

She doesn’t speak as she carries you to the couch. The old green one in the living room. Now it feels like the only solid thing in the world.

Agatha lowers you down gently, her hands firm but careful as if you’ll shatter if she lets go too fast. The fabric creaks beneath you. Your chest is still rising and falling too quickly, every breath like glass. Your skin damp. Your limbs shaking.

You don’t even blink. You just stare at her. Like you’re memorizing her face. Like you're making sure it’s her—this version, the real one—not the flickering images burned into your brain from the woods.

Agatha kneels in front of you. Hands moving slow, measured. She reaches for the hem of your shirt. “Can I?” You nod��barely. She begins to lift it, inch by inch, her fingertips brushing the skin just above your hips. Her touch is warm. Steady. Real.

You watch her the whole time. Eyes fixed on her face like if you look away, she might change again—morph into another nightmare.

She notices. She doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t tease. Her gaze meets yours, unblinking. “I’m real,” she says softly, fingers still at the hem of your shirt. “Right here.”

Your lip trembles, but you nod again. She keeps going, pulling the fabric higher until your ribs are exposed. And then she sees it. The veins.

Worse now. Black, branching lines like smoke under your skin, radiating from the old wound along your side.

They pulse faintly. Alive. Agatha’s jaw tightens.

You can tell she’s trying not to let her expression change. But you see it anyway—the flicker of fear. Of recognition. She places a hand lightly beside the mark, careful not to touch it directly.

Her voice drops to a whisper. “It’s spreading.”

You swallow, throat raw. “I thought—I thought it was getting better.”

“It was. Until the thing outside started calling to it again.”

You blink, tears gathering without permission. “So I’m still—”

“You’re not lost.” Her voice is firmer now. “I’m not letting that happen.”

You study her. Every line of her face. The crease between her brows. The way her hair has slipped loose near her cheek. The little shadow of exhaustion behind her eyes she tries so hard to hide.

Everything that makes her her. Your chest still rises too fast. Your fingers tremble where they’ve curled weakly in your lap. You feel like you’re going to shake apart again—but then— Agatha leans in, one hand sliding gently to cup your cheek, her other still resting lightly by your ribs, anchoring you.

You squeeze your eyes shut. It’s too much. But then— Warm lips press to your forehead.

You gasp quietly, eyes fluttering open. “I’m here,” she murmurs, voice barely above a breath. “It’s just me, hm?”

She takes your hands—delicate, slow—and guides them up. You don’t even resist. Just let her move you until your palms are resting on either side of her face. You stare up at her, and the panic starts to lose its grip.

Her skin is warm. Her breath brushes your face. Her eyes, blue and steady, are watching you like she’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the world. And maybe she is. Your chest rises—then falls.

A little slower. “That’s it…” she whispers, smiling softly as your breathing steadies. “Good girl.”

You nod slowly, the praise curling like heat in your belly—gentle, comforting, not teasing this time. Just real. A shaky smile pulls at your lips.

Your fingers curl more firmly against her cheeks. And you breathe. Finally.

Agatha watches you, something soft flickering across her features—something almost vulnerable. Like she’s proud of you. Like maybe she needed this moment too. And then—quietly, tentatively—you tug her forward.

She lets you. She leans in. And your lips meet in a small, fragile kiss. No hunger. No tension. Just a silent, sacred press of mouths that says, you’re okay. 

When you part, barely, she rests her forehead against yours.

“It’s just us, pet,” she murmurs.

And in that moment?

You believe her.

Next Chapter

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Taglist- @morgananyx

[bloodb3nders]

dvd 001: august.

| toshinori yagi (all might) x fem!reader |

wc: 1.89k

warnings: same as masterlist, use of yn

a/n: i feel like i see no all might fics so here's me filling the void!

NOW PLAYING: august t. swift

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶︶

the smell of popcorn wafted around the lounge in class 1-a's dorm as mina ashido passed around a few bowls for the class to share. as the social butterfly of the class, she had made quite an effort to implement monthly movie nights for the class.

so, with the class all cozied up in the lounge, a heated debate soon broke out over which movie they'd watch that night. the girls clamored for a romance, the boys hoping for something more action-packed.

to be fair, the last two movies were both rom-coms.

with the class of 1-a having cast a vote for either another rom-com or a spy movie, two votes were left uncast. izuku midoriya and ochaco uraraka sat anxiously, almost paralyzed with fear as their classmates begged them to side with them. bakugo tossed out a threat, and mina promised to do uraraka's hair for the next month if she voted for the rom-com.

the ever-anxious midoriya lost his balance slightly from his place on the floor, falling on his back with a thud, arm flailing out, and landing with a soft thunk on a small, black bag. it was underneath the console table of the tv, and midoriya quickly seized it, curious as to what he had latched on to. as the class continued to bicker back and forth, midoriya regained his bearings, as he brought the black bag to his lap. it seemed to be a soft-shell container of some sort, a black zipper along the sides.

he slowly unzipped the case, and a dvd glared back at him, small script on it reading, august.

"guys!" midoriya interrupted, catching the attention of his classmates as all eyes turned to him. "i found some dvds! maybe we should watch them?" he said, holding up the black case. murmurs broke out throughout the common room, some of the guys still wanting to watch the spy movie. however, the girls seemed somewhat interested by the mysterious dvds, and the boys were soon overruled.

as midoriya loaded the dvd in, he noticed that more lay underneath the first, five in total. before he could investigate any further, the tv roared to life, and a picture of what seemed to be ua came into view.

"is that, all-might?" uraraka asked, as the class of 1-a stared at what seemed to be a high-school ages all might, wearing the exact same uniform that they wore everyday to their classes. midoriya's jaw dropped at the sight of his mentor, watching as he flashed the camera a smile.

"aren't you gonna ask me what day it is," all-might's rang out, and the camera moved slightly.

"i still can't believe i'm even recording you right now," a voice echoed from behind the camera, annoyance laced in it.

"someone's gotta document greatness!" all might says, his fist pumping the air, and the camera shakes, laughter echoing from behind it.

"gosh, you're so corny. i'm still in disbelief you say shit like missouri smash. what even is a missouri?" the voice says from behind the camera, and all-might deadpans, signature smile wiped from his face.

"you'll see, one day i'll be number one!" he says, smile coming back to life, and suddenly the video went black.

the screen roared back to life, as the camera focused on all-might again, an unfamiliar girl next to him. the two of them were both in ua uniforms, as the scene unfolded on the grounds of ua once again.

"final year internships start tomorrow!" all-might said triumphantly, and the girl in the video rolled her eyes.

"and where are you interning?" the girl spoke, and all-might quickly responded. the picture jolted slightly, and a groan came from the girl.

"couldn't you have at least invested in a tripod?" she grumbled, and all-might chuckled. "don't tell me a tiny camcorder is what takes you down, y/n," the number one hero responds slyly, amusement painted on his face as the other girl groans.

"you owe me ramen after this," is all the girl responds, and all-might moves towards the camera, before disappearing behind the screen.

