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gallusrostromegalus · 4 months

Note

Funky Muguruma Kensei AEIWAM headcanons? Spare serotonins with the blorbos? /j Also what's AEIWAM Mashiro like? She's one of the only characters I genuinely get annoyed by in the canon oof

So the friendship between Kaname and Mashiro is one of my favorite things in the fic so far. Have a spoilerific Scene (Part 1 of ?)

Crickets and Grasshoppers

Scene One of ??? Approximately 7K words Fluff that goes South and won't get (sort of ) better until part 2, warnings for body horror, referenced torture and Emotionally Devastating Betrayal

It was Tuesday November 5th, 1901, Scheduling Day in the Ninth Division and Mashiro was standing in front of the vending machine just down the street from the Ninth, choosing her armaments for the coming battle.

In other divisions, the actual drawing up of rosters was the job of lower-seated officers and the specific parts of the Division they were responsible for. Tousen’s friend Komamura has told her once that the 7th Division’s schedule was so predictable, they only looked at the roster once a year when people retired or were hired. A fascinating concept to Mashiro, who listened to Komamura’s tales of the 7th with the rapt fascination of an anthropologist privileged to hear the folklore of distant and largely unknown people.

The Ninth was… complicated for the sake of simplicity. Information did not move the same way people did, and while the seventh could pass an inbound soul from the Intake Team to Queue Management to the Registry Office, passing an information project from one subdivision to another was a great way to lose said project. So instead of projects moving from subdivision to subdivision as they reached different stages, subdivisions went from stage to stage, following projects.

This meant scheduling had to be done every month, but it beat the hell out of a major archive loss or communications failure.

And it meant that Snackage was in order.

Mashiro surreptitiously glanced over her shoulder to make sure Captain Muguruma was still overseeing drills in the courtyard, then selected 37 cookies, chips, snack cakes, bottles of pop and juice and other goodies from the machine and paid out of the Division Purse.

Kensei, bless him, was a deeply honorable man who was so reliable you could set a watch by him and would probably cross actual Hell to help a friend, but he did not understand scheduling, much less the kind of caloric requirements it held.

-- “You’re just sitting there! What do you need all that for?” He’d asked her once.

“The brain’s the most expensive organ to run in terms of calories.” She’d explained, rolling her eyes and opening a bag of Barbecue-flavored corn chips. “-I know your brain is a plodding cart horse, but you can’t do scheduling. You need my thoroughbred racehorse brain, and it needs snacks!”

He’d given up with a disgusted groan of defeat, which was good, because the other reason she needed the snacks would have actually made him snap. -- Mashiro shoved the snacks into her backpack, checked that Kensei was still distracted by drills, darted back across the street where he might spot her, ran around the back of the division, and jumped up to the third-floor window that had been left open for her.

“The level of subterfuge this perfectly normal administrative process requires…” Fifth-seat Kaname Tousen groaned from where he was lying on the floor, partially under his traditional low desk.

“-Is half the fun, you dork!” Mashiro giggled, closing the window after her as she climbed in. “All the autumn stuff is in the shops and vending machines now, and I made sure to get every persimmon-flavored thing they had just for you!” She grinned down at her chosen assistant for scheduling.

The other purpose for the snacks was Bribery.

Kaname Tousen was, by Mashiro’s estimation, definitely the smartest person in the Ninth Division, and possibly in the entire Soul Society. If the world was a fair place, he’d be lieutenant and she’d be fifth seat, but the world wasn’t a fair place and in the week between Graduation with every honor Shin’o academy had and starting as the 9th Division’s 20th seat, Kaname had been struck down with some sort of horrible spinal infection that damn near killed him, made him miss his entire first month and a half of work, and left him with occasional bouts of crippling pain, like today, when he’d decided to risk worsening Kensei’s already low opinion of him by doing his work lying flat on his back on a hot pad.

Kaname’s services as a Brainiac were much in demand and his availability highly limited, so Mashiro guaranteed her place on his schedule with confection-based compensation.

“I mean, Kensei’s a mean old sack and that’s not great for the division too, but the spy shenanigans and scheduling snacktime really is like, The Highlight Of The Month sometimes.” Mashiro shrugged, flopping down on the floor beside him and dumping the snacks out between them.

“Captain Muguruma’s sense of discipline is intense but very necess- ow. Yeah, that’s not happening.” Kaname sighed, laying back down from trying to sit up. “-He’s a good man. Difficult, sometimes, but a good man.”

“You’re way too nice for your own good. Here’s the Persimmon castella cakes.” Mashiro grunted, handing Kaname the small package and the payroll notes to read.

Kaname groped across his desk for a clipboard, attached the payroll notes to it, propped them up on his stomach so they were balanced on the edge of his desk, and laid all the way back down, face pointed at the ceiling rather than the notes. Mashiro opened up a packet of Amakara rice crackers, watching him with interest as Kaname took off his goggles.

The goggles were what convinced Mashiro he was the smartest man in the Soul Society. Kaname had been born totally blind, but he had figured out how to mount a pair of tiny cameras in the frame of a pair of safety goggles, which were connected to… he’d explained that the little bricks behind the opaque white lenses of his goggles contained something like an obscenely long and complicated Kido spell that spotted readable characters, ‘read’ them, and turned the resulting text into words that played out of the tiny “Microphonogram Speech Players or ‘speakers’ “ hidden in the legs of the goggles. So he could read pretty much anything printed with enough contrast (and decent enough handwriting, Captain Urahara) because his goggles would read it aloud for him. They were much slower than most people read, and sometimes he had to stop work to “charge” the spell that made them work, but they worked a damn treat, and had the added advantage that Kaname himself did not need to be looking at the thing he was trying to read, only the goggles.

So now he unwound the coil of wire that connected the Kido brick to the microphonogram, placed the ‘speaker’ back in his ear, and set the glasses on his chest so he could read the notes while keeping his back and neck pressed to the hotpad.

True Genius, that.

“I love how the cameras wiggle.” Mashiro grinned, watching the two lenses shift and dilate as they focused on the notes. “They move the same way cicadas and grasshoppers shift their eyes independently to focus. It’s so clever to have them operate like that.”

“Hm. That was Kakiyo’s design, not mine.” Kaname smiled. Kakiyo was his adopted and now-deceased sister. “She was always more of an entomologist than me.”

“Weird that you ended up with Suzumushi the cricket for a Zanpaktou then.” Mashiro pondered. She liked Suzumushi- that sword, and her own Musabori Kuu Batta (Devouring Locust) were two of less than One Hundred insect-type Zanpaktou in the court guard, and fewer still that weren’t butterflies. She couldn’t really see Suzumushi- no shinigami could perceive another’s Zanpaktou Spirit- but she could hear Batta’s half of the conversation the two would chirp to each other sometimes.

Kaname paused from opening the persimmon cake packaging with his teeth. “...Yes. Bizarre.” he said, with a rueful finality that Mashiro took as her cue to change the subject.

“Right. Where are we on the Agricultural Practices census?” She sighed, pulling the active projects list and next month’s calendar out in front of her.

“Maegawa-san has requested travel permissions to-” Kaname replied, flipping through the pages, the goggles faintly reading off names as he tracked them with his fingertip. “Ah, ‘pull the damn report out through the East 36th Daimyo’s nose if I have to’, which I think we can call a requisitions expense rather than reconnaissance. Unless you think Lieutenant Fon would enjoy the catharsis as well.”

“She WOULD, actually, that girl is wound tighter than my grandpa’s pocketwatch.” Mashiro nodded, placing the card for “3rd Seat Maegawa” in the “Out Of Office” Pile.

And so it went for a pleasant hour, eating snacks and solving the five-dimensional time, space and payroll puzzle of scheduling, with Kaname helping her keep track of the process and who was not supposed to be doing overtime or couldn’t be trusted to work with someone else or on maternity leave or whatever.

“Alright, I think that’s nearly everyone sorted…” Mashiro muttered, going down the list of all 200 division members to make sure they’d made it onto the roster. “Oh wait, we didn’t put you down!” She giggled.

“I believe my schedule should be identical to last months while we are still doing data entry into the archives, but I do have a request- May I have this coming Friday off?” he asked. “I have an engagement.”

“Who’s getting engaged?” Mashiro teased, erasing him from the roster that day.

Kaname tilted his head a bit, pointing his ear at her with a conspiratorial smirk. “...Can you keep a secret?”

Mashiro blinked at him in surprise, then gasped with delight and leaned in “Cross my heart and hope to die!” She whispered back, giggling.

Kaname regarded her for a moment, teasing. “Love- Captain Aikawa has finally worked up the nerve to propose to Lieutenant Yadomaru.”

Mashiro made a noise like an asthmatic teakettle as she tried to not shriek with delight and deafen Kaname as well, rolling onto her back and kicking her legs in the air with excitement.

“-He wants it to be a surprise though, and Lisa is always going through his bag for his water bottle or whatever at kendo practice and she will notice if his schedule changes, so I need to duck out during lunch today and pick up the ring for him to propose with on Friday.” Kaname elaborated.

“A conspiracy!” Mashiro balled her fists with excitement. “When? Where? Can I come?”

“You got an invitation to Captain Kyoraku’s next moon-viewing party, right?” Kaname asked and she nodded. “It’s then.”

“EEEK!” Mashiro giggled with delight.

“What’re you two giggling about?” Kensei grunted from the doorway, still sweaty from training.

“It’s a SECRET!” Mashiro glared imperiously, sweeping the snack wrappers out of sight off the desk as Kaname sat up with a small grunt of pain and bowed his head in salute.

“Whatever.” Kensei rolled his eyes. “Tousen. Read your report on the dodgy census statistics and possible disappearances in West 66 and I think you’re right. Something stinks on ice out there.”

Kaname gasped sharply with relief and bowed his head in gratitude. “Thank you, Sir.”

“I gotta attend a captain’s meeting this afternoon because Urahara has some harebrained new project to show and tell-” Kensei continued, glaring at his battered fingertips where he’d caught a bokto the wrong way during training. “-Saw that Maegawa is gonna be in East 36 and Fukuda’s on maternity leave, so I’m sending every seated officer from you to 15th seat Shizawa out there to investigate and deal with it. You all need to be at the Kido Corps for teleportation at three. Mashiro, don’t burn the place down.”

“OH COME ON!” Mashiro shouted with disappointment.

“HEY! No backtalk! I know you wanna go but someone’s gotta hold the fort-” Kensei glared down at her.

“It’s not me! Kaname has to- I mean-” She sputtered, abruptly remembering his request for secrecy.

“It’s alright!” Kaname tried to smile but ended up grimacing at her as he got up. “I’ll just go get it now and it’ll be in my pocket when I get back!”

Mashiro glared at him for a moment, but sat back down. “Okay. I guess.” She pouted.

“Get what?” Asked Kensei.

“A surprise for Captain Kyoraku’s moon-veiwing party!” Kaname grinned at him as he collected his belongings into his satchel by touch.

Kensei pondered that for a long moment, glaring at Kaname. “...How’d you score an invite?”

“Captain Aikawa invited me along.” Kaname explained over Mashiro’s offended scoff. “We were roommates when we were at the academy and he has very kindly kept inviting me along to things despite my not really being able to keep up with him anymore.”

Kensei regarded him a moment longer. “Huh.” he eventually decided. “Well, see you when you get back from the investigation.” He waved, dismissing Tousen.

“Thank you Sir. Lieutenant Kuna.” Kaname bowed before jogging off.

“See you later Kaname-kun!” Mashiro called after him.

“-Even if he won’t technically see yo- OW!” Kensei yelped as Mashiro clipped him sharply under the ear.

“Why are you so MEAN to him!?” Mashiro glared up at her captain as he rubbed his jaw.

“I’m not mean! I’m just- it’s just office banter!” Kensei growled back. “I can just not like a guy and still be colleagues with him, okay?”

“No, apparently you can’t!” Mashiro “You’ve been really hard on him and getting on his case and teasing him since day one!”

“-More like day thirty-two, he missed the first six weeks of his appointment.” Kensei grumbled.

“That was literally FIFTY years ago and he was in the HOSPITAL. BECAUSE HE NEARLY DIED!” She bellowed, probably loud enough for Kaname to hear in the street but it didn’t matter. “Yeah, it sucked, but it wasn’t his fault! I don’t get why you were mad at him back then, and I really don’t get why you’re still mad about it NOW!”

“I’M NOT MAD ABOUT THAT, I JUST-” Kensei bellowed back but then stopped, hand over his mouth. “...He keeps secrets.”

Mashiro stared at him blankly for a moment, face slowly collapsing from bewilderment into disgust. “OH. MY GOD. You’re the one always going on about operational security! He’s just careful- all the details are in his summarial reports, if you ever read them…”

“I do!” Kensei barked. “And they’re- I mean, All the information he’s required to fill out is there, and then some.” He sputtered, deflating.

Mashiro leaned in close, eyebrow cocked at him.

“...But I keep getting this feeling it’s not the whole picture.” Kensei muttered.

“Ugh!” Mashiro shouted, throwing her hands up and turning away. “So you don’t like him because you have bad reading comprehension?”

“Shut up! I don’t- there’s just something off about that guy! He’s always taking weird days off-” Kensei started, ticking off a list on his fingers.

“You mean the sick days from his spinal infection?” Mashiro glared, arms folded across her chest.

Kensei continued to count his grievances “-and taking secret calls in weird corners-!”

“You mean privately scheduling his medical treatment? For his spinal infection?” Mashiro continued to glare.

“-And getting him to go to the fifth or third division is like pulling teeth! What the hell is up with that?” Kensei demanded.

“You mean the divisions that have A) Lieutenant Iba, the woman who has a weird horoscope-based personal grudge against him-” Mashiro asked, mimicking Kensei’s earlier counting, “-and B) Lieutenant Aizen, who also keeps forgetting he has a spinal injury and slaps Kaname across the shoulders every time they meet? Yeah, I don’t blame him for wanting to avoid two of the most annoying people in the whole court guard!”

“Whatever.” Kensei waved her off. “I’m still right. There’s something off with him. Now get that roster updated and posted!”

“Yes, sir.” Mashiro groaned, rolling her eyes at him and stomping back to Kaname’s office for the Roster.

***

Kaname hadn’t felt this light in years.

Oh god.

Oh, GOD!

Please, please, please please let this be happening?

He sprinted down the road, back towards the apartment that he and Sajin shared, the small box with Love’s ring in his chest pocket. He allowed himself an ounce of elation- After all, I am just a young man who has picked up the engagement ring of one of his best friends! It is exactly what anyone would expect to see-

That was the tricky part of The Curse.

He couldn’t talk about it, like many curses, but it had the added complication that anyone who looked at him- or listened to him, or put their hands on him, or-

Well, they’d only find what they expected to find.

Certainly not a curse.

But curses cut both ways- The broader and less specific a command for someone bearing a curse was, the harder it was to enforce, and it was harder to come up with a command broader and more open to interpretation than “Help Me Kill God”. So as long as Kaname could argue to the curse that an action did “help” some aspect of Aizen’s plans, he could be inefficient, neglect to mention something important, do an assigned task sloppily, fail to cover his tracks and so on- Sometimes Other times, the curse would take effect and cripple him until he relented and obeyed Aizen’s command again. Or at least, managed to convince Aizen he was doing what Aizen wanted.

