#sorry when he got the long hair all sense of morals flew out the window

[mechawolfie]

listen i know chanda is like a murderer but also hes kinda um. well uh, well. um. well.. 👉👈

[thruthetwstedlookingglass]

Hello, if it is not a problem I would like to ask for something. After the tournament and after Leona returned from the overblot, another problem: a demon was summoned, immune to magic, FemMc had no choice but to show up as a half-demon, murdering the demon, used to being called a "monster " out of fear, but it hurt. After days he finds her together with Grimm in the greenhouse, comforting her after hearing that she had fallen in love with him, but who would want to fall in love with a monster??

Sorry that this took so long! I had a hard time trying to decipher the request, but I think I got the gist of it. I actually enjoyed writing this one a lot because it's got a moral to it at the end :3 I hope this is what you wanted and that you like it!

Warnings: mentions of bullying (bullying is not okay!)

Leona x halfdemon!fem!MC!reader

The night after Leona Kingscholar had been purified of his Overblot, much to her relief, (Y/n) sensed another evil within the castle of Night Raven College. There was a reason She could sense it. You see, (Y/n) was a half demon. As a half demon, she could sense when other evils were around, track them down, and dispose of them.

And that night, she sensed something foul.

Sneaking out of bed while She was in the infirmary was not exactly easy. Leona and Ruggie were both there as well, and this evil was obviously in the infirmary with them. It would be a difficult task; dispatching the demon and keeping it quiet was not exactly easy for her. Even if it was night time, her powers were still at half capacity because she was only half. But she did these tasks in order to atone for her sin; no matter how kind and compassionate she tried to be, she was still a monster, and that was the sin that made her fearful. Nobody knew of this, and she hoped to keep it that way.

(Y/n)'s pace was slow and silent as her bare feet touched the cool floors of the castle. Every hair on her neck bristled; it was very near. Her form slowly changed, her fingers and toes becoming black as curved talons appeared. She sniffed around and then she sensed it.

Right behind her.

She spun around on her heels to see a grim and disgusting creature with large leathery wings and a boney tail that was barbed at the tip with what looked like a harpoon.... and it was about to dig into a sleeping Leona for a meal.

Instinct took over and (Y/n) flew at the beast, inadvertently crashing through the window. She didn't think of it then, seeing as she was a bit preoccupied grappling with the evil creature.

"WhAt Is A hAlFbReEd LiKe YoU dOiNg HeRe?!" The beast growled in a twisted and gravelly voice.

"I'm a student here, and I will not let anyone here be the meal for a demon!" She growled back.

This made the demon almost keel over in laughter.

"YoU!? A hAlFbReEd AnD a DeMoN sLaYeR?! tHaT's RiCh!! Oh, ThE mOsT pRePoStErOuS nOtIoN!"

(Y/n) was pissed by this monster's mockery, and she attacked, her anger being the fuel for her attacks. This didn't catch the demon off guard, however, and about a dozen punches, kicks and slashes later, (Y/n) was at the mercy of the vlive creature. Its hand was wrapped firmly around her neck, but it didn't seem satisfied just yet.

"ThAt'S iT?! iS tHiS rEaLlY aLl YoU'vE gOt?!" It laughed at her as it held her up, and then its mouth curved into a sickening grin. "YoU'rE hOlDiNg BaCk." It laughed. "YoU aRe! I cAn TeLl!"

"Th-That's not..." (Y/n) struggled to speak.

"WhAt'S tHe MaTtEr, HaLfBrEeD?" It sneered with a grin, bringing her in closer as if he were about to take a bite. "AfRaId ThAt If YoU uSe ThE yOuR fUlL tRaNsFoRmAtIoN tHaT yOu'Ll bECoMe tHe ThInG yOu HaTe MoSt?!"

(Y/n) glared at the beast and then drove her claws into the beast's chest, wrapping her fingers around his heart.

"I still... want to keep my humanity..." she said, squeezing its heart in her hand and making it grimace. "Because I have someone to fight for!!"

The creature howled in pain as its heart was crushed, and dropped her. She didn't quite land on her feet, but she wasn't about to let her guard down. The demon fell to the ground, its body turning to ash, and then suddenly the dying creature laughed.

"YoU... wIlL nEvEr... BeLoNg... HaLfBrEeD..."

She clenched her fists and then stomped on its head, crushing it to ashes.

"Maybe not... but I'd like to try..." she whispered before watching the ashes blow upward.

As she raised her gaze, her blood ran cold when she saw a very familiar figure standing at the broken window. Her worse fear had been realized. She had been seen... by Leona. In fear, she turned and ran, tears forming in her eyes.