"did you finally come up with a hero name?" all might asks, and the screen moves slightly, before focusing on the girl alone.

"keeping it a secret, you oaf," she responds, crossing her arms, and all might chuckles.

"it's been three years, y/n! surely you can tell your best friend what your hero name is!" all might exclaims, and y/n chuckles.

"or you can find out with the rest of the world once we graduate and join our own agencies," you shoot back, a smug look painted on your face. all might groans from behind the camera.

"our own agencies? don't you mean our agency?" all might questions, and you roll your eyes at the camera.

"whatever you say, pretty boy," you respond, and the screen cuts to black, before static fills the screen, signaling the dvd had run its course.

silence swept over the class of 1-a, puzzled expressions dancing on the faces of the students.

"midoriya, did you recognize that girl? is she a pro-hero?" tenya iida calls out, and midoriya shakes his head.

"if she's a pro, she must be retired, or her costume hides her face because i don't recognize or remember her at all," the green-haired boy responds.

"what was her quirk?" uraraka asks, and he shrugs his shoulders, unsure of what to make of the mysterious girl in the videos. the rest of the class begins to conjecture who the mysterious girl could be, standing next to the legendary pro-hero.

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶︶

as toshinori lowers the camera, you sigh, rubbing your fingers across your temple. "you okay, mind reader?" he asks, nickname slipping out. you couldn't even read minds, but your ability to move objects with your mind had earned you the nickname from the obnoxious blonde hero.

"yeah, just overexerted myself in training earlier, i can feel a migraine coming on," you said as the pads of your fingers massaged your temple, digging in a little too harshly than you should've.

"wanna grab a tea? mint tea always makes my head feel better when i have a headache!" he exclaims, and you give him a soft smile.

"it's okay toshi, it'll be gone in an hour or so, let's just head out," you say, and he nods, picking up his backpack from the ground and slinging it over his shoulder, before offering you yours.

you offer a quick thanks as you take the bag, before the two of you made your way back to your homes.

you're not sure why toshi had chosen to become friends with you upon starting at ua. around your second year, he had emerged at the top of your class. you were usually safe in the top five, but your style compared to toshi's was night and day. he was loud, flashy, and radiated confidence. you, on the other hand, were quiet and calculated, and the idea of taking to the press or looking at cameras made you feel queasy inside.

on your first day, you remember planting yourself at the back of the class, quietly preparing for your first day. toshi had arrived five minutes lates, and after announcing himself to the class, he took the only seat left, one next to you. after class got out, he’d chatted your ear off for ten minutes, and for another hour during lunch. after that, he rarely ever left your side, despite your attempts to thwart him.

over the past two years, you’d slowly started to grow kind of fond of the big blonde oaf, and it didn’t hurt to be close with a student who had great hero potential. after all, he’d won the UA sports festival for the past two years in a row. you typically placed third, which you were more than content with. you’d be a fool to not stay friends with the man.

toshi was also incredibly kind to you, offering to help you train, with school work, even offering to just walk with you to the store during lunch for a snack. you’d grown to deeply appreciate his friendship during your time at UA.

but now, you were entering your third year, and soon, you and toshi would probably end up splitting ways upon graduation. he always told you you were wrong, kept telling you he was positive you’d both go to the same agency, and share a joint agency one day. you thought the sentiment was kind, and you found it a bit endearing how he believed you’d always be there with him, by his side, fending off villains together.

so as the two of you walked back to your homes, you made sure to etch in the moment of the two of you in your mind, before your walks would be no more.

“penny for your thoughts?” toshi spoke, his warm voice snapping you out of your thoughts.

“just thinking ‘bout graduation,” you said, and toshi hummed next to you, as the sun slowly began to set over the two of you.

“you gotta live in the present, y/n! stop worrying about the future, you worry wart!” he teased lightly, and your lip turned up in a small smile.

“you’re right toshi, you’re always right,” you responded, voice soft against the breeze.

“you really will be the number one pro one day, you know that?” you spoke, turning to face toshi, as the two of you neared your house.

“you’ll be right there behind me, y/n!” toshi responded, his voice laced with his signature confidence you somehow hadn’t managed to get sick of.

“I hope so, toshi,” you said softly, as the two of you stopped in front of your house. before walking up the path to your front door, your feet betrayed you, moving a step or two closer to toshi, going up onto the balls of your feet, and planting a soft kiss on his cheek.

“I’ll see ya tomorrow,” you added, and quickly hurried into your house, leaving a surprised toshi standing in front of your house, mouth agape slightly as he touched his cheek, hands lingering over the spot where your lips had graced his cheek.

toshinori yagi had never expected to make friends at UA. sure his new boisterous personality helped him in accumulating them, but he’d wondered if he’d ever make any real friends, the kind he wouldn’t have to always put on a face for, the kind that one day, might know his secret.

and he always thought this way, until he met you. until he saw past your guarded exterior, your kind and genuine personality that made him want to flash a cheesy grin at you. your attentiveness to all of his rambles, even his exaggerated stories. how you always waited for him so the two of you could walk home together. how you gifted him a camcorder for his birthday, so he could 'document his progress.'

and there, under the august sun, toshinori yagi still stood in front of your house, watching your door, hand still on his cheek from where you'd kissed it. he wondered if you'd always be around. he hoped you would be.

august slipped away, like a bottle of wine, 'cause you were never mine.

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶︶

taglist (0/50): @pixelcafe-network @mjuhgydxf

[thecoolnerdblog]

Chaotic academia in the way of:

tossing five library books into the return bin minutes before they’re due

drinking either hot chocolate or tea in lieu of coffee but in any cup it does not go in

finding four leaf clovers in all my books because I keep forgetting which one is supposed to be the clovers book

My room being full of sticky notes that have long lost meaning and stickiness

Buying every study organization essential on the market and never using a single one

Color coded notes but only in that pen weird way only i seem to understand

Handwriting fluctuates between a mix of cursive and print based on what I’m writing about and my excitement toward it

Thousands of notebooks that are half used or blank or filled to the brim

Using glitter gel pens for only the most important things (legal documents and research prospects)

Bringing a notebook to take notes only to instead take notes on your phone (too awkward…)

Either being thirty minutes early or fifteen minutes late, no in between

Study playlists compiled of everything from classical Mozart to musical numbers

Sifting through backpacks for class because the zippers keep breaking from overstuffing the bag with books

“How do I have highlighter on my hands?? I don’t even use highlighters”

[fratboykate]

Any chance you could give us info on how Yelenas tactical brain approaches the diaper bag?

First and most important rule: Only She Packs It. Kate is not allowed to pack or repack the diaper bag. Once, Kate tried to “help” by reorganizing it. Yelena discovered it mid-outing and nearly went feral. Ellie still mimics her snarling “What the f… is this system?” when playing with her dolls.