Aizen hadn’t quite realized it, but he was also subject to his own illusions, and there was a gap- a mirror image, if Kaname understood mirrors correctly- so long as he appeared as Aizen expected, Aizen wouldn’t notice him sabotaging Aizen’s machinations. So for the last three years, Kaname had done his best to appear tired and overworked and failing from exhaustion rather than malice, or like he was starting to agree with Aizen, which is exactly what the narcissist expected after fifty years of mental, physical and spiritual torture.

It was finally paying off.

He’d managed to make the kidnappings Aizen and Gin had been conducting on the villagers of West 56 appear by conducting a census that showed the discrepancy of expected versus actual population. -And made sure the increased hollow activity in the area from Aizen’s experiments showed up in the 10th Division’s monitoring statistics. - And the weird waves of reiatsu visible on the 12th’s monitoring equipment- not what people expected to see, but by keeping all the evidence noticed by unrelated parties, he kept it out of the scope of Aizen’s Illusions.

Kyoga Suigetsu took a lot of energy to operate, and Tousen was pretty sure Aizen could only passively fool about 150 at a time- he chose mostly his own division and people he saw daily, like his neighbors and cross-division colleagues, and could only actively alter the reality of maybe 20 people at once- the other captains and a few key would-be witnesses. So a rural census-taker, and two members at the bottom ranks of other divisions weren’t actively subject to the illusion.

He had to do it on faith, that someone would notice-

Kaname felt like he’d been holding his breath for weeks now, doing his best to tell Aizen and the constantly-itching nails in his spine that this was a Perfectly Normal Database Cross-referencing project- very boring, but it will be missed if it’s not done, Lord Aizen- and nothing to draw attention to the horrible Laboratory…

…By some miracle, Mugurama had read the report, understood and believed it- Kensei had a naturally suspicious mind, so Kaname made sure the report was full of “It's entirely possible this is all a weird coincidence!” to make him suspicious. The curse only showed people what they expected to see, and for once, Kensei’s natural pessimistic expectations allowed him to see the truth.

24 hours. That’s all I have left.

The only people in the Ninth Aizen had under his Active Influence were Kensei and Mashiro, so he wouldn’t be able to hide the nature of the laboratory from the investigation team without dropping the Active Illusion on someone else and risk discovery- and so long as Aizen didn’t find out about the expedition, he wouldn’t know to make that shift in time.

24 hours. I only need to keep Aizen distracted for 24 hours.

In Aizen’s personal quarters, The Distraction Apparatus waited.

Aizen was mistaken to force Kaname to do his lab work for him- Kaname understood it better than him now, and had pulled aside a little trick to confuse him. The Hogyoku bonded with its user, almost like a zanpaktou, and communicated with them- it purred when Aizen fed it, and whined when it was hungry. Aizen knew about Suzumushi’s Bankai- he’d insisted Kaname develop it under his supervision, so he would know of all Kaname’s abilities. But he only knew it from the inside, and hadn’t realized that not only was anyone inside blind, deaf and without any form of sensory input, neither could anyone on the outside sense anyone within. It was worth it to break Suzumushi like that. It was actually her idea, to break the guard of his Zanpaktou and separate the ring from it. That’s where the Bankai was stored, and with a hell of a lot of practice, he’d learned to cast it remotely.

It had been months before he had an opportunity- Kaname would never forgive what had been done to that poor angel, but during one of the The Sessions where Aizen was using the Hogyoku to change the angel, Kaname was able to get ahold of the little Illusion box Aizen kept the infernal device in, Secure Suzumushi’s ring to the floor, disguise the tampering with a false floor, and return the box to it’s place without Aizen’s notice. The Ring had been waiting there for months.

24 hours, and the secret will be out.

He’d memorized Aizen’s schedule- in 22 minutes Aizen would be entering the reiatsu-locked laboratory of the 12th with his own Captain Shinji for Kisuke’s Demonstration, and would not be able to feel Kaname activate his Bankai. When he came back out, it would seem like the Hogyoku had vanished. And for all Aizen would be able to tell, it had- he wouldn’t be able to perceive the Hogyoku or it’s illusion box until Kaname released his Bankai.

So for now, Kaname acted exactly like Aizen would expect him to act- a little tired, a lot in pain, but elated that two of his best friends were getting engaged, and that he’d be able to help. That was a natural source of excitement, and definitely not any kind of counter conspiracy-

Kaname jogged down the stairs to the apartment, ring box in his pocket, heart hammering, hands shaking a bit as he took out the keys to unlock his door, grabbed the knob that was not there and was suddenly off balance and falling- Into something soft and steady that carefully picked him up like a child’s doll and set him back on his feet, gently taking his hands.

“Are you alright?” Sajin asked, soft, deep voice tinged with concern. “My apologies, I was just trying to do some house cleaning while the weather is mild and had the door open for ventilation.”

“Y- yeah! I’m. I’m alright. Just- distracted. I’ve had some good news!” He grinned up at his friend.

“Oh?” Sajin asked, tugging lightly at Kaname’s fingertips to indicate he should step inside. “Mind your way, I have all the chairs out in the living room so I can sweep.”

They had been living in this garden-level apartment for the forty years since Sajin had followed Kaname into the court guard, and under the same roof at the Akaido City Library for many years before that, and their domestic arrangements settled into a comfortable and comforting routine- Kaname was incapable of seeing grime, so Sajin did the housekeeping, and Sajin would eat raw, expired meat if left unattended, so Kaname did the cooking and shopping.

Kaname followed his lead, hand reflexively on Sajin’s instinctively proffered arm to keep balance while he unbuckled and took off his boots- the gestures of proximal intimacy had calcified into a secret language between them.

“Thanks-” Kaname stood up and stepped in with a guiding hand on the wall. He could normally navigate the apartment by memory alone. “-I’m only here for a few minutes, I’ve also got a deployment I need to pack for.”

“Deployment?” Sajin asked, following after him, voice slightly muffled from the cloth mask he wore over his face- at least when the door was open. Being mostly underground had it’s advantages- Kaname didn’t need much light and Sajin possessed almost superhuman darkvision, and the small, high windows that were obscured by bushes gave them enough Privacy that Sajin could relax and keep his face bare at home.

24 hours.

Maybe. Maybe when it all came out, and the dust settled--Assuming they don’t hang me alongside Aizen, which was a big If--But once it was all said and done and I still draw breath- Maybe I will have the courage to ask Sajin what it is he feels he needs to hide.Surely, he is far too gentle to be half so monstrous as he claims.

“Kaname?” Sajin prompted, and Kaname realized he’d been silent for nearly a minute. “S-sorry. I just. Captain Muguruma finally read my report on West 66 and ordered and immediate investigation, so I have to be at the Kido corps by three-” “Kaname.” “Ah, No don’t worry, I’ll get dinner prepared so you only have to put it under the broiler, and There’s um-” “Kaname.”

“-I’ll be back by Friday for Love and Lisa’s- Right- Here, I need you to-” He sputtered, dozens of ideas baying for his attention at once, patting his chest for the ring box- “Kaname!” Sajin snapped, and his giant hands were on Kaname’s shoulders again, turning him around in place to face his friend, gloved hand suddenly under his chin, holding his face up for Sajin to glare at. “...When was the last time you slept?”

“I’m fine!” Kaname tried to jerk back, laughing defensively.

“You’ve gone to bed after me and gotten up before me, if you went to bed at all for at least a week, and I’m doing maximum overtime. You don't have bags so much as matched luggage under your eyes and can’t finish a sentence coherently. You’re not touching anything in the kitchen.” Sajin rattled off, giving Kaname’s chin a light shake. “...it’s not yet eleven, and the Kido Corps is less than ten minutes from here. I’ll see to your packing. Lie down. Please.”

Kaname sighed, shoulders slumping. “Sajin, I- I need to-”

“You need. To sleep.” Sajin rumbled, no room in his voice for argument.

Kaname panted for a moment, realizing that if Sajin wasn’t holding him in place he’d be swaying with exhaustion.

24 hours.

…I can spend one or two of them resting.

If I don’t manage to prove my innocence, I’ll want to have at least this to think about on the gallows.

“...Stay with me until I fall asleep?” Kaname asked, voice soft. “It’s just. It’s been a lot.” “Of course.” Sajin hummed, rubbing his cheek. “I also need to, ah- use facilities, first.” he grimaced, and Sajin let him go.

“I’m coming in after you if I think you’ve passed out on the floor.” Sajin threatened.

“That happened ONE TIME-!” Kaname protested, following the wall to the bathroom.

Once inside, he checked the time again.

If the meeting had stuck to schedule, they should be inside the 12th’s labs now.

Kaname sent Aizen a test message to his Soul Pager.

> Mandatory Status Report: Muguruma handed me a sudden assignment. Won’t be back until Friday.

If he was outside the Reiatsu-locked lab, that missive would have Aizen furiously calling him in under five minutes. He timed it, relieving himself and washing his hands as he waited-

Nothing.

“Here goes…” he muttered, hoping the sound of the bathroom fan and the running water would cover his voice. He focused, feeling the silver ring start to rotate in his mind, the way it multiplied and stretched, the rings dancing a circle on that which needed to be concealed-

“-Bankai.” He whispered, skin tingling-

-And suddenly he was keenly aware of the hogyoku and it’s illusion box, as though he were holding it, both wholly contained and hidden by his Bankai.

It is done The distraction is set. In a few hours, all will be revealed to the rest of the court guard. There. All I need to do now was follow the assignment like I was told and investigate the- the-

-He suddenly he felt the Bankai’s draw on his power and he collapsed over the sink, retching and knees shaking with how weak he felt. The skin on the back of his neck prickled and almost tasted like vinegar in the back of his mind, high-pitched ringing between his ears.

The nails sizzled ominously but there was no power behind it- It’s alright- I can- I can deal with this. Just breathe, come on dumbass, you just need to keep breathing for another 24 hours.

“Kaname? Sajin called.

“Nothing broke!” Kaname called back, forcing himself to his feet and stumbling back against the wall. He tested the Bankai again- It holds. Very convenient of you Suzumushi, that I only need to cast and feed it, rather than concentrate…

Suzumushi chriped distractedly, her focus on maintaining the Bankai. With her concentration, the illusion would hold even as he slept. Cold water on his face and neck, trying to make himself vaguely presentable and the room stop spinning as he stumbled out- oh, Sajin is right here, how thoughtful of him…

“It’s alright, just follow me…” Sajin soothed, guiding him along to the Thick Futon and large collection of pillows they used as a couch- nothing with legs would bear Sajin’s weight for long. He allowed Sajin to pull him down, settling beside Kaname until he was wedged between Sajin’s giant body and the collection of cushions, head on his friend’s chest, listening to his heartbeat- A little slower than mine, and steady- always so steady- so-

Kaname was asleep before he completed the thought.

---

Scene two: 23 hours later

“It’s just up this way Mister Shinigami!” The boy said, his hot little hand pulling Kaname along.

They’d gotten to West 66 and Kaname had realized he’d been wrong to worry about looking like he already knew the way to the Laboratory- Iruka Village had taken some fairly extreme defensive measures against the kidnappings since the last time he’d been forced out here- Barricades errected, bridges taken out, and even the road torn up and replanted to hide the route to the village. Kaname was entirely turned around before they even set foot in the Village and started asking the peasants if there was anything unusual nearby.

Fortunately for the expediency of the investigation, one Young Shuuhei Hisagi was extremely eager to help, giving them a detailed accounting of the strange activities at the old foundry, where someone had turned one of the kiln’s back on and there was “An ‘lectric” generator and it smelled a lot like someone was cooking rancid pork but he’d never seen anybody there, even when he went into the basement because he wasn’t ascared of it, weird that there’s a basement, nobody makes basements here as it’s a swamp-

Kaname felt his skin go cold when he realized the boy had somehow gotten inside and made notes and even poked some of the machinery, but given he hadn’t tried to actually chew Kaname’s arm off as he lead the Ninth Division Investigation team to the Lab, he was probably uncontaminated…

“There’s a hill an’ it’s on the other side- mind the branch.” Young Shuuhei was one of the great tragedies of the poor parts of the Rukongai- whip-smart and observant and thoughtful, but illiterate from the lack of teachers, and likely destined for an early grave if the statistical average lifespan out here held true. His Reiryoku shimmered at the edges- with a little training and a better diet he might even make for a good Shinigami.

Maybe if I live through this I can get him a scholarship. Kaname mused, trying to think about literally anything but the nauseating familiarity of the smell creeping over the hill.

“Mr. Hisagi?” he asked in the polite voice he’d cultivated as the Head Librarian to indicate to children he was taking them very seriously.

The Boy snapped to attention. “Sir?”

“Thank you for leading us here, but I absolutely cannot allow you any closer. It’s extremely dangerous here-” he started to explain.

“I been in before! An’ the door’s trickylike you gotta pull the handle up and in and rattle it to get in and then prop somethin’ in the gap or it locks back behind you-” Shuuhei explained, gesturing like Kaname could see him demonstrating.

“-And you were lucky to get out in one piece! I also need you to do a very important job.” Kaname sighed, familiar with this kind of kid- slightly too bright and kind-hearted for his own good, but reliable at a task- “-I can hear that some of your friends have followed us from the village. They’re about a quarter mile behind us-”

“Dangit Suichi-!” Shuuhei muttered under his breath. “-Yeah that’s probably my little brother and his friends. You want me to go chase him back home?”

“Precisely. Also, tell everyone to get indoors and stay put until they get an all-clear. Just in case something goes wrong, I need everyone to stay safe until re-enforcements arrive. So go get everyone back home and inside, alright?” “Yessir!” Shuuhei snapped a salute and Kaname heard some of the other Shinigami giggle behind him.

“I’m glad I can rely on you.” He nodded, and shooed Shuuhei down the road. The boy took off, hollering for his brother.

“I didn’t know you were so good with kids.” Laughed Sixth Seat Todo Izaemon. “Cute little thing too-”

“Being in charge of the West 51 Children’s Intensive Literacy School teaches you how to get along with them.” He shrugged. “Alright, I can’t sense anything, but that doesn’t mean danger is not present. Even numbered seats- go west and approach from the north. Odd numbers, we go east and approach from the south.”

“Sir!” Izaemon nodded, the next ranked officer.

Kaname approached the building at a crouch, straining to hear- the brief nap Sajin had insisted on and six-pack of illicitly acquired 4th Division “Stamina Supplements” were doing what they could for him, but everything hurt and Suzumushi’s Bankai was even more draining than he’d anticipated and he could barely sense more than a few feet around him. But he found the door- Shuuhei was right, the Handle was starting to go out of alignment- Up and in, right? Yeah- and when nothing behind it exploded, he cautiously stepped in.

“Nobody ran out our side Sir!” Izaemon called and Kaname acknowledged him with a nod.

“What the hell IS this place?” Seventh-seat Akishita asked, looking around the room. This was the main floor of the laboratory, where the bulk of Aizen’s butchery was done- the whole place reeked of rotting flesh and sulfur- byproducts of the ‘Hollowfication Process’, and Kaname very nearly tripped on a groove gashed into the floor that hadn’t been there last time.