'He saw me... Leona saw me!' She thought to herself, running far away to hide.

~~~~~

(Y/n) didn't return to Ramshackle, and she didn't go to class. She had long since returned to her human form, but she didn't dare show herself. If Leona had seen, she was convinced that the rest of the school knew what she was too. Ever since she was young, (Y/n) had been called a monster and a parasite. Since coming to NRC, she had been able to keep her true nature a secret, and the vile whispers of her childhood were kept at bay.

But now... they had returned... much louder... and this time in the likeness of the voices of her friends.

'Monster!' 'How vile!' 'Rot in hell where a disgusting creature like you belongs!'

(Y/n) covered her ears as she cried, trying to stop them.

"Please... make it stop..." she whispered shakily. "Make it stop..."

"Oi, herbivore." A familiar voice said. "You know how long I've been looking for you?"

(Y/n) froze and looked up a little. Her eyes widened.

"L-Leona..." she whispered.

She didn't know what to do. She was frozen like a deer in the headlights. Why had Leona been looking for her? When Leona took a step closer, (Y/n) shrunk back in fear.

"Don't..."

"What? I'm not going to hurt you." Leona said. "I want answers."

"No." She said.

"No?" He asked, confused.

"No." She repeated.

"Why not?" He asked, crouching down to look at her.

"Because I'm a monster. A vile creature." She said, co wearing her face. "No matter what I do... I'll never belong... and I'll never be loved..."

There was a silence, and (Y/n) thought that he had been a figment of her imagination trying to haunt her, but she was suddenly pulled into a hug and it frightened her a little.

"Geez... you're an idiot..." he said with a sigh.

"Eh?"

"I believe that you once said before that we forge our own paths to walk." He said. "That we shouldn't let the traumas of our past define us."

(Y/n)'s eyes widened and she looked at him. She had indeed said that... when she had helped bring Leona out of his Overblot.

"Y-You heard me...?"

"Every word." He said before looking at her. "So, I offer that same advice to you, along with this." He gently stroked her cheek, making her blush at his touch. "Its no use hiding from yourself when you know yourself so well." He said. "You said that you're a monster, but is that really what you believe?"

"W-Well..." she said.

"Because the way I see it, you are kind and compassionate to everyone you meet." He said. "Your birth shouldn't change those qualities you have."

She blushed brightly and looked away a little, only to be pulled back to look at him and a pair of lips brushing against her forehead. Her heart was beating a mile a minute and she looked up at him.

"Everyone is worried about you." Leona said. "So, tomorrow, come back to class and bring back that stupid smile."

She had been about to say something in retort when Leona laughed at her reaction. And (Y/n) found herself smiling as well.

The next day, she returned to her friends and her classes. She was truthful about what she was, and they all welcomed her, half demon or not, because deep down, she was still (Y/n) (L/n), a proud student of Night Raven College who never bore any ill will towards anyone and was kind and compassionate to all.

So, in the end, Leona was right; we are who we make ourselves, and while our past can hurt, we can either run from it or learn from it.

Whoo! That one might put a few through the emotional ringer!

[lurafita]

SIM Tony / Peter, Part 4

Read part 1 here

Read part 2 here

Read part 3 here

I hadn’t planned on updating this so soon after the last part, but I got inspired.

Alright people, things are going to start getting real from here on out. Tony’s new ‘Superior’ mode makes an entrance. I don’t know exactly how many parts I’m gonna do for this before I find a point at which I can call it finished, but just know that from here on out, the plot is gonna spice up.

From here on out, Tony will be Superior Iron Man, and while I will probably deviate in his characterization from most other stories that feature SIM Tony (mostly in the way he treats Peter), he will get dark. He will be manipulative, possessive and ruthless. Violent (never to Peter though, I can’t write physically abusive relationships and don’t want to), dominant and dismissive to other people (aside from Peter, because as you must know by now, I just can’t be too mean to Peter).

Tony Stark had had his insecurities over the years, but he had never realized just how truly lacking he had been before.

Before his transformation, before his new suit, before his new.... him. Everything was so much better now. So much stronger. So much more.

It was as if he had awoken from a life long sleep. Truly alive for the first time ever. And it felt glorious. He wondered if it was the same for Peter, after the spider bite had changed his DNA. This feeling of rightness.

He was reborn.

He was...

Superior.

He admired his reflection in the floor to ceiling windows of his laboratory. His hair, that had been peppered with grey spots before, was a rich black now. While he had always been fit, his physique had changed slightly as well, making him stronger, broader. No more wrinkles on his handsome face. Extremis had knocked off what felt like a good twenty years from his body. He was in the prime of his life.

Another thing that was new was his eye color. Instead of the previous dark brown, his eyes now bore a cold but fierce blue. It wasn’t like he minded the change, but he had always been a bit partial to his brown eyes. They had reminded him of his mother. Though to be honest, hers had been a little lighter than his. More of a honey brown, than his previous dark coffee tone. It didn’t matter though. The icy blue was very becoming, and there was someone else whose honey brown eyes he would be able to stare into very soon.

A low groan had his gaze drift to the ground some feet behind him, where Curt Conner and Otto Octavious were currently lying in their containment cells.

Breaking the two former scientists out of the Raft had been easy, but taken a lot longer than Tony had liked. Timing had been crucial, and so the planning had been meticulous and followed down to the very second.

Acquiring Venom had been just slightly more tricky, but nothing was impossible for a man like Tony Stark. (Even his previous, inferior, self.)

Then the experimentation had started. Each of the villains had unique strengths and abilities, that the billionaire wanted for himself. The perfect melding of two species and regenerative factor from Conners, though preferably without the monster make-over. The harmonic symbiosis of the human body and machine from Octavious, though Tony had no desire for the frankly gaudy looking appendages. And the fluidity and shapeability of Venom’s armor and other perks, but without the alien taking over the genius’ mind.

Two days of panning for the acquisition of the three villains, followed by four days of experimentation on his subjects to find out how it all worked. Tony could only smirk derisively when remembering how much his previous self had loathed the process. Tony had never been as much of a believer in second chances as Peter was, but he had been against human experimentation and torture. In the beginning, Tony had tried to keep any pain to an absolute minimum, had tried to be as respectful to whatever remained of his subjects humanity as possible, even though he would never forgive them for the torment they had inflicted upon his love.

But when things had reached the finish line, as he had extracted and recreated what he needed from them, as Extremis had absorbed and subjugated Venom and combined everything together to mold it all to Tony’s body, he had known that his previous reservations had been needless. These creatures didn’t deserve any consideration or mercy from him. Whatever pain had been inflicted on them had been warranted. So what if extracting the genetic code to their mutations had fried their pathetic little minds? It was nothing that Tony Stark should need to concern himself with.

Foolish sentimentality and redundant human morals might be cute for Peter, but they should never limit him.

Speaking of Peter, it was time that the new and improved Tony went to fetch his sweetheart. Six days, though unfortunately necessary, had been far too long to be separated from his love.

“Jarvis, take two suits and transport the garbage to the warehouse I have prepared. Then send an anonymous tip to Shield, so that they can collect them.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The monotone, taciturn answer of his A.I. brought another grin to Tony’s face. Jarvis attempts to caution and dissuade him from his plans to improve himself had not sat well with him. After all, the A.I. was just that, an artificial intelligence programmed by him (well, his former and weaker self), to assist and serve him. He had appreciated neither the sarcasm, nor the way that Jarvis tried to lecture him about the possible dangers his transformation might bring.

It was yet another piece of evidence that showed how fucking weak he had been before. The old Tony had programmed his A.I. specifically to back talk and supervise him, to make sure he wouldn’t cross a line he couldn’t un-cross. To keep himself humble.

Pathetic.

The only kind of sassy mannerisms he would tolerate in his life came from a certain spidery hero.

As the two suits now carrying the all but brain dead men inside them flew away from the tower, Tony let his Endo-Sym armor encase his body. He watched with smug satisfaction as the silver cells flowed like water over his form and solidified into a nearly unbreakable shell. No verbal or manual commands required. The armor was a part of him now, reacting to his will alone.

“Find my sweetheart, Jarvis.”

Six days since they had last spoken, and Peter had left the tower in tears. But Tony would rectify it all now. He was better now.

The window in front of him opened and he lifted off the floor, his new suit capable of storing and using electric and psionic energy for flight easily.

A miniature map of the city appeared on the transparent shield in front of his eyes (why deprive the people of his handsome face with a helmet, after all. Also, the silver armor complimented his blue eyes marvelously). A little dot blinked rapidly right at the docks.

“Camera footage and public reports indicate that Spiderman is currently engaged in a fight with the Green Goblin at this location, Sir.”

Tony’s eyes narrowed. He hadn’t expected to be dealing with the Goblin this soon, but he was not about to let Harry fucking Osborn hurt his love any more. Feeding more power into his thrusters, he sped to the harbor.

-

Peter hadn’t managed to dodge the last bomb his former best friend had thrown completely, and was knocked out of the sky from the explosion. The noise and flash of it was hell on his enhanced senses, disorienting him as he fell to the ground, unable to catch himself with his webs.

The hard impact punched the breath out of him, and he felt his ribs crack.

Possibly broken, but he couldn’t worry about that right now, he needed all his concentration to be fixed on Harry if he wanted to win this.

Ignore the pain.

Danger!

He propped himself up and off just in time to avoid the knife aimed at his jugular, but not quick enough to escape it all together, as the blade sliced a small gash along his arm.

Since when does Harry use throwing knifes?!

“What’s the matter, Spiderman? A little on the slow side today?” Harry cackled above him, spinning around on his glider and readying himself for his next attack.

Harry was right, though. Their fight had dragged on too long already, with Peter having to lure his nemesis out to the docks to avoid civilian causalities. As the adrenaline that had kept him on his toes at first was ebbing away, the exhaustion of the last few days started catching up to the young hero anew. Even with the help of his spider-sense, Peter’s movements were starting to get sluggish.

Ignore it.

The number of hits he had taken was rising at a rapid count.

Ignore it.

The constant explosions from Harry’s bombs was playing havoc on his senses.

Ignore it.

“No funny little quips today, Spiderman? No ‘You don’t want to do this, Harry.’?”

His breaths came in harsh pants, he had no air to spare for words.

Danger!

A jump to the right saved him from the full force of another small bomb, but brought him closer to the water, and away from any buildings to climb or attach his webs to.

If there even was any left in his shooters.

Ignore it.

Harry’s mutated, twisted face grinned down at him. “Tired already, Pete? But we are just getting started!”

Danger! Danger! Danger!

This time it wasn’t just one, but five of the miniature bombs that the Goblin threw down at him. Peter let instincts and spidey-sense take control as his body weaved through the explosions. But it was too much.

There were too many. Too close.

He was too hurt. Too exhausted.

Ignore it!

He couldn’t.

DangerDangerDANGER!

Too slow.

The bomb detonated right at his feet, throwing him back through the air, weightless for an endless second, before he was swallowed up by the cold embrace of the ocean’s water.

Move. Move, dammit! Swim up! You still have a job to do! Fucking fight!

He tried. But his limbs felt cold and numb, and the water kept dragging him down.

I’m sorry.

Just as the darkness was starting to creep in around the edges, he heard some kind of big splash. He tried turning to the sound, but moving hurt. Everything hurt.

So this is it, then.

Just as they had constantly during the last six days, Peter’s thoughts turned to the man he loved.

I’m so sorry, Tony.

The last thing he saw before unconsciousness set in, was a pair of ice blue eyes.

_____________________________________________________________

Hui.

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frenchfrostpudding

  alanaaw88

[lady-of-endless]

“Tonight’s Weather Forecast” (Jonathan Joestar x Robert E. O. Speedwagon)

Author’s Note: Fluff. I know it's not great but it's more of a practice to see if I should get back into writing. It might have too many words for a drabble but it feels like one. Thank you for your time and sorry to disappoint.

...

Even sunny weather can change in the blink of an eye. Exactly like one's fate and nature. Maybe you're as quiet as a snowing winter night usually, but if something unexpected happens, suddenly you can get as loud as a brief storm in the middle of a summer day. The weather forecast can be wrong from time to time, just like this evening in which it was not supposed to rain.

The wind was blowing in constantly with tenacity, playing with the long coats Jonathan and Robert were wearing.

"Now I see why you joined the sport's club in college days!" Robert's chest was filled with his hearty laughter, crinkling his eyes as he watched Jonathan who was running after a hat, still maintaining his straight posture.

He and Jonathan were searching for a temporary shelter from the rain when the wind sent Robert's hat rolling away from him on the wet pavement. Galloping onward and finally catching it, Jonathan chuckled because of the brief incident.

Before giving Robert his hat back, he first studied the item for any dirt stains.

"Saving the situation really is in your blood." Robert thanked, retrieving his hat and putting it right back on his head.

Jonathan watched him closely, being allured by Speedwagon's smile when he adjusted his hat with his thumb and looked back at him with warm eyes.

"Anyone would have done it and you know that." The Joestar replied sincerely but still flustered from the previous words.

They intertwined their arms for stability and maybe more as they hurried through the rain towards a yellow warm light that seemed to come from an inn. Two men, a tall one and a shorter one, both with pointed leather shoes were running and huffing on a dark and silent British street in the rain.

To their joy, the light was indeed coming from a cozy-looking inn. The first thing that they both noticed after stepping inside was that the place was oddly peaceful, lacking in guests. This detail was shrugged off easily as the rain got more persistent. After choosing an isolated table and sitting down, Robert took off his damp coat and straightened his wool vest. Jonathan did the same while wondering how even when Robert was a thug he was still dressed elegantly like that. After some minutes wasted on insisting and arguing over whose turn is to pay the drinks, both wanting to, their table was occupied with filled glasses.

This was their usual plan. After a demanding training with Will Zeppeli, all three men would go for a fine glass of wine, terrible mockeries and call it a day. William would often begin a story about the type of wine they were drinking as Jonathan listened carefully and Robert joked about the show off nature of the whole act. Tonight, however, the mentor decided to rest earlier and not join the younger.

Taking off his hat, Robert realized that the annoying weather paired up with his stubbornness to wear that headpiece ruined his image. His hair was a fuzzy mess and he knew it, but it was not what it bothered him. It was how his posture always seemed to be drooping slightly towards Jonathan when staying next to him, enjoying something to drink at night. They could both handle their liquor. Even if their cheeks were rather rosy, it was usually not because of the alcohol.

The ex-leader of the Ogre Street gang would always listen to Jonathan's stories from the frantic Joestar mansion and active college life. In all of those stories, Robert always found a motivated and kind soul. On the other hand, however, reaching the stories that belonged to Robert when he was in that fearful gang was difficult for Jonathan. Being remorseful or melancholic about that past was not a part of Speedwagon's morals but how could he not surrender to those deep ocean eyes that were searching for him?

"Jonathan, dear lord, call me Robert. Just Robert. It's been too long." The blonde would sometimes interfere and correct the other man chuckling. Robert never minded reminding Jonathan about their bond.

"Fine, Robert." Jonathan spelled his name smiling softly, head tilting slightly. "What about your scar?"

Jonathan's worried eyes studied the jagged line across the left cheek of his partner. He could not leave the sight of his face without looking at those candid but somehow weary dark brown eyes.

Robert cleared his throat and looked at the empty glass from in front of him.

"We should get another, right Mister Joestar?" His shoulders always made tiny movements when he talked and his eyebrows were always expressive.

"Call me Jonathan." The young Joestar imitated Robert's words with a quick grin.

Asking so straight forward about such a personal detail was not a characteristic of the gentleman attitude that Jonathan wanted to present. His feelings always pulled him back to his inclinations and sincere way of interacting.

It was not that Jonathan asked for those stories out of etiquette or for the sake of small talk. What he was wishing to hear tonight was how Robert got that one striking scar. However, Speedwagon always seemed to avoid that enigmatic part and some other stories.

Both of them dropped any possible response because of one swift eye contact. Robert did not want to surrender this time but his heart signaled that he has to.

"I was not like this before." He began with a gentle curve on his lips that rapidly faded away. "I got it from the first victim of my acts of thievery. It was the first contact with that gang that took me in shortly after."

Jonathan took a deep breath in, feeling the weight of that memory Robert started. Growing up in a manor was sometimes a hassle but it was clearly not to be compared with life in the worst slums no one could ever imagine. It was something so unknown and distant to him.

"It was a nobleman, like you. He tried to fight back wanting to end me, and I sure did deserve such fate." Robert sighed deeply before raising his glass to his lips. "He died after that, because of me."

As Robert's story went on, his fingers were ever so slightly brushing the borders of the hat placed on the table. That one was nothing like the bowler hat with a built-in sharp saw he had back then. He remembered how he used that old deceiving hat to attack Jonathan as well in the winter night he first met him. Immediately after learning how Jonathan Joestar was living, caring for others, and having enough kindness for everyone, Robert threw away that damned weapon with no regret.

Jonathan could remember how some of his friends and colleagues got into risky problems with the Ogre Street gang. He even often found warnings in the newspaper. However, he could never judge anyone without assuring first.

Speedwagon was indeed a notorious name floating through the grimy and drunken streets of London at night. It was where he grew up and where he got used to hating aristocracy.

