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themidnightcrimson · 2 years

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the human psyche—one. | w. maximoff

summary: in which a visit to your psychologist precedes the murder of your girlfriend and leaves you questioning yourself.

warnings: manipulation, murder, gore, sexual tension, mental distress (don’t we all)

this post is for 18+ only. minors: do not interact.

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"Do you ever think about hurting her?"

The question had struck you entirely off guard. The small dark green leather sofa on which you sat squeaked in response, the decorative buttons deepening until it felt like you were sinking into the furniture. You were cold—it was always cold in this office, which you felt was a paradox. The office of a psychologist should be warm and comforting, inviting and relaxing. All the other therapists you visited had colorful offices with bright yet natural lights and peaceful, abstract artwork hanging on the walls with lively plants in every corner.

This office was dim and cold. This didn't mean it was not stylish—the coffee-colored desk paired with the dark green furniture and classic paintings hanging on the walls uttered every sense of meticulous style. You had imagined that every piece of decor in the office was carefully picked out to go along with the adult, academic theme. Even the Victorian windows made you feel like you were sitting in an Architectural Digest magazine. Your psychologist was a good one, and a fashionable one.

Even her clothes were always tasteful. Today she wore a navy blue suit with a loose off-white blouse and a shiny golden square of a petite watch on her wrist. Around her fingers were matching rings, and in her hand was the pen with which she was writing notes in her journal. You'd always wondered what therapists were writing in your file when you visited them. Wanda never wrote as much they did, it seemed, and while with the others you could reasonably calculate what they were writing based on what you were saying in the given moment, Wanda scribbled at odd times. Maybe she just had a different technique, and maybe that was why you found her to be the best therapist you ever had.

You'd been with her for about two months which, compared to the others, was a very long time. You went from one-and-done visits to seeing this woman every week, and you'd even progressed from calling her Dr. Maximoff to simply Wanda, though intermittently. Strangely, the better you felt, the more you felt you needed to see her. It was supposed to be the opposite, but here you were, in for the second time this week. But you didn't feel better.

Your girlfriend was someone Wanda knew very well. Not that she had ever met her, but because she was the topic of most of your discussions as of the last few weeks. You had been with your girlfriend for a while now, and it had also been a while since her words of love had turned into words of venom. She was only a shell of the girl you had fell in love with now, but her possessive ways left you feeling incapable of leaving her. Also, you had no one else. She was really the only person in your life, and even though she was a terrible one, you couldn't leave her for the fear of being alone.

You had been telling Wanda about your last argument when your girlfriend had brought that exact point up. "What are you gonna do, leave me?" she had spat at you, rearing close to you and snatching your wrist bruisingly. "Who will you have then, y/n? Who? No one." Her words were still richocheting around your head like a bullet, fragmenting parts of your brain with each incessant hit.

Wanda had listened silently, letting you ramble on until your frustrations had turned into rage. You never thought of yourself as an angry person, but here lately...

"I'm so sick of her," you had said through gritted teeth. "I wish she would just... go away. I'd rather have fucking no one than to have her. She's such a bitch. She thinks she controls me, that I'm just a fucking charity case for her. God, I wish she would just..." You stopped, realizing that your fists were balled so tight that your knuckles were as white as the paper Wanda had stopped scribbling on. You could feel your blood pooling in your cheeks, your heartbeat thumping right in your ears. You were even hunched over rather unflatteringly, and realizing just how angry you had become, you finally took a deep breathe and straightened, relaxing against the uncomfortable sofa. The nearly unbearable pressure in your head faded, leaving you slightly lightheaded. "I'm sorry," you told Wanda, your blush of rage turning to one of embarrassment as you met her unreadable gaze. "I'm sorry, I—”

"Do you ever think about hurting her?" came the question from Wanda. Her head was cocked to the right, her eyes slightly squinted but still wide and absorptive. You always felt like she was a sponge, soaking up every drop of your presence. It felt invasive at times, as if she was standing right inside your head and watching your thoughts pass by, but you chocked it up to her just being a really good therapist.

