#sticky notes found in the attic

[harveywritings92]

BNHA you sleep walk/talk 2

Summary: You have a tendency to talk or walk in your sleep, it never really bothered your boyfriend, if you wandered off in your sleep he'd just follow you to make you don't get harmed and take you back to bed, or if you talk in your he'd humor you as he found it hilarious! but tonight was different... this night you seemed to channel something paranormal and it scares you boyfriend shitless.  

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Shoto: He was woken up at around 4 in the morning by you sitting up, Shoto was expecting you to get up start walking or start talking about how cats were hoarding pogo-sticks in the shed or something.... But instead when Shoto rolled over he was met with you staring intently into the hallway almost glaring. "What are you looking at?" he hummed eyes squinting trying to see what had attention. "Shh... She's listening." You whispered "Y/n, who's in the hallway?" Shoto asked now fully awake thinking someone was in the house. "The lady in the purple night gown" you hummed still asleep your husbands brow furrowed confused, maybe you really were dreaming and he was just being paranoid?

Just then Shoto felt a chill go down his spine when he saw the hallway light flickering, he watched petrified as a frail old woman in a purple nightgown ambled passed the bedroom and continue down the hall towards the guest room, then the lights stopped, Shoto carefully crept out of bed and looked from where the woman came from which was a noting but a wall... Which unnerved him even more as he tried figure out if it was quirk... or. "Don't be silly Shoto ghosts don't exist." he hissed to himself before following where the old woman had gone, only to find nothing...

Shoto checked everywhere in the house and even outside, but there was no sign of the old woman. "That's not possible..." he muttered not understanding what was happening, that old woman looked severely emaciated and had limp there was no possible way she could've ran out of the house so quickly! That’s what you woke up to that morning, Shoto was standing in the living room with a pot of coffee and a chalkboard layout of the house with a bunch of sticky notes scattered around. One yellow on the hall near your bedroom. [Entry point?} and three pinks marked [possible exits.] on the kitchen/backdoor, hallway window, Crawl space??? the peppermint haired man took a sip of his coffee then noticed you staring at him.

"Shoto? what heck is all this?" you asked warily while looking at the board perturbed, Your husband told you about your episode last night and described the old woman in the hall, and how she escaped and you went pale, you rushed to a closet pulled out a middle school year book and showed Shoto a picture of School's librarian! "This was Mrs. Ike... there's no way you could've seen her last night." You told him this used to be her house and that she's been dead for ten years! Needles to say Shoto had new outlook on the supernatural that day.

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Fatgum-Taishiro: Fatgum had woken up for midnight snack when he noticed you weren't in bed. "Y/n...dumpling?" he called out before yawning and looking around, he hummed looking around the dimly lit room not seeing you anywhere he assumed you went to bathroom and made his way to the kitchen but as he was walking through the living room, he saw you standing in front of the storage closet, where you've apparently barricaded the door with a heavy trunk that doubled as the coffee table, and curtain rod.

Taishiro was very confused by the by the whole thing until he remembered you slept walked and vaguely wondered if you were having another zombie plague dream? which would explain the barricade he was about take you back to bed when you suddenly whispered. "The one upstairs can never come out!" Your fiancé's brows furrowed incredulously and was gonna ask what does that mean?

When the door started rattling! followed by a woman screaming in anger! Taishiro jumped back yanking you behind him, which snapped you awake, needless to say you were scared shitless watching the door rattling and hearing a woman screaming and cursing like rabid animal both of you were staring stunned before you snapped out of it and called the police.

The "One upstairs" turned out to be a forty year old housewife who been missing for two weeks, She had a closeted obsession with Fatgum and had made up an entire relationship with the blond hero, and when she heard about his engagement to someone else the woman got jealous and snapped, for those two weeks she's been living in the tiny crawlspace above the storage closet, apparently planning "rescue" Taishiro from your poisoned grasp? she had everything she needed for the crime with her, an axe, rubber gloves and garbage bags, bleach etc.. and planned to do it while Taishiro gone, apparently she heard him wake up and assumed it was morning and made her move only to fine the door blocked.

When the cops asked you how did you know she was up there? You insisted that you didn't, this was all huge coincidence or some other force at work! "Look all I know is that I had dreams that aliens were attacking the house, one got in by the attic and the only why to keep it up there was to barricade the door! I seriously didn't know that lady was hiding in there!" The cops looked at you oddly before your fiancé explained your sleep disorder to them . After this incident both you and Taishiro were looking for a new home, and had a serious talk about investing in security cameras!

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Kirishima x Reader x Bakugou: "Baku...Yo, Baku wake up man!" Kirishima hissed shaking Katsuki violently the blonde growled as his red eyes glared at the clock next to the bed then at his male lover. "Shitty hair it is three in the morning..." he snarled if looks could kill, but Eijirou didn't even flinch he just looked outside the bedroom with this freaked out look. "Y/n's in the hall..." Katsuki frowned annoyed that he'd been woken up cos their girlfriend had wandered off in her sleep again! 

"Then go get her!" the blond huffed laying back down, but the redhead wouldn't let him! "I can't!" now Katsuki was getting more agitated! "What do you mean you can't? just hold her hand or somethin-" Kirishima cut him off. "No, you don't get it! I physically can't move her, it's like her feet are superglued to the floor!?" The Blond turned to look at him and saw Eijirou's nervous face redhead was dead serious...

They both left the bedroom to find you still standing in the hall with this blank express just starring at the end of the hall, immediately Katsuki felt a chill go down his spine as his watched Kirishima try pushing and picking you up, but it was like some kind of invisible force was keeping you pinned to that spot! "Don't stare Katsuki help me!" The blond went over to he tried pulling while Kirishma pushed, but you would not budge! they tried talking, tickling you, pinching you! but you were like a statue! 

Until Katsuki set off a small explosion, that did the trick! as you awoke to your ears ringing and pissed! You were about to snap at the blond for blowing up the bed! when you noticed you weren't in the bed. instead you were standing in the hallway and your boyfriends were looking at you genuinely scared and concerned.

But before you could what ask what was going on?, saw the lights in the kitchen were flickering followed by the sound of the pots being thrown and doors slamming, making the three of you jump as the activity got worse, The tv turned on it's own channels changing rapidly, the lights started flicking in the bedroom! then a picture frame flew off the wall nearly hitting you!

That was enough for the guys as Kirishima threw you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes as he and Bakugou ran for the front door, luckily the three of you keep your wallets and keys in a bowl by the door! Katsuki opened the door letting You and Kirishima go passed him first, before he slammed the door shut, the three of you piled into the car and drove away into night! Never to come back until it was time to move your stuff out!

[floriannas]

What Exactly Gothic Is

(Let me preface with trigger warnings, because Gothic makes a point of delving into dark themes: murder, abuse, racism, homophobia, incest, ableism, misogyny)

I have seen certain posts about what the definite characteristics of gothic fiction are that, I hate to say...felt either incomplete or inaccurate. And that has bothered me enough to make my own post about, at the very least, my understanding of this genre. 

Some things to get out of the way:

Gothic does not have one fixed definition. It is fluid and nebulous, and while all literature reflects its society, genre changes massively depending on where it was written. Canadian Gothic is not Welsh Gothic is not American Gothic. Victorian Gothic is not contemporary Gothic is not Regency Gothic. Nineteenth century British gothic is often in response to the drastic technological changes of the industrial revolution. Welsh Gothic has a lot of focus on the disenfranchised and the coal mining industry. Where and when your WIP is, and where and when YOU are writing it, is going to define it. 

We cannot talk about Gothic as a genre without talking about the racism that much of it is rooted in. We cannot ignore Charlotte Bronte’s dehumanising description of Bertha Rochester, a creole woman. We cannot ignore that Edward Hyde’s physical description is less ‘white’ than Henry Jekyll’s. We cannot ignore Heathcliff’s identity as a racially ambiguous villain. We cannot ignore just how bigoted in every way Dracula is. We CANNOT ignore the whiteness of much of the ‘feminist’ gothic literature, either. This is something you must be aware of if you're writing Gothic - it is not integral to gothic fiction but as I will explain, the traits of the genre lend themselves to antagonising marginalised groups.

Gothic is not just gothic horror. It can be horror, but it is still a genre in its own right and the horror is not mandatory.  

This post is about gothic as a literary genre. I will not be talking about Ostrogoths, Visigoths, gothic architecture or art, and - for once - I’m not talking about the Goth subculture either, the two actually have almost nothing in common.

Some frequent, though not all required, characteristics of the gothic (this is NOT a checklist. I cannot stress that this is a genre purposefully WITHOUT a clear definition):

Familial trauma - the ending of family lines (the presence of the aristocracy is common in Gothic, this trope perhaps most blatantly depicted in Edgar Allan Poe’s The Fall of the House of Usher), hauntings - not necessarily literal but metaphorical. There’s often a secret, or some kind of terrible incident that has been covered up, amongst a family that is inevitably unearthed. Marital trauma is very common - as seen in Jane Eyre with the original ‘madwoman in the attic’, the mystery surrounding the titular character in Rebecca, the secret room of The Bloody Chamber, the murdered husband being literally unearthed in House of America. 

The setting is everything in Gothic. It often has a presence enough that it is a character in its own right. Key things about the setting is that it’s typically old - or at least old enough to have a turbulent history - and typically remote, ‘feral’, in amongst nature and separate from civilisation. The latter is very often executed in a racist and/or xenophobic way in Gothic classics. Think very critically of what is considered ‘civilisation’ and what is not. Dracula being a novel about white Christian Britons being threatened by an Eastern European vampire? Don’t replicate that. You will also see the ‘sublime’ (see below) here, and motifs of decay (which can be linked to the ending of a family line easily!), and themes surrounding imprisonment and escape. Gothic fiction loves pathetic fallacy - whether a storm, fog, rain or bitter cold, the weather is absolutely there to set the tone.

Repression. This can be of a trauma, but repression of sexuality can feature too. I have seen it asserted that homoeroticism is a key component in Gothic, and while it can feature, I would not say entirely agree, for a number of reasons. There is often a focus on ‘taboo’ sexuality, a categorisation which places LGBT people with taboos such as incest (which features often in some forms of Gothic). Homophobic tropes such as the predatory gay villain (e.g. Dracula’s obsession with Jonathan Harker and Mrs Danver’s obsession with Rebecca) are fairly common, and a general treatment of homosexuality as immoral or depraved especially older texts, so let’s not act like it’s always been a LGBT friendly genre. Something either hidden away or repressed that is then discovered is a huge, huge, component to most gothic fiction. 

Misogynistic gender dynamics are often present: the combination of a young, vulnerable and innocent woman with an older male ‘Byronic Hero’ type love interest is common. The Victorian template of ‘bad’, ‘promiscuous’ or otherwise ‘improper’ woman reaching a sticky end is well loved. And then there’s Poe’s sinister obsession with ‘beautiful dead woman’. Don’t forget the intersection of ableism and misogyny with the ‘mad’ women like Bertha Rochester and Miss Havisham (though Eleanor Vance of The Haunting of Hill House is a sympathetic antidote of this trope.) The way women are written is something I’d very much like us to move beyond. 

The sublime: this is everywhere. That something, especially the wilderness, is beautiful and massive enough to be incomprehensible. 

Doubles or doppelgangers. Often as a ‘darker’ reflection of the protagonist - such as the hero and villain having close parallels, or the heroine as a foil to her husband’s mysterious dead first wife. It doesn’t have to exist just in this way, but the motif of the doppelganger is one Gothic fiction likes a lot.

‘Otherness’ or monstrosity. ‘Otherness’ and ‘Othering’ is something that is a crucial part of literary theory - what the narrative deems strange, unfamiliar, not like us, and so most depictions of monsters will also be Othered. Considering how almost all of the time in the Western literary canon this is a vehicle for racism, please think critically. Frankenstein’s monster has a more nuanced approach to what society defines as strange, or monstrous, how monstrosity is created, and self fulfilling prophecies. 

Cultural anxiety. This is by no means unique to Gothic but the genre is shaped by what the society of its creation is afraid of. This - like Frankenstein or The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde - can be scientific advancement and new discoveries we do not yet understand, but the problem arises that for a lot of Western Gothic this has been marginalised groups. 

The Uncanny. As found in various forms of horror - same with the fear of the unknown, but often in Gothic - that something resembles something else enough to recognise at least what it ‘tries’ to be, but not enough for it to be truly familiar. This is a really effective way to make any person, place, or thing unsettling.

I think I’ve covered most of my notes - please take my first bullet point into consideration as this will inevitably be a bit UK centric. The thing about gothic is that it doesn’t really have one fixed meaning, so you have a lot of freedom. Bonus: if you want to read a really good gay feminist Gothic short story, ‘The Resident’ by Carmen Maria Machado is one of the best pieces of fiction, ever. 

[yespolkadotkitty]

So I read Elixir and I love how you write sex pollen and I was wondering if you could do one for our other federal agent, Marcus?

Jump Start

Warnings: smut. A lot of smut. Unbeta’d writing; soft Marcus. 

Words: 3,500

Summary: What if Marcus only went to DC for a while? And what if he came back for you?

Marcus: Still game for tonight?

You: Are you kidding? Cho and Lisbon have bigged up that Aladdin’s Cave for months. I’ll be there.

Marcus: You sure this is what you want for your birthday?

You: Yes.

Marcus: Okay then… Bring a pillow because I’ll probably bore you to sleep with all the art stories.

When the elevator doors part to reveal Agent Marcus Pike, you’re standing by the door to the lock-up. A smile lights up his face when he sees you, and your heart bumps hard in your chest. He slides his hands in his pocket, a blush creeping up his neck.

“Happy birthday.”

“Thanks, Marcus.”

He ducks his head, a little shy. You know he isn’t always. You’d seen him in the interview room a few times last year, when your team and his had co-run a case. Watched his eyes go hard, his face stern. He’d slammed a file down on the desk inches from a suspect’s face and the surprisingly rough side to him had made you shiver.

Lisbon had sent you a knowing look and you’d ignored her.

She’d had her chance and she’d blown it, and frankly you didn’t want to know what she and Marcus had shared; how close they’d been.

Marcus had gone to DC after that. A year’s undercover work has helped him heal, you think. Get his head back in the game.

He came back for another co-op case, and thankfully, Lisbon and Jane had been away on honeymoon then.

You and Marcus had worked this one together, sometimes late into the night, sharing take-out and anecdotes from other old cases, and then, you’d started hanging out, a little.

He’s interesting. Funny. Friendly. Panty-melting gorgeous.

Heart-stoppingly gorgeous.

Cho dropped that it was your birthday at last week’s after-work drinks, and then Marcus had texted offering you a tour of the art lock up. You’d been rota’d off the day Cho and Lisbon got to see it, last year.

Patrick Jane hadn’t been allowed in. Marcus had muttered something about sticky fingers when you’d asked him about it.

“You ready?” He ducks his head to buss your cheek and you meet him halfway, breathing him in, minty gum, sandalwood, and the gourmet coffee he hides in his office. He shared it with you once and it’s like him, memorable, decadent, addictive.

“Ready.” You pull away, reluctantly, wanting him, but he’s never given you any overt hints that he sees you as anything more than a colleague.

He and Lisbon are cordial to each other when they meet, but for all you know, he’s still pining over her.

You daren’t ask; you don’t want to know the answer.

Marcus punches in a code to the first gate, then plucks the rings of keys from his pocket and opens the dinner door of the lock-up, a smile playing on his scruffy face. He grew the patchy beard during his time in DC and it really suits him, highlights his beautiful jaw and makes his soulful eyes a deeper brown.

This time on a Saturday, no one else is around.

“A private museum,” you breathe as you see all the paintings, sculptures and other art set carefully in frames or on desks or custom made plinths.

“Yeah, I always feel like Aladdin.” He scoffs at himself. “I say that every time. What a dork.”

You turn and grin at him. “I like it. You’re an art geek. It’s sexy.” The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them.

Marcus’ brow wings up. “That so?”

“Um, sure.” You duck your head, embarrassed. “So. Tell me some art stories,  Special Agent Pike. What’s new here?”

He brightens, soulful chocolate eyes going wide for just a moment. “Well. There’s this equine sculpture. Maker’s mark is Italian but we seized it during a raid for paintings. Wasn’t expecting it.” He snaps on white gloves and offers you a pair, then gently turns over the statue to show you the swirling signature on the bottom. “We’re still not sure where the other two are.”

You trace a gloved finger over the horse’s detailed mane, wrought perfectly in cherrywood. “Other two?

“Sure. This is part of a set. You can tell here-” he points out a divot in the base that you wouldn’t even have noticed, and another on the opposite end. “And here. The two connecting statues are missing - other horses, I’d guess.”

“Wow.”

Marcus sets the horse down and meets your gaze. “You bored yet?”

“Nope! More!”

He chuckles indulgently. “Okay. Why don’t you choose.”

You wander around the various lock-up cages for a while, examining instruments, more statues, even a huge quilt that looks woven with gold.

After a few moments, a painting about your height catches your eye. It’s an orgy, but tastefully done, painted in shades of amber and gold, the bodies fluid, enchanting.

“I’ve never seen such a… soft depiction of a group bang,” you smile.

Marcus’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “That came in last week. Rumour has it, the artist was quite the lothario back in the 1800s. A steady stream of, ah, callers to his penthouse in Florence. The accounts of his sexual prowess are something else.”

“I bet.” You eye the curves of the women in the painting; she looks soft, welcoming, her eyes closed in ethereal bliss. “So, how’d you get this?”

“Allegedly, found in an attic. We went to the house to pick it up. The man who gave it to me - said they just moved in - seemed kinda high.” Marcus’ brow furrows. “Very mellow. Pretty sure he’d been smoking something. He was half-dressed.”

You crouch, examine the painting more closely. “And you didn’t… arrest him?”

Marcus shrugs. “Art’s our deal. I did note the address with a colleague in the DEA, so if it gets flagged again, they’ll investigate.”

Something about the painting keeps you enraptured. You spy a little notch in the frame. “Do you think something’s hidden in here?”

Marcus bends next to you to examine the area you point to. He’s been working today, so he still wears his suit, the red tie the little bit of flash he allows himself on the job. His scent weaves around you, the lick of coffee, the gasp of mint, and something uniquely Marcus.

“It looks like something…. Comes undone?”

You both lean in together, and you edge your gloved finger along the groove in the ornate gold-effect frame.

Marcus does the same from the other end. “Wow,” he breathes. “A hidden compartment?” Then his eyebrows shoot up as part of the frame depresses under his finger, clicking. He grins hugely. “Well, now I really do feel like Aladdin.”

“Don’t suppose you’ve got a little monkey wearing a fez around here, do you?” You tease.

“Maybe a magic carpet. I-”

He’s cut off when a hissing noise pops from the painting. You and Marcus both lean in to try and hear it more closely, and just when you get close, powder sprays from the frame, light gold in colour and smelling faintly musty.

You cough, reeling back, your hands over your face. “Gross.”

Marcus steps back too, wiping a gloved hand over his face and examining the golden-hued powder on the cotton fabric. “What the hell-”

You slowly sit down on the floor. “I feel… sort of dizzy. Hot.”

Marcus crosses to you, crouching in front of you, and if you didn’t feel so discombobulated, you would appreciate the closeness of him, the amber shot through his irises, the slight curl of his cowlick. “I’ll go get help. Maybe some water?”

You’re burning up. A slow dance starts in the pit of your belly, something that you think was always there, maybe, but intensified now Marcus is so close. “Please don’t go.”

His brow furrows in concern. “Of course.” He smoothes a gloved hand over your hair, and then you see it; the change in his eyes, the way they go dark and hot. “I… what the fuck is this stuff? I feel…”

You clutch at his forearms, feeling the play of lean muscle under his suit. “What if…. What if this was the reason that painter was such a, um, lothario?”

Marcus’ gaze has dropped to your mouth and at your words, he blinks. “What? Oh. Oh.”

“Yeah,” you say slowly. “Marcus, I…”

He stands up, backing away. “I can’t be near you. Not when I want… I can’t.”

You reach out to him. “What if you stayed?”

He gazes down at you, longing in those bottomless eyes, and now you can clearly see the outline of the powder’s effect on him. “I can’t. Can’t do that to you.”

A flash of hope pierces the haze descending on you. “You want to? Because of the.. Stuff,” you finish lamely.

An expression of half desire, half pain, sketches itself over Marcus’ features. “I’ve wanted to for a while. That night we worked late.” He’s half-panting now, the fingers of one hand curled around the wall of his side of the lock-up. “Wanted to take you over the desk. I - fuck- can’t do it.”

You make to move. “Marcus-”

“Not like this,” he groans, that voice of sin and sex dropping half an octave, California with a lick of the drawl of Texas. “Not… like this.”

“Don’t go!” You beg. Your insides are burning up for him. If he’d just touch you. Just for a moment.

Marcus is shaking his head, fumbling with the door on this section of the lock-up. You lunge for him but he pulls the door closed, locking you in and him out.

He turns the key, then tosses the ring across the room.

“I’m sorry. I can’t. Not like this. Goes against everything.”

“But I want you,” you say. You crawl over to the fencing separating you. “At least… touch my hand.”

You pull your gloves off, slide your fingers through the holes in the mesh.

Marcus takes his gloves off too, tangles his fingers with your the best he can. He sighs deeply. “I had this whole date thing planned. Dinner at an Italian that reminds me of a place I ate at in my gap year.”