Why? Just because he had only seen the bad in those individuals of the upper class?

Betrayed, backstabbed, hustled, Robert was left with a hope to find the place or the right people to be surrounded by trust and loyalty. He was ready to give the same things in return even more than he would ever receive but never had the chance. Those profound wishes were out of reach there in that vicious band under his leadership.

As his name and reputation flew higher in the band, his shadow got bigger and when he realized that he was looking for trust and loyalty in the wrong place, it was too late for him. No exit from that wicked place, no break from the same ruthless routines.

Many times, silently, Speedwagon carried immeasurable guilt in his chest when looking at Jonathan. The example of a true gentleman with pure intentions was always walking in front of him with his back straight. Someone who he could only dream of having close.

Jonathan was born with the naive morality that saved Robert and many others. His rudimental manners, his warm but stern tone, noble spirit, were discovered later. Bravery and honor contained in a gentle heart. Robert smiled at Jonathan and then looked down at his hands. His smile faded away after seeing his old disgraceful scars marking his palms. How could Jonathan trust the hoodlum, knowing about his vicious life? He wanted to trust Robert, and so he did in time.

The ambition Speedwagon has for changing himself is burning so fiercely inside that fumes are always coming out in the form of thoughtful acts.

"You are a righteous man, you always were." Jonathan concluded, covering Robert's scarred palm and putting a hand over his prominent knuckles. "No matter what stories you share with me or keep to yourself. You might sense the bad in people but I can sense the good in them and search for it." Talking about himself was not something he liked but in this case, it was just to prove his statement.

Hating to leave some things unsaid, Jonathan forced himself not to add that Robert was a good man in the wrong place. He knew it would not help. Robert parted his lips upon hearing those words and his eyes could not hide the shock anymore. Eyes in which there was always a concern that could not be seen in the eyes of an enemy.

"I am deeply sorry to let my dreary words bore you but I admire you, more than I expected to." The blonde looked in Jonathan's sky blue eyes as droplets were hitting the window behind him creating a blurry curtain of rainwater. Inside was humid and still too warm. Robert's hair dried up and it looked softer than usual.

Speedwagon was lucky and he knew it, even if his heart was drowning in remorse. Anyone from that gang could be saved so why it had to be him? Instead of asking the moon why over and over again, he decided to start searching a way to cherish this chance of changing.

As much as he wanted to be subtle and build in silence, everything was visible to Jonathan.

"It was impossible not to notice how yesterday you spent more time in the library." Jonathan changed the subject, putting a hand over his star birthmark. A habit of his. Robert was lucky enough to catch a glimpse at that birthmark when Jonathan was training and since then, he kept on thinking about it.

"Ah, please excuse me, it seems that I got carried away." The instant apology was rushed but meaningful as always.

"There must have been something of great interest if it has been able to keep you there for so long." Jonathan Joestar has again clung to his manners and did not ask directly despite the gleam of curiosity from his eyes.

Time could be stopped there and then when they got closer to each other than before. The bar was getting ready for the closing hour and both of the men forgot that they carried a watch. Robert knew how there was a reason why he was enjoying such a night alone with Jonathan and why he met someone like him during such times. He just wanted to honor this chance and the bond between them properly.

"I might have one long term project in mind." He explained trying to hide a playful smile.

The idea behind that project made Speedwagon finally smile again with pure ambition, giving him wings of fulfillment. The sight made Jonathan blush and shift in his seat.

The Joestar stopped his meddling questions and resigned to admire the change of spirit. That one grand objective, was the beginning of a longer story that would help the Joestar family through generations, just how he wished, the Speedwagon will.

"Then, I cannot wait to know more about it, if I have the chance!" Jonathan's voice was full of joy and affection. "I will always believe in you."

Outside it stopped pouring, the clouds disappeared in order to let stars gleam on the night sky. The air was once again crisp and cold. Robert and Jonathan smiled at each other once more before deciding to leave their table and get a kick out of the weather from outside.

Just like the weather, people can always change.

[thats-how-i-role]

Sea Salt By The Sea Shore

A/N: The title was funnier in my head. Also this technically goes with Day 6 but shhhhhh. I had to do research about SNOWBOARDING. Which I surprisingly knew even less about than I thought I did. For the record, this is a halfpipe.

They put in their headphones, swiftly as to not get Amalthea’s attention as she blabbered into. They tuned into the local news station, where the segment had just switched to sports. And once again, as they have been for weeks since the crash, Jem was the top story.

Regan, the stout news anchor began as a photo of Jem holding their first Olympic gold medal appeared next to him on screen. “Folks, today some news that shook the Olympic world to its core was announced. As twenty four year old Jemon Morale, who is known for being last Winter Olympics Gold Medallist in the halfpipe circuit, has announced the fact they are retiring.”

“Now, if you haven’t been following this story, let’s catch you up.” Regan switched to a different camera angle as a new graphic appeared by his face. One of Jem in their snowboarding gear after they qualified for the Olympics when they were nineteen. “Jemon Morale was America’s underdog in the 20xx Winter Olympics, as they rose to the spotlight as being the first ever openly non-binary Olympic athlete. Quickly, they received support particularly in millennial circles, and became an LGBTQ+ icon for the sports community. Although, nobody was expecting them to get gold on their first try- with a twenty to one Vegas odds- Jem succeeded on the half-pipe. Not only becoming the first non-binary gold medallist, but one of the youngest that the Olympic world has seen in the past few decades.”

Another camera angle, another graphic. This one showing Jem on their knees, crying as they were announced the winner of the gold medal. “Throughout the past two years, Jemon had appeared on multiple talk shows, and different sports magazines. As well as promoting brands anywhere between underarmour, and frosted flakes. They quickly became America’s favourite.”

Jem felt Amalthea, a slender woman with strawberry blonde hair and green eyes, tug one of their headphones out. “Jem, are you listening to me?”

“Yeah totally.” Jem replied, eyes still transfixed on the screen.

“What’d I say then?” Amalthea questioned.

“Yeah totally,” Jem answered, completely not paying attention to her.

As another graphic appeared, one with Jem shaking hands with fans right before the qualifiers started for this year. Jem remembered that day so clearly, and yet it felt like so long ago. Regan continued, “because of their massive success, Jem was the favourite to win all the way up to the Olympics. But at the criticized event of the semi-finals, horror struck the world.”

This time, the camera zoomed in on Regan’s face with no graphic. “The winds were high on the day of the semi-finals, where many experts say that it would’ve been safer had the event organizers post-poned the event until the winds had calmed down. Yet in the moment, the event continued. With Jemon’s points putting them in the lead, the final round was approaching.”

The frame had left Regan, showing the live feed their news reporter had caught on camera on that day. Regan’s continued the story through voice over as he narrated what happened, “As you can see, Jemon lined up and took off into the half pipe smoothly. Achieving their first fourteen hundred degree spin on the first jump.” Jem flipped their snowboard around 3 and a half times, flawlessly besides the dismount. The landing was shaky as the wind pushed them farther into the half pipe. “But as Jemon flew up in the air for their second fourteen hundred, tragedy struck.”

Suddenly, present Jem was flashed back into the memory. When they went up in the air, hearing the cheers from their adoring fans. Succeeding on completing the spins, Jem counted in their head. One, two, three, land.

Land. That’s all they had to do. But they couldn’t.

They felt themselves get pushed through the air, further towards the ledge of the halfpipe. Jem went into panic mode, and even though this only happened in a couple seconds, time slowed for them. They curled into themselves, grabbing the top of their snowboard to try and get their legs over the ledge so they could slide down the side of the halfpipe relatively unscathed.

It almost worked too.

Because Jem fell towards the ledge at sixty four kilometres per hour, and their weight easily increased to almost two hundred pounds with all their winter gear, it wasn’t going to be an easy crash in any sense of the word. Jem didn’t work fast enough as their back leg clipped the ledge, bending and snapping the opposite way of their knee. Jem, feeling the pain shoot up to their spine, let go of their board, and they got completely turned around.

All they remember before their head hit and skid down the side of the halfpipe was the pain.

The next thing Jem remembers after the crash was waking up a week later in the hospital, with screws and metal pins in their left leg.

Jem came back to their senses, in the town car as the crash was shown on their phone screen. The video ended after Jem’s face grinded against the snow, shattering their helmet and goggles. The doctors said that they were lucky they didn’t lose an eye. But it was hard for Jem to even imagine that they were lucky as they gazed at their casted leg.

The screen went back to Regan, with a photo of the paramedics loading Jem into their ambulance. “After much deliberation of Jem’s injuries, it was leaked from an inside source that they were going to need to go through extensive physical therapy if they wanted to even walk properly again. The crash left Jem’s hip dislocated, their shin was shattered and their knee was completely torn out of its socket. Not to mention the torn ligaments and strained muscles. All of which were in Jemon’s left leg.”

The next camera angle featured the photo of Jem last night, standing at a podium with press surrounding them. Regan continued with, “Last night, Jemon gave this statement regarding their future in their career.”

Jem didn’t think they looked half as distraught as they did getting up on the podium. Jem began their speech, “Thank you one and all for coming tonight. And thank you for your hopes and prayers for me and my family as we pushed through these trying times over the past couple months. But as my recovery continues, and after getting a second and third opinion from trusted physicians, I am saying that I will never be able to compete again. I will continue my physical therapy in another facility down south. I’m sorry to all my fans,” at this point Jem’s voice began cracking the slightest bit, “I’m sorry to all those who supported me in achieving my dream. And from the bottom of my heart, thank you for making my dream come true. Even for a little while.”

The camera panned back to Regan, who had a solemn look on his face. “A teary eyed statement from Jemon Morale, and what will probably be their last public statement for a long time. I do want to say on behalf of this network, it was a pleasure covering your journey. We wish you all the best. In other news...”

Amalthea had finally ripped the phone out of Jem’s hands, effectively tearing the earbud out of Jem’s ear as well. “What the hell Mal?” Jem yelled, rubbing their ear to soothe the pain.

“You are the worst glutton for punishment I have ever met Morale.” Amalthea criticized, smacking them in the arm. “Anyways, Jimmy Kimmel wanted to to see if you could make it-“

“No.” Jem answered.

Amalthea flicked them in the nose, “I’m not letting you become a hermit down here. People want to hear from you Jem!”

“You’re trying to come up with things so I can keep paying you to do your job.” Jem stated, starting to toy with their cane. “The job which you’re terrified of losing because now that I am a washed up, cold, son of a bitch, I don’t really have a need for you anymore.”

Amalthea gritted her teeth but kept her voice as calm as she could. “I’m trying to give your fans what they want. We used to both want that.”

She stared Jem down to the point where guilt began to weigh in their shoulders. After a moment Jem sighed, “Fine. Set me up with Jimmy in a month, I just got here and don’t want to leave so soon.”

Jem looked out their window, as they passed by a boardwalk. This sunshine state was much different than what Jem was used to. No snow, and a fresh smell of the sea. And with that small inspiration, Jem got an idea.

They knocked on the window separating them from their driver, “Thorne, pull in here. I wanna go for a walk.”

Their driver nodded as Jem unbuckled their seat belt and readied their cane. Amalthea’s eyes widened, but really didn’t want to fight about this. So instead she just said, “Try and be back in ten. And take in some of the sights, maybe it’ll remove the stick shoved up your ass.”

Jem chuckled, opening the door. “Thanks Mal.”

With that, Jem left their town car. The boardwalk was alive with tourists and music. The sun beaming down on everyone was relaxing, although it was quite overbearing for Jem who had spent most of their life surrounded by the snow.

Leaning half their weight on their cane, they made their way up the wooden platform. They silently hoped that the sunglasses on their face would be enough to hide their identity. Although somehow, even here Jem’s face had graced some newsstands. But this was going to be a fresh start for them.

Right?

Wrong.

As they kept to the side of the boardwalk, they watched as the waved floated below them. The sun shining off the ocean was absolutely breathtaking. They couldn’t help but feel like they were at peace. But all good things must come to an end.

“Hey!” Someone shouted at Jem. Jem turned towards the yelling, and saw three, burly men approaching them. “You’re that guy, right? The snowboarder.”

Jem nodded, giving the men a thin lipped smile, “Yep, that’s me. Are you guys fans?”

The aggressive manner in how this man and his friends cornered Jem into the railing was telling them the exact opposite. But the man kept with a large, but obviously sarcastic smile.

“Kind of, give or take.” The man said, taking a puff from his cigarette. “I really thought you had some potential kid. You were truly one of a kind.” There was a moment of silence, that Jem was about to thank the guy in but then he continued, “I even put some money down on you.”

Shit.

Jem put the hand they didn’t have gripping their cane up defensively, “Okay, I see how it is.”

“Do you?” The guy dropped his cigarette on the would and put it out with his boot. “Because, I couldn’t get my son the game he wanted because of you.”

To sass or not to sass, that is the question. And unfortunately for Jem, since their accident they’ve been leaning more towards the former. “Buddy, it sounds like if you couldn’t afford buying something for your kid, then you had no business in putting your money down elsewhere. You cared more about getting more money then making your son happy.”

With that, the guy’s face fell. Fury is becoming etched into his features, but Jem continued. “Your deadend job isn’t paying you enough, or maybe you’re just lazy and refuse to ask for more hours. Maybe you’re just a coward, who thinks it’s unmanly to ask for help.”

Jem laughed to themselves, before delivering the killing blow, “The truth is, you’re emasculated when your pride takes a blow. And because you’re that sensitive, I may not have a gender, but somehow I’m still twice the man you’ll ever be.”

Now, in an hour after all this unfolds if you asked Jem if they regretted their actions here, they’d reply, “no, not really.” Despite any logical person would say yes.

The burly guy nodded to his friends, who immediately closed in on Jem. Jem instinctively tucked their bad leg behind their good one and leaned back towards the boardwalk railing. They deserved this, they know that. So they were gonna roll with the hits.

One of the friends snatched Jem’s cane from them, throwing them off balance. Jem quickly grabbed onto the railing, as the guy with their cane hit them in the stomach with it. Jem’s only response was a grunt.

A crowd began to form around them, some people taking video and Jem knew that surely enough this would be their next headline. The friend took Jem’s cane and tossed it over the side of the boardwalk, into the water. Jem tried to spin around and grab it, as somebody came up from behind Jem and knocked them over.

It was difficult for Jem to process what was happening, even as they went crashing head first into the water. They quickly were able to spin right side up, but couldn’t keep their head above water. Every desperate claw towards the surface, every time they tried to take a gulp of air, it was to no avail.

Jem’s vision began to blur, in a sense it was peaceful. As if this was what Jem was waiting for. After all, hadn’t Jem done everything they were meant to do? Their journey in life was over, their dream destroyed because of one mistake. Everything was over.

Or had it just begun?

Jem felt arms come around them and pull them up towards the surface. They gasped for air, coughing up some of the water. The strong arms wrapped around them gently patted their chest as Jem heaved.

“It’s all right mate, I got you.” The voice said. Jem peeked over their shoulder to see a man, with dark hair and green eyes. Not far off in the distance was a small boat, and Jem felt a small rush through their veins.

Yes, the next adventure had just begun.

[belovasangel]

Au Lait .End

Summary: Some hero’s hide between the pages of their novels, and the ones who need saving are those who read. 

Pairing: Mob!Shawn x (fem)Reader

Warnings: Blood, swearing, mention of murder, anxiety, angst to fluff, happy ending

A/N: Thank you for reading my first full series! Also this part is really long and I’m super proud of myself.

Start from the beginning

Are final chapters good or bad?

Typically, most fairytales end with an uplifting tone and moral of the story. The princess is swept off her feet and taken to their happily ever after to live with the prince who saved her. It gives a positive outlook to children, the desired audience, that life is worth living. Love is the end goal, as it heals wounds and should keep you going to fulfill your limited time on earth. Our life is something we want ever since we read about it at bedtime, hoping and praying to the universe that our prince charming may come one day. 

Yet, some end with a bitter bite instead. We feel remorse and anger towards the lack of happiness at the end. As we progress from childhood fiction to adult novels, the dialect changes to something that scars us all. Tips on how to survive a fire, to get out of a sinking car, or how to get away with murder. Our television shows shut out the crowns and love, and instead thrusts real life horrors that may happen one day. 

We are taught later, that love comes with a cost. It isn’t as simple as waking up with a kiss, or being saved from a house of seven mini men. Maybe it doesn’t come at all, and we have to learn with that being okay. Or, even worse, love is taken from us, shredded at tender touches and whispers turning in the wind. 

Shawn wasn’t ready to say goodbye. 

As he watched Andrew lock the door, still unnoticed, he began picturing a life where this wasn’t the scenario. One where you two lived on the countryside, living alongside a cat and a few children. A life which Shawn would wrap his tattoo’d and scarred hands along your baby bump, watching the little butterfly kick in response. Where your skin glowed in the beautiful light and he finally learned how to braid hair. 

But this wasn’t a silly fiction book. This was your life. And future. 

Shawn stayed low to the concrete, crawling towards the nearby alleyway to tuck away. Once he had space and safety, he stood up and began running alongside the brick walls, looking up and round for any sort of door. A staircase. Anything to get in. Shawn noticed the fire escape quickly, feeling his heart skip a beat, at the hope he suddenly found. He kept the phone tight to his face, knuckles white from tension. 

