#still got it even after The Horrors of London

[alledgedkings]

Sexy AND a whiny little toad, Norris truly has the range

[pickingupmymercedes]

Ways to say "I love you" part 2 - Lewis Hamilton

I think we all deserve a little something after the horror we went through in today's race ❤️

warnings: mentions of blood, accidents and bit of angst

wordcount: +2k

important: again, each drabble was writen as a snippet into different moments with Lewis. Special thank you for my 💗 anon for helping with some of the ideas

As always, my asks are open for corrections, ideas and just to chat too!

Over a cup of tea

“We need to talk this through, before it blows in our faces, Lewis” Serious expression on your face as you handed him the cup of tea on the balcony of your apartment overlooking London.

“Mhmm, we do?” He questioned confused.

“Yes…what exactly are we?” You couldn’t look him in the eye as you questioned him, too embarrassed you weren’t sure if what you felt the night before was real, even if come the morning he was still there, as he had been for the past two months.

“Those words last night meant nothing to you?”

“They meant the world, actually”

“But you don’t feel the same?” The confusion now passed on to him, forehead scrunching as he questioned if he hadn’t read your relationship right, and your body responding before your head could think it through as you reached for the hand he willingly let you take.

“I… I need to feel safe to say it back.” You responded after a few awkward seconds of silence as he waited for your response.      

“I want you, if you’ll have me. I really do love you. And you don’t need to say it back now, just let me know if this relationship is for real, because I want it to be.” He said looking into your eyes, anxiously waiting until you lifted your head to give you a smile.

“Thank you for understanding” You said buried into his neck as you took the tea away from his hands and brought him closer.    

Over a bottle of wine

“Found board games!” You excitedly exclaimed as you walked back into the house. Tiny feet stomping away and reaching you in seconds.

“Is there Monopoly? Uncle Lew said we could be here for daayssss” Willow was the first one to start taking the boxes as you handled her and Kaiden the pile you had just borrowed from the nearest neighbor

“Are they still stuck in New York?” You asked Lewis just as he set his phone down.

“Earliest forecast is tomorrow night, possibly” a concerned look to him as his mom and sisters got stuck in a snow storm on their way from England to Colorado.

“Guess we have these two to ourselves then”  

“Granny said it’d be good practice for you to take care of us” Kaiden chirped in but not fully aware of the shock in Lewis’ face at the remark.

“It’ll be fun when there’s two more girls to play with” This time Willow getting you to choke on the water you were drinking.

“Why two girls?” Lewis amusedly asked, aware you were still trying to hold the laughter in the kitchen

“Dunno” She simply shrugged as she helped her brother set up the game.

“Two girls, huh?! You know people say I’m a girl dad…” He brought back the subject as he picked up the mess left in the living room, a glass of wine open on the kitchen counter and two glasses already in your hands as you approached him after putting the kids to bed.  

“I think I’d be happy with that” Your soft smile easing the tension you felt in him as he mentioned kids with you for the first time, handing him his glass and dragging him to sit down on the sofa for a bit.

“I think I’d prefer a boy then a girl, you know, so he could be there for her.” He said after a bit of silence, almost as if he was pondering what would be best order, and you could feel the yearning to have kids of his own in his voice.  

“I agree with the internet people on that one, you’re too much of a girl dad, babe” You set your drink on the side table, cuddling closer to his chest as he pondered on his glass.

“Doesn’t really matter, honestly, just one would be more than enough. As long as I got you too”

As an apology

“What the hell was THAT for?” You threw your handbag and phone all the way across the kitchen island as you looked at Lewis standing at the door, an annoyed look to him.

“That guy shouldn’t have approached you” His mind still on the tall blue-eyed dude that tried to buy you a drink at the club.

“I can handle myself you know?! Never had the need for a knight in shining armor…” all your anger gone as you realized how absurd that sounded when said to your knighted boyfriend, a smile cracking the tough face you were fighting hard to keep.

“I love you, okay?! You may not need to be saved from a monster but you’re gonna have a knight by your side regardless.”

Taking the cue, he reached for you and brought you close by your waist, tucking one side of your hair behind your ear while using his other one to caress your check.

“Yes sir.” His sweet eyes turning into dark one as he heard you whisper the title and felt your hands rummage through his back. 

As a hello

You smelt his cologne before he walked back into the room from the bathroom, woody and citric tones overcoming your senses as a light tug at your exposed breasts demanded your attention back.

“Hey darling, you done there? Sure you don’t anymore?” The little fingers of your month-old baby girl clutching your fingers as you softly redirected her small mouth back to the spot her eyes wildly looked for.

“Gosh, I love you two so much” His remark a common occurrence in your daily routine in the bubble of nappies, changes and feeds your lives had turned into those past weeks, in the dead of the cold but sunny winter in Monaco.

“Hello to you too, hot stuff” he smiled back as you checked his toned abs adorned by the towel in his waist, sitting by your side in the headboard of your bed, hands caressing your thighs.

“You sure you’re going to be okay here this weekend?” Concern written all over his features as he stroked your daughter’s tiny legs.

“Your mom’s here, my mom’s here, we’re gonna be just fine Lew.” His eyes searching for any doubts in your mind.   

“I’m only a call away, okay?!” He whispered as he kissed your head, enjoying the last moments he would have with his little family for a few days before yet another season began. 

With a shuddering gasp

It’s funny how time really is relative, you thought as you slowly watched four cars pile onto each other in a traffic jam that had just about three other cars in front already. You weren’t even paying attention to the road before, only really looking up from your phone when your car suddenly swerved right and hit the grass on the side of the road.

“Are you okay y/n?” His whole body hovering over yours, hands already unbuckling your seatbelt as Lewis tried to grab your attention.

“C’mom babe, we need to get you out of the car, now” He tried again but you couldn’t respond back, still in shock from the near miss, your hands a wobbly mess as he squeezed it.

“I’m carrying you outside, okay?!” He didn’t even wait for a reply before lifting you like you weighed nothing, examining you in the process to check for anything hurt while he carried you to the rest of people waiting by the road.

It took a while, more than a few minutes for your eyes to start focusing back on your surroundings. He was knelt right in front of you, worry all over as he asked again and again if you were hurt.

“You saved us” You gasped quietly as your eyes finally reached his, his hands cupping your face the second he heard you, your lips already on his as you felt his arms taking you into his body.

In a letter

You’d been, since the beginning, the one he wanted, comings and goings through the years hadn’t been able to diminish the electric pull he felt whenever he saw your smile light up the room, even from afar. But as if the universe liked having a laugh at their expenses, time and time again you’d both find your lives going in complete opposite directions. So, as he sat in his desk writing his vows, he could only be amazed that by some miracle he had found his way into your life and into your heart.

“ … So, I vow to be your lover, companion, partner and ally. Through what may I promise to always be there. I might not have the answers or tools but I’ll walk with you, through the darkest of valleys or at the summit of our dreams.

I love you for you, because you give me the chance to be my truest self, because when you’re around I know we’ll find our way through. I love you, and from the moment I learned that, I’ve been giving it my all to be worthy of you.”

When the broken glass litters the floor

“Fuck, why did I do that?” Your exclamation coming out a bit louder than expected as your eyes started to water from the sharp pain in your hand, blood already dripping from the gush on the palm as you looked to the pieces of the glass on the floor.

“Babe? What’s happened, what was that noise?” His voice coming from just outside the bathroom door, fidgeting with the lock to try and get in.

“Please, let it be a good timing” Was all you could whisper to yourself, the knot in your throat almost suffocating you, the reality of it all too much to comprehend or process, your feet automatically swerving the glass and blood on the floor to get to the door.

“I hope you don’t have anything important going on in the next months” you said just as his eyes tried to scan you and the bathroom. His features with confusion all over as you handled him the stick with the 2 lines on them.

“What’s… but the doctor said…really?” You watched as all types of emotion tumbled across his eyes, overwhelmed an understatement to what you both felt at that moment.

You nodded just slightly after a few moments of his eyes questioning yours, the start of a smile forming on his lips as his arms reached you and engulfed you in a hug, crashing your injured hand in the process.

“Ouch, hand” He froze as you winced, putting two and two together, looking to the blood and the remains of the glass and seeing the injure on your palm for the first time.

“I do hope this kid takes after you and isn’t as clumsy” You pointed as he sat you down at the tub to check the cut. His smile reaching all the way to his eyes as he chuckled and looked at you.

“Nah, I hope this kid is every bit just like you.”

With no space left between us

You could feel his movements as he opened the parachute and brought you two back down to safe land, but nothing managed to tear your eyes from the immensity of the sky. There was infinity as long as your eyes could see and you were nothing in comparison, your thoughts long lost to the smallness of human race.

“You were awfully quiet up there, you good?” His voice a bit dry from the wind, your bodies tightened together as the guys got you both out of the mess of ropes.

“I think I’m still processing how small we really are” You answered almost to yourself, still trying to comprehend what you had just experienced.

“Another go at tandem is due then?” You saw the smirk in his face as you turned to look at him, his arms still very much wrapped around you and his fingers circling in your forearm.

“Thank you for dragging me out here, but how did you know I’d like skydiving?!” You reached back to his arms while they strapped you out of the seat, holding him closer, still with the ghost feeling of the wind around.

“I love you… that’s how I knew you’d love it.” He said to your hair as he held you to him, smug face as he reveled in the feeling of you.  

From very far away

The speakers blasted the victory song as each of the three drivers on the podium sprayed champagne around, everyone drenched and smiles thrown left and right, laughs being heard all the way around the Monza podium.  

As Lewis stood by the edge of the platform, he lifted his trophy at the sea of Tifosi, as a way to show appreciation for the support so far on the season and at his new home race, dedicating his win to them.

Turning to the pitlane he also pointed his trophy to the Ferrari team, scanning the crowd he found you at, just by Fred and Anthony, tears flowing down and a gleaming smile that could light up his entire soul. You tried mouthing something to him but he couldn’t quite make it out in the overwhelming state you were all in.

“I love you” he said to you, from the top of the podium, knowing that whatever it was you were saying, and whatever it was that happened, could be answered and resolved with those three words.

[asleepinawell]

sorry if this seems a bit out of the blue, but ever since youve been posting about fallen london, im a bit curious about it! What is the game about and where can I get it?

oh no worries! I'm happy to ramble about it

fallen london is a free to play browser game you can find here. the basic premise is that sometime in the 1800's the entire city of london is engulfed in a swarm of bats and then falls through the earth into a cavern a mile below. this is the neath, a huge underground cavern where london sits on the shore of a vast ocean. queen victoria is still around locked in her palace being a typical shitty british monarch, who, amongst other things, decided that 1900 was cancelled and we were just going to have 1899 for a second time

things are a little...different down there. humans are far from the only ones running around. there's devils, rubbery men (think mind flayer vibes), clay men, and the shadowy cloaked figures running the bazaar (and the city) called the masters. death mostly isn't permanent and the dream world is a little too real. also, most importantly, cats can talk! and there are tons of them! and tigers too

it's got victorian, gothic horror, dark humor, lovecraftian vibes. also it's extremely queer as is everything the dev, failbetter games, makes. something I especially appreciate is that you don't have to give your character any particular gender (though you can) and some of the little avatars are very gender neutral:

since it's free to play it comes with the normal things that type of game has such as real money transactions (completely optional and unnecessary for enjoyment (though some of the bonus side stories you can buy are extremely cool)), limited number of actions you can take (max of 20 at a time and refills 1 per 10 minutes). it is definitely grindy too though there's so many things to do (cannot emphasize the insane amount of content enough) I will usually just switch things up every so often

it's single player for the most part but you can ask friends to assist you in certain actions and there are some specific items that can be sent to other players

(if you like the setting but not the free to play part you can check out mask of the rose which is a visual novel they just released set right after london fell. it's a romance but with full aro and ace options (which I actually preferred) and a murder mystery. that one is a normal just buy the whole game deal and I think it's on most platforms. there's also sunless seas and sunless skies which take place in the same world but are a very different type of game and would require their own post. all of these have great writing in them)

but back to fallen london. it works based off of 'storylets', or little short stories when you usually do a skill check to accomplish something in return for advancing the story, levelling your skills, and reward items. you unlock more and more things as you go and get access to new stories and areas. here's an example of one of the little activities and its resolution

since it's a game designed to be able to play endlessly there isn't really a way to lose or game over. you can die but dying is just a minigame of its own and sometimes even a thing to do purposefully. (the only actual way to die is the notorious story called seeking mr eaten's name which you may have seen me post about, which is a very unique story that will permanently erase your character at the end. why you'd ever want to do that would also be its own post. it's pretty hard to stumble on accidentally I think and extremely well-marked as a thing with severe consequences that you probably shouldn't do. or should you...)

anyway I'd definitely recommend giving fallen london a try if you're interested in the premise and aesthetic

[deliciouskeys]

Cozy Corner Domaystic prompts #16: Going through immigration and #24: Identity theft.

Guys. Guys, I’ll be honest. I have no idea what possessed me. I think I found these two prompts as some of the most challenging to imagine as a domestic fic, and… my thinking got a little bit too outside the box.

This fic will have an intended audience of about 1 (me). But I want to give major major props to @olliveolly who introduced me to this game and was the one who came up with this That’s Not My Neighbor / Boys crossover AU (with a couple lovely art pieces on the theme). The “lore” of this horror game is very simple. Tell me you don’t see it:

Butchlander. That’s Not My Neighbor crossover/AU. Rated E (why). 3.3k words (why). 2nd person to allegedly reflect the feeling of first-person gameplay (why). Is this domestic fic? Welllllll. It takes place in an apartment complex so it counts, right? Lax interpretation of ‘going through immigration’ but honestly that’s what this game really reminds me of 😂 AO3 link

Another day, another interminable shift working as the concierge in the dreary lobby of this apartment complex. It was exciting at first, sure, what with getting to play the first and last line of defense against the doppelganger monsters that attempt to sneak in every single day. But you’ve just gotten too good at noticing discrepancies. Nothing gets past you anymore. You know every single feature- hell, every single freckle! -of every single resident in the building. By this point you’ve got all their phone numbers memorized, for no better reason than there is simply too much tedium to this job. You find yourself wishing you could actually watch the D.D.D. ‘decontaminate’ the lobby, as they so euphemistically put it, instead of just sitting there twiddling your thumbs behind a pulled down rollup metal shutter after summoning them. You could still make out screams without seeing the brutality, and you knew the D.D.D. employed flame throwers and other serious weapons to deal with these monsters. Sometimes you caught yourself feeling just a little bit of sympathy for the doppelgangers, even though their main goal in life appeared to be to imitate people to blend in and then feed upon human flesh, and your main goal in life was supposed to be to ensure none of them would ever get let in through the locked inner door.

John Gillman comes in through the first door and gives you a tired, nominal wave before fishing around in his pockets for his documents to gain entry. He might be your favorite resident— always polite, always in that clean-cut milkman uniform at least when you happen to see him, because no one really leaves the apartment building outside of work obligations. There’s no nightlife in New York anymore, not with everyone nervous of dark alleys or being alone on the street, especially after dark. When you came over here from London, you certainly didn’t expect to get stuck here during a worldwide apocalyptic event like this that has resulted in curfews and lockdowns. You certainly didn’t expect to get zero action and get a mindnumbing job just to make ends meet. It was probably still more interesting than your gig working as a bouncer back in London, but at least you got fresh air there, and sometimes a date to go home with after closing time. Maybe that’s why you’ve started hyperfixating and daydreaming about one of the residents— the involuntary celibacy is getting to you.

John just always looks uncannily attractive. Maybe it’s that silly uniform that’s easy to fetishize. Maybe it’s because his tired eyes also look like bedroom eyes, or the dark circles function the same way eyeliner would. Why is he always so tired anyway? You know he lives alone up there in F03-02. He never gets any visitors either. How much can a person masturbate, really? There’s a rumor around the building that Becca Saunders’ tyke might be his, but you don’t really see the resemblance, and have your doubts that this didn’t just start as a “sleeping with the milkman” joke that got out of hand. People just like to gossip about single mothers. Things like this shouldn’t be considered scandalous. It’s 1955 for god’s sake!

“Sorry, William,” John says, hurriedly shoving his ID and entry request form underneath the glass so you can take take a look. “Almost thought I left my ID at work.”

“Long day, huh?” you ask without expecting a reply, pretending to scrutinize the documents while making small talk. You know this is John. You’d know him from a mile away. But it doesn’t mean you can’t have a little bit of fun. “Looks okay, and you are on the list of people authorized to come and go today. But can you take off your cap?”

John grabs his milkman cap off his head, exposing a mop of blond hair, looking mussed after being under the hat all day. You really wish you could test him, see how far you’d be able to take things before he refused to cooperate. Take off your shirt, John. Gotta make sure it’s really you. You never know these days. But of course you don’t. All you’ll have is your fantasies about breaching every code of ethics and using your master key to gain entrance into his apartment, seducing him, ravishing him right in the middle of what must be a depressing bachelor pad. Give him much darker undereye circles by keeping him up all night. Give this apartment complex a more interesting rumor to spread about the milkman in their midst.