"What?" you scoffed, and for some reason a nervous chuckle escaped your chest as if your lungs were trying to cough something up. You swallowed whatever it was down. "No," you sharply spoke. "No, of course not—why would you ask me that?" The cold room started to rise in temperature.

"It's only in the human nature to feel a need to protect ourselves and the ones we love, even if it’s from the ones we love," Wanda offered smoothly, her voice soft and drawing. "She is hurting you. Your natural defense may be to strike back."

"I-I don't want to hurt her," you laughed again, quickly removing the smile from your face. There was nothing funny about it, but you had a tendency to laugh in these nervous situations. But why were you so nervous that you had to fiddle with the collar of your shirt to breathe better?

"Y/n, it's perfectly normal to have intrusive thoughts. In fact, having a safe, open space to verbalize them can help them to go away." She tilted her head further, ticking the end of her pen against the notebook. She stood up suddenly, and your throat seemed to tighten.

She was so tall, you noted, as she walked around her desk with her hand trailing the wooden edge, her heels echoing in the spacious, silent office. She came around to the front of the desk, standing only a foot from you, and leaned against the edge of it.

"I may be a woman of the mind, but I am also a woman of science," Wanda began, her cool green eyes watching you closely as you looked up at her. She had never moved from behind that desk before, and now she was so close, and the light from the window made her face look so pretty. "A scientist must first gather his data, his evidence, before he can make any kind of hypothesis."

You squirmed in the sofa. "What kind of hypothesis are you trying to make of me?" you halfway accused. You never remembered saying anything to her about your intrusive thoughts, and therefore whatever suggestion she was making about was entirely rootless. It felt like an ambush, an accusation.

Wanda clearly saw that she had approached the situation entirely wrong by the nervousness on your face. Her face softened as she thought for a moment before rewording, "I can't help you unless you're honest with me, unless you help me know you better. I am a psychologist, not a mind reader."

A smirk carved the edges of her lips, and you noticed a strange glint in her eye. What did she mean by that? As much as it seemed Wanda could read your mind, you could never understand hers.

She added in a soft whisper, "Tell me the thoughts you have, y/n." Wanda then leaned forward, reaching out her hand and resting it on your knee—that's just how close she was to you. Her hand was warm and firm, almost able to wrap entirely around your knee. You glanced down to it, feeling heat spark all throughout your leg and through your body, bringing a slight sweat to your hairline. You couldn't help but imagine her hand sliding up your thigh—Wanda was a beautiful woman after all. She was keen, intimidating, mysterious. Her eyes always seemed to pierce right through you, and even though she had just said she couldn't read your mind, it always felt like she knew what you were trying to say without you saying it.

Something twitched across Wanda's lips as she watched you, unblinking. Then you started to think about what she had asked you. Had you had thoughts of hurting your girlfriend? You were not that kind of person, even though your partner was. She had never hit you, persay, but she was overall a self-righteous and unkind person who never minded grabbing you in ways that hurt whenever you didn't tell her what she wanted to hear. You thought back to the argument, when she had grabbed you and said such cruel words. You both were standing right in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows in your apartment on the tenth floor of the complex. In that moment, you had been filled with so much grief, so much frustration, so much loneliness and suffocation, that you had, in fact, briefly imagined just pushing her right through the window. You remembered it now, as if you had only then realized your thoughts, and a wave of terror flooded you at the thought. You could never do something like that. It was only an intrusive thought, like Wanda had told you. It was normal. It didn't mean you were capable of such a thing, right?

Either way, there was no way on hell or earth you would ever admit to thinking such a thing. You would be locked away, probably, intrusive thought or not.

"I don't have those thoughts," you firmly told Wanda, noticing that her grip on your leg had tightened. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it was strong. Your heart was beating so fast in your chest now.