“Yeah, well, I didn’t hurt your family, and all I did was put a few holes in your men. Water under the bridge, am I right? However, I never promised that I wouldn’t touch such beautiful,” Andrew paused. Shawn heard your whimper. “Beautiful, woman. Say, does Shawn tell you about what he does?”

Shawn let out a throaty growl after hearing you whine out. He seethed red, readying to punch the taunting brick between him. “Get away from her, she has no business with me.” He put the phone quickly in his pocket, and swiftly jumped up to reach the fire escape. Somehow, being six foot was just enough to give a leg up. As fast as he jumped, Shawn put the phone back to his ear, barreling up the stairs to your store. 

“She’s making you cowardly, Mendes. You kill people! Sell drugs, murder families, take candy from fucking babies, yet somehow a damn nerd found a way to change your mind. You should have fucking killed me when you had the chance!”

Shawn shook his head, hopping window to window in search of the novels and bookshelves. “You don’t know shit about her, Andrew. All you know is her damn store, she was taught to read books, not loads rifles. She doesn’t know my life, she doesn’t know who the fuck you are! Do not get her involved. Get out before you’ll regret it.”

Once he found the window to the second floor of your store, he opened the window, thanking the universe for it being open, and quietly flung himself in. He didn’t care he left it open, or that he was unarmed. All Shawn wanted was to hold you in his arms and shield you from the pain you were facing now. 

He had never been in this part of the store, where the little nook was hidden upstairs. You were right, this was perfect for kids. The colorful beanbags and small shelves of coloring books and crayons were good enough to have any kid entranced. Shawn wondered if you’d do this for your kids, too. 

There was a small clutter downstairs, and Shawn heard it on his phone as well. He quickly padded towards the stairs, peeking over the railing. All he saw was a mass behind the counter, one of your flying hair and struggling arms, and a large body forcefully whipping you around. Shawn barreled down the stairs, trying to get Andrew’s attention. 

“Hey! Get off-”

Pop. 

Shawn stopped, nearly tripping over his feet and biting his tongue. You stood still, body craning up towards the ceiling and head tilted back in a shocking gasp. The store was silent, nobody moved. The tears long forgotten in Shawn’s eyes suddenly slipped, his heart grasping for your hold. His own daydreams flew behind his mind, the one where you two got coffee, where he would have proposed, the wedding, a kid or two. Shawn had envisioned a whole life, and he dreamt of living his days with you, like the fairytale you were. 

But right now, all you craved was a fucking shower. Looking back in shock, your senses were distraught by gun smoke and something wet. As you slowly took a few steps backwards, the body of Andrew slid eerily down you, his blood staining the outfit you were clad in. He hit the ground in a dull thud, slowly surrounding himself in the thick murder you had just committed. The gun was hot in your clammy hands, so much that you let go of the burned handle and cradled your fingers close to your chest. 

You gasped for air, and Shawn was quick to get you outside. He sprinted to your side, easily throwing you into his arms and running for the door while you whimpered and cried into his neck. Shawn’s crisp collar of his shirt quickly absorbed the blood from your fingertips, staining little drops onto the linen. They were either blood, or your own tears. At this point, you were too damned to care.

About three stops down in the subway did you finally react to his touch, weakly squeezing his hand back and turning your head to hide from the lights on the platforms you passed. Everything felt numbed, your senses, thoughts, even the memory of what happened. Yet, when things became too foreign, you looked down to the crusted blood in your fingernails and it freshly pressed your mind again.

Hopping off the line and climbing stairs to the street did you realize you’d never told Shawn where you lived. In a different scenario, you would have laughed. He really did do his research when you two first met. Shawn quickly took your keys from your purse, when did he grab that, and placed it in the lock to your quaint house. Setting the keys down at the door, you led him to the bathroom.

Shawn really wanted to enjoy this moment, hell a small part of him was, but he’d have to push that back a while longer. He had killed and ravaged more families than book series in your store, so a little blood was never an issue for him. You, however, were crafted from J.K. Rowling herself and the most dangerous thing you could do was cut butter for your cinnamon-raison toast. ‘(Y/N)’ and ‘mobster’ were never in the same sentence, or even correlated, until tonight.

And the thought of you alongside him working in with his mafia made Shawn really, really desperate to push these imagines away for another time. Right now, you were centimeters from a panic attack if the remnants of Andrew weren’t scrubbed off. 

Shawn turned on the bathroom light and closed the door behind him. You sat down on the toilet, hunched over with a heavy head in your hands. Shawn admired the cleanliness of your little apartment. It was homey and loved, clearly with many book posters and loose novels along empty spaces. The bathroom was wood and marble, a few succulents and candled scattered. He gathered you must love Pottery Barn as well. Noted. 

You sniffed gently, wiping your eyes and looked up at Shawn. “I’m sorry I ruined the date.” Shawn slowly slipped to his knees, placing both his warm hands inside yours. “You didn’t ruin anything. Gave me a near heart attack, yes. But, you are perfectly okay, right? We didn’t know he would show up.” Shawn saw your eyes flinch at the mention of previous events, so he squeezed your hands in apology. 

“Do you want me to run you a bath?” With a curt nod, Shawn stood up and worked the shower, placing some soap in with the warm water. As it filled, you stood up and began taking off your jewelry, then shoes. Looking over at Shawn, the tips of his ears were red, and his cheeks were spreading in warmth. For the first time since leaving your store, you gave a small smile. “You know, when I imagined getting naked in front of you, this wasn’t the most ideal time I’d want it to happen.”

Shawn turned around slowly, eyebrows raised and a gentle smirk on his now flushed face. “Do you want me to leave?” You shook your head, a slightly bigger smile creeping onto your face. Tears flooded your eyes, some quickly falling. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He nodded, and slowly unbuttoned his shirt, you following suit. 

Shawn Mendes learned that night the most crucial lesson a book could teach you. He was taught that not everyone is strong, that they can crumble and fall. People can be sturdy, sarcastic, and overall bright and cheerful, yet when it’s time to be vulnerable, we all need someone to pick up the pieces. Shawn Mendes began to understand what it meant to love someone, even if he knew it before. 

And you learned not to fuck around with guns.

[bloodstained-porcelain-doll]

Give Yourself To Me (Unholy Bible Camp pt 2) (Lucifer x Reader, reupload)

A/N: Reuploading this since it contained a porn gif that Tumblr banned. Warnings: Rough sex I believe. Read part 1

You had left the bunker after that night, the night you heard what your actions had made Lucifer do. You couldn’t wrap your head around the fact that you had indirectly killed eighteen people. You were supposed to save people, not kill them! Your fist came down hard on the motel wall, one, two, three times. You hissed in pain and rubbed your knuckles. “(Y/N),” you heard your name before you heard the flutter of wings. “Cas, jeez, what are you doing here?” You were used to him popping up whenever it pleased, but you hadn’t expected him to come for you in this motel room. “I know you feel bad for what-” “Save it, Cas. I know exactly what I did and what I’m responsible for,” you muttered and poured yourself a glass of whisky, downing it as fast as Dean usually did. “That’s why I’m here. You are not responsible for those murders.”

It took Cas about an hour and half a bottle of whisky  to convince you that it wasn’t your fault, but you finally sighed and accepted it. It made sense. Whether you’d fucked Lucifer or not, he was still an evil maniac. “Thanks, Cassie,” you slurred before passing out on the bed. Your phone rang in the morning, or you thought it was morning, but really it was somewhere around 12 pm. You rolled over and picked up the phone lazily, forgetting to check caller ID. “Yeah?” you said groggily. “Hey, it’s me.” You sat up at once, rubbing your eyes. “Dean?” “Yeah, hi. I wanted to say sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you, I’ve realised that now.” “Cas talk you into this?” you ask suspiciously. “No, but he did talk to me about it. You didn’t know, and you like sex, so you slept with him, I get it.” “Yeah… reckon you should know, eh?” you smiled a little and heard Dean chuckle. “Anyway, where are you? You should come home, Sammy and I miss you.” “I’m working a case,” before Dean could interrupt you to ramble off about you not being safe on your own, you continued, “I’ll call you tonight, okay? I’m not gonna hunt anything today, just play fed.” “Yeah, okay. Stay safe, (Y/N).” “Uh-huh, you too, big boy,” you said and hung up.

A few hours later you had cured your hangover, taken a shower and changed into your federal agent suit. Unlike Sam and Dean, you took care and spent money on the outfits, made them look more professional. You wore a knee length pencil skirt with stockings underneath, a black blouse and a fancy jacket to match, along with a pair of office shoes.

“Agent Michaelson, FBI,” you introduced yourself to the crime inspectors. “Come on in, have a look. There’s major physical damage, and the heart has been cut out.”

You pinned the attacker down to a werewolf pretty quickly, then went back to the motel to do some research, not bothering to change out of your suit, you quite enjoyed the feel of the skirt ending just above your knees, and the silky blouse caressing your skin, but the jacket you shrugged off along with the shoes.

A flutter of wings disturbed you in your map checking.

“Cas, can you for once just call before you pop up? I could’ve been masturbating for all you know,” you muttered, and heard a chuckle from behind you that certainly did not belong to Castiel. You stood up and whirled around instantly and reached for your knife, despite knowing you had no way of hurting him, especially not with a simple knife.

“You, you-” you struggled for words. “How did you find me!?” you yelled. “You left me,” Lucifer said sadly. “Of course I bloody left you! What did you think I was gonna do, stick around and be your plaything?” You played off your fear with sarcasm and anger. “Something like that, yes. Oh, and I wouldn’t have minded walking in on you masturbating.” “Screw you, Satan,” you spat at him, “what are you doing here?” The fallen angel approached you slowly, never taking his eyes off you.

“You were a bad girl for running, (Y/N),” he mused while tapping his chin with his index finger. “W-w… what?” You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. You backed away from him when he came to close for your liking, but he didn’t seem to care, he only stalked after you until you backed yourself into a wall with a thud. Lucifer chuckled darkly.

“I believe I got you now, sweetheart,” he said with a predatory grin on his face. Without thinking you plunged the knife into his stomach and ran. Your hand just reached the door handle when an invisible force grabbed you and flung you right into Lucifer’s arms, your back to him. He was holding the knife to you now, right under your chin.

“Like I was saying… you’ve been a bad girl.” He tossed the knife on the table. “You know what happens to bad girls, (Y/N)? They get punished,” he whispered into your ear, sending shivers up your spine, and heat through your loins. You tried denying it to yourself, how much you wanted him. He’s the freaking Devil! You shouted to yourself mentally.

“Your word, not mine…” Lucifer smiled and your eyes widened. “You get out of my head right now, Satan!” “My name is Lucifer.” “Screw you, Satan,” you said again through gritted teeth, and the next second you found yourself bent over your motel bed, ass facing him. He pressed himself against you and grabbed your ass before hiking your skirt up to reveal your bare skin.

The shit-eating grin that appeared on his face made you want to stab him all over again.

“I see you still don’t wear panties, little girl. Now, how should I punish you? I’d spank you, but I seem to recall you liked that, wouldn’t be much of a punishment, would it?” You felt yourself grow wetter by the second and you knew he saw it, but you couldn’t allow yourself to enjoy his touch, and you tried not to but damn, when his hand came crashing down on your ass all your dignity and morals flew out the window and you cried out, grabbing the sheets.

“I expect you to answer when I talk to you,” Lucifer said in a silky, but rough voice. “Fine, my answer is get the fuck away from me, Beelzebub,” you snarled, earning another set of sharp smacks on both your ass cheeks. “My name is Lucifer and that’s what you’ll call me, do you understand?” He grabbed your hair and you gasped.

“I understand, Luci!” you cried out and now you were the one with the big grin on your face. Lucifer yanked you into an upright position and grabbed your face with his cold hand, squeezing it hard. In a swift motion he tore your blouse off, ripping it in the process, and treating your bra the same way. Now you stood before him in only your messed up skirt and your stockings.

“See something you like, Luci?” you teased, testing his patience. It was non-existent. He grabbed your wrists and twisted your arms until he could force them behind your back, where he locked them together with one hand. It was not comfortable. He shoved your face down into the mattress and kicked your legs open with his knee.

“What’s my name?” he demanded. “Satan.” He didn’t move, but a sharp pain spread through your entire body, almost like a taser.

“What the fuck was that?” you asked in a panicked voice. “My Grace, you little slut. You’re going to say my name properly or I’ll keep going, and crank up the volume.” “I’m not a slut,” you opposed.

“Ooh but you are, how else do you explain this seeping wetness dripping out of you?” You saw out of the corner of your eye how Lucifer grinned, but there was something else in his eyes too, something that your own eyes mirrored. Hatred. “Now let’s try this again, shall we? My name!” Lucifer shouted. “The Devil is what you are,” you growled through gritted teeth and your body shook violently as he shot another jolt of electricity through you, making you scream in pain, and bite back tears.

“My name, whore!” “Beelzebub!” You braced yourself for another wave, but instead you found yourself on your back with your head hanging down off the edge of the bed, and Lucifer above you, grinding his hard cock against the wet mess that was your skirt. His hands palmed your tits roughly before one of them went to your throat, squeezing hard. “I will make you say my name, if I so have to fuck you for hours until it’s the only word you can remember, I will make you say it,” Lucifer growled in your ear before he bit down hard on your earlobe, most certainly breaking the skin. You gave a strangled moan at his words, and another when he ground his jean-clad cock against you. You moved your hands to his wrist, trying to shove him off your throat, but he wasn’t having any of it. “All you have to do is say my name and I’ll let go…” he whispered. Being the proud woman you were, you pursed your lips and refused. To your surprise, Lucifer let go of your throat anyway. “You going soft on me, Luci?”

“Oh you have no idea what I’m going to do to you. Centuries alone has made me... creative,” Lucifer purred and stood up. He began to walk around you, and you were about to move when-

“What the fuck?” you burst out, leather handcuffs were on your wrists and ankles, holding you in place firmly. You weren’t even sure what they were attached to, but you didn’t have much time to ponder as Lucifer’s tongue was on your clit, making you squeal in surprise, but when you opened your eyes, Lucifer was still standing in front of you with an amused expression on his face. Your eyes rolled back in your head when what you assumed was his Grace licked and sucked on your folds and clit at the same time, and something entered you, but just a few seconds later, everything was gone.

“Don’t…” you mumbled, “don’t do that.” You wanted to beg him to let you feel that again.

“Haven’t you figured it out yet, that you’re not going to win this little game? I’ve already won.” “You haven’t won until I say your name, Satan,” you laughed and felt all the blood begin going to your head in this position. Lucifer knew you might pass out if you stayed with your head upside down too long, so he unbuckled his belt and let his jeans drop to the floor.

“Devil goes commando, huh?” you hummed and grinned until he shoved his cock into your mouth. You stifled a moan and he began fucking your throat at a rough pace, groaning and grunting as he did. You couldn’t deny the hotness of this situation, you were completely at his mercy, and oh did you love it. You made a slight gagging noise when he hit you deep, egging him on. Your moans sent the most delicious vibrations through his cock and he thrusted into your mouth a few more times before he pulled out, released you from your handcuffs and dragged you off the bed. You landed on the carpet with an indignant grunt.

“Get up, you little whore,” he ordered and you decided to obey. You licked your lips hungrily and watched him.

“I’ll give you one last try, what. is. my. name.” he growled.

“Kitty-cat?” you asked innocently. Lucifer began walking towards the door.

“Where are you going?” you asked, a little too desperately. He wasn’t about to leave, was he? He turned around and wiggled his finger at you, throwing you hard into the wall, turning you to face it. You put both your palms on the concrete before you felt him right behind you again, and you couldn’t help sighing in relief. There was a strange magic about him. He cast a spell on you and your body. The way he now pinned you up against the wall and teased your body with his Grace was insane. “Give yourself to me,” he commanded and took hold of both your wrists, grinding himself against you harshly, burying his face in your neck. You melted like butter in his hands and finally managed to speak.

“Yes,” you moaned out and threw your head back.