“You’re good to go,” you say and press the green unlock button to let him in. He gives you a wan smile and walks out of view, and you listen to his footsteps ascending the stairs.

The rest of the afternoon is uneventful, only a few people coming and going, and a couple of doppelgängers with laughably strange appearance or bad credentials being dispatched quickly. Or at least it’s uneventful until John walks in, just a little bit past curfew.

“Hey William,” he says, sounding distracted, rummaging in his pockets for his documents as a cold sweat breaks out on your forehead. This better be a doppelganger, you think to yourself. But he has both his ID and the entry request filled out correctly. He looks identical to the John that passed by here a couple of hours earlier. This can’t be.

You start dialing John’s number, not taking your eyes off the man in front of you.

John’s eyes widen with alarm when he sees that you get an answer from the other end of the line.

“Yes, hello? John here. I’m not expecting any visitors.”

You hang up pretty abruptly, staring at the John in front of you, searching his appearance for any subtle defect or inconsistency but finding none. Your finger is hovering over the alarm button.

“Oh my god. Oh my god, you think I’m someone else? It’s me, William! I swear to god it’s me! I don’t know who you let in earlier, and who’s answering the phone now, but it’s not me up there!”

And shit, you believe him. You must have fucked up. Gotten smug and sloppy. Maybe the doppelganger handed you a fake ID but you didn’t notice because you were too busy daydreaming about fucking him.

“William, please believe me, please!” John is pressing up against the glass at this point, clearly scared that you’re going to quarantine him in the lobby and sic the D.D.D. on him. They don’t tend to ask questions. You’ve never had it happen, but you’ve heard of innocent people getting snuffed out on the mere suspicion of being doppelgangers, the D.D.D. rarely admitting to such mistakes even after the fact.

“Alright, alright, I believe you. I just have to think…” you mumble. “I’ll let you in, but don’t go up to your flat. We have to figure this out.”

John nods frantically and slips into your office after you buzz him in.

“What are you going to do?” he asks, and if you weren’t scared shitless at the moment, you’d probably get a kick out of how vulnerable and scared his expression is compared to his usual tired, impassive one.

“I should call the D.D.D. and get them to go up there,” you think out loud.

“Won’t you get reprimanded?” John asks, and oh how sweet of him to worry about your job when you’ve fucked up so royally and almost gotten him killed with your negligence. Maybe already gotten some of his neighbors killed.

“I just don’t want you losing your job over this— you’re the best concierge we have,” he says and then looks down shyly, as if realizing how strange that concern is.

What is this? Are you dreaming? Maybe you’re just out of your mind with adrenaline, but John sounds like he’s got feelings for you.

“Let’s just go up there and see what’s going on,” he says, and damn he’s persuasive as fuck. You want to go and deal with the mess you made, and protect him.

“I’ll go up there and just check,” you say, hardly believing yourself as you grab the fire extinguisher from the wall as a makeshift weapon. Everyone who was scheduled to return to the building has, so you shouldn’t get any more legitimate people coming through, but you still tape up a note that you’ll be back at your post in a few minutes. “Right then. You just stay down here and wait. I don’t want you putting yourself at risk. If I’m not back in five, call the number on the post-it.”

John shakes his head and follows you up the stairs. “I’m not letting you go up there alone,” he says in that quiet irresistible voice and you start to wonder if there’s something strange going on. Why are you going on this potentially suicidal mission to deal with a doppelganger on your own? So what if you get fired? No job is worth your life, right? But you probably wouldn’t see John ever again if you lost this job and that’s clouding all your judgment right now.

Knocking on John’s apartment door is probably not a good idea, and will just give the monster inside time to prepare or hide. So you take out your master key and turn it in the lock as quietly and quickly as you can. The door swings opens with an ominous creak, revealing a dark living room with no sign of anyone there. Did he hear you coming up the stairs? You try to keep John behind you and shield him in case anything sudden happens from within the apartment, but then you feel a strong push from behind and both you and John are in the flat now.

You’re so stupid, so critically, fatally stupid. The John you let in earlier was the real one. You’ve let a doppelganger convince you that you made a mistake, and now you did let one in. You whirl around, try to hit him upside the head with the fire extinguisher you’re brandishing, but he blocks the move with little effort.

“I thought we agreed,” he says, and you realize he’s speaking not to you but past you to someone else in the room.

“Thursdays are my days,” an identical voice answers from behind you and you step back and try to make sense of what you’re seeing. Two John Gillmans, both in the same uniform, neither one looking the least bit spooked, both looking mildly irritated if anything.

“Since when,” the John who came up behind you asks of the other one. “I get to be here every other day, doesn’t matter what day of the week it is.”

“So now what are we going to do about him?” the John who was in the apartment asks, pointing to you. “Why didn’t you just leave once he called me? Are you stupid?”

Your heart may be racing, but your thinking feels as slow as molasses. They’re …. both doppelgangers?

“What have you done with the real John Gillman?” you whisper hoarsely. The twins turn to look at you and you’re creeped out by the very similar smirk that spreads across both of their faces. They’re really impeccable facsimiles of the real person, but this is an expression you’ve never seen on John.

“You’ve never met the ‘real John Gillman’,” one of them says.

There’s enough cold sweat that’s broken out on your back that it starts to trickle down as drops.

“We like you William. It would be such a shame for our friendship to end.”

You hold up the fire extinguisher in front of yourself defensively, but you’re not sure you can really do anything against two of them. You’ve never noticed before, and maybe the real John’s teeth didn’t look like this, but the two doppelgangers have sharp looking canines when they’re grinning. It’ll serve you right to get devoured in this dark flat for making so many mistakes and bad decisions in a row today.

“So you’re just going to kill me then?” you ask.

“We’d really rather not,” one of the twins says. “A murder would bring a lot of snooping law enforcement if not the D.D.D. Itself.”

“And it’s so hard to find good lodging to spend the night.”

They must be joking. “You really expect me to believe you’re not just here to eat people?”

One of the twins rolls his eyes. “Eat people! Yeah, that’s why we’re here, clearly.”

“Has anyone in this apartment building ever disappeared in all the months you’ve worked here?” the other one asks.

“How should I know?” You’re beginning to feel like this has to be some sick nightmare. You can’t possibly be having a civil conversation with a couple of cannibal monsters. This thought has a strange calming effect on you. “If I didn’t know you lot were masquerading as John Gillman, how am I to know how many other residents are real people?”

The twins turn to each other, still smiling and shrugging.

“We’ve been on a vegetarian diet for a while,” the other says and you can’t help but bark out a laugh.

“Laugh all you want,” the other one says, spreading his hands in concession. “But milk is more than enough to sustain us. We do think people are delicious, but there’s one thing we like much more than eating them.”

“And what’s that?” you ask, emboldened by the possibility that you’re just in a ridiculous, paranoid, bad dream of a worst case scenario at your job.

“We’ve been watching you William. We think you’ve been interested in us.”

“We’ve never fucked anyone from this building, and never fucked together, but there’s a first time for everything, right?”

You just stand there, fire extinguisher still raised up defensively. No question about it, this must be a nightmare that’s slowly but surely twisting itself into a sexual fantasy.

“Come on, William. Let’s make you comfortable.”

You can hardly protest as one gently pulls your makeshift weapon out of your loose grip, and the other one sweeps you off your feet with preternatural superhuman ease and carries you over to the couch in this sparsely furnished apartment.

Gentle but insistent hands undo the buttons on your trousers and then maneuver you so they can pull them off completely and free your legs.

“Humans are such fun creatures,” one of the Johns comments when he sees that despite your fear of the situation unfolding right now, you are sporting a half-hearted hard-on. It somehow only gets harder when you hear them talk about people as another species.

Both Johns are still fully dressed, situating themselves to kneel on the floor on either side of you. It’s wild. You must be dreaming. And as you watch both Johns lean forward, extending their tongues and licking your cock up and down from opposite sides, you realize that if this is a dream, you never want to wake up.

They know what they’re doing. They bring you right up to the edge of orgasm and then pull away, leaving you feeling desperate and even annoyed. You’re not annoyed for long though as they both strip down, and you see that their human-mimicking powers are perfect, down to the most minute details that would never be seen under clothes. Granted, you don’t know what John Gillman looked like naked, so maybe they’ve taken artistic license and embellished. Whatever it is, they’ve compared notes, because they still look indistinguishable to you.

“Like what you see?” one of them asks and you realize you I’ve been staring, maybe even with your mouth hanging open. You never imagined you’d hook up with a doppelganger, let alone two of them at once. But you have imagined foisting yourself on John in this very flat, and you’re about to live that daydream.

You end up doing things with the two of them beyond what you’ve ever dreamed of. You fuck one of them, and at the same time get fucked by the other one from behind, the cheap bed’s metal joints creaking and moaning from the motion of three bodies rocking against each other. You let them suck your cock and rim you to get you back in the mood for another round, trying not to think about how unsettlingly hungry they both look, and who they really are underneath the human-looking exterior. The exterior slips periodically when they’re in the throes of pleasure. You wince when they betray just how strong they really are, whenever they flip you over or change positions, as if you weigh nothing. You try not to pay attention when their eyes start glowing red when they’re particularly turned on, but it’s impossible to ignore in the darkness of the bedroom.

“William, you are fucking delicious,” one of them declares, licking his lips obscenely after swallowing down your cum, and all you can do is emit a short nervous chuckle, and think that even if they do decide to eat you at the end of all of this— either to cover their tracks, or just because they might start feeling peckish after all this is over— it will still have been worth it.

You don’t get eaten. In fact, you’ve had the time of your life, and as you get up from the bed and mumble that you have to get back to your post before your shift is over, the two Johns lie languid, naked on the bed watching you, each enjoying a post coital glass of milk (that’s all they have in the fridge— you saw when they opened it), like perfect mirror images.

“You won’t be making any unnecessary phone calls, right William?”

“We can count on you to be discreet and keep a secret, right?”

Through the combined haze of being scared for your life and then having the time of your life, there’s still one thing that bothers you, and you ask about it, against all your best self-preservation instincts.

“So what have you done with the real John Gillman?”

They turn to look at each other, not exactly conspiratorial but it still makes you uneasy.

“Oh, John Gillman never existed. We’ve been around a lot longer than you humans think. Many of us never tried to replicate and replace real humans.”

“Yeah, and a lot of good that did when some of us started! The ones who are doing it are the reason we’re being hunted now. Unoriginal hacks. And so bad at mimicking too.”

“So many embarrassing ones out there.” They both nod at each other.

You’d like to believe them. You really would. “So why choose this persona?”

“The milkman gets free milk and gets around in your society! And humans seem to like this look,” one of them says, grinning and gesturing with his hand over their naked bodies.

“But we only ever get to enjoy bored housewives.”

“And why are there two of you?” you ask hesitantly, glancing at the clock on the wall to verify that you’re not late yet.