“That looks like an office or control room up there-” Kaname said, pointing to the partial second story that took up the west third of the building that he REALLY hoped was still there. “-Akishita, with me. Lets see if there’s a schematic or something.”

“Sir!” She agreed.

Oh good, it is still there. He thought, trying to not pant with pain- oh god, his eyes were burning and spine felt like it was actively dissolving he was so TIRED- He touched his watch, checking the time again.

24 minutes. Come on, just a little more-

He got to the door at the top of the stairs, Akishita behind him.

“Are you alright Sir?” She asked.

“What?” He jerked towards her.

“You seem… really off today.” She frowned. He could sense the shape of her this close, and the way her hand on the hilt of her Zanpaktou. Maybe just resting, maybe not.

“I- I haven’t been sleeping well. Nightmares.” He gulped. That was actually entirely true. Still the nails sizzled louder and he winced. “-I -I might need to put in for sick leave when we get back.”

“You really should. You look awful.” She nodded, hand off the hilt.

Kaname nodded, and carefully opened the door into the control room. He felt Akishita turn, making sure nothing unexpected followed them as he stepped in- no traps, but a strange sort of coldness- not a draft, like a there was a block of ice in here-

The door slammed shut behind him.

“Heya Goggles!” a boy’s voice drawled behind him.

-Or a snake.

Kaname froze, skin going cold as Akishita called for him from the other side of the door.

“Gin?” He asked, trying to keep his voice even.

“She’s right, you look like shit!” the boy laughed, activating a Kido seal that barricaded them in the room. “-Boss sent me to talk to you because the CRAZIEST thing happened at the Captain’s meeting this morning!”

“-Please tell me Urahara’s latest crime against nature maimed him? I could use some good news.” Kaname groaned, complaining like usual, like nothing was wrong. There was more shouting from the main floor. He braced himself, feet under his shoulders, feeling Gin’s aura twist as he decided on an angle to strike from.

“Oh nah, Aizen-sama is wrapping things up and planting evidence over at the 12th right now, that’s why I’m here!” Gin laughed. “No, Your Boss Muguruma stopped everyone before Urahara’s demonstration to tell everyone about this report you submitted sayin’ several hundred people had vanished in West 66! The other haoris were all horrified, I tell ya- Captain Hirako just about shit bricks! Hollerin’ Aizen-sama’s ear off about it the whole way back to the fifth!”

Kaname gripped Suzumushi’s hilt.

“Oh now don’t be unfriendly! I even got somethin’ for ya!” Gin laughed, and tossed something his way. Knowing better than to catch anything he threw, Kaname waited for it to hit the floor-

PING!

-Stomach turning over as he recognized the metallic chime of Suzumishi’s ring.

“Neat trick by the way- Aizen must have spent ten hours turning over the fifth looking for the Hogyoku!!” Gin laughed. “-He didn’t actually find it neither, if it’s any consolation. But he has me, and I got…Abilities.” The boy leered as Kaname Swiped the ring from the ground- Suzumushi had been strangely quiet, and only now did he realize that at some point the sensory illusion of his Bankai had been reversed. Louder yelling from the main floor and the sound of Akishita preparing a Hakudo Kido to blow the door in on the other side.

“-Shit.” Kaname growled, reconnecting the ring to the hilt, Suzumushi whimpering in pain.

“Madder than a mosquito in a mannequin factory he is!” Gin chuckled, then surged forward. Even on a good day, Gin was nearly impossible to block and tonight-

“-Sorry goggles, but I got orders. Rikujokoru!” he hissed fingertips on kaname's sternum, and Kanane was slammed to the ground, six beams of Kido energy hitting his middle, paralyzing him completely. “Aizen-sama says if you can get outta this and get home you can live, but if I’m honest, I don’t really like your odds-” Gin explained, walking over to the control panel and flicking it on, the machines whirring to life and something rumbling beneath them.

…Basement. Kaname realized. The boy said there was a basement- there wasn’t one last time?

There was a loud hissing as vents opened and gas streamed out of the floor into the main room, the sickening scent of rotting fruit comingled with melting plastic- The Hollowfication Compound? It’s a gas now!?

The shouting turned to screaming.

Oh God.

The screaming turned to roaring.

Oh god, no. Please-

“- 'Specially not now.” Gin leered, patting him on the shoulder as he turned to leave. “Bye-Bye! See you tomorrow-! …Maybe.”

Kaname could hear Gin leaving out the small fire window up at the roofline and he struggled, concentrating his reiatsu in his mouth to speak the counterspell- “-Horses of wind and gale, river of thread-

-Akishita screamed in the hall, and there was the terrible wet sound of tearing flesh and breaking bones-

“- By Shadow and storm, unbind me!” He hissed, and the spell dissipated with the loud sound of shattering glass. Kaname scrambled to his feet, standing up in time to feel the gaze of ten newly-turned hollows fall upon him. His watch pulsed against his wrist, the timer for 24 hours Going off.

“Well. I did say it would be over one way or another, didn’t I?” He grimaced, drawing Suzumushi as his former colleagues charged the plate glass that separated them.

---

Part two approximately whenever I finish it :)

#AEIWAM #an elephant is warm and mushy #kaname tosen #Kaname Tousen #mashiro kuna #kensei muguruma #Sosuke Aizen #gin ichimaru #Bleach #bleach fanfiction

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oneshotnewbie · 7 months

Note

A jogger finds a phone and calls the cops. When they take it and put it into a zip back, they accidentally turn on the phone - revealing a picture of The Captain of the SVU and Reader?

Possible trigger warning: This one-shot includes the mention of blood and kidnapping, the plots are presented. If this triggers you too easily or you just can´t handle the subject, I urge you NOT to read this work. I am NOT embellishing this topic under any circumstance. Read at your own risk.

ᕚ---ᕘ

William Jacobs ran across the Brooklyn Bridge at the same time every morning, trying to beat his best time. But today he desperately thought about turning back and skipping today's sports session - the weather was playing into his cards.

Despite all the negative voices in his head, the young man ran from the Brooklyn bridge to the Manhattan Central Park and back. At this early hour there were hardly any passers-by and only occasionally a few cars drove past. As he took his first step off the bridge, he was inspired by the release of happiness hormones and increased his pace.

William loved being able to look out over the East River and let his thoughts and feelings flow freely. His black hair flowed in the wind and was dampened by the drizzle, her ragged breathing evident in the chill of dawn. When he managed halfway of his way, he was panting like never before in his life - the cold air making it harder to force enough air through his lungs. The young man felt the slight sting in his side, but did not hesitate to stop.

It was not until his head moved towards the entrance of the Central Park that he saw something blue and shimmery lying on the ground. Confused, he stopped and cautiously approached the object, peering left and right to locate other people.

Startled, he jumped back and almost stepped into the street when he saw red-brown stains around it, some of them even splattered on the cell phone he had found. William did not even hear the car behind him screeching to a stop next to him and the car door being opened with an aggressive jerk. "Are you crazy? I almost ran you over!"

But the young man did not answer the older women. She looked at the black-haired guy and saw fear and disgust on his face. His shaky fingers pointed to the main reason he stopped, which was why the woman looked confused on the ground and shortly after promptly walked back to her car in shock. "We have to alert the police." he shouted in a shrill, abnormally bright voice. The stranger nodded her head and pulled her cell phone out of the glove compartment of her red car. She quickly tapped on her phone and held it trembling against her ear.

"Emergency call center, how can I help you?" A calm voice asked on the other end of the line, beginning to type on her keyboard to find out the location of the caller. "We found a phone." she spoke anxiously, earning a sigh from the 911 agent. "Mam, you know this is not an emergency, right?"

William looked confused at the device in the old lady's hand, and in his adrenaline rush he did not quite understand why the sigh was being given. So he quickly snatched the cell phone from her and continued the conversation. "Listen. Here is a cell phone lying at the entrance to Central Park, covered in blood splatters. I also recognize an original NYPD cell phone case."

“Which entrance are you at?” the woman's low voice slowly calmed his rapidly beating heart. He took a deep breath while trying not to let his mind sink into a hole of horror scenarios. He looked around, trying to figure out which entrance he really was at. "Fifth Avenue at the Plaza Hotel,"

"Do not touch anything. I will send you a unit."

ᕚ---ᕘ

The gentle rain pattered quietly against Olivia's bedroom windows and made her open her eyes just a crack wide. Her tired gaze glowered out and a hand brushed over her face as she watched the night slowly fade away. Her attention turned to the other side of the bed, her fingers curling into the cold sheets next to her.

Her fiancée was no longer lying next to her and she sighed heavily. She usually woke up before you almost every morning, kissing along your naked spine stroking her hand with pleasure over your sides before she remained on your bare hip, waking you up for another day. Olivia loved waking up next to you since she shared a bed with you and enjoyed every minute of it. But she respected your exercise routine in the early hours of the morning and was in no way offended if she started the day without you.

The brunette tried to close her eyes for another five minutes, but quickly abandoned the idea when her cell phone rang. A little angry, she felt around on the bedside table for the annoying-sounding device and answered the call. "Lieutenant Benson?" she sighed loudly, already pulling the blanket off her body.

The brunette, half asleep, rummaged through her closet for some clothes and ran into the bathroom to get ready. "Central Park, I will be right there." When she ended the conversation, she tried to reach you on your cell phone to take you home, but her attempt came to nothing and she did not think about it any further - you had already put your phone on silent often enough to avoid being distracted.

After quickly downing a cup of coffee to wake herself up, she pulled her coat off the hook and slipped through the door into the day's events. The rain worsened on the way to the crime scene, washing every possible mess back into the sewers. When she got out, Amanda and Fin were already standing at the cordoned off area that had been created to protect the evidence from the rain. "What do we have?"

"A blood-spattered cell phone," the blonde expressed, gratefully accepting an evidence bag from another officer. She carefully placed the found object in it and handed it to her boss. "A cell phone? Why were we called?" the Sergent and the detective shrugged and raised their hands in question. "The caller thought it was a cell phone belonging to one of our colleagues, which is why we were notified because a significant amount of blood was found next to it."

Olivia nodded, looking worriedly at the phone in her hand. You had the same case around your phone, she had given it to you as a small gift. She turned it around so the screen was facing her and her heart skipped a beat when she saw the scratch on it. The brunette had almost caused the same one on your phone when she saved you from a bullet a couple months ago.

She always wanted to have it repaired but you would not let her - it was a memory for you. "Liv, are you okay?" Finn asked worriedly, watching as the color suddenly drained from his best friend's face. She nodded in response, looking back from the evidence to the paving stone. A good amount of blood that was not easy to ignore. "Yeah, it is just.."

The tough woman could not finish the sentence right away. The screen turned on on its own, showing a reminder notification on the display. Underneath you could clearly see two smiling faces smeared with light gray paint as a background image.

She recognized the image immediately. Olivia shot it herself when you were recoloring your bedroom together. Olivia swallowed hard, the phone shaking in her hands as she tried to suppress her rising panic. “It is y/n’s. It is her phone."

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unnoticed-poison · 3 months

Text

Dark! Yandere! Hazbin Hotel Various X Reader -Trailer Chap-

I got obsessed with this show so I decided why not write a yandere fic for it for fun.

I'm gonna post chapter one here as well, but then future chapters will most likely be posted on AO3, Wattpad and Quotev, the links will be posted soon.

˖๑‧˚꒷꒦︶︶₊꒷꒦︶︶₊꒷꒦˚‧๑˖˖๑‧˚꒷꒦︶︶₊꒷꒦︶︶₊꒷꒦˚‧๑˖

Everyone was familiar with the screams and pleads of terror and despair that echoed throughout the city, hundreds of demons, in a state of panic, could be seen running in the streets in desperation, terrified at the sight of the angels, who had determined smiles on their faces as they chased them down with the intent to end their lives, prompting them to run even faster, trying to escape their impending doom that was closing in on them.

Amidst all the chaos, in one of the buildings from the distance, unaffected by the madness, a low yet soft voice rang out, reading out loud from a book, seemingly oblivious to the horror happening outside.

"- Lucifer found her and the rebellious dreamers fell deeply in love-"

It was a story they'd read countless times before, but oh it never failed to bring them joy and comfort.

"She empowered the demon kind with her voice and her songs-"

Despite the screams of terror outside were practically impossible to ignore, this particular story offered a temporary escape from their worries, even for just a little while.

"And their dream was passed down to their precious son, the prince of hell."

The end.

....

The man let out a deep sigh as he gently shut the book and gazed out the window at the chaos. " Don't worry Mom, I'll make this work, I promise."

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 it takes.

"Charles, I enjoy your theatrics and all, I really do, but this is literally the fifth time you've repeated the same story to yourself."

A voice rang out behind him suddenly, making him turn his head in fright.

"Shit Dicckie! I didn't see you there." He let out a nervous chuckle. "Did you hear all that?"

Dicckie nodded. "Yeah, I literally just said that."

"Sorry, you know I always get worked up during an extermination." He smiled down at the book in his hands. " This book always helps, even for just a moment."

It was better than nothing...

"Don't worry, I love hearing your voice anyways, but you know you can always talk to me-"

Before he could finish his sentence, a deafening explosion echoed through the air, making them jolt in surprise and fright as they turned to the source of the noise.

Looking out the window, the men watched as an entire airship crashed into the buildings below, the group of exterminators who had taken it down cheered and high-fived one another before parting ways.

.......

Charles sighed. "They're extra ruthless this year, huh.."

It just gets worse and 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘦 each year.

.......

Dicckie struggled to find something to say to comfort the prince, before remembering what he was here for in the first place. " Hey, how about we go see what Alastor prepared for our commercial? That will take your mind off.. this."

Charles smiled, setting the book aside before standing up and grabbing his hand. "You're right! He should be done with it by now, let's go."

Dicckie smiled back at him, pleased to see him so enthusiastic again, it suited him better. "There you go, I'm positive he did an amazing job," he said, though he couldn't mask the slight hesitation in his tone.

At least, he hoped he did.

That radio freak better have made something 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥.

˖๑‧˚꒷꒦︶︶₊꒷꒦︶︶₊꒷꒦˚‧๑˖˖๑‧˚꒷꒦︶︶₊꒷꒦︶︶₊꒷꒦˚‧๑˖

I wanted to continue MC's part but I don't have much free time so I decided to end the trailer here

My friend told me to name vaggie Dicckie cause

Vaggie = vagina

So automatically

Dicckie= Dick 😭😭😭

#hazbin hotel #yandere hazbin hotel

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oliversrarebooks · 4 months

Text

Role Reversal AU Part Two - Oliver's Songbird

In a world where Oliver, antique vampire running an antique bookstore, took a human Alexander under his thrall...

Previous Masterlist

September 1925

TW: mind control, captivity, blood drinking

Lex was twenty-four today.

He woke up slowly, curled into his small cot in the warm apartment above his master's bookstore. It was an unexpectedly cold day, and Lex would just as soon remain bundled under his pile of wool blankets. Unfortunately, it was already past noon, and he had errands to run before opening the shop, so he couldn't dawdle long.