“Good girl,” he whispered. You moved into position in front of him and stuck your pussy out for him. He pushed himself inside you in an instant and he grabbed you by the arms and pulled you back, restraining you with his own arms. “You like to be fucked hard don’t you? Like a fucking slut.” “Yes,” you whimpered. “Good, stick that cunt out for me. Show me what a little slut you can be. Give yourself to me!” You did as he told you, giving your body and your pussy to him. He pulled your arms back, gripping you tightly. He fucked into your cunt, using his large cock to pound your insides. He watched you writhe in pain as he hit deep inside of you, in places most normal guys couldn’t reach. You yelped in pain and he liked your reaction, so he hit you in that place of pain again and again until you were screaming. He grabbed you by the neck and choked you until you made a nice gagging sound, which was a real turn on. He would never get tired of doing that to you. “What’s my name?” He fucked you at a punishing pace while slapping your face lightly. “Sa- sat…” you couldn’t form words, you were too lost in pleasure, you were going to explode around him in the most intense orgasm you’d ever had, you knew it and so did he, so he pulled out, leaving you empty. Your dignity and pride were far gone by now, you just needed him to keep fucking you, you were craving him so bad. “Please… come back, please don’t stop,” you begged. You knew he was going to break you now, and you were fine with it if it meant getting his big cock back inside you. “Say my name,” he whispered while teasing your entrance. “Lucifer! Lucifer, please fuck me! I need to feel your cock inside me, Lucifer please… OH FUCK,” you yelled out when he filled you up again, fucking you into the wall with your back arched and pussy sticking out for him. The sounds of skin slapping skin were getting louder and you couldn’t stop yourself from screaming. You came hard with the loudest, most obnoxious scream ever. He was still fucking you and your crying out his name came out shakily. You would have fallen to the floor, had he not held you there by you arms and kept pounding your pussy. You shook violently as you came down from your orgasm, and he kept going, kept pounding into you, but he moved you to the bed, pinning you down on it again and taking you from behind. Growing sick of your whining he slapped your ass hard. “Settle down and take it like the whore we both know you are. If I keep hearing noise out of you, I’m going to make you gag on your own fingers. And then I’m going to punish you with my cock even harder. Understand?” His eyes shone with lust as he fisted his hands in your hair and pulled it. “Yes, Lucifer,” you whispered and screwed your eyes shut, taking his cock in your over sensitive cunt. “Good girl,” he praised, giving your hair some soft strokes before yanking you back towards him. His other hand moved to your throat again, loving to choke you, loving to hear the way your breathing strained. “You gonna cum for me again, slut?” Lucifer asked when your walls contracted and clamped around him. “Yes, yes, Lucifer, please make me cum,” you begged before remembering that he wanted you to be quiet. You felt him twitch inside you and knew that he was close as well. “You’re allowed to scream when you cum, sweetheart, but only then,” he whispered and bit your ear, driving you wild. Then you screamed, cumming like crazy around his big cock. He pulled your hair and looked into your eyes and growled, right before he unleashed his load of cum deep inside of your pussy. “That’s a good girl,” he whispered. “That’s a good, good girl.” He let me go and you dropped your hands to the bed, finally calming down. Until you realised the motel door was open and the two brothers stood in the door frame. “Oh. My. God!” Dean growled when he saw you. “No, not quite…” was all you managed to say and you felt Lucifer grin in your hair. “You are un-be-fucking-lievable, (Y/N),” Dean said while Sam just stared. Lucifer was still hovering on top of you, licking sweat drops off your neck with his forked tongue. You buried your face in the sheets and screamed.

Lucifer had left pretty quickly, not bothering to clean you up or anything, which you found rude. You’d told the boys to wait outside while you fixed yourself up. When you were presentable again, you put on a robe and called the boys back inside.

“So, explain,” Dean demanded with his arms crossed. Sam still hadn’t spoken, which freaked you out a little.

“I… I have no explanation, okay?” you sighed frustratedly and ran your hands through your still sweaty hair, taking a few hairs with you, which you assumed Lucifer must have ripped out.

“Start with why you lied to me.” “What? I didn’t lie,” you said, now confused.

“You said you were on a case, instead we come to see you slutting around with the Devil.” “I was on a case! I am on a case, it’s a werewolf… Anyway, I came back after looking at the vic, then he appeared. He was angry that I left him, just like Cas said he would be.” “So what, you offer him a fuck and make up?” “You know what, screw you, Dean! Don’t ask questions if you’re not gonna let me answer them!” You weren’t going to take shit from the older Winchester, not ever.

“Fine. Keep going.” “He wanted to punish me for it… I did stab him in the stomach, for all the good it did me.”

Finally, Sam spoke.

“Wait, you stabbed him?” “I panicked, okay? I didn’t ask him to come, I don’t know how he even found me!” “You stabbed him, and that somehow led to… to…” Sam’s voice trailed off. “Loud, intense, peace-disturbing hate-fucking? Yes.” “Wow,” both brothers said at the same time.

“I’m not proud of it, okay? It was gross, I feel terrible, but you know what? I’m not apologising, ‘cause those were the two best orgasms I’ve had in my entire life,” you said and slumped back against the chair.

“(Y/N), you’ve slept with both me and Sam,” Dean said, and you had to suppress a giggle at the way his ego just seemed to burst. “I know, honey, I know.” You smirked, Sam scoffed, and Dean muttered “son of a bitch”.

[sodokachi]

The Haunted Night

Gift fic for @amynchan

Slight blood and language warning.

Genre: Adventure/Mystery

Word-count: 6934

AO3 LINK

Relationship: Marinette Dupain-Cheng & Chat Noir

Summary: Marinette and Chat Noir are enjoying each other’s company on the day before Halloween when an akuma turns all of Paris into its own personal haunted house. They go on an adventure to find out why the akuma is attacking Paris and to figure out how to beat him.

"Claws out!"

Chat jumped out of his window and grinned as the wind washed over his face and ruffled his hair. He was heading over to the Dupain-Cheng bakery to see Marinette. It was the day before Halloween and she had been keeping her costume a surprise. He was hoping to at least get a glance at it, or maybe even just a hint as to what the costume would be about.

He stopped on a rooftop when he noticed someone walking down the street below him in an angry manner. He saw that the man was dressed in a blue jumpsuit and red ball cap. Deciding the odd outfit warranted a closer look Chat jumped down and put on his best superhero grin.

"Is there something wrong good citizen?" He asked as he channeled his inner hero.

The man glared at him. Now that Chat was closer he noticed the man had a grizzled face with an unlit cigarette in his mouth.

"The only thing wrong is the lack of good morals amongst the people of Paris." He frowned darkly.

Chat blinked in shock at the dark statement. "Why do you say that?" He asked curiously.

"They're shutting down the best damn haunted house in Paris to build housing." He grumbled. "Why do they got to do such a horrid thing?"

Chat frowned in sympathy but cringed at the man’s vulgarity. "That is unfortunate." He shifted uncomfortably at the man’s intense stare.

"What I wouldn't do for that Hawkmoth fella to fix this." He pulled a lighter out of his pocket and started playing with it.

"What? Hawkmoth is the bad guy!" Chat felt the need to point out.

"Don't matter to me kid." He lit the cigarette.

Chat grimaced and wrinkled his nose at the smell. "I'm going to go. Sorry about the haunted house!"

He used his baton to vault back onto the rooftops and breathed a sigh of relief. That guy weirded him out. Why in the world would anyone willingly want Hawkmoth's help?

He landed on Marinette's balcony and rapped his knuckles against her skylight hatch.

"Come on in Chat!" He heard her call. He opened the hatch and dropped onto her bed. He shifted his feet so that they hung off the side. She preferred him not to get it messy with his leather boots.

Marinette's head popped up from where she was standing on the ladder. "Do you want something, Chat? Or are you just here for food? Again." She smirked haughtily.

Chat grinned. "Both. I want some of your infamous company and some of your finest pastries." He chuckled and the girl smiled.

"Coming right up your highness." She said dryly as she rolled her eyes.

She didn't move to get them and Chat pouted and glared into her eyes.

She returned the glare. Seconds turned into much longer as Chat struggled to keep his focus on her eyes. A blur of something pink darting in the corner of his eye had him blinking.

"Ha!" Marinette smirked victoriously. "I win." She hopped off the ladder and did a little victory dance.

He laughed. She was so cute when she was excited. He still wanted his pastries though.

He schooled his expression into a pitiful pout. "Does that mean I don't get any pastries?" He even managed to wiggle his lip like he was about to cry.

Marinette gaped at him. "Um. No I." He widened his eyes further. "Fine!" She caved. "I'll be right back. Don't touch anything!" She warned and left to go get them something to snack on.

As soon as she left Chat moved toward her sewing supplies and looked to see if he could find any clues to what she had been working on. The work bench was surprisingly untidy. He thought Marinette was more organized than this. Maybe it was because she was in a rush? Whatever the reason it made it impossible to find out anything about the outfit. He would just have to ask her directly.

He heard her coming up the stairs just in time to cross the room and lean against her chaise in his best ‘natural pose’. Which, considering he was a model, was actually pretty good.

She sat the plate of cookies down on her desk and he wasted no time in walking over and talking a big bite out of one. "tanks pincess!" He said with a mouthful of cookies.

She frowned. "Don't talk when you're eating." She grumbled and then glanced softly at him. "You’re welcome." She quirked her lips into a smile.

He beamed at her and finished off his first cookie. "So?"

Her brow furrowed. "So what?"

"What is the wonderful, amazing, and absolutely stunning-?"

"Cut to the chase Chat."

"-Princess wearing for the pawsome holiday tomorrow?"

She giggled. "Not telling!" She sing-songed the words.

He pouted in an attempt to get his way once more.

This time she just rolled her eyes. "Honestly Chat, do you really expect that to work-"

A sudden wave of darkness rolled through the room. Everything transformed as it traveled. Her chaise turned black, the cute grinning cat on her desk came alive, and her room was now lit by nothing more than some candles and the now glowing eyes of the grinning cat.

Chat looked around in dread. This was definitely an akuma's work. He glanced at Marinette and gaped. She was now dressed like a witch with a pointy hat and a long black dress.

"Do you have powers?" He asked the most important question first.

Marinette glared at him in annoyance. "No." She stared at him with a flat look on her face as he admired the coolness of her outfit.

When he didn't say anything else she sighed. "Shouldn't you be going after the akuma that caused this?"

Chat shook his head. "I can't just leave you here! What if it's dangerous?" He asked dramatically.

"Then we'll go together. Can't wait for Ladybug to fix things you know?"

"Of course." Chat nodded. "Let's go see if we can find the akuma, then you can hide while Ladybug and I deal with it."

Marinette agreed and they quickly left through the hatch.

As soon as they got outside it became hideously apparent that the whole of Paris had been caught up in the transformation. The streets looked like something right out of the middle ages, made of brick now instead of pavement, and the normal street lights had been turned into oil lampposts.

The river seine looked to have been transformed into blood and the Eiffel tower now looked like it was made of bones.

"Chat," Marinette stressed his name. "What in the world did this akuma do?"

He thought back to that weird guy. "I think... the akuma made Halloween come early."

His friend grimaced. "How in world do we find someone if they have changed the entirety of Paris already?"

Chat looked up. "Maybe we should try the bonefel tower?"

She stared at him. "That sounds like a purrfect idea." She smirked.

Chat grinned and gestured forward like a prince of yore. "Ladies and witches first."

"Good thing I'm both of those now." She said dryly.

They arrived at the tower after a few minutes of walking. Most people seemed to have already gone home. Although they had run into a couple that were running away from what they said was a 'terrifying ghost!'. They weren't sure if that meant the akuma was a ghost or what.

The answer became clear as they got closer to the base of the tower. Under the tower floated a pale eyeless man in a suit and jacket with a locket around his neck.

They glanced at each other knowingly. The akuma was in the locket.

Marinette watched as Chat pulled his baton out. "Stay here, Princess, I'm going to try to get that locket." He said as his face dropped into a much more serious expression.

She nodded and watched as Chat launched himself forward using his baton. She hoped he would be alright without Ladybug.

"Kick his butt, Chat!" She called out. He turned his head and grinned at her.

Just as Chat entered reaching distance the ghost quickly dodged and then flew away. Chat gave chase as quickly as he could. He jumped over several obstacles that had been cars, but now looked like some sort of death themed racers. He gained on the ghost as they moved towards some buildings. His fingers reached for the locket. He just about had it…

His hand passed right through along with the rest of his body a second later. He only realized there was a wall behind the ghost when he rammed face first into it. To add insult to injury the ghost let out cackling wail as it fled.

Marinette came running up to him and put his head in her lap. "Are you alright?!" She asked worriedly.

Chat looked up at her dazedly. "I'm as good as a kitten drenched in butter."

Marinette's eyes crossed. "What? That doesn't even make any sense."

His eyes closed.

Thankfully, Marinette could still feel his warm breath on her hands. She took off her hat to talk to Tikki. "What do we do now?" She whispered.

"You'll have to wait for him to wake up, Marinette. He's tough so there won't be enough time to do anything before he does." Tikki glanced at the small bruise that was already fading on Chat's head. "Not that you'd leave him alone anyway." The little Kwami smiled.

"Yeah." Marinette murmured softly in agreement. "Guess I'll just have to wait."

Tikki nodded and then hid under her hat.

Marinette passed the time by mussing with Chat's fake ears.

Chat blinked lazily. That had been the best nap he could ever remember having. He purred at the feeling of the fingers running through his hair. The hands abruptly stopped and he opened his eyes to pout at Marinette.

"Why'd you stop?"

She stared at him. "Are you an actual cat, because I swear you just freaking purred." She shook her head. "Am I losing my mind?" She wondered.

Chat laughed and sat up. "Nope. I purr when I'm really happy as Chat Noir. Purretty cool eh?" He elbowed her gently in the side. "Eh?" He poked her again.

She shoved him smoothly away from her. "If by cool you mean an affront to all that is holy, then sure, I guess." She tried to frown, but ended up smiling instead.

He grinned back at her. "So, where'd the akuma run off to?" He looked around to see if he could spot it.

"Don't know and it doesn't matter." She said and he turned his eyes back to her. "What do you mean it doesn't matter? I need to catch up to it. Ladybug is probably already fighting it."

Her eyes softened at the mention of Ladybug. "We need to figure out why the akuma can just phase through things and hopefully how to stop it from doing it again. Well, at least long enough for u-Ladybug and you to beat it."

Chat frowned. "And how are we going to do that?"

Marinette slumped. "I don't know. If only we knew why this guy had been akumatized, but he didn't even say anything!"

Chat smiled reassuringly at her. "I met a guy earlier that said they were shutting down a haunted house and he even said Hawkmoth should do something about it."

She looked at him and grinned. "Well there's our lead then!" She grabbed his arm and pulled him. "Let's go! I think I know where the haunted house you're talking about is!"

He let her pull him down the street with a bemused smile on his face.

As they neared the haunted house they noticed a man dressed in rich clothing looking rather bothered. They glanced at each other and nodded.

"Sir!" Marinette waved him over. "We would like to talk to you please."

The man grumbled, but he still acquiesced. "What is the meaning of this? The entire world has gone mad and there's a ghost attacking people." He turned his eyes on Chat and glared. "Aren't you supposed to be fixing things?"

Chat frowned. "Yes sir, and we may need a little bit of info from you to do exactly that."

The man snorted. "Yes, yes. You must need some information because it seems Paris is lacking its true hero."

Marinette seethed. "Don't say that about him you-!" Chat pulled her back as she tried to lunge forward. She struggled in his grip. "Not now, Marinette, please." Marinette stop struggling, but continued to glare at the man. Chat let her go and sighed.

The man looked at the girl with surprise. "She's a feisty one." He muttered. "Fine. What do you need to know?"

Chat straightened up. "Do you know anything about that haunted house?" He pointed just down the street at the old and rickety looking haunted house. It had a small sign saying it was out of business on the door.

The man blinked in surprise. "Why yes, yes I do. I just bought this run down establishment so I could build a nice new house on the land." He nodded pleasantly.

"You bought it?" Chat mumbled. "The ghost is probably after you." He said strongly.

The man's eyes widened in surprise and horror. "Why in the world would it be after me?"

"The haunted house shutting down disappointed a lot of people." Marinette said quietly.

The man grimaced. "Shoot. I need to hide then. Any more questions oh illustrious hero?" He rolled his eyes.

Chat just shook his head and watched the man leave.

"What a jerk." Marinette grumbled as she crossed her arms and glared at his retreating back.

He didn't disagree. "We still don't know enough." his eyes flicked back toward the haunted house. "Let’s see if we can find anything else out from the house itself."

She nodded.

They arrived at the large haunted house and were surprised by the man sitting on the curb outside of it. His clothes were a mixture of greys and blacks and looked like they were made up of rags.

Chat looked at him in concern. "You feeling alright?"

The man looked up at them with cold grey eyes. "You're Chat Noir." He sighed. "What do you need?" He asked softly.

"Well," Marinette gave him a polite smile. "We were wondering if you knew anything about the sale of this haunted house." She pointed to the house behind him.

He frowned darkly. "I do know." He glanced at the house forlornly. "My name is Louis and I own... owned that house."

Marinette and Chat shared a glance. They were finally getting somewhere, hopefully.

"Until that damnable Alexandre came I managed this place perfectly well." He ranted. "But no! This grade a jerkoff just shows up and runs me out of business, smug self-centered little-!"

"Who is Alexandre?" Chat cut in. He glanced worriedly at Marinette whom had covered her ears.

Louis snorted. "Alexandre is the man who stole my business."

Marinette uncovered her ears cautiously. "The buyer?" Chat asked.

"Yeah." Louis muttered. "That guy needs to pay somehow."

Chat frowned. "You may just get your wish. Hawkmoth's akuma is most likely after him."

Louis grinned. "Tch. Serves him right."

Marinette growled. "What is wrong with you?! This is a man’s life we're talking about!"

He scoffed. "Who cares! The guy forced me into a position where I would have to sell! He ain't worth sh-"

"Enough." Chat said clearly. "Thank you for your time."

With that said Chat gently grasped Marinette's hand and pulled her away from the infuriating man. He didn't stop until they were in front of the door to the haunted house.

"You alright Princess?" Chat asked in concern.

Marinette shook her head. "I just hate people like that." She grumbled. "I feel like he should have been the akuma. It would have made sense."

Chat hummed in agreement and then turned to the door. "Think we should go inside?"

Marinette nodded and Chat reached out and turned the door knob.

"Chat Noir! Give me your Miraculous!" The ghost screamed. It flew over the rooftops and started circling the two teenagers.

Chat took a step in front of Marinette. "What's up ghost? Besides you anyway." He smirked.

The ghost wailed. "I am not ghost, I am Plutus!" He then dived towards them.

Chat dove forward while swinging his baton. As he expected the baton went straight through Plutus and hit the ground with a loud clank. "Still can't hit him." He muttered. He turned his head and his eyes widened in alarm.

Plutus flew quickly toward Marinette with a wicked grin. She yelped and dodged to the side, rolling into the dead grass lawn of the haunted house. Plutus shot straight through the door.

"You alright, Marinette?" Chat looked worried.

She groaned and stood up. She looked down at the grass stains on her witch outfit. "I'm fine, Chaton, and also glad that I'm not wearing my regular clothes." She picked at her clothes.

Chat smiled in relief. "That's go-"

Plutus screeched as he shot out from the top window of the house. "You can't take my home from me!"

Chat growled in frustration. "We're not trying to!" He yelled.

"Lies!" Plutus dived towards them again. Chat readied his baton to try and strike at him again and Marinette hid a couple feet behind him.

This time Chat smoothly spun his baton in the hope it would somehow clip the untouchable ghost. Plutus laughed as he went straight through his baton and then Chat himself a brief moment later. Chat shuddered at the cold feeling of the ghost moving through him before his eyes widened in sudden concern. "Marinette!"