“Oh there’s more than two of us,” one of them says and they laugh in unison in a way that sends a chill down your spine.

~~~

You think you’ve got it all worked out. You’re letting the John Gillmans stay in the apartment undisturbed, and you let them through even when it’s obvious that there’s more than one of them coming and going. You figure it’s a win-win. They promise to protect the building from any rogue doppelgangers who infiltrate and intend to harm the residents, and in return get a place to stay the night peacefully. You get to visit apartment F03-02 after your shift ends and have mind-blowing sex. They seem to enjoy the orgies as well. They know your shift hours and try to only come and go during those times. There doesn’t seem to be a problem with this arrangement.

Or at least not a problem that you’re going to make into your problem. When one of the Johns walks in, visibly smeared in blood, you do give him a hard time.

“Come on, John. Just because I’ll let you in, doesn’t mean you can just stop trying to look decent. God forbid I call in sick and someone else is here.”

John shrugs and goes through the formality of pushing his ID and entry request under the glass window.

“And get a new ID…” you tell him when you see bloody fingerprints all over the worn paper.

John shrugs, doing his usual tired act, despite how ridiculous it looks to be so bored and nonchalant when he’s smeared in blood.

“Whose blood is that, anyway?” you ask, wondering why you’re not more disturbed.

“Someone who was of no consequence and who won’t be missed,” John replies, terse and cool as a cucumber.

“I thought you said you were vegetarian?”

“I’ll take a cheat day if I run into a wifebeater,” John says, shrugging.

You buzz him in, telling him to get washed up before someone sees him, wondering if you’re being colossally naive to believe his story, and wondering if you’ve got a death wish because you’re still looking forward to going up there once your shift ends in a few hours.

(What in the world. 💀)

ETA: now with another art piece by @olliveolly

[biteofcherry]

No such thing as finality

vampire!Curtis Everett x reader; Dracula!Curtis Everett x reader

summary: When Curtis returns to his newly acquired mansion in London, he's greeted by an unexpected sight...

warnings: angst; so so much angst; and feels; dark-ish; a bit of blood (there are vampires in this story, after all); mention of death;

Author's note: This is my small contribution to @witchywithwhiskey's Horror Movie Hoe-a-thon. The classic horror movie I based my inspiration on is Bram Stoker's Dracula. Though, me being me, I put a wicked twist to it. Hope you enjoy! The title "No such thing as finality" is also a quote from the Dracula book.

Lush scent of roses, bowing their graceful necks as wind gained momentum, didn’t fully cover the sweet, decadent smell of freshly spilled blood. 

It would lure him in curiosity in any other circumstances, but since he didn’t expect anyone to be willingly bleeding inside his mansion, it made him wary. 

Curtis wasn’t scared. There was no human, nor creature in this universe that could truly harm him. Any attack that may happen upon him, would be dealt with swiftly and mercilessly. He could rip them apart with bare hands; move so fast and snap their neck before they even blinked; sink his fangs into an artery and rip it out; take the shape of a beast and tear them inside out.

He should do it for the sheer audacity of breaking into his household, as newly acquired and not yet fully lived-in it was.  

Taking measured steps, Curtis walked through the open wings of the glass, orangerie doors. Moonlight reflected in crystal chandeliers. Shadows crept along the walls, attempting to intimidate, but quickly withdrawing in submission to his own, chilling darkness. 

There was a faint glow of warm light seeping from beneath the double door leading to the ballroom. The sound of crackling fire announced someone’s preparation for his return. 

Curtis lifted a hand and the door opened in a burst, a gust of wind rubbing against his cheek affectionately before it whipped inside in a cold snap. 

His gaze instantly fell on the crumpled body in the middle of the polished, hardwood dancefloor - a decorative gore centerpiece of blue silk, soft skin and pool of ruby red blood. 

He recognized her. 

Mina.

That dress was the one he gifted her; as inappropriate as it was, since her engagement ring still shined on her slender finger and she had made no promise of breaking that word to Jonathan Harker, even if her lips trembled to say more than just a thank you to Curtis. Her lovely face of soft lines and ethereal delicacy, which he drew obsessively in the past weeks, remained angelic as her life slipped away.  

Curtis knew her, craved her and now he felt… mildly irritated.

A frown marred his face as he searched his feelings. Surely he should feel something stronger. Rage that would fly him across the room. Despair that would turn him into a wailing beast. 

There was a flicker of annoyance - both at having her snatched from his grasp before he got to explore this madness and at being challenged so obviously. 

As an apex predator he didn’t entertain any form of challenge. 

Slowly, his eyes moved from Mina’s dying body to the hem of your shimmering gown inches from the dark pool of blood. 

It was one of your favorite dresses - an almost translucent, pale fabric lined with exquisite sparks that gave the illusion of your body being encrusted in diamonds. Yet you didn’t seem bothered by the fact it bore stains of blood where it splashed when you sunk your teeth into the woman’s neck. 

Red essence still dripped from your chin as you boldly stared at Curtis across the room. 

“Hello, husband.” 

Beads decorating your hair caught flickers of amber glow as you tilted your head in greeting. In that moment you were the epitome of a dark goddess from centuries ago; one he turned you into when he promised you an eternity at his side. One who walked with him through the darkness and filled it with your own light. 

Light he forgot about in the fleeting moment of obsession. 

“Beloved.” Though Curtis’ voice bore an undertone of reprimand at what you have done, his term of endearment didn’t change. “You’ve overstepped.”

Your eyes flashed red glow at his admonition, as it hinted at the importance of the dying, pathetic reflection of a woman from eons ago. She was not important! She couldn’t be important to him. You were! 

“Overstepped?!” You hissed, your fangs elongating as you turned abruptly. “I was left in the castle, foolishly dreaming of and preparing for the move to the estate my dear husband went to secure. Meanwhile he fucking romanced a silly, mortal goose!”

“Mortal she may have been, but Mina wasn’t as unimpressive as you make her to be.” He didn’t know why he was defending his betrayal, since there was still not a single flare of rage urging him to snap your neck. 

Curtis didn’t think there’d ever be a time the mere thought of ending your immortal life entered his mind. Though he felt a pang of pain, somewhere in the hollowness of his chest where a heart should beat, when he realized the weight of hurt he must’ve caused you as he prowled after Mina.

“I’m sure her face resembling your dead first wife was a truly impressive genetic lottery win,” you snorted, “but have you become as all those pathetic mortal men, ready to cheat on their actual wife with a new hot piece of ass?!” 

“Do not accuse me of something that didn’t happen.” His irises splintered; red scythe filling over the blue iridescence like an eclipse taking over the sun.

A broken giggle bubbled on your lips. Your gaze shifted away from him, staring at the flames in one of the fireplaces. 

“Oh, have I come just in time to prevent you from giving her the biggest fang?” You asked bitterly.

In a flash, Curtis was across the room. Fingers curling around the front of your neck and slamming you into the opposite wall. He pressed you against it, his grip on your throat not loosening and the heat of his body enfolding yours.

Curtis was considered a dead creature, but he burned as if the hellfire itself ran through his veins. It was only him, though. He created you, but you never felt your own warmth. There were others whom he sired over the centuries and who sired next generations of vampires. They all ran cold, too. Only Curtis’ dark flame burned eternal.

“You’re treading on thin ice.” He warned you, even as he delighted in the intense emotion you provoked. With you everything was always intense. 

Always… alive.

Curtis was angry that you would accuse him of such a disgusting act like cheating. Angry at himself for giving you the reason to think the worst of him.

His obsession with Mina was unhealthy and borderline stalking. He was gifting her with attention and this one material present. But he didn’t have a plan of what he wanted from her exactly. Even as he played with the verbal seduction she was slowly falling for, not once did he imagine bedding her, or turning her.

It was more of a need to keep her, explore her, hold on to whatever she represented for his tortured soul. 

But he was blind to how his madness made him act towards you.

“What will you do?” You asked in a hushed tone, redness of your irises receding to the natural color of your eyes. “Are you going to destroy me? The woman you vowed to love for eternity? The woman you turned, branded in every possible way as yours?”

It wasn’t a spiteful challenge of a scorned queen, but a fear of a lively woman who stole his evil heart five centuries ago.

One who often walked barefoot, even before vampirism made you immune to the cold. Wearing simple dresses, with pockets filled with flowers and herbs and shiny stones plucked from mountain rivers. He bought you many stunning dresses over the centuries and you loved them, but most of the time you still wore the simplest ones. 

Curtis could only assume you dressed in the finest gown and adorned yourself with jewels to impose your power over Mina. To carry yourself as the queen about to crush a threat to her kingdom.   

There was never a threat. Not once did he consider leaving you behind and never returning. 

“I’d sooner meet my own end,” his fingers clenched on your throat as he squeezed his eyes in pain. 

When he vowed to love and care for you for eternity, until the sun burnt human cities down and reached to scorch your entwined bodies, he meant it with every fiber of his cursed being. 

“I haven’t cheated.” Curtis sighed, resting his forehead against yours. “I don’t think I would have.”

“And yet here we are…” Your cool breath still carried the metallic scent of blood.

He wouldn’t allow these thoughts to linger, to hurt you with doubt and resentment. He’d rather have you angry with him than broken. And there were ways to stoke your fire, keep it burning and warming him.

“Yes, here we are, Beloved.” Curtis’ tongue flicked out to lick away a drop of blood from the corners of your lips; his tone dropped an octave, vibrating with a beastly timbre. “With you in my grasp. With her dead body getting cold a few steps away and me not even being angry about it.”

Because he really wasn’t. There was that irritation at not having fully figured out what it was exactly that he chased in Mina, but none at the loss of her. Not from your hands, anyway. 

You cupped Curtis face with your hands, showing him softness that he claimed he never deserved (but which you taught him to accept, adamant in your decision that he was worthy of your love). 

“What was it that you searched for with her?” You asked, even though you were scared of his answer.

“I don’t know.” Curtis admitted; his eyelashes fluttering against his cheek. “A memory? A man I used to be? The humanity I lost?”

Mina looked like the exact image of Elisabeta - the wife he had as a human, whose death led him to do unspeakable things that cost him his soul. She was a reflection of the young, impulsive human man, who was too naive and too desperate in his love. 

Perhaps Mina’s angelic face brutally reminded him of the crushing pain and being the self-punishing bastard that he was, Curtis clung to her to hurt himself over and over again. Staying away from you, too, because he spiraled down into thoughts of unworthiness once again.  

“I didn’t know you at twenty one springs,” you said, “but the man I got to know at his honed one hundred years of vampirism and then spent centuries with? I wouldn’t trade him for anyone else.” 

Curtis was a vampire king. The oldest, the first to ever be made. At least the first either of you encountered. He fed on blood, could be brutal about it, or very gentle. Depending who the victim was. There were streaks of ruthlessness and cruelty in him, you witnessed him drown villages in blood then watch it sink into the ground with grim satisfaction. 

But he also carried the children from said villages in his arms, finding them new homes in places where humans weren’t as rotten and wouldn’t hurt them like the people of their hometowns had. 

Curtis was the monster parents scared their children with; but that monster saved those kids when their parents were the ones abusing them. Or when they allowed others, holy men included, to hurt them. 

No, you would never trade Curtis for any other man. 

“Not even at this moment of weakness?” Curtis’ deep, low voice resounded with a soft uncertainty.

You were still mad at him, but you couldn’t help that need to comfort him. You wrapped your arms around his neck, scratching lightly at the back of his head in a caress that always made him shudder and melt into your embrace.

“Why do you think I’m still here, facing you?” You sighed, tilting your head back enough to look Curtis in the eyes. 

“I could’ve ripped her to pieces and then fled. Leave you alone in the misery you would have brewed for yourself.” That was what Curtis did at least once every decade - sink into a really low mood and break your heart with how vulnerable and helpless he was at the time. 

“But, my dear husband, I love you too fiercely to let you go. The heart that you claim is void of humanity and care is one that made me say yes when you offered me immortality at your side.” 

“I feared…” You dropped your gaze down. “I feared you went after her, because you grew bored of me. That I was so easily replaceable.”

Throughout the centuries not once did Curtis stray away, nor did he isolate himself from you. Sometimes, when he was in his depressive mood he’d often space out, sinking into his gloomy thoughts, but even then he was physically nearby. Mindlessly caressing your body as you cuddled him and anchoring himself to you.

This trip across the sea took long, but the time kept stretching and stretching as Curtis worked on all the formalities of buying a mansion and re-settling onto a new soil. Impatient for his return, you decided on visiting him.

It was supposed to be a surprise for him, but turned into a shock for you when you saw that woman’s starstruck gaze as he escorted her to the carriage. 

Curtis gripped your chin between his fingers and gently tilted your face up. Sadness in his gaze crumbled way to determination. 

“Never.” He vowed. “It’s a burden I have to carry now, knowing that I’ve hurt you.”

“I’ll give you centuries to make it up to me.” You allowed your lips to curve in a small smile, then leaned to press a soft kiss to Curtis’ mouth. 

“Most gracious, Beloved.” Curtis smiled against your lips. He let go of your chin, sneaking that hand down your body and gripping your thigh. His other hand was still wrapped around your neck, fingers pressing a tad harder. Just the way you liked.

In a swift move, he hoisted you up. Your legs wrapped around his hips, the snick of ripping fabric making you giggle. 

“I’ve yet to welcome you properly to our new mansion.” Curtis purred, licking a broad stroke across your bloodied chin. “You’ve already christened it with blood. Now I want to fill the walls with your sounds of pleasure.”

[desertfangs]

“ how did you get this scar? ” (for Daniel/Armand if you're still accepting!)

I know it seems like I forgot these but I'm swear I'm still working on them! Work has been a beast and also I'm in the process of moving (!!) so my life is sheer chaos rn. Anyhow, this prompt inspired this little slice of life moment and I hope you enjoy it! It's about 1075 words.

Daniel shifts in the bed, groggy and half-asleep, but as he turns over, he brushes against Armand, who is still there beside him. He’s laying on his side, his amber eyes watching Daniel with a stark intensity, auburn curls stark against the white pillowcase. 

It’s not the first time they’ve shared a bed but it’s the first time since they arrived in London, since Armand gave him an electric taste of his blood and he stopped running. It feels strange, somehow, but also comfortable. 

“Hi,” Daniel says, since Armand is still staring at him. Armand says nothing. Daniel feels that familiar twinge of uncertainty. “Sorry, I must have fallen asleep.” 

“You always get groggy once you’ve reached completion,” Armand says. 

Daniel laughs, delighted by the fact that he knows that about him. Such an intimate thing to say! Four years of running and yet Armand knows him better than anyone else. 

“Yeah, well, your touch is soothing.” He reaches over and rubs Armand’s arm, his warm fingers dancing over the vampire’s cool, pale skin. Armand smiles at him. It’s such a warm, genuine smile that Daniel’s heart soars. 

Daniel moves closer and kisses him, their tongues entwining. When they part, he sits up, leaning against the headboard. A thin sheet covers his legs and hips, though at this point, Armand has seen every part of him too many times to count. “Do you ever sleep in a bed? In the daytime I mean?” 

“No,” Armand says. The smile slowly fades from his face. He looks at the window so Daniel looks at the clock on the bedside table. It’s almost five am. Still early. Late. Whatever. There’s time before sunrise. 

“Always a coffin then? Or a casket? There’s a difference, isn’t there?” 

“Yes.” 

“Yes to which part?” Daniel asks, exasperated at how Armand can say so little, even now that they’re sharing a bed and apartment. Well, during the night, anyhow. And during the day, Daniel is usually passed out and Armand is sleeping god only knows where.  

Armand sits up and smooths his hand down Daniel’s shoulder, along his torso, and stops at his hip. His hand is cool, the warmth of whatever blood he drank earlier faded from him. His body is rigid but his hands can be so soft and they feel like velvet as they trail over his naked body. Armand stops at Daniel’s thigh, just above the knee. He touches a mark on Daniel’s skin. “How did you get this scar?” 

It’s barely a scar now, just a little white patch just under his knee. But Armand is watching him curiously, waiting for the answer.

“I was seven years old and I was trying to do tricks on my bike. The bike went out from under me and I landed on this piece of broken glass that was in the street. My sister ran and got my parents. My dad grabbed me and stood me up but then my mom saw my leg was covered in blood and screamed. The glass was sticking out of my leg and my mom and dad fought about whether or not to remove it.”

“Did it hurt?” Armand’s finger pokes at the spot, long healed.

“A little. I think I was in shock. We went to the hospital and they took the glass out and then I got stitches. It hurt after, I remember that. But mostly I was scared because my mom was so freaked out and I remember asking if I was going to die, and the doctor laughed but my mom looked like she actually thought I might.” 

He shakes his head at the memory, the way the horror on his mother’s face had tugged something loose inside him, some primal fear he’d never felt before. The silence hangs between them. Daniel grabs the pack of cigarettes from the night stand and lights one. 

“What about you, do you have any scars? Or did you, before immortality smoothed them away?” 

Armand doesn’t answer. He keeps staring at the little white mark on Daniel’s leg. Then he bends down and kisses it, his lips feather soft. It sends tingles up Daniel’s spine. He slides into Daniel’s lap and removes the cigarette from his lips, replacing it with his mouth. Daniel doesn’t complain. He kisses him passionately, letting Armand’s fangs scrape against his tongue as he delves into his cool mouth. He imagines those fangs scraping over his throat, this thigh, his ankle. 

You could scar me, Daniel thinks. The thought is unbidden, the sort of thing that comes to mind in the throes of passion. But the idea of Armand leaving some sort of mark on him with his fangs is hot as hell. He imagines Armand biting him somewhere—the meat of his thigh, his upper arm—and not healing the wound. His pulse races. 

Armand pulls back out of the kiss, his face so close that Daniel can still feel him there. His eyes are huge and he tilts his head, as if trying to figure something out. 

And then he pulls away from Daniel, climbing off of him. He stands and collects his shirt from where Daniel had tossed it on the floor. 

“Leaving already?” Daniel tries to sound casual, like he’s not bothered at Armand having to go, but in truth, his heart aches at the thought. 