Not that his master particularly minded if the shop was open late. But money was always a bit too tight for Lex's liking, and neglecting to open up the shop wouldn't help. Besides, he enjoyed the work.

Lex stretched and yawned. His master was sound asleep in the shadows of the top bunk, so he could open up the side window without disturbing him with sunlight. A quick rummage of the pantry and icebox turned up little worth eating, so he contented himself with an apple for lunch. He definitely needed groceries, and counting out the money he'd been given, he had enough for a few extra treats.

He washed in the sink and dressed in a heavy wool suit, making his way down the creaky stairs, through the darkened bookshop, and out onto the street.

It was always jarring to exit the bookshop into the bustle of the city in mid-day. The shop was so dark and quiet, even when it was open, the kind of place where you could clearly hear the ruffle of pages or the squeaky plank near the history section. It had been his home ever since the day his master had taken him, and he felt a lot of affection for it, even if it was...

Small.

And quiet.

He had books, though. Books to help him fantasize about what lay beyond a packed shop and a cramped apartment and a few blocks' worth of city streets where he normally ran errands. Books about far-off countries, faefolk and merfolk, gods and heroes and even the heavens. Books about the adventures that could be had for young men who weren't kept in confinement by a vampire.

He shook the thought from his head. Oliver had been good to him, had taken care of him. His master needed his blood. His master needed him.

That was enough, wasn't it?

Lex stopped in front of a musician on a street corner playing a high-spirited tune on a fiddle. Several of the crowd watching him were tapping their toes and dancing along. The musician's instrument was crude, but he played with skill and love. Lex was captivated, closing his eyes and nodding his head to the music.

He missed music the most.

Counting out the money in his wallet, he reasoned that he could afford to part with a nickel, and deposited it in the can in front of the fiddler. It was the least he could do.

Lex greeted the grocer, looking over the daily sales. It was his luck that canned salmon was cheap today -- he could make a fine meal with that, some fresh broccoli, potatoes and butter. Milk, eggs, fruit cocktail, coffee -- plenty left over for a trip to the swine butcher's. There, he bought a few chops and a decent quantity of bacon.

He needed something hearty to eat tonight, anyway. His master's feedings were like clockwork, and tonight was the night.

He didn't mind the feedings, of course. His master was always kind and gentle, the feedings painless, comfortable, familiar.

Their life together was quiet, and good, and he didn't mind.

He returned home, put away his food, and propped the door open for customers. A few trickled in. One was looking for pulp novels, apparently missing the 'rare books' and 'antiques' written on the clapboard sign. Lex obliged anyway, pointing him to the shelf of cheap horrors and thrillers that he'd convinced Oliver to let him stock after the fourth or fifth customer had shown up looking for them. With how sparse business often was, every dime was worth making.

At least one customer actually bought a true, valuable antiquity. Lex rejoiced inwardly while politely handling the transaction. A few more sales like that, and he'd be well over the amount he needed for the new winter boots he'd been saving for.

Just as the sun spread its last rays through the open window and Lex went about lighting the gas lamps, the smallest of creaks on the stairs indicated the awakening of his master. Oliver was always so quiet that it had taken Lex a long time to be able hear him coming without getting startled out of his mind.

"I sold that alchemy book - the one with the red leather cover and the embossed gold symbol on the front instead of a title."

"Oh, excellent. I hope the book found a good home," said Oliver, taking his place behind the desk. "How are you? Are you having a good day?"

It seemed like it should be a good day. He'd had enough money to get all of the food he wanted and had made more besides. He'd enjoyed a musical performance. And he had spent the time in-between customers reading a particularly engrossing mystery novel.

But even though it should be a good day, he still ached with a melancholy he didn't fully understand.

"It was a fine day, if a bit cold," he said.

"Glad to hear it." Oliver put a cold but comforting hand on his shoulder. "Why don't you go and make your dinner? I can take care of the shop counter."

Lex had eaten little more than an apple all day, and the mention of food set his stomach rumbling, so he took his master up on that offer, slipping back upstairs. Soon he was frying up a pork chop on the little stove, the smell of sizzling meat filling the tiny dwelling.

Really, the apartment was only enough for one person, too small for two. It only worked out because they were vampire and thrall. Oliver seemed to want for little other than books and blood, and Lex had never required much.

As he sat down at the table for one and ate his pork chop and broccoli, he wondered if he had wanted for more, back before his master's book had claimed his will. It all seemed so distant, his childhood home, the music rooms of his university.

Oliver seemed to be in high spirits when Lex descended the stairs. Was he excited about the feeding? No -- although his master clearly looked forward to feedings, this mood had a different feel to it. He seemed as if he could barely contain himself with some secret knowledge -- and when Lex rounded the corner behind the counter, he could see why.

There, laying on a shelf, was an object that had certainly not been there when Lex had taken his leave. It was a black case tied with a blue ribbon.

An instrument case?

"Is that --"

"It's a birthday gift for you," said Oliver encouragingly. "I've been saving for it. Go ahead, open it."

"Thank you, sir," said Lex. Oliver had given him a birthday gift each year, but never -- "A violin!" Lex called out as he untied the ribbon and flipped open the case.

It was a secondhand violin in excellent condition, shining varnish accentuating the rich wood. Lex picked it up and cradled it to himself. It was so beautiful, and he could already imagine just how it would sound.

"It's okay for me to have this, sir?"

"Of course! It's a gift."

"But the quiet..."

"I think the shop could use a little music now and then," said Oliver. "Go ahead, try it out."

Lex glanced at the time, eager to play but worried. "Don't you need to feed, sir?"

"It can wait until later,. It's your birthday, Lex. Play."

"...I have to make sure it's strung properly first, sir, and tune it."

The bookshop was so silent that every little sound that Lex made while tuning the violin seemed to reverberate. Oliver sat and watched him with curiosity, as he often did, even when Lex wasn't doing anything in particular. Before long, Lex had the violin in a condition fit to play.

It had been a long time, but he still easily recalled one of his favorite pieces from when he still studied at university, when he thought he might ascend to play in a grand hall, roses thrown at his feet. A lifetime of creating music that resonated with people's souls, that brought them comfort and joy and sorrow.

The proof that he was never actually meant to be silent.

He played for a long while. His fingers and arms were sore from the long neglect of his instrument. His music filled the lonely, quiet store, and when he finally finished, satisfied, there were tears in his master's eyes.

"Bravo," he said, with a clap so soft it was barely audible.

"Thank you for the birthday present, sir," said Lex, sitting down in the plush chair and picking up his favorite of his master's enchanted books, the one that would put him under a spell of sleep and submission so that his master could feed. "I expect you'll take your meal now?"

"My last."

Lex looked up in shock. "Your last, sir?"

"My last of you. I'm setting you free," he said.

"Are you serious, sir?"

"Someone like me doesn't need to keep a songbird caged in the dark forever. I can find another thrall."

"Sir, you can't mean that. If I've been displeasing to you --"

Oliver held up a hand. "No, you haven't, not in the slightest. In fact, it's my fondness for you that has led me to make this decision. You're only objecting now because of the spell I've been casting on you each feeding. Once it's fully lifted, you'll be more than happy to fly free."

Lex felt a tug at his heart, glancing briefly at the shop window. Was he actually going to be free? He shouldn't want that. He shouldn't want to leave his master alone. And yet...

"You'll be able to stay here as long as you want, working in the bookshop, until you can get back to your studies," he said. "I have acquaintances at the university. I can put you back to where you should have been. I've already started making inquiries."

"Sir..."

"Read, Lex," said his master, gesturing to the book on Lex's lap. "Read and go under my spell one last time."

Lex swallowed hard, his throat dry, his mind swirling with a mix of conflicting feelings. His master was sending him away. He would be free. What had he done wrong?

His master's book would make him feel better as it always did.

If he was truly only going to experience this one last time, he might as well pick his favorite passage, the one he first read almost four years ago, of a vampire enthralling a hapless young man just like him. Before he had even finished the third paragraph, he was fast asleep, and dreaming of music.

Previous Masterlist

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin @whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist @xx-adam-xx @ivycloak @irregular-book @whumpsoda @mj-or-say10 @pokemaniacgemini @whumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @shinyotachi @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @pirefyrelight @theauthorintraining @whump-me-all-night-long @anonfromcanada @typewrittenfangs @tessellated-sunl1ght @cleverinsidejoke @abirbable @ichorousambrosia @a-formless-entity @gobbo-king @writinggremlin @the-agency-archives

#whump #whump writing #vampires #vampire whumpee #rare bookseller #alexander #oliver #mind control

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tranakin-skywalker · 5 months

Text

The padawans found out about it first, as padawans are wont to do. Getting into trouble without realizing the full extent of it, stumbling right into something so much larger than they could understand. In any other scenario it would have been fodder for their masters to tease their apprentices over and -later- rib one another with. But not with something like this.

Jedi, as a whole, didn’t tend to concern themselves with things such as the holonet. When there was a crisis somewhere out in the galaxy, they were typically brought into the know before even the news outlets were told, their response being what led the rest of the Republic forward.

There were of course those who would tune in to certain channels to watch their favorite soap operas, or catch up on the goings on in the parts of the galaxy outside of the Jedi’s jurisdiction, but it was really the younger generation who had any sort of presence on the ‘net.

So really, it shouldn’t have come as any surprise when a crowd of junior padawans and older initiates had gone running in search of Master Nu during their recreational time in the archives (or the several dozen senior padawans with their own personal access to the holonet who’d screamed across their quarters for their masters to come and see).

It did not take long for the news to reach the Council members, who immediately called an impromptu session to watch and review. There were many angry holocalls sent out inquiring why the Jedi hadn’t been informed of this development sooner, mostly by Adi Gallia. There were also many headaches developed, also by Adi Gallia who both dealt and received.

Mace Windu also had one such headache, brought on by watching the recording for the fifth time- or was it the sixth now?

The image was grainy, implying poor equipment, but the shot held remarkably steady throughout which spoke to some level of familiarity with filming. The grandiose excess of a Hutt residence decorated the space, covering over hard packed adobe walls and tiled floors covered in a thin layer of sand. It was apparent that this was no Nal Hutta, but the exile planet of Tatooine. This was the domain of Jabba Desilijic Tiure and- to a lesser extent- Gardulla Besadii the Elder.

Or it used to be.

The holo paned slowly over the large interior of the palace, lingering on the forms of a number of sentients, many of them scantily dressed, some of them no more than children, all of them with heavy collars around their necks. Some looked healthy, deceptively so, but there are others- thin with protruding bones, or open gaping wounds leaking out bodily fluids, and those missing whole limbs. The first few minutes were nothing but the camera moving through the inside of the palace, taking in the misery and the horror, from up in the audience hall all the way down to slave quarters deep below the palace.

There were other figures too- those dressed in dark desert weave and wearing a wide collection of masks over their faces. Some of them had what looked suspiciously like lightsaber hilts hanging from their belts.

They worked to remove the chains from the slaves while a voice spoke over the recording in Huttese. Mace wasn’t much familiar with the language, only understood a handful of words spoken. They were still working on getting the poor audio translated, but from what they were able to gather it was a rallying cry for other enslaved worlds to fight back.

The holo lingered a long moment on an opened metal collar, dried blood and bits of flesh stuck to the inside where it had rubbed skin raw. Then it cut suddenly, the screen black for a fraction of a second before suddenly illuminated with the blinding light of two suns.

The new perspective showed a town center of some sort, huge crowds of people gathered in streets and on the roofs of buildings, the camera panning down to capture the thousands of faces looking up toward the platform.

A slave auction block, they found out later.

The camera turned from the crowd to instead film the group standing atop the platform. There were more figures in black and brown, but unlike when they were within the palace, these had brightly colored cloth thrown over the rest of their attire, ponchos and scarves and wraps. Mace assumed there was some sort of cultural significance to it, but he didn’t know enough about the planet’s people to know for certain.

These, too, wore metal masks.

Beneath the desert suns it was easier to make out that most were fashioned into abstract animal faces, with fangs and horns and sweeping pieces that might have been feathers. All of them carried metal cylinders at their hips.

In the middle of the platform, surrounded by more masked guards with lit sabers in hand- colors a wash of oranges and yellows and greens and even one that looked pink- was Jabba the Hutt. Large gashes and lesions covered the expanse of his body, a heavy chain wrapped several times around his neck. It didn’t seem to be connected to anything- seemingly more of a humiliation rather than something to keep the Hutt confined.

The lightsabers pointed at him likely did well enough a job of that.

Standing between Jabba and the crowd was a lone figure in all black. If they were sweltering in the heat, they gave no indication of it, their long layers and heavy helmet seemingly inconsequential. It was a tall figure, humanoid and seemingly male in stature- though that was hard to tell beneath the dark clothing that seemed almost a parody of Jedi robes. The helmet they wore was dog-like, or at least that of a canine skull, with jaws that looked less like jaws and more like a muzzle. There was something altogether disquieting about the figure.

Tilting its head like a curious predator, the figure turned to look the camera lens dead on. It didn’t feel like someone looking into a camera, but like something looking straight through and into the view beyond.

Each time Mace had watched the recording, that single look managed to make hair prickle up on the back of his neck. An animal response.

The figure in black spoke in Basic, addressing the holo’s audience and not the crowd actually present. The voice that came out was distorted through a vocoder into something that was more hard and mechanical than organic, it was still distinctly male, and distinctly authoritative. The rest of the video would prove that this was likely the leader of the whole affair, but even in the opening minutes, it was easy to tell here stood the catalyst for all that would crumble down after.

“You say that slavery is illegal in your Republic,” the voice growled from behind the melted teeth of the dog’s jaw. “And you say that Tatooine is part of your Republic. Then what is this we stand on? What is it that the Hutt empire has made its fortunes off of? What your own halls hide and Senators pedal behind closed doors. Look at what you have turned your blind eyes away from.”

With a gloved hand, he reached to his belt and unclipped a black and gray hilt. “We will not let you look away.” He then turned to the crowd and raised the saber hilt high over his head, calling out something in a language that sounded nothing like Huttese. The crowd thundered back in unison.

The saber lit with a wash of red as violent as a wildfire.

Lowering his arm slowly, the man turned to finally face Jabba, his blade hungry and crackling at his side. He spoke again- softer this time- but still loud enough for the gathered populace to hear. Huttese again, Mace was pretty certain, something about punishment- or maybe it was justice.

For a split second on Jabba’s face there was a look of pure unfiltered terror- the sudden fear in falling with the knowledge that the ground was coming and coming up fast.

Then that hungry blade slid easily into thick Hutt skin that couldn’t be cut by any other means, sinking into the hilt, fat bubbling and cooking with the heat of it.

Jabba made a noise that Mace never, ever wanted to hear again.

The man dragged the blade down- slowly- guts spilling out from where the Hutt was being unzipped like a field-dressed carcass, still wriggling. Jabba moved a lot less than someone being methodically disemboweled should, but that might have something to do with the dog-skulled man’s left hand being raised up like an open claw. Like he was pinning the crime lord in place with sheer will or- more concerningly- with the Force.

That obsidian black mask seemed to give a jackal grin as the red blade was pulled from the Hutt’s body and Jabba Desilijic Tiure was unceremoniously dropped to slowly die on the same platform where thousands of people had been bought and sold.