Marinette tried to dodge as she had earlier but Plutus was too fast. He clipped her shoulder as he shot past her sending her sprawling into the ground face first. Her pointy witch hat fell to the side and landed next to her.

Plutus shot up into the air as he prepared to dive at Marinette again. Chat moved to stand over her protectively and raised his hand above his head. "Cataclysm!" Dark power coiled into his hand. He pointed it straight at Plutus.

He glared at the ghost. "I won't let you hurt my friend again you good for nothing ghost!"

Plutus laughed and started to dive towards him. He aborted his dive halfway as Hawkmoth's sigil materialized on his face. He seemed to argue with him for a moment before screaming in frustration. He then flew away quickly, disappearing amongst the rooftops.

Chat glared after him until he heard Marinette groan behind him. He quickly dispersed his Cataclysm using a nearby bush and kneeled down to check his friend.

He put his hand on her shoulder as she shifted herself into a sitting position. "Are you alright Princess?" He asked softly, concern shining in his eyes.

She kept the side of her face covered with her hands. "Hurts." She whimpered.

Chat's face grew more worried. He shifted his hand from her shoulder to her uncovered cheek. "Can I see it, Marinette?" He asked gently. His other hand came to gently pull her hands away. With little resistance he managed to move them far enough away from her face to see the damage.

Chat would normally describe Marinette's face as cute, maybe even adorable, but right now it could only be described as an ugly patchwork of reds and blues. One of her eyes was sealed shut by the bruise slowly forming around it, her cheek was scraped badly and her forehead had a curved cut along her brow. Her nose dripped a little bit of blood that he quickly caught with his gloved hand. He glanced down to where her head had hit and grimaced as he realized that she had clipped the sidewalk leading up to the house with her face.

Chat looked in her good eye as he gently cradled her face in his hands. "Marinette, do you have any bandages?"

Marinette made another sound of pain. "Yeah." She groaned. "There's some in my purse."

Chat grimaced. "You didn't bring your purse." He glanced around the neighborhood. "I see what used to be a convenience store. I'll be right back. Okay, Marinette?"

Once she nodded in agreement, he shot off towards the store. It looked like a gothic church with the words 'Convenience Today!' plastered on the top of it in stone letters. As he grabbed the bandages off the shelf he memorized the location so he could come back later and pay. He grabbed a bit of antiseptic as well and started heading back.

"Stupid! How could you let her get hit you idiot!" He muttered to himself.

He arrived to see her muttering something to herself that sounded suspiciously like Ladybug. He grimaced. Of course she wished Ladybug was here. If she had been here Marinette wouldn't have gotten hurt like she had under his protection.

He landed softly next to her and she glanced up at him in surprise. She was once again covering the damage with her hands.

He gently removed them as he held the bandages up to her. "I'm going to patch you up the best I can. If that's alright with you?"

Marinette looked a little confused at his question. "Of course that's alright." She huffed.

Chat let out a little, almost pained, chuckle. "It's nice to see you haven't lost your fiery spirit." He said dryly.

She tried to roll her eyes and then hissed in pain. "That hurt." She whimpered.

Chat's face twisted in guilt. "Alright, let me bandage you before you end up hurting yourself." He said softly.

He cleaned her cheek with the cotton swabs that had come with the bandages until her cheek looked a little less red. He applied a bit of antiseptic to the bandage and then gently applied it to the mass of red on her cheek. She hissed a bit at the feeling of the antiseptic and this time she noticed when he winced guiltily.

Marinette frowned and stared at him with her one good eye. "Chat, I know what you're thinking and this isn't your fault." She stated strongly.

Chat just grimaced and started cleaning up her black eye. He wouldn't be able to bandage it up, but he could hopefully stop her from getting an infection. He dabbed a cotton swab into the antiseptic. Just as he was about to start applying it Marinette stopped him by grabbing his arm.

"Chat." She glared at him with her good eye and he looked away from her. "Look at me Chat." She grabbed his cheeks with her hands and forced him to look at her. "This. Is. Not. Your. Fault!" She pushed and pulled on his cheeks as she spoke. She let him go.

"Ow." He muttered. He rubbed his abused cheeks and frowned at her. "Was that entirely necessary?"

Marinette almost scowled before remembering her bruises and settled for frowning sternly instead. "Stop feeling guilt over things that aren't your fault and then I won't need to do that."

"Fine." He pouted. "I still need to do your eye." He muttered.

"Not until you admit it's not your fault." She said stubbornly.

He sighed. "I know it's not." He gave her a soft glance. "I just feel like you’re my responsibility, Marinette." He shrugged. "I'll try not to feel guilty, okay?" He said uneasily.

Marinette sighed. "Guess that's the best I'm getting." She muttered. "Go on now." She gestured to his hand that held the swab.

He gently dabbed around her eye and she tried her best to hold in her hisses of pain. He finished applying another bandage on her head cut and one across her nose. One he was done he put all of the leftover bandages in the bag the bandages had originally been in and picked it up.

"So, what now?" She asked curiously.

He grimaced and glanced down at his ring. "Right now you're going to hang here while I go recharge. I'll see you in less than five." He gave her a pleading look. "Please stay out of trouble Princess."

She cringed. "Ugh. I tried to roll my eyes again. Just go Chaton. I'll be fine." She smiled reassuredly.

He smiled hesitantly and then quickly moved away.

As soon as he was gone she picked up her pointy witch hat and put it back on her head. She then turned to talk to the kwami. "We should see if there's anything in that haunted house that could explain this akuma."

Tikki beamed at her. "Let's do it!"

Adrien sighed. "Hurry up Plagg. We need to get back to Marinette as soon as possible."

Plagg glared at him. "The best cheese cannot be eaten in a rush, Adrien, you should know better."

"I've seen you eat an entire wheel in one bite!" Adrien argued.

Plagg just rolled his eyes at him.

Adrien grimaced and was about to start grumbling when he heard two voices arguing. He vaguely recognized the voices as the buyer and seller from earlier. What were their names again?

"Leave me be Louis! I paid you plenty enough for that house of yours." Right the sellers name was Louis.

"Screw you Alexandre, you lying sack of-" Right! The buyers name was Alexandre and he totally hadn't needed them to tell him to figure it out!

Plagg shook his small head. "Idiot." He said as he swallowed the last bit of his cheese.

Adrien frowned. "They're getting too close Plagg, hide." Plagg darted into his waistcoat.

Adrien took a deep breath. His pirate clothes were not helping his confidence. "...Even if the brown waistcoat looks cool." He mumbled to himself.

He moved closer to the two men so that he could listen in. Maybe they would say something they weren't willing to say to Chat and Marinette.

"You can't do this to me, Alexandre. My wife-" Louis groused.

"Your wife is the only reason I bought the stupid thing!" Alexandre griped.

"I want my house back!" Louis yelled.

"Too bad! You're not getting it back. Now if you'll excuse me, I was just leaving until this whole akuma thing dies down." Alexandre and Louis parted ways after that with Louis muttering darkly under his breath while clutching at the rags near his chest and Alexandre with his chin held up high.

Adrien frowned. "What in the world is up with those two?"

Plagg came back out of his waistcoat. "The better question is: Where is Ladybug?" He asked with an annoyed expression.

Adrien blinked. "I... don't know?" He frowned again. "I hope she gets here soon. I bet her Lucky Charm would be helpful." He sighed. "She's smarter to and stronger. She wouldn't have let Marinette get-" Plagg growled and then flicked his head.

"That Marinette girl is right. You need to stop blaming yourself and focus on the task at hand." Plagg said wisely.

Adrien stared at him in surprise. "I guess even you can sound smart occasionally Plagg."

"Exactly. Wait." Plagg looked at him in confusion. "D-did you just insult me?"

"Nope." Adrien rolled his eyes. "I was just saying how great you are!" He smirked.

Plagg looked at him skeptically. "...Good then." He nodded in satisfaction.

"Let’s get back to Marinette. I don't like leaving her for too long when there's an akuma around." He thrust his hand into the air and posed. "Claws out!"

Marinette searched throughout the surprisingly boring haunted house, even if the outside looked so lackluster, she still had had hope there was something of interest inside. She expected more than just a couple of skeletons and fake candles. She had already searched the upper rooms and the bottom floor without finding a thing. So when she stumbled upon a cellar door with a lock on it she had to stomp down her grin of excitement. She still needed to find Plutus’s weakness after all.

"Tikki can you-?"

Her Kwami was already ahead of her. She unlocked the wooden door and grinned happily at Marinette. "Done!"

Marinette smiled. "Good job, Tikki." She patted her kwami on the head.

Once inside she looked around and frowned when she saw (or didn’t see) how dark it was. Tikki beamed brightly. No wait she was actually beaming, like a lightbulb, and moved deeper into the cellar.

Marinette grinned at her little friend. "You're the best, Tikki!"

Tikki giggled. "I try~"

Marinette looked around. There were a couple of barrels and old furniture. A couple of old fake skeletons and a single desk.

Tikki sat down on the desk. "Marinette, there's a book over here!"

Marinette made her way over with a curious look on her face. She sat down at the desk and looked at the book. It didn't have a title and its cover was made of a tough red leather. It was also incredibly small and unused. She doubted there would be much of anything written in it.

She opened it and noticed no one had signed their name. She sighed. "Guess I'll just have to read it."

 Dear Journal,

My wife has given this to me along with a locket. I have decided to humor her this once about writing in you. Since I need to be down here for more than a minute I suppose I should tell you about my day.

This is our tenth anniversary and we spent it joyfully. Even though we have failed to have any children I believe we are as happy as a couple can be. Especially as I took her out for a fancy dinner and we spent the evening walking along the Seine.

When we arrived back my wife gave me this journal and the locket. While the journal seems a little strange the locket is actually an old one of mine. I had given it to her on our first anniversary. It broke a while back and we had never gotten around to fixing it.

It is amazing that such an old thing has transformed so much over the course of our lives. I'm happy to have it back.

 Transformed? She frowned. Was that it? She flipped the paged and found little aborted attempts to write on more normal days until one day he wrote another full(ish) entry.

 Dear Journal,

My wife has passed away. This journal and her locket is the last of the things I have left of her.

The locket will forever remind me of her. I have decided to sell everything of ours in Paris and move away. An old friend of mine has agreed to buy this place.

I miss my wife.

 Marinette stared at the last sentence.

"Are you alright, Marinette?" Tikki asked worriedly.

"I think so Tikki." She said softly. "It's just sad that this man lost his wife."

Tikki hugged her uninjured cheek. "You’re so kind Marinette!" She smiled.

Marinette smiled back at her. They both started when they heard a yowl.

"He's back." Marinette murmured. She would have transformed if he hadn't already been diving through the ceiling above her.

"Leave!" Plutus screeched. "That is not yours!"

Marinette dived out of the chair. She didn't wait to see Plutus go straight through the chair and then the floor. Tikki darted to hide under her hat as Marinette left the cellar. As she exited she heard Plutus screech again and threw herself up against a wall just in time for Plutus to shoot out of the floor where she had been standing. Without watching him once again disappear through the ceiling she started running towards the front door.

Right before she reached the door the ghost floated down from the ceiling and blocked her. "Now now, little girl, you’re in my house touching my things. You need to be punished." He said scathingly.

Marinette's uncovered eye darted around as she tried to figure a way out of the house. "Mind getting out of the way for me, Plutus?" She asked with a small smirk.

Plutus laughed. "Dumb questions all you got now, eh? Where's your pet kitty now, girl?"

"That'd be behind you ghosty." Chat as he jumped through the ghost and picked up Marinette in a bridal carry. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders as he ran up the stairs. They could both hear Plutus scream in frustration as he tried to follow.

Chat ran through the main hallway on the second floor and held Marinette up with one arm as he used the other to throw his baton at a window. It shattered and a moment later Chat jumped through it with both his arms and body coiled protectively around Marinette.

He landed on one knee and reached out with his hand to catch his falling baton. He used it to immediately shoot them onto the nearest rooftop.

He covered distance quickly as he made to get as far away from Plutus as possible. He ended up on Marinette's balcony. The haunted light of several candles lit up the balcony in an orange glow.

He put her down. "Are you-?"

"Yes, Chat." She rolled her one good eye. Seeing his put out look she sighed. "I'm fine Chat. Thanks for the save." She said softly.

He lost the look and smiled. "No problem, Princess."

"What took you so long anyway?" She asked curiously.

"I ran into Alexandre and Louis having an argument about the sell." He told her. "Louis brought up his wife and Alexandre said that's why he bought the haunted house in the first place." Chat shrugged. "I wish Ladybug was here. She could probably figure this all out."

Marinette's brow furrowed in thought. "She probably already di-would have figured it out, Chaton."

"That doesn’t matter though." Chat nodded to himself.

She blinked, which looked more like a wink with only one eye. "Why not?" She asked.

"I'm going to Cataclysm the locket." He explained. "He seems to fear it, so hopefully it will work."

Marinette bit her lip to stop herself from disagreeing. "I guess I'll stay here then. So I won't be in any danger!" She smiled brightly at him. "This time kick his butt for real, Chat." She patted him on the shoulder.

Chat chuckled. "Can do Princess!" He vaulted off her roof with a jaunty salute.

Tikki popped out from under her hat as she watched Chat move back towards the haunted house. "Ready to transform Marinette?"

Marinette grinned. "I was born ready, Tikki. Spots on!" With a flash of light Ladybug went swinging after her partner.

Ladybug arrived just in time to see Chat Noir being thrown into the Seine.

Plutus hovered over the river, cackling, and was jeering down at Chat. He turned his body toward her. “Oh? The bug finally shows up to the party!” He laughed.

Chat dragged himself out of the river and Ladybug let out a sigh of relief. She tuned to Plutus and started spinning her yoyo. “This isn’t really the kind of party I like.” She smirked. “My kind of parties have fewer stupid ghosts.” She told him.

Plutus scoff echoed through the air. “Spare me the inane retorts. You’re sidekick has already made enough of them.”

She scowled and winced slightly. “He is my partner, not my sidekick.” She said flatly.

“He’s trash.” Plutus snickered. “He couldn’t even protect his little friend.” He grinned viciously.

Chat Noir used his baton to jump over to Ladybug. “Maybe not,” He said with a lopsided smile. “But I’m still gonna kick your butt.”

He looked over at Ladybug and did a double take. “My Lady you…?”

She smiled at him. “Sorry I’m late, Chaton.”

He shook his head as if to clear it and his look turned determined. “What’s the plan?”

She smiled grimly. “I managed to run into Marinette before I got here and I think we figured this guy out.”

Plutus laughed and both of them turned to him. “Figured me out? What does that even mean?” He sneered. “Stupid brats.”

Ladybug smirked. “Really Louis? Surely you can do better than that.”

Plutus froze. “How?!”

“Marinette found that journal of yours.” She told him. “A locket that transforms the user at will isn’t that strange for an akuma.”

Chat glanced at her. “Is he doing this because he got run out of business?” He questioned.

She shook her head sadly. “He wanted to sell it because it reminded him of his late wife.” She turned and frowned at the akuma. “He regretted his decision and Hawkmoth took advantage of him shortly after.”

“That is some impressive detective work, but-” Chat gestured his baton towards the hovering Plutus. “How are we going to actually get the locket?”

“He has to become tangible to hit us.” She looked at him with regret. “One of us is going to have to be bait.”

Plutus laughed. “I do like some tasty bait.” He grinned.

Ladybug shook her head at his words. “Follow my lead, Chat.”

“Of course, My Lady.” He smirked.

Ladybug threw her yoyo and swung herself in an arc towards the akuma. Chat ran towards the akuma from the other side.

“Pointless!” Plutus snarled.

“Lucky Charm!” She shouted and blinked at the large cloth she had been given. “I know what to do.” She smirked. Chat stopped and stared at her. “What do you need me to do?”

Her smirk widened. “Get ready to grab the locket.” He nodded.

“Hey Louis! You suck!” Chat looked at her like she was crazy. “It’s too bad you’re such a boring akuma. Maybe if you were more interesting I would have shown up sooner.”

She held the cloth and both hands as she watched Plutus shake in anger. “What’s wrong? Bug got your tongue?”

He screamed and flew straight at her.  She held the cloth out. “Come on! I’m not even going to defend myself!” She glanced at Chat. “Chat, use Cataclysm!”

He did as she asked just as the ghost reached her. She dodged to the side and let go of the cloth. Plutus yelled in frustration as got tangled up in it. He phased through it and turned towards the smirking Ladybug. “How dare you-!” Ladybug pointed down. He blinked and looked down just in time to see Chat. He was holding on to his extended baton as he reached out to grab Plutus’s locket with the same hand that held Cataclysm.

“No!” He yelled and tried to move away. He was too late and had to watch as the locket disintegrated. The akuma floated out of the remains as Chat caught the now tangible and non-floating Louis.

“Bye-bye little butterfly!” She smiled as the now purified butterfly flew away.

She grabbed the cloth off the ground and threw it into the air. “Miraculous Ladybug!”

The wave of red and black scattered across Paris and changed everything back to normal. Some of it even ran around Ladybug’s head and healed her scrapes and bruises.

She held out her fist towards Chat Noir and smiled confidently. He completed the fist-bump with a soft smile on his face. “Pound it.” They said at the same time.

Beep beep. “That’s my queue to bug out!” She said cheerfully. She quickly swung away with her yoyo.

Chat sighed and smiled. “See you in a minute.” He murmured.

The large glass door to Hawkmoth’s inner sanctum closed as the purified akuma came to rest on his shoulder.

He glared darkly at the ground. “Curse you. If it wasn’t for that meddling hat girl I would have won. Next time you won’t be so lucky.” He clenched his fist in front of him and scowled. “Next time I shall have your Miraculous! Ladybug!”

Marinette grinned as she put the finishing touches on her costume for Halloween. Chat would be in for a shock when he sees it for sure.

A knock sounded on her hatch and she quickly hid the ensemble in her closet. Tikki hid as she called for Chat to let himself in.

Chat tumbled down from her bed and grinned at her. “Hey Prince-” he yawned mid-greeting.

She smiled at him. “Hey Chat Noir, long day?” She giggled.

He chuckled. “You were there.” He reminded her calmly.

She blinked. “Well, it was tiring for me too.”

He sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck. “I meant…” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Are you feeling better now?” He asked smoothly.

“I’m purrfectly fine now, Chat Noir.” She smiled coyly. “When you defeated him that light came and fixed me up.”

Chat smiled tiredly. “I’m glad you’re feeling good enough to steal my puns, Princess.”