Armand nods toward the window. There is more color in the sky and it is inching toward sunrise. Daniel sighs. He wants to go with Armand, to slip into his coffin and curl against him for the day. 

Armand comes back to the bed and kisses him again, his mouth gentle against Daniel’s. “Sleep, beloved. I’ll be back at sunset.”

Armand is gone in a flash, almost as quick as a puff of smoke, like the wisp of it trailing from the tip of the cigarette Armand set, still burning, in the ashtray. He picks it up and brings it to his lips.

He touches his neck where four years prior, Louis bit him. There’s no mark left, no scar, just the memory of Louis’ fangs in his throat, holding him as he drank. No mark from where Armand drank from him just a week ago in Pompeii. And yet both nights sent him careening in a whole new direction and changed his life completely. 

 He thinks it’s funny how something can leave a lasting mark with no outward sign. 

[frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe]

So we all agree Eddie was a theater kid right? So what if Steve saw him as the phantom in Hawkins’ production of Phantom of the Opera? Ignoring that Phantom first premiered in October 1986 in London and the licensing rights to the play didn’t become available until like the 2010s OR this is modern AU

Like, Steve was dating a girl (maybe the one just before Nancy?? idk) and she was in the play as Meg and he went to see her but instead was completely blown away by tall dark and handsome playing the phantom. (the sex appeal, the dramatics, the voice).

He can’t even tell his gf how well she did because it’d just be a lie anyway, it’s like his brain was only aware of the stage in front of him when the Phantom (Eddie) was on stage.

He goes to see another showing on his own the next day and is so smitten with Eddie that he sneaks backstage and leaves a rose with a black ribbon for Eddie “To the phantom, from your secret admirer”.

Steve never forgot about his crush on Eddie “the Freak” Munson, realizes he’s bi by time Vecna happens and after everyone lives, nobody dies dammit, finds out Eddie never forgot about his secret admirer and has always wanted figure out who it was.

Robin and Eddie are talking about it when Steve comes in for work one day, “Yeah, it would be even more of a romantic story if I found out who it was. But it’s still romantic as it is, isn’t it?”

“Sure, especially since you’re so adamant about it having been a guy that left it for you.”

“Ah, we’re doing guy talk? Munson has a new crush or what?” Steve says as he slips the green vest over his shoulders.

Eddie had come out to them after waking up in the hospital; Robin and Steve having been together with him on a night shift of “Eddie Watch”. Of all people to accidentally come out to while still on the hospitals high-grade painkillers, Eddie feels lucky it happened to be to (maybe) the only other queer kids in Hawkins.

“No lady has that horrible of handwriting, Buckley, it has to be a guy. But WHO??” Eddie yells to the ceiling as he throws up his arms in frustration.

“Who are you talking about? How can you have a crush on someone and you know literally nothing about them?”

Eddie grinned at Steve, launching into his story as Robin rolls her eyes and heads out from behind the counter to put back the returns (“It’s quite the tale Steve, I’ve heard it so many times I could probably tell it just as good as Eddie can.” she says before Steve can ask where’s she’s going).

Eddie tells Steve the whole story, how he got the lead in the high school’s production of Phantom, working so hard to get the songs down, how nervous he was the first show, and then the kicker (his words): he gained a secret admirer from how great his performance was.

The whole time he’s telling steve this story, Steve manages to keep his face from changing from (what Steve has found to be) his constant state of fondness for the metal head, to one of horror as he realizes Eddie is talking about him. This whole time Eddie hasn’t forgotten what he did. And yeah, if Steve’s honest with himself, his crush on Eddie never fully died out; he shoved down as far as he could, the only evidence of it remaining through the rest of his time in school was no one ever remembering King Steve Harrington ever actually doing shit to the school’s resident freak. No teasing, no shoves into lockers while walking past, nothing.

He had almost completely extinguished it, until one fateful encounter in Reefer Rick’s boathouse.

“Wow, Eds, that is a pretty great story” Steve admits, “Do you have any ideas who it could be?”

“Loads! Tommy H. for starters-don’t give me that look Steve, you know he wants all this.” Eddie chides, gesturing to himself. “Maybe it was the stage manager, Carl? No, I’ve seen his handwriting plenty…” he tails off and thinks to himself for a bit before looking back up at Steve “Either way, I know he’s out there” Eddie rubs the back of his head shyly, “and even if he isn’t crushing on me anymore, I’d still love to find out who it was at some point you know?”

Steve smiles softly at the older man, “Yeah, that makes sense. Well, good luck Munson, I hope you find him.”

“Thanks Steve.” comes a voice as quiet as Steve’s ever heard from Eddie. They look at each other for a moment before Eddie glances at the clock behind Steve’s head. “Oh shoot! I’m late to meet Wayne!” He cups his hands around his mouth to shout “BYE ROBIN!” across the empty store, then turning to the door with a “Bye Stevie!” and he’s gone.

Steve feels every muscle in his body relax, falling hard onto the counter in front of him as his face falls and his hands come up to catch it.

Robin’s done with the returns by now and sees Steve’s dramatics, “Whoa, don’t hurt yourself there, Dingus..what’s wrong?” her voice changing to concern as she rounds the counter to him.

“Robin, I’m Eddie’s secret admirer.”

Pt. 2 will be here once I write it

Now on AO3! Several Notes of the Most Amiable Nature

[lafemmemacabre]

My personal top albums of all time

If anyone who respects my music opinions is interested, IN NO ORDER because I can't choose between my babies. Also, warning, it's mostly gonna be albums from the 90s. Only the albums that are described as Gothic Rock, Darkwave (Neoclassical or not), Deathrock and Ethereal Wave are goth, the rest are some other flavor of dark alternative.

Aégis, by Theatre of Tragedy (1998)

Exquisite Gothic Rock, despite the band usually playing Metal, with themes of mostly Greco-Roman mythology with some other European folklore thrown in. The most angelic and soft soprano vocals delivered by Liv Kristine with baritone whispers delivered by Raymond. Ethereal yet complex atmospheres with soft guitars, strong bass, poetic lyrics in Shakespearean English.

Highlights: Cassandra, Venus, Poppæa, Bacchante.

Inferno, by Lacrimosa (1995)

Gothic Rock that flirts slightly with Metal in some tracks. This is when they made the jump from Neue Deutsche Todeskunst (basically late 80s/early 90s German Darkwave except it's a little weirder than most other Darkwave at the time) to more Rock-based styles of music, as well as the first album Anne Nurmi was featured in. Tilo's best studio vocal performance in my opinion. Beautiful lyrics about love, passion, devotion, and the end of the world, could only be written by a goth guy with a gift for poetry who just fell in deep love. Only iffy track is Copycat but even that one is still a classic among fans if only because of its high energy, and killer guitars, bass and percussion.

Highlights: Schakal, Vermächtnis der Sonne, No blind eyes can see, Kabinett der Sinne.

Passion's Price, by Diva Destruction (1999)

Diva Destruction's debut, from back when Darkwave was actually dark and dreary in sound. Songs about heartbreak, betrayal, abuse and love, in the band's most musically complex and hauntingly atmospheric album. A definite classic with nothing but great track after great track.

Highlights: The Broken Ones, Snake, Prey, Glare.

Selected Scenes from the End of the World, by London After Midnight (1992)

Some of the best Gothic Rock to have ever come out, in my opinion. Deep, rich, dark, mysterious, sensual, macabre, romantic (arguably too romantic even by 90s goth standards as the album apparently got criticized for being almost entirely love songs? Wtf). The song that introduced me to goth in February of 2007 is in this album and it's the reason why I never looked back.

Highlights: The Black Cat, Claire's Horrors, Sacrifice, Spider and the Fly.

Annwyn, beneath the Waves, by Faith and the Muse (1996)

Ethereal Wave royalty in maybe not their most iconic album, but definitely the one closest to my heart by them. Despite goth music being associated with darkness in the minds of most, this album is full of glittering light in the most poetic and heartfelt way possible. The vocals are soft and tender when they need to be, delivered by Monica Richards, or firm and epic when needed, as delivered by William Faith. The lyrical themes are full of Celtic folklore, love, hope, magic and a feeling of reclamation of nature and an ancestral past (but not in like, a white supremacist way, I promise).

Highlights: Annwyn, beneath the Waves, The Hand of Man, The Silver Circle, Rise and Forget.

Treasure, by Cocteau Twins (1984)

Walking a thin line between Ethereal Wave and Dreampop (as they're pioneers in both genres). Some tracks are darker than others, but they're all equally delightful, full of beauty and a dreamy gaze hovers over every single song, all of which contain some of the most heavenly vocals in the scene. One of Robert Smith's favorite albums (he also really liked Diva Destruction's debut!). If you're into more relaxing and atmospheric music, this might be your intro to goth.

Highlights: Beatrix, Persephone, Pandora (for Cindy), Lorelei.

Anthology, by Nosferatu (2006)

Legendary Gothic Rock band among those of us who enjoy a campier vampiric goth sound that takes itself too seriously, and deliciously so. Yes, I know I'm cheating by going with a compilation album, sue me. It's simply a collection of their best tracks and I honestly couldn't choose between all their actual albums, so there!

Highlights: Inside the Devil, Lucy is Red, Rise, Witching Hour.

Es reiten die Toten so schnell (or: The Vampyre Sucking at his Own Vein), by Sopor Aeternus & The Ensemble of Shadows (2003)

Probably the gothiest and most elite Neoclassical Darkwave out there. Deeply macabre, equally horrific and beautifully crafted, with expressive and dramatic vocals, themes of vampirism and death masking more human subjects such as social rejection (Anna Varney-Cantondea is a trans woman/transfeminine person who's battled suicidality and depression from a very young age), depression, gay/trans desire, and suicidality. It truly is a masterpiece of macabre and neoclassical goth.

Highlights: The Feast of Blood, Holy Water Moonlight, Baptisma, Dead Souls.

Blood Death Ivory, by Angelspit (2008)

Probably one of the few modern Industrial bands who have thoroughly kept the spirit of early Industrial alive, fashioned after greats such as Skinny Puppy and Die Form, especially in the 00s when the Industrial scene heavily turned to more superficial lyrics based on the aesthetics of cyberpunk art rather than its subversive content. The music is aggressive, simultaneously animalistic yet robotic with a touch of demonic, rarely ever without smartly phrased critiques of capitalism and consummerism. At this point in time the band was a duo between Amelia Arsenic/Destroyx and Zoog Von Rock. It's definitely some edgelord shit (affectionate), but by no means in a vapid, only-for-shock-value way.

Highlights: Skinny Little Bitch, Lust Worthy, Devilicious, Jugular.

Alles für dich, by Grausame Töchter (2012)

Some of the most dynamic, deliciously quirky, sexual, hyper and twisted Dark Electro bands currently making music. The lead vocalist and lyricist of the band, Aranea Peel, is a lesbian dominatrix, fetish model, trained ballet dancer, and lover of Weimar republic era artistry who absolutely imprints lots of dark flapper energy into the band's music and imagery. The lyrics are unabashedly perverted, kinky, sapphic and fucked up. Her singing is nothing short of chef's kiss worthy, always expressive and strange, but with pristine execution and technique.

Highlights: Tanz für dich, TABU, Therapie für dich, ICH DARF DAS!

The Astonishing Eyes of Evening, by Cinema Strange (2002)

KINGS of 00s Deathrock with touches of Dark Cabaret influences, as inescapable in the goth scene in the 00s as She Past Away and its many copycats are now, and for very good reason. Delightfully macabre, not the first to use ghostly androgynous vocals but certainly one of the bands who better utilize that style of vocals. Imo, this and their homonymous album are must-listens for people interested in the goth music scene in general, but especially those interested in Deathrock. Truly Halloween turned into an album.

Highlights: Tomb Lilies, Catacomb Kittens, 'Ere the Flowers Unfold, Legs and Tarpaulin.

Opheliac, by Emilie Autumn (2006)

Literally music for mentally unstable sapphic girls with a poet's soul and flare for both irony and intense earnest feeling. It's a very original combination of Synthpop, Punk Cabaret, and Neoclassical music, with influences of Industrial and Darkwave. It's all masterfully crafted by classically trained violinist, poet, writer, actress, and somewhat of a burlesque performer with a rich alto voice; Emilie Autumn. She wrote this album after suffering medical abuse at a mental hospital after a suicide attempt brought on by an abortion and emotionally abusive relationship. I'm not exaggerating when I say this album saved my life and also changed me as a person.

Highlights: Opheliac, Liar, The Art of Suicide, 306.

Of the Want Infinite, by Requiem in White (1995)

You don't often hear of bands combining Deathrock and Ethereal Wave as they're often perceived as the polar opposite ends of the spectrum of goth music; Deathrock being the goth subgenre closest in sound and idiosyncrasy to punk, and Ethereal Wave being one of the goth subgenres furthest from goth's punk roots. Add in an operatic soprano and you get... Some of THE best, most underrated goth bands of the 90s. Dramatic, ethereal, creepy, elegant, ghostly and complex, with incredible vocals. Truly a pity they only released one album and a couple of EPs.

Highlights: Everlasting Peace, Beneath the Leaves, My Shame, Acanthus.

Agony of the Undead Vampire Part II, by Two Witches (1992)

Truly another giant of vampiric Gothic Rock, absolute 90s legends and Finland's most iconic goth band. Themes of vampirism, occasionally anti-Christianity, sex, sensuality and kink abound. The vocals might put some people off, but it's definitely worth it.

Highlights: The Hungry Eyes, The Omen, Mircalla, We All Fall Down.

Mors Syphilitica, by Mors Syphilitica (1996)

Requiem in White may have disbanded after their first proper album, but two out of its three core band members, then spouses Lisa and Doc Hammer, went on to form pure Ethereal Wave act Mors Syphilitica right after and while it's generally less dark and spooky than its predecesor band, they're still a delight to the ears.

Highlights: The Woman Who Believed, Fell a Dance, The Vain Stroke, Below the Baleful Star.

Beyond the Veil, by Tristania (1999)

I've raved about this album so many times. Just... THE definitive Gothic Metal album to me. The lyrics, the choir of sopranos (aka all Vibeke Stene and her rich, sensual, dark, gorgeous voice), the perfect growling, the somber baritone vocals, the perfectly crafted guitar riffs (no guitar salad, all expressive and precisely timed), the exciting epic percussion, the piano, the violin solos, THE SYMPHONICS. Oh, my God. There's not one second wasted in the entire album, and I'm not being hyperbolic, I mean that. Truly the perfect Gothic Metal album.

Highlights: Beyond the Veil, Angina, Heretique, Opus Relinque.

Serpentine Gallery, by Switchblade Symphony (1995)

Tbh all of Switchblade Symphony's discography is fantastic, but their debut truly is a masterpiece. Creepy ragdoll vibes all over, great vocals, rich composition, poetic yet accessible lyrics. If you're into a more kindergoth vibe (Wednesday Addams, creepy dolls, child-like or even lolita-esque looks), this might be the band for you.

Highlights: Clown, Mine Eyes, Dollhouse, Bad Trash.

Vampyre Erotica, by Inkubus Sukkubus (1997)

The other band that introduced me to goth in 2007 and got me to never look back. Though the first song by them I ever listened to, Samhain, isn't from this album, this album is the one that truly got me hooked for life. Vampiric, sensual, decadent and dark. It has everything including really sweet vocals.

Highlights: Vampyre Erotica, Danse Vampyr, Hell-Fire, Heart of Lilith.

Link to a YouTube Playlist containing all the songs from all the albums above.

[philliam-writes]

you are in the earth of me [01]

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem!Reader

Content: cot3 +1 (and kipps), canon-typical violence & horror, loss of family member (not just Lockwood), found family, touch starved Lockwood, childhood friends Kipps & Reader, childhood trauma, slow burn, rivals to lovers (if this stays a Lockwood/Reader), mature language (swearing), aged up characters (everybody's in their early 20s; Kipps is mid-20s), fem! Reader though pronouns are used sparingly and no use of y/n

Summary: “Ton—Anfonie ‘Ockwoo’.” You nod, and finally swallow your mouthful of food. “I’ve heard things about you.” Lockwood’s dark eyes slide over to Kipps for a second, glinting like a knife drawn out of its sheath. He gives you a nice, easy smile. “Only good things, I presume?” You feel your face scrunch up at the memory of Kipps’s curses, threats and very imaginative ways of what he’d do with his rapier and a very specific part of Lockwood’s body. “Yeah, uhm … things.”

Notes: [02]

Words: 5.1k

A/N: Words will never suffice how much Lockwood & Co. has carried me through some of the toughest parts of my life. To see it adapted to a show is SO EXCITING, I couldn't help but be a little self-indulgent and plan out a whole ass story for my favourite three (+ Kipps) ghost hunters. So here we go.

This could either stay a Lockwood/fem!Reader or I could easily change it into Locklyle or even freaking poly cot3 x Reader or just Locklyle depending on what people want to read. I'm fine with pretty much everything; I just want my silly little Reader joining 35 Portland Row because I am in DIRE NEED OF FOUND FAMILY AND JUST SELF-INDULGENT GHOST HUNTING

So yeah, I'm totally open to people requesting Locklyle or anything for this one, but it's still gonna be from Reader's POV and focusing on an original story with action and characters studies and personal growth. Also sorry for any mistakes, English isn't my first language and I'd be super happy if someone offered to become my beta-reader for this! Any feedback is super super appreciated!!

01: let the dead hollers hum

when i first saw you, the end was soon to bethlehem it slouched and then it must've caught a good look at you

—hozier: nfwmb

At almost two in the morning the streets should be empty of people and cars, yet you manage to nearly get hit by a night cab turning down Tredegar Road. Its ghastly horn echoes like the wail of a Banshee through the dark, disturbing the peaceful night. Across the street, a kitchen light flickers to life inside a building. A shadow moves behind the white curtains, pausing for a second to look out at the street.

Bracing against the cutting wind, you turn up your maroon trenchcoat’s collar and duck your head like a turtle trying to hide inside its shell. It would have been much colder without your gloves now that the early winter bite is coming, but it’s still very unpleasant to be outside after the sun has set. Today is a clearer night, despite the day of rain; the moon chases stray wisps of cloud across an otherwise unmarked black sky.

London turns in earlier than usual now that the nights grow longer and colder—and more dangerous as well. Just yesterday you heard two more night-watch kids have succumbed to ghost-lock down at the warehouses near Blackfriars when they got distracted trying to warm up from the freezing evening rain that had set in after eleven. They turned into easy pickings for a Drowner lurking beneath the docs—former scoundrels who ended their sorry lives in the water by drowning. They rarely make a pleasant sight with their bloated limbs and skin wrinkled so hard it is peeling off like layers of paint.

It makes you glad to feel the familiar weight of your rapier hanging from your hip holster, to know that just within short reach, everything you need to protect yourself is at your disposal. That and the salt bombs around your belt. It’s hard not to feel safe while carrying around something with ‘bomb’ in its name.

You find the meeting point you’ve been summoned to at the end of the street. The Green Goose is a two-floor building with the restaurant at the bottom and what you can only assume the storage and other facilities upstairs. All sun-blinds on the first floor are drawn shut.