No, but like…truly. Kate is not allowed near Yelena’s bag unsupervised. Once, Kate took it out because she couldn't find hers (they have separate bags for this exact reason). Yelena found a teething toy where the burp cloths went and visibly short-circuited. Kate’s is pink. It's chaos. Yelena refers to it only as “the decoy.”

Beyond that: -The diaper bag is not a diaper bag. It’s a reinforced, waterproof, modular tactical backpack in matte black with detachable pouches. It has a MOLLE system. Yelena refuses to carry one of those cutesy designer diaper bags Kate registered for. Instead, she uses a military backpack and carabiners. She also just…refuses to call it anything other than “the kit.” And yes, she calls it “The Kit.” Not “the diaper bag.” Not “Ellie’s things.” It’s just The Kit. Kate has given up on trying to correct her.

-Everything is color coded and labeled. Formula? Blue tag. Wipes? Green tag. Emergency pacifier stash? Red. Kate once tried to add a little bow to one of the zippers. It was gone within an hour.

-Over-Prepared as a Rule: Three of everything. Minimum. One is none, two is one, three is peace of mind. That includes pacifiers, changes of clothes, burp cloths, and an entire wipe packet that is sealed inside a second waterproof pouch because Yelena has learned.

-The med kit Is…Overkill. It includes: baby Tylenol, Benadryl, hypoallergenic bandages, antiseptic wipes, an EpiPen, a backup EpiPen, and a space blanket. There’s also a tourniquet. “She’s teething, Yelena.” “And what if she bites someone? We don’t know her power yet.”

-Combat Pouch Snacks: Yelena packs snacks for herself like she’s going on recon. Protein bars. Trail mix. Instant electrolyte powder. She burned too many calories one afternoon chasing Ellie across the Getty and now the bag always includes tactical granola.

-There’s a “Blackout Scenario” envelope. It’s labeled in Russian and sealed in plastic. Kate isn’t allowed to open it. It allegedly contains cash, emergency contacts, a flash drive, and instructions on how to disappear with Ellie if something ever happens to Yelena.

-Inventory is filed in her Notes app under 'Op: Gremlin’ Every item has a category. Every category has backups. The document includes timestamps, quantities, and ideal temperature ranges for formula storage. It also has contingency protocols: Blowout in public = Kit B, Teething disaster = Kit C, Random emergency? Check side pocket marked with a red carabiner.

-Weighted packing. Balance-tested. She knows which side to sling depending on terrain. Yelena once trained with a 40 pound pack in Siberia. You think she’s going to let a baby unbalance her center of gravity? Please. The bag is weight-distributed to perfection. There is a precise reason the wipes are on the right-hand side. That’s her dominant hand. She’s done drills.

-Bag Maintenance Day: Every Sunday, 1400 hours sharp, the bag is unloaded, re-inventoried, sanitized, and restocked. If Kate tries to help, Yelena gently removes her hand like she’s disarming a civilian near a landmine.

[peterfields]

The Vintage Tent Material Pouch by Puebco is crafted from recycled tent fabric and features a large, durable zipper. It’s practical, unique, and perfect for storing documents on the go or for use as a toiletry bag.

[missingscript]

CW: Character Death, detail of a breakdown.

At first, it was a small crack for Darius. A small hole in the dam. A tiny scratch in a glass.

He got them off the island, despite all the hardships that got to them. The dinosaurs, Kash and Daniel.. Mitch and Tiff. They could finally get peace and quiet. He could get peace and quiet.

Unfortunately, things do not last. Six years of solace passed. Six years since Darius isolated himself from the rest. In a secluded cabin somewhere in the Californian woods.

Ben showed up at his door on a random Sunday night, harbouring a laptop and a messenger bag with way too many documents and theories. Too many notes. This guy's overworked himself. Was the first thing that crossed Darius' mind.

“I've been looking on Dark Jurassic..” Ben murmured to Darius and he looked up from the laptop, eyed flitting over Darius' face.

He was thinking of something. Hesitant to tell Darius something. Ben bit his lip. He closed the laptop gently, setting it off to the side.

“Darius.” Ben said, his voice cracked and he was playing with his zipper.

“Ben? Are you okay?” He raised a brow, reaching his hands out to steady on Ben's shoulders.

“Uhm, Brooklynn.. she –” He swallowed nervously.

“She's dead, Darius. She was killed.”

Another crack.

“What?” Darius asked breathly, “No– I called her.. two days ago I–” His hands drew back to his own body, his fingers curling a tad, his other hand gripped his tooth necklace – the necklace that held memories. And nightmares. – tightly.

“She.. um.. she – I don't know.. she's dead. Darius. She was killed. Targeted.”

“No.. –” His hands started trembling. He promised he'd meet up with her – he didn't. He passed out on his sofa crying.

“I was supposed to..” He rasped, tears welled up in his eyes. His breath hitched, and he started hyperventilating.

“Darius..”

And then the dam broke. It took one small tap for the glass to shatter into a million little pieces.

He gripped his hair, fingers digging into his head. He lurched forward, and wailed.

He wanted to throw up.

The tears fell, he struggled to breathe properly. It felt like his throat closed, like he was being choked.

He couldn't stand, and toppled over. Ben caught him.

“Darius.” He tightly held him, “Darius please–”

His cries wracked the whole cabin, filling the silence he'd lived with for six years.

This was his fault. If he was there – he could've helped her, done anything. She deserved to live. He should've been the one who would lie there, torn up into pieces by teeth and claws. It should've been him.

Sharp fangs should've sunk into him, torn him to shreds. It's what he deserved. All the lives he couldn't help. All the lives he let the dinosaurs take. And now Brooklynns.

He sobbed. For what felt like the whole night.

Ben held him through it.

[lizardperson]

any way the wind blows

[on ao3]

fandom: original work rating: g wc: 638 prompt: #fff286 anything could happen for @flashfictionfridayofficial

---

Mika stopped drumming along to the music and eyed July, who was fidgeting around with the zipper of her jacket.

"Dude, why are you so nervous?"

"Because I'm always nervous on trips!"

"We're just going to Toronto?! We'll be back home in two days?" Mika chuckled, not understanding what the big deal was. She and Aaron had rather spontaneously decided to go on a little weekend trip to see a band they liked, and had talked July into joining them.

July gnawed on her lower lip. "So what? There's still a ton of things that can go wrong on trips. Anything could happen."

"Like what?"

"Maybe I forgot something. My toothbrush."

"I know Canada is a mythical place, but they still have like supermarkets and stuff there," Aaron objected from the driver's seat. "And toothbrushes."

"He's right," Mika confirmed. "We can literally buy anything there. Well, almost - got your passport?"

July dug through her bag and pulled out the document. "Yeah." She still didn't seem convinced though. "What if… it's expired." Of course she had checked multiple times already. But still. What if.

Mika snatched it out of July's hand and checked the expiry date. "Nope, all good. Cute picture, by the way," she grinned.

July blushed and grabbed it back, tucking it into her bag. "What if we get arrested at the border."

"What for?!"

"…maybe someone put drugs in our car or something."