“Your face okay from that run in with the wall you had earlier?” She asked a flash of concern on display in her bluebell eyes.

He nodded. “My face is magnificent, as always.” He said cheekily.

They both smiled and stood there for a moment, just enjoying the companionable silence.

Marinette glanced at the time. “You should probably go, Chat. It’s really late.”

“Of course, Princess. Have a good night.” He smiled and bowed. He hopped up to her bed and was about to leave through the hatch when Marinette stopped him to say something.

“Chat… Thanks for keeping me safe.” She said softly with her hands clasped in front of her.

Chat grinned widely. “That’s my job,” He jumped through the hatch and landed on her balcony. “My Lady.” He whispered and then leapt off into the night.

[thatglutenfreemuffin-blog]

Another Idea I’m working on Called “The Gift” and this is the first chapter - meh - enjoy <3

Brendon

A night of poker, gambling and alcohol would generally end only one way when it comes to my friends. A brothel. A sleazy place with little natural light and girls who didn’t have a whole lot of choice in being there. I hated the places, they made me feel physically sick, always full of sickening old men with wallets bigger than their brains and an infuriating sense of entitlement. My friends were business men, like myself but with less morals I suppose, I never understood why having money seemed to dissolve any value for human life a person seemed to have. I was proud of the fact that I had managed to retain some human decency alongside my wealth.

“Come on Urie, let loose a little, they’re very good at their jobs.” My friend Johnny jibed, he was drunk and stumbling, leading the way to the latest nauseating hideout he’d discovered.

“I’m perfectly fine not paying to get a girl on my dick, thanks Johnny.” I sneered, finally coming up to the building, it was inconspicuous, looked almost like a hotel but with far less windows. When Johnny knocked on the door a face peering through the crack, a woman with far too much makeup on and dark red lips.

“Hey doll, it’s me, I bought a few friends, I hope that’s alright.” He slurred, she smiled and opened the door, she looked like a dominatrix and it really creeped me out.

“That’s no problem baby.” She spoke with a thick New Jersey accent as she smiled and lead us inside, it was a dark, dingy place, lots of reds and blacks, exactly how you’d picture one of these places. The guys all paired off with scantily clad girls, hands trailing all over them. “Nothin’ for you handsome?” She asked, leaning close to me, going to press a hand against my shoulder but I pulled away.

“No, thank you, this isn’t a bar so stop treating it like I’m ordering some fancy cocktail.” I snapped, my eyes scanning around the room, desperately trying to find somewhere to sit outside and smoke. “Where can I smoke?”

“Out in gardens, why don’t you take a look around while you’re here, you might find something you fancy.” She smiled sickeningly sweet and gestured towards the doors at the end of the room.

“I highly doubt it, but thank you for the directions.” I smiled back coldly and walked through the doors, there were a few girls outside and I couldn’t stand to be near then, instead moving to a quieter part of the gardens, trying to avoid having to stare at half naked girls. As I found a more secluded part and rounded a small corner around a wall I found a girl sitting on a bench, she wasn’t dressed anything like the others, instead in a knee length dress with blue flowers printed on it, her dirty blonde hair tied into a ponytail with a small silver heart necklace around her neck. “Oh, I’m sorry to disturb.” I said softly, she turned and squeaked in response, standing to leave the bench free.

“No, no, I’m sorry Sir, here take the bench, I’ll move.” She stuttered, tugging at her dress as she went to walk away, her facing me gave me a better opportunity to study her face. She was incredibly beautiful, long fluttering eyelashes sitting beneath perfect brows and hiding stunning green eyes, her lips light pink and delicate sitting on her fair skin. She can’t have been any older than 19 or 20.

“Don’t go, you were here first, I’d feel awful disturbing your peace.” I held out a hand and the young girl listened immediately, nodding and sitting back on the bench like a well trained pet, it was a little unsettling if I’m honest. What was she even doing here? “May I ask sweetie, what are you doing here?”

“I… we, we’re the girls that get sold, for our, um, innocence.” Her words were shaky and nervous, the sentence made me feel physically sick, she was basically a slave.

“Your innocence? You mean-” I cut off when she nodded, silently agreeing with me, she looked far too sweet to be treated how the women in this place were treated, I reached over, gently placing my hand on top of hers, she glanced down at it as I fumbled to get a cigarette out. “What’s your name?” I asked, she seemed surprised I cared about her name at all.

“Lily. I’d ask for yours sir, but I’m not supposed to.” She spoke softly, almost unable to look at me, I squeezed her hand gently.

“Brendon, my name is Brendon sweetheart.” I finally managed to light a cigarette, taking a long draw as I looked over at the young girl. “You’ll answer anything I ask won’t you?” I asked, knowing the answer was yes, I’d heard about these girls before, they were taught to be perfectly subordinate and do anything they were told.

“I have to.” She said simply, her leg bobbing a little, presumably from nerves, this probably wasn’t the first time she’d had to speak with men.

“No you don’t, but that’s besides the point. Are there many of you girls here?” I asked, trying to keep my disgust from my voice, I didn’t want Lily to think it was her that made me feel like this.

“Yes, some come back after being bought, some don’t, those that do never have good stories to tell.” She sounded to terrified, keeping her hand under mine, I honestly couldn’t tell if she found it comforting or was just too afraid to pull it away, her words made me cringe. “May I ask a question? Brendon?” She said with such nerves it made my heart hurt.

“Of course, you can speak to me as you want.” I smiled as she met my eyes again, she nodded, seeming to relax some.

“Why are you here?” She tilted her head, those green eyes staring back at me.

“My friends are here with girls, but I don’t do that type of thing. I don’t agree with this at all.” I squeezed her hand again and she actually smiled, it seemed genuine too.

“You don’t?” Lily’s eyes fixed on mine, she shuffled just a little closer on the bench, turning so her body was facing me. I felt genuinely afraid for her, she was stunningly beautiful and had an amazing body, any creepy old millionaire would snap her up in a heartbeat, it almost made me want to take her with me then and there. She looked so innocent, like a deer in the headlights, fragile and untouched and not very many people would have respect for that.

“No, Lily, I don’t, I think it’s barbaric to have such little regard for someone’s life, and to take their choices away from them.” I pulled her hand up to my lips, kissing it gently, her cheeks took on a slightly brighter shade of pink as she stared back at me. We spoke for a time, I wasn’t sure how long, she asked a lot of questions about me, where I came from, what I did, if I was married or dating, about my family. I tried to avoid asking her anything that related to where we were, trying to find out more about her, I managed to uncover that she loved to draw and paint, she was 19, turning 20 in a few months, she didn’t know her parents and grew up in this god forsaken place, she loved animals though she didn’t get to see them often and loved to see the birds that flew into the gardens during the day, she was painfully sweet and kind. Her hand stayed in mine the whole time, relaxing gradually over the time we spoke, I eventually checked my watch, realising I had been nearly an hour with her.

“It’s an odd question that you might not know the answer to darling, but how long do you get with the girls here? It’s just… my friends.” I trailed off but she nodded understandingly.

“An hour is standard unless you take them home.” She smiled all too sweetly, it sickened me that she knew that.

“Then, I should probably, go, they’ll be done.” I cringed at my own words, she stood, offering her hand out to me.

“I can show you back to the front.” She smiled again, when I stood I got a full appreciation of how petite she was, standing quite a bit smaller than me, she was like a little China doll. She lead me back out to the front, her hand tangled in with mine, my friends looking disgustingly happy with themselves by the entrance.

“Oh, I see you did find something you liked, I hope you didn’t touch too much, our Lily here is at a much higher price.” The sleazy woman spoke as she tugged Lily away from me.

“I didn’t touch at all, most likely because I’m not sick and perverted.” I spat, meeting her soft green eyes one more time, she was stood in front of the woman, awkwardly pulling at her dress, her dainty hands twiddling the material between them.

“Have a nice evening, Brendon.” She smiled so sweetly, tilting her head to the side, one thing’s for sure, I knew I had to keep my eye on that girl, she’d get seriously hurt otherwise.

[readbookywooks]

It was long past noon when he awoke. His valet had crept several times into the room on tiptoe to see if he was stirring, and had wondered what made his young master sleep so late. Finally his bell sounded, and Victor came in softly with a cup of tea, and a pile of letters, on a small tray of old Sèvres china, and drew back the olive-satin curtains, with their shimmering blue lining, that hung in front of the three tall windows.

“Monsieur has well slept this morning,” he said, smiling.

“What o’clock is it, Victor?” asked Dorian Gray, sleepily.

“One hour and a quarter, monsieur.”

How late it was! He sat up, and, having sipped some tea, turned over his letters. One of them was from Lord Henry, and had been brought by hand that morning. He hesitated for a moment, and then put it aside. The others he opened listlessly. They contained the usual collection of cards, invitations to dinner, tickets for private views, programmes of charity concerts, and the like, that are showered on fashionable young men every morning during the season. There was a [44] rather heavy bill, for a chased silver Louis-Quinze toilet-set, that he had not yet had the courage to send on to his guardians, who were extremely old-fashioned people and did not realize that we live in an age when only unnecessary things are absolutely necessary to us; and there were several very courteously worded communications from Jermyn Street money-lenders offering to advance any sum of money at a moment’s notice and at the most reasonable rates of interest.

After about ten minutes he got up, and, throwing on an elaborate dressing-gown, passed into the onyx-paved bath-room. The cool water refreshed him after his long sleep. He seemed to have forgotten all that he had gone through. A dim sense of having taken part in some strange tragedy came to him once or twice, but there was the unreality of a dream about it.

As soon as he was dressed, he went into the library and sat down to a light French breakfast, that had been laid out for him on a small round table close to an open window. It was an exquisite day. The warm air seemed laden with spices. A bee flew in, and buzzed round the blue-dragon bowl, filled with sulphur-yellow roses, that stood in front of him. He felt perfectly happy.

Suddenly his eye fell on the screen that he had placed in front of the portrait, and he started.

“Too cold for Monsieur?” asked his valet, putting an omelette on the table. “I shut the window?”

Dorian shook his head. “I am not cold,” he murmured.

Was it all true? Had the portrait really changed? Or had it been simply his own imagination that had made him see a look of evil where there had been a look of joy? Surely a painted canvas could not alter? The thing was absurd. It would serve as a tale to tell Basil some day. It would make him smile.

And, yet, how vivid was his recollection of the whole thing! First in the dim twilight, and then in the bright dawn, he had seen the touch of cruelty in the warped lips. He almost dreaded his valet leaving the room. He knew that when he was alone he would have to examine the portrait. He was afraid of certainty. When the coffee and cigarettes had been brought and the man turned to go, he felt a mad desire to tell him to remain. As the door closed behind him he called him back. The man stood waiting for his orders. Dorian looked at him for a moment. “I am not at home to any one, Victor," he said, with a sigh. The man bowed and retired.

He rose from the table, lit a cigarette, and flung himself down on a luxuriously-cushioned couch that stood facing the screen. The screen was an old one of gilt Spanish leather, stamped and wrought with a rather florid Louis-Quatorze pattern. He scanned it curiously, wondering if it had ever before concealed the secret of a man’s life.

Should he move it aside, after all? Why not let it stay there? What was the use of knowing? If the thing was true, it was terrible. If it was not true, why trouble about it? But what if, by some fate or deadlier chance, other eyes than his spied behind, and saw the horrible change? What should he do if Basil Hallward came and asked to look at his own picture? He would be sure to do that. No; the [45] thing had to be examined, and at once. Anything would be better than this dreadful state of doubt.

He got up, and locked both doors. At least he would be alone when he looked upon the mask of his shame. Then he drew the screen aside, and saw himself face to face. It was perfectly true. The portrait had altered.

As he often remembered afterwards, and always with no small wonder, he found himself at first gazing at the portrait with a feeling of almost scientific interest. That such a change should have taken place was incredible to him. And yet it was a fact. Was there some subtle affinity between the chemical atoms, that shaped themselves into form and color on the canvas, and the soul that was within him? Could it be that what that soul thought, they realized?–that what it dreamed, they made true? Or was there some other, more terrible reason? He shuddered, and felt afraid, and, going back to the couch, lay there, gazing at the picture in sickened horror.

One thing, however, he felt that it had done for him. It had made him conscious how unjust, how cruel, he had been to Sibyl Vane. It was not too late to make reparation for that. She could still be his wife. His unreal and selfish love would yield to some higher influence, would be transformed into some nobler passion, and the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him would be a guide to him through life, would be to him what holiness was to some, and conscience to others, and the fear of God to us all. There were opiates for remorse, drugs that could lull the moral sense to sleep. But here was a visible symbol of the degradation of sin. Here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men brought upon their souls.

Three o’clock struck, and four, and half-past four, but he did not stir. He was trying to gather up the scarlet threads of life, and to weave them into a pattern; to find his way through the sanguine labyrinth of passion through which he was wandering. He did not know what to do, or what to think. Finally, he went over to the table and wrote a passionate letter to the girl he had loved, imploring her forgiveness, and accusing himself of madness. He covered page after page with wild words of sorrow, and wilder words of pain. There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution. When Dorian Gray had finished the letter, he felt that he had been forgiven.

Suddenly there came a knock to the door, and he heard Lord Henry’s voice outside. “My dear Dorian, I must see you. Let me in at once. I can’t bear your shutting yourself up like this.”

He made no answer at first, but remained quite still. The knocking still continued, and grew louder. Yes, it was better to let Lord Henry in, and to explain to him the new life he was going to lead, to quarrel with him if it became necessary to quarrel, to part if parting was inevitable. He jumped up, drew the screen hastily across the picture, and unlocked the door.

“I am so sorry for it all, my dear boy,” said Lord Henry, coming in. “But you must not think about it too much.”

[46] “Do you mean about Sibyl Vane?” asked Dorian.

“Yes, of course,” answered Lord Henry, sinking into a chair, and slowly pulling his gloves off. “It is dreadful, from one point of view, but it was not your fault. Tell me, did you go behind and see her after the play was over?”

“Yes.”

“I felt sure you had. Did you make a scene with her?”

“I was brutal, Harry,–perfectly brutal. But it is all right now. I am not sorry for anything that has happened. It has taught me to know myself better.”

“Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way! I was afraid I would find you plunged in remorse, and tearing your nice hair.”

“I have got through all that,” said Dorian, shaking his head, and smiling. “I am perfectly happy now. I know what conscience is, to begin with. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinest thing in us. Don’t sneer at it, Harry, any more,–at least not before me. I want to be good. I can’t bear the idea of my soul being hideous.”

“A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you on it. But how are you going to begin?”

“By marrying Sibyl Vane.”

“Marrying Sibyl Vane!” cried Lord Henry, standing up, and looking at him in perplexed amazement. “But, my dear Dorian–”

“Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadful about marriage. Don’t say it. Don’t ever say things of that kind to me again. Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to break my word to her. She is to be my wife.”

“Your wife! Dorian! . . . Didn’t you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down, by my own man.”

“Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn’t like.”

Lord Henry walked across the room, and, sitting down by Dorian Gray, took both his hands in his, and held them tightly. “Dorian,” he said, “my letter–don’t be frightened–was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is dead.”

A cry of pain rose from the lad’s lips, and he leaped to his feet, tearing his hands away from Lord Henry’s grasp. “Dead! Sibyl dead! It is not true! It is a horrible lie!”

“It is quite true, Dorian,” said Lord Henry, gravely. “It is in all the morning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one till I came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not be mixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris. But in London people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never make one’s début with a scandal. One should reserve that to give an interest to one’s old age. I don’t suppose they know your name at the theatre. If they don’t, it is all right. Did any one see you going round to her room? That is an important point.”

Dorian did not answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror. Finally he murmured, in a stifled voice, “Harry, did you say an inquest? What did you mean by that? Did Sibyl–? Oh, [47] Harry, I can’t bear it! But be quick. Tell me everything at once.”

“I have no doubt it was not an accident, Dorian, though it must be put in that way to the public. As she was leaving the theatre with her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had forgotten something up-stairs. They waited some time for her, but she did not come down again. They ultimately found her lying dead on the floor of her dressing-room. She had swallowed something by mistake, some dreadful thing they use at theatres. I don’t know what it was, but it had either prussic acid or white lead in it. I should fancy it was prussic acid, as she seems to have died instantaneously. It is very tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixed up in it. I see by the Standard that she was seventeen. I should have thought she was almost younger than that. She looked such a child, and seemed to know so little about acting. Dorian, you mustn’t let this thing get on your nerves. You must come and dine with me, and afterwards we will look in at the Opera. It is a Patti night, and everybody will be there. You can come to my sister’s box. She has got some smart women with her.”