Few London establishments are open during the night, and fewest of all in the dark hours before the dawn. But places like this, catering for agents or night-watch kids, are easily recognised by the additional fortification against possibly unwanted visitors. High up where the first floor meets the second, heavy mistletoe bushes run around the whole building like a gigantic garland. You imagine in summer this would be lavender blooms, plunging the whole street into their thick, sweet scent. The door and windows are laced with iron grilles, and overhung with battered ghost-lamps. A few wooden dining tables and benches remain vacated outside, left to their own until the warmth of spring returns.

After a first glance inside the premise through the grimy windows, you don’t spot your friend. How much easier this would be if you could carry a phone around, just to check if you are at the right place. Now all you have to go on is his cryptic call before your shift started this morning, and a vague sense of the kind of establishments he likes based to his tastes.

Good thing you have known him for almost a decade.

But that doesn’t really give you an idea what exactly Quill Kipps wants from you. Maybe help with a case? Or he has finally realised he has a crush on his co-worker, that lemony-smelling Kat or Kate, and now he needs advice. Not hanging out at the dead of the night would be a preferable start.

Small bells jingle when you push the door open with your shoulder, and a waft of warm air scented with grease and coffee hits your nose, bringing heat back to your face. It looks a lot smaller than from the outside, narrow and with the sitting area stretched in an L-shape around the bar and counter in the middle. Behind that a pair of slightly askew doors lead to the kitchen where you can hear a radio play.

The first row of tables line alongside the window, then disappear further into the back. In the corner, two night-watch kids sit huddled together, quietly snoring and drooling on each other’s shoulders with their meagre food spread before them. A waitress with short black hair and a chubby chin standing behind the counter looks up from a magazine, stares at you, and blows out a baby-blue bubble of gum until it pops loudly.

She raises an eyebrow.

You raise one back at her.

From the other side of the entrance, you hear Kipps calling your name. At that, the waitress gives you a single, polite nod which you answer alike, as though you are two cowboys engaged in a stand-off who don’t want to shoot each other.

Marching down the narrow aisle, you pass an occupied table and accidentally bump into it. Cutlery rattles against an empty plate. You mumble a half-hearted apology and move on, barely listening to the grumbled answer or really looking at the man clad in black sitting there. He gives of a sweet, heavy scent you can’t really place, and quickly move on.

Knowing you’d arrive in a foul mood, Kipps has already ordered your favourite midnight snack after a hard day’s work: coffee and a simple English breakfast with a fried egg, hot and greasy sausages, crispy bacon, tomatoes and mushrooms on the side.

“It better be important, Kippy,” you say in lieu of hello, manoeuvring over his lap to the unoccupied seat by the window, using elbows and knees to execute a complicated dance with him so you can squeeze into the narrow booth. He grunts and makes barely any effort to make you room. His outstretched legs take up a disproportionate amount of real estate. “I got a ten hour shift behind me and I’m desperate for my bed.”

“You certainly smell like after a ten hour shift,” he comments, wrinkling his nose. Of course he looks well kempt and neat as always with not a single ginger curl on his head out of order. But there are dark circles under his eyes as though someone put a charcoal pen to his skin, betraying his tidy appearance. His eyes flit over your face for a second, scanning it for any injuries.

You give him your best shit-eating grin and wolf down on your eggs when someone clears his throat from across the table—and that’s when you realise Kipps isn’t alone.

Nursing a cup of tea, opposite you sits a young man in a black suit, slender and tall, his short, unruly hair swept back elegantly. He watches you with mild interest, his thin lips slightly pursed, like someone would watch a flock of hungry pigeons plunge towards bread crumbs spread by tourists at Hyde Park—nothing out of order. Just another regular sight in the big city on a late afternoon stroll.

You hold his steady, dark eyes when you bite into your egg, feeling the yolk escape at the corners of your mouth and run down your chin. You didn’t even realise how much you were starving.

“Hwo’sh yor fren’, ‘Ippy?” you ask with your mouth full because you have absolutely zero shame.

Kipps swallows a groan.

“Yes, Kippy,” the young man replies with the most soothing, alluring voice you have ever heard, as though he’s eaten silk and honey for breakfast. “Why don’t you introduce us?”

Kipps makes a disapproving noise in the back of his throat. Annoyance radiates off him stronger than any other-light you have seen on apparitions. “Friend is a bit much,” he says slowly, as though he has to talk around the word ‘friend’ because it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. “That’s Lockwood.” You recognise his tone. It sounds a lot as if he’s saying That’s the biggest nuisance of my life.

The effect is pretty much the same.

You nearly choke on your next bite and aim for the coffee to wash it down. When you jerk your head around to stare at Kipps in disbelief, your eyes stretch wider than the dinner plate before you. Kipps must read what’s written on your face: That’s Lockwood? Tony Lockwood you can’t shut up about? Your arch-nemesis?

Kipps rolls his eyes so hard it must give him a spectacular view of his skull. Just humour me, his expression says.

“Ton—Anfonie ‘Ockwoo’.” You nod, and finally swallow your mouthful of food. “I’ve heard things about you.”

Lockwood’s dark eyes slide over to Kipps for a second, glinting like a knife drawn out of its sheath. He gives you a nice, easy smile. “Only good things, I presume?”

You feel your face scrunch up at the memory of Kipps’s curses, threats and very imaginative ways of what he’d do with his rapier and a very specific part of Lockwood’s body. “Yeah, uhm … things.”

Lockwood seems to understand, for he doesn’t inquire further, but his smile seems to freeze a little at the corners. “And you are?”

“Kipps’s friend.” You stuff the rest of your toast into your mouth and give your name. Lockwood blinks and keeps a polite smile, and doesn’t ask even though you’re sure he didn’t understand a word you just said.

“I wasn’t aware Kipps has friends.” Lockwood’s eyes have taken on a taunting glint, and he leans forward as he speaks. “Certainly not friends at Rotwell.”

His eyes drop to the crest stitched onto the upper part of your sleeve on your trench-coat: a snarling lion holding a rapier in its front paw—the agency’s symbol—before he gives Kipps a pointed look as though that small detail would have been worth mentioning before they got up to whatever this is.

Kipps ignores him. “I called you because I need your help,” he says, sliding napkins over to you which you promptly ignore. “I need your Talent.”

You halt at that and give him a long, level look. Kipps doesn’t shy away from the weight of your gaze, and suddenly you become painfully aware of the tension surrounding them, thick enough you could cut it with your dull knife.

Slowly, you chew your sausage. “What exactly are we talking about?” you ask, voice quieter, matching Kipps’s. He’s doing that little wiggle in his seat, shifting his weight from left to right he always does when bracing for potential conflict. When he trails his eyes away from you, you follow them to Lockwood who is looking at Kipps as though seeing him for the first time.

From the pockets of his long, black coat, Lockwood pulls out a small wooden box. It would easily fit into the palm of your hand, and from where you sit you can’t see a particular design or anything on the surface. Lockwood slides the box across the table towards you, flips it over with his long, slender fingers, and opens the lid, revealing a small bronze key lying on a cushion surrounded by thin iron plates.

You stare at it for five, six seconds. Then reach out to take another big swig of your coffee. With no sugar, acidly bitter taste explodes on your tongue, just the way you like it.

“It’s a Source,” you say. “You just carry a Source around like that?”

“Exceptional observation skills,” Lockwood says with the mild tone of someone barely holding back his impatience. “I can see why you asked her to join us, Kippy.”

“I can see why Kipps wants to shove his rapier up your—”

“Trust me, I’d be the last one missing out on a chance to ridicule Lockwood,” Kipps interrupts, tapping a finger on the table in front of the box, “but Barnes wants results by tomorrow and I’d like to act like professionals for once, so can we please focus?”

Lockwood and you throw a mirror glare at Kipps that’s something along the lines of You’re one to talk. When you notice each other’s similar expressions, Lockwood quickly schools his features back to a neutral one. “It is secure inside its seal for now, but the Visitor contained in it is not particularly strong. If we’re quick, it won’t have time to come through,” he says.

You shake your head. “You’re mad. And you—” you knock your knee against Kipps’s—“what’s wrong with you for going along with this?”

“There’s just … not enough time,” Kipps says. Exhaustion seeps into his voice, strong enough to peel back layers of caution for he shares a quick glance with Lockwood and what they don’t say screams so loudly that you have to lean back and re-evaluate what you’ve known about their relationship up until now.

It seems that Kipps has missed out on filling you in on some crucial details about the past few weeks he has worked at Kensal Green Cemetery.

“Then why don’t you just tell me what this is about?” you say, looking over at Kipps sharply. “Why does Barnes need you both to work on it? Is it a Fittes job? Did Bobby get his greasy little hands on something and—”

“Actually,” Lockwood chimes in, “it is our case. Lockwood & Co. Kipps is … an associate. And we’re very short on time to solve this case. Let’s just say Kipps has a little favour to repay. We need someone who excels at Touch, and he said you are the best at it. You might be our last chance to find out more about this key.” He has switched from that arrogant drawl to a soft, melodic cadence with that maddeningly smooth voice of his. It has to be intentional—he is trying to play you like a fiddle with that charm he switched on like an industrial bulb.

“What’s there to solve? You got the Source, you sealed it. That’s all there is. This should be on its way to a furnace right now.” You fall back into your seat, eyes raking over Lockwood’s form. He doesn’t even wear a uniform for Christ’s sake. “And you call yourself an agent?”

And just like that the light goes out, the switch flicks off. Lockwood’s face is calm; the only sign of his agitation is a pulse hammering in his throat and a muscle twitching in his jaw.

Kipps shifts in his seat. “We can’t give it to Barnes yet,” he says in a quiet voice, wrenching your eyes away from the glaring contest you have engaged in with Lockwood. Kipps presses his lips into a thin line, and you can see the mental strain it takes on him to agree with something Lockwood said. His handsome face crumples as though he has bitten into a lemon. “We believe the murder of that Visitor is still out there.”

You digest that. Go in for some more food. It takes a lot more effort to swallow your bacon. “Even more reason to just leave it to Inspector Barnes and DEPRAC. Exactly why is this your responsibility?”

“Justice for the dead?” Kipps offers.

“Protecting the living?” Lockwood states nobly.

It sounds like a load of crap, but you are too sleep-deprived to bother figuring out what truly is at stake for them. Maybe another stupid bet, or whatever favour Kipps owes Lockwood from the last.

You run a hand through your hair, bobbing your leg up and down in a frantic rhythm. It isn’t your favourite thing to do, but you have always had a hard time telling Kipps no—and God knows he has done so much for you.

“You owe me,” you tell him. Kipps nods, and visibly relaxes with relief.

“Do you need me to—” he starts, sliding his hand across the seat and offering it to you. From across the table, you hear the seat’s leather creak as Lockwood leans forward to get a better look at what you are doing. It reminds you of a hound scenting blood in the air and going out on the hunt for its prey.

“No, I’m good. I’m not taking my gloves off anyway.” You don’t like using your Talent without anything to ground you, but there is something about the way Lockwood is looking at you two, hungry almost, as though he is categorizing a particular fascinating information to dissect it later and see what use he can draw from it. Best to just ignore him. Besides, without your gloves, you feel naked, vulnerable. This isn’t something for prying eyes—and Lockwood has an awfully piercing, scrutinising pair of unfathomably dark eyes you are not interested at all to get lost in.

You lean back into the seat and get comfortable first. It never works when you go in too tense because it takes more effort to peel away the wards of your consciousness. When Kipps takes the key and plays it into your open palm, you focus on its weight first—akin to a bird bone, you barely feel it through the thick fabric of your glove.

Which doesn’t mean it isn’t heavy. The energy radiating off this thing is like a physical force pushing you back into the backrest of your seat. You close your eyes and focus on the low thrum of energy—feelings and impressions wash over you in torrents, layer after layer. Your chest feels heavy. Your stomach clenches in a hard, tight knot—fear. Fear grips you in a tight, cold grip.

Something is lurking, far far back, something unfathomably dark and abysmal but you can’t get a hold od if through your gloves and as you begin to sift through the chaotic blur of emotions to find the source—so much darkness, so much death; good Lord the things people did to get their hands on—

Excitement. A lingering echo burning so bright it blinds; hope swelling after long periods of dread, like the first spring buds blooming after a cruel, cold winter. Agitation. The adrenaline-inducing last sprint towards your goal knowing there is nothing that stops you from reaching it. The smell of damp soil and coppery hijacks your senses, and then—

Pain explodes in your chest, knocking you back against a cushioned surface. Your knees slam against something hard, sending hot shots of pain up your legs. Your eyes snap open but the world spins when all the oxygen is sucked out of your lungs and warmth spreads over your chest, liquid seeps through your fingers—but how? He could not. He would never—someone is screaming, a piercing, blood-churning scream. It takes a moment to realise the scream belongs to you; the wailing is drawn out from your raw throat, but how could anybody blame you; you are dying, shot in the chest by—

Someone is calling your name. Strong hands grab your shoulders and shake you hard as though trying to tear you away from a dream, a nightmare.

“Oh God, help me. He—he shot me—please help.” You gasp, trying to stop the bleeding by pressing your trembling hands against the wound.

“You’re fine. Listen to me, you’re fine. Nobody shot you!” A familiar voice—Kipps’s voice pierces through the wailing terror inside your head. You stare up at his green eyes which are paler than usual, widened in worry. “It’s just a psychic echo. You’re safe here.”

Another forceful inhale expands your lungs. The hot pinpoint pain in your chest subsides slowly with every shaking exhale, and when you look down at your hands, there is no blood sticking to your fingers, only coffee. When you hit your knees against the table, you knocked over your cup. Now the liquid is spreading across the table in a big puddle and dripping down its edges.

Lockwood is busy wiping the table clean with the leftover napkins while wildly gesturing with his free hand to the waitress looming over your table. “Just a long night, nothing serious,” you hear him say in haste. Either she isn’t interested or doesn’t get paid enough to deal with this; she shrugs and drags herself back behind the counter. You look around the establishment, ready to apologise for your outburst, but everybody has left already.

You turn around. When your eyes meet Lockwood’s, he grins, his smile so sudden and jarring as a thunderclap. “I have never seen anyone so sensitive to Touch. That was remarkable.” He beams as though you have performed an exceptional trick at the circus.

Something about the excitement in his voice sets you off—or maybe you are just still very raw from the experience, and the aftershock of such a gruesome echo is driving you up the wall.

“Oh yeah, it is so much fun! Feeling how people get killed every time is so worth it.” You grab your fork and stab your sausage with enough force you send tomatoes flying. On second thought, you are not hungry anymore. “Why don’t I get a gun and shoot you just so you can get an idea—”

“I’ve had my own fair share, thank you,” comes Lockwood’s flippant answer and for a second you imagine leaning over the table and smothering him with his own tie.

“So he was shot.” Kipps quickly steers the conversation back to its topic before you can follow your impulse. You slump against the seat, feeling pressure around your hand. When you look down, Kipps is holding your hand tightly, grounding you. You should have let him from the start. Weakly, you squeeze back. “We knew that already—”

“He … he never expected it to end like this,” you say slowly, gazing outside the window. Only your own reflection stares back at you. “He was shot by someone he knew. There was … genuine surprise. Before the pain, I mean. He couldn’t believe he would be hurt by someone he trusted. It was so absurd, he didn’t even have time to feel betrayed. That’s how unbelievable it was.”

“So it was someone very close to the victim. Who’s someone you’d never expect to betray you?” Kipps thinks aloud.

“Friends,” Lockwood provides.

“Family,” you say, quietly.

“A lover.” Kipps takes your fork and helps himself to some leftover mushrooms from your plate. When you look at the food, your stomach churns. “We should go back to the house tomorrow and see if you missed something, Tony. Wouldn’t surprise me if you managed to gloss over some obvious evidence,” he says to Lockwood.

“Why do you believe I would be the one—”

You shut out their bickering. A fine drizzle has set in outside, leaving small rain drops on the window. The street is a blur of black and faint white light from the ghost-lamps. When you look at your own face in the window’s reflection, your own eyes stare back at you—big, scared and haunted.

It always takes some time to get back after using your talent—to slowly build up the walls and distance yourself from the echoes of someone else’s life and the brutal way it ended. Deaths like these: sudden, violent, painful are always difficult to come back from. Which is why it is so important to have someone to ground you. Kipps has known you for so long, he is well aware how the psychic hangover drags your senses through the shredder and leaves your mind and body bruised and raw like an open nerve.

He had a few years training on how to handle it thanks to your brother.

The thought of Matthew shakes you awake and shoves you into full alertness, as if ice-cold water has been dumped down the back of your neck. You feel a sharp ache in your chest as you shove the ghost of his memory out of your mind, and then raw emptiness, as if a grappling hook has yanked your heart out of your body. It is just the aftershock—the hangover from the psychic connection, you try to reason. This is no time to allow grief back into your body, your mind.

Kipps must have heard the quiet sound you made, like a wounded animal. He falls dead silent mid-sentence and whips his head towards you. An echo of recognition passes his features for a second—there and gone so quickly, you think you imagined it.

“We are done here,” he says, and reaches over to close the box’s lid with a resolute click. You didn’t even notice he has taken the key away from you and returned it inside its seal. Lockwood opens his mouth, as though ready to argue, but whatever expression your face paints, even he recognises that you have reached your limit. Without another word, he swiftly slides the box back into his pocket.

You turn away from them, feeling anger and frustration boil inside you. You don’t want them to think you are weak just because you are a little more sensitive than other agents who can use Touch.

“Want me to drop you off the dormitory?” Kipps asks, his voice intensely neutral. He is digging through his purse to pay for your food, and shoots a glare towards Lockwood to indicate that no, he will not pay for his.

The dormitory for Rotwell agents, commonly known as the Lions Den, are rows of sand-bricked two-room apartments housing most of Rotwell’s younger agents in Chelsea. Half of your monthly salary evaporates just for paying rent, but at least it is a roof over your head and only a few stops away from your workplace. There is also something about pretending to belong to the upper posh class of London, to stroll through the highly-maintained gardens and polished windows glinting like diamonds in the early morning sun. They don’t have to deal with countless sleepless nights, the psychic hangover that makes you feel as if your body is not your own, or the constant fear every shift might be the last.