“Marcus,” you whisper. “So you do really like me.”

He groans. “Sweetheart, I haven’t been able to think about anything but you since I got back from DC, and there you were, pretty as a picture, working late with me, sharing Chinese food. Making me laugh.”

You swallow, wanting him so badly it hurts. Every inch of you burns for him.

“I wanted to go slow,” he rasps out. “I know I jump in. Get overexcited. But with you.. I wanted to do it right. Fuck.” With his free hand he, almost unconsciously, palms himself through his suit pants, his eyes rolling back. “What the hell is this drug?”

You hungrily follow the path of his hand with your gaze. “Lothario, remember?”

“I remember.” Marcus groans, pressing the heel of his hand against his erection. He’s sitting awkwardly. “Bastard.”

“Marcus.” You squeeze his hand. “I want this. I want you. It’s lonely up on that white horse.”

He shakes his head, vehement. “It’s….not… not right.”

You press against the caging and just the pressure of the mesh on your breasts makes you moan. “So I can’t touch you, and you won’t touch me, but you also won’t leave me.” You watch him squeeze his eyes shut, look at the tent in his suit pants. “Touch yourself.”

His eyes pop open. “What?”

“If you won’t leave and you won’t… give in to whatever this is, although I want you more than I’ve wanted any man, ever…. Let me see you.”

A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead as he looks at you, big brown eyes considering. He’s weighing every option. Marcus is thoughtful, considered. Considerate. He always thinks two steps ahead, encompasses everyone in plans and strategies.

But he’s blindsided by this, and you can’t say it isn’t sexy as hell to see him unravel this way.

“Please,” you add, holding his gaze.

He squeezes your fingers and the air changes between you, and then he leans heavily against the mesh and you take the opportunity to stroke his hair, a little, and it’s so soft. Feels like silk, and you have to touch more of him, but maybe you’ll get to at least see more, so you will your breathing to calm, just a bit, as he fumbles one-handedly with his belt buckle and then slides the zipper of his suit pants down to reveal plain grey boxers, darkened in the centre by a damp patch, and your throat is so dry.

“Have you…” your heart bumps hard, the rush of seeing new parts of Marcus making you even dizzier. “Ever gotten off in this evidence locker before?”

“Can’t say I have.” Marcus’ gaze stays on your face, earnest. “I can go. I can just go.”

“Please. Please don’t go. Come in.”

“Can’t do that.” He closes his eyes; looks like he is silently praying for the power to resist you. His fingers curl into the parted edge of his suit pants.

“Let me see you?”

He sucks in a deep breath, then exhales shakily. “This is not how I planned to seduce you. Just so you know.”

Your pulse rabbits. “You seduce me every moment, Marcus. With every sweet text. Every time you smile at me. All your art stories. When you say my name. Your voice, oh God.”

Marcus’ hand trembles as he holds your gaze through the wire mesh of the lock-up, and he finally, finally parts the opening of the plain grey boxers and draws himself out, and you just drink him in with your eyes, the shape of him, the swollen tip, his length and girth, the curling hair at his base. It looks as silky as the hair on his head and you hear yourself groan needily.

“Marcus.”

He fists himself, his gaze hot on yours. “Not how I planned this date,” he repeats. “I feel like I’m on fire for you.” He rasps out your name and you watch his hand move, and suddenly it’s too much, the heat between your legs cannot be ignored, and you shove your skirt up and mirror Marcus on the floor.

His head jerks around. “Fuck,” he hisses.

“Never knew you had such a potty mouth,” you half-gasp, half-tease.

“For you, I’ll do whatever you want with my mouth.”

You groan at that as you circle your clit with a finger.

Marcus almost growls “Underwear off, I want to see.” His voice, that voice, is gentle-rough, and you think of the day you watched him in the interview room.

“Whatever you say, Agent Pike.”

“Christ.” He’s jacking off in earnest now, his gaze riveted to you as you pull off your underwear with one hand, letting it fall wherever. Your skirt is rucked up around your hips and the fact it’s Marcus watching you is a huge turn on, but honestly you’re not sure if you could have stopped, for anything.

Your combined pants fill the space. You’ve never been so wet. When you slide two fingers inside yourself the sound is obscene.

“It’s.. a wonder..  He ever got… any painting done,” Marcus grits out.

You laugh. “Now?  You wanna talk about art now?”

He huffs. “Art is the reason we’re here. Like this.” Then he sucks in a breath and you look down at him, his balls drawn up tight, his cock wet with his own pre-come.

“Marcus Matthew Pike, I swear to God, if you don’t get in here right now, I will never ever speak to you again.”

He hesitates.

“I swear on Van Gogh’s ear,” you add, your internal muscles fluttering.

Marcus half-yanks up his pants, scrabbles for the key. The seconds feel like hours until he appears again, boxers and pants around his knees, shirt tails hanging, and he opens the mesh door and you yank him in and kiss him and you tumble to the floor together, and Marcus grabs both your wrists and pins them above you with one hand, his face dark and determined, and it makes your heart pound.

“Please,” you grate out. “Marcus. I need you.” You spread your legs and try to hook your feet over his calves, but he shakes his head.

“Not yet. Sweetheart, not yet.” He curls your fingers into the wire of the mesh. “Hold on. Don’t… don’t touch me. I wanna make it good for you, first.”

You hear yourself keen his name as he shucks off his clothes from the waist down, then slides down your body and puts that gorgeous mouth to work. Your favourite thing he did with his mouth until now was talking, but this-

Maybe he’s writing his name, maybe he’s writing a sonnet, but whatever it is, the way he curls his tongue is obscene, and you don’t know if it’s partly the drug, but when he puts two fingers inside you, you come so hard you almost black out. And then lust rears its head again and you grab for him, carding one hand through his hair and cupping him with the other, and he’s slick in your palm and the ridges and heat of his cock feel so good.

“Marcus.” You fist a hand in his hair, pull a little, and he groans and pants, and you take the opportunity to pump him in your fist until he swears under his breath.

"Condom. Oh fuck. Condom."

He hesitates, then drops a soft kiss on your lips - your first, you think, a bit giddy - and you taste yourself, and he licks into your mouth and whispers your name and it's pure, unadulterated bliss.

Then he extricates himself, rummages in his suit pants, and as soon as he has the foil square in his hand you grab for him, pulling him down on top of you.

"After this," you murmur, "you're gonna bend me over the desk." And you roll the condom down his dick and he lets out a long, slow breath and pushes inside you and it's everything.

Everything inside you quiets for a moment that stretches as he starts to move, caging you in with his braced forearms, and you look into his dark chocolate eyes and his heart is on his face, with Marcus it always is. It's your favourite thing about him.

He nibbles at your lips as you make love to eachother, and you hook your legs around his hips to stop him pulling out too much. You want him close, want to feel his skin under your hands. The buttons of his shirt rasp against your dress, and if you were more aware you might think it's ridiculous, him bringing you to orgasm with you both half dressed in the floor of the art squad lock-up, but you can't care. Not when his cock hits you right there, and then you're keening his name and he tumbles over the cliff edge with you, pressing hard in those final thrusts as your muscles milk him.

You curl around him. "Marcus."

He sighs, presses his forehead to yours. "Was that… are you okay?"

You chuckle lazily. "I've never been more okay."

He cuddles you close, nosing at your cheek, murmuring sweet nothings. "Christ, what is this stuff? I could go again."

At his words desire rears its head. "There must be a desk in here somewhere, right?"

And his eyes go hot.

And that's how you find yourself bent over a desk recovered from an abandoned shipping off, the edges intricately gilded. You cling to them as Marcus fucks you hard and fast, just the way he'd fantasised about, and it's so good that you sob his name over and over.

Afterwards he cuddles you so gently, stroking your hair as he whispers praises about how good you felt around him, how next time he's gonna give you a bed covered in rose petals.

You shake your head, kissing him deeply, helping him into his jacket. "You're all I want, Marcus. Any way I can have you."

A flush colours his cheeks as he cups your cheeks. "Dinner? Let me take you out to dinner."

"I'd rather have it in bed. Have you in bed."

His eyes go wide for a second. "The drug.."

"This isn't the drug and you know it." You loop your arms around his neck. "It just jump-started us. Never been so grateful to a horny nineteenth century painter."

Marcus laughs out loud, hugs you, then releases you to hold your hand, tug you towards the elevator. "You're the best thing that ever happened to me. You know that, right?"

Happiness unfurls slowly inside you. "I could stand to hear it again."

Tagging the Pedro pals! @soldade @beccaplaying @heatherbel @mourningbirds1 @alldatalost @songsformonkeys @agirllovespasta @nelba @chews-erotically @mrschiltoncat @gamingaquarius @alienprincesspoop @dornish-queen @lackofhonor @agentpike @jaime1110 @thegreenkid @pedropascallion   @mrsparknuts @buckstaposition @winters-buck @oloreaa @mstgsmy @synystersilenceinblacknwhite @holographic-carmen @cryptkeepersoul @alwaysbethewest @poenariuniverse @starlight-starwrites @keeper0fthestars @alwaysbethewest @kindablackenedsuperhero @abuttoncalledsmalls @f0rever15elf

And @arch-venus25 did you wanna be tagged in Pedro stuff?

[zutarabender]

Happy Endings

Zutara Week - Day 7: Stories

Summary: Zuko's legs drag him to the attic of the Ember Island House, his hands close to burning every last memento of a family he can't call his own. He doesn't expect to find anyone there, least of all Katara.

Author notes: I just want to take the time to thank the wonderful mod of @zutaraweek​ for another successful run of the event. It has been amazing to see what everyone comes up with. Here’s for the next one!

1.3k words | No content warnings | Read on AO3

---

After a few days taking refuge in the Ember Island house, Zuko found himself alone for the first time in weeks.

Everyone else had probably gone to town, or down to the beach; he didn't really know, but the house was eerily quiet and it was impossible not to succumb to the gloom that came with the empty walls. It was the sort of dread that always won him over and pulled him under. As it was, it was a terrible idea to go up to the attic, even as he let his feet drag him there. It would be too full of haunting mementos and disturbing relics and Zuko had no reason to put himself through that.

Up he went, anyway. He'd expected to see a mess, to be hit by the smell of old books and the sticky stillness of stale air. He'd expected to rage up a burning storm and get rid of anything that would turn into smoke.

What he hadn't expected to see was that the hatch was already open, and someone was already in the room.

Katara sat in front of a pile of books, going through it, barely lit by the attic's narrow window. Zuko didn't have time to fully process the image before the floor creaked under his feet and Katara started, letting go of the book she was holding as she took a hand to her chest, trying to steady her breath.

"Zuko! What are you doing here?"

"This is my house," he pointed out. "I thought you'd be out."

Only when Katara's eyes grew wide did Zuko realize how harsh he'd been in his shock. He wanted to apologize, but Katara spoke first, her voice small.

"I just... I don't know. I'm sorry, I... I didn't mean to intrude."

Zuko blinked rapidly. There was a time in which he would've screamed at her to get out of his life, to stop going through his family's old belongings. But after all she'd seen of him, all that he'd let her know, there was no point in being secretive. 

"It's okay," he assured her, sitting down next to her. He picked up the book she'd been holding moments prior, looking at it without taking it in. None of these things truly belonged to him, and perhaps they should hold no meaning, but their sole existence was enough to clench his chest into a tight grip. "This is all really old stuff anyway. I want to burn it."

He was serious, but it seemed to take a few moments to dawn on Katara.

"I really don't think that's a good idea." She spoke slowly, as if every word was chosen with the greatest care. "Even if you're careful not to burn down the entire house, which I know you can be, we're not even supposed to be here, and it might draw attention..."

"Right."

"Besides... well, I'm sure some things are worth keeping." Zuko forced himself to contain a sigh. So that's what she was really getting at. "I can help you organize it, if you want."

"I don't see why you'd want to do that."

It was a question, and Katara's subsequent silence was a puzzling, insufficient answer. He had time to wait for words, however, cross-legged among piles of books and letters and pictures of a family he had a hard time calling his own. Katara was decidedly not looking at him. But he wouldn't let go.

"I guess I'm just curious," she finally said.

"Katara..." His voice caught in his throat. "If there's anything that you want to know, you can just ask."

Katara bit her lip, and Zuko could only hope that his eagerness didn't come across as strongly as he'd felt it. As he tried to drown the warmth that had settled in his chest, Katara's eyes turned to the book he held.

"What is that, anyway?"

Zuko raised his eyebrows. Of all the questions she could have asked, that was one he hadn't been expecting. But now that Zuko looked at it properly, he found that he recognized it. It had no title, but the bright green cover was now fresh in his memory as if it had never left.

"It's just stories. For kids." He paused for a second, then added, "Mom used to read them to me when I was little."

Katara cocked her head to one side, a little smile appearing on her face.

"So which one was your favorite?"

It had been too long since he'd heard any of them, so he opened the book to the index. His eyes scanned the titles. They were vague and disconnected and meant little to him. All he could recall was how lively his mother's voice was when reading out loud, and how Azula would sneak her way into devouring the tales that their mother would refuse to share.

"I can't remember," he admitted, and the weight of that truth hit him like a punch to the gut. He shook his head, snapping himself out of it. "I... I don't know if it was from this book, but I've always liked the story about the Spirit of the Crimson Mountain. It's about a spirit whose memories were stolen from them, trying to find their way home. There are many versions, but the spirit succeeds in every single one of them."

"I never heard that one."

"You wouldn't have. It's a Fire Nation tale."

"We spent months traveling here. We got to hear many stories."

Zuko had no answer to that. In a twisted way, Katara probably knew more of the nation he'd once been a prince of than he did, cloistered up in the palace as he had been. She'd seen mountains and oceans, been blessed by the sun and welcomed by the rivers. Zuko couldn't say half as much.

After he'd been quiet for a little too long, Katara's smile grew into a wide grin.

"A happy ending, then," she said. "Didn't think you'd be one for happy endings."

He narrowed his eyes.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. I think it's sweet." And before Zuko could even process what she'd just said, Katara asked, "can I borrow that book for a bit?"

Sweet. That was a strong word coming from someone who swore she could kill him and had the nerve to prove it. From someone he'd betrayed, then expected too much from. It was an earthquake, or maybe he was free-falling and his body wasn't catching up. But he had to breathe deep and steady himself, which was near impossible when her big blue eyes were examining him so earnestly.

All Zuko could do was hand the book to her. It took Katara a few moments to react, slowly taking it from him, as if she were giving him time to regret it. But he wouldn't. There were things from his past that he couldn't quite let go of. Last time he'd been in this house, he would've gladly burnt it to the ground. Right then, the house was their shelter, their refuge, and these old memories were no longer a shackle to his past, but a bridge to his future.

"You were right," he muttered. "There might really be things worth rescuing from this mess. I just... I don't trust myself to find them."

"I said I'd help, didn't I?"

She had. And now he could see why.

He got up. Katara, still sitting down, looked at him curiously, so he offered her his hand, unable to contain a smile.

"I hope you're ready to start."

[slasherkisss]

ok HEAR ME OUT: Billy Lenz with a deaf/HOH target so instead of phone calls he leaves sticky notes everywhere and throws paper airplanes with nasty messages and drawings of dicks at their head

[I LOST MY SHIT OVER THIS WITH MY GF. She has auditory processing issues/is HOH and knows sign so ShOUT OUT TO HER FOR HELPING ME WITH THIS A BIT]

BILLY LENZ WITH A HOH/DEAF S/O:

The first time he calls you and you pick up, he’s so confused as to why you don’t say anything in response

It’s not until you hand the phone to another one of the sorority girls and they politely respond with, “Hello, did you need to talk with Y/N for some reason? I don’t know if you’re aware but they are unable to hear through phones very well, so why don’t you tell me what you need and I’ll interpret for them!”

This causes IMMENSE CONFUSION AND A SMALL TEMPER TANTRUM

And then a new plan is formed

You find your first note in your bathroom, just on the edge of the medicine cabinet. You pick it up with a frown and read it through curiously

And then throw it in the garbage with an annoyed expression because gross. why?

You think its one of your friends playing a prank on you. This annoys Billy.

He amps it up and soon there’s 3 on your meidicine cabinet, 2 on your bedroom door, 5 on your favorite box of cereal, and at LEAST 11 in your closet for some weird reason.

Billy’s handwriting is so messy that you can barely read it, honestly. It’s awful scribbles that turn from writing to cursive in instants, fading and scrawling nearly off the paper entirely as they echo with the words ‘cunt’ ‘cock’ and ‘little pig’ more than once

Each one is signed with a very tiny ‘B’ at the bottom. For flourish.

He gets so annoyed at your lack of reaction to his threats and words that he starts throwing paper airplanes at you with increasing fervor. It’s not hard to track them as they fall from the attic at mach speed

All have those same words written over and over again alongside drawings of (surprisingly detailed) dicks and vaginas EVERYWHERE and even a little scribble of a person

Doesn’t take you long to travel up to the attic to find the man who is doing this to you, and when you spot him it’s likely in the middle of writing a new note, muttering to himself as he tries to remember how to spell one thing or another

When you garner his attention he freezes and panics, trying to think of the best way to kill you because oh god you found him oh no-

So he’s surprised when you start moving your hands, gesturing here and there in ASL as you work through your sentence

He doesn’t understand and just tilts his head, blinking owlishly.

It makes you laugh and you reach out, taking his pen and paper from him and making him hiss like a feral cat as you flip the paper over and write on the new blank page:

“How about I just teach you Sign Language instead, okay?”

And now you have an appointment in the attic three times a week teaching Billy the alphabet with his hands alongside several impressive curse words (he signs dick as dinner still but he’s work on it)

[thecagedsong]

Chapter 12: Home 

Hello Friends,

It looks like you’re cleverer than the Sphinx said you were. Good for you. You’ve set back my timeline, and not many can claim that particular feat, congratulations. Now it’s time to focus on Kendra, how to make the best use of her? So many ideas, none of them involve negotiating with light-lovers.

Until we clash again.

The lemonade had been yummy with just the right amount of sour. It was a shame their ball had knocked the pitcher to the ground. Seth had fumbled Tess’s pass, thinking about Ronodin’s note in the barrel. It had been in the barrel when they finally set down after leaving Wyrmroost. Now Seth was letting it distract him from distracting his cousins. The distraction wasn’t even worth it, as he still hadn’t found anything in the note that he could use that they hadn’t already thought of before now.

“Should we clean that up?” Seth asked. Knox hopped out of the pool to grab the ball, set the pitcher right, and jumped back in.

“Nahh, I just dripped a bunch of water on it, and what else are we going to do?” he replied. “Come on, another round.”

Dale had been able to construct a small basketball hoop while they were gone, but it was too short for anyone but Tess on dry land. Seth had suggested putting it over the pool, and it was much more challenging. It was Tess and Seth v Knox, and Knox was winning 6-3.

“Last point,” Seth said, “Then I want to grab something to eat.”

Tess grinned at Seth as Knox checked him the ball. He sent it back.

“Super secret surprise attack!” Tess yelled, jumping on her brother’s shoulders. With a whole lot of squirming, Seth managed to steal the ball from Knox, who kept crying “foul!” and made the final point.

“You cheaters,” he said, holding Tess up by the arm. She grinned.

Seth dunked himself in the pool one last time to cool off, then got out. “You won the game, that last point didn’t matter anyway.”

They got out and dried off, Knox collecting his basketball. Just as they were about to leave the pool area, Knox turned around and made a longshot.

“Nothing but net,” he said, pumping a fist. It was pretty cool, but Seth wasn’t going to let Knox know that.

“You have to get it now,” he pointed out.

“Worth it.”

Grandma Larsen made sandwiches for lunch. With the secret out, they decided to just live together in the main house. There was enough rooms, especially with Tess and Knox sharing the attic. This was the first time Seth was at Fablehaven and not staying there, but three was kind of a crowd, and he was a little proud that his Grandparents knew he didn’t need the protections of the attic anymore.

Or maybe they just thought he’d ruin the protections with his spotty record. Anyway, he was fine with the arrangement.

Tess went immediately to the Journal of Secrets after drying off and brought it to the lunch table. Grandma Larsen whisked it off the table as she set lunch down, citing that Kendra wouldn’t want sticky fingers over her journal.

“Any news from Agad?” Seth asked as the Sorensons came down for lunch.

Grandma Sorenson shook her head, “Your possible teachers are very limited. The Sphinx would have been ideal if, surprise, he hadn’t turned on us once again. This is the hard part, but we’ve been here before.”

“What about rumors of a Nova Song?” Seth asked, “Maddox know anything?”

“Just that he’d give an arm and a leg for one,” Grandpa Sorenson said, shaking his head. “He’s looking too, Seth.”

“Dale, Hugo, Hank and I made a lot of progress on the stables for flying mounts. Tomorrow I was planning on going into town for some more literature and games to populate them with and keep our Luvian friends entertained,” Grandma Larsen offered. “Anyone interested in coming with me?”

“Will there be ice cream?” Tess asked.

Grandma Larsen pretended to think about it, “I suppose. It’s going to be a lot of stuff to carry, my helpers should be rewarded.”

“Can I invite one of my fairy friends?” Tess asked, getting excited.

Grandma Larsen shook her head, “I’m sorry sweetie, but the magical creatures can’t leave the preserve.” Tess opened her mouth to argue, “Even if they promise to come right back. It’s an important part of the treaty. We can also pick up some new seeds though, for your friends that like flowers.”