Stepping away from the smoking body, the Sith- for what else could this monster be but a Sith?- flicked his blade to the side as if trying to rid it of gore. A useless endeavor for a plasma blade, but there was something almost poignant about the move.

He stood facing the screaming, cheering crowd, but his head was tilted sideways just slight enough to look back at the camera from the inky black socket of the dog’s eye.

“You’ve spent long enough ignoring us. I suggest you start paying attention now.”

The feed cut to black.

#my writing #fic: groundwater #fic excerpt #ignore any spelling mistakes it's 2:30 am and i have not edited any of this

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oncomingnight · 9 months

Text

Yandere! Actress ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

I wanted to thank each and every one of you for 700 supporters, we've grown an immense amount. I hope you all enjoy this piece and never hesitate in requesting and talking to me in my ask box.

Vivienne was an incredibly well renowned french actress, the main genre of film she'd appear in was horror. It was to the point where she earned the nickname, "scream queen". If Vivienne Beaufort was seen in the cast of a movie, everyone knew it was going to be absolutely amazing.

Nothing could get in the way of Vivienne expressing her devotion towards you, in her point of view, you strictly deserved the very best. Do you enjoy painting? Well, then she'd renovate an entire room inside of her Mediterranean home that's reserved for you and your craft. She'll even rent out an entire restaurant for a date night. Vivienne will order for custom clothing pieces to be made for you with add-ons she knows you'll enjoy.

Her past relationships were nothing to be flaunted as she was never fully appreciated by her partners, this shows in the way she needs constant physical reassurance from you. She'll lay her head on your tummy, give you sloppy and gluttonous kisses, reaching for your hand to hold and following you everywhere around the house.

She never gets tired of yelling out, "honey, I'm home!" when she arrives back from work.

The greatest motivation in her life is you. Vivienne takes on dozens of acting jobs so she's able to make you feel secure, she doesn't want you to worry about the absolutely anything. Just let her take care of you, okay? There's nothing in the world that could make her happier.

Every morning, you'd find her dressed in a silk slip dress with her hair being secured into a bun by a claw clip as she works on breakfast for the two of you. You would offer to help her with preparing the food but she'd always adamantly reject your attempts. "No, honey, please just sit nice and pretty for me at the table, okay?" she says as she smiles, the slight gap in between her teeth making a beautiful appearance. In just a few hours, she'd set the table with a wonderful assortment of meals served with porcelain plates.

Whenever she could, Vivienne would take you to visit the city in which she was born in. The two of you would visit street markets, eating something light at several cafes, wandering about in art museums and eating traditional cuisine in restaurants she'd frequent as a teenager.

As any normal person would, she gets incredibly enraged when someone attempts to take you from her. The funny thing is, she doesn't love like the average person and she's aware of that. Vivienne will track the culprit down and strike when they're most vulnerable, permanently injuring the person and spewing dozens of threats towards them to where they would rather die than speak against her. If she's unsure of whether or not someone is an actual threat to your relationship, she'll simply intimidate the person till they back away. Sometimes, they try and tell you about how she's mistreated them but you can't bring yourself to believe the stories they're telling.

They can't be talking about the woman that cries until her eyes turn puffy as she watches romance movies, the woman that still sleeps with the teddy bear her father gifted her on her fifth birthday, the woman that points towards elderly couples walking down the street and whispers into your ear, "that's going to be us in 50 years." An angel such as herself would never say such things to anybody.

You're the best thing that has ever happened to her and she's never going to let you go, but it's not as if you'll ever WANT to leave.

Vivienne only ever calls you the loveliest of names such as, "sweetheart", "mon bébé", and "ma princesse". She rarely calls you by your real name but when she does, she says, "My sweet y/n."

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inevitably-johnlocked · 30 days

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hello hello! I was wondering if you had any winged aus tucked away? the latest post I could find (though goodness knows tumblr’s search feature is iffy) was from 2019 and I was curious about an updated list if it isn’t too much trouble!

Hey Lovely!

You are correct, it's been a LONG time since I've put a new list together... I don't have any new personal recs (been a LONG time since I've read them), so what I'm going to do is do a tag search on my MFL list and put together a nice fresh list of fics suggested to me by you guys! Please note that I have NOT read any of the fics on this list so I'm probably wrong somewhere, LOL. They're not ALL winglock, for sure, but if anyone has anything relevant that they can add to this list, please do! Enjoy!

WINGLOCK / ANGELS / DEMONS Pt. 2 (MFLs)

See also:

Winglock / Angels / Demons (Updated Apr 2022)

Sherlock x Good Omens Crossovers (Updated Apr 2022)

The Detective and the Demon by oreganotea (G, 2,389 w., 1 Ch. || Supernatural Elements || Pre-Slash, Urban Fantasy, Demons, Humour, Friendship) – “Every demon on record is described as either monstrously terrifying or breathtakingly beautiful,” Sherlock says. “I have never heard of a demon with a forgettable face and a propensity for ugly jumpers.” The demon looks down at his jumper. Okay, so it might not be the most flattering article of clothing in the world, but it sure looks a hell of a lot more comfortable than Sherlock’s two-sizes-too-small shirt.

The Babadook by CatieBrie (T, 6,886 w., 1 Ch. || Babadook Fusion || Post-TRF, Horror, Demonic Possession, Violence, Halloween, Grief, Angst with Happy Ending) – “A children’s book,” John mutters as he flips it open. The pages are scrawled with beautiful charcoal lines and thick black ink. The cover, bright red, edges the open pages and something tugs at the back of John’s brain. It’s a familiar feeling, black and tarrish and thick in his thoughts. He shakes it off and picks the book up off his bed, turning so that he can sit on the edge and spread the book out across his knees. If it’s in a word or it’s in a look, you can’t get rid of the Babadook. He turns the page, ignoring the pressure building beneath his chest. There’s a closet on one page; paper doors meant to be opened by the reader flutter as John reads the text on the other page.

In The Arms Of The Angel by Watermelonsmellinfellon (M, 8,585 w., 3 Ch. || Fallen Angel AU || Friendship, Angels/Wings, BAMF John, Trust, Fluff, Romance, Eventual Happy Ending) – The human population possesses the ability to grow feathers from their spines, but less than even five million at a time ever actually grow any. A feather for a life. Every life saved, earned a feather. The feathers would overlap each other, until there was finally enough to create a wing and if some were lucky, two wings.

The Soldier And The Demon by LipstickDaddy (G, 8,998 w., 6 Ch. || Victorian / Demon AU || Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Soldier John, Demon Sherlock, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Protective John, Protective Sherlock, Happy Ending) – Johnlock/Kuroshitsuji AU - 1879. Captain John H Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers is dying from a near-fatal gunshot wound in the Kandahar desert; until a demon saves his life. There’s a catch, though; one day, his saviour will eat his soul.

You Don't Need Wings to Fly by Laiquilasse (T, 11,326 w., 11 Ch. || Wonderful Life AU || Bullying, Angels, Suicidal Ideation, Christmas) – John, an angel, is sent from Heaven to help a desperate Sherlock Holmes by showing him what life would have been like if he had never existed.

Tattered by SrebrnaFH (M, 15,857 w., 6 Ch. || Winglock || Family, Childhood, Society, Abuse, Electricity, Hurt John / Sherlock, Protective John, No Smut, Bullying, Sudden Relationship Change) – John visits Baker Street without any warning and gets an eyeful.

On Feathers and Bacon Sandwiches by Kryptaria(T, 21,092 w., 8 Ch. || Winglock AU || Demon John, Asexual Sherlock) – No one has ever stayed with Sherlock longer than a month. At least, no human. Fortunately, John Watson isn't about to let the little things - like biohazardous experiments and the constant threat of danger - get in the way of his friendship with a very special, very brilliant man like Sherlock Holmes. Part 1 of Feathers 'verse

The 13th Book by meet_me_in_samarra (T, 24,491 w., 13 Ch. || Magical Realism Winglock AU || Enemies to Friends, Friendship, Witty Banter, Interspecies Bromance, Demon Sherlock) – Summoning a demon was actually quite simple if you could avoid getting killed in the process. Therefore, only the powerful, the desperate or the stupid would attempt it. John Watson was likely the first, definitely the second but hopefully not one of the third kind.

This Is Family by SaraStarchild (T, 39,840 w., 16 Ch. || Hereditary AU || Psychological Horror, Body Horror, Demonic Possession, POV Third Person Limited, Protective Mycroft, Cults, Mycroft Whump, Sherlock Whump, Major Character Death, Graphic Violence, Retelling) – When the Holmes family's secretive mother and matriarch, Ellen Holmes, passes away, the family she leaves behind – father Martin, sons Mycroft and Sherlock, and daughter Eurus – begins to unravel cryptic and increasingly terrifying secrets about their ancestry. The more they discover, the more they find themselves trying to outrun the sinister fate they seem to have inherited. This is, pretty much, a word-for-word retelling of the 2018 Ari Aster film, Hereditary. Part 1 of Sherlock Halloween Stories

Though the brightest fell by BeMyGoldfish (M, 41,243 w., 7 Ch. || Celestial AU || Post THoB, Soulmates, Guardian Angels, Demons, Mystrade, Background Johnlock) – In his office, Mycroft (the Archangel) tries to recruit Greg (the ‘ex-angel’ mortal) on a celestial mission to save Sherlock from what he wants most. "This is some elaborate joke cooked up by your brother as revenge for me not asking him to help on the Islington Exsanguinations, isn't it? How did he get you in on it, Mycroft? Did he hide your trouser press? Or threaten to expose your secret ciggie habit to your mum? This isn't funny. It's weird and obscure, but it is not funny.”

Trapped by Gem_Gem & harrylee94 (M, 41,311 w., 3 Ch. || Demon John AU || Demon John, Mild Gore, POV Sherlock, Mild Homophobic Language, Kiss, Bonding) – During his most recent case, Sherlock finds himself in the hands of the very people he had been trying to pursue. This mistake lands him in a cell, already occupied by a strange man who calls himself John. But who is John? And why does he look so... hungry? Part 3 of the Bonded by Words Stories series

Murderous Imprint by MojoFlower (E, 52,634 w., 24 Ch. || Winglock || Organ Theft, Imprinting, First Kiss / Time, Whump, Torture, Blow Jobs, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Case Fic, Magical Realism) – Sherlock should be focusing on the series of brutal vivisections Lestrade has brought to him. Instead he's distracted by a most amazing and unexpected experimental opportunity from the basement apartment of 221C. Will he figure out the one in time to stop the other? And does he need help in order to do it? Part 1 of the Hatch series

Not English But Angels by orphan_account (E, 203,251 w., 15 Ch. || Twisted Canon, Slow Burn, First Kiss/Time, Minor Character Death) – A sort-of canon, sort-of AU fic in which I twist and supplement canon to weave it into a new story in which Sherlock and John come from different worlds and nothing is quite what it seems.

WORKS IN PROGRESS

The Posthumous Game by S_IRIS (E, 58,695+ w., 12/19 Ch. || WiP || Supernatural Elements AU || S4 Fix It, Crack, Humour, Fluff, Demonic Possession, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss/Time, Sherlock Whump, Hurt Comfort, Hallucinations) – A Season 4 fix-it fic where Jim Moriarty really is dead but comes back as a demon to haunt Sherlock. The only problem is Jim is a total newbie at demonic possession so he tries to make-do and ends up making Johnlock happen. Only, it doesn’t happen the way you’d think.

Hellfire by HarleysCompass (E, 66,660+ w., 19/? Ch. || WiP || Fallen Angel AU || Biblical References, BAMF John, Sexual Content, Fallen Angel John) – In 1880 Dr. John H. Watson dies on foreign soil. The next thing he knows he's wandering the planes of Heaven. After betraying God, John is cast out, employed by the devil, and protecting a sociopath of a human with a penchant for trouble and pissing off Angels.

#steph replies #johnlock fic recs #winglock fics #angels and demons #supernatural fics #magical realism fics #my fic recs #marked for later fics #wip fics

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vashhanamichi · 6 months

Note

Sorry for the number of asks/questions. I am curious on what you like about Tomarry and Grindledore. Also what are your honest thoughts on Dumbledore/Tom Riddle, Drarry, Tomione and Wolfstar. What other HP ships appeal to you?

So, first of all, I'm very sorry for taking so long to answer! And second, never apologize for sending me questions, I love getting them even if I take a while to answer. If you'll forgive me, I will only talk about one of those ships in this ask, but you can ask me about the other ones in other asks, it's just that talking about all of them in just one ask would turn my answer into a (even more) giant rambling I fear. Also because I only have true strong opinions about some of these ships, so I chose a single one, the one I have most opinions about, the one I have loved for the longest time.

That ship is, naturally, Voldemort (Tom Riddle)/Harry Potter.

I want to preface this by saying that I see them and ship them in a sort of unusual way, or at least it seems so, because I haven't found my particular interpretation of them in the fandom so far (though I've read fanfics that shook some of its branches) in more than a decade of shipping this ship. But I guess all authors are like that -- we're all trying to fill a void shaped as our own want.

It's true, too, that there's many ways of interpreting canon and molding its clay. I'm not constant in my characterization of Voldemort (though some things repeat themselves) for example: in some fics I make him an experienced philanderer, in others he's as virginal as Harry, or even more so. He's angrier at times, but softer, milder in some others. More or less irrational depending on the context. More or less bloodthirsty. Harry's well of patience dries with diverging speeds. So does his sanity.

With that said, what do I like about them, the basis?

I like a combination of two main rivers of characterization regarding them. Those are: 1) Voldemort as the Monster Groom, the Fairy Tale Villain, the Nightmare, The embodiment of fear and Harry as his favorite Victim, his killing, his bride. 2) Voldemort as a Father, Harry as his child. Voldemort as a son, Harry as his Mother. Voldemort as God (or Satan), Harry as his creation. It's important to note that these are fluid and fund with each other -- God is also a Groom, God is also a Father. A bride is a victim, is a deer, is a son, is a killing, is a meal.

Alright, so on with it.

Trigger warnings: discussion of CSA, incest So, Voldemort as the Monster, Harry as his Victim:

I think it’s very interesting how for four books Voldemort haunted Harry from beyond the grave, so to speak. Until his resurgence in the graveyard Voldemort was, in his own words, “less than spirit, less than the meanest ghost . . . but still (…) alive.”

That, along with his self-appointed title, the awe and terror he inspires, his seemly unlimited power, gives him the aura of being more monster than human.

It’s also telling that their first meeting — when Harry was a baby — happened in Harry’s nursery, in the bedroom. It’s been written before by scholars who write about the slasher genre that the violation of the bedroom can be read as a violation of the victim’s own body. Even after coming back as flesh Voldemort keeps on haunting Harry in his dreams — again, violating him in his bed. Throughout the fifth book he entices Harry to leave the safety of Hogwarts to meet him again.

Candyman (1992)

A nightmare on elm street — the dream master (1988)

There’s an element of fairy-tale thrill to Voldemort and his relationship with Harry; his self-given title and his true name are both keys to understand him, even to defeat him. It’s only by discovering the truth about “Tom Riddle” that Harry acquires the weapons needed to defeat “Lord Voldemort”. By turning him from monster to human — uncovering his past, something the protagonists of horror movies usually have to do to defeat the monsters trying to kill them.