Sometimes it is that moment of pretending as though you live a different life that makes a difference.

“It’s okay, I’ll just take a cab.” Because for one, Kipps lives on the other side of the city, and two, you need to be alone.

Kipps nods, but he doesn’t look happy about it. Lockwood stays silent and is completely relaxed, a paragon of serenity with alert, dark eyes.

You scoot out of the booth and follow them outside into the cold drizzle. Mist hangs in the dark streets, rendering the area nearly invisible. Kipps and Lockwood share a few quiet words. When they part, Lockwood’s coat end flaps like black wings in the dark. He turns halfway around, gives you a long, considering look over the back of his shoulder. He parts with a single, almost approving nod, then ducks his head against the biting wind and strides down the street, disappearing into the dark night.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Kipps buttons the front of your trenchcoat. He is balancing on the back of his heels—an old habit when he feels bad for something and doesn’t quite know how to apologise and it would be easier to just bail from the conflict. “You still look like shit.”

You give him a weak kick to the shin. His shoulders relax. “I’ll fill you in tomorrow about how it went,” he says, jamming his hands inside his pockets. He pulls one out again and shoves a crushed candy into your hand. It’s your favourite brand and for the first time today, you feel something warm spreading in your chest.

“Wait.” Before he can turn away, you quickly catch his sleeve and make him turn around. “About that key…”

“Is there anything else?” Kipps leans forward and you have to bend your neck back to meet his eyes.

You remember when he was much smaller and you were at the same eye level. At 13 years, Kipps used to be smaller than the rest of the boys at Stroud & Co. where you started out your agent career and met. He’s had his share of playing errand boy or punching bag for the older, taller boys, until Matthew came along one day, dunked one of Kipps’s bullies into an overflowing rain barrel and got his nose broken in return.

They became best friends after that, and you in the middle. Matthew, Quill, and you. Lock, Shock, and Barrel.

Now, only two remain.

Kipps claps your shoulder, snapping you out of the memory and dispersing the picture you have conjured in your mind of him young. Today, he stands tall and broad-shouldered before you, twice in size and muscle. Nobody sane would try and mess with him.

“What’s wrong?” Kipps asks. “Where did you go in there?” He taps two fingers against his temple.

“When I was holding the key, the recent death was the strongest echo, but there was more. Like … way, way more.” You sling your arms around yourself. “Like many layers on a painting, and whatever is underneath all that … it feels evil. Really, really evil. There is a lot of death attached to that key.”

Kipps chews on this. He looks down the street to where Lockwood has vanished, his square jaw drawn tense. “I can’t say Lockwood’s stake on this, but I don’t care much about its history. It changed owners, I get it, but who would kill for something like that?”

“I don’t know.” You think back to the smell of blood, to the underlying eagerness to own that key. “But if that key is already that vile,” you say, shuddering, “then what about the thing it opens?”

“Not important to me as long as it’s not our problem.” He yawns, and taps a foot against the hard pavement to stave off the cold. “I bet it got destroyed or lost long ago. There is no way it’s still around.” Kipps runs a hand through his hair. It curls against his temple and neck in the damp mist. “Chances are high we’ll never hear anything about it ever again after this week. Case closed. Thanks for helping us. I’m sure DEPRAC can find the murderer and it’ll be just another case in the books.”

“Yeah, sure. I guess you’re right.” You barely hold back a yawn.

Kipps nudges your elbow. “I’ll catch up with you later, OK? Gotta make sure Lockwood’s the one who messed up the earlier investigation and go back to the crime scene.”

“Doing the Lord’s work,” you joke and give him a mocking salute. For the first time tonight, Kipps grins that lopsided half-grin showing part of his white teeth before he rushes off into the night after Lockwood.

For a moment, you stand still and let the drizzle engulf you. Although you have been almost sixteen hours on your feet, exhaustion has slowly trickled away, and in its stead a bone-deep anxiety has settled. Sleep. You need to sleep this off, and everything will return back to normal by tomorrow.

Heading for the main street to catch a night cab, you don’t turn around, and just like that, you miss out on the shadow unhitching itself from a wall even though the ghost-lamp flickers to life.

A/N: hmu if you want to join the taglist!

[asmaticc]

Worthy

hobie x gn!reader

summary - Hobie and you are roommates, great friends, best friends even. You’ve always got each other’s backs. But one day, you start noticing how Hobie isn’t that energetic any more, how he starts to talk less, barely going out of his room.

**Hobie’s canon event

words - 2.0k

You met Hobie a few years back at the pub where he used to play with his band and you quickly became friends. Now, you two were the ‘partners in crime’ kind of thing, but still friends. One day, talking about finding a place for yourself, Hobie pointed out that he was also looking for one, but being London, it wasn’t that easy to find something that wasn’t extremely expensive, so you agreed to start looking for one together and be roommates.

It was a nice place, decorated with each other’s personality, you made it your home. And you two had your dates and one-night-stands sometimes there too. It’s not like it bothered any of you, there was nothing going on between you and Hobie, just two friends in their twenties living their life.

Of course you shared something special that only the two of you could understand, but that was because of so many years of knowing each other. You were in all his shows since day 1, went to every protest together, even got arrested together! That’s something people don’t have the pleasure to share with their loved ones, and that’s what made you inseparable (also the fact that you discovered he was spiderman). Without needing words, you knew how each other felt or were thinking, it was like a secret code you could only understand, and everybody was amused how you two were not together because you were clearly made for each other. 

And, obviously, you were too dumb to realize. Too focused on ‘live the moment’, no commitments, no serious relationships, just flowing while enjoying your liberty. Even though you also wanted to know what it is like to wake up in the arms of someone that bathed you in kisses, that liked you, that loved you, and that, for Hobie, wasn’t available knowing what his job was about. 

The days after you had a date or some fun with somebody were always quiet in the house. Hobie seemed to have something in mind that was eating him out, sad even. The same happened to you, but you didn’t talk about it, neither of you. 

Days passed by and you were closer with each other because of this lack of ‘love’, behaving like a couple, you just didn’t realize you already got each other.

And it all started to crumble as Hobie started to be more introverted. He didn’t talk that much anymore, he barely ate unless you were there with him, not even touching his guitar or putting on his suit. Everyday, the bags on his eyes grew bigger, you didn’t see him that much anymore, all day locked in his room. And you tried to talk to him, but silence was the only answer you received through the door, affecting you too. You needed your best friend, you needed your talks, you felt lonely, even though you were not alone, you needed back your stupid dances with Hobie in the kitchen, the nights of watching horror movies and laughing at how dumb the characters are, or the ones when he showed you a new song he was composing, the afternoons in the market doing groceries together, the mornings when you’ve been up all night and went to a cafe when the city was still quiet. You lost him gradually. It started a few months back, and you didn’t question it because Hobie always got better, everybody had their problems, right? But now you were trapped too.

It was 4 a.m, you’ve been rolling in your bed for an hour and a half by now. Everyday it gets more difficult to sleep, thoughts running through your mind a hundred miles per minute, wondering if this is it, if this is your life now and what’s gonna happen. Most of the time, Hobie was the protagonist of these thoughts, blaming you for not helping him sooner, for not realizing how bad he was getting. You missed how his arms felt around you when you fell asleep together, whether it was in your room, his, or the couch; it always made you relax, his touch, his voice, his eyes looking at you… 

You got out of bed and thought of walking through the house to get bored enough to be able to get some sleep. Standing right in front of Hobie’s room, memories invading your mind, and you noticed his door wasn’t fully closed, so you peeked in, finding the bed messed up, with his owner nowhere to be found, so you decided to go to the living room, hoping to find him there.

He was lying on the couch, hands covering his face and the only sound of his breathing. You watched him for what felt like hours, he seemed like he hadn’t slept for weeks; his face, illuminated by the moonlight and the city’s lights, looked exhausted. His eyes were teary, his lips sealed for a sob to not escape his mouth. You’d rather be stabbed to death than see him like this, what happened to him? to your Hobie…?

You moved slowly to his side, he looked at you for the first time in weeks, and you took his hand. He followed you instinctively, locking his eyes with yours, no idea where you were going. You guided him to your bed, where you two lay, still with piercing eyes trying to make him know that you were there for him, you felt his arms rounding your body and pulling you closer, hiding his face on your neck. Your hand caressed his chest, noticing how his heart slowly settled and his breathing relaxed. He was finally asleep, and you fell soon too.

You woke up first and noticed that Hobie was still sleeping. You moved a little to caress the arm that hugged you, making circles with your fingertips and watching his body tightening yours as he noticed your touch. You didn’t know why you did that last night, but it felt like the right thing. Not knowing how much time passed, Hobie started to move into your neck. A few sunlights escaping through the blinds illumined his face, which was now right in front of yours on the pillow. You looked at his face like you’ve never done before, analyzing every faction you thought you didn’t remember, running your fingers through his cheeks, his nose, his forehead and his jaw.

“Hey” is the only thing that you could say. A smile decorated your lips as you saw him looking at you.

“Hey” he said back. His hand was caressing your back, fearing that you would leave.

“I missed you” and his face dropped a little, now avoiding your eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t… talk to you about what was going on… I thought… I thought that you didn’t want to”

“I… didn’t” he let out a heavy sigh “cause it was always the same”

“What is it, Hobie? You can tell me anything, you know that” you pulled your face closer to his, hand on his cheek running your thumb through it.

“It’s just… I was tired of doing the same thing over and over again… Nothing changed, ever. The same songs to play, the same days to do a show, the system always the same, catching the same bad guys…” you listened to him carefully “Everything except you felt… ordinary, a routine in which I was trapped, like I’ve been doing nothing… nothing changed” he paused “And I didn’t know what to do… so I quit”

“But what changed between… you and me?” you asked worried

“Nothing, and it was fine at first, but… I still felt like I didn’t belong… here”

“What do you mean?”

“Like…” he sighed and sat down on the bed, you imitated his movements. “Like I am not worthy of all… this” he pointed to himself “I just don’t know who I am anymore”

“Hobie…” you took his hands in yours, caressing them “do you want me to lie to you and tell you that it’ll pass or do you want me to tell you the truth?” you sought his gaze, making eye contact with him. He rolled his eyes like it was an obvious question “The truth, right?” he nodded slightly “Truth is… that this is how life works. It may be hard for you in moments like this, but this is what life is about, questioning if you are really doing something good” he looked away but you took him by the face and looked at his eyes.

“But am I worthy? Why did it have to be me and not… anyone else?” a tear went down his left cheek “Why me?”

“I think… fate put that spider in your way for something… maybe because it’s you. Even if it was just a mere coincidence or a mistake, you have done the impossible to make a name for yourself and fight for the people, because you care. Tell me something…” you cleaned his tear with your thumb “do you think you are Hobie Brown because you are Spiderman, or are you Spiderman because you are Hobie Brown? I already know the answer... but do you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he frowned.

“It means that you gotta find out who you really are… You are not your job, neither the clothes you wear or anything else. You are you, and you chose those things to represent you, but without them… are you still the same person? Do you still believe that the system must be changed?” you looked at him closely, watching him nod. “Then you know that you are the only one who can make this happen… the powers that spider gave you were only a nudge to do it”

“But what about…” he stroked your hands slightly.

“What, baby? Tell me”

“What about the people I love? What if something happens to them because of me?” his eyes were crystalized because of the tears he was holding “How am I supposed to live if you die because I couldn’t protect you…?” it sounded like a whisper, more like a question for himself than you.

“I don’t know… I really don’t know, but I guess you’ll get on with it” you hold his face in your hands “There’ll be people looking after you, i’m sure about that” you rested your forehead on Hobie’s “and I’ll be there always”

You stayed like that for a while, letting it sit in. There was no need of saying anything, he already knew the answers to his questions. But suddenly, he noticed something pressing his cheek… it was your lips. 

You slowly kissed his eyelids, his other cheek, his forehead and his nose, now making eye contact again, Hobie leaned to your lips and gave you a chaste kiss. You two were in shock, not knowing how to respond and feeling your faces get hot, but you leaned in softly, his hand reaching your neck to get you closer and joining your lips together again, this time until you couldn’t breathe. 

It was a careful kiss, your lips moved slowly into each other’s, not wanting to break it any time soon, it was like taking a weight off your shoulders you’ve been carrying for years, finally freed from it… it was the sign that Hobie needed to keep on.

“I love you” he said quietly while caressing your lower lip with his thumb.

“I know” you responded, pecking his finger and smiling at him.

Other works !!

[cellarspider]

Thanks to my rambling this weekend, I am overflowing with love for an MMO that hasn’t been in development since 2012, because goddamn the worldbuilding for the setting of City of Heroes and City of Villains was just superb.

Do you want an MMO that begins as a pastiche of superhero comics that lovingly, cheekily engages with its source material, building up a cohesive world where the fantastical stuff feels unexpectedly real and grounded in the society, more so than most of the comics it's inspired by? Do you want that, and then to watch it slowly, gently tip its backstory into existential, cosmic horror via genre critique?

I'm in no way kidding! More below the cut.

Well, part one of more, because there's a lot to unpack here.

A lot of new superhero continuities these days treats its central premise as an anomaly. For the most popular example, the MCU treats public knowledge of superheroes as something that started with Captain America in WWII. Before his exploits, the fantastical aspects of the setting were forgotten about and hidden from the world. The DCEU begins similarly with Wonder Woman in WWI, a member of a mythic society forgotten by time.

At first, Earth in City of Heroes seemed to go with a very similar premise, though it predates any of those movies: Superpowers were unknown to the general public until the early 1930s, when some people suddenly began gaining incredible new abilities, and mythical critters not seen since ancient times made themselves known.

But that’s just the basic sales pitch. As you dug into the setting and City of Villains expanded the lore, perspective shifted into something entertainingly stranger.

Everyone knew about Nemesis, the clockwork robot-making mastermind who'd terrorized Paragon City from the early 1930s, just when superheroes were first appearing on the scene. Turns out he was an immortal Prussian nobleman born who first went on an automaton-backed crime spree in 1820s, seemingly died when the British Navy bombarded his headquarters in Malta, then reappeared in the 1860s to supply the Confederate Army with mechanical cavalry until General Sherman shelled his mountaintop base on his march to North Carolina. Nobody was ever able to replicate what the did, and with his (apparent) death, he was no longer relevant after 1865. As of the 1930s, anyone who wasn’t a history buff had forgotten about him.

And sure, everyone knew there was an underground city of evil wizards, dead for long eons until they rose again to take human sacrifices from the surface world of Rhode Island (I’m still not over that). But actually, they were active in London during the Victorian mysticism craze, then moved their operations back to their homeland of subeterranean Rhode Island with the outbreak of World War I. They made the news across the continent. They got outlawed in multiple countries. They were a big deal, until the war took the attention off of them.

Hell, one of the people who fought all these weirdos was a random teenager who'd just... always been able to teleport and turn invisible, even prior to the '30s. He wasn't even a main character or anything! His parents knew, and tried to convince him to go get training. Teleportation training. Like y'do, with your socially awkward, teleporting kid.

This setting never actually had a mundane world that was unaware of the fantastical. The fantastical was normal. The arrival of superpowers in 1930 wasn’t a hard fork between history as we know it and theirs, or a reveal of some secret world that rational minds had long denied. It was just a dramatic escalation of what had already been happening, that everyone knew about. Armies of the 1800s had to develop anti-robot tactics. Alastair Crowley publicly dissed an actual wizard cult because they were dangerous competition. Parents worried over the mental health of their superpowered teens. That was normal.

The sheer numbers of fantastical events that started happening after 1930 were not normal. Or at least, not at first. People slowly adjusted over decades, as more and more young people grew up in a world that had always been that way.  

What nobody realized at that point was how the new normal bordered on a state of cosmic horror.

And that’s where the setting really starts interrogating its inspirations.

[garvalhaminho]

forgot to post my thoughts while reading the first chapter of tlkof as someone who has only ever read tda and tid (translated from chaotic portuguese)

thais??? who??

dru likes learning by understanding how things work, relatable (SHE'S LITERALLY ME)

she's learning about downworlders and can ask magnus for help, but specifically cristina (the diva who loved studying faeries!!), mark and helen (icon) and kieran and i love that for her 💞 like yes give her one thing she can take advantage of

SHE'S GOT HER MOTHER ELEANOR'S JACKET !! I REPEAT SHE'S GOT HER MOTHER ELEANOR'S JACKET !!

not her dyeing her hair black (ate)

"thais always looked glamorous in her gear" 🤨 no look i know friends can find each other pretty and beautiful etc but when it's ya literature.....it's usually the censored version of "hot as fuck" JUST SAYING

DRU IS 5'3 YAAA WE'VE GOT THE SAME HEIGHT (i think, i'm not american)

i already love dru and thais's friendship 🫶 they match each others freak

dru trains to forget everything she's gone through 😭

oh already the preppy guys and fuckboys (mason hardcastle)

"dru and thais didn't need to ask each other; they knew already they'd be a team" awwww i already know i'm gonna love their friendship