“Okay!” Tess said, “I’m going to go tell them right now!” Tess ran into the garden, passing Tanu as he entered.

“Sorry!” Tess called, racing past.

“Welcome Tanu, were you and Hugo able to find what you were looking for?” Grandma Sorenson asked.

“I found a good tract of land for an Oak grove,” Tanu said, “It’s a little hard to tell exactly what breed of oak tree the seeds are, or the requirements for living wood, but the more humid climate near the marsh should accommodate most varieties. With the help of some fairies, the grove will be set up in a couple of years. We have ten seeds, and to plant them all, we’ll need a bit wider space than currently available. I was hoping to take Seth this afternoon to negotiate with the Hag.”

“Sure,” Seth said. “Anything. Lowly Vatka was pretty cool. You’ll need to ask Tess about the fairies though.”

“Better take Hank with you,” Grandma Larsen said, “The caretaker has the right to visit once a year, and on demand. He’ll be back in half an hour or so.”

“I can come,” Knox said casually. “Help plant the trees.”

The grandparents exchanged a look, and Seth knew exactly what was coming. Weird that it wasn’t directed at him for once.

“Knox,” Gloria said, “The hag is most certainly one of the more dangerous creatures on the preserve. Her favorite pastime is lay false trails that send people drowning. And she’s old, she won’t take kindly to visitors, or our request to grow a forest on the edge of her land.”

“Anything Seth can do, so can I,” Knox said, puffing out his chest. “I was fine at Wyrmroost.” He turned to Seth, “Especially with Grandpa Larsen along, we’ll be fine. Tell them.”

Seth shifted uncomfortably. Grandpa Sorenson raised an eyebrow. “Well, its not up to me,” Seth said, looking down at his plate. “Grandpa and Grandma Larsen are caretakers here.”

He was hedging, and everyone knew it.

“I don’t believe this. Am I grounded or something?” Knox asked.

“Well, you did sneak into the dungeons and land yourself in one of the seven most dangerous preserves in the world on a whim.” Grandpa Stan said, “We aren’t going to reward that behavior, if that’s what you’re wondering. And then, if I recall correctly, you convinced two satyrs to take yourself and your 9-year-old sister across said preserve, using an untested magic item, again, without permission from either the caretakers or us, after the dragons had declared war on all mortal kind and your cousins especially.”

“But Seth did stuff like that when he was just starting out!” Knox protested.

The stares turned back to Seth, who groaned, “Yeah, and I was grounded to the yard tons of times for that. I left out those parts, but your actions have consequences. No, we don’t blame you for Kendra’s kidnapping, but they can totally blame you for breaking their trust and sneaking into the barrel.”

Knox looked around, and saw that no one was going to budge. Grandma Larsen looked a little like she wanted to offer to have him go shopping with her and Tess tomorrow, but decided against it.

“Fine,” Knox said, standing up, “I’ll be in my room then. No one will have to worry about me going anywhere. Let’s make the grounding real.”

He stomped up the stairs.

“That was rude,” Seth accused. “Why did you guys let him make me the bad guy?”

“Just a check to see how much you’ve grown, and as I saw it, Knox would only have listened to you,” Tanu said with a chuckle. “Make sure you have a pair of galoshes before we go.”

The fieldtrip in Hugo’s cart went much smoother than Seth had expected it to. Probably because it felt like years since Seth went off to do a single task that didn’t derail itself halfway through. He knew it was all Kendra’s fault when that happened. Seth led them through the marsh, not tricked by the false trails. They negotiated the boundaries with Gintra through Seth speaking her language, promising her two goats and a kid and a new cloak in exchange for the necessary land.

Seth nearly choked when Grandpa Larsen offered to give her a kid, but Tanu whispered that all parties involved knew that meant a baby goat, and they went forward.

Hugo stopped a ways away from the house.

“Hugo?” Seth asked, leaning over his shoulder, “What’s up buddy?”

“New people coming,” Hugo rumbled. “Dragon.”

Seth shared a startled look with the others.

“I have my dragon fear potions right here,” Tanu said, patting his bag.

“A dragon is too big a threat to the treaty to ignore,” Grandpa Hank said, “Fablehaven’s boundaries aren’t meant to deal with the magic of dragons. Hugo, take us to the dragon.”

Hugo turned and started in a new direction. Grandpa and Tanu downed their potions grimly.

“Could it be a wild dragon?” Seth asked, “I mean, Wyrmroost is the nearest dragon sanctuary, and Agad said it was fine this morning. I know there were some dragons who agreed to live in peace outside the preserves.”

“It’s certainly possible,” Grandpa Larsen said, rubbing the stubble on his face. “Unlikely. While the dragons are able to communicate with each other between sanctuaries, they are supposed to be completely cut off from their free kin, that was a stipulation. But it’s supposed to be impossible that there’s a dragon here at all.”

Seth remembered Celebrant’s victorious, swiping claw. He’d been hoping for a little break from dragons. To go back to dealing with demons and the undead for a bit, before coming face to face with another dragon, but he could handle it.

Hugo was cutting cross country in the way only he could. They didn’t talk anymore.

“Huh?” Grandpa Larsen asked, “The Naiad pond?”

Seth focused, and realized they were, in fact, approaching the pond around the hedge. Was it a shortcut or…

“Raxtus!” Seth said, climbing up to look over Hugo’s shoulder.

“Who’s there?” called the dragon.

“It’s Fablehaven! Who do you think it is?” Seth called. Tanu pulled him down when the archway nearly took his head, but he just grinned and popped up again. Sure enough, Raxtus was standing on the lawn. A silvery white dragon, he was about the size of Charlemagne, but much longer in the tail and neck.

“Hey Seth,” the dragon said, “I brought something for you guys. Oh, um, hi,” Raxtus said, bowing his head when he noticed Grandpa and Tanu get off Hugo as well.

“Raxtus, this is my Grandpa Larsen, and I can’t remember if you’ve met Tanu,” Seth introduced, “Guys, meet Raxtus, son of Celebrant and literally the best dragon ever.”

“An interesting recommendation,” Grandpa Larsen said, bowing, “Please call me Hank. I’ve heard much about you from my grandchildren.”

Raxtus turned to Seth, his eyes sad, “Mizelle filled me in on what happened to Kendra. Kidnapped by Ronodin and lost her memory? I’m really worried for her.”

“We’re working on it,” Seth said, “I promise.”

“May I ask why you brought us a canoe?” Tanu asked. Seth finally noticed the wooden canoe behind Raxtus. It was long and had swirly painted red designs decorated the sides.

“Is it a clever boat?” Seth asked, getting excited.

Raxtus tilted his head, “What’s a clever boat? No this is —” suddenly Warren appeared in the boat, lying down. Seth scrambled forward and touched him.

“Seth?” Warren asked. He blinked and looked around, “Right, Fablehaven. Good pick Raxtus.”

Warren climbed out and stretched. A few moments later Vanessa appeared and Warren helped her up.

“Home sweet home,” Vanessa said, doing the same stretching as Warren.

“I bet you’re honestly surprised by how much you mean that,” Warren teased, nudging her shoulder.

She lightly punched him back, “You’ll be waiting a long time Burgess, if you’re waiting for me to go soft.”

“It is good to see you two safe and well,” Tanu said. Vanessa and Tanu gripped forearms, while Warren went for the hug.

“We managed to get a small foothold back in the Cresent Lagoon,” Warren said, “We’re here to make our official report and recruit what help we can.”

“Better wait until we’re in Stan’s office then,” Grandpa Larsen said. “We can head back, and Hugo can carry the canoe. Raxtus, will you accompany us?”

The dragon shook his head, “I’m kind of running between sanctuaries and trying to keep tabs of everyone and my ears open for Kendra. I’m going to say hi to my adoptive mom and then head back out.”

The headed back, and Warren pulled Seth towards the back of the group.

“Kendra’s kidnapped again,” Warren said.

“At least we didn’t have to have a funeral this time,” Seth said. “And I have it on pretty good authority that Ronodin wants Kendra alive.”

“How good?”

“Bracken’s sister.”

“Pretty good.”

They walked in silence a few minutes.

“I hate not being able to help her,” Warren admitted, clenching a fist. “I had to be where I was, but I can’t help but feel like if I was there, I could have changed something. It always feels like this when it comes to Kendra, I’ve gotten sickeningly used to it. Honestly, are you doing okay?”

Seth really thought about the answer. Warren let him.

“I broke down pretty bad when she was taken,” Seth admitted, stopping so the others went on ahead. “And now, I don’t know, it feels more like when she was off artifact hunting and I was stuck trying to figure out how to crash her adventure. I don’t know if it’s because I know she’s being kept near Bracken, or everything is just too much for me to think of it like anything else.

“I’m kinda scared it’s all going to hit me again, and I’m going to fall apart. But if I keep busy enough, maybe I’ll be able to find her first.”

Warren put a hand on his shoulder, “Thank you for being honest. You’re tough Seth, possibly the toughest kid out there, but tough kids and tough adults need breaks, time to just feel. If you think you’re going to break, or you need to break, let me know and I’ll make space and handle things until you’re ready again.”

Seth’s throat was too thick to speak, so he just nodded. As they approached the yard his voice came back.

“And if there’s anyone tougher than me, it’s Kendra,” Seth said. “We fought over who would turn the Key of Forgetting, but she wouldn’t let me. She wanted everyone to know that she loved them, you and Vanessa especially. Thought I should share the message.”

It was Warren’s turn to nod.

They reached the yard and Tess ran up, “Look Seth! The fairies taught me how to make a flower crown! They did special stuff so there are no loose ends! Put it on!”

Warren stepped up beside him, looking amused, and Tess went silent.

“Oh, who’s this?” Warren asked, crouching. “You make a great flower crown.”

Tess looked at the crown in her hands, then at Warren. She squealed and thrust the crown at him, then ran away.

“That’s Tess, little cousin on Mom’s side,” Seth said. “She’s fairy struck, and probably just developed a crush on you.”

“Well, that’s a backstory I’m dying to hear,” Warren put on the flower crown, and posed for Seth, “Does the red make my eyes pop?” he asked fluttering his lashes.

Seth laughed, and Warren wore the crown into the house.

They were in Grandpa’s study, and Warren and Vanessa hadn’t been missing out on adventure. Rampaging Triclops, magic pearls, and dragons to spare, all dependent on island spirits to keep them in line. Island spirits shaped like those big nosed stone heads.

“But most important,” Warren said, “We have reason to believe Ronodin corrupted a pool there.”

“Why would he do that?” Seth asked.

“We don’t know,” Vanessa said with a smile, “And while it is possible there is some significance to the pool that the caretaker is unaware of, it is also likely that his work is not done.”

“Which means he might be back,” Seth said, getting excited, “Or we might find one of the caves to the Underking’s domain nearby.”

There was a sudden ringing sound, and Grandpa Sorenson fished out a cell phone. “Agad, yes, Warren and Vanessa just caught us up. We were about to start brainstorming solutions on our end. Tanu is ready to head out again, and we were trying to figure out who else to send.”

Grandpa froze, then nodded. “Why am I entirely unsurprised? Anything on Kendra?”

It was frustrating to sit there, and not be able to hear everything. He wasn’t the only one. Vanessa and Warren were gripping hands, his grandmothers both looked tense, and Grandpa Larsen was swirling his glass.

“Okay Agad, I’ll let them know.”

Grandpa Sorenson sighed, “I won’t hold you in suspense. Talizar’s den is at the Crescent Lagoon. Seth, you mentioned that this demon approached you in a dream scape. Do you think you could negotiate with him into learning more about your abilities without making things worse?”

He thought back to Talizar. Both himself and Kendra’s demon friend vouched that he hated dragons more than enough to want Seth to win the war against the dragons. He seemed fairly neutral on Seth’s demise, and hurting people in general. It would stink that Talizar was right, and Seth would seek him out in the real world, but that wasn’t enough of a reason not to do it.

He would need to be fully trained to use Lady Luck, or sneak into the Underking’s domain. Talizar had made some pretty big promises. With a plan and some help, and now that he wasn’t in a vulnerable place like the dreamscape, he might be able to walk away from this experience. He had four months by Mizelle’s deadline.

“I don’t want to make a mistake like I did with Granulas,” Seth said. “Talizar didn’t seem so bad, but neither did Granulas. I think I could work something out, but I’m also going to be missing something, or I’ll trust him and I’ll get someone else killed.”

“If it is a matter of trusting your judgement,” Vanessa said, “That needs to be dealt with now. I have seen second guessing kill too many allies. You need to learn that trust can be pieced apart. That is necessary in interacting with demons. You may trust that you have a similar goal. You do not trust them as you would another human. You do not trust them with things you care about. If you can’t piece apart the trust needed to learn from everything else, then you should not be attempting to negotiate with a demon at all, and we will find another way.”

Could he do it? Life had taught him the answer to that question.

“I can do anything if it means helping Kendra,” Seth said, resolved. “With some help to make sure I’m not leaving any loopholes, I can handle Talizar.”

“I believe that I will be an asset, in that case,” Grandma Larsen said, “Like Vanessa, I spent years working with the Society of the Evening Star, I second what she has said about coming out of a deal with a demon, and have much to add besides. While tracking Ronodin and attempting to retake the preserve, my goal will be to keep Seth safe. Is that satisfactory?”

Grandpa Sorenson eyed her suspiciously, “Why do I feel like this is how you claim full ownership of the Sombrosa Swords?”

Grandma Larsen shook her head, “Stan, we both know darn well I should have been their owner back in 83’. If it takes a mission protecting our grandson for your pride to finally hand them over, well, that’s on your conscious.”

“I had you pinned,” Grandpa Sorenson retorted, “the ref would have finished counting if the umbrakas hadn’t gotten loose!”

Grandma Sorenson put a hand to her head, “Stan, just give her the swords. They haven’t been much use hanging in our bedroom. We’ll be the nice, diplomatic grandparents.”

“With crossbows,” Warren added.

Grandma Sorenson smiled as his help, “Yes, with crossbows and broadswords and leadership positions. They can be the secret agent grandparents with butterfly dao, rapiers, and masks.”

“So…Seth, Vanessa, Tanu, Gloria, and I should be getting back to Crescent Lagoon?” Warren checked.

“Dress for warm weather,” Vanessa advised.

A/N: Shorter chapter for Seth, finally. I love the boy, but he has been hogging the action so far. Mostly set up, some comeuppance, some favs, lots of character. Chapter thirteen is the chapter I’ve been dying to post though, easily one of my favorites. Look for that one, cause Kendra gets to see someone besides Ronodin!

[writingdotcoffee]

#147: Finishing Things Is a Skill

Do you leave a trail of unfinished projects and abandoned ideas everywhere you go? The attic of your brain is stuffed with boxes and boxes of brilliant ideas. New ones are popping up all the time, but somehow, the number of brilliant things you’ve made approaches zero.

Looking back at your creative past can be though. Seeing the rubble that your dreams have become can make you feel like you’re defective. That you’re incapable of ever finishing anything, no matter how hard you work. Trust me, you are not alone.

Some people are naturally better at getting things done, thanks to their genetics or their upbringing. Some psychologists call these people with Type A personality. They’re organised, ambitious and impatient.

People with Type B personality tend to be more relaxed, quiet and naturally a lot more creative. It almost seems that having lots of ideas and being creative stands in the way of getting things done.

The problem is that one type can’t work without the other. With no creativity, Type A people would become uber-productive robots. With no productivity, Type B people would remain stuck in their heads forever.

For a long time, I didn’t understand why there are so many books about creativity. I don’t need to go through 4 stages with sticky notes and brainstorming exercises. I’ve got ideas coming out of my ears!

Now I realise there are probably quite a few people that don’t understand all the fuss there is about productivity. Why have 3 different to-do list apps on your phone? Just get cracking!

Fortunately, finishing things and creative thinking are both skills that can be learned. They’re not a learn-once-and-remember-forever affair — like swimming or riding a bike. They’re more like running. You have to train for a while to get in shape, and if you take a long break, it might take you some time to get back up to speed.

So where do you start? Start by asking yourself why. What’s up? Why do you abandon so many works in progress? Do you lose interest after a while? Do you get stuck or burn out? Do you lack the time or energy? Are you afraid of being judged?

There are many reasons why you might be struggling. Understanding why will help you take the right action towards the solution.

If you keep losing interest, maybe you haven’t found the right creative outlet yet. If you get stuck, maybe you need to work on improving your craft. If you’re burning out over and over again, it’s time to slow down – don’t start new projects until after you’ve finished what you’re working on. If you don’t have enough time, maybe writing an epic trilogy isn’t the right fit right now and you need to focus on smaller projects. And if you fear of others judging you for your work, maybe you need to lower your standards and start publishing under a pen name.

There are all sorts of productivity tools and habits you can use. That’s what us Type B folks need to do to get things done. But remember, finishing things is a skill. It takes practice. If it doesn’t come naturally to you, then you must learn it.

Here’s a challenge for those of you that haven’t finished anything in a long time. Write a piece of flash fiction right now. It can be 100 words. It can be 250 words or 500. It’s up to you. It can be the worst story in the history of humankind. The only thing you need to do is to finish it today.

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Past Editions

#146: Black Lives Matter, June 2020

#145: Creativity Doesn’t Have a Downside, June 2020

#144: Lots and Lots of Bad Stories, May 2020

#143: What to Do When You’re Stuck?, May 2020

#142: What’s Your Story Really About?, May 2020

[hlvraik]

What if after everyone has escaped black mesa the science team (with the help of Gordon’s sister) actually get ahold of Gordon’s parents to at least calm k!Gordon down a little. He’d probably be confused why they look so much older but very happy to have his mom and dad back

please this just too cutteeee-

[continuation of this post]

The Science Team ends up inviting Gordon's parents over for coffee and a quick chat, as not only will seeing his parents in person calm K!Gordon down tremendously, but also due to the fact that they're going to be taking care of K!Gordon for a month or so until Darnold can create a cure-so might as well ask for some parenting tips and tricks while they're at it.. [Thank God that Joshua's currently at camp-]

Whenever K!Gordon sees his parents for the first time, he sprints towards them without hesitation and hugs them tightly as tears stream down the pudgy little face of his. [He doesn't even realize that they're so much older than he remembers as he's just so relieved that they're here-] Of course, his mom picks him up and wipes his tears away using her thumb and tries to soothe him. Meanwhile the Science Team is just awkwardly standing to the side, all astonished at how quickly she was able to calm K!Gordon down in a matter of seconds.

Anywho, they all get comfortable and sit down and the Science Team begins explaining the whole situation to which Gordon's parents take it fairly well-as both of his parents had their fair share of dabbling in mixology and knowing the possible mishaps that come with it- as they state that mixology is pretty difficult science to master. Also while the Science Team is asking Gordon's parents for parenting advice, K!Gordon is non stop babbling about their journey in Black Mesa and all the aliens they encounter, and how they slipped past the military. 

Before they leave, they end up writing their contact number and maybe some other important information too  on a sticky note before sticking it to Gordon's fridge. They also end up giving the Science Team a box they found in the attic full of Gordon's old childhood mementos such as old clothes, toys, ect to save them the hassle of shopping-and you bet they give K!Gordon a hug.

[avintagekiss24]

Operation Decoration | Steve Rogers; Bucky Barnes{

Pairing; Steve Rogers x black!reader x Bucky Barnes

Word Count; 2,289

Warnings; smut, sex, vaginal sex, anal sex, rough sex, threesome m/m/f, slight praise kink

Summary; You expected to come home to a decorated house. What you actually came home to was two cranky men and a mess that you don’t get around to cleaning up.

Note; this is for @hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall​ Christmas challenge! My prompt was decoration mess. This is kinda crude... and graphic... Hope you all had a very merry Christmas and/or a great day yesterday!

You push through the back door, your hands full of grocery bags, “Guys?” you call, closing the door with your foot, “Guys?”

You’re met by silence. Dodger bounds around the corner seconds later as you move into the kitchen and place the bags on the table. He jumps up onto you, pushing you back a few steps as he nuzzles into your chest. You scratch his head and behind his ears before cupping his snout in your hands, “Hey bubs. Where are those boys of ours, huh?”

A loud crash sounds seconds later, sending you and Dodger’s heads towards the ceiling. A string of curse words then float towards you, followed by heavy footsteps, and then two deep, irritated voices. 

You glance back down at Dodger and pat his head, “Found ‘em.”

You skip up the stairs with Dodger in tow and head toward the open door of the attic. Steve and Bucky’s voices grow louder as you move closer and you can’t help the smile that creeps onto your face. You peek inside and let out a small laugh, covering your face with your hands as the two men argue back and forth.

Strings of lights cover the floor, some lit, some not. Garland is strewn about and is somehow tangled around Bucky’s ankle. The two golden reindeer that you usually put out in the front yard, are knocked over in the corner, the head of one of them sitting a few feet away. Frosty the Snowman stares ominously at you from the far corner, his left arm missing, his nose crooked. A box of ornaments sits in the middle of the floor, turned over and no doubt the cause of the loud crash. 

Broken bulbs and shards of glass spill from the box as Steve angrily picks it up and slams it back into the corner. 

“Brilliant job, genius. Just break everything why don’t ya,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes. 

Steve runs his hand through his hair angrily before placing his hands on his hips, “I don’t see you lending a hand, asshole.”