“So I have murdered Sibyl Vane,” said Dorian Gray, half to himself,– “murdered her as certainly as if I had cut her little throat with a knife. And the roses are not less lovely for all that. The birds sing just as happily in my garden. And to-night I am to dine with you, and then go on to the Opera, and sup somewhere, I suppose, afterwards. How extraordinarily dramatic life is! If I had read all this in a book, Harry, I think I would have wept over it. Somehow, now that it has happened actually, and to me, it seems far too wonderful for tears. Here is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my life. Strange, that my first passionate love- letter should have been addressed to a dead girl. Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent people we call the dead? Sibyl! Can she feel, or know, or listen? Oh, Harry, how I loved her once! It seems years ago to me now. She was everything to me. Then came that dreadful night–was it really only last night?–when she played so badly, and my heart almost broke. She explained it all to me. It was terribly pathetic. But I was not moved a bit. I thought her shallow. Then something happened that made me afraid. I can’t tell you what it was, but it was awful. I said I would go back to her. I felt I had done wrong. And now she is dead. My God! my God! Harry, what shall I do? You don’t know the danger I am in, and there is nothing to keep me straight. She would have done that for me. She had no right to kill herself. It was selfish of her.”

“My dear Dorian, the only way a woman can ever reform a man is by boring him so completely that he loses all possible interest in life. If you had married this girl you would have been wretched. Of course you would have treated her kindly. One can always be kind to people about whom one cares nothing. But she would have soon found out that you were absolutely indifferent to her. And when a woman finds that out about her husband, she either becomes dreadfully dowdy, or wears very smart bonnets that some other woman’s husband has to [48] pay for. I say nothing about the social mistake, but I assure you that in any case the whole thing would have been an absolute failure.”

“I suppose it would,” muttered the lad, walking up and down the room, and looking horribly pale. “But I thought it was my duty. It is not my fault that this terrible tragedy has prevented my doing what was right. I remember your saying once that there is a fatality about good resolutions,–that they are always made too late. Mine certainly were.”

“Good resolutions are simply a useless attempt to interfere with scientific laws. Their origin is pure vanity. Their result is absolutely nil. They give us, now and then, some of those luxurious sterile emotions that have a certain charm for us. That is all that can be said for them.”

“Harry,” cried Dorian Gray, coming over and sitting down beside him, “why is it that I cannot feel this tragedy as much as I want to? I don’t think I am heartless. Do you?”

“You have done too many foolish things in your life to be entitled to give yourself that name, Dorian,” answered Lord Henry, with his sweet, melancholy smile.

The lad frowned. “I don’t like that explanation, Harry,” he rejoined, “but I am glad you don’t think I am heartless. I am nothing of the kind. I know I am not. And yet I must admit that this thing that has happened does not affect me as it should. It seems to me to be simply like a wonderful ending to a wonderful play. It has all the terrible beauty of a great tragedy, a tragedy in which I took part, but by which I have not been wounded.”

“It is an interesting question,” said Lord Henry, who found an exquisite pleasure in playing on the lad’s unconscious egotism,–"an extremely interesting question. I fancy that the explanation is this. It often happens that the real tragedies of life occur in such an inartistic manner that they hurt us by their crude violence, their absolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their entire lack of style. They affect us just as vulgarity affects us. They give us an impression of sheer brute force, and we revolt against that. Sometimes, however, a tragedy that has artistic elements of beauty crosses our lives. If these elements of beauty are real, the whole thing simply appeals to our sense of dramatic effect. Suddenly we find that we are no longer the actors, but the spectators of the play. Or rather we are both. We watch ourselves, and the mere wonder of the spectacle enthralls us. In the present case, what is it that has really happened? Some one has killed herself for love of you. I wish I had ever had such an experience. It would have made me in love with love for the rest of my life. The people who have adored me–there have not been very many, but there have been some– have always insisted on living on, long after I had ceased to care for them, or they to care for me. They have become stout and tedious, and when I meet them they go in at once for reminiscences. That awful memory of woman! What a fearful thing it is! And what an utter intellectual stagnation it reveals! One should absorb the color of life, but one should never remember its details. Details are always vulgar.

[49] “Of course, now and then things linger. I once wore nothing but violets all through one season, as mourning for a romance that would not die. Ultimately, however, it did die. I forget what killed it. I think it was her proposing to sacrifice the whole world for me. That is always a dreadful moment. It fills one with the terror of eternity. Well,–would you believe it?–a week ago, at Lady Hampshire’s, I found myself seated at dinner next the lady in question, and she insisted on going over the whole thing again, and digging up the past, and raking up the future. I had buried my romance in a bed of poppies. She dragged it out again, and assured me that I had spoiled her life. I am bound to state that she ate an enormous dinner, so I did not feel any anxiety. But what a lack of taste she showed! The one charm of the past is that it is the past. But women never know when the curtain has fallen. They always want a sixth act, and as soon as the interest of the play is entirely over they propose to continue it. If they were allowed to have their way, every comedy would have a tragic ending, and every tragedy would culminate in a farce. They are charmingly artificial, but they have no sense of art. You are more fortunate than I am. I assure you, Dorian, that not one of the women I have known would have done for me what Sibyl Vane did for you. Ordinary women always console themselves. Some of them do it by going in for sentimental colors. Never trust a woman who wears mauve, whatever her age may be, or a woman over thirty-five who is fond of pink ribbons. It always means that they have a history. Others find a great consolation in suddenly discovering the good qualities of their husbands. They flaunt their conjugal felicity in one’s face, as if it was the most fascinating of sins. Religion consoles some. Its mysteries have all the charm of a flirtation, a woman once told me; and I can quite understand it. Besides, nothing makes one so vain as being told that one is a sinner. There is really no end to the consolations that women find in modern life. Indeed, I have not mentioned the most important one of all.”

“What is that, Harry?” said Dorian Gray, listlessly.

“Oh, the obvious one. Taking some one else’s admirer when one loses one’s own. In good society that always whitewashes a woman. But really, Dorian, how different Sibyl Vane must have been from all the women one meets! There is something to me quite beautiful about her death. I am glad I am living in a century when such wonders happen. They make one believe in the reality of the things that shallow, fashionable people play with, such as romance, passion, and love.”

“I was terribly cruel to her. You forget that.”

“I believe that women appreciate cruelty more than anything else. They have wonderfully primitive instincts. We have emancipated them, but they remain slaves looking for their masters, all the same. They love being dominated. I am sure you were splendid. I have never seen you angry, but I can fancy how delightful you looked. And, after all, you said something to me the day before yesterday that seemed to me at the time to be merely fanciful, but that I see now was absolutely true, and it explains everything.”

[50] “What was that, Harry?”

“You said to me that Sibyl Vane represented to you all the heroines of romance–that she was Desdemona one night, and Ophelia the other; that if she died as Juliet, she came to life as Imogen.”

“She will never come to life again now,” murmured the lad, burying his face in his hands.

“No, she will never come to life. She has played her last part. But you must think of that lonely death in the tawdry dressing-room simply as a strange lurid fragment from some Jacobean tragedy, as a wonderful scene from Webster, or Ford, or Cyril Tourneur. The girl never really lived, and so she has never really died. To you at least she was always a dream, a phantom that flitted through Shakespeare’s plays and left them lovelier for its presence, a reed through which Shakespeare’s music sounded richer and more full of joy. The moment she touched actual life, she marred it, and it marred her, and so she passed away. Mourn for Ophelia, if you like. Put ashes on your head because Cordelia was strangled. Cry out against Heaven because the daughter of Brabantio died. But don’t waste your tears over Sibyl Vane. She was less real than they are.”

There was a silence. The evening darkened in the room. Noiselessly, and with silver feet, the shadows crept in from the garden. The colors faded wearily out of things.

After some time Dorian Gray looked up. “You have explained me to myself, Harry,” he murmured, with something of a sigh of relief. “I felt all that you have said, but somehow I was afraid of it, and I could not express it to myself. How well you know me! But we will not talk again of what has happened. It has been a marvellous experience. That is all. I wonder if life has still in store for me anything as marvellous.”

“Life has everything in store for you, Dorian. There is nothing that you, with your extraordinary good looks, will not be able to do.”

“But suppose, Harry, I became haggard, and gray, and wrinkled? What then?”

“Ah, then,” said Lord Henry, rising to go,–"then, my dear Dorian, you would have to fight for your victories. As it is, they are brought to you. No, you must keep your good looks. We live in an age that reads too much to be wise, and that thinks too much to be beautiful. We cannot spare you. And now you had better dress, and drive down to the club. We are rather late, as it is.”

“I think I shall join you at the Opera, Harry. I feel too tired to eat anything. What is the number of your sister’s box?”

“Twenty-seven, I believe. It is on the grand tier. You will see her name on the door. But I am sorry you won’t come and dine.”

“I don’t feel up to it,” said Dorian, wearily. “But I am awfully obliged to you for all that you have said to me. You are certainly my best friend. No one has ever understood me as you have.”

“We are only at the beginning of our friendship, Dorian,” answered Lord Henry, shaking him by the hand. “Good-by. I shall see you before nine-thirty, I hope. Remember, Patti is singing.”

As he closed the door behind him, Dorian Gray touched the bell, [51] and in a few minutes Victor appeared with the lamps and drew the blinds down. He waited impatiently for him to go. The man seemed to take an interminable time about everything.

As soon as he had left, he rushed to the screen, and drew it back. No; there was no further change in the picture. It had received the news of Sibyl Vane’s death before he had known of it himself. It was conscious of the events of life as they occurred. The vicious cruelty that marred the fine lines of the mouth had, no doubt, appeared at the very moment that the girl had drunk the poison, whatever it was. Or was it indifferent to results? Did it merely take cognizance of what passed within the soul? he wondered, and hoped that some day he would see the change taking place before his very eyes, shuddering as he hoped it.

Poor Sibyl! what a romance it had all been! She had often mimicked death on the stage, and at last Death himself had touched her, and brought her with him. How had she played that dreadful scene? Had she cursed him, as she died? No; she had died for love of him, and love would always be a sacrament to him now. She had atoned for everything, by the sacrifice she had made of her life. He would not think any more of what she had made him go through, that horrible night at the theatre. When he thought of her, it would be as a wonderful tragic figure to show Love had been a great reality. A wonderful tragic figure? Tears came to his eyes as he remembered her child-like look and winsome fanciful ways and shy tremulous grace. He wiped them away hastily, and looked again at the picture.

He felt that the time had really come for making his choice. Or had his choice already been made? Yes, life had decided that for him,– life, and his own infinite curiosity about life. Eternal youth, infinite passion, pleasures subtle and secret, wild joys and wilder sins,–he was to have all these things. The portrait was to bear the burden of his shame: that was all.

A feeling of pain came over him as he thought of the desecration that was in store for the fair face on the canvas. Once, in boyish mockery of Narcissus, he had kissed, or feigned to kiss, those painted lips that now smiled so cruelly at him. Morning after morning he had sat before the portrait wondering at its beauty, almost enamoured of it, as it seemed to him at times. Was it to alter now with every mood to which he yielded? Was it to become a hideous and loathsome thing, to be hidden away in a locked room, to be shut out from the sunlight that had so often touched to brighter gold the waving wonder of the hair? The pity of it! the pity of it!

For a moment he thought of praying that the horrible sympathy that existed between him and the picture might cease. It had changed in answer to a prayer; perhaps in answer to a prayer it might remain unchanged. And, yet, who, that knew anything about Life, would surrender the chance of remaining always young, however fantastic that chance might be, or with what fateful consequences it might be fraught? Besides, was it really under his control? Had it indeed been prayer that had produced the substitution? Might there not be some curious scientific reason for it all? If thought could exercise its [52] influence upon a living organism, might not thought exercise an influence upon dead and inorganic things? Nay, without thought or conscious desire, might not things external to ourselves vibrate in unison with our moods and passions, atom calling to atom, in secret love or strange affinity? But the reason was of no importance. He would never again tempt by a prayer any terrible power. If the picture was to alter, it was to alter. That was all. Why inquire too closely into it?

For there would be a real pleasure in watching it. He would be able to follow his mind into its secret places. This portrait would be to him the most magical of mirrors. As it had revealed to him his own body, so it would reveal to him his own soul. And when winter came upon it, he would still be standing where spring trembles on the verge of summer. When the blood crept from its face, and left behind a pallid mask of chalk with leaden eyes, he would keep the glamour of boyhood. Not one blossom of his loveliness would ever fade. Not one pulse of his life would ever weaken. Like the gods of the Greeks, he would be strong, and fleet, and joyous. What did it matter what happened to the colored image on the canvas? He would be safe. That was everything.

He drew the screen back into its former place in front of the picture, smiling as he did so, and passed into his bedroom, where his valet was already waiting for him. An hour later he was at the Opera, and Lord Henry was leaning over his chair.

[dazzledbybooks]

Today we have the release blitz for Karen Muir’s THE DADDY COACH! Check it out and be sure to grab your copy today! Title: The Daddy Coach Author: Karen Muir Genre: Contemporary Romance About The Daddy Coach: Hoping to vindicate her brother, botanist Gina Dunn poses as a nanny to the man she believes framed him. Even though she grew up in a dysfunctional home, how hard can it be looking after twin four-year-old boys? If she can nurture rare orchids, surely she can handle this.   Instant fatherhood hits contractor Will Sinclair hard when his twin sons he didn't know existed come to live with him. The rebellious boys reject Will as their real dad, forcing him to turn to Gina, his new nanny, for her "expert" help.   Interacting with Will and his boys as a “daddy” coach, Gina starts to crave the family she's always longed to have. But Will's reaction when he learns of her deception isn’t her biggest fear––one of two men she loves is lying…   Get Your Copy: Entangled | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | Apple iBooks | Goodreads Exclusive Excerpt: On the family room couch, Ian and Harry flopped down on either side of Gina and snuggled close. She put her arms around them and read Where the Wild Things Are. The boys grew quiet. Good sign. They were drowsy. When she finished a second story, their eyes were closed. Finally. I've worn them out. She'd give them a minute to sink into deep sleep, then resume what might be her last search of the house. Leaning her head back on the couch, she closed her eyes. She would start with Will's black filing cabinet. In her mind's eye she saw herself opening the top drawer. A swarm of butterflies flew out, and Harry and Ian leaped to catch them, squealing and knocking over several block towers. The center drawer of the desk began spewing black smoke. She grabbed a potholder to wrench it open with one hand, while picking up the jangling phone with the other. Will's velvet voice purred in her ear. "How's it going?" "Just great!" The boys became burning bundles in her arms, and she grew uncomfortably warm. She lifted her head and opened her eyes to check Harry. Sleeping soundly, he looked innocent and sweet, not at all the bratty beast who'd confronted her yesterday with his water gun. She ran her fingers through his hair and across his damp brow. She turned to do the same to Ian, then sensing movement, glanced up to see Will approaching slowly. Caught in the cross-hairs of his gaze, she froze. He stopped in front of her and slowly loosened his tie. A surge of attraction stirred low in her belly. Why did she find this man so compelling? Framing Kyle meant he had the morals of a snake. "Sorry to wake you." His midnight soft voice held a hint of laughter. "No problem." Damn. He was here, and her chance to search the rest of his house was gone. The twins stirred at her sides and awoke. "Hi, guys," Will said. "How was your day?" Harry rubbed his eyes. "Ian broke the window." "Gina broke the washing machine," Ian countered. “We had ants for lunch.” Stunned, Gina looked from one boy to the other. The debrief continued. "Gina said a bad word." "Two times," Ian confirmed. At the shock in Will's eyes, she groaned. She was toast. He knelt to examine the stack at her feet. "I see you got some books. "Yeah, we went to the library," Ian said." Harry was not done ratting her out. "We made cookies and got flour all over the floor." Ian frowned. "They were black." "We had a water fight." "Gina wore your pajamas." Hands over their mouths, the boys snickered. Will stood, his brows raised. Her cheeks burning, Gina studied the carpet. "Sounds like you had a busy day," he said. "Yeah," Harry agreed. "It was cool." Gina smiled. It had been cool, but she was going to be fired for a dozen reasons. Time for a quick exit. She scooted off the couch and turned to the boys. "Thanks for letting me spend the day with you guys." She shook their limp hands. "Goodbye, Harry. Goodbye, Ian." Disappointed frowns replaced their smiles, and guilt gnawed her. She had earned the boys' trust and now she was leaving. “I’ll see you out,” Will said. “No need.” But he and the boys trailed her to the door, as she kicked herself for botching her one-day trial. Maybe it was for the best. Ian and Harry were troubled boys who needed a real caregiver with lots of kid skills, not a clueless pseudo-nanny who was out to nail their dad. She reached the front door and turned to give the boys a parting wave. About Karen Muir: A sense of humor was a must when Karen taught elementary grades and Head Start, and she's always loved books and movies that make her laugh. Karen's Fish Out of Water series from Entangled Publishing deals with heroines thrust outside their comfort zones. Their first meetings with their heroes tend to be quirky. An English Lit major at the University of Washington, Karen now reads mostly genre novels. Contemporary and historical romances and mysteries are my favorites. She loves camping--out in the wilds and close to nature--with all the comforts of our motor home. Sitting by a clear mountain stream with a good book to read is her idea of heaven. Connect with Karen: Website | Twitter | Facebook Enter Karen’s Giveaway: a Rafflecopter giveaway  

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