paige ashdown when i see you in the street (no but like an ableist and fatphobic bully? i'll fight that fucker with my bare hands)

thais speaking portuguese in the middle of nowhere i love it

OH AND THE FUCKBOY IS HER EX AND HE SUCKS, if it was me and i had classes with him i'd literally throw myself off a bridge

dru inventing "sex crocodile",,, she's too iconic i fear

"nothing scared [dru}. nothing in a movie, anyway." babygirl 😭 i remember her like mentioning how she liked horror movies but the horror depicted would never be as bad as the real life horror she's experienced

dru still talks to kit 😭 no like imagine your sister still talks to your situationship of two weeks from three years ago, i'd jump off a bridge (yet again)

"there's no danger. we're on academy grounds" famous last words

"she tugged gently at a dangling lock in her friend's hair" THAT'S LITERALLY A MICROTROPE IN ROMANCE MOVIES

"she cursed silently, imagining every bad word she could think of and some she was pretty sure she'd just made up." let dru say fuck pleaseeee. just once. as a little treat, she deserves it

"she wondered for a moment if she should mention that her brother, mark, was the consort of the unseelie king" not her trying to use her connections

ASH SHOWING UP AND HUMILIATING THE LITTLE FAERIE MEN 😭 he slayed i fear

no yeah he's literally royalty he's literally a prince (get that bag girl!!)

dru thinking that ash's eyes were like the sea glass julian loved......oh how i love this family

"'how do you know my name?' she demanded. his eyes narrowed. 'you must be joking,' he said. 'you've forgotten? you can't have forgotten.'" of course she's forgotten a random guy she was with for two minutes three years ago, she has a life, YOU'RE just a SIMP

ash getting yelled at and reprimanded by his daddy or whatever but still literally helping his crush and sending her away to safety 🙏 and your man can't even text you back

julian and emma leaving london to take care of their child drusilla blackthorn

OH AND JULIAN'S GONNA NEED A LOT A THERAPY AFTER THREE BOOKS OF HIS KIDS GETTING THEMSELVES IN TROUBLE

he didn't even sleep during the three nights she was missing 😭

i fear i might become thais/dru shipper under the right circumstances

[indelicateink]

fellow friends deviants and aficionados, there is an Interview with the Vampire anonymous kink meme!

one million million thank yous to @vampire-dove for hosting this anon kink meme for us.

i'm going to share some of the prompts going on over there. please go add more. please fill prompts. PLEASE COME BE FERAL AND DEBASED.

-- Prompts [1/?]:

Armand/Daniel Molloy

"I would KILL for some more Devil's Minion fics where Armand is still masquerading as Rashid. Preferably with some serious guilt from Daniel's side, but not necessary"

--

Lestat de Lioncourt/Louis de Pointe du Lac Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Intimacy, Grief/Mourning

"Cairo, London, New York, New York, San Francisco, Dubai: five different kinds of sex louis had with dreamstat over the years, and one time they just held each other and talked

"i need all the dreamstat/louis that the show never gave us??"

--

Lestat de Lioncourt/Louis de Pointe du Lac, Armand/Daniel Molloy, Claudia/Madeleine, Armand/Lestat de Lioncourt Seduction to the Dark Side, Somnophilia, Hypnotism, Career Ending Injuries, Laughter During Sex, Saving the World, Forced Orgasm, Love at First Sight

"mirrorverse/dark parallel universe au. Children of Satan covenmaster Armand de Romanus and his devoted consort, the powerful Lestat de Lioncourt, arrive in 1910 America to spread the word of Satan. Gentleman vampire killer Louis de Pointe du Lac and his charge Claudia are not amused. Armand's right-hand woman Madeleine Eparvier thinks they could be persuaded with the right kind of incentive. Reporter Daniel Molloy thinks it makes for a great story."

--

Nicolas de Lenfent/Lestat de Lioncourt, Nicolas de Lenfent Lestat de Lioncourt First Time

"I would love to see a first time between Nicki and Lestat. Maybe it's their time in general or the first time after Nicki is turned. (Maybe even some canon divergent reunion sex?) I'd just like it to be very fluffy, those men deserve to be in love. (Bonus points for laughing/giggling/joking around during)"

--

Lestat de Lioncourt/Louis de Pointe du Lac Human/Monster Romance, Size Kink, Body Horror, Enthusiastic Consent

"monsterfucking au. Lestat manages to restrain himself to le petit coup with Louis after Lily passes out, but once they’re upstairs he cannot contain his transition to his beastly vampiric form in the heat of the moment."

--

Lestat de Lioncourt/Louis de Pointe du Lac Lestat de Lioncourt/Other(s) Promiscuity, Pansexual Character

"college AU. top!lestat. everyone wants to be able to say they got a piece of gorgeous lestat de lioncourt but no one actually wants to get to know him, let alone date him. lestat pretends he’s okay with this. he’ll even have sex with people he doesn’t like if they’ll give him attention. then he falls hard for his latest hookup, commitment-averse louis de pointe du lac; lestat is determined he can persuade this one to stay?

"louis de pointe du lac does not have time to blow up his studies and family for an identity crisis just because he didn’t know sex with some basic white foreign male-model-looking village-bicycle mentally-ill himbo could make him feel like his life just started.

"how is “post-nut clarity (other people’s)” not an ao3 tag."

[noforkingclue]

New brain rot-Mulan happenings because you know what I deserve it. *we* deserve it

Someone who works for the Peaky blinders-a damn good shot, maybe, or a damn good informant-someone proper, but not someone Tommy pays all too much attention too. He didn't seem to have gone to war, and frankly he might resent him a little for that.

But he knows him-knows of him, really-and he does good work. Tommy doesn't ask too many questions, and neither does he-just gets the man paid, and he seems loyal enough.

He seems young-Tommy's never seen him with scruff-but he doesn't act young, and frankly Tommy only fears the smallest amount of worry when he wonders how old the man is, if that's why he wasn't in France, dying too.

So when one day he needs some assistance as he travels to London, he selects him-never had an issue, and he wants the family at home, keeping an eye on things.

And it's a little strange, at first, just spending time with this man-this man that seems so guarded, but who is Tommy to judge-but he finds himself enjoying his company, oddly enough. Asks him why he's a Peaky blinder, one day, and can appreciate the answer of protecting family.

But it's when he comes back early to the hotel room, from a night out (not far, just to the hotel bar for a drink, he's no fool) that he finds himself frozen and it's like the whole world clicks into focus as he stared.

He's a she. She's been doing man's work-well enough she fooled his men, fooled him-but was loyal and didn't ask questions. A woman who took a fucking bullet for him, a scar or two more than once, who he sent to danger more than once, on his command-

She intrigued him. She intrigued him greatly.

Note: requests are currently closed

Title: Hidden Secrets

Peaky Blinders tag list: @stylesofloki, @ohshititsfenharel, @lenaskyler02, @elenavampire21, @swordofawriter, @zablife, @cillmequick, @polishcrazyone, @nataliewalker93

Thomas Shelby tag list: @alreadybroken-ts, @darlingdevil, @lyrxbz, @watercolorskyy, @notyour-valentine

Everything tag list: @greenrevolutionary, @byebyebreezywrites, @spngingerbread21, @layazul, @lov3vivian, @simonsbluee

In hindsight it was obvious.

The hotel door swung shut behind Tommy and he lit a cigarette. The click of the lighter was the only sound in the room and Tommy’s eyes never left you. You had just got a lot more interesting.

At first you were just another Peaky Blinder. You seemed younger than the rest, Tommy had never even seen you with facial hair or the same deep lines that marked the faces of most of the other men in his employ. Clearly you had never seen the horrors of war, your age had spared you from that fate and yet you willingly threw yourself into his world. You allowed your hands to be soaked in blood.

You were a good shot, reliable and loyal, all three things that were surprisingly hard to come by if you weren’t family. Once he finally talked to you (one late night in the Garrison with too much whiskey) he found you surprisingly pleasant to talk to. You still had your guard up, cautious about the drinks Tommy were giving you but you still let some information slip. How you were doing this for your family, how you needed to look after your parents now that your oldest brother had died in the war. Tommy noted the glint in your eye, the love and pride you held for your family. If your brother hadn’t died you never would’ve joined the Blinders and you never would’ve come into his life.

He never should’ve gotten so close to you. It wasn’t appropriate to be so close to someone… to someone… to someone like you but he couldn’t help it. He’d seen the slightly concerned looks that his brothers gave him and the not so subtle warnings the Polly dropped. It wasn’t anything like that he just liked you and knew that knew that he could rely on you. Which was why he picked you for this London job instead of Arthur or John. He needed them back home. He could rely on them to run the business and he could rely on you to do exactly what he told you to do.

Being so close to you was a lot harder than Tommy expected which was how he found himself in the hotel bar downing whiskeys. It certainly wasn’t to distract himself (definitely not) it was just a stressful time and a drink always helped. Still, he did have business tomorrow so he couldn’t spend all night drinking and eventually he’d have to go back up to you.

Tommy was expecting you to be in bed when he got back and clearly, from the look of horror and shock on your face you had expecting him to be back later. You grabbed your shirt and pulled in up against your bound chest. You took several steps back before stumbling back and falling to the ground. You swallowed thickly and opened and closed you mouth several times. Tommy smirked at you and walked over to you. He stood over you and your gazes locked. He reached down and paused when you flinched away. He gave you a brief smile before offering you his cigarette. You took it was shaking hands and he savoured the moment your fingers brushed against his.

“Well then,” he said, “this is an interesting development. Now what am I going to do with you?”

[fiction-is-the-new-reality]

Pt 3: Searching for Spector

word count: 4k

warnings: violence, language, afab!reader

summary: Sage has some struggles in London and Steven is adorable

a/n: thanks for reading! thanks for waiting for me to post!! Sorry it’s taking forever! Please don’t forget me!!

part one here

part two here

The bright light stings your eyes as they fly open, your heart beating out of your chest. You don’t even realize you’re gripping the pillow too tight until your knuckles hurt. You can hear the bustle of cars and the smell of coffee coming from down the street. It helps calm you down.

Standing up, the cold floor of the hotel meets your sock-clad feet, sending a shock wave through your body. You shuffle your way to the bathroom, eyes still burning from sleep. You’re met with the dingiest bathroom and slowly pull back the shower curtain like the final girl in a horror movie. Luckily, no killer is waiting behind the curtain, just a tiny yellowed tile shower stall.

You watch as the water washes the soap down the drain. Taking a couple of deep breaths, you let your eyes lose focus and imagine the water washing the nightmare down the drain. Out of the shower, you look at yourself in the mirror and trail your eyes over the scars before putting on your clothes for the day.

Leaving the hotel, you step into the bustling street and follow the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafting from a nearby cafe. You enter the cafe and grab a small warm cup of coffee, the warmth seeping into your hands.

Reaching the museum you venture in and join a group of people waiting in front of a woman wearing a tag that says Tour Guide. While looking around a figure catches your eye. It's Marc; his brown curls instantly make him recognizable. You pause, watching him from the periphery of the tour group.

Marc’s face is alight with enthusiasm as he interacts with the children. You slowly move away from the group and as you approach the counter, you hear his passion for ancient Egypt in every word he speaks. Keeping your gaze down, you feign interest in the pamphlets that adorn the area. After a moment, he acknowledges your presence, his passion still evident in his eyes. It nearly forces you to lose focus.

"Need help today, ma'am?" A British voice hits your ears, and you're sure you must have misheard. You had been expecting a gruff Chicagoan accent, not a gentle British accent, to come out of his mouth.

"Oh, uh, I don't believe so." Your smile causes his cheeks to tinge a lovely shade of pink. "I'm just taking everything in."

"I see. Well, do let me know if you have any questions. I'm Steven." He points to his name tag and tilts his head with a smile. There's no hitch in his accent—not one part where he messes up the tone or inflection or does anything that gives away the part he's playing. He's a great actor.

'Steven' picks up a box of plush hippos from the floor and steps out from behind the counter. He throws one more smile your way, but you've got your eyes on a brochure, appearing not to notice him leaving. From the corner of your eye, you watch him walk down the hall to a door. You decide it's best if you're gone before he returns, so after standing there for a few more heartbeats, you turn and walk out.

Before interacting with Marc/Steven again, you spend a few days observing from rooftops and lurking in shadows. By the third day of watching, you have his routine memorized down to the smallest detail. He leaves his apartment every morning between 7:30 and 7:45. He’s at work until 6:00 and makes his way back to the flat around 7:30 to 8:00. The lights go out in his flat around 10:00 and come back on throughout the night.

After a week, you decide to insert yourself into Marc's life. You race out of the hotel, lukewarm latte in hand, waiting for ‘Steven’ to come racing down for the bus. As you stand there, you finally spot the messy brown curls speeding towards your location. You step into his path and brace for impact. Seconds later, you're dousing him with coffee, and he’s reaching out to steady you.

“Oh god, are you ok?” His brown eyes are wide in shock, and his hands hold onto your arms. He recognizes you. You were at the museum the other day.

“I’m fine. I’m really sorry. I wasn’t watching, and I’m-” He cuts you off.

“No, don’t apologize. It’s my fault. I was running. I’m always bloody runnin’.” He lets his eyes look you over as you do the same. His black pants and patterned shirt are now drenched in coffee.

“Oh no, I’ve ruined your entire outfit! I feel horrible.” Steven hadn’t even noticed the coffee that was on him. He had been too focused on you.

“It’s alright, not like it was anything special.” He shrugs his shoulders dramatically.

“But still, I spilled my drink all over you. Is there something I can do to repay you? Like, get you a latte or anything like that?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that. But I’m fine, truly.”

You two stand, and you look him up and down again, “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?”

“I promise. Accidents happen, but I bet you I won't run down the street like a madman anymore.” The latter part of the sentence is giggled out, and you can’t stop the real giggle that comes out of you.

He’s ending the conversation and about to step away, but you stop him with a hand on his arm.

“I-uh, could I maybe ask you to get a drink sometime? I just feel awful for spilling my coffee on the cute museum clerk, and I would love to make it up to you. If you let me.” You look up at him through your lashes, and it’s hook, line, and sinker for him.

His eyes, a deep shade of hazel, light up with a mix of surprise and delight as he realizes you remembered him. A faint blush tinges his cheeks, and his voice stutters as he tries to speak. “It’s hard to turn that down when you call me cute, innit?”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t turn me down. How about tomorrow? We can go wherever you like, to repay you but also because I have no clue of any good places around. ”

“I get off at 6. Do you want to meet at the museum?” His crooked smile makes him look innocent. He somehow looks nothing like, but also just like the man you’ve seen kill people back to back.

“I’ll see you then. Have a good day.”

“Yeah, you too.” He can’t control the excitement in his voice as he watches you walk away. As you are almost out of sight, you turn back to look at him, and he’s in the same spot you left him.

You spend the rest of your day wandering around London. You keep a distance from the mission; if he were to see you again, it would be too much of a coincidence. As you wander the streets of London, you find a park. Entering the park, you sit on one of the benches and watch everyone going about their day.

You watch all the couples holding hands, the families having lunch, and the old people playing games. You let your eyes drift, not focusing on anything—until a face on the other side of the park catches your eye.

A blonde-haired man stares back at you on the other side of the park. You squint and can’t believe your eyes. Steve Rogers is staring back at you. You aggressively rub your eyes, hoping that when you look back, he’ll be gone. But he remains there, refusing to vanish as you had hoped.

You know, logically, it can't be real. There's no way you're looking at Steve Rogers, and there’s no way he's staring directly back at you. But despite everything, you still have a glimmer of hope in your chest as you walk towards him. Moving swiftly past the crowd, your heart races with each step, and your eyes widen with anticipation as you finally lay eyes on him sitting there. You blink right as you reach him, and he disappears into thin air. You’re just staring wildly at an average-looking white guy.

You nod at him before turning and hightailing it out of the park.

Out of the park, you can feel it in the pit of your stomach. The bile comes up to your throat as the panic wells in your chest. Tears form in your eyes, and your hearing starts to fade away as the panic takes over. Quickly, you veer off into a side street, out of the public eye. Your breath starts coming out choppy, and as hard as you try, you can't steady your mind.

Memories of the battle with Thanos come rushing back, flickering through your mind like fragmented snapshots. The sound of his fingers snapping resonates amid the battle, creating an overlapping symphony of noise that dissolves into a chilling stillness. Emotions overwhelm you - the simmering anger of losing and the searing pain of witnessing the dusting. As these memories resurface, the emotional turmoil engulfs your mind completely.

Despite your efforts, you can only come up with three things you can see, growing increasingly annoyed by the repetitive counting. There's a buzzing in your pants pocket. When you pull out your phone, Sam's contact picture lights up the screen, his cheerful smile staring back at you. You bet he has a secret sixth sense to know when to pick up the phone and call. You press the answer button but can't bring yourself to speak just yet.

"Hey, you there?" He calls out your name a few times. You choke out a small "hi" as a giant shudder shakes you.

"Are you okay?" There's a bit of panic in his voice.

"Yeah, I'm just, uh-"

He can hear the shakiness in your voice, and he's familiar with the unsteadiness of it.

"Just breathe with me, in through the nose and out through your mouth. In, out, in, out, in, and out."

"I can't find five things I see. I can't get past three fucking things, Sam!"

"Hey, hey, it's all okay. Just focus on breathing right now. Once we get that regulated, we can count together."

You continue to do a few more breathing exercises with Sam's help. Your breathing returns to an almost normal speed, and finally, you count five things you see.

"Thanks, Sam,"

"Of course. Do you want to talk about what triggered it?"

You don't mean to hesitate before answering, but you do. "I thought I saw him."

"Him? Who-"

"Steve. I thought I was seeing Steve. I probably scared the shit of the poor guy I rushed at. Deep down, I knew it couldn't be him, but a small flicker of hope remained. It just brought back all the memories of-" You shake your head, your hands covering your face in disbelief. "I feel so foolish."

"I get it. I still see Riley, especially when it gets closer to the anniversary of his death. You spend so much time with someone, fighting alongside one another, being each other's backup, being family, and then suddenly, it's ripped away without you getting any say. It's hard, and you can't beat yourself up."

"I know, I just-"

"You've been through a lot. Cut yourself some slack, kid." He reassures you; in that moment, you couldn’t be more thankful for Sam.

“I appreciate the help, Sam.”