Wanda seems to finally comply, realizing that she couldn't get something out of you that you didn't want to tell. She took her hand away from your knee, and it felt like a noose around your neck had loosened. She only nodded slowly, finally blinking, to signal to you that she understood. But the nod felt like a different kind of understanding—not of your reluctance to talk, but of what you were reluctant to say. It was like a nod of approval, that her so-called hypothesis of your intentions had been confirmed, like she had stepped through the door of your mind, saw what she needed to see, and closed it with a sense of calm victory in being right.

For the first time, you left Dr. Maximoff's office feeling worse than when you had came.

After your shift at work, which was gruesome as always, your girlfriend wasn't home yet. You were guiltily relieved at the fact, so you took a nap of emotional exhaustion. It had been daylight when you went to sleep, and you were awoken by a flash of red light through your closed eyelids. You jumped awake with an adrenaline-fueled start, looking around to find the cause of such a strange flash of red light. You had expected to see a fire, but when another bright flash of red light filled your vision followed by a burst of bright blue, and then the sound of wailing sirens, you realized it was an ambulance or the police. You turned to see the lights coming through your bedroom window—they must have been right outside in the parking lot. You called your girlfriend's name, and when you got no response, you looked to your alarm clock to see that it was now the middle of the night—how had you slept for so long? Where was your girlfriend?

Disgruntled by all the noise and lights, you pulled your unusually heavy body out of bed and went into the living room to look out of the larger windows to get a better view of what was going on, but you were startled to see the sight of your windows. Through the red lights flashing right into your dark apartment, your window was smashed open. The shattered glass formed an opening the size of a body. Still confused from sleep, you walked towards the window, avoiding the shards of glass on the floor. You were standing right in the opening now, looking down at the flood of police cars and ambulances in the parking lot right in front of your window. Policemen and paramedics were all rushing towards the building, right below you, and your gaze followed them until your eyes landed upon what felt like a nightmare. There, on the ground, covered in blood and twisted and mangled, was your girlfriend.

It had been a week. The funeral was yesterday, and you still had not processed what had happened. Grief didn't come easy to you. You had just lost your girlfriend, the only person in your life, so suddenly. How was a human supposed to register that fully? It was already the most horrible thing to happen to you, but the worst part about it was that you were being questioned by the FBI. You weren't a suspect—yet—but you had been called in twice now to go over what had happened. You told them the same thing, that you were asleep and that you woke up, and she was on the ground ten stories below. They kept asking you if you heard a break-in, or how you didn't hear the smashing of the window. You had nothing to say to them, which made you look even more guilty. You were just as dumbfounded and confused as them as to why you heard nothing until the lights and sirens woke you up. They seemed to sort of believe you, but all the evidence was against you. The only thing they had against their suspicions was that they weren't able to find any fingerprints on her body to signal that she had been pushed off. It was good that they didn't find your fingerprints, but it was worse that they didn't find any at all. It made you look like an OJ case, but you didn't even own a pair of gloves.

You felt like it was only a waiting game before they came and got you. You couldn't even afford lawyers, for God's sake. You were just a cook at a restaurant, whose money all went to the expensive therapy you had been seeking your entire life. In fact, instead of lawyering up, that's where you were now—with Wanda.

Wanda had kept her professional reservations as you sobbed on her sofa. She sat behind her desk, as emotionless and observant as ever, choosing to keep quiet for most of the session and just let you talk. You told her about the entire situation, the accident and the questioning. You were tangled between grief and guilt with no clear reason for it all. Finally, you had no words left to say, and Wanda gave a few moments of silence to clear the air as you wiped your tears, finally calming down.

"I'm so sorry for your loss, y/n," she said empathetically. "You must be feeling so many things right now. Grief, guilt… relief."

Your ears perked at her choice of wording, raising your teary eyes from your clasped hands to look at her with confusion. "Guilt—relief?" you croaked.

"I know you loved your girlfriend, y/n," Wanda began with a sort of sigh, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her desk. "But you were a victim to her abuse. That abuse is gone now, and naturally your mind feels relief to never be under her cruel hold again. That, naturally, is the most confusing feeling to a simultaneously grieving mind."