"Then we take them all ourselves," Mika laughed.

"What if we get mugged in Toronto, and our passports get stolen, and they don't let us back in."

"Come on, now you're getting ridiculous. Also, I doubt we would be the first dumbass Americans who manage to lose their passports somehow. There's probably a dedicated counter at the border crossing for that. Canada doesn't wanna keep us."

"What if the car breaks down."

"Then Gabriel will come and pick us up. That man loves playing knight in shining armor."

"Unless our car explodes with us in it," Aaron interjected, getting a glare from Mika.

"What if we get into a snowstorm."

"It's April!"

July grimaced in response, then listed her next scenario. "What if our hotel sucks."

"Aaron and I have stayed in that exact same place before. Last year."

"…what if it burned down suddenly."

"Then we find somewhere else to stay. I know for a fact that this city has more than one hotel."

"What if the concert gets canceled."

"Then we find something else to entertain ourselves. Like, that is the smallest of problems."

Aaron piped up again. "Oh! What if the support band dies unexpectedly, and we have to jump in, and then we get super famous suddenly!"

"Shit, I didn't bring my guitar," Mika lamented. "No wait, or what if you fall madly in love with a Canadian and don't want to come back with us!"

July playfully punched Mika's arm. "Now you guys are getting ridiculous."

"Yeah, who would ever fall in love with a Canadian," she laughed.

"Don't be mean."

Mika got serious again and grabbed July's hand to reassure her.

"You know what's the worst that might happen, realistically? The pizza we're getting for dinner is kinda mediocre. Or our hotel room neighbors are fucking too loudly. Or I talk so much that you want to strangle me. Everything else? Highly unlikely. Nothing bad will happen. But if it happens, we'll figure it out. Dude, we got this."

July sighed and collected her thoughts for a moment, then she nodded. "Okay, fine. We got this. Just don't abandon me there or something…"

Mika squeezed her hand. "I'll stick to you like glue. In fact, soon you will beg me to give you some peace and quiet, and I'm still not going to leave your side for even one second," she teased, making July laugh.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

[dumpsterfire-daydreams]

TW: Brief discussion of grief/loss, TW: Sexual fantasies, Vulnerable Ghost, Backstory References for Ghost, Supportive Reader, Embarrassed Reader, Awkward Reader, Horny Ghost

We're getting closer to Ghost/Reader spicy time~ Yayyyy~

Reader POV:

You took your time giving yourself a brief tour of the cabin while Ghost unpacked the bags in the bedroom. The front door led into a large living room area, complete with all the usual comforts of an average home. They’d just been downsized for a sole inhabitant or for Ghost’s specific tastes. A large recliner sat towards the middle of the room, turned to face the right wall. Directly across from it was a television that sat atop a low table. Its shelves held a small collection of films and a few records. Further into the room sat the corresponding record player. It was in pretty good shape and wasn’t dusty at all, clear indicators that it was both cherished and put to use often. You made a mental note to rifle through the various albums at some point, curious what kind of music he enjoyed most. But that side quest would come later. For now, you just wanted to see everything the cabin had to offer.

On the opposite side of the room was a small kitchen and a dining table. Though the kitchen was decently large and well equipped, it didn't look like he used it very much. But it was tidy, nonetheless. The thought of him doing something as mundane as washing dishes was strange to imagine, but the plates and forks laid out to dry on a kitchen towel proved he had done so somewhat recently.

The decoration of the home was kept minimal. He seemed to feel safest sticking to solid colors, but they still gave the area a cozy feeling. Curtains, napkins, and towels were all the same toasty shade of brown. The hue reminded you of graham crackers or peanut brittle. The walls were bare for the most part. A rack of guns beside the door, some hooks for jackets to hang on, and the occasional shelf to hold smaller trinkets of his. But you quickly found the only two framed images in the house.

They sat side by side on the sill of the front window, propped up against the pane. The first was a picture showing a small group of smiling people. They must all be related, because they all shared the same brown eyes and characteristic smiles. An older woman stood towards the back, her smile coming through pensive and strained. Her arms were wrapped around the children that stood in front of her in a loose embrace. Beside her stood a gruff-looking middle-aged man who wasn’t smiling at all. Instead he stood with his arms crossed, appearing annoyed to have to pose for the camera. In front of them both were two young boys. The one on the right had a sweet and innocent face. He beamed up at the camera in an adorable, toothy grin. But the boy on the left wore more of a smirk. Though his hands were behind his back, you could see the butt of a BB gun poking out from behind him. And from the series of welts trailing along the first boy’s legs, you had a suspicion just what he’d been using for target practice.

The second framed image on the window sill wasn’t a picture at all though. Solemn black lettering at the top of the document bore the words “Certificate of Death”. He’d lost someone. Having no knowledge of his family and friends before his days in the taskforce, you hadn’t the slightest clue just who this person had been to him. But judging by the fact that it had earned a display frame made you suspect it had been someone very close to his heart.

“Hey Ghost,” you called out over your shoulder, continuing to study the two items. “Who are these people in the picture?”

He didn’t answer immediately, but you heard movement from the bedroom. And after hearing the zipper of a bag slide shut, you heard his footsteps exit the bedroom and move to where you stood. Once he reached you, Ghost peered over your shoulder and gazed down at the window sill.

“That’s the Rileys for ya,” he said quietly.

“Are they… Is this your family?”

Ghost picked up the picture frame, trailing his fingers along its border as he nodded. “Yep. That’s mom back there. And that’s my dad.”

“And is this you?” You giggled, pointing to the mischievous looking boy.

“Nope. I’m the other one.”

“Aw! Look at you! You’re so cute!”

Ghost rolled his eyes with a short laugh, looking down at his past self. “The little rascal,” he laughed. “Don’t let the smile fool you. I got up to plenty of antics back in the day.”

While he was in the mood to give out information, you figured it was a good time to bring up about the other item you’d found. You moved to pick up the framed death certificate, growing quiet and solemn. Ghost’s eyes followed you as you did. Since the people in the picture were his family and the name on the document was male, the only reasonable conclusion you could think of was that it was his father who had passed away. Unable to imagine the pain of losing a parent, you turned to give him a sympathetic hug.

“I’m sorry about your dad,” you murmured. “I’m sure he was a great guy.”

“Oh, don’t be,” Ghost laughed, shaking his head. “He was far from great, I assure you. Good guess, but it's not his.”

You paused, referencing the family photo again. Your finger trailed over each face until it landed over the smirking boy, a horrified gasp escaping you with your next theory. “Oh my god. Was it your brother?”

“Wrong again.” Ghost grabbed your hand and turned it to point at his chest. “That’s my death certificate. That’s my name.”

You glanced down at the paper again. The black ink spelled out the name “Simon Riley” in bold, flourished letters. Simon. His name was Simon! Though the revelation was an unexpected surprise, you didn’t have time to linger on it very long. Because seeing his name on the document just brought on a whole new layer of confusion. And the confusion only grew when you detected a hint of laughter in his eyes. But you thought you saw a flicker of grief there, too. Ghost didn’t offer you any hints or clues, though. He silently watched your mind spin, patiently waiting for you to solve his clever riddle.