Candyman, for example, is called forth by having his name said aloud three times in front of a mirror. A similar taboo is put upon Voldemort’s name in the seventh book.

In more romantic terms, Voldemort seems to me like Mr. Rochester when he calls Jane Eyre — his strange, almost unearthly thing — and she hears his call all the way across the moors. Voldemort and Harry’s connection is an supernatural one and thus surpasses the physical obstacles in their way.

Then there’s Harry, Harry as a bride, Harry as a victim, Harry as The Final Girl — the one who got away. The Boy Who Lived.

Nancy in A Nightmare on Elm Street

Harry’s existence and his title — The Boy Who Lived — are defined by Voldemort. He was a survivor before he could speak, he was marked. Like many Final Girls he’s a teenager, virginal, brave. He’s also not taken as seriously as he should be. He survives but there’s always a cost. In the fifth book (imo the best in the series) he’s explicitly traumatised. A final girl wanders into the Death Realm. She comes back but brings something with her. She’s changed. Voldemort changed Harry, Voldemort touched Harry, Voldemort violated Harry. He comes back from the graveyard (the Death Realm) but he’s not the same.

In the fifth book Harry displays a lot of signs of trauma and, many times, the trauma of someone who was raped. After Nagini’s attack he feels deeply unclean:

There’s a deep sense of inevitability when it comes to Harry and Voldemort. He’s transformed, marked, from an ordinary baby to a Christ figure, The Chosen One. He’s made. Voldemort’s touch transforms him.

He lives between two deaths, like Hannibal’s Abigail:

Twice-killed, Abigail lived a borrowed amount between one father and the next. Her scar was a sign that she was marked for death, like a bride wearing an engagement ring. Harry was the same — his time was borrowed, between one Avada Kedavra and the next.

Harry’s becoming from ordinary child to redeemer of Wizarding Kind was done through Voldemort’s tempering. It’s as if Voldemort is God to Lily’s Mary and James’ Joseph. It took Voldemort’s decision to make him into The Chosen One. Harry as we know him is Voldemort’s creation.

That makes Voldemort, in a way, Harry’s third parent. Harry collects father figures throughout the books, he finds them in Sirius, Lupin, Dumbledore (Snape too arguably). They all abandon him by dying. The one who endures, the one who’s always there, is Voldemort. Voldemort never disappoints. His parenting of course it’s a painful one but we can’t forget that pain is what Harry knows given what he faced with the Dursleys. A child weaned on poison considers harm a comfort.

Voldemort is obsessed with him and hurts him. But he’s there, always there. Indifference and neglect often do much more damage than outright dislike, Dumbledore says. Voldemort is many thing but not indifferent to Harry.

And that’s the thing. That’s the pain of it, the way I like them — fiction is not reality after all — as a unhealthy, tragic pairing. Harry can’t live without Voldemort because he’s too deeply his. Alice Notley says it best:

Harry belongs to Voldemort. I ship Voldemort with other characters, like Dumbledore and Bellatrix, but they all have extensive pasts and lives (even Bellatrix, who's so devoted to Voldemort) beyond Voldemort. Harry was created for Voldemort, scarred by him, mauled by him. This sort of prison, the fact that Harry can't ever escape Voldemort, his Father, his Maker, his Killer, is part of what draws me so much to them.

It's getting very late here and I'm making less and less sense as I go. This is the longest post I have ever wrote I think, on years and years of tumblr, and to be honest I could keep talking about them, using other metaphors, other references. I hope it's not completely nonsensical. I really like them.

That's all for today, and I apologize again for the delay in answering it, if you want you can ask me about other ships in separate asks! Thank you for the ask and I'm sorry for all of this rambling.

#harrymort #asks #sorry for being insane etc #tomharry

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familyvideostevie · 7 months

Text

october fifth

day five: eddie munson you and eddie go mushroom picking | fluff, friends to lovers | 1.2k

Eddie is kind of weird but you like him. You really like him, actually. An embarrassing amount considering you’re just friends. But you can’t help it! He’s got those soft brown eyes and he laughs at everything and he’s kind and looks scary but isn’t. He’s a huge nerd and he really likes bananas and he is always late to pick you up but pays for your fries when you go to the drive through.

You met in the middle of summer and Eddie in those months was like sunshine. He’d whine about the heat and the sun but he’d also glow. Now, in your second season of knowing him, it’s like a while new side to his personality. He’s alive, all leather and jean jackets and layers and messy hair and cigarettes hanging from chapped lips even though you’ve told him he should quit. He loves Halloween candy and horror movies and the changing of the leaves and you’re starting to like all of that, too, because his enthusiasm is infectious.

He has a job at some local produce shop and you’re chipping way at college classes while working in Hawkins and he’s basically your only friend. Not for lack of trying on his part, though — he’s introduced you to everyone else but you just feel most comfortable with him.

It’s a normal fall day and you’re on your very tiny apartment balcony reading when you hear the tell-tale sputter of his van and his music and then Eddie is rounding the bend a little too fast. He parks and hops out and jogs over, looking up at you all the while with a grin so wide you’re worried he’ll catch bugs in his teeth.

“Rapunzel! Juliet! Pretty girl on the balcony, hey!”

You stand and lean over the railing. “Eddie, you don’t have to shout,” you chide. He shrugs.

“Do you want to go on an adventure?”

That could mean anything. Just last week you drove halfway across the state for a Dungeons and Dragons figurine with him and Dustin. But what else do you have going on? You’ll take every second you can get with Eddie.

You should probably ask where and what but you just say sure and head inside to change. It’s getting colder by the day so you layer up and meet him outside.

“You’re gonna love this shit,” he says when he sees you. He scoops you into a quick hug and you get in the van. Eddie smells like tobacco and vegetables, which means he was at work this morning.

“And what is this shit?” He drives down your street and heads in a direction you don’t think you’ve been before.

“We’re going mushroom picking.”

That is probably the last thing you expected him to say. “Really?”

He nods, still grinning. “Really,” he says. “Just at the state park two towns over. Indiana lets you pick whatever you want.”

You toy with the edge of your sleeve. “Eddie,” you say. “Why are we going mushroom picking?”

He looks over at you and your face feels hot. “Rick wants to try growing some or some shit like that so he wants me to scout what can grow here.”

“Do you know anything about mushrooms? Aren’t there super poisonous ones?” Eddie wouldn’t put you in danger knowingly, but he’s not always the most thorough planner.

He gasps and clutches his chest like you’ve insulted him. “Excuse you!” he says. “I will have you know that I know a fucking ton about mushrooms because I had a mushroom phase as a kid. So I will be sure we only pick good ones. Unless you want to be poisoned, I guess. Or poison someone. Wait, do you want to commit murder?”

“Eddie.” He laughs. “A mushroom phase is pretty weird, you know.”

“I’m weird, sweetheart.”

That, you know. “Why did you ask me to come? Why not Dustin? He’d be all over this.”

Eddie looks…shy. Not something you see on him often. “You’re much prettier than Henderson,” he says, cheeks pink.

“Ha, ha,” you manage, trying not to let your own shyness at his words show.

You drive to the park and there aren’t many people there despite how nice the weather is. Eddie parks and grabs a cloth bag from the van and leads you down a path with confidence.

“So, the thing about mushrooms is—”

You listen as he rambles but mostly you watch him as he talks. His eyes are on the ground as his hands wave in the air making shapes and pointing at things. His energy is contagious and he’s got such long eyelashes and his hair looks so soft and wow, you really do have such a crush on him. He called you pretty in the van, didn’t he? Is there a possibility that he’s got a crush on you, too? Does that make this…a date?

Mushroom picking is a bit weird for a first date but then again, Eddie himself reminded you that he’s weird.

You aren’t really watching where you’re going but you stop in your tracks when Eddie grabs your wrist gently.

“Hey, hold on,” he says. You look at him but he’s looking down so you follow his gaze and see that you were about to step on something round and orange. You take a step back and Eddie squats, looking at it from multiple angles.

“What’s the verdict?” He looks up at you and he’s beaming.

“This is a good one,” he says. “Great find.” He pulls it out of the ground and puts it in the bag.

“I didn’t find it,” you correct. “I almost stepped on it.”

His hand circles your ankle for just a moment. Eddie looks up at you but does not rise from his crouch.

“You look pretty from down here,” he says softly, even though you’re the only ones on the path.

Your cheeks feel hot. “Impossible,” you say. “No one looks good from the angle.”

“You do,” he says. He stands. “You look nice from like, every angle, c’mon.”

“Eddie.” You shove his shoulder lightly. “Stop flirting with me. It’ll give me ideas.”

He steps into your space. “Ideas?” he asks. “What kind of ideas?”

This close you can see he’s got a few freckles on his nose and a tiny scar under one eye. Your heartbeat kicks into high gear and you don’t know where to look. “Like maybe…” You swallow. If you’re wrong you’re pretty sure he’ll be nice about it. He’s a good guy. “Like maybe this is a date?”

Eddie’s cheeks go crimson. His fingers catch yours and his eyes widen. “No, god no,” he says and your stomach sinks but he keeps going. “When I take you out it won’t be to a forest to pick mushrooms for my weird boss, sweetheart.”

“Oh,” you say. His words make you brave. “What will we do, then?”

“Whatever you want,” he says immedietly. “The drive in, Enzo’s, the amusement park. Whatever you want.” He sounds as earnest as you’ve ever heard him.

“Okay.” You lean into his space and tip your forehead so it’s resting on his shoulder. This is all a little overwhelming. You huff out a happy laugh.

“Yeah?” Eddie says. “So you’ll go on a date with me? This is me actually asking, by the way.”

“Yeah,” you echo. “I’ll go on a date with you, Eddie Munson.”

thank you for reading <3 reblog, send feedback, general masterlist here! promptober masterlist, find all fics under #fvspromptober23

#fvspromptober23 #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fluff

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isabellehemlock · 1 year

Text

Caitlyn Siehl ▪︎The Hours ▪︎Mary Shelley ▪︎Crimson Peak ▪︎ unknown

Lestat & love and monsterhood

Image descriptions and sources under the cut

First quote:

When is a monster not a monster?

Oh, when you love it.

First image:

Lestat is looking at Louis off screen from the scene at the opera. His hair is tied back, and he is wearing a suit, staring longingly at his companion. Like all the pictures, it is a black and white still.

Second quote:

Still, there is this terrible desire to be loved.

Still, there is this horror at being left behind.

Second image:

A still of Lestat from his monlogue about his creation, looking off screen, and covered in bruises. His face is an expression of restrained pain.

Third quote:

There is love in me the likes of which you’ve never seen. There is rage in me the likes of which should never escape. If I am not satisfied in the one, I will indulge the other.

Third image:

An image of Lestat floating in the night after his attack on Louis. The frame is cut off just beneath his eyes.

Fourth quote:

But the horror - The horror was for love. The things we do for love like this are ugly, mad, full of sweat and regret. This love burns you and maims you and twists you inside out. It is a monstrous love and it makes monsters of us all.

Fourth image:

A close up of Lestat on the street car. He is wearing a tailored stripe suit and looking off screen as if contemplating something while out on his hunt.

Fifth quote:

I've been bad. These days, when I tell you I love you, what I mean is, I'm sorry. I daydream pain into myself / in hopes I'll be too tired to refuse your gentleness. I need it. I want to crawl into your chest and come out when I've given you all the love I have. It was never meant for me. I love you. I want my blood in your mouth.

Fifth image:

A still of Lestat and Louis embracing near the coffin. Lestat is kneeled against it from the outside, while Louis is reclined within. Lestat’s arm is draped around Louis' shoulder, and Louis' hand gently touches Lestat’s - smiling as they kiss.

All images were edited by me and were found online via pinterest (x, x, x, x and x). And two screengrabs from gifs I unfortunately saved when the show first came out and can no longer find the source for - happy to edit with credit of course.

#iwtv web weaving #my iwtv web weaving #yes there will be a whole series muwhahaha #lestat de lioncourt #iwtv #interview with the vampire #iwtv amc #amc iwtv #iwtv 2022

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riverxsong-ao3 · 3 months

Text

“But he was your father,” Harry lamented one afternoon, while they were holed away within the green drapes that surrounded Tom’s four-poster, the majority of the rest of the school away on a Hogsmeade trip. “Don’t you feel anything for him?”

“Of course I do,” Tom replied, staring at the ring in his hand. “Loathing. Nothing more, nothing less. He abandoned my mother when he found out she was a witch. He left me to rot in that orphanage. He never wanted me, and so I learned not to want him.”

“How do you know that’s true?” Harry asked. “Your mother died when you were born, maybe she left him.”

“Darling, that would be worse,” Tom said. “Can you think of any reason my mother would leave the father of her child unless he was horrible to her? When the other option was starving to death on the streets? Besides, if I wasn’t sure of it before Voldemort visited the Riddles after his fifth year, I was after that – he told me himself.”

“What?” Harry gasped. “Tom, you never told me that.”

“I don’t particularly like to think about it,” Tom replied. “I can show you the memory, though, if you’d like.”

“Are you sure?”

Tom fetched Harry’s wand from the end table and pressed it into his hand. “Go on, darling,” he said, “you’ll understand when you see it.”

Harry hesitantly raised his wand and placed the tip of it against Tom’s forehead. “Legilimens.”

Tom fell back into his own mind as Harry’s consciousness rushed in, swirling through memories. He pulled the event in question to the forefront, inviting Harry to join him. As they entered the memory, Tom found himself, sixteen once more, standing in the dining room of his father’s house, taking in the shocked faces of his relatives.

“Who are you?” Tom's grandfather demanded, rising from his seat. “How the devil did you get in?!”

“You don’t recognise your own kin?” Tom asked, smiling wickedly as the blood drained from his father’s face. By the looks of stunned horror on his grandparents faces, they hadn’t. “Oh dear, has my father not told you? I was sure you’d see the family resemblance.”

It was true: the man closest to him was an older carbon copy of himself, the same cheekbones and jawline, the same gently curling jet black hair – the only difference were the pale blue eyes, a contrast to his own dark and stormy irises.

The man – Tom’s father himself – rose in the same imperious manner his father had. “I have no son,” he said stonily, though his voice shook. “If you’ve come looking to claim an inheritance, you’ll find none here.” “Oh no,” Tom replied coolly, sliding his uncle’s borrowed wand from his pocket and twirling it in his fingers. “I have no interest in any ‘inheritance’ I might receive, no matter how deserving of one I might be, from insignificant little insects such as yourselves. I’ve come to see you beg for mercy, to watch you fumble for feeble excuses as to why you would leave a child to the horrors of an orphanage, believing himself parentless, when all this time you lived.”

#harry potter #tom riddle #tomarry #fanfiction #harrymort #harry potter fanfiction #vitae redux

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thepastisalreadywritten · 8 months

Text

By Parissa DJangi

August 18, 2023

Some say he was a surgeon. Others, a deranged madman — or perhaps a butcher, prince, artist, or specter.

The murderer known to history as Jack the Ripper terrorized London 135 years ago this fall.