You were wordless as your eyes fell to the floor. She wasn't entirely wrong—but it felt so wrong.

"As for guilt... it's the most common thread I see in my patients who deal with a loss." You couldn't help but notice a sort of patronizing tone in her voice, and you wondered if it had always been there. "What if they had been there? What if they had stopped it from happening? Sometimes they feel guilt to such an extreme that they manage to convince themselves that they are the reason for their loved one's death." She paused as your eyes caught hers sharply. "They feel almost as if their loved one's blood is... on their hands."

A strange feeling filled you all at once. Do you feel guilty? Do you feel like the cause of her death? Like you're the one who did it? You imagined yourself pushing your girlfriend through that window, the shattering glass flooding her screams before a sickening squelch on the concrete down below... You shut your eyes. You were beginning to become wildly upset, like you were going to puke.

Wanda could see this, and she quickly stood up from her desk chair and walked towards you, taking a seat beside you on the sofa. You felt tense at her closeness, and even more tense when she carefully took your hand and held it in hers. Her hands were warm again as they cradled yours, soft yet firm. Her shoulder brushed against yours, and you could smell her sweet cologne, and you felt dizzy.

"It's okay to feel what you are feeling, y/n," Wanda whispered close to you, almost as if she was right beside your ear. "These deep, ugly parts of the human psyche often go untapped for the entirety of a person’s life, but they are in everyone. Dark thoughts, desires, impulses—they reside in each and every one of us."

One hand left yours, and you felt it tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. You turned your teary eyes up to her, eyebrows sewn together as you tried to put together what she was trying to tell you. Her face was inches from yours, those haunting green eyes burning into you. You noticed her eyes flicker to the lower half of your face, her tongue stroking her lower lip discreetly before she turned her eyes up to yours again and resumed the mask you had only then started to notice.

"It takes a high level of cognitive function and human empathy to be capable of feeling what you are feeling right now, y/n," she said to you almost desperately. She didn't feel like your psychologist right now, as her hand pressed your lower back and seemed to lean you closer to her. She continued carefully, "Only few on this earth can. You should feel proud."

You felt like you were in a daze in that moment, wrapped up in the heat radiating from her body, now leaning closer to her without her having to guide you with her hand. Then her words finally registered in your clouded head—proud.

You sharply stood up from the sofa, nearly slapping her hand away. Wanda looked up at you in feigned confusion and concern.

"Proud?!" you repeated. "You think I should feel proud that my girlfriend is dead and I feel like I did it!" You nearly choked on your words as your tears blurred Wanda's face and morphed it into something monstrous. "I didn't! I didn't do it! I didn't fucking kill her!"

You turned away, feeling as if you were going to fall over, as you opened her office door and stormed through it, slamming it so hard that the painting on her wall nearly fell off.

#wanda maximoff #scarlet witch #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maxmoff x y/n #wanda maximoff series #wanda maximoff x f!reader #elizabeth olsen #lizzie olsen #lesbian #lgbt #marvel #smut #nsft #crimsonween #dark!fic #dark!wanda maximoff

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idesofrevolution · 1 year

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The Architect

It was supposed to be my magnum opus. Ravenswood- my last creation and my forever home. For years I had suffered and degraded myself in firms filled with peons who wouldn't know architectural integrity if it hit them on the nose, and when I finally finished that last project, it took all of fifteen minutes for me to type up my resignation and slap it on the boss' desk. I'd gotten the severance I'd worked nearly 31 years for, and had built up the name Drake Astramore to a prominent name in the business. Finally, I was free. Free to create unrestricted by the trivial boundaries set by those beneath me.