Bucky turns toward Steve as he unplugs the string of lights in his hands, “Weren’t you the one that told me to test the lights? I’m testing the fucking lights, just like you told me to, Captain control freak.”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up.”

“Guys,” you chime in loudly, their heads snapping toward you as you step into the room, “Don’t fight.”

“He is impossible.” Bucky sighs, plugging in another string of multicolored lights. 

Steve huffs loudly, his hands still on his hips as he turns to face you. You smile softly and move towards him, wrapping your arms around his waist as you fall into his chest. You hug him tightly as you close your eyes, taking in a deep breath of his musky scent. His muscles are tense as you push your hands underneath his shirt to massage his back. It takes him a minute or two, but he finally drops his hands from his waist and cradles your body before lifting you from your feet. 

You smile as he flattens his forehead to yours and expels a deep breath, “I’m sorry, babe.”

Bucky tosses another string of lights into the “good” pile as he cuts his eyes over at the two of you, “Why are you apologizing to her? I’m the one that’s been putting up with your cranky ass all damn day.”

You chuckle as Steve sets you back on your feet, “Aww, come mere baby.” You coo, reaching out towards Bucky, beckoning him to you.

He’s in your arms in a flash, picking you up and spinning you quickly before plastering a kiss on your forehead, “Hello girlie.”

“Hello handsome.” You start, pecking his nose with your lips, “It’s nice to know that I can always trust you two to make an absolute mess while I’m gone.”

Bucky points toward Steve, “It’s always his fault, remember that.”

You glance back toward Steve, who still has anger and aggravation written all over his features. You swat at Bucky’s arm before placing your hands on Steve’s chest, “Stop picking at him, Buck. What can we do to make you feel better baby?”

Steve shakes his head and lets out another breath, “I’m alright, I just…”

His words fade away as he sighs again. You and Bucky both know what it is. You’ve both been trying to tread lightly, trying to keep things festive to take his mind off of it, but after seeing Morgan and Pepper last week, he hasn’t been able to get out of his funk. It’s the first Christmas without Natasha and Tony, but also the first Christmas the three of you have spent together in five years. 

He’s a jumble of emotion - happy to have both of you back after Thanos took you and Bucky away, but still blaming himself for the entirety of it all. You wrap your arms around his neck and tilt your head as you let your eyes bounce between his. You just want to take it all away. 

“There’s really nothing I can do?” You ask softly, letting your hands skip down to his chest and then his stomach as a slow smile creeps onto your face. 

Bucky wraps his arms around your waist and rests his chin on your shoulder as he looks up at Steve, catching the subtle signals you’re sending. His fingers starts to dance around your hips and around your ass, pinching and groping as you sink your teeth into your bottom lip. 

You let your nimble fingers drop to Steve’s crotch, cupping him gently as Bucky’s warm lips start to nibble at your neck. You keep your hand steady, rubbing Steve gently through his brown pants as Bucky nips at your earlobe with his teeth. Your eyes start to flutter as you lean back against Bucky, your hand gripping Steve’s cock a little harder. 

Steve pushes his index finger into your chin, tilting your head up towards his. He kisses you deeply, moaning into your mouth as you slip your hands into his pants. You massage his length, his girth warm in your hands as he hardens from your touch. He releases your lips as he inhales sharply. 

Bucky rucks your dress up around your waist before sliding his hands underneath the straps of your thong that dig into your flesh. He pushes the thin material down your legs and pushes them off into the corner with his foot. He steps back slightly to both admire and ogle your ample behind before leveling a quick, sharp slap against it. 

You yelp but fall into a fit of giggles as he drops to his knees and palms your ass in both of his hands, jiggling your flesh before diving face first between your cheeks. 

Steve rids your body of your dress, leaving you completely naked. He tweaks your hardened nipple, rolling it between his fingers before he cups your breasts in his hands, groping your soft flesh firmly as he kisses you again. He drops his hand to your sex, cupping your heat in his palm before he slips his fingers between your wet folds. 

You moan softly as you widen your stance to let Steve finger you properly. You hiss as his fingers dance along your slit, teasing your insides before he flattens them against your clit. You roll your hips into his hand, and then back into Bucky’s face as he slips his tongue between your ass cheeks, tickling your tight hole.

You grip Steve’s bicep, your fingernails digging into his skin as he pulls his dick free of his pants. You hear the zipper of Bucky’s pants unzip as he stands behind you and then feel the tip of his cock slide between your legs. He pulls you flush against his chest and cranes your head toward the ceiling, cupping your chin in his hand. 

Bucky pushes into your asshole slowly, his mouth going slack as your tight, warm body gobbles him up. He shoves the tips of his fingers into your mouth for you to suck as he starts to move, pulling completely out of your before stuffing himself back in. 

You arch your back as you groan from the pressure. You gasp when Steve’s fingers suddenly thrust into your cunt and curl against your spongy g-spot, stroking it gently. You watch as Steve strokes his cock, dragging his large hand from his base all the way to his tip. 

He pulls on his balls as he lets his eyes wander around your bouncing tits and brown skin as Bucky fucks you from behind. He pumps his fingers into your sex - your wet muscles squeezing his digits, affirming that you are a perfect fit for the both of them. He withdraws from you and rubs his thumb along his sticky, soaked fingers before popping them into mouth. He moans as he tastes your juices, his hand starting to pump his cock faster. 

Bucky wraps his arm around your waist and squeezes you to him as he fucks your tight asshole. His metal hand wraps around your neck and he presses softly, applying a slow, steady pressure. He knows what you like. 

You grunt loudly as flashes of heat and electricity start to bounce throughout your body. Your muscles tense as Steve and Bucky push and pull at you - both men hungry for your sex. Their hands and lips and tongues are everywhere, nipping, and groping, and licking as they go, wanting to drive you toward a shaking release. 

Steve grabs your calf and anchors your leg over his forearm, leaving you to balance yourself against Bucky and on one leg. He teases your dripping slit with the tip of his cock, brushing it lightly through your lips before slamming into you. You dig your fingernails into his shoulder as he starts to fuck you hard and fast, his hands gripping your hips. 

You rest your head against Bucky’s shoulder and let them have their way with you. Bucky’s fingers find their way back into your mouth, Steve’s cock fills your cunt, Bucky’s dick stuffs your ass. It’s a Christmas dream. You slobber over Bucky’s fingers as your own wetness splashes against your thighs. Sweat starts to prickle at your neck and chest, a few droplets collect together and slide between the valley of your breasts. 

Steve leans forward and drags his tongue through your tits, collecting the salty sweat with his tongue as he goes. He sucks your nipple into his mouth, nibbling on it softly before he bites down, drawing another sharp yelp out of you. 

You feel Bucky shutter behind you as you squawk again when Steve pinches the inside of your thigh. He likes to hear you scream. Bucky drops his metal arm to your thigh and squeezes until your squealing from the delicious pain. 

“You are such a good girl, baby.” He whispers in your ear, “Isn’t she a good girl, Steve.”

“She’s the best fucking girl.” Steve laments proudly, still pounding away as he pulls on your nipples. 

Your cunt tightens as flashes of your orgasm start to rush through you. You shiver as they push you towards your release. They both know you’re close as sweet encouragements falls from their lips to praise you, stroking your ego and satisfying your need to hear that you’re their best girl. 

“Ooh baby,” Bucky slurs, “You’re gonna make me cum pretty girl.”

You groan loudly, crashing back into him “Fuck yes. Fill me up baby.” 

He pumps into you, as hard as he can, until he can’t take anymore. He spills into you, his warm ribbons filling your ass as he grunts in your ear. Steve rubs your clit quickly as Bucky cums, to push you right over the edge. Your cunt quivers as you cum around Steve’s dick - your clit jumping up and down as you contract.  

Steve cums as you cum, shoving his dick deep inside of you so you can feel every spurt, every jolt as his dick jumps inside of you.

Bucky pulls out of you with a pop, and spreads your ass apart to watch as your body begins to push his spunk back out of you. 

You’re a sticky mess - your cunt and ass slippery and warm as their cum slides down your thighs. Steve kisses you hard again before he pushes his fingers through your folds again, coating his fingers with the mess of cum. 

Bucky follows suit, pulling your face from Steve’s to kiss you as he too wets his fingers with your natural secretions. He brings his fingers to your mouth and places them gently on your bottom lip. He watches through the slits of his eyes as you accept his fingers into your mouth again, moaning deeply as you suck the tangy sweetness from his fingers. 

Your legs are jello, your mind hazy as you allow Steve to lift you from your feet and into his arms. He steps over the piles of lights and garland, Bucky right behind the two of you as Steve walks you through the house and to your bedroom. He throws you onto the bed and you giggle as you bounce against the mattress. 

“What about the decorations?” You ask as you cuddle into the soft, warm blankets. 

Bucky pulls his shirt over his head and drops his pants before he climbs onto the bed. He pushes your knees apart and settles on his knees between your legs, before sliding his cock into your pussy before you can protest, “We’ll worry about that later.”

Steve’s cock brushes along your parted lips before he pushes into your mouth, “Yeah. This is about making me feel better, remember?”

[cupsofsuga]

𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 ━ 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐁𝐓𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 *:·。.

{ ⚠️} WARNING - This is a yandere au, meaning the following may be triggering to some viewers.  I am not trying to discriminate the boys in any way, this is for entertainment purposes. Viewer discretion is advised!!!

{ ☕️} NOTE - there’s some heavy violence in this headcanon! again, viewer discretion is advised! also, thank you anon for being so kind!!!

{ 💐} ANON ASKED - ❝ Hcs for each member to their s/o having a hard time at school because they have a lot of exams and there is like this one girl who is kinda bothering them a lot and says thing’s like „you’re so dumb“ + Thank you for your hard work🌟 :) ❞

━━━ 𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐊𝐉𝐈𝐍

whilst walking through the early afternoon, jin can’t help but let his mind wander to his y/n

they are candied cherries, chocolate-covered strawberries, slices of honeydew of a sultry june afternoon

they are a summer sonnet, saccharine sunshine embodied

they are in every means the light in a pit of darkness

and just before his fists meet with the mahogany door, the hushed sounds of sobbing brings his ethereal thoughts to an abrupt halt

that sugary taste of spring melts into a metallic tang

jin is ripped from the arms of serendipity and embraced by a holy, winter night; he is exploited by hell and feels it’s knife-sharp kisses litter his body

and without a second thought, he bursts through the door with enough force to puncture the wood

he is quick to provide aid for his love, letting them trail on of tales of their arrogant teachers and that sadistic blonde who finds pleasure in your torment

jin’s heart shatters and underneath the glass shard in unfathomable rage

and just like that, we watch as his anger swells and the events that follow after the faltering of his flower

5:38 PM, your teacher who has thrust you into a rough patch with school stands by his car

jin strikes, he falls to the ground, streets seeping with crimson blood as his sinful acts bleed into the creases of the pavement

the brick in his hand is quickly disposed of as he hijacks the stranger’s car and attends the key to his office

hours later, he finds you, nestled under silky blankets with moon tea in your grasp

he presents to you a cheat sheet, relishing in the way you smile so vividly and the summer petals that asphyxiate him

next, is that girl who dared to let you cry tears for her

and the acts performed on her were horrific

he nustles you back into bed, a gentle kiss to the head and caresses to the cheek, then, he is off into the night

within the next 12 hours, jin had managed to slice off her fingers and toes, laughing sadistically as she begs for mercy

the annoying disunity of her pained, guttural screams irritated jin, and to end of the night with a bang, he forced her to eat a bullet

now, the burdens have been disposed of, the anger has simmered and his love has found peace, you both can live smoothly

without the suffocating weights of the horrid world, jin can listen to his midsummer sonnets as they grace his world with their delicate smiles and infectious laughter

finally, he can breathe.

━━━ 𝐌𝐈𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐈

yoongi awakes in the evening a couple of steps into march, early spring sticky on his cheeks and sheets pressed upon his dainty legs

the burning revelation of what lies next to him feels like the midnight sun warm against his bareback

he knows the love of his life rests right beside him, deep in a luminescent slumber

yoongi turns his body around, meeting with his love, who instead is perched on the side of the bed, phone screen illuminating the room that drowned in obscurity

beneath that canopy of constellations, there is his y/n, crying out to the empty night

and that bruising palpitation that strikes his heart with one bitter-intended swing could’ve crumbled planets in the galaxy to nothing but dust bunnies you’d find nestled in the depths of the attic

every bated breath is suffocated within his lungs, saltwater smothering him as he can’t find the words to provide aid for the love of his life

the ashes skies and dull clouds envelop him, and alas, magic has died

with a gentle touch to your shoulder, the boy behind you coos and hushes his own cries of worry as you both sit in solid darkness

through saturated cries, you manage to cough up tales of demons that litter the hallways, choking on the acerbic aftertaste of tears

with the moon strung high, yoongi finds devotion through the thorn-laced ivy that punctures his form

he must prove his infatuation, he must

after all, when the world left him astray, you painted him gold with stardust brewing in your lungs

when the galaxy abandoned him, you gifted him the sun as if the planet was nothing but coins in your pocket

when he was alone, you were there in all of your effervescent glory

and that leaves your lover now, writing an anonymous complaint about that blonde’s behavior, lacing the letter with false stories of her becoming physical

yes, yoongi knows this is wrong, but that image of you with gleaming tears sprinting down your cheeks robs him of any potential mercy

he loves you, and he must defend you from the world

and there it is, your smile

you look like a pack of adonis blue butterflies in the summer, the diamonds that scatter the galaxies, rose petals as they fall from the clouds

you are happy, and now you can live in tranquillity

as the sun sets and the wolves venture out of their the caves, you two spend eternal hours on the roof, sipping cheap red wine as bellowing laughter echoes

and it’s so sweet - so, so sweet - living days in the depths of ice-rimmed snow globes and soaring through the land of hogwarts

it's so sweet finding forever summer within the cold days of late winter

it’s so sweet to live the rest of his days with you.

━━━ 𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐊

❝ oh, oh! i’ll do them for you! ❞

without a hint of breath, hoseok interferes your rant about exams with a shimmering idea

that’s who he was, after all

a boy willing to spit out the ash of bullets with the sun pounding against his ribcage and with the alacrity of his spirit

he’d watch the stars bleed and summer fade, he’d embrace violence with pleasure and hunt out the wolves of the night

he’d swallow seas, seethe in hellfire, swim within the embers of the sun and wither planets to dust

he’d just about do anything for you, and you milked his very desire to do such

you see, exam season was hot on your tail and there were only seconds before you witness the death of a downfall behind procrastination

the elegance of time has faded, and fortunately for you, your pretty-pliant boy toy is there with a cape to save the day

you should feel guilt for manipulating and twisting your lover's brain, but, the poison that seeps through the maze of your veins robs you of any empathy

his whitening bones and your rotten figure, his sunset skies and your ashen wastelands

you both might as well have been a devil and an angel sitting in the same high school class

but, the burden of exams is only an inkling of the baggage heavy on your shoulders

that blonde who finds sadistic pleasure in turning your life into a living hellhole awaits your next move, and with the help of your delusional lover, you may find stars within the black hole of the universe

as your grades all skyrocket as planned, you’ll have enough golden stars and lollipops to have her regina george and her precious good-girl streak melting into the tile before her expensive platforms

so, as the next afternoon blossoms, you meet hoseok at his locker with a disposition burning within your heart and ask him out on a date, watching as summer’s sky drowns out within his irises and the essence of spring spreads amongst his doll-like features

as he accepts with a stutter, you become concerned with whether or not you should check if the poor boy is still breathing, but settle on attending the ice cream parlor on the corner of town

and as you both sit in the sunset as superman ice-cream stains his lips, your plan proceeds in perfect harmony

with your sweetheart who resembles a golden retriever who’s met face-to-face with a battered-off tennis ball, your every desire is granted

with cloy praises and sugar-tainted caresses, you’re passing your exams with a pretty little pet there to serve to every one of your commands

and blinded by the infatuation through the manipulation, hoseok finds lavender-infused meadows and universes undiscovered

ever waking second with you, he finds the sun as it beats against his empty eyelids

alas, he has found clarity within the treacherous world

and he doesn’t know what he’d do if you ever left him.

━━━ 𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐉𝐎𝐎𝐍

wednesday afternoon, namjoon is roaming around the somewhat-secluded library, once again

he finds you at a deserted table and relishes in the ambivalent pandemonium of your eternal gaze that pounds his hummingbird heartbeat

he finds cherry stains chalked upon your lips, the dust of a child’s dreams scattered upon your features, the touch of aphrodite herself laced within your fingertips as you turn the pages with elegance

to have a stark sight of you, he has found rome in the depths of you and he is only left to scrutinize every last moment

as you talk with a friend on the phone, namjoon picks up a stray book off the shelf, posing to deem it interesting as the ink fades to nonsense

there’s a tangible bitterness in your tone, stating your stress over exams, then exclaiming your rage for another student who has found entertainment in using you like a rag doll

namjoon listens, and he seethes

there’s a vivid pulse of red, a breath of tranquility left astray, heavy spring rain that envelops him

in the serrated halt in his thoughts, he listens to your rants and the harmonious claps of thunder that follow after the light rain showers

as the clock reads 3:27 AM, the boy spends the ungodly hours of the night inhaling the musk of silken mist as he dives into the depths of whatever information he can grasp of your supposed bully

after all, he’d do just about anything for you

he’d swallow bullets, suffocate himself on clouds, slice galaxies and set your shadows aflame if you simply asked

he loves you, and the burning light’s embrace taste of lemonade

you are willow trees in late june heat, apple pies left to cool on an autumn afternoon, a star amongst a field of faux pearls, a fairytale you’d find hidden in the dust of a bookstore

you are in every means a melody of summer and the ethereal sense of purity that follows after

so, that leaves namjoon now, casting his gaze upon a penthouse where the villain of your story lies

and the acts that follow after climbing into the adobe through the fire escape are horrid

he spits out threats and insults as the girl shows her submission, tears tumbling down her rosy cheeks as she pleads for any potential compassion found within the man

she then proceeds to swear on her life that she won’t utter a breath of this night if the intruder were to simply leave, but, the myths that lie within those ocean eyes state differently

and so he kills her - he kills her so violently - he watches the life leave her doe eyes like a dying star

namjoon then leaves her in the bathtub, mustering up some sob suicide note about how unfair her life was, then neglecting his sins at the domain

finally, finally, he can taste the midsummer plums and strawberry-tainted air without the burden of the world

finally, he can dance with the sunbeams as the rain begins to fade into lustrous stars

finally, he can breathe with you.

━━━ 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐉𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐍

even with the simple incantation of a compliment, you have jimin vowing his devotion to you, a simple stranger

you, who holds the hypnotic elegance of a swan, the unintentional divine nature of a ghost and the substantially ethereal depths of aphrodite herself hold a young boy’s sensitive heart in the palm of your palms

you, who lives in the wind by the riverside, hold the universe in your hands

jimin, and his tenacious behavior, stand just outside the door of his father’s office, ear pressed against the door, clinging onto any inkling of a word he can grasp

your father stands in the room, too, just without you, the sun in the empty abyss

with muffled words, he listens as your father speaks stories of your stress with upcoming exams and with a bully of yours

his brave iris, his luminescent flower, his star dripped in honey nectar- is suffering…?

jimin has been left to wallow in a desolated graveyard, just to fantasize of your dancing touch and luminescent smile

you are both two bunny rabbits prancing through the barricades of spring, two fairies dancing with dust in the heat of summer

every fleeting moment, it all echoed within him

and that leaves jimin now with the yearbook that he borrowed from you settled in his lap

he takes the brief second to examine your school picture, tracing delicate fingers amongst your features and the doodles of hearts and flowers that litter around your sparkling face

flipping through the pages, he hears your father’s voice in his head, who had spoken the name of the demon that dared to dwell in you

languorous days, lavender hearts and june-infused nights, he has found some sense of clarity within the heartbreaking loyalty

inhaling the musk of a filthy bar littered with drunk men, he finds a blonde head, plan lingering within his mind

he then forges attraction, single whispers proving more of the bruises on his skin than the flower of his love

with angelic tones and forcing gags back down his throat, jimin had finally gotten this parasite alone

he had gotten the doe-eyed villain alone in an alleyway, lust staining the shades of her eyes

and that leaves the blue-eyed, plum-lipped girl with golden hair now, left in a puddle of piss and beer - dead

there’s blood everywhere - in the wind, on the pavement, on the brick walls, stained upon empty skin

but, alas, despite drowning in the sticky residue of his sins, eden’s garden has bloomed

alas, without the burden there to touch your soul and carve letters to ghost upon your precious skin, he is free

and you venture behind your father to another meeting several days later, meeting face-to-face with an abnormally bright puppy-dog with summer sunbeams soaked in the hues of his irises

❝ y/n! y/n! hey! do you- do you need help with your exams? i can help, i swear! i really can! i promise...! i’d do anything to help… ❞

━━━ 𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐓𝐀𝐄𝐇𝐘𝐔𝐍𝐆

you curl your fingers around the flutter of the telephone cord, the prismatic pastel hues complimenting every syllable that leaves your mouth

your brows knit and nose scrunches, your lips twist and eyes glimmer

and, within your haze, after leaving your window open to find some contentment in the heavy humidity, a figure slid in through the crack and resides in the closet

taehyung now cherishes you through the speckles of light given through the rift of the closet door, summer leaving its eternal residue upon his form

he stares and finds the embodiment of the moon and its naked bones through the gentle film of your bedside lamp

he then listens as you complain about your bad day, dwelling in the curves and juts of your tone

how no matter how many times you attempt to curl your way out of her embrace, the blonde who has learned to despise you, an angel, always seeps her way back into your bloodstream

like a sour lemon upon the july sun, like the burning embers of winter amongst summer stars

his tranquility found in the human he loves has suffered a perceptible shift

and now, all he can touch and all he can see is unfathomable rage

how dare someone treat such a creature with envy? how dare they treat his love with obsidian-stained hatred!?

how could a human disrupt a heartbeat trapped in the galaxies!? how could a human hurt such an angel...?

these thoughts spread like constellations as taehyung sits beside you on your bed, tucking you tighter into your blankets with caution not to jeopardize his identity

you sleep like pearls in the sea, like california poppies in the daybreak

and with a gentle kiss to your forehead and a secret in the grave, he is off into the night

and within the blistering bite of the night, taehyung finds the girl and gives a gaze with two beady, stern eyes that burns bullets into his helpless victim

a good game of tag as the wind chills through the oxygen, cat and mouse in the opalescent midnight sky

and within a matter of seconds, an arrow pierces through the night and penetrates through her neck

he watches- watches as life bleeds down her collarbone

and he loves it

but now, he has returned to his love, soaked head-to-toe in the irony taste of his own sins

he sits beside your sleeping form, clutches midsummer peaches in his grasp as places his land ever so gentle upon yours

a plan lingers- a plan of how he'll kill two birds with one stone

he'll begin tutoring lessons, assisting you with your exams and drowning in the neon hues of your soul

and through the lullaby, kim taehyung has found a pale summer sky in an eternal night

he has found the lulling taste of july fruits in the suffocating depths of the attic

he has found his heartbeat in the graveyard of his mind

and his love for you is eternal.