“It's a good thing I called when I did, huh?” His voice is light and humorous, and you can’t help but laugh.

“Yeah, I guess.” After deciding you’ve spent too much time being the topic, you change it. “What did you call for?”

"I didn't realize I needed a reason to call my friend."

You roll your eyes at his teasing, "I didn't mean it like that.".

“I heard you roll your eyes. I was just calling to check in on you. I thought about you this morning and realized we hadn’t spoken in a while. So consider yourself checked up on.”

“Thanks for officially checking on me." You laugh out a response.

“Hey, call me if you need to talk. I’m always here.” His voice was serious and reassuring.

“I know, Sam.”

“I mean it, we’re family, kid. Don’t forget that.”

After ending the call, you linger in the alley, savoring the peacefulness before immersing yourself back into the noisy hustle of the sidewalk. When you finally emerge, you find solace in being just another face in the crowd, unnoticed and unbothered by anyone around you.

The next day comes quickly, and before you know it, it’s time to meet with ‘Steven.’

As you approach the museum, you make your way up the steps and patiently wait for him to arrive. After ten minutes, he finally comes into view. You can see the excitement in his eyes as he quickly makes his way towards you, waving in a friendly manner to greet you. Inhaling deeply, you respond to his wave with a wave back, a warm smile gradually appearing on your face.

"Hello." He shuffles his hands together," You look lovely."

"Thanks, so do you. You look very professional. I feel a bit underdressed myself."

"I think you look fantastic, better than fantastic, actually." You feel yourself blushing at his awkward compliments.

"Oh, got you these." He pulls out a box of chocolates and a few flowers. "I hope you enjoy them."

The flowers are slightly crumpled and missing a few petals, which is charming. He notices you eyeing the misshapen flowers, and you're quick to reassure him when you see him scratch his neck in embarrassment.

"Uh, shall we go?" It's like he suddenly realizes you're still standing on the steps.

"Yeah. Lead the way." You gesture with your arms.

The two of you begin walking down the road. There's a comfortable distance between you and an awkward silence before he breaks it.

"What brings you to London?"

"Big Ben," you deadpan, only laughing when you see the stunned look on his face. He chuckles as well once he realizes you're kidding. "I needed a change, an adventure. I just felt restless in my old life. You know?"

"Yeah, I get it." His eyes hold wonder as he looks at you.

You make a bit more small talk before reaching the small restaurant. You follow him through the doors and to a small, intimate table.

You notice that he seems jittery, his hands constantly fidgeting with the edge of his shirt. It makes you wonder if it’s just his personality or if he’s nervous about the date. In the brief five minutes you had been here, he had already finished his water, leaving his cup empty.

"Don't go on dates often, do you?"

"Can't say I do. Is it that obvious?" His eyebrows furrow as he confesses, and you feel bad for asking.

"Don't worry, I don't either. I can't think of the last time a guy even gave me flowers."

He looks at you with eyes wide in shock and mouth slightly gaped.

"What? Did I say something wrong?"

"No love, it's just. I find that bloody ridiculous. I'm surprised you don't have a line of guys following you, just hoping to get your attention." His words feel genuine, not like he's trying to boost you up in hopes of getting in your pants.

As the conversation continues, you feel his performance is too good. It's like he could be Marc's twin brother. The man sitting across from you appears incapable of hurting a fly, let alone another human. But you can't help but feel like there's something more to him than meets the eye.

Observing his gestures, you detect his uneasiness, as if he is trying to find his place in his own body. The presence of purple bags emphasized the tiredness in his sunken brown eyes, while his slightly frizzy hair added a touch of dishevelment to his look. You think about how his lights constantly turn on and off in his apartment and consider prying.

“Ever since I’ve moved here, I find it harder to sleep at night.”

"Yeah? I wish I had that problem. I, uh, have these crazy dreams where I'm fighting people, and I'm always in different places. It's like my mind wants something different, something more. I tend to stay up, trying to avoid them altogether." He blushes as he realizes he's overshared. "Sorry, that's a bit strange, innit?"

"Not in the slightest. After the blimp happened, I went through a period where I couldn't close my eyes without feeling like I or everything would disappear. I would keep myself up for days until I'd crash. Then rinse, repeat." A crooked smile tugs at your lips. He smiles back. The smile is small, and it seems he's trying to be comforting.

Excusing yourself to head to the restroom, Steven promises he'll be there when you return, making you slightly giggle. As you round the corner to return to your table, you don't spot Steven. Getting to the table, you see that cash has been left to cover the dinner, but no note was left for you. Moving quickly, you dash outside, trying to catch him.

Standing on the street, you survey the surroundings, and there’s no sight of him. It's only been four minutes; surely, Steven couldn't have vanished so quickly? Yet, you know that four minutes is ample time for a person to disappear. You shut your eyes, your senses sharpening, and you discern his heartbeat. He's two blocks east, his heart pounding like a racing engine.

You maintain a calm facade as you turn the corner, out of sight of the people lingering around the restaurant. Then, with a burst of speed, you head in his direction. Closing the gap, you veer into an alley, preparing to climb to the rooftops. You barely have time to react when you reach the alley before he's leaping from one building to another.

After reaching the top of the building, you begin your pursuit. You keep enough distance to not alert him but close enough to keep up when his direction changes.

He stops dead in his tracks and launches himself toward the ground. You hear the clanging of bullets bouncing off of metal, accompanied by grunts and shouting. You scan over the people he’s fighting, trying to decipher who the good guy is and who is not.

Marc throws a guy against the wall and slings four crescent-shaped blades at his limbs to keep him stuck to the wall. He stalks toward the other two. One raises a gun and releases a full magazine at Marc’s chest, and they all bounce off. Marc drops low and, sweeps the guy down and, yanks the gun out of his hands, and knocks the guy out with it. The third guy starts swinging chaotically in hopes of doing damage, but it does nothing but make Marc move faster. Marc blocks all the attempts of damage and corners the guy against the brick wall.

“Tell me what you know,” he growls out. The guy shakes his head and keeps his mouth shut.

“Maybe you didn’t hear me.” Marc punches the guy in the stomach, making him groan.

“Feel like talking now?”

The guy shakes his head again and tries throwing Marc off him. Marc doesn’t budge. His body is too heavy and strong to be pushed away. Marc picks up the man and tosses him to the ground. He places his boot-clad foot on the guy's chest and applies pressure.

The guy’s arms shoot up, and his hands grab Marc’s legs. Marc applied a bit more pressure before kneeling and twisting the guy's arms together and pushing them into his chest. He pulls out a crescent blade and presses it against the man’s face. He slightly traces the blade down the man’s cheek, his eyes widen, and he begins to tell Marc what you’re guessing is the correct information, seeing as Marc doesn’t do any more harm to him.

The guy ends his tangent, and Marc is quick to slam his head into the ground, knocking him unconscious. Marc stands and turns to talk to someone, except no one’s there. You strain your eyes and ears, but nothing changes. Marc is still talking to what looks like an empty space.

“I’m not going to kill him. He told me what I needed to know.”

Silence.

He shakes his head and throws his arm at whoever he’s arguing with.

“Doesn’t matter. I got what I needed. We’re moving on.” He turns toward the building, and you hunker down more to ensure you're hidden. His body whips around, and you know he’s scanning the rooftop for you. His eyes look just above you, and suddenly, he’s sprinting to the building.

You waste no time on your escape. Taking a few calculated steps in reverse, you can feel the solid surface of the roof beneath your feet. The anticipation builds as you pivot and sprint towards the edge. With a burst of energy, you hurl yourself off the rooftop, hitting the ground with a heavy thud. In an instant, you’re back on your feet, sprinting down the road at full speed. You keep running until you’re back at the crowded restaurant. Slowing your pace, you dip inside and watch out the window at the buildings across the street.

A few seconds tick by, and a shadowy figure comes into view, standing still and patient. He scans the area with sharp eyes, desperately searching for any sign of whoever was spying on him. After a few minutes of searching, his silhouette fades into the inky blackness of the night. Waiting a few minutes after he had disappeared, you emerge from the cafe, glancing around before fully committing to walking home.

taglist: @marsmallow433 @peachyrue777 @80pairsofcrocs @catsandra-chan @andromeda-kay @khonshu-help-me @lemongirl5910 @luna2034 @aryashouldbequeen456 @penniewises @asimplepersonsblog @gabby913 @artfulthoughtsblog @draggolblackthorn @elizaphantandroses @motleyfolk @aliahdapisces @peachypizzicato @shousha133 @venus-saturn-and-mars @xoxoshiftingloves @slimeybread @babypaperwitch @cinnitsuki @cosmicdes @taylormm1016 @peterparkers-bbymomma @suddenlysteven @flowercrownonapegion @norasgalaxyart

[popodoki]

Hey, teacher! Catwin motorcycle au part 9.

still sfw, for now *cackles* x

Around 9:30pm, Edwin knows it's a mistake, to be drinking as much as he is. But the wine is good, a proper vintage, the kind one reserves for special occasions, the armchair is warm and comfortable, and also, the company. Thomas is making him laugh. He's telling some hilarious story, incredibly hard to believe yet endearingly earnest, with lots of arm waving and smothered giggles, as he struggles to recount the time his dorm mate’s cats took off with his clothes, after sneaking into the bathroom while he was showering. 

"And I'm not about to go chasing after them wearing nothing but a smile," Thomas shrugs wildly. "He had his girlfriend over, in the common room, and it was kind of going good for him this time, so I couldn’t exactly add a naked scruff chasing two cats down the hallway to that? So, they dash away, laughing their little heads off if they could, and I have to tiptoe slowly back across the hall to my bedroom, wearing my dirty old socks, clinging to my last shred of dignity." 

"Oh gods." Edwin collapses into a fit of giggles, turning red, as he pictures it in his head.   

"Babe," Thomas sips his wine, leans forward, his face dead serious, "when I tell you that it was the worst timing for his girl to get up off the couch and- " 

"Oh gods!" Edwin waves his hands in front of him, he really doesn't want to hear about that part. He collapses back into his chair, laughing so hard that he snorts through his nose, the sound joined and mixing with Thomas’ own delighted giggles.  

The night continues. It must be after 11 by now.   

Edwin is opening up a bit about London, what it was like to live there. Thomas has never been, though he tells him he hopes to one day visit. Edwin's rambling about the hidden treasures of London, how to avoid the tourist traps, what he’d show and recommend to Thomas, when the latter suddenly bursts out laughing, interrupts him with a heavy hand on his arm. "Ghostie, Edwin, have to stop you there," he smiles, lopsided, completely losing his composure, almost spilling the last of his wine, "you've been speaking the most unintelligible British English for five minutes, and I can't follow a single word!"  

Edwin buries his face in his hands, by the time he's done laughing there are tears running down his face. 

In the corner of his blurred vision, he sees Thomas get up, fetch another bottle of wine.  

The incessant, rhythmic buzzing by his face is quite possibly the most obnoxious noise Edwin has ever encountered in his life. He wants to kill it. Throw it across the room, stomp it out of existence. He manages to gather enough of his wits to simply smack the offending device with one hand, knock it away. He hears a clatter, and then… silence.   

Even the absence of sound seems to hurt. Oh god. My head.   

It feels like his brain has been hollowed out during the night, then shoddily put back together, with duct tape and rocks. As soon as Edwin's fully awake, he can feel the room spinning. Closing his eyes does nothing to alleviate the dizziness, quick on its heels is a fiery hot wave of nausea.   

Blearily opening one eye, trying to focus on his surroundings, he ticks off a mental checklist. It's morning, he's in his bed. In his own house. His shoes are on the floor near the bed. His belt is by his shoes. His jacket hangs on the closet door, his watch is on the nightstand. He's wearing the pants and shirt he wore to the picnic yesterday, and the covers have been kicked off the bed, onto the floor.  Also, he feels like he's been run over by a motorcycle.   

Edwin thinks back on the previous night, realizes with a fair amount of horror, he actually drank enough to black out. There's a rather significant portion of the night that he just can't remember.  Most conspicuously missing, is how exactly he got upstairs, into bed. And where is Thomas? 

Sitting up is a challenge, he tackles it slowly, bit by bit. Once upright, his body protests violently at being disturbed, rushing him to the bathroom. What comes up is mostly liquid. On top of drinking enough to temporarily drown his brain, he recalls that he didn't eat much the previous day either. Not that he laments any real loss at missing out on the church picnic. He does berate himself, being so careless with his drinking, as he fills the sink with cold water, unceremoniously dunks his whole head in it. He must look ridiculous, but it feels so good. It takes away the dull ache of nausea, anyway.   

Staring at himself in the mirror, Edwin sends a base thanks to anyone willing to listen that at least it’s Sunday, and he’s not supposed to be at work already. He’d seriously consider calling out sick, something he’s never done in all the years he’s worked at the school. Drying himself off with a towel, Edwin tries to compose himself. While not an official school day, he, as a teacher, still has papers left to grade, tests to prepare. He dresses slowly, makes his way downstairs. The nausea has mostly subsided, but his head is still pounding, and he feels overwhelmingly dehydrated. If there are any bottles of wine left in his pantry, Edwin resolves to pour them down the sink.  

When he enters the kitchen, he finds Thomas, drinking pitch black coffee, with a stone serious expression. He has an ice pack resting on his head as he reads the paper, blinking as the words obviously don’t register, Edwin figures he looks a fair bit like Edwin feels. When he sees his host entering the room, Thomas fumbles for words a bit, but collects himself, manages a wry grin.  "Overdid it a bit, didn't we?" 

Edwin nods, sits across from him, feeling like he's aged 50 years in one night. "I need water. I need some sort of caffeine. And then I have work to do." 

Thomas immediately takes on the task, expertly throwing two pieces of bread into the toaster, pouring an extra cup of coffee from the freshly brewed pot. He puts it in front of Edwin, returns to the kitchen counter for the now toasted bread and a glass of cold water.   

Edwin takes a sip of the water first, it's so cold he can feel it traveling all the way down his throat, into his stomach. "Thank you, my friend." He sighs in relief, braving a few nibbles of the dry toast, starting in on the coffee. "Forgive me, there is a lot from last night I don't remember." 

"Oh yeah?" Thomas hums, gets up to refill his own mug with more coffee. 

"I haven't lost time like that in ages, not since I was much younger. I honestly can't recall how the night ended, or getting in my bed at all." 

"No worries, I remember all of that. I carried you up the stairs, but you made a valid effort of your own, in your defence. S'a good thing we stayed home instead of going to a bar though, don’t think either of our legs, or any limbs really, would’ve been steady enough for a ride home. That was some good vintage."  

Edwin frowns, rests his head on his arm. "Don't drive drunk ever," he scolds weakly, "I'd be very upset if you were killed in some horrible accident." 

"Nicest thing anyone's ever said to me. I would’ve gotten us a taxi, babe." Thomas chuckles, refreshing Edwin's cup.   

"Did… Did you put me to bed?" Edwin murmurs into his arm, too embarrassed to make eye-contact.  He almost keeps the question to himself, but the curiosity is killing him.  And his history as an affectionate drunk, poses the ever-more embarrassing unspoken question; what exactly had he said last night, if anything? 

Immediately, Edwin can tell that Thomas is watching his words. "Yeah. You were three sheets to the wind, so after I walked you upstairs, I just made sure to put you on your side." He gives a good-natured smile, choosing to lean against at the table, inhaling the scent of the coffee.   

"Not too much trouble, I hope? It's been a long time since I've had that much to drink in one sitting." 

"Nah, Edwin. You were fine."  He says it with a thread of finality, Edwin can't help but feel that it's not the whole story. But he doesn't have the energy, the brain cells, the confidence to figure it out right now. He gulps down the water, munches the toast, sips the last of the coffee. He feels like something resembling a human again, afterwards, he feels like maybe it's possible to finish out the day without further ailments. He shoots a thankful smile at Thomas. 

"Do you have any plans today?"   

"Was thinking of a walk. Get a bit more of a sense of the neighbourhood? It's a nice day, I could use the exercise." Thomas stretches his arms to the ceiling as he talks, and perhaps Edwin’s head isn’t that fully clear yet, because he permits himself a peek at the muscled torso displayed as a result, without a shred of guilt. Maybe it’s the same kind of guilt-less, freeing kind of confidence, that drives Edwin forward. 

"That sounds like a good idea, actually," Edwin retrieves his coat from the front hall closet, "I'll join you, come on. Let’s steady our legs." 

The weather is quite nice, the neighbourhood a calm picturesque backdrop. Edwin ponders it might actually be enjoyable, if they didn’t walk side by side, swinging wildly from awkward, stilted small talk, to complete silence. It feels like torture. Edwin is sure that he somehow utterly embarrassed himself last night, and Thomas is too kind, or worse, too mortified to bring it up. If only he could remember, but it's not coming back to him. There are several times where Edwin finds himself leaning or straight up bumping into Thomas, as his feet struggle to task on auto-pilot, while Edwin’s mind is racing. 

On one such brush of their shoulders, Edwin tilts his head to apologize, when a flash, an image, comes unbidden to his mind; Thomas's face, in quite a close proximity to his own. That happened last night, as well. Thomas looked tired, but amused, and he's saying something. Edwin replays the image in his mind, again, again, like a broken record. The complete image is so close, so within his grasp, yet so far away, intangible.  Again and again, he pores over the memory, certain that it's from last night.  Thomas's face, close by, slightly above his own? That would only make sense if he was leaning over him, considering the man isn’t naturally taller than him. Thomas looking at him, then looking away.  Looking at him, then looking away. Saying something. Saying something with a wry grin, sympathetic eyes.   

This memory can't be from his imagination. It's from last night, and his damn brain won't give up the clues.   

He's interrupted by the present. "Edwin, are you okay?" He hums in reply, already knowing the other won’t be convinced. "Come on Ghostie, we’re going home.” A strong arm wraps around his waist, warm hand dipping lower, steadying pressure on his hip. “I think a nice nap on the couch might make you feel better."   

Edwin smiles. Thomas is a good, caring man. 

Make you feel better. 

Feel better. 

When you feel better. 

Maybe when you feel better- 

Listen, when you feel better- 

You're not yourself, but when you're feeling better- 

"Listen Ghostie, babe," a gentle, reassuring voice, "you're not yourself right now. But, maybe, when you're feeling better, you could ask me again?" 

Edwin feels his face go white, he’s grateful for the arm around him, as he suddenly feels dizzy.   

Oh. Oh no. Oh Hells.