Work was slow in the beginning, my modern designs never seemed to convey the right mood or tone which I was seeking. Completely dejected, I resorted to corresponding with a peer of my own caliber who specialized in Eastlake-Tradition Victorian revival: James Lafreniere. The man was perhaps in his late 80's, far past his prime, but I did value his insight purely to help spur some sort of creative spark. He insisted on a large, rambling estate on a large plot just outside the city. He envisioned towers, stained glass, mahogany... some vacuous opulence that did not speak to my taste whatsoever. I was unconvinced, I saw Victorian architecture as tasteless fluff and ornamentation. Though, as old Mr. Lafreniere pushed, I suppose I did cave in quite a bit. His design was based on some sort of "sacred geometry" he'd studied while in Haiti some time ago. The man was a dog with a bone, frantically trying to persuade me into confirming his "spiritualist" idea for the house. The more he pressed, the less I firmly stood my ground. After all, I was happy with the layout he'd drafted and with my final additions and perfections to his concept, I was satisfied.

Thus, on that foggy winters day, a mere week or two since old Lafreniere was dead and buried, the house was nearing completion after nearly 13 months. I was coming in to do a final inspection, specifically confirming the four crystal chandeliers that were to be placed in the ballroom. Reynolds, the contractor I had hired, went radio silent two days prior, and I was eager to give him a modicum of advice on professionalism. As I pulled up to the antique wrought iron gates, I was perturbed to see them still chained tightly with a large padlock. I had no key, and had no response from Reynolds. Just as I prepared to go to the local hardware store to purchase a pair of bolt cutters, I saw a bulldozer slowly meandering up the gravel driveway through the dense fog. Perhaps Reynolds hadn't abandoned me as I'd thought. Exiting the car, I stood behind the iron gates as the machine came to a halt just on the other side. The door opened and instead of the middle aged potbelly which I had hired, a young man with a peculiar look in his eye exited the vehicle and sat on the steps of the machine.

"Who are you?" The young man glibly chided from his perch.

"What the hell do you mean who am I? I am the owner of this property. Who are you?" He sat idly staring me up and down, some flippant smirk forming slowly on his face. He hopped down, his massive rubber boots landing in a puddle, splashing muddy water up and down his clothes.

"Mr. Astramore, I was wondering if I'd ever get to meet you in person." He sauntered over to the gates, unlocking the heavy padlock as the gates creaked open on their own. I hadn't recalled requesting hydraulic automation on the main gate, but I assumed incorrectly that it was part of the system I'd purchased. "The name is Jimmy. Reynolds proved to be... unreliable on the job. So the company sent me as a replacement. I'm surprised you hadn't heard."

"I most certainly have not heard. I should like to have known about staffing changes. He has completely ignored me for days now." The man looked down, chuckling under his breath.

"Yeah. The guy just up and left one day. Never called the company or anything. Just poof. Vanished." Contractors. The bane of every architect. Unreliable thieves, the lot of them. This young man certainly mimicked that aura of untrustworthiness, but as the job was nearly complete, I preferred at the time to simply allow him to finish. "The house is ready for you, sir. Take this, please let me know if you need anything from me, I'll be finishing the landscaping for the raingardens today." He pulled off a two-way radio from his belt, handing it to me. I could smell the putrid scent of hard labor wafting from him as I snatched the muddy radio from his sweaty hands.

"That will be fine, James." I huffed as I got back into my car, beginning the two minute trek up the driveway toward the house. As I passed him, I could see the filthy worker smile at me. There was something off about his presence, though at the time I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Again, I believe it was his eyes. So familiar, as if I'd known them myself for a time. As I left him behind in the dust of the gravel, I promised myself I would launch a complaint against these unprofessional ruffians the moment I could.

After weaving past the carefully planned and restored bayous, the white tower proudly peeked from above the tree canopy. The woodlands cleared and before me stood the massive edifice that was Ravenswood. It was primed white, awaiting the final paint job in dark greens and black which I had demanded. Yet another setback I was not looking forward to enduring. The elaborate trim graced the balconies and verandas which were perfectly calculated to receive the ideal amount of sun and shade during the hot Louisiana summers. Each glazed window was placed to maximize natural light in the house's otherwise dark confines. Perhaps Lafreniere was right- this was my masterpiece.