━━━ 𝐉𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐊𝐎𝐎𝐊

with a juul held beneath your skin, nicotine soaks in the air and poisons the musk around

it fills your nostrils, holy smoke fogging up the deceased, midnight breeze

there’s muffled music that doubles yourself in this dream, there’s tranquility found in the abandonment of time

you listen and bathe in the epiphany found in the ghost of the late-night song, dwelling in the simmering sounds

you and your closest friend sit on the roof of your car, just outside of a party, gazing at the moon and sharing hits of the toxic juul pod

and within jungkook, there is infatuation infused with every breath, every blink, every waking second

there lies pearls and petals of lotus flowers within your irises, the smoke serving as a wreath around your exquisite form

your voice sounds of nature as you speak to the moon, and he has fallen prey to every curve and jut of the gibberish that leaves your mouth

you are graceful, you are broken

you are enigmatic in the hypnotizing land of twilight, you are beauty embodied as the stars circle the earth

but, through the canopy of tulips and chirping birds, the wolves venture from out of their adobe with bloodlust staining their golden eyes

you fuss about a particular blonde, proceeding to thrust your friends sanity into the flames of a hearth

you are but a doll in her grasp, a bruised and battered toy crafted for tantrums

you speak words of sour lemonade, and alas, the tranquility in the air has simmered into wrath

with lilacs in the black skies and tragedy in the pavement, you, too, find anger within the slender bones of the moon

you despise being wormwood in her grasp, but, you assume those are just the blues of being a high school student

and as the night falters and dawn blooms, you are met with fatal permission

you have met with the edge of the woods, found the corpses of mauled wolves, found ecstasy in a wasteland of dust

you eavesdrop and hear silent chatter of how regina george did not retreat home from the party the previous night

unknown to your knowledge, the sadistic candyland you were a plastic figure in has met its fate

as it will forever live as a mystery, you are unaware to the fact that her body lies miles away, left to rot within the venomous soil

then, you approach jungkook, filling him in on the latest gossip and expressing your cruel joy for her disappearance

and the pleasure that settles in his face like honey’s residue on a july afternoon was terrifying

jungkook has lost himself in a hallucination of lively color, an illusion of summer days amid winter

he has found the phoenix flower as it blooms within the hues of your eyes, he has found silken stars as they litter your face like sugar and glitter

he has found solace in the new day, the new beginning

he has found euphoria in judgment day.

[diamondsableye]

“Hey!  Guess what I just found in a box of my dad’s old things!”  Grimm huffed with an air of satisfaction, grunting from under the heft of his miniature backpack.  The pastel red material surged with a noticeable heavy bulge, as the harsh outlines of a semi rectangular object stretched the slightly dingy cloth along its edges.

His young companions turned their attention to the child strutting proudly into the room, knowing precisely who it was from the somewhat worn, dark hued graphic tee and the torn denim pants.  The first to reach the smug juvenile was Radiance, her cream colored sundress fluttering with every hurried step she took towards the trotting bug, her eagerness fading the closer she got to inspect whatever Grimm was so proud to show off.

“Awe Grimmy I thought you had something cool, like one of those super old brick phones.  We could’ve at least called someplace and had some fun!  If this is another boring old book I’m so not playing with you after this.”  The small moth huffed, more fuzz than fury.  She was still salty that the last time her playmate had insisted he had something fun to do, it turned out his idea of entertainment was nothing more than looking at an old dictionary for naughty words.  It had been tear jerkingly funny for all of 15 minutes before they got bored and hung up over how little there was to be found.

“Raddy trust me, this is way better than any other book.  This is a super magic book!”  Grimm beamed with excitement, already scrambling to take off the overburdened pack, hurrying to undo the sticky zippers which always caught on themselves whenever he worked himself into an energized frenzy.

“A magic book?  Is it like a spell book or a portal to a mis-ter-us world?”  Asked the petite juniper in a soft and sweet voice, saturated with innocent glee.  Her luminous branches flickered with life as a single small hand fiddled with the button to her denim overalls.

“No Lady, those books don’t exist, at least I don’t think so.  And it’s My-steer-ee-us, not mis-ter-us.”  Piped up another, crisper chime.  The voice had come from a young lad, his head adorned with a ring of stubby horns, as clean as the white button up and sleek grey trousers he so commonly donned.

The last two to approach the growing circle of friends was none other than Pale and Lady, who at least to Lady’s greatest ability, managed to keep each other conjoined at the hip.  Radiance let out a huff as the two approached, blowing the duo a timidly contemptuous raspberry once they were within teasing distance.  Pale stuck out his tongue and drew back his lower eyelid in response, the only mean gesture he was brave enough to send her, since the first and only time he ever threw her the middle, he lost dessert privileges for an entire week.  Oh how he wished he could've tattled on her back.

“Welll.... it’s sorta magic.  Apparently when my dad was in college, he played this Castles and Keepers game with his old school friends.  I was looking through the attic to find one of my favorite kites when I knocked over some stuff and found this book!  Apparently it’s a rule book for how you play the game.”  Grimm beamed with a dark smile, brandishing the newly uncovered hardback with the pride of a mighty sorcerer showing off their most accursed tomes.

“Seriously?  Old people games?  Ugh I’ve watched my family play stupid board games before, they’re always so rulesy and don’t have any excitement at all.”   Radiance almost immediately sighed in boredom, feeling let down by the surprise already.

“I mean I dunno Raddy, my mamma told me it’s a really scary game, and if you play it you turn evil.” Lady cooed with a lul of concern, regarding the book like a priestess to a haunted artifact.

“You don’t seriously believe that do you?  Remember when your mom said that you shouldn’t jump in puddles because one day you might jump inside a super deep one and you’d never come out?  Your mom tells you way too many stories I think.”  Pale chimed in with a curt cut of his voice, begrudging the sapling's timidness.  Even so, it was clear that the kiddie bug was apprehensive to join in on whatever his friend had planned.

“Cmon guys please?  I even brought in these things called character sheets!  I stayed up real late reading all about this and I got the perfect idea for.... for a.. I think the book called it a camp-pain?”  Grimm enthused, desperate to grab his friends’ weaning attention.  He fished up some spare pencils and a few slightly crumpled sheets of paper, ready to be filled out by waiting minds.

“How late did you stay up to do all this?”  Radiance asked, cautious but intrigued.

“You won’t believe this, but 9 P-M-!”  He beamed.

“Wow that really is late-!  You must be really serious about this then.”  Pale noted, taking a look over the sheet and offering one to Lady.  The youngin snatched it eagerly, pouring over the detailed contents.

“What is... Char-ris-maa?”  She asked, her head tilting in confusion to all the new words she perplexingly had never heard of before.

“Don’t worry guys I’ll explain all of it to you, but only if you decide to play the game with me!”  Grimm offered, the tempting offer hanging in the air decisively.  The rest of the gang looked to one another, mulling over their options.  It was enticing sure, but would it be worth it?

“Fine I’ll play, but this better not suck Grimmy, or else!”  Radiance huffed, but even through her begrudging tone, it was clear that she was barely containing her ample excitement at its seams.

“I don’t have anything better to do, I don’t like Miss Seeker’s craft ideas anyway.  She probably won’t notice if we’re off playing this instead.”  Pale offered, not quite captivated, but also not put off enough to turn the offer down.  The three looked to the last to join in, waiting for her response.

“Cmon don’t be a scaredy Lady, join us or else we’ll tell Herrah how big a scaredy you are!” Radiance teased, poking fun at the meek and shy sapling.  She stiffened at this, her rounded cheeks brightening with a frustrated blush as the moth’s threat did its work to rile her up.

“Nuh uh you wouldn’t!  You’re such a meanie Raddy!”  Lady shot back, so easily wrung in and agitated by the slightest tormenting.

“Well then prove it!  We all know you still sleep with a night light and that you once cried for an hour because you though someone took your favorite plushie!  Nya nya nya!  Lady is a big ol scaredy!” Radiance sung over and over in a crude mocking voice, her childish squeals flat and annoyingly toneless.  With a final huff and a determined wail, Lady broke through her fervent taunts.

“You’re wrong!! Fine!  I’ll play it!  But if mamma gets angry I’ll tell her it was all your faults for making me play!”  She squealed, asserting her all too certain threats to the group as a whole.  With that, Radiance let out a victorious sigh.

“Finally you decide to be some fun for once!”  She gloated, confident for now that she had swayed over the timid lass to her side for now.  With that, the trio stared back at Grimm, eyes brimming with curiosity and impatience.

“So...  What do we do now?  You said you knew how to play this game, but I don’t see a game board or cards or anything.”  Pale broke the silence first, inquisitively looking over the smirking bug with a hint of scrutiny.  After all, what kind of game had no pieces?

“Well, let’s take a seat, and I’ll explain everything!”  Grimm smugly cooed, taking out a pouch of various sided dice of all different colors.  Lady immediately was drawn to the unfamiliar objects, mulling them over as if she was surveying a new type of candy.

“Woah!  I’ve never seen dice with so many sides!  I never knew they could have that many!”  She exclaimed, watching them with unbridled captivation as Grimm rolled them around in his small palm.

“We’ll get to use them later but first, you guys get to make your characters!”

[hollywooduniversityalumnus]

7. all filled up with things benign

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

Much like any other university, Hollywood University required a metric fuck-ton of paperwork to be submitted for approval of an extended leave of absence from classes. However, unlike most universities, Hollywood U encouraged such leaves, under the condition that they were for career-related endeavours, like a six-week film shoot overseas or back-to-back tapings of a new television show being optioned for one of the many streaming services. Not only would the student receive invaluable “real world” experience, a credit for their resume, and financial compensation, but the university could leverage the experience for positive publicity (and, therefore, receive financial compensation as well).

Though Hollywood U professors stressed the importance of finding work in the industry while studying, most of the students attending the university stuck to using their class projects as resume builders and spent their free time partying and cavorting around California. Those students typically found themselves scrambling to find work once they did graduate, as they had not built enough connections and rapport to be personally contacted for a job. It was sad to see aspiring directors and actors with untapped potential head back home with their heads down and dreams dashed.

Still, Thomas thought, if Hollywood U wanted faculty and students alike to enthusiastically take part in school-sanctioned leaves, they ought to consider making the paperwork less tedious.

He stared down the stack of paperwork that Miss Schuyler had so kindly left for him to deal with. It wasn’t as thick as the stack Priya had once left him – a list of complaints and observations about the students she shared with him, which he promptly recycled, because even he had a limit to his negativity – but it was daunting to look at, especially since he knew that he had to carefully read every word of it to ensure that his student’s participation in Penn Cattrall’s yet-to-be-titled film wasn’t going to end the same way her experience with Clash at Sunset did.

And, of course, to see what he had to do to keep her on track with the rest of her peers. Of all her professors, he had been the obvious choice to administer the work she would need to complete whilst filming, and he was not looking forward to the extra work he would have to do for it.

Knowing there was nothing else to do but dive in, he set down his mug of coffee and situated himself in his seat, taking a moment to adjust the lamp on his desk before pulling down the first of the many stapled stacks.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

Two and a half hours later, Thomas set down his third coffee refill and rubbed between his eyebrows. Behind him, the world beyond the window grew dimmer, and the hallway around his office swallowed up in silence. Certain he was the only one still in that wing of the school, perhaps even on that side of campus, he took a moment to get up and stretch, mind still whirring over everything he had read.

She was due to leave in three days’ time for France. The contracts he read didn’t say anything about the plot of the film she was leading, but he guessed by the extra paperwork regarding health and safety liabilities while filming in the catacombs of Paris that it had something to do with the horrors of being lost in a claustrophobic, labyrinthine setting surrounded by the dead.

Along with the liability clauses, there was a lot said about the safety of the stunt work she’d be performing herself, which he’d flagged with a sticky note. More sticky notes were used to mark certain lines that he needed further elaboration on, and parts of the contracts that seemed impossible to enforce from far away.

It had taken him what felt like eons to get to what was the most relevant part for him: the continuing education contract.

But the words that were so important for him to digest, as he would be the one to hold her to them, swam in front of his eyes as he quickly became lost in thought. Still stuck on the tidbits of information sprinkled within the documents, breadcrumbs that piece together a vague picture of what Miss Schuyler was to be doing during her six-week leave. It bothered him that he was so bothered, but he couldn’t help it.

How was she going to react to being in the depths of the catacombs? She had difficulty just sitting in the dark for too long.

And then: does she even know what she signed up for?

Penn Cattrall should’ve given her a copy of the script. Should’ve given her a head’s up of what was expected (including the stunts that she was apparently doing herself). Should’ve gotten to know her before giving her such a challenging role.

Thomas’s fingers hovered over the keyboard of his laptop before he even realized he’d opened it.

I should warn her, he thought. What if she doesn’t know?

And then that pesky second opinion in his head, another side of himself, countered, She has to know already. After everything that happened with Anders Stone and Richard Sheridan, she would have read everything Penn Cattrall’s people sent over with a fine-toothed comb. She wouldn’t agree to this without knowing.

But what if she did?

Thomas slowly lowered his laptop’s screen and stared at the brand logo on the back. The edges of a small sticker, one from his college days that he’d stumbled upon when sorting his attic, were peeling off, and he pressed his fingers down to try and flatten them. It was a simple rectangular sticker of a quote. A memory of Yvonne purchasing him that sticker at a street fair near their campus bubbled up, but he pressed down with his fingers as if to pop it.

The enemy of art is the absence of limitations.

Though he was remarkably awarded for a fairly new director, Penn Cattrall did not yet have the power behind his name to blow dozens of millions of dollars on a single film. It had taken Thomas two films and just as many Audrey Awards to get there himself. Though the estimated five million dollar budget for the film was nothing to scoff at, Thomas knew that, after taking into account the portion of the funds that would be exchanged for access to the off-limits areas in which they’d be filming, as well as all the equipment that would be used to capture the film and keep the cast and crew safe down below, the true budget of the film was going to be quite tight indeed.

That would be a limitation, a box that would force Penn Cattrall and his crew to think outside of it without breaking the bank or disrupting the production. It could be done; after Spielberg and the Jaws crew sunk so much money into creating the mechanical shark that famously rarely worked, the director’s decision to omit the sighting of the shark until much later in the film became one of the most memorable techniques to build suspense in film. Limitation worked then.

But Margot . . .

Since that night on that gaudy set, he wondered how she coped with the memories of her past. He’d seen her sitting in darkened rooms before – like in the auditorium watching Spencer Yamaguchi’s one-man musical – but there were still light sources, still a feeling of being among a crowd, of safety. But he’d also seen – well, heard - her on that set, crying to herself.

How would she react to long hours of being deep below ground, surrounded by the remains of those who passed long ago? Penn Cattrall wouldn’t be so cruel as to make her film in complete darkness, but the catacombs definitely weren’t known for making people feel safe. Nor, Thomas guessed, would the characters be in the catacombs with perfectly working light sources, if this was a horror film like all his others. Sure, there had to be breaks where they came up for air, food, and sunlight. But what of those hours of filming in near darkness, amongst death and decay?

Was her past her limitation?

More importantly, would – could – she work with it?

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

“Miss Schuyler. Thank you for arriving on time for once.”

Displeased with being called into his office on a Friday morning, Margot lazily fell into the chair opposite his desk, her hands already tapping mindlessly on her thighs. Immediately diverting his gaze from her thighs – and the skirt she somehow considered appropriate enough to wear for such a meeting – Thomas cleared his throat.

“I’ve read through the paperwork for your extended leave,” he began. “Most of it is in order. I’ve already forwarded the very little I have issue with to be further reviewed by Penn Cattrall and Hollywood U’s lawyers.”

“Great,” Margot said, her voice flat and tired. “Is that all?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “I do hope you don’t show this kind of attitude to Penn Cattrall, or you’ll be fired and blacklisted in this industry faster than Megan Fox in her Transformers days. This is a tremendous opportunity for any actor, and even more so for a newcomer.”

In the silence that followed his words, her head lowered. Her lower lip trembled. And his stomach twisted.

Where was the confident, cocky young actress determined to take Hollywood by storm? It was almost as if they were back on that damn set, drinking Snapple and letting their guards down little by little. This time, he could see her face, and he knew that the issue was not what he had just said to her, but something else. Something had been bothering her before she’d even come into the room.

His voice softened. “What happened?”

Margot immediately shook her head. “Nothing.”

“I know you,” he said before he could stop himself. “This ‘nothing’ is a ‘something.’ What is it?”

And when she finally looked up at him again, he stood at the sight of the tears spilling from her eyes. He moved quickly, taking the box of tissues he had set upon a shelf and maneuvering around his desk until he was standing by her side. Handing her a tissue, he leaned against the desk and took in her body language, noticing with grim certainty that she had been feeling off long before he’d even thought to discuss the paperwork with her.

She blew her nose. Then, with another tissue, she dabbed at her eyes and swept under the lower lashes, the tissue picking up some makeup on its way.

“Take your time,” he said.

Take your time? a part of him repeated. Since when did you get so soft?

Margot let out a deep, shuddering breath. Then, focusing more on the steadily growing pile of tissues she accumulated in one hand, she spoke.

“Up until a week ago, Penn Cattrall was sure that we were going to be filming entirely on a sound stage.” Her voice trembled, and she took a deep breath. “I – I was fine with that. A sound stage means that the lights come up, you step outside for some light, you know, no problem at all. But then . . . I don’t know how he got permission, but . . .”

She promptly pulled another tissue from the box and blew her nose into it. Thomas crossed his arms over his stomach, holding in his impatience.

Don’t rush her; let her find the words.

“I don’t think I can do it,” she admitted, and then it was a rush of words like a flood headed downhill. “I’ve been trying – I mean, I’ve been practicing, rehearsing in my room in the dark, just a headlamp and a flashlight, all by myself but – I can’t do it, I can’t do it in my own bedroom, let alone the fucking Parisian catacombs with the bones and the tunnels and – what if I get scared and then lost? What if – he said we’d be safe, but no one’s ever been permitted to film in the off-limits areas till now, and I – I’m terrified.” She buried her head in her hands. “How can I call myself an actress if I can’t get over this?”

He looked over her in silence.

“I’m going to ruin my career, and it’s just begun.”

Her words fell on deaf ears. Thomas began breathing slowly, deeply, and, while it clearly annoyed Margot, she caught on to what he was doing and matched his breaths. Inhale, hold, exhale, hold, repeat. Inhale, hold, exhale, hold, repeat.

When it seemed like she’d finally calmed, Thomas sighed. “The pressure you’re putting on yourself is not helping you. You will gain nothing from considering yourself a failure from the start. Your performance will be impacted by your thoughts. You will lose your starring role if you let this go on.”

“How do I stop it?” Margot cried. “You’re my teacher. Teach me.”

Thomas grimaced at the reminder.

“How do I get over this?” she asked.

“You don’t,” he said bluntly. “You simply learn to roll with it, as many other actors and artists before you have.”

Margot rolled her eyes. “Oh, great, another anecdote from your days on Battlefield Earth. I would’ve thought you’d told them all in class by now.”

“Mar- Miss Schuyler.” Thomas blinked a few times, reminding himself of decorum, of the rules he had to adhere to as a faculty member speaking to his student. “You’re not the first, and certainly not the last, actor working with their traumas and fears to complete a production. A simple Google search will tell you that a multitude of actors admit to feeling emotionally and mentally drained from the work they do that involves at least some aspect of their fears. For some, it is claustrophobia when filming in confined spaces for the majority of a film. For others, it is continual exposure to creatures or things that they may associate with terrible memories or have faced before and nearly lost. Fear of heights in an action film. Fear of large bodies of water and drowning after seeing such a thing happen in their childhood. And yes, fear of the dark and the unknown shrouded within it.”