In the subsequent century, he has been everything to everyone, a dark shadow on which we pin our fears and attitudes.

But to five women, Jack the Ripper was not a legendary phantom or a character from a detective novel — he was the person who horrifically ended their lives.

“Jack the Ripper was a real person who killed real people,” reiterates historian Hallie Rubenhold, whose book, The Five, chronicles the lives of his victims. “He wasn’t a legend.”

Who were these women? They had names: Mary Ann “Polly” Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes, and Mary Jane Kelly.

They also had hopes, loved ones, friends, and, in some cases, children.

Their lives, each one unique, tell the story of 19th-century London, a city that pushed them to its margins and paid more attention to them dead than alive.

Terror in Whitechapel

Their stories did not all begin in London, but they ended there, in and around the crowded corner of the metropolis known as Whitechapel, a district in London’s East End.

“Probably there is no such spectacle in the whole world as that of this immense, neglected, forgotten great city of East London,” Walter Bessant wrote in his novel All Sorts and Conditions of Men in 1882.

“It is even neglected by its own citizens, who had never yet perceived their abandoned condition.”

The “abandoned” citizens of Whitechapel included some of the city’s poorest residents.

Immigrants, transient laborers, families, single women, thieves — they all crushed together in overflowing tenements, slums, and workhouses.

According to historian Judith Walkowitz:

“By the 1880s, Whitechapel had come to epitomize the social ills of ‘Outcast London,’ a place where sin and poverty comingled in the Victorian imagination, shocking the middle classes."

Whitechapel transformed into a scene of horror when the lifeless, mutilated body of Polly Nichols was discovered on a dark street in the early morning hours of August 31, 1888.

She became the first of Jack the Ripper’s five canonical victims, the core group of women whose murders appeared to be related and occurred over a short span of time.

Over the next month, three more murdered women would be found on the streets of the East End.

They had been killed in a similar way: their throats slashed, and, in most cases, their abdomens disemboweled.

Some victims’ organs had been removed. The fifth murder occurred on November 9, when the Ripper butchered Mary Jane Kelly with such barbarity that she was nearly unrecognizable.

This so-called “Autumn of Terror” pushed Whitechapel and the entire city into a panic, and the serial killer’s mysterious identity only heightened the drama.

The press sensationalized the astonishingly grisly murders — and the lives of the murdered women.

Polly, Annie, Elizabeth, Catherine, and Mary Jane

Though forever linked by the manner of their death, the five women murdered by Jack the Ripper shared something else in common:

They were among London’s most vulnerable residents, living on the margins of Victorian society.

They eked out a life in the East End, drifting in and out of workhouses, piecing together casual jobs, and pawning their few possessions to afford a bed for a night in a lodging house.

If they could not scrape together the coins, they simply slept on the street.

“Nobody cared about who these women were at all,” Rubenhold says. “Their lives were incredibly precarious.”

Polly Nichols knew precarity well. Born in 1845, she fulfilled the Victorian ideal of proper womanhood when she became a wife at the age of 18.

But after bearing five children, she ultimately left her husband under suspicions of his infidelity.

Alcohol became both a crutch and curse for her in the final years of her life.

Alcohol also hastened Annie Chapman’s estrangement from what was considered a respectable life.

Annie Chapman was born in 1840 and spent most of her life in London and Berkshire.

With her marriage to John Chapman, a coachman, in 1869, Annie positioned herself in the top tier of the working class.

But her taste for alcohol and the loss of her children unraveled her family life, and Annie ended up in the East End.

Swedish-born Elizabeth Stride was an immigrant, like thousands of others who lived in the East End.

Born in 1843, she came to England when she was 22. In London, Stride reinvented herself time and time again, becoming a wife and coffeehouse owner.

Catherine Eddowes, who was born in Wolverhampton in 1842 and moved to London as a child, lost both of her parents by the time she was 15.

She spent most of her adulthood with one man, who fathered her children. Before her murder, she had just returned to London after picking hops in Kent, a popular summer ritual for working-class Londoners.

At 25, Mary Jane Kelly was the youngest, and most mysterious, of the Ripper’s victims.

Kelly reportedly claimed she came from Ireland and Wales before settling in London.

She had a small luxury that the others did not: She rented a room with a bed. It would become the scene of her murder.

Yet the longstanding belief that all of these women were sex workers is a myth, as Rubenhold demonstrates in The Five.

Only two of the women — Stride and Kelly — were known to have engaged in sex work during their lives.

The fact that all of them have been labeled sex workers highlights how Victorians saw poor, unhoused women.

“They have been systematically ‘othered’ from society,” Rubenhold says,"even though this is how the majority lived.”

These women were human beings with a strong sense of personhood. According to biographer Robert Hume, their friends and neighbors described them as “industrious,” “jolly,” and “very clean.”

They lived, they loved, they existed — until, very suddenly on a dark night in 1888, they did not.

A long shadow

The discovery of Annie Chapman’s body on September 8 heightened panic in London, since her wounds echoed the shocking brutality of Polly Nichols’ murder days earlier.

Investigators realized that the same killer had likely committed both crimes — and he was still on the loose. Who would he strike next?

In late September, London’s Central News Office received a red-inked letter that claimed to be from the murderer. It was signed “Jack the Ripper.”

Papers across the city took the name and ran with it. Press coverage of the Whitechapel Murders crescendoed to a fever pitch.

Newspapers danced the line between fact and fiction, breathlessly recounting every gruesome detail of the crimes and speculating with wild abandon about the killer’s identity.

Today, that impulse endures, and armchair detectives and professional investigators alike have proposed an endless parade of suspects, including artist Walter Sickert, writer Lewis Carroll, sailor Carl Feigenbaum, and Aaron Kosminski, an East End barber.

"The continued fascination with unmasking the murderer perpetuates this idea that Jack the Ripper is a game,” Rubenhold says.

She sees parallels between the gamification of the Whitechapel Murders and the modern-day obsession with true crime.

“When we approach true crime, most of the time we approach as if it was legend, as if it wasn’t real, as if it didn’t happen to real people.”

“These crimes still happen today, and we are still not interested in the victims,” Rubenhold laments.

The Whitechapel Murders remain unsolved after 135 years, and Rubenhold believes that will never change:

“We’re not going to find anything that categorically tells us who Jack the Ripper is.”

Instead, the murders tell us about the values of the 19th century — and the 21st.

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milknhonies · 4 months

Text

The Spirit of Christmas Eve

Masterlist || Chapter 1 ll Chapter 2

Chapter Summary: After an unexpected visit from your younger, overly pregnant and concerned sister- you are yet again put into a terrible mood. You receive a night visit from the ghost of your predecessor and fall into an abyss of confusion.

Pairing: Chris Evans x f!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Disrespect to Homeless People, R4pe Fantasies, Masturbation, Dark Joke about Abortion, Hinted Xenophobia, Humiliation, Ghosts, Swearing, Alcoholic Use, Drug Use, Classism.

Word Count: 5k

Author Notes: This is a parody of the classic "A Christmas Carol" story by Dickens, I hope you come to enjoy it even though the pov holds cruel, toxic and abusive traits.

❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆

09:00am, 24th December 2023, New York City.

Oh how you hated the holidays. You hated the red and green colouring, you hated the carolling groups and bands singing every day in December leading up to the wretched twenty fifth. You hate the baby Jesus in a manager nativity set ups.

‘Jesus wasn’t even fucking born on Christmas. He was a January baby according to Jewish scholars. It was all a ploy to satisfy and celebrate Yule with pagans before encouraging indoctrination!!’

And the smell of peppermint, gingerbread and fatty sugary foods left you feeling sickly.

“Unnecessary calories to dissolve the enamel of my teeth when it comes back up in the goddamn toilet.”

The cold air and the slippery frost brought you no delight. Along the way you would kick the snow men in your walking path. You despised the bratty children sitting on the Santa laps in the malls.

‘Their parents should know half of those fat ass Santa actors are just paedophiles getting their kicks once a year? Yea I’d love a little boy all prim and plump to sit on my lap if I was a sicko in a red suit too.’

You hated the fact they were bringing Christmas trees in the day after Halloween.

“Sure, it spins the wheel of capitalism but God, do they have to look so trashy? Christmas is once a year, not two months long.”

You rolled your eyes and scoffed as you strutted the street to your work place.

Your senior associate Marlene who you could’ve considered your friend had a heart attack early that year. She was a woman in her prime, at forty years old she had managed to build her business empire. No husband, no kids, no pets. She didn’t need those things, not when she raked in over four million dollars a year. She drank and smoked like a chimney, you wondered if it contributed to her death in the end. She was rumoured to be found naked, getting fucked by some no name sexy twenty-one year old playboy from South Korea. And among her blissful orgasm, her heart just couldn’t handle the pressure and faltered.

Imagine his horror. Balls deep and not knowing she had died. Little shit tried getting her money in the inheritance scheme. He tried pushing that he was her long committed boyfriend. One threat to the immigration department sent that kid running for the kills back to Seoul.

You were named successor in her Will. Now, it’s not like you needed her millions, you already had a full pocket. At twenty five you’d made your first million all because you picked the right pattern in your investments and put every cent into them. You worked instead of partied. And many had said behind your back that it made you a miserable sourpuss bitch with no friends. You didn’t need friends. Marlene was just a funny coincidence.

Some might have called you careless, impulsive, and greedy. But what that translates to you was the word ‘Wealth and Success’. You were wealthy and money made you happy. The more numbers, the more joy in your cold heart.

You entered the building that was now yours. Oh did I forget to remind you...you were the CEO of your tax collecting firm. I think that’s important for you to know.

Entering the sleek grey, white and black minimalist foyer you sighed in relief. No Christmas or holiday bullshit in here. You had banned all decorations and affiliations.

And you refused paid leave to anyone asking not to work on Christmas day. You remember scoffing last night at the amount of requests you had received about time off for the holidays.

‘I’m running a business, not a charity.’

Christmas was the best time of year for your job. So many stupid people take out stupid loans they can’t afford especially during the holidays period when gift giving is the centre cause of financial stress. You got a thrill out of denying loans and upping payment interest rates for those suckers who didn’t make their payments on time because they chose to spend the money meant to be going into your pocket on some disposable wrapping paper and a cheap pharmacy gift last minute.

As you stepped into the elevator you smiled cynically at the empty space. You could look at yourself in the mirror and pick apart all the things you loved and hated about your body. It was strangely therapeutic. Something about the critiques gave you a massive high.

But just as the elevator doors where closing a hand slammed hard through the gap.

“Wait!” came a familiar cry. Your face fell and you felt a tight discomfort seeing the face of your younger sister. Caroline.

Your eyes shot down to her belly. Big as a house in the ugliest knit Christmas sweater.

‘Pregnant again. Jesus Christ. What’s this? Number four now?’

You clenched your handbag tighter. You tried recalling some sort of baby shower invite from months ago, you totally forgot about it once you moved it to junk mail.

‘If she fucking asks me for money again, I swear to god she’s risking an abortion voucher in a Christmas card...are abortion vouchers even a thing?’

Caroline had married her highschool sweetheart, he was some sort of mechanic or something. A bum, like your Dad. You couldn’t believe she was dumb enough to breed with an imbecile like him. Mind you, her first son was clearly an teen pregnancy accident that sealed them together. And every year, she just seemed to pop out a new one. And every year that meant you gave her a fat cheque, usually six thousand dollars.

You ground your teeth as she forced herself inside and pressed the button of the doors shut immediately, not at all taking notice of you until mid way moving up in the building.

Her face lit up and she shrieked in delight at seeing you. You strained a smile.

‘Yea, definitely looking for a handout.’

“Oh my god! I was about to fight security to come see you sissy!” she forced her arms around you. You bit your tongue. You hated hugs.

“Well…lovely seeing you too,” you muttered before awkwardly patting her back.

Her breath hitched at seeing the look on your face, “Sorry about not pre-warning, I did try calling you but your phone keeps going to voicemail.”

‘Oh good, she still hasn’t figured out I let them ring out.’

“And you didn’t reply to my emails.”

You fought a smirk, ‘because they go straight to junk mail’.

She smiled and babbled happily, “Anyway, I had to come here because I need to give you-“ she huffed and swiped a bead of sweat from her forehead before reaching into her nappy bag (that she treated like a handbag.) and retrieved a thick red envelope.

She handed it to you. Your manicured nails pinched the ugly stickers one of your nephews or nieces had chosen. Scribbled in absolute chicken scrap handwriting was your name, most likely also done by your nephew or nieces.

The elevator opened and you sighed, marching out to enter the offices with your solo office space down the hall with the largest window and finest view of the city below. You didn’t expect your sister to tail you. She waddled like a fast duck following you.

“I was thinking you should meet this guy that babysits-” She was talking to you about something but in all honesty, you weren’t listening until she mentioned the cursed words, “-Christmas Party.”

You deposited your handbag on your desk and spun on your heel. Your eyes wide, your smile straining into a sneer.

You snickered cruelly and laced your fingers together, “How many times have we discussed this? I. Don’t. Celebrate. Christmas. I don’t do presents, I don’t do carolling, I don’t do secret Santa’s and I sure as fucking hell don’t do Christmas Parties. I’m glad that you and Tim have fun with your kids and do all that meaningless stuff to shield them from the big bad world. I however am not in the mood for it. Work comes first. This is one of the busiest years of my life, the market is at an all time high in interests rates.”

She looked like she was growing smaller with every foul word that dripped like acid rain.

“It’s just one day, not even a full day. Just a few hours, not far from you,” she whispered and rubbed her belly comfortingly.

You shook your head and circled around your desk, “Might as well get this over with, you don’t need to ploy me with booze.”

You pulled out a cheque book from your drawer and slapped it down. You bent over and fished out a pen, pressing the ink to the slim piece of paper.

Your voice came out like a bark, “How much are you wanting this year?”

“Wh-what?” your sisters eyes grew wide.

You sighed and rolled your eyes, with a condescending tone, “How much money do you want to cover all the gifts? I hear Disneyland is great this time of year in Florida. I need a number. I have a busy day ahead of me so I’d just like to get this over and done with.”

Your sister didn’t answer. You glanced up. Her face was no longer smiling. She looked in pain. Her hand sat on top of her belly. She hissed and breathed out hard.

Her eyes were dimming down. She lost the joyful spark. She waddled to the guest chair in front of your desk and sat down.

She put the nappy bag on the floor.

‘great, thanks for the smell of cornflakes and breast milk on the carpet.’

Her breath turned husky and you started to reach for your desk phone ready to call a bloody ambulance to take her to the hospital. You couldn’t tell what the hell was wrong with her and prayed she wasn’t going into labour. You didn’t need to waste five thousand dollars on a carpet replacement because her waters might break.

Her eyes glared up at you as she tried to focus on pacing her breath. God, she looked like your mother with that look. It hurt. She got the best genes you had to admit. Even while pregnant she had this way about her that made men just want to beg for her number. You couldn’t tell if it was her ditsy personality or just good looks.