I put the car in park, and exited the vehicle. I stood and marveled at the house. On paper, it was grand and idyllic. In person, however, it took on a very different aura. Dark clouds and fog seemed to hang around the house, giving it a distinct sense of foreboding which I had not intended. Knowing funds were scarce as is, it was too late to change anything. This was to be my forever home, shortcomings and perfections alike. Pressing against the front doors, I entered the main hall, then aglow from the stained glass window and edison-bulb-illuminated chandelier. Lafreniere assured me that the house would be sufficiently lit, and that no dark corners would find their way into it's winding halls. I was disappointed beyond words to see that it was not the case.

The house seemed to breathe with a cold draft that whipped around the walls, just strong enough to notice, but not enough to disturb. While it was certainly built to my specifications, Ravenswood took on an identity of it's own before my eyes as it stood before me. Grumbling under my breath, I began my inspection.

Room by room, I went about with my clipboard and checklist. Bronze lightplates, check. Mahogany waiscotting, check. Brass and crystal chandeliers, check. From the library to the conservatory, the drawing room to the gallery; each room was just as I designed it, yet it seemed inundated with some indescribable weight which I had anticipated from the beginning. My modern, airy, open concept home which I had originally envisioned slowly simmered into flames before my own eyes. It was magnificent, yes. The house dripped character and ethereal essence from every nook and cranny. But was it an Astramore home? Certainly not.

Looking back, I should have left. I should have tossed the clipboard onto the dark herringbone parquet floors and stomped back to my car- back to the safety and comfort of my car. I should have driven away like a bat out of hell from this place and never returned. Yet, in my arrogance, I believed I could salvage it somehow. Thus, it was in that moment, as I was checking the finials on the grand staircase that I heard it. Groaning. Ever so quiet, yet echoing throughout the cavernous halls. I looked above me, my eyes tracking the noise further and further up the staircase onto the third floor. I assumed that it was emanating from the observatory in the main tower, though how I could have possibly known that I still do not know. I ascended the steps, slowly at first, toward the sound. Every creaking floorboard perturbed me, a new construction shouldn't behave as if it had stood for over a hundred years. This growing rage at the destruction of my vision translated directly into a quickening pace. My body seemingly did the work for me as I climbed faster, eventually skipping steps on my way to the high observatory.

Blinded by anger, I could not see the various shapes and figures which I had blown past on the landings, the dark shadows waiting in the corners and cornices. Every ounce of my being was focused entirely on releasing this pent up aggression, built within myself over decades, on whatever pathetic creature dared to whine within my walls. Arriving on the final landing, I burst through the door with the last of my strength.

The shutters in the observatory were drawn and shut, the unfinished plaster and floorboards were illuminated only by the dull light from the stairwell behind me. There, in the center of the room and crouched like a devious little gremlin was some degenerate young man. Tattoos sprawled across his lean body, and his greasy mop of hair obscured his line of sight. The man shielded his face from the gleaming light, as if burned by it's glow. His pants and shoes were weathered and well worn; scuffed, torn, and stained from what I can only assume was some ill-begotten lifestyle of antisocial youths.

"Get out!" I shouted at the boy, as he cowered on the sawdust-laden floor. His hand slowly retracted from his face, revealing what he was trying to conceal. Upon his inked face were two fully black eyes, which seemed to suck the remnants of light straight out of the room. They were empty, cold, and devious. This thing was not of this world, it was not of God, it was not of nature. I stood there, frozen in place as he stood up, easily a height of over 6 feet tall. My hairs stood on end, as he smiled down at me. I turned to run, but as I did, I was confronted by the grinning visage of Jimmy.

"Going somewhere, Astramore?" His eyes were black as night, just like the creature behind me. I couldn't speak, any word I tried to mutter was caught in my throat and merely exited as gasping utterances. Two icy cold hands slowly wrapped around my gut. I could only let out a whimper as I was sharply pulled back into the room as Jimmy leaned against the doorframe, his arms and ankles crossed comfortably as if nothing was out of place.