“But… but you’re not dead,” you thought aloud. “Why do you have a death certificate if you’re not dead? It makes no sense.”

“For all legal purposes, I actually am. A mission went wrong, I never turned up, and that was the only reasonable answer my old team had left. Wasn’t until much later that I got out and crossed paths with Price. He knows the whole story, but it’s best to let the rest of the world think I’m long gone. It’s just easier to do my job that way.”

“So that’s why you call yourself Ghost,” you gasped, finally beginning to understand. “That’s why you wear the mask?”

Ghost nodded. “There are many reasons for it. But yeah, that’s one of ‘em.”

It was a good choice for his callsign and you agreed that it suited him. A silent but deadly opponent you would never see coming. A vengeful spirit haunting those who had earned his wrath. But it also made you a bit sad. It gave you the feeling he felt unseen and not really connected to anything. It sounded like loneliness and isolation. It sounded like pain. But those observations you kept to yourself because there was a more important question gnawing at your mind.

“But what about your family?” You asked. “They know you’re not dead, right?”

“My family? They’re dead, princess. Every last one of ‘em. Everyone you see in that picture is someone I lost, myself included in a way,” he sighed, looking away. There was that grief again. And now, its presence finally made sense.

You placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, your heart aching for the sheer magnitude of his loss. “Ghost, I’m so sorry.”

Ghost let you pull him into a comforting hug. You didn’t know what to say to something like that. What were you supposed to say? Losing one family member was already painful enough on its own, no matter who it was. But all of them? Every last one? That level of grief was unimaginable.

“It’s alright,” he sighed, giving you a gentle squeeze before letting you go. “It was a long time ago. We weren’t the coziest of families and we had our troubles. But it just feels right to keep them close, you know?”

You nodded, letting the silence return as you tried to think of something to do. Something to comfort him or support him. You felt like you should do something. Anything. But Ghost recognized the sympathetic look in your eyes and waved his hand, not wanting you to suffer on his behalf.

“I’m fine,” he laughed softly. “I promise. Let me just finish unpacking so we can relax. It’s getting late and I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

You gave him one more concerned glance just to be sure, but his eyes had softened again. They softened the way they only ever did when he was looking at you. And from the crinkling of skin around his eyes, you could tell that he was smiling again. So, feeling reassured that the mournful moment had passed, you let him return to his task while you continued exploring the rest of the cabin.

The back half of the cabin was where the bedroom and bathroom were. There were three doors that sat where the living room ended, two on the right wall and one directly ahead. The first one revealed a storage closet stocked with random supplies and winter clothes. And the one beside it opened into a small bathroom. The door directly ahead still stood open from when Ghost had passed through it, giving you a peek into the bedroom. It was spacious and cozy. A dresser stood along one of the walls. In the corner was a twin size bed with a small bedside table tucked beside the headboard. All it had on its surface was an alarm clock and a lamp. But there was plenty of lighting potential in the room. Two large windows sat in the two opposing walls. And if the sun was up, you imagined generous amounts of sunlight streamed through them. It seemed the sleeping arrangements would be a tight squeeze. But you were certain the two of you would find a way to make things workable in one way or another.

You drew closer, lingering at the foot of the bed and watching as Ghost continued to unpack. He was so methodical about it. His own bags now sat empty in the closet and he had started working through yours. Something about seeing him carefully folding your clothes into neat piles and then slipping them into dresser drawers beside his own made your heart flutter. This was just a short getaway and your relationship had literally just begun. But it felt like you were moving in with him. It felt like this peaceful little cabin would be where the two of you would spend the rest of your days. Doing life together, growing old together. The mental image felt so real and so possible. But you didn’t want to rush things or make him think you were as clingy as you felt. So you batted the tender thoughts away and tried to think of something to do.

“Can I help?” You offered, watching him work.

“Oh, I got it,” he chuckled, lowering a stack of your pants into the dresser as well. “I’m almost done anyway.”

You nodded, and sat on the bed. But after just a few seconds, the urge to participate in the simple chores became impossible to ignore. It just felt wrong to be sitting there twiddling your thumbs while Ghost did all the work. So after a pause, you tried again.

"Are you sure there isn’t anything I can do?" You asked, this time practically begging. "I feel weird just sitting around like this."

"You know," Ghost laughed, glancing over his shoulder at you. "Most people would call that 'relaxing'."

"I know. I'm just feeling a bit restless, I guess."

"Well, if you're itching for something to do, you can put away the dry dishes. First cabinet left of the sink."

You were about to give him an enthusiastic thank you for the assignment when you saw Ghost start to unzip the final compartment of your duffle bag. Heat rushed across your face, but it was too late to stop him from reaching inside. And you knew exactly what he would find when he did. Seeing him holding an armful of lacey bras and panties would practically make you die of embarrassment. And now, you were beginning to feel embarrassed that such a silly thing made you so flustered. You were both adults! And underwear was just a part of life, they were just clothes! But no matter how you tried to rationalize it away, the feeling only increased as his hand began to slowly withdraw from the bag.

"Uh, dishes!" you rushed, jumping to your feet with a nervous laugh. "You got it!"

With that, you wheeled around and darted into the kitchen. And once you were safely out of view, you quickly set about putting away the dishes. The task was a welcome distraction from the frenzied thoughts threatening to overtake your mind. Anything was as long as you didn't have to watch Ghost’s own task unfold. There in the kitchen, you could happily pretend he wasn't rifling through your stash of underwear. And you were determined to stay right where you were until you were certain the moment had passed.

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

Ghost POV:

The minute she had left the room, Ghost almost called after her. At first, he was worried he’d done something that had upset her. Her expression had been a mixture of alarm and fear. And he had no idea what had prompted the reaction. But when he finally looked down and realized what he had just pulled out of her bag, he immediately understood and froze in place. A tangle of dainty little garments lay in his open hand. Bits of lace and elastic wound around itself and his fingers, the soft shades of pastel colors drawing him in. They were panties. He’d just grabbed a handful of her fucking panties. And a hesitant glance back into her bag revealed their counterparts: a small collection of bras.

Ghost swallowed hard, shuddering as a series of lurid temptations flew through his mind. He was never the type to lose himself over just seeing women’s undergarments. Even now, he cringed thinking back to his grade schoolmates, completely losing their minds just from walking past the “intimates” section of a store. But this was different. These weren’t just any panties. They were her panties, her bras. The delicate fabric that cradled and fondled every part of her body he longed to touch most. The lacy unmentionables whose access he envied more than anything. The fragile garments that collected her sweet nectar whenever she got turned on, the very sweetness he craved to collect on his tongue instead.