“Jim," Caroline corrected with strain, "-and I don’t need your money. We don’t want it. We have never have wanted it. This year, I just want you to put in the effort to spend Christmas with us as a family. You and I haven’t shared a Christmas since I was in middle school. My kids want their aunty to visit because I tell them you’re the coolest person alive...” her eyes narrowed, “Put the fucking cheque book away, and come to fucking Christmas dinner at least. It’s going to be at my house if you look at the invite that your nephew and nieces made special for you. They don’t want presents, they just want to see their aunty. Besides.... I told them you’d come if they put extra love into it.”

You chewed your inner cheek and stood up straight, crossing your arms and sat on the edge of your desk.

“You shouldn’t lie to your kids, Caroline,” you coolly said with icy impact.

You watched her eyes start to shine and water.

“Jesus,” you muttered, “Don’t fucking cry.”

She broke down immediately. You sighed with annoyance. ‘why did she have to come today of all days and act like this. It’s not a big deal. God.’

“You’re such a bitch and my kids have done nothing to you except love you unconditionally. The least you can do is show up,” Caroline struggled to stand out of the chair and when you reached out to help, she snapped like a firecracker and hissed, “Don’t fucking touch me.”

She groaned as she bent down, holding her belly and reached for her nappy bag, that she let you help her with. She suddenly looked so tired and deflated compared to when she had ducked into the elevator. You started to feel a tick of that itchy sympathy. Pregnancy always looked hard. Her first birth was so difficult, the second slipped right out but she didn’t have an epidural and the third time was an emergency c-section. In fact you weren’t even sure if she was meant to be having this fourth baby. It would be too risky. She could honestly kill herself. Now that was a bolt of fear that coursed through you.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” you sniffled, trying to distract your little sister from her anger.

She looked even more offended and scoffed, “You know, if you had even tried to come to my baby shower, you could’ve eaten one of the gender reveal cupcakes.”

‘Ouch.’

You looked down at your Valentino pumps. Seven years younger than you and she still managed to put you in your place with the snap of her fingers.

She rubbed her wet eyes with the tips of her fingers.

“I worry about you...” she mumbled, “You might have a lot of money Y/N, but money can’t buy you everything. Don’t you want to share memories?”

You tried hiding the laugh limbing your throat,, “Not this argument again...come on, I’ll walk you out and hire you a cab.”

You escorted her back to the elevator, all your employees watching and whispering about it. You knew your office needed thicker glass.

As you quietly pressed the button down, your sister finally said, “It’s twins. A boy and girl.”

You didn’t say anything for a while. Eventually you only nodded and whispered, “Congratulations. You and Tim must be excited.”

“Jim," she grounded, "-and I are flat out on our feet with the others but yea...I’m thinking about naming the girl after mom.”

Again you didn’t respond. You wanted this interaction to be finished. You wanted to go to work and drink away the days leading up to New Year’s. Maybe you should take a trip overseas. You might run into a handsome one night stand with an attractive accent.

Your sister turned and hugged you again, she rubbed her sweet face into your shoulder and sighed, “I’m sorry for snapping. Please don’t be mad. Please promise me you’ll come to the party, even for five minutes.”

Her pleading eyes finally cracked your ice wall.

“Fine. Five minutes.”

The squealing giggle of delight made you groan internationally instantly regretting your words. Nonetheless you took it upon yourself to at least hug her back. God help you, you didn’t know how you’d survive.

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10:00pm, 24th December 2023, New York City.

On your way home you discovered with aggravation all the cabs and ubers nearby had been booked up and the traffic in the city horrendous. Of course. On Christmas eve it would look like this. You decided to march your way to the subway. It would be the quickest way back home.

You had to cross the park to get there though.

And among your walking you passed a man laying down on a bench. He wore a baseball cap that hid his face. He wore a blanket over his shoulders. A puff of cold air escaped his pink lips.

His shadowed face peered up at you and held up a piece of cardboard that read the following: Homeless, please donate a food and blankets.

And something inside you cracked again. You fought the urge to pull out your purse and give him the only hundred dollar bill you had. You looked him up and down. And froze. Next to him was a bottle of liquor. Something malicious dripped from your lips. Words filled with cruelty and hate. It was bold and dangerous. But you bet he was drunk.

“What’s wrong? Aren’t there any shelters taking in scum? Are all the prisons full? Maybe if you got off your ass and got a real fucking job, you would be too busy making money instead of swilling down booze!”

He did not react in the way you expected. He smiled at an ankle, winked and held a finger up to his lips.

Your face curdled in disgust and hacked back your throat, spitting on him.

“Booze bum,” you muttered, and marched on, away from him.

Your chin jerked high. It was a method of teaching you had learnt in your youth. Shame someone until they commit to a goal and out perform it. To this day you are still doing that very thing, why not share that gift of knowledge with others?

You scowled the entire train ride home and flicked through your emails.

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11:10pm, 24th December 2023, New York City.

Alone in your penthouse apartment, you padded your way to bed scrolling through your phone. In your hand you cradled a wine glass and set it on the bedside table.

Beneath the soft cotton covers you sighed happily and used your phone to command the fireplace to be lit up. A fake flame on a flat screen tv with heaters all around you, filling your place with warmth. Laying back into your pillows you scrolled your phone and frowned at all the Christmas themed posts online, all the tutorials and recipes you’d never follow and all the Christmas stories you’d never read.

Tossing the phone beside your wine glass, your hands snuck down into a drawer and retrieved your absolute best friend in the world. She was thick, long and quiet, totally sky blue and had twenty different settings. You slid the vibrator under the covers and shimmied out of your underwear. Your fingers fumbled, touching your wet cunt.

The alcohol was finally hitting you, warming you up. You weakly reached for your vibrator. You knew it would be a comfort to take away the anger and stress away from your day at work.

You pressed the silicone to your clit and switched on the toy. A soft sigh came from you as you rubbed it along your lower lips. You fluttered your eyes shut and tried to imagine a person and you having sex.

‘A policeman? No. College professor? No. Loser doorman? No…’ and then your eyes flickered in a quick vision of the homeless man from the park… ‘Yes. He must be miserable, pissed off, angry, he smiled but that would have been a lie, his long finger he held to his mouth should stuff itself inside me.’

Your hand slid up and pulled down the front of your night down. You dug your nails into your breast before tugging your nipple hard. You whined as you bucked your hips into your toy that you playfully prodded and tore out of you. You imagined that same stranger ripping your dress from your body and dragging you into the snowy woods.

Rape fantasies weren’t uncommon for you. It was something about the power struggle that sent thrills up and down your spine. You liked the pain. You liked being forced to give up your control. You slid the plastic cock deep into your slick pussy and mewled.

The homeless man would hold a knife to your throat and bend you over a log, no, no, that bench, so out and open and public for anyone to catch him tearing you apart. His hand would lick your skin in stinging slaps. The alcohol on his breath would be putrid. He’d call you names, whore, slut, bitch, cunt, fuckpig. And you would be totally helpless…

You lazily rolled over onto your belly and forced your ass up, your bed sheets falling down your thighs.

You pushed the dildo back in deep and turned on the highest setting, biting the pillow under you. You fucked yourself hard until it hurt.

The homeless man fantasy went on and on, forcing you to cum and cry. You didn’t care if neighbours or tenants below you heard. You imagined this terrible man after fucking you raw making you sit in his filthy lap, fucking you with the empty liquor bottle neck and letting strangers walking past the chance to spit on you and slap you until you cummed.

The fantasy didn’t have a fanciful ending fleshed out. You could only imagine him dragging you back to some ghetto homeless tent village under one of the city bridges and whoring your cunt out to his homeless buddies. You wanted to submit, to be used like that…

But not in the real world. Fuck no. Your reputation mattered greatly. You were too stubborn to willingly date a man and ask him to do something taboo like consensual non-consent play.

You tore the blue cock out and pressed it to your clit, riding out an ultimate orgasm that left your body feeling like jelly. Slumping forward you groaned into the pillows, you knew you had to eventually get up and pee. The alcohol still in your system made the journey feel almost impossible. But when your bare ass hit the seat, you leant back and sighed. 'UTI prevented!'

Getting back to bed wasn’t as hard as getting to the bathroom. You breathed in the smell of your own sexual prowess. No shame. You put away your toy and before you could search for your discarded underwear, you heard your phone pinged. You grunted with annoyance.

You glanced at the screen; it was a text from Caroline.

*Told the kids you are coming tomorrow! They’re so excited to see their aunty! Xoxo*

‘oh right…her Christmas party…it’s tomorrow…' you still hadn’t even looked at the invitation. Anger started burning its way into your chest when you saw the emojis and gifs she attached. Santa and reindeers and snowmen. God you fucking hated Christmas!! She didn’t need to remind you. You didn’t plan to be there longer than the strick three hundred seconds. The miserable evil stabbed your heart again.

It out you so over the edge you began to type, *Tell them I changed my mind, I’m busy.*

Before your thumb could slam on the message send, something strange occurred. The penthouse apartment lights started to flicker on and off repeatedly.

‘A circuit must’ve snapped. I know I turned off all the lights.’

You slammed your phone down and ripped off your bed sheets. Marching over to the telecom beside you door you prepared the mental speech of anger and abuse you’d deliver on whatever poor soul was handling the front desk of the apartment complex tonight.

You pressed the button hard and when no welcoming comment came you decided to wait.

You waited and waited and still no one acknowledged you over the telecom. There was a noise coming from it though. It was a sound of ragged breathing. Squinting with absolute judgement you hissed into the microphone.

You sobered up your voice and rubbed your eyes. Your wine was knocking around your insides at that point, it had polluted your blood. You just needed to stay awake for a little longer.

“This is penthouse three. Your lights are dimming and flickering out. I want someone to change all that bulbs and check the power wires immediately. Do I make myself clear?”

The unusual panting was still there and getting louder. You shook your head. Someone should’ve been repeating back your request and discussing a mode of action.

“Hello?” you angrily huffed into the microphone when no answer came for a long time.

You hissed, “Now you listen here. I don’t give a fuck it’s Christmas eve. You’re job is on the line if you cant fix my fucking lights.”

And then the line went totally dead and your apartment was entirely darkened. You groaned with anguish. Using your phone flash light you returned to your room.

“Fine,” you grumbled as you pulled the covers Of your bed back again, “Probably too drunk on eggnog to give a damn. Say goodbye to those two dollar tips dickhead.”

You laid back and fished out your bonnet, carefully lipping your hair inside the protective layer. You rolled onto your side under the covers and shut your eyes.

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12:00am, 25th December 2023, New York City.

For some reason at 12am you received a very obnoxiously loud phone call. Blindly you reached for it and accepted the call. You had a suspicion it was a prank call from overseas.

“Y/N,” said the caller. Your eyes cleared up fast at the sound of a voice you knew too well.

You almost dropped your phone. Surely it wasn’t her calling. You had seen her body at her funeral. She chuckled on the other side, her voice was just as rusted as you remembered. In the dream she had come over to your house and had a sleep over together.

Your eyes widened, “Wh-who is this?” you asked, “Do you fucking know what time it is?”

The identical voice of your passed companion echoed back, “In life you knew me as Marlene Jeong.”

You hung up the phone fast and sat up straight. Her hands trembled and the phone screamingly made another phone call from the same unknown number.

You answered it and heard her shriek, “Don’t you know hanging up like that is rude.”

You took a deep breath in. And shut your eyes. No. It couldn’t be.

“This prank isnt funny,” you barked into the receiver.

“Well I’d hope not. You know I wasn’t a fan of funny,” she grumbled back.

You picked up the phone and huffed, “If you’re really Marlene...tell me something only I would know...”

The phone went quiet and clicked off. You smirked, 'Yea, that's what I thought you sick fuck.'

The air around you grew colder. With the power out you accepted that the central heating was out too. Getting out of bed you stumbled down the hall to the linen cupboard and pulled out a few more thicker blankets. When you returned back to your room you screamed and jumped ten feet in the air, dropping the load of blankets.

Marlene was sitting on your bed, scrolling through your phone. She was not herself and yet was at the same time. She looked the same except for the fact her entire body was a light blue and translucent. She was naked. And you could see her translucent organs. In her hand was a false spiritual cigarette. Smoking rising from the tip and faded into the darkness. And don’t let me forget a important detail. She was floating and parts of her body wrapped in chains.

Hearing you, she turned her face away from your phone and winked. You slammed back into a wall, trying to get away from her as she floated closer to you. She took a mean drag of her cigarette and blew the smoke into your fear filled face. You could’ve fainted. The smoke didn’t smell like anything and was rather a cold breeze to your cheek.

You flinched and whimpered, “Marlene...what the fuck.”

She smirked and rolled mid air upside down,

“Long time no see. Or well...you can’t see me but I see you basically every day,” she cackled.

Your lips fell apart, “Wha-how- why...why are you hear? Should you be dead?”

She flicked the cigarette of ash that turned into blue light specs and disappeared before touching the floor.

“Oh trust dear, I’m dead, dead as a doornail. Little Kyong gave me a killer orgasm, literally,” she took another long drag, “I had no clue what was coming and poof! I’m on the floor choking and groaning and next thing I wake up to, is you moving your shit into my office and my penthouse. But I digress sweet snake...I’m not here on a social call...I’m here to send you a warning.”

Your head felt dizzy, “A warning? The fuck? Am I going to die soon or something?” you wrapped your arms around yourself.

She smiled and shook her head, “Oh no...no, no....something a tad more painful. See, I have been sent to play 'angel Gabriel' so to speak and inform you of a supernatural message.”

She floated around, chains at her wrist dragged behind her as she did. Marlene sharpened her gaze at you.

‘Woah did I take one too many Percocet with my wine...I must be high.’

“You are saveable unlike my dead cold self,” she said flying back to your bed and lewdly laying down, “My dead frozen heart could not thaw,” she sighed and tapped her chest.

You could see inside her at the organ most resembling heart was literally made of icy and was not beating. It was disturbing.

“I’m destined to float while tethered to the world unseen, unheard, unloved…forgotten. But you? You still have a chance to atone. A spirit shall arrive and come to you in three shades…Christmas past, present and future. It shall greet you hourly between one and three o’clock.”

You timidly stepped closer.

“You need to open your mind and open your heart or else-“ she floated above you and groaned, “This will be your future fate.”

You rubbed your eyes and slapped your cheek. Marlene’s ghost was still there. She held up her wrist, showing off the manacle around it, “This is a fate no one wishes, trust me on that.”

Her face leant in closer to your face. Her hair floated around her like water tendrils.

She rattled the chains together, clinking them and explained, “The spirit will test you. And they will test you fairly. They will decide what to do with you after. They call themselves, Christmas past, present and future.”

When she had said these words, Marlenes ghost faded away, disappearing into the cold, quiet night. It took you a few minutes to catch your breath. You couldn’t believe or make sense of it and no matter how many times you pinched of slapped yourself, you found yourself still in the unexplainable dream. You tossed the blankets from the floor onto the bed. You had another drink of wine before you chose to return to bed. You tugged the warmest and softest blanket up to your chin. You were scared and confused. Your eyes grew heavier as you forced yourself to forget and ignore the apparition of Marlene chained nude and talking in riddles.

You laid your cheek into the pillow and fell into a deep slumber.

HELPINES:

If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline services

India Helpline Services

#chris evans x female reader #chris evans x y/n #chris evans x you #chris evans x reader #chris evans #dark!chris evans #tsoc

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