Tossed down onto the ground, my extremities pulled in every which direction as if bound by invisible leather straps. My clothes were ripped from my body, leaving me vulnerable and cold in the nude. The thing circled me like a predator observing it's prey. I thrashed against my constraints, spitting insults and threats with the last of my energy. I should have realized the intent of their misdeeds then and there. Blinded yet again, and for the last time by my own rage, I could not see... they were exhausting me. My strength depleted, my nerves shot, I was a mere shell of myself. This was their moment.

The thing stood above me, straddling my bony torso, as he slowly lowered himself atop me. With his cold fingers, nails black and skin dirty, he gripped the bottom of my chin, prying my mouth open. With a momentum far beyond the order of nature, his hand plowed directly into my open maw. It seemed to contract in on itself, as if he were not solid, but rather in a plasmic state of matter. As it squirmed deeper into my throat, the second hand fed itself into the orifice with ease. It felt as if I were drowning, yet could still breathe. It flowed like slime inside of me, pooling into my expanding stomach. I could hear myself gurgling and choking on him as his head squeezed into my mouth, the miasmic odor of unwashed manscent wafting from his acrid form. He slithered his entire form within me, my gut protruding more and more with his writhing shape beneath my stretching skin. As his lower half finally slid past my tongue, I could feel the rough texture of his denim pants scratch against my esophagus, I could taste the sweaty leather of his musky battered sneakers brush on my tongue until the last of the rubber sole slipped into my mouth; disappearing into my body.

Within me, I could feel him breathing. Expanding and contracting from beneath my skin. I could just barely cock my head down enough to see my grotesquely inflated midsection wriggling and pulsating. There was no pain, only tightness and fullness inside. From the doorway, Jimmy had lowered his coveralls down to his boots, pulled his rancid jockstrap to his knees, and was pleasuring himself with manic fervor. Whatever was happening to me was nothing short of pornography for him, he savored every moment with bated breath. Though I had no time to dwell on such displays of vulgarity and immorality. As quickly as the thing had entered me, it began to spread.

I cocked my head toward my arm, as I watched the protruding outline of the thing's hand slowly snake towards my own from under my skin. I could see it's added mass inflate my musculature as it slid effortlessly past my elbow and up my forearm. It's fingers pushed into mine like a hollow latex glove. His stature considerably larger than mine, I could see my entire arm stretch outward, and his own muscles falling into place within mine. In just a few seconds, my arm had grown, large biceps and colorful tattoos seeping up through my dermis until it was unrecognizable. I observed it in horror as I felt my second arm endure the same process, though my gaze was thoroughly cemented at the strong, youthful, virile arm which once was mine.

My legs soon followed suit, my thighs ballooning outward with firm slabs of muscle as the outline of the thing's massive feet barreled down toward my own. Hairs sprung up like weeds across my inflating calves and quadriceps, until I could feel the slimy pressure of his foot sliding into mine. My body again stretched to accommodate his frame, feeling the soles of my massive sweating feet slide across the hardwood floor until it was finally fully in place. My toes wriggled against my will. A stirring in my groin, and my worn hands pawing at my privates signaled his insertion there as well. Every slick sweaty pump of my member seemed to thrust his into mine further and further. It was quickly engorged, thick and dripping with pre as my balls swelled with his thick, unholy seed. The foreskin tightened around my tip, slick and dripping, and there was then only one part of me left that was untouched.

I could feel him pressing up my throat. It's head firmly making it's way up my esophagus, his face protruding from beneath my sweating skin. There was no fight left in me, all I could do was close my eyes and pray that oblivion was not as empty as I had assumed. With the very last of my strength giving way, there was no resistance as it's head shot up into my skull. Everything went dark almost immediately, there was no light, and an atonal ringing in my ears distorted the squelching and cracking noises I could faintly hear as it adjusted my face atop his. Feeling his plasmic form beneath mine, integrating itself into every possible crevice, nook, and space; it was maddening. I felt myself begin to drift away... disconnected from my corporeal tether. The last thing I could see before I finally wasted away into the unknown was my blurred reflection in the mirror, a face no longer my own, merely a shadow of who I once was. I bitterly accepted this fate. I let him have that sweaty, smelly, vulgar body... it was all his. The lights went out, and all was silent.