Without her standing there to see him do it, Ghost happily took his time scrutinizing each piece of her collection. She had brought a lot with her and they were all so different. A bright pink pair of panties immediately caught his eye, though. He lifted it from the rest for a closer inspection, dangling it from his fingers in front of his face. He’d seen his fair share of thongs before. But the style choice had always turned him on the most. The coverage was about as minimal as you could go. And as he turned the fabric around in his hand, he couldn’t help but picture her wearing this exact pair for his pleasure. The supple roundness of her ass on full display. The delicate strip of fabric disappearing between her cheeks. The tiny section of lace that would barely conceal her sensitive folds. Holding it up to the light, he could see the clear outline of his fingers straight through the fabric! Just the thought of her wearing these under a short dress on a particularly windy day? The fantasy sent a hot jolt of arousal straight to his groin.

Unable to resist, Ghost pressed the crotch of her thong to his mask. They smelled just like the glove he’d ruined just a few days prior. They smelled like her. Sweet, addictive, all-consuming. It wasn’t an overly strong scent, but just enough of it clung to the fabric to leave him hungry for more. And lucky for him, there was plenty more to explore right there in front of him.

After depositing the bundle of panties into the top drawer of the dresser, Ghost moved on to the handful of bras she’d packed alongside them. He recognized a couple of the patterns and fabrics. Not all of them matched, but she certainly had an appreciation for matching her lingerie. Maybe she was wearing a matching set right this minute! There was a wider variety of bra types than he had expected, but each of them had a characteristic that fanned the flames of his lust dangerously high. He wondered just how much of her breasts spilled out over the top of her strapless bra and how much effort it would take to rip it off of her. He pictured the extreme lift her push-up bras could create. And paired with just the right top, he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep his eyes above her neckline for very long. One of the bras had the smallest amount of coverage he had ever seen. The fabric of the cups barely covered half of what a basic bra would. And from the look of it, one wrong shift of her weight would send her breasts falling out of them entirely. Falling out into his waiting hands.

Ghost shuddered, painfully aware that his breathing had picked up. His heart pounded wildly in his chest and pure arousal was shooting through his veins with each passing second. It didn't take a glance at his lap to verify what he already felt had developed there. His manhood was so stiff in his pants it was almost painful. That familiar knot of tension low in his stomach was rapidly increasing in intensity, urging him towards a powerful release. If he didn't act now and get her undergarments out of his sight, he ran the risk of shooting his load right then and there. Even that realization sent a fresh wave of fantasies through his mind. Him muffling his moans with one pair of panties while spilling his seed into another. The twisted pleasure of imagining she'd one day wear them, never once guessing traces of his excitement were pressed between her legs. Ghost moaned softly just envisioning it, but he forced himself to clear his mind.

He frantically crammed the rest of the sensual items into the dresser and shoved it closed. Once there was a safe separation between them and him, he gripped the edge of the dresser top and tried to compose himself. Though he easily could, he didn't want to get off on his own anymore. Not when the embodiment of his fantasies was available and only a few steps away. It felt like such a waste to finish in a spare towel or tissue when what he really wanted was to finish in her. On her, at the very least. But at the same time, he didn't want to push her again. He'd promised to let her make the first move for once and he owed it to her to be patient. He had already let his impulsiveness overtake him before and was determined not to let it sway him like that again. This time, he wanted clear and communicated consent. Only then would he do anything his mind begged him to.

"She just went through a breakup," he firmly reminded himself, taking deep breaths. "What she needs right now is a safe haven, not you trying to fuck her. Get it together, Ghost. Christ."

After a few more rounds of breathing, Ghost finally felt the persistent urges begin to diminish. They didn't go away entirely though. They never did. But he could deal with his desire simmering beneath the surface as long as it did no more than that. He could wait. He could do this.

Once he'd moved her empty bag into the closet beside his own, he paused to ensure his erection wasn't as obvious as it felt. The stiffness had waned a bit, but the prominent bulge in his crotch was still pretty noticeable. Left untouched, it would eventually pass with time. But he still didn't want her to see it and get the wrong idea about why he had brought her all the way out here. Thinking quickly, Ghost changed into a pair of sweatpants and a thin bathrobe. The thick fabric of the pants paired with the added layer of the robe would help to contain and conceal. And the sudden change of clothes could easily be explained as him simply getting ready for bed. It was the perfect cover.

As he tied the robe loosely around his waist, the scent of food finally registered to his senses. It smelled comforting and sweet, almost like opening the door to a bakery. Was she cooking in there? Whatever magic she was working in the kitchen made his mouth water and successfully occupied his wandering mind. With the tempting aroma reeling him in, Ghost happily allowed it to pull him along as he made his way to the kitchen

“Eat some food, get her settled in, and then get some sleep,” he cautioned himself as he went. “That's all you gotta do. Don’t go doing anything stupid.”

[rikanescence]

something old. really weird. dead dove. (medium)

leon was still a nice guy when he pulled down the cold zipper of your baggy jumper, slipping it off your shoulder to check for any injuries— or worse: a bite. see, leon was all alone in the police station and it was brutally murdering his psyche. when he saw you in the break room, dormant on the bottom bunk, leon's heart jumped. you looked so vulnerable and so docile and so, so human. leon wondered if you were dead already, or maybe you were only sleeping. his mind was quick to search through all the possibilities, and he decided he didn't care either way. dead or alive, leon was going to save you. that stuck-up FBI bitch could walk away from him, claire could sort herself out, but you were stuck with your saviour. leon inspected your seemingly unharmed skin, took note of your raunchy resting face, pinching all over your pornstar body (or corpse, he wasn't sure) before pushing his fingers inside you. you were begging for it, weren't you? begging to be saved. leon was a little bummed out, though, dry wasn't common around him. he was an attractive guy, so humbly kind. such a heartthrob. there was no chance you weren’t in a deep sleep. leon thought of what could wake you up, probably what all girls needed: some dick. leon's was already pulsing thinking of you, but he could control himself. the kind cop needed to be anal in evaluating how alive you were. this is a human life we're talking about, kennedy was way too nice to leave you to die. he pressed a bored, grimy finger to your clit, disappointed with your failure to react. he contemplated whether you were a virgin or not. for the former, he figured you couldn't go to hell for fornication if you were dead. he scolded himself for thinking that. there was still hope you were alive, after all, so leon was in no rush to classify himself a necrophile. for the latter, if you'd let other men invade your body, why should he not be given that same privilege? as leon spat foamy onto your parched cunt, he watched it seep down and thought about adding your blood into the mix. he was far too kind to do that, even to his slumbering cocktease. he didn’t want to hurt you, but would it even hurt? corpses don't feel pain. even if you weren't dead, leon could just kill you. his hands itched to wrap around that throat of yours, but he realised it would be more romantic to suffocate you with his dick. he questioned if those lips of yours were dried up by death, and then thought of all the things he could do to a corpse. maybe he'd fuck you like a human, pretend you were live. maybe he'd hack your hand off from your wrist, take it with him everywhere to get him off. why do that when he could have the whole thing? carry you over his shoulder as a distraction, throw you at that damn tyrant. documents say it used to be a man, it would at least be tempted. though, it would probably be best to stuff your head, pussy, and limbs into the duffel bag next to the bed right there. it was raccoon city. tens of thousands had died horrifying deaths. who would care what happened to you? leon insisted on being a gentleman, however, trying hard to find out whether he was saving a human or retrieving a corpse. leon’s dick ached to rescue you and he knew you wanted it, too. that’s why you went out of your way to make it so hard. a slut even while unconscious. even your dry cunt made him hard, knowing he could force himself into you because corpses don't feel pain. leon’s breath was shaky, holding and stroking his dick before guiding it to where he was sure you needed it. yet, as leon crammed himself into you, he wondered if corpses could scream. because, to his fearful astonishment, he swore he watched your lifeless lips part.