She dabbed at her eyes with another tissue.

“You are not alone in your feelings. More to the point, you are not – and will not be – alone. You will never be alone like that again.”

She nodded.

And Thomas, quickly turning back to his desk, procured some papers from his desk and changed the topic.

“So, about your homework . . .”

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

Production Progress Journal Entry 1:

Within the Parisian catacombs, there is a sign that says (according to Penn Cattrall, who translated it for me): “Stop! This is the Empire of the Dead.”

They are not wrong.

To say that I am far beyond my comfort zone is an understatement. More accurately, I’m far beneath it (twenty metres or so, in fact; thanks, tour guide Jack/Jacques).

Penn had arranged a special tour for the cast and crew, which was done in staggered batches of ten with a guide in front and a guide at the rear to keep everyone together. Honestly, they didn’t need to arrange it like that; I doubt that anyone, when within the Empire of the Dead, would branch away from the group when surrounded by dust and bones and stale air. The tour was apparently the same as any regular tour, though the “special” part of it came into play once we had reached a certain point within the catacombs, when the guides took us through a clearly marked off-limits area to show us one of the many places we’ll be working in under the direct supervision of several officials and safety officers.

You think, once you’ve walked around in a cavern made of cadavers for forty or so minutes, you’d be relatively numb to the sight of another area stacked high with bones.

I just . . . didn’t expect the first shots we’ll be filming to take place within such a microscopic tunnel.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

Thomas Hunt’s comments on Production Progress Journal Entry 1:

I am not surprised to hear of the extensive security and safety detail.

I am surprised that you didn’t expect to film in areas that may trigger claustrophobia.

Have you done anything at all to help mentally and physically prepare for the shoot?

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

Production Progress Journal Entry 2:

On the plane ride to France, I’d started listening to the podcast “How to Find Peace Within Yourself: A Guided Meditation to Alleviate the Darkness and Manifest the Light.” Once settled in my temporary hotel home for the next six or so weeks, I made space on the floor and did partake in some of their suggested activities, including mindfully making a cup of tea and waking up at ungodly hours to sit in front of the window and focus on how the light of the sunrise felt creeping up my body.

At about seven in the morning today, we made our first descent of many for this film into the catacombs.

Approximately nineteen minutes later, a safety officer had guided me out, where I’d narrowly managed to reach a trash bin before I’d vomited up my breakfast.

Manifesting the light through mindful tea making is bullshit.

Thank fuck it was only a rehearsal.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

Production Progress Journal Entry 2.5:

Just got out of a last-minute meeting/admonishment talk with Penn. From what memory serves, he told me that he was worried we’d both bitten off more than we can chew with this ambitious project. I know he’s trying to soften the blow of the underlying warning of his words.

He is unimpressed. He has every right to be.

Whatever he saw in me when he chose me is not present now, and I don’t know how to come back from this.

I am not the only cast member who has to take frequent breaks from below; my co-star, Oliver Abel, is extremely claustrophobic. He has a scene planned for filming tomorrow that involves him squeezing through the aforementioned tunnel, and I honestly don’t know how he’ll pull it off.

I hope he can do it.

I hope we all can do it.

I don’t want to lose this opportunity.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

Production Progress Journal Entry 3:

I don’t know if I can do what Oliver did.

He’s managed to use his fear to power his performance, sobbing desperately and clawing at the tunnel walls. First take, best take, and while I’m proud, I’m also nervous.

The past few days, Penn has allowed me to focus mainly on above-ground scenes while the crew gets more comfortable with working underground. But we’re running out of filler scenes to film. Soon, it will be my turn to wiggle atop a pile of bones (supplied by Penn’s affiliated prop company, and not the real bones of dead citizens) and plea for mercy.

I don’t know how I’m going to do it.

Especially if my headlamps malfunction, plunging me into darkness, as mentioned in the final draft of the screenplay I got a few hours ago.

Help.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

Thomas Hunt’s comments on Production Progress Journal Entry 3:

You are too busy worrying about yourself that you are not learning from those around you.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

The phone call came just before eight p.m.

Thomas had reclined in his favourite armchair, beat after a day of marking subpar assignments. His red pen had run out of ink halfway through an essay that was more a waste of paper and ink than an acceptable analysis on auteurist theory, and he’d had to switch from coffee to scotch after ripping apart Lance Sergio’s paper on Sophie’s Choice.

Really, how is that boy still enrolled?

The floor lamp positioned by his armchair went dark, and Thomas turned his head to look at it. He’d have to buy a new bulb for it. Been meaning to for a while now. Another thing to add to his ever-growing list of responsibilities and errands.

He blinked slowly at the shrill noise that broke the comfortable silence, realizing seconds later that it was his cell phone ringing. A number he didn’t recognize, with an area code he couldn’t place off the top of his head.

Still, he answered.

“Who is this?” he asked simply, leaning back into his chair.

Her hushed voice had him jolting straight up again.

“I can’t do this. Help me.”

Though he felt as though his blood has run cold, he kept his voice even as he asked, “How did you get this number, Miss Schuyler?”

“I have my ways.” She sounded on the verge of tears. “I’m scared. I don’t – I don’t think I can do this.”

And Thomas, being the level-headed, critical, highly regarded and rewarded director, actor, professor, and screenwriter that he was, sucked in a deep breath before replying.

“Yes, you can.”

“I can’t, I-”

Thomas’s voice was stern. “Margot. Did I not stand for you during your hearing? Do you think I said any of those things falsely? You have shown tremendous growth in such a short time. You led and assisted in multiple school projects. You have acting and producing credits for films that have been nominated – and won – awards.”

“I never had to do any of those things underground,” she argued, her teary voice giving way to a spark of anger. “I’m fine in front of a camera and behind it. I’m happy to be in the spotlight. But I can’t cope with this. Have you ever been to the catacombs? How lonely and suffocating it is to be so far below, hidden away from the world? I close my eyes for too long and it’s like I’m right back in that fucking shed my mother pretended was a house.” Her voice broke on the last few words, and Thomas’s chest tightened.

Her words were met with silence until he had gathered his thoughts on how to assure her.

“The camera crew is there. Mr. Cattrall will be there. You will not be alone. At the first sign of distress, they will halt filming so you can regain composure.” His voice hardened. “You cannot quit now. You have just begun to soar.”

“I’m going to plummet face-first into bones and debris.”

Thomas huffed. “Perhaps. But you will get up again.”

She sniffled.

“Have you considered a therapist?”

“It’s a little late for that.”

“It’s never too late to take care of yourself,” Thomas admonished. “A podcast and meditation are good starts, but the way you react to things that remind you of your trauma is rather unhealthy and will stunt the growth – both personal and craft-wise – that you have already made.”

She said nothing.

He cleared his throat. “Does Mr. Cattrall know?”

She snorted. “All he knows is I’m a failure. I can practically hear him calling for my replacement as we speak.”

Thomas checked his watch, then strained to remember the time difference. Eight p.m. here was . . .

“Are you calling me right before your shoot starts?”

He heard her take a sip of something. “I could barely sleep. I’ve felt sick to my stomach all night.”

“Margot, you are not making this easy for yourself.”

She snorted again. “It’s not going to be easy, period.”

Thomas sighed, running his fingers over one of the arms on his chair. “You need to tell Mr. Cattrall. A good director knows their performers. I’m sure he’ll be more lenient on you if he knew.”

“And be called a crybaby?” Margot snapped. “No, thanks.”

Thomas let out a huff of annoyance. “Margot, why are you even calling if you don’t want any of my advice?”

“Because . . . I don’t know anyone else who would care.”

Silence.

“Margot-”

“Miss Peaches is gone, and I can’t remember the breathing technique she taught me.” Her voice grew higher, hysterical. “I sleep with a lamp on because I can’t handle the feeling of being abandoned again. The few things I’ve filmed in darkness were done surrounded by dozens of crew members on sound stages where everything is predictable and there’s no threat of cave-ins or collapses.”

“Margot, listen-”

“You heard me that night on the set. You know how it makes me feel.”

“I do. I did hear you. I know what you’ve been through.” Thomas’s voice, once again, became strangely soft, soothing. “Margot, you cannot let this hold you back forever. You will face it again and again. It’s not something one simply ‘gets over.’ You have to learn with work with it, and make it work to your advantage.”

She sobbed, and his throat went dry. “How?”

Thomas closed his eyes. His fingers pressed firmly against the arm of his chair, as if smoothing down the edges of a peeling sticker.

“‘The enemy of art is the absence of limitations.’”

He hadn’t realized he’d said it out loud until Margot spoke again, her voice shaky but still understandable.

“Orson Welles.”

He hummed. “He was my father’s favourite filmmaker. My parents rarely let me stay up to watch movies, but when a Welles was on, well . . . he made the popcorn, I sliced the jalapenos, and we sat together under his spell. It was one of the few times we actually got along.”

“You put jalapeno slices in your popcorn?”

Thomas smiled. “Don’t knock it till you try it.”

“I’ll stick with Reese’s Pieces, thanks.” She sounded a bit more upbeat, which he found encouraging.

So, while it wasn’t something he normally advertised, he admitted, “My father named me after him, actually.”

The sound of Margot’s laugh was like a burst of sunlight on his skin, warming and comforting. “Really? How so?”

“Orson is my middle name.” Thomas failed to keep the smile out of his voice. “I understand why he did it, given Welles’s impact on cinema, but it was tough just learning how to spell it when I was a boy.”

“I’m trying to imagine you as a child. All I see is a scowling little boy in a suit.”

“You wouldn’t be very far off.”

“So you’ve always worn suits?”

“My mother dressed me to impress. And to get made fun of.”

Every time she laughed, the weight on his chest lifted a little more. And he found that he couldn’t hold back his own laughter, even as he shook away the memories of playground bullies kicking dirt at him and scribbling on his sleeves with markers.

“Thomas?” Her laughter had died down, and her voice was timid.

“Yes?”

Margot sighed. “Thank you. I feel a little better now. I’ll try to remember what you said, about taking care of myself and getting up again.”

He nodded, as if she could see it. “Don’t forget the quote.”

“Right.”

There was a pause.

“Could you . . . elaborate further on that?”

Thomas rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Limitations breed creativity. They foster growth beyond its restrictions. Take your co-star for example. Claustrophobic, yet he filmed his scene well. You wrote that his fear powered his performance, made it stronger. You feel limited by your trauma. But could you work with it and use it to add verisimilitude to your character’s journey?”

Margot, wherever in Paris she was, took a deep breath that sounded like a gust of wind into his ear. “I – I’m not sure.”

“You’ve fuelled your performances before with your pain.” Thomas thought back to the first acting project she’d helmed since Clash at Sunset’s premiere, when Anders Stone tricked her out of millions of dollars. She’d played a fiery sidekick to her classmate Erik’s cliché cowboy, effectively stealing the show with how genuine her actions seemed to be. “You’ve used anger to your advantage. Pain is part of that realm. You do not have to be sure. You only have to try.”

In the background of her side of the call, he could hear someone talking to her. Then, Margot’s voice came back on the phone, apologetic.

“I have to go. It’s time.” She paused, then added, “Thank you. Really. I’ll try to make you proud.”

Thomas smiled to himself and said, “Don’t forget to do your progress report.”

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

Long after she’d hung up, he stared at his phone in silence.

I’ll try to make you proud, she’d said.

You already have, he wanted to reply.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

He poured three more fingers of scotch into his glass and carefully selected two perfect ice cubes from the steel container on his drink cart. Flicking on a random channel, he attempted to absorb the film that was already midway through. Instead, it was a flashy, action-packed thing for his eyes to watch while his mind whirred behind them.

He wished he could stop replaying their phone call in his head. The way he’d told her his middle name, admitted he’d been bullied for being different, and encouraged her to use her vulnerabilities to her advantage.

The sound of a gun firing temporarily shook him from his thoughts. Shaking his head to clear his mind, he raised his glass to his lips.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

There had been a time when, if Thomas strained his ears enough, he could hear the echoes of Yvonne’s laughter, her voice crooning for him to join her on an impromptu adventure as an attempt to make him socialize more. He rarely willingly tortured himself with the memories, but on a night like this, with too much scotch in his system and the living room’s burnt-out lamp bulb shrouding him in partial darkness, he settled into his seat and closed his eyes, expecting his mind to conjure up the image of the woman he had once loved and chose to lose.

He saw his fingers running through her long dark locks that stretched far beneath her shoulders, framing her face in gentle, inky waves that shone impossibly beneath the night sky.

Her eyes, framed by dark lashes, dark brown irises shockingly bright and intent on his face.

Her cheek pressing into his palm, eyes fluttering closed as she leaned into it further, as if his touch soothed.

A silver-blue gown’s skirt twirling around her legs as they danced.

A different ethereal silver-blue gown rendered diaphanous by the rainfall.

Her angular face, flushed from breathless kisses, illuminated by the bright colours of the fireworks display.

Her voice was a whisper that reverberated within his skull, words overlapping with different emotions.

“Hunt?”

“Please, Thomas . . .”

“My feelings for you are not fake.”

His eyes shot open.

No.

No, no, no.

What did Yvonne look like?

What did she sound like?

What was her last name again?

Does it matter anymore?

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

Production Progress Journal Entry 4:

A wise man once told me that another wise man said, “The enemy of art is the absence of limitations.”

(Orson Welles, in case I have to give credit. This is a school thing, right? Do I need to put this in MLA/APA/whatever?)

The things I associate with darkness, particularly being along in darkness, are my limitations. They make me feel sick to my stomach, bring tears that burn in my eyes until they fall, and make me want to avoid any and all scenarios in which I’d have to face them.

I’ve fueled performances with my emotions before. I’ve used heartbreak to write a best-selling song and anger to light up a performance about a vengeance-seeking cowgirl. Certainly, I could do it again with this emotion, this sadness and pain.

And I did.

The pile of bones scene was terrifying, especially with the headlamp flickering on and off. But I knew I wasn’t alone, that despite the setting we were filming in, I was safe and seen. I was still scared, but I knew my character would be, too. I’d spoken to Penn Cattrall before filming the scene, and he’d told me that the pain I felt, if translated as well as Oliver’s claustrophobia was to his performance, made the struggles of my character real. He’s rewritten Oliver’s character to be claustrophobic, and he’s going to work on mine so that I can work through my fears.

In half an hour (I’m on break with Oliver right now; enjoying a panini from a nearby café) I’ll be filming a scene with Oliver in another area of the catacombs, a microscopic chamber with a hole in the wall. We’re both terrified. And we’re both excited to try.

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Author’s Note:

Hi, friends. It’s been a while, I know. “Real life” got a lot busier than I expected.

But anyway, just wondering if it’s worth it to keep posting the chapters of this story on Tumblr. I’m already posting it on AO3 as it is, and to be quite frank, there’s really no engagement here so I’m not sure if I’m just clogging the tags.

Please let me know what you think :)

[the-headbop-wraith]

1 _ Whisper

 The dream again.

Falling into the black.  Crooked spikes stretching up, reaching.  Hungry teeth to skewer meat, then it’s all over.  Mercifully quick.  He couldn’t believe it happened, he hadn’t the strength to stop it.  What had happened?

It was all a blur after that.  He remembered how cold he felt, how weak he was as Vivi screamed at him.  He didn’t understand what had happened at first, if he had been aroused suddenly from a dead sleep.  He thought he was asking, nearly begging her to explain.

“What happened? What happened?”  But his mind couldn’t coordinate the confusion of words in his throat with his numb lips.  Too much pain and his body was impossibly weak.  Bright lights burned into his eyes.  And Mystery.  It was Mystery, wasn’t it?  Sitting beside the people jerking at his clothing and jamming needles into his body.  He remembered those red eyes staring at him with such clear focus, as if gazing through him and into his soul.

__

The hot sun dug into his eyelids, making his face feel unnecessarily warm.  He opened his eyes a crack and glared through the windshield tilted above him.  Judging by the suns position in the sky it had to be a little before noon, but it was hard to decide the specific time of day following the falls hourly time change.  He blinked at the wetness in his eyes and reached his hand up to dry his face, but rather rub his eyes gently he smashed the mechanical arm into his nose and prompted him to jolt upright.

“Oh god,” Arthur groaned.  He pressed he cold palm to his face to ease the pain.  His rash motions upset the dog curled up in his lap, and with a whimper Mystery squirmed around until he was facing Arthur, concern in his eyes.  “M’okay.”  He reached his flesh hand to the dogs head and scratched behind his ear.  “Still not used to this.”

After reassuring his companion, he moved his good arm to drape over the drivers back seat and pulled himself up more to sit.  Arthur had the front seats to lay across, while Vivi took the more spacious back.  Arthur watched Vivi where she was curled up in a nest of sleeping bag and a blanket, the pillow in her care was a few feet from her head.  Arthur pulled up his own blanket, crushed between him and the seats, and carefully this time dabbed at his sticky face.

Mystery gave a low whine as he leaned across his companions lap and nudged his cool nose at the digits of the false arm.  Arthur couldn’t feel the fur or the nose, but he could detect the pressure and distress the dog projected his way.  Arthur put his arm around the dogs neck and pulled him closer and pressed his face into the soft white fur.

“It’s okay,” Arthur murmured.  “It’ll be okay.”  Mystery curled up into a tight ball against his chest as he leaned back on the driver’s door.  Arthur shut his eyes and worked to ease the sorrow from his mind before Vivi awoke and questioned his broken expression.

 __

The assignment was a relatively simple one.  No mention of spiritual hostility but the owners of the home just voiced concerns, they didn’t want to believe that someone had been confined to their home and the activity had been growing more frequent as of late.  Arthur had noticed that their group had been given easier and less assignments, but that shouldn’t have come as a great shock.  Vivi didn’t seem to mind, he knew she worried about him too much. 

They unpacked the essential equipment from the van and hauled the readers and the camera to the upstairs bedroom, where the couple noted most of the activity.  Mystery remained in the back keeping an eye on the laptop, that was connected to the camera that was already recording in the house.  Arthur swore the dog was looking for something.

“I’m getting some high electric readings from the walls here, where the plugs are, “Vivi said.  She held the small electric reader in her hand as the lights flared on the top.  “That would easily explain the creepy feelings they’ve been getting.”

Arthur had gone into the bathroom, admiring the cleanliness of the floor and sink area, where the couple had set their towels.  “The place was built in the 1800s,” he added.  “But it was recently renovated when they moved in,” he paused.  “How long ago was that?”

“Two years,” Vivi said.  She moved the sensor towards the ceiling fan above the bed. “It correlates with their accounts that the activity had been increasing, since they moved in.”

Arthur did some of the math in his head, but Vivi was the one that kept on top of the local history of their assignments and the finer details of witness accounts.  “Did they start renovations before they moved in, or after?”

“Between.”  Vivi appeared in the doorway of the bathroom.  She lowered the black device gripped in her hand, as she scanned over the walls and mirror.  “They had to restore some of the house to make it livable, then finished up after they were settled.”

Arthur tried the faucets and listened as the water rumbled in the pipes somewhere in the walls.  The sound was nonspecific, but the couple said they heard voices.  “What I wouldn’t give to recount a timeline with the accuracy you have,” Arthur said.  He turned the water up full blast and the rumbling stopped.

“I just pay attention,” Vivi said, a slight shrug and the hint of a smirk in her lips.  “Nice bathroom.”

“You do more than that,” Arthur insisted.  “I’m terrible with dates and history and… keeping facts straight in my head.”

Vivi opened the cupboard nearest to the bathrooms doorway and knelt to examine the interior.  Freshly folded towels were stacked inside, a few shampoo bottles and some bars of packaged soap met her eyes.  The silver pipes in the back looked solid.  “You’re great with the equipment,” she said, and giggled.  “I can barely update my iPod without it crashing.  Thanks, by the way.”

“You’re welcome,” Arthur said.  Whenever her iPod did freeze up, which was too often in his opinion, Arthur would troubleshoot it for her.  He shut off the water and listened.  “Hey, Vivi?”

“Yeah?”  She stood up.  In the walls there was a faint rattle as somewhere in the pipes the pressure stabilized after use.  Vivi raised the electro gauge towards the bright lamps above the mirror and registered a high increase in current.  “Looks like this might just be your typical case of shoddy restoration. Arthur?”  She turned to him when he failed to continue after her prompt.  “What’d you need?”

Arthur shakes his head.  “Er, ah— The owners left the attic open for us.  Sorry,” Arthur said, smiling.  “I was thinking over the interior layout of the house, and it seems like common draft through vents in the roof.  Maybe we should check that out next?”

“Good plan.”  Vivi closed the cupboards and exited the bathroom.  “After running the water, we might get some interesting sounds.”

With a sigh Arthur followed.  “Yeah.  That’s what I meant.”  As he moved past the windows he couldn’t resist a glance at his arm, glinting under the bright light beside his amber vest.

__

The assignment turned out more successful than Vivi and Arthur had initially thought.  A lot of their paranormal investigations turned out to be nothing but the usual in old homes and unkempt buildings - the foundation settling, old uninsulated wiring, even bats in the walls; there were the few cases of sham artists with tape recorders that played from hidden spaces or rigging designed to catch the camera at a specific moment.  A lot of disappointments, but the college funded their research regardless if anything was found.  Sometimes exposing the falsities was enough as far their providers was concerned, but it was no satisfaction to find out their time had been wasted with overactive imaginations.