----

New Orleans Tribune, December 20th, 2022:

Local Architect Declared Dead After Week Long Search Efforts

Recent attempts to locate Drake Astramore (69) of Thibodaux have been called off by New Orleans authorities after a week of searching through the architect's sprawling estate. Neighbors to the gated complex reported faint screams coming from within the mansion, even from a 1/4 mile away, which led investigators to deliver a search warrant to the residence.

Upon arrival, authorities were met with the groundskeeper of the premises, James Lafreniere (25), who explained Astramore had disappeared during a routine inspection of the mansion, which was at the time nearing completion:

"He was only in there for a few hours. I wish I knew what could have happened to the guy. But I am so glad that his son has decided to take up the torch on the house. It wasn't all for nothing, then."

While Astramore had no family to speak of, the few who knew him personally described him as "difficult" and "degrading," often going to far lengths to place himself above others. In fact, a number of former coworkers at architecture firm Guillory, Darensbourg, & Combs alluded to mysterious dealings with an unidentified elderly man during the design phase of his home, described as having a "dark energy" about him. While there is no evidence to support foul play at this time, investigators have not ruled out furthering their analysis into these claims.

As for Ravenswood Estate, it has now fallen into the hands of the missing architect's son, Drake Astramore II (27). A self-proclaimed "spiritualist," the young man plans to give tours of the sprawling mansion dedicated to the mysterious and unusual process of design of Ravenswood. Joining with his partner in business and in life, James Lafreniere, the duo intend on opening a bed and breakfast type model for the horror inclined.

"I didn't know my pop all that much, he never really acknowledged me or anything. But I'm happy to show the world what he created. This place is special, it was designed to be special. There's an magnetism here that gathers together the essences of many, many of the dearly departed. If you don't believe me, come take a look. I'm happy to show you around. I guarantee you'll leave a completely changed person."

#male possession #male transformation #ghost possession #badass transformation #architect #original #gay transformation #gay possession #body horror #musky #punkification #male tf

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hwan-g · 2 years

Text

DARLING. kim seungmin — 김승민

pair. bookshop owner! seungmin x f. reader | warnings. profanity, angst, unprotected sex, fingering, oral sex, slight exhibitionism | genre. dark academia, romance, love at first sight | word count. 8k

tags. @ughbehavior (@straywrds), @cb97percent, @j-0ne25, @hyuneater, @hyun-bun, @choigore, @danyxthirstae01, @hellishmoons, @lix-ables, @skz317cb97.

a/n. this was supposed to be out for his bday, but life happened. nevertheless, hope you guys enjoy!! reblogs are great, all writers appreciate them incredibly 🤍

synopsis. it hasn’t stopped raining for weeks. as you enter his life, as you walk out of it. he just needs one chance with you.

Cold, empty—wet.

A city devoid of sun, in a constant state of mourning. Century old buildings with their Victorian architecture and smell of humidity, the eternal reconstruction that makes it impossible to enter them, a church with no door, a river without bed, a shop with nothing to sell. They might as well be part of the scenery, now and forever. Occupied space and not much else.

There had been a point in time, though, and this is the part that’s important to Seungmin. There had been a time when these grand structures held great power over people—artists, especially. Endless sketches of the fabrications can be found in the Public Library, a place he used to visit quite frequently before he opened his business. Blueprints of the interior, books about the conformation and infrastructure going on and about continually, pages creating volumes, creating noteworthiness, establishing history.

He wonders if you’ll come today.

Kim Seungmin was born in Seoul, Korea on September twenty-first to a doctor mother and architect father. He strived tirelessly for most of his childhood and adolescent life for more than adequate grades, and a clean record, and when it was deemed appropriate, on the day after his seventeenth birthday, he left for