[poupeesdecirque]

WiP - 2nd Uniform for Allen - Pt 7 (Last Part)

Slow but steady was the motto for the last few things. I had adjusted a few seams here in there (didn't took photos) but the last bigger parts are the closure and the cross.

First of I made a new pattern for the cross, the old one was too crooked and too small. It's a bit more stylized now but I like it that way, it looks unique.

After that it was cutting parts and building this puzzle in several layers. I first wanted to the 'screws' with glue but then remembered I had those little pearls. Last is the comparison with V1 of the Cross.

Then I got the silver leaf out and coated the bits that needed their shine (closure of the zipper, the big button and the cross).

After that I luckily had my new buttons arriving after some testing (and finding out one button isn't as magnetic as the other???) I finished the bags.

Quite a marathon of 2 hours sewing on buttons followed.

And the final step was to add the rose cross to the uniform.

I found some little seams I need to fix, but I won't documentate those.

Here a quick fitting test in the evening, it was a long day and I didn't feel like putting on a wig. I will fix the seam the day after and ironing the whole thing. I will see if I take some test photos or not.

Finished by 23/02/25

Costest might follow later.

[sesshy380-rp]

(continued from here)

Kat had to try really hard not to laugh when Marik’s eyes nearly popped out of his head thinking Bakura had actually gotten pregnant with kittens.

“I’m going to go get changed back into my other clothes. You two can work out the details of a playdate with the fluff balls of terror,” Kat said with a chuckle while walking back towards the changing room.

Marik let out a small, offended gasp.

“Fluff balls of terror?! How can you say that about those two adorable faces?!”

Kat looked back over her shoulder.

“One of them is named Pakhet…for good reason.”

Marik stared for a moment, as if trying to figure out if he should believe her or not. When Kat showed no sign of it being a joke, he held up a finger for her to wait while rushing over to one of the employees. He returned a few moments later carrying something.

“Here. Just put the dress in this. This should keep the cat hair off it and prevent it from being used as a scratching post,” he said, indicating the bag in his hand.

Kat left for the changing room after a quick rundown of how to place the dress on the hanger inside and zip up the garment bag without catching any material in the zipper. She returned several minutes later carrying the bag in one hand, and a large bag that had been provided for everything else in the other.

“Kura, I just realized that carrying all of this into our part of town might be inviting trouble.”

Marik once again looked like he was about three seconds from having a heart attack.

He slowly turned his head in Bakura’s direction.

“I get that money and documentation are a bit of an issue, but please tell me you don’t live in the part of town where I temporarily based my Ghouls from.”

((@nb-lesbian-tkb))

[itzphynix]

Huh.

So, about 2 months back, I "lost" my driver's license. I thought I knew why -- I took it out of my wallet to buy a lotto & put it back in my bag. My bag's zipper was broken, though, so it probably fell out, at some point. So, I got an appointment to get a replacement -- that appointment was supposed to be today. I stressed over this a lot, for various reasons, but I hunted down my folder of important documents & was getting anxious to get ready for the thing. Well, I was giving the folder a look-over, making sure I had back-ups for my back-ups for proof of address when something fell out -- my driver's license.

Apparently, I had it in this folder when I applied for my current job (they needed several proofs of ID, at the orientation), & I just.... Left it in there. This whole time. So I stressed for nothingggggggg >A<

[clotheart1]

Stay Organized and Stylish with Fanny Packs Featuring Multiple Pockets

Fanny packs have come a long way from being a utilitarian accessory to becoming a trendy and functional fashion statement. Modern fanny packs, especially those with multiple pockets, offer a stylish and efficient way to keep your essentials organized while on the go. In this article, we'll explore the world of fanny packs with multiple pockets, their versatility, and why they have become a must-have accessory for people of all ages.

The Evolution of Fanny Packs

Fanny packs, also known as waist bags or belt bags, have a rich history dating back to the 1980s when they gained popularity as a convenient way to carry small items. Initially, they were primarily used for outdoor activities like hiking and camping. However, over the years, fanny packs have undergone a transformation, evolving from purely functional gear to a fashion-forward accessory.

The Appeal of Multiple Pockets

One of the key features that have contributed to the resurgence of fanny packs in recent years is the addition of multiple pockets. These pockets provide a level of organization and convenience that was previously unmatched, making fanny packs a go-to choice for various occasions. Here's why they're so popular:

Versatile Storage: Fanny packs with multiple pockets offer diverse storage options. You can keep your phone, wallet, keys, sunglasses, lip balm, and other small essentials neatly organized in separate compartments.

Easy Access: With multiple pockets, you can access your items quickly without rummaging through a cluttered bag or backpack. Everything you need is within arm's reach.

Security: Fanny packs worn around your waist provide a secure and hands-free way to carry your belongings. You can keep a close eye on your valuables, reducing the risk of theft or loss.

Hands-Free Convenience: Whether you're traveling, hiking, attending a festival, or running errands, a fanny pack allows you to keep your hands free. This makes it an ideal choice for activities where you need to be agile and mobile.

Stylish Designs: Fanny packs have evolved beyond their practical origins, with designers and brands offering a wide range of styles and materials. From sleek and minimalistic designs to bold and colorful options, there's a fanny pack to match any outfit or personal style.

Travel-Friendly: Fanny packs are an excellent travel companion. They provide easy access to essentials like passports, boarding passes, and travel documents, making airport security checks and navigation a breeze.

Ergonomic Design: Fanny packs are designed to distribute weight evenly around your waist, reducing strain on your shoulders and back. This ergonomic design ensures comfort even during extended use.

Choosing the Right Fanny Pack

When selecting a fanny pack with multiple pockets, consider the following factors:

Size: Determine the size you need based on your intended use. Smaller fanny packs are great for everyday essentials, while larger ones are suitable for travel or outdoor activities.

Material: Fanny packs come in a variety of materials, including leather, nylon, canvas, and more. Choose one that suits your style and durability requirements.

Pockets: Assess the number and size of pockets. Some fanny packs have two compartments, while others may feature three or more. Think about the specific items you'll carry and how you want to organize them.

Closure: Consider the type of closure you prefer, whether it's a zipper, buckle, or magnetic snap. Secure closures are essential to prevent accidental spills.