It was far into the night, Arthur was fueling himself with endless cups of bitter coffee while Vivi sat in the back of the van roving over the laptop and the evidence she was checking.  While she listened for electronic voices, she worked with duplicates of all the images gathered trying to edit out the fuzziness of the night vision cameras.

“Arthur,” Vivi piped, as she leaned over the drivers seat.  “What does this sound like to you?”  She set the laptop down on the passengers seat and fitted the ear muffs over his ears, as Arthur kept his attention of the dark shapes of the forest around them.  This was a common ritual as they drove, which was reason why he took the longer and sometimes outdated back roads.  Arthur tilt his head as he focused on the loud scratching filled his ears of the raised volume.  He was wary that a sudden sound would shut through his brain of something unnamed, usually someone’s heightened whisper as he or Vivi asking questions.

The voice that came through was an older woman, not Vivi by a long shot, not the home owners that had been outside at the time.  Arthur had adjusted his senses well to identifying white noise that came through the electric recording and easily distinguished between a falsified recording and the genuine paranormal.

“Sounds like, ‘made the garden,’” Arthur finally said.  “Weird.”

“I know, that’s what I thought.”  Vivi slipped the ears muffs off Arthur’s head and raised up the laptop from the passengers seat.  Mystery watched from his elected spot on the middle seat, curled beside Arthur’s leg.  “That would correlate to the images I’m working on, the one’s of the figure staring out the master window into the backyard.  It’s sweet if you think about it.”

Arthur smiled.  “You mentioned that the house was uninhabitable when the new owners first bought it?” he said, his smile widening.

“Yeah, I did.”  Vivi went ahead and double checked her current data, before closing the programs and shutting the laptop down.  “Total wreck,” she went on.  “Renovations would’ve cost nearly as much as the home itself.  The yard was dead, full of weeds and junk.  Then the owners moved in, cleaned it up.”  Vivi stuffed the laptop up under the passengers seat, before she crawled over cushion to sit beside Mystery.  Vivi set her hand between the dogs shoulder blades and scratched as he uncoiled and sat up.  “Mrs. Ricewell wanted a garden.”

Vivi let her voice trail off, as Arthur poured himself another cup of lukewarm coffee.  “Sounds straightforward to me,” he said.  His metal hand fumbled to hold the plastic cup as he lifted it from the cup holder and to his lips, careful not to spill again.  “Nothing hostile.  Just there because the house was restored.  I think that just sometimes happens.”  Arthur took another sip and winced.  The coffee was terrible.

“Hmm?”  Vivi asked.

“Energy, I think.  Like a battery,” Arthur said.  He lowered the cup back to the cup holder; Vivi helped him guide his arm when it was apparent his aim was off.  “I’ve been thinking up some theories for our separate report’s, and did my own research on places that have been abandoned.  Other paranormal researches support the idea too, that activity kicks back up in a home again if people start to fix up the place.  A house with no running energy, no people, it starts to degrade and maybe any spirits there begin to drift away.  Spiritual energy has to be powered by something, it doesn’t make sense that a ghost is there just because.”

Vivi pondered over this as the van rumbled down the old road.  The headlamps illuminated the skeletal trees and brush struggling to claim the earth that was paved over, in time there wouldn’t be a road here and the area would be forgotten.  Aside from the soft light inside the vehicle there was no other radiance this far out from town and the stars blazed among wistful clouds with the backdrop of the dazzling quarter moon, outlining the gnarled tree branches with a golden haze.  The sky beneath the moon, perhaps seared by some far off town, was a bubbling fuchsia beneath the dark sky.

“That would explain why activity kicks up when were around, if there’s any,” Vivi said.  “You need to figure out a way to make dampers for the equipment, so spirits don’t tap into the batteries.  It’s getting expensive to pack spares for just in case.”

“Good idea,” Arthur said, smirking her way.  “Can’t believe I never thought of that.”

Vivi returned the smile.  “That’s why we make such a great team,” she said.  She gave Mystery a scratch on his shoulder when he leaned her way and yipped.  “You too Mystery.  You keep us from staying mad at each other.”

Arthur was about to reach over and take another swig of his coffee, when the engine faltered under his feet.  He hesitated as the lamplights pulsed and the low rumble of the motor began to sputter out.  “Oh no,” he muttered, raising a foot to the break to disengage cruise.  “No-no… don’t do this.”  He brought his hand back from the steering wheel when a bright flash zipped through his eyes and the interior light of the cab dimmed, leaving the impression of red in his retinas.  “C’mon, don’t do this.”  He pressed his foot to the gas and turned to give Vivi a defeated look as the lights dimmed once more.

“Arthur,” she said.  “Did you fill up the tank like I told you to?”

“I did.  I did!” he pleaded, grinning sheepishly.  “I’m sure I did.”  Arthur wasn’t so certain at this time, as the engine gave a final whine, then died completely.  “Yeah,” he urged.  “I remember putting the receipt in my pocket.”

“Then what could be the problem?”  Vivi watched the erratic movement of the boo charm as it began to twist to a stop.  She leaned forward opening the glove back in front of her and dug through the papers and spare battery boxes until her hands snapped over the flashlights handle.  She handed the flashlight to Arthur as he reached under the steering wheel, feeling for the release handle with his good arm.  “We’ve never had trouble with the van before.”

“I know,” he mumbled.  The handle creaked as he jerked it out and the hood of the van thudded.  “I’ll give it a look, see if something came loose.  This roads not in the best of shape.”

Vivi watched as Arthur got out.  When he shut the door, his beam bobbing under the dull haze of the night, she shared a glance with Mystery.  “It’ll be all right,” she cooed.  “he’ll be right back.”  Mystery let out a soft whine that startled Vivi in its evident distress.

The hood of the van snapped up and Vivi watched the dark panel as the light bobbed around the sides and through the tight crease at the base of the windshield.  She could hear Arthur fiddle around, his metal arm making audible clanking as he snapped it to the edge of the van whenever he leaned forward to fiddled with wires with his good arm.  It seemed like hours that he worked and Vivi in that time had rested her hand on Myster’s head massaging his scalp, while the dog no doubt bore holes through the van’s hood to where Arthur stood.  Finally, the hood swept down with a harsh snap and Arthur rounded the side to the driver’s side door.

“Can you give me some 99?” he asked, holding the flashlight as Vivi reached for the cup holders.  They had a pump bottle of disinfectant in one of the cupholders, and Vivi leaned over to squirt the jelly liquid on his flesh palm.  She pulled up a blue bandanna from the passenger doors pocket, the cloth had numerous dark stains on it and she used it to rub the grease off of Arthur’s hand.

“Thank you,” he said.  He set the flashlight on the driver’s seat, and took the cloth when it was offered to him and cleaned off his metal knuckles.  “I couldn’t find anything wrong with the engine.  Absolutely nothing.”

Vivi thought over this as she watched him in the dark.  Cool air breezed in through the open door, the night was filled with the scent of dirt and oil.  “I’ll see if I can call a tow truck,” she said at last.  Arthur made a sound under his breath but didn’t argue.  Arthur moved the flashlight aside as he climbed up into the driver’s seat and shut the door.  Vivi climbed over the seat into the back hunting for the phone.  “Can you hand me the light?”

Arthur looked over as the light swung up when Mystery picked it up and handed it back to Vivi.  She thanked the dog, and Arthur slumped down in his seat a little more.  He ran through his mind all the methods he had used to replace and maintain the van, he was a trained mechanic and about a third of the engine was digital.  It made no sense, and it annoyed him.  Arthur kept his irritation to himself.

After several minutes, Vivi climbed back over the seat with the light while her thumb jammed at the touch screen of the phone.  “No signal,” she said.

The three shared a collective sigh.  For what felt like hours they sat debating a plan separately, not speaking until they had run through all the ideal scenarios until they had gathered a potential solution.

“We could tie Myster’s collar to the front bumper and have him pull us,” Arthur suggested.  To this the dog growled, eyes flashing in the soft light of the flashlight at his paws.  “Kidding.  Kidding.  Touche.”

“Or,” Vivi says, smoothing down Mystery’s raised ears, “you can put the van in neutral and push us for a bit.  Maybe we’re just in a ditch?”

For a while Arthur said nothing, only gazed forward into the black daggers of trees and flat nothing.  He nodded.  “Knew you were going to suggest that,” he said.  Arthur took the gear shift and struggled with the handle, it felt like it was fighting him.  He adjusted the keys in the ignition trying to release the lever, partly he hoped the engine would just roar to life.  He managed to unstick the handle and switched the van to neutral.  As Arthur climbed out, Vivi hopped to the driver seat.

“Be careful, Arthur,” she urged.  “Don’t strain yourself too much.”

“I know, I know.”  Arthur braced his toes to the road and gripped the frame of the door.  Nothing happened for a while, until he grunted and adjusted his stance to a more comfortable position.  Slowly, the van creaked forward.  “Having fun?” he snorted.

“Not really,” Vivi confessed.  They gained momentum and she became worried that they were heading up a hill that was steeper than she first anticipated.  “Remember what I said.”

“I’m okay.  Just let me concentrate.”  Arthur felt his heart pounding, his left side throbbed where the compromised veins detoured circulation in his body.  “Maybe you and Mystery should get out,” he panted.  “Follow the van.  It might help.”

There was a pause, Arthur didn’t try to study the expression on Vivi’s face, not in the dark.  He remained focused on the road and the rubber tires crunching gravel.  At last with hesitance she says, “You think that might really help?”

“I’m just kidding,” he said, with a hint of a chuckle.  “I’ll quit here in a second.  Have you gotten a signal on the phone?”

He saw the flutter of light in the corner of his eye as no doubt Vivi checked the phone at his prompt.  Arthur felt something of relief when she gasped, but he didn’t expect her next exclamation.

“Art.  Look!”  Arthur raised his head and saw a shape down the road. An ambiguous and large shape with flat sides, in contrast with the sharp twisted angles of the surrounding woods. At first he couldn’t decide what it was Vivi wanted him to see, but as his eyes adjusted he could make out the soft tones of pink brushed down the sweeping sides of flat surfaces. Above the knotted tree branches curled the jagged horizon of symmetrical points across the top, dark slates slopped downward and glimmered beneath the moon. He felt a surge of adrenalin in his body as his mind began to place what the shape was that should be obvious to his eyes. “I’m not imagining it, am I?” Vivi said, skepticism in her tone. It was dark, it would be easy for the wishful mind to conjure an auto repair shop in the middle of the thick woods. But no, Arthur could see fully what Vivi was staring at.

“No,” Arthur huffed, trying to catch his breath.  “It’s a house maybe?”

“More than a house,” Vivi went on.  “A mansion.”  She gazed unmoving for several minutes, as Arthur panted and strained with the heavy vehicle.  “You wanna stop now?”

Arthur glanced up, saw the high wall glide from the black tangle of dry shrubs and grass.  “No,” he assured.  “Just a few more feet, then I’ll stop.”  He regretted that almost immediately.  The building was much further away than he anticipated, and more than once he debated on just stopping where they were.

“We’re here, Art.  You can stop now.”  Vivi reached over to grip his shoulder as his feet began dragging over the asphalt.  “Sorry, it looked a lot closer than it was.”

Arthur leaned against the door as he caught his breath, his knees trembled now that he had stopped.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Things always change perspective in the dark.  Dumb.”

“You okay?” Vivi asked, still holding his shoulder as he shuddered and gasped.  “You’re not gonna collapse, are you?”

Arthur laughed and choked on his breath.  “I’m not delicate china, Vi.  Just a little out of breath.”  He felt his metal arm slump at his side and leaned its way.  “How’s the phone?”

There was a flash in his eyes as the screen pulsed on.  “Better than you,” Vivi answered.  “But still no sig— Shit.”

Arthur grimaced as he looked up.  “Don’t tell me.”

“No power.” They said in unison.  Mystery gave a soft whimper and shuffled around in the passenger seat.  “Fuck,” Arthur muttered.

Vivi sighed and set the phone down in the cup holder with the disinfectant.  “Let’s stay optimistic,” Vivi says, “and presume that whatever can go wrong at this point, must.”

“Yeah.”  Arthur felt some of his strength come back and stood straight, turning to the tall building that they were stationary before.  He blinked at the haze of the windows, the dark bronze coloration of the roof and ascents of the front door.  A cold tingle worked up his spine and he visibly shook.  “Place is spooky,” he said, louder than he meant too.

Nothing was said for a long time and a harsh silence fell over them, as if the dark windows and walkway of the home was judging their presence.  It was an eerie sensation and Arthur decided he was the only one that felt it.  Arthur jumped when Vivi broke the silence with a sudden statement.

“We should go inside.”  Vivi nudged Arthur as she lowered down from the drivers seat, he stepped back as her feet crunched the dirt underfoot.  The car doors clicked when she hit the unlatch button and she moved along the vans side to the back.

Arthur stuttered, “What?”  He saw Mystery’s white fur skip through the light of the flashlight as he took up the torch and dropped from the open door of the cab.  “Someone probably lives there.”

“You’re probably right,” Vivi says, around the back door of the van.  Arthur leans through the driver’s side door as she climbs inside.  “But it looks abandoned.”

Arthur glanced back at the yard under the bright glow of the moon and the cobblestone path that led up, toward the shimmering front of large doors that were ornate with stylized, lace frame beneath the forward facing balcony.  Staring at the home, it seemed much large and imposing as he gawked at.

“Looks abandoned doesn’t always mean abandoned,” Arthur snapped.  “I can push the van a little further up the road, it wouldn’t be trouble.  Besides, it’s probably filthy inside.  Could be infested with insects and mold.  C’mon Vi, I don’t like the looks of this place.”

The beam of the flashlight hovered towards him and behind Mystery was the girl in blue, her rosy glasses caught the diverted light below her knees.  “Let’s check it out, first,” Vivi said, touching his metal wrist.  “You never like the looks of any place that looks deserted.”  He looked away as she leaned towards him, seeking his eyes in the dark.  “I’m sure the place isn’t as gloomy as it looks,” she says.  “I think there are lights on inside.”

“It might just be the flashlight,” Arthur said.  He reached down and took the torch from Mystery’s mouth.  Arthur turned the light towards the front lawn and ran the dim beam over the front posts of the door and the shingles that made up the walls.  “And some of the windows are boarded up.”  He felt a cotton bag pressed into his chest, and wrapped his arms around the sack.  “Is this the holy water?”

“And charms, and dispel,” Vivi responds, as she moves to the back of the van again.  “We’ll take a quick peek inside and if it’s as dilapidated as you reason, we can just come right back out.  No more than five minutes.”  Arthur can hear her rummage around, most likely searching for the sleeping bags.  “Can you bring the light over?”

“Three,” Arthur says.  He shines the light over her shoulder as she gathers her overnight bag and jams a folded blanket through the arm loops.  “But any sound, and sort of scuffling that sounds like a rodent and we are gone.”

“Four and a half,” Vivi counters.  She grabs his bag and slides it towards him.  “But I’d feel a lot better if you were there with me.  It’d be lonely if Mystery and I were in there alone.”  Vivi reaches down to stroke Myster’s head as he leans up towards her.

Arthur groans, “Why do you have to be so assertive?”  He frowns as Vivi kneels before him and pinches his cheek.

“Because one of us has to be,” she says, a smile beaming off her lips.  Vivi struggles to life his bag and her own, but Arthur takes her heavier bag and steps back.  As Vivi steps off the back bumper, Arthur turns the soft yellow haze of the flashlight to the cracked tarmac.  “Don’t—” Vivi begins, before she’s cut off by Arthur’s voice.

“It’s cool.  I’m not going to break myself,” Arthur snaps.  “The only thing breaking around these parts is my masculinity. Really Vi, if I need help I’ll ask.”  He slings her bag of her shoulder, and holds the flashlight and the sack of paranormal supplies in his metal arm.  He turns and adjusts the light on the road broken by age and stringy weeds.

“Sometimes you forget to ask,” Vivi says at his back.  “That’s what worries me.”

Arthur turns back but neglects to frame her with the flashlight.  Mystery mulls around Athur’s feet, as he studies Vivi’s outline under the golden cast of the moon.  Vivi stares through the dark at him and Arthur detects that uncanny sense of being seen through.  After a moment he says nothing, instead he turns away towards the looming edifice before them.

When the doors slam shut Arthur calls back, “Can you see well enough?”  Vivi’s beside his shoulder and hums a confirming sound.  Side by side they move forward, bundles of cloth shifting and whispering as they struggle not to drop something onto the dusty cobblestone steps.  In the vapor of the light Mystery’s outline glimmers as he trots ahead leading the two, head forward and ears high.  Arthur takes his eyes off the dog and stares up as the mansion seems to rise and swell at their approach, as though taking a defensive stance to their intrusion. 

The home felt much closer than it actually was and the path seemed to lead up and up with each step, the sensation boggled Arthur’s mind.  A familiar chill began to work at the base of his spine and he shuddered, despite how hot his blood had become from exerting himself with pushing the van.  The twisting unease built in his gut the closer they moved to the porch, and in the dark glass above the carved wood of the front door Arthur was certain he saw a glimmer of red.

“You okay?” Arthur asked.  His voice was soft and nearly cracked, but Vivi didn’t catch the distress.

“Yeah.  It’s a beautiful old home,” she said.

Arthur could’ve cried.  Beautiful, she had called it.  Many dangerous places could be beautiful and deadly all in the same structure.  Was it the intent of animals that contained fatal poisons to mesmerize the gullible as they scurried away?  Or was it to intentionally attract the weak minded, and eliminate those disastrous genes from the infinite line of descendants to follow?  He didn’t want it to be true, it couldn’t be.

He felt a mild vibration on his arm and swung the flashlight beam enough to see Vivi, her hand wrapped around the wrist band of his metal arm.  “I’ll get the door,” she whispered.

“Yes,” Arthur said back, unsure if he had said anything at all.  He raised the light to the tarnished metal of the door handle as Vivi moved forward.  Arthur glanced around as the latch clanked under Vivi’s grip.  The shadow of the house felt icy, but it was fall and shrouded areas seemed to shelter frigid pools from the sun.  He jerked his head, certain Mystery had moved behind him but there was no shape or shadow there.

“Arthur?” Vivi sounded confused.

“Sorry.”  Arthur raised the light back to the handle, and where Vivi with Mystery stood coated in dark shades and hazy fuchsia.

Vivi shielded her eyes from the sudden light.  She had set his bag beside the door as the pressed her shoulder to the old oak.  “No.  I—” She stopped and sighed.  “Never mind.  Just my imagination.”   As Arthur choked out a sound, she gave a hard shove to the rough wood with her shoulder and the doors snapped open, as if cracked apart after centuries of desertion.  “Got it!  Can you bring the light in over here?”

With little coaxing Arthur shuffles forward, his metal arm latched over his chest and the provision bag, fingernails digging into his palm around the handle of Vivi’s bag.

The interior of the house was icy and Arthur almost expected to see his breath as he stepped into the oppressive gloom.  The bulb of light from the torch fell onto velvety rich, red carpet.  It rasped under Vivi’s feet as she stepped through the threshold into the black entrance hall.  “Wait for me,” Arthur called, hurrying after her and Mystery.  The sense of foreboding had faded completely, but it didn’t feel right.  In its place was left a vacant and isolated sensation, and Arthur instantly mourned the loss of accusation the front windows had piled on his subconscious.

“It’s not so bad in here,” Vivi said.  She stood center of the carpet, Mystery had stopped to sit close beside her feet.  “I thought it’d be dusty and dank, but no.  It’s almost, homey.”

The atmosphere was deafening and contained, evolving into a sense of suspension where time became meaningless.  Arthur passed the torch beam over the blue wall paper and the tiled floor beneath the carpet.  It was just a long hall.  He adjusted the light, trying to identify what hazards might lay in their path.  The beam of light instead caught Mystery’s gaze as the white face turned to meet his eyes, the look caused Arthur to freeze.  It was peculiar and unnatural, an expression that a dog’s face should not be able to fabricate and the suggestion of it startled Arthur at first before he recognized the actual shape of Mystery where he sat.  He had only a few seconds to register it was the dog with the red collar, before the soft vapor of light of the torch sputtered and dimmed.  Vivi’s voice broke through the crushing silence, before a loud swoosh filled the foyer followed by the ear splinting boom of the doors.  The tremor of vibrations faded from their minds as the moonlight from outside and the torch of the flashlight, were cut off completely.  A ringing persisted, and Arthur recognized the sound of blood pulsing through his eardrums in the complete absence of sound and dimension.

No one made a sound, no one moved.  No matter how Arthur strained his eyes could not perceive the wall of black that filled his eyes.  After years of waiting, Arthur believes he has been left behind.  He takes a breath of the sharp air and is about to cry out, when he catches hold of Vivi’s voice very near his side.

“Arthur,” she whispers.  “Arthur.  Do you see that?”  She points, but he can’t see anything.  Her voice is comfort enough, and he feels reassured.  Arthur is about to reach out for Vivi, when his eyes too lock on what she must have found.

At first it looked like the glimmer of her glasses, but it was high up towards the ceiling of the room somewhere in the dark.  The thick haze around it illuminates as the wavering flame dips and sways in nothingness with no visible tether.  Their eyes follow the slow motion of the fuchsia orb as it glides downward to greet its guests.