Adjustable Strap: Ensure the fanny pack has an adjustable strap that fits comfortably around your waist. A secure and comfortable fit is crucial for extended wear.

Style: Choose a fanny pack that complements your fashion sense. Whether you prefer a classic, minimalist look or a bold and vibrant design, there's a fanny pack for you.

For More info:-

Fanny pack with multiple pockets

Stylish Wearable Art Fashion

printed midi dress for womens

Shop Online Duffle Bags for Traveling

[shayannawab]

Wanderlust Wears: Travel-Ready Handbags

For women who live to explore, travel isn’t just a hobby — it’s a lifestyle. Whether you're navigating the cobblestone streets of Europe, hopping across bustling cities in Asia, or exploring hidden gems in your own country, one thing is certain: a functional yet stylish handbag is a travel essential. Enter Wanderlust Wears, a curated collection of travel-ready handbags designed for girls and women who are always on the move. In particular, the focus on leather craftsmanship is redefining the way we think about travel accessories.

The Rise of Leather Bags for Girls

In the past, travel bags were often synonymous with bulky, unattractive luggage or plain canvas totes. However, the modern traveler values both style and substance. Leather bags for girls are rising in popularity because they strike the perfect balance between elegance and durability. Girls no longer want to compromise aesthetics for functionality — they want both.

Leather, as a material, offers timeless charm. It wears beautifully with age, telling a story with every journey. A quality leather handbag is not just an accessory; it’s a long-term investment. The travel-friendly designs now available, from sleek totes to convertible backpacks, make leather bags for girls a must-have for any globetrotter.

Why a Cross Body Leather Bag is a Travel Essential

One of the most versatile bag styles for travel is undoubtedly the cross body leather bag. This style offers security, ease of access, and comfort — all critical when navigating unfamiliar terrain or rushing through an airport. Cross body bags distribute weight evenly across your body and keep your hands free, allowing you to focus on your adventure.

When crafted in leather, the cross body bag becomes even more travel-savvy. It's sturdy enough to withstand wear and tear while still looking polished enough for a dinner out or a business meeting abroad. Choose one with multiple compartments to keep your passport, travel documents, phone, and essentials organized. A zippered section adds an extra layer of security, especially in crowded places.

Many designers are now creating cross body leather bags that come with adjustable straps, secret pockets, and RFID-blocking compartments — innovations that make them ideal for travel. These are the types of details that truly set a travel-ready handbag apart.

Pure Leather Bags in Pakistan: A Growing Market

Pakistan has long been known for its high-quality leather goods, and the fashion industry is now catching up with global trends. The demand for pure leather bags in Pakistan has surged, especially among young women looking for affordable luxury. Local artisans are blending traditional leatherwork with modern designs, creating unique pieces that rival international brands in quality and style.

If you’re in search of pure leather bags in Pakistan, cities like Karachi, Lahore, and Sialkot are emerging as production hubs. These regions are home to skilled craftsmen who have passed down their knowledge for generations. Whether you’re shopping online or exploring local boutiques, you’ll find an impressive variety — from minimalist cross body bags to richly embellished totes.

Supporting local leather brands also promotes sustainable fashion. Many Pakistani leather producers source their materials responsibly and focus on hand-crafted techniques rather than mass production. This not only ensures a lower environmental impact but also contributes to preserving traditional crafts.

Styling Travel Bags with Purpose

When it comes to fashion, travel bags often get overlooked. However, your handbag is one of the most visible accessories you carry throughout your trip. Choosing the right bag can elevate your outfit while serving a practical purpose.

Pair a cross body leather bag in tan or burgundy with neutral-toned outfits for a classic European street look. If you're hitting the markets or local bazaars, a compact leather sling bag lets you carry just what you need without weighing you down. For longer journeys, consider a structured leather backpack that keeps your essentials organized while doubling as a stylish accessory.

Accessorizing with leather also adds texture to your wardrobe. The natural grain, polish, and depth of color in pure leather bags complement everything from denim and dresses to travel athleisure wear.

Tips for Choosing the Right Travel Handbag

Size Matters – For travel, choose bags that are compact yet roomy enough for essentials. Avoid oversized totes that strain your shoulders.

Material First – Always opt for genuine leather or pure leather bags, especially when shopping in markets like Pakistan. They last longer and age beautifully.

Security Features – Zippers, hidden compartments, and sturdy straps are non-negotiable when traveling.

Neutral Colors Win – Earthy tones like brown, black, and olive match most outfits and show less dirt on the road.

Hands-Free Design – Always have at least one cross body leather bag in your travel kit. It’s stylish, convenient, and perfect for every situation.

Final Thoughts

The new age of travel demands accessories that are both fashionable and functional. Handbags are no longer just an afterthought — they’re an integral part of your journey. With rising interest in leather bags for girls, the practicality of a cross body leather bag, and the craftsmanship behind pure leather bags in Pakistan, there has never been a better time to invest in a travel-ready handbag.

So whether you're planning your next city break or a month-long backpacking adventure, make sure your handbag is as ready as you are. Because style doesn’t stop at home — it travels with you.

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Shoulder Bags for Women: A Timeless Blend of Style and Function

Shoulder bags for women have remained a staple in every wardrobe, offering the perfect balance of fashion and function. Whether you’re heading to the office, going out for brunch, or traveling, a well-chosen shoulder bag can elevate your entire look while carrying all your essentials.

One of the key reasons shoulder bags are so popular is their versatility. They come in a variety of shapes, sizes, and materials to suit any occasion. From sleek leather styles ideal for formal events to spacious canvas options perfect for casual outings, there’s a shoulder bag for every lifestyle and fashion sense.

Beyond aesthetics, functionality is a major draw. With adjustable straps, multiple compartments, and secure closures, shoulder bags allow women to stay organized and stylish at the same time. You can easily carry everything from your phone and wallet to makeup, keys, and even a tablet — all without sacrificing comfort.

Design trends in shoulder bags have evolved to meet modern needs. Contemporary designs now include features like anti-theft zippers, USB charging ports, and eco-friendly materials. Designers are also playing with bold colors, prints, and textures, making these bags not just practical but a statement accessory.

For working professionals, structured shoulder bags in neutral shades like black, beige, or navy are popular for their polished appearance. These bags often include compartments for tech gadgets and documents, making them a smart choice for daily commutes. On the other hand, boho-chic styles with fringes, patterns, and soft fabrics appeal to the free-spirited fashionista who wants comfort with flair.

Shoulder bags also provide the benefit of hands-free convenience, which is especially important for women constantly on the go. Whether you’re shopping, commuting, or managing children, having your hands free while keeping your items secure is a practical necessity.

In conclusion, shoulder bags for women offer much more than just a place to store belongings. They are a reflection of personal style, a tool for organization, and a dependable companion in day-to-day life. Investing in a quality shoulder bag means adding a timeless, fashionable, and functional piece to your collection — one that will serve you well for years to come.