[beetlejuice-is-baby]

Beetlejuice HC! #6

Lydia was doing her homework late one night, annotating a book that was assigned, when she noticed her sticky notes were nowhere to be found. A few days later she starts finding little notes around the house. She asks the Maitlands about it, and they’ve been seeing similar notes in the attic too. It turns out, Beej found the “sticky baby papers” about a week ago and has been writing notes nonstop. Stuff like “Have a good day at prison school!” “Nice shoes today, A-Dog.” and “That dress makes you look gorgeous, B-Town!”

[kit-kat-astrophe]

Sugawara Koshi x Reader: Beach Day!!!!

Suga invites you along to a day at the beach with the boys’ volleyball team as a thank-you for helping him study for a test. 1,465 words. This one’s for you, Angel!

“Hey, y/n, wait up!” You turn around to see Sugawara from class 3-2 running down the hallway, waving his hand to get your attention. He stumbled before finally coming to a stop in front of you, crouched over with exhaustion and trying to catch his breath. He breathily addressed you. “Are you free tomorrow?” The next day was a Saturday, and you didn’t have any plans, so you reply, “Yes, why?” He straightened up. “The team and I are heading to the beach tomorrow, do you wanna come with us?”

You were slightly taken aback by his request; though you did sit near each other in a few classes, it’s not as though you were especially close. “I’d love to go! But, why ask me? Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t wanna come, but I’m sure there’s other people you’re closer to in class...” The question caught Suga off guard. “I uh... wanted to thank you for helping me study the other day. I kept you in the library for hours the other day, I figured that it was the least I could do,” he replied; adding, “yeah, let’s go with that...” under his breath. How thoughtful, you noted, that’s really sweet of him. He interrupted your train of thought, saying, “Okay then, I’ll text you the location. See you at three!” He flashed you a smile before setting off in the direction he came from.

✨Saturday, 14:30✨

It was 2 pm, and you were in a state of panic. There was only an hour left until you had to be on the beach to meet Suga; and you hadn’t even picked out a swimsuit. You frantically dug through the old box labelled ‘summer clothes’ under your bed, briefly looking at bikinis and leotards only to decide them unfit for the occasion. Then, you saw it - the perfect swimsuit. You pulled the top half out from under the pile of clothes and scanned what was left inside to find the bottom. You see it hanging over the side of the box and grab it, holding the two pieces in your hands proudly. This was it. The cool blue complimented your skin tone perfectly, and the white polka dots and the bunched up fabric on both pieces only added to the overall cuteness. After changing into the bikini, you slipped into your favourite crop top and tied the strings of the baggy shorts around your waist. You grabbed the beach bag you prepared the day before, filled with sandcastle-building equipment, sunscreen, your favourite book, a pair of stylish sunglasses and a volleyball you found in the attic. While you didn’t doubt that one of the boys would bring one, Suga warned in his text that someone would most likely spike it into the ocean, never to be seen again. You heard your mum call for you and complain that you were going to be late downstairs and hastily replied with, “I’m coming!” shutting your bedroom door behind you.

Stepping out of your car, you thanked your mum for driving you out here and looked around for your classmates. You see a boy with orange hair running away from a group of guys chasing after him wielding sunscreen, and recognise Suga as the one leading the pack. You giggle to yourself, surprised to see this chaotic side of the usually calm Suga you’re used to. You see Daichi from your class under a beach parasol, watching the chase with a deadpan expression. You made your way over to where he was sitting and set down your stuff. He turned to you and said, “Hey. Y/n, right?” You nodded your head in response. Daichi continued, “Let me get the others.” and stood up. He then proceeded to yell (louder than what you thought was possible) about how the others need to get their butts over here and say hi to you. You braced yourself as six high school boys came sprinting towards you, while the other five where telling them to slow down. The short ginger that was being chased before reached you first, introducing himself as Hinata. Everyone else arrived shortly afterwards then went off to play some beach volleyball  - though Suga stayed behind to talk with you some more.

“Y/n, I’m glad you made it! You didn’t call or anything, I thought something happened to you! I was getting kind of worried...” he said, a light blush spreading across his cheeks. “Thanks for your concern, but I was just running a little late; I couldn’t decide what to wear, haha.” you replied, touched by his distress at your absence. “A- anyway, do you wanna play with us? Though I can’t guarantee that Tanaka or Hinata won’t spike a ball into your face...” Suga said apologetically. You laughed saying, “For your information, I am the beach volleyball champion in my family!” Suga laughed with you, and teased, “Oh, really now? I don’t believe it...” You crossed your arms and pouted, feigning annoyance, and replied, “Well, I am; so you better not underestimate me, Suga-chan!” He blushed even more at the name you gave him, though you were oblivious as you spread some sunscreen across your arms.

“Hey Suga, can you put sunscreen on my back for me? I can’t reach back there...” you said, pulling off your crop top to reveal the bikini underneath. After not receiving a reply, you turned around and saw Suga - his face completely red, trying to stop himself from looking at you. Still completely oblivious, you put a dollop of sunscreen on your finger and ask, “Your face is all red, did you put on sunscreen? I wouldn’t want you to get burned!” with a kind smile. “O-oh, I must’ve forgotten to do my face. T-thanks.” he responded, still a little flustered. “I’ll do your back, sure. Pass the bottle.” You hand the bottle to him and he starts spreading the sticky substance on your skin.

“Wow, this feels really nice!” you exclaimed, a second later realising what you said. “Um, I meant, you’re really gentle - wait, no, I...” you decided to stop talking there to prevent any further embarrassment. After a while, Suga told you he was finished and set off to join the others. “You coming?” he asked. “I’ll be there in a second, just packing my clothes up.” With that, he set off towards the others. You untied the strings on your shorts and slipped out of them, stuffing them into your bag with your shirt. You ran toward the ongoing game, diving to save the ball from hitting the sand just in time. You heard a ‘nice receive!’ from a few people on your team and continued the game.

After playing for a while, you couldn’t help but feel like there were people watching you; but you shrugged it off, rationalising that the other team would be observing you to play a better counter. However, it even felt like some of the boys were performing a little worse since you started playing - you even caught a few of them staring in your direction, but brushed it off as something behind you. When the second set was finished, Suga pulled you aside to talk. Though you were confused, you still went with him. “What’s up?” you questioned, noting that his face was flushed. “W- well, I just wanted to say that...” he looked down in embarrassment. “...That, I think you should put your clothes back on!” he yelled. 

“I- WHAT?!” you exclaimed, becoming angrier by the second. Who was he to tell you what clothes you were to wear? “W- wait, that’s not what I meant! I just - all the other guys were staring at you and I guess I got a a little...” he trailed off into silence. “You what, huh?” you say still upset. He carried on, “I got a little jealous. I don’t like them ogling you like that.” He looked away, trying to hide his awkwardness. You felt your face go hot and realised that you were blushing. “O- oh. Um... I didn’t know it would bother you...” you replied sheepishly. “You can wear what you like, but make sure they don’t get any ideas, okay?” he said defiantly. You smiled warmly and said, “Okay. I’ll make sure you’re the only one who gets to think of me like that~!” You wink at him and stick your tongue out playfully as his face becomes more and more red. You run past him and shout, “Come on, we winning this set or not?”. “H- hey, wait up!” he yelled, running after you.

[strawberriestyles]

Part 2: The Creeps

(BANNER BY THE GODDESS HERSELF @adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy​)

Harry X Reader (AU)

In which you try to resolve the case of a fraternity’s haunting in a single night.

Read previous part here.

Word count: 2.9k

Author’s note: I actually forgot I was writing this when Lights Up came out bc I was so distracted and then I’ve had an eventful week but we back!! Hope y’all enjoy. I had a ton of fun writing this one. XX

“Where do we start?”

Harry’s looking at you expectantly, leather gloves curled around the sticky edge of the island countertop. You shrug, peering through the doorway into the dining room, where wispy smoke is spiraling through the air. It could be from the fog machines hidden in the corners of the house, but the smell suggests something else entirely.

“You’re the one who lives here,” you reply. “Where do you think we should start? Do you know any of the house’s history?”

“Nope. And unfortunately, I don’ think the city library’s open this late.”

“Then we’ll just have to find clues here, right?” You think your reasoning’s sound, but you’re not absolutely sure. You feel loose, foggy like the other room, and what you’ve learned in your classes sits at the peripherals of your mind, just beyond reach, unattainable. You take a firm step forward, though.

“I guess so.” Harry follows closely behind as you lead the way back into the thick of the party. It’s still a lot, all of the noise and the smells and the flashing lights at the other end of the house, but it’s no longer too much. You don’t feel the need to process it all at the same time; you can pick and choose pieces of your surroundings to focus on.

“We do have an attic, yeh know.” You turn to your right and find Harry looking out at the rest of the party. “I’ve never checked it out, but I imagine that if we could find anythin’ from the past it would be up there. Landlord’s told us to stay out, though.”

“What your landlord doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” You sweep a quick glance around the room and a quirked smile finds your lips. The scent of marijuana is only growing more potent, and against the wall, behind the sofa jutting out into the center of the living room, is a giant tub of water filled with fruit for apple-bobbing. You shiver to think of the saliva floating on its surface as the girl that fell down the stairs shoves her face into the tub’s depths. Water sloshes over the rim and forms puddles atop the wooden floorboards. “Especially if all of this doesn’t bother him.”

“Let’s check it out, then.” Harry’s fingers close over yours but you don’t have the chance to react before he’s leading you back toward the stairs. You shift through the crowd behind him until you reach the stairwell and then he drops your hand, motioning for you to precede him up the steps. The window has been closed again. Steam coats the upper pane but the lower is blocked by a couple of boys groping at each other, mouths stumbling against lips. The air, however, is still more comfortable than the rest of the house. You suck in a lungful as the two of you skirt around the other couple.

The upper floor seems like nothing but a maze of hallways and doors to you. Harry steps in front of you again and navigates quickly. A sharp right turn leaves you in a short corridor with only a single door at the end. But there’s a panel of plywood set into the ceiling just before that door, and a knotted string hangs down, taunting you.

Harry gives you a brief contemplative look before he yanks on the cord. A cloud of dust falls with the door. You cough immediately, waving a hand in front of your face to disperse the particles, and you don’t even notice the ladder falling from the ceiling before you’re yanked out of the way so hard that your shoulder twinges. The bottom of the ladder hits the floor where you were standing not a moment ago.

“‘M sorry,” Harry says when he catches sight of your wince. His fingers trail up your arm, just brushing your skin, until they reach your shoulder and peel back the strap of your costume. “Are you okay? Didn’ mean to pull yeh so hard.”

“I’m fine,” you whisper as he runs his thumb over the junction of your collarbone and the socket of your shoulder. There’s a brief flicker of pain, but it’s gone just as quickly when Harry jerks his fingers back.

“Want me to kiss it and make it better?”

Harry’s grinning, mischief glinting beneath his features. You roll your eyes at him but his lips have settled against your skin before you’re finished. They remain there, warm and moist, for one second, two, three. When Harry’s knuckles brush your elbow and he finally pulls away, your fingers are twitching, aching to reach out and touch him again, but he says nothing, just motions you toward the ladder.

“You think I’m going up there first?” you ask when you’ve found your voice again. There’s a circle on your shoulder that chills as air presses against it.

Harry grins again. “What, are yeh scared?”

“No, you just wanna look up my skirt while I’m climbing.”

Harry belts out a laugh. “I wasn’ even thinkin’ about that.”

“Liar.”

“Okay, maybe I thought about it for a second. But it was only a second.”

“Well, get climbing,” you tell him with an arched brow.

His eyes linger on you for another moment before he follows your orders, gripping the rung at eye level and hoisting himself up to the opening of the attic. It’s dark and quiet up there, and you’re just thinking about what might be creeping in the corners when there’s a reverberating snap that makes you flinch. On the last rung, Harry’s foot has broken through the wood and he slips, smashing through the rung below that one as well, but he catches himself on the attic floor.

“Christ!” he shouts.

“Are you okay?”

“‘M fine,” he grumbles before pulling himself up the rest of the way. He swings around to look down at you from his vantage point and all you can see are his head and shoulders. He nods at you. “C’mon, then.”

You shake out your painful shoulder and start climbing. When you reach the last intact rung of the ladder, Harry stretches down to catch your wrist. He pulls you toward him and then grips your arms, just below your armpits, to swing you up and into the attic. The light from the second floor doesn’t reach anything past Harry’s face up here.

“Ow, fuck,” you mumble as your shoulder smarts again.

“‘M sorry, sorry.”

“It’s fine. Is there a light up here? I can’t see anything.”

“Let me look. Hold—Fuck!”

“Harry?”

“I tripped.”

“Be careful.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“I’m just saying. Watch where you’re going.”

“Well, I bloody well would if I could see where I was—”

There’s a loud bang, so close and so sudden that you can’t help the petrified shriek that you let out. Your phone, which you were in the process of removing from your bra to use the flashlight, skitters across the room into some faraway corner. The soft light from the second floor has disappeared altogether. You’re not sure if there are any windows up here, but if there are, they’re covered. It’s pitch black. You can see nothing, not even your fingers as you hold them up an inch from your nose. Adrenaline flits through your body, your muscles tensed. Your shoulder aches but you ignore it.

“Harry?” Silence. All you can hear is the distant pump of music. “Harry?”

“‘M here. ‘M right here. You okay?”

“Yes."

All of the air leaves your lungs in a relieved sigh. You shift onto your knee and attempt to stand, but something ghosts over the nape of your neck. You gasp and fall back to the floor.

“Sorry, sorry! ’S just me.”

“Don’t fucking do that!” you whisper fiercely in his general direction. You didn’t even hear him approach.

“I didn’ mean to! I can’ fuckin’ see yeh!”

You take a deep breath to steady yourself and your racing pulse, closing your eyes. There’s more light behind your eyelids than there is in the attic.

“Here’s my hand,” Harry announces, and you can feel it displace the air as it reaches toward you. You lean forward and find his wrist first before letting your fingers slide down to his hand, gripping the warm leather of his fingerless glove. He helps you up to your feet and doesn’t let go once you’re standing. You’re grateful for his touch.

“No luck finding a light, then?” you whisper. For some reason, it feels inappropriate to speak any louder.

“I didn’ get very far. Come with me.”

You nod before realizing he can’t see you. “Yes.”

The two of you stumble across the uneven floorboards. Your hand tightens around Harry’s as your foot meets something solid and he catches you before you trip. He pulls you around the object and your free hand finds the buttons of his flannel.

“Can we go back downstairs?” you ask, trying to keep any trembling from your voice. “We can find a flashlight or something. Where’s the door?”

“I—I don’ know,” Harry admits. His thumb rubs over the back of your hand. “We’ll find it, though. C’mon.”

You let go of his shirt and follow as he tugs you back the way you came. At least, you think it’s the way you came. Your internal compass is broken, unable to get your bearings in this oppressively dark place.

There’s a whisper of something cold against your cheek and you shriek again, batting at whatever it is with your free hand and clinging to Harry’s with your other like your life depends on it.

“Hey, hey!” he shouts over your screaming. He’s back beside you, arm at your waist, lips beside your ear. “Wha’s wrong? What?”

“I don’t—something touched me.”

“Where? Touched yeh where?”

“It was on my face.” Your voice shakes and you try to swallow down a chunk of your fear. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothin’ to be sorry for. Okay?”

“Yeah,” you whisper.

Harry’s arm leaves your waist and his hand touches your cheek, strokes your face. His fingers stumble over the line of your lips and find the other side of your face. “Still okay?” he checks.

“Yes,” you breathe.

Harry’s hand leaves your face and slips around the back of your head, leather sliding past your hair, and then his touch leaves you altogether, experimenting with the air around you.

“Ah,” he says.

“What?”

There’s a soft click and then you clap a hand over your eyes as orange light blinds you.

“Was the cord for the light,” Harry announces, amused.

“I thought it was a spider or something.”

“Or something.”

You bring your hand down and blink away the water that’s collected at the corners of your eyes while they begin to adjust to the newfound light.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Both of you are squinting at your surroundings, at the piles of boxes and loose papers and tools and furniture stacked up along the perimeter of the room. Your body tenses as you see something scurry between a matching set of chairs.

“I hate this.”

“Scared?”

“Only of the physical stuff. The bugs and animals and stuff that can hurt me.”

Harry cracks a smile and takes another glance around the room. “Okay, ghostbuster, let’s get to work. What exactly should I be looking for?”

You brush a thin layer of dust from your skirt and scuff the heel of your shoe against a suspicious stain soaked into the floorboards before you. “Anything that seems creepy or out of place. And old papers, something that might tell us about people who have lived and died here.”

“Okay. Why don’ you start looking through papers and I’ll work through the rest of this stuff, yeah?”

“Sure.”

Harry just watches you, and it takes a few moments for you to realize that you’re still squeezing his hand. You loosen your fingers and take a step backward. “Sorry.”

“Don’ be.” Harry gives you a smirk before he turns around to begin rifling through a heaping pile of what looks to be old children’s toys.

You find a tall stack of file boxes to your right and pull the topmost box down to the floor. When you remove the lid there is a bunch of birthday cards on top bound up with a thick rubber band. You pull the first one you see out and flip it open.

Marcia,

Celebrate the year behind you and prepare for the fun ahead. 

Happy 11th birthday!

Love,

Aunt Karen & Uncle Steve

On the back, the copyright dates the card from 1979. The next one holds a similar message, only from a woman named Kate. You toss the bundle to the side and find pictures beneath, a young girl and a fat black lab, the same girl sitting behind a large layer cake. You lift the rest of the pictures and find newspaper clippings, the scores for sports teams, a list of honor roll students. Some of the papers are gnawed around the edges, and when you see something move at the bottom of the box, you scramble away across the floor.

Harry looks up at you, his brows drawn together. “Somethin’ wrong?”

“No.” You shake your head and begin packing everything back into the box before slamming the lid back onto it. There’s a small hole in one corner of the box. You shove it back toward the others with the toe of your shoe.

“Does this count as somethin’ creepy?” Harry holds up a doll that looks to be handmade. It has one button eye, but the other is missing, nothing but frayed yarn where it should be. The doll smiles at you with a blood red, sewn mouth. “I think it counts.”

“It’s definitely creepy,” you agree. That’s when a mouse that looks closer to the size of a rat wiggles out of the box you were just looking through. You clamp your lips shut to keep quiet. But Harry sees it as well. He sets the doll gingerly atop a rocking chair and clears his throat.

“D’yeh wanna go?”

“Yes.”

“Would we really have found somethin’ up here, anyway?” Harry tries to reason. You’re not sure at all. Realistically, you would have liked to find something like an obituary, but would you even know if whoever was in the photo had died in the house? You don’t have the right resources to do adequate research tonight. But you are upset that after the number of times you’ve already gotten the creeps up here, you could barely work through a single file box. It doesn’t seem worth the trouble.

“Where does most of the paranormal stuff actually happen?” you ask Harry. It’s your best bet, finding the source of the haunting and trying, somehow, to make contact. Although you’re not too keen on that idea, either. Maybe this whole thing was a bad idea, but with Harry looking at you, you aren’t about to back out. He doesn’t think your major is a load of shit, and that’s motivating enough.

“Probably the basement.”

You smile sarcastically. “Great. I love basements almost as much as I love attics.”

Harry chuckles and works his way across the room until he reaches you. “Gets pretty cold down there. Dunno if your, uh, costume is gonna keep yeh warm.”

You blink at him and he smirks again. “Can borrow a sweatshirt if yeh’d like.”

“Sure.”

“Let’s go, then.”

Harry crouches down beside the attic door, the ladder folded up atop the panel of wood. He stomps on the panel once, twice, and it falls open, the ladder rushing down to meet the carpet of the hallway below. Harry swings a foot onto the first unbroken rung and looks up at you.

“Pull that cord, would yeh?”

You reach up to yank on the chain and the lightbulb above you clicks out. Harry’s head disappears below the floor. You follow, lowering your foot blindly to find the ladder. His hand closes around your upper calf, guiding your toes down. HIs other hand catches your hip as your torso slips along the attic floor.

“All right?”

“Mhmm.”

“Okay. Yeh’re almost there. Just a few more inches.”

Harry’s one hand slips up to your waist, his other to the back of your thigh as he guides you down to touch your feet to the ladder. But his hands don’t pull away immediately.

“Harry.”

“Yes?”

“You’re staring up my skirt, aren’t you?”

“Now, that would be rude of me.”

“That doesn’t—”

“‘M only glancing. No staring involved.”

You breathe out a short laugh. “Let go of me, Harry.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Harry climbs down to the carpet and waits for you to drop next to him before he begins to let the ladder and attic door back up. It closes with a snap and then he smiles at you.

“So, your room?” you prompt.

“Right.”

Harry starts back through the halls and it’s silent for a moment before he speaks again.

“Love the black, by the way.”

“What?”

“It’s sexy. Risky business wearin’ a thong with a skirt that short, though.” He looks over his shoulder to flash you that smug smirk once more. You don’t know whether you’d rather smack or kiss it off his face.

“Very nice,” you answer.

“You’re welcome.” He stops outside a closed door. His room, apparently. He turns around to lean against the door, arms crossed over his chest. “What if I told yeh the entrance fee was those little black panties?”

You arch a brow, drawing your lower lip between your teeth. “What if I told you to fuck off?”

Harry grins. “Fair enough.” Then he twists the doorknob and presses backward into the dark of the empty bedroom.

Part 3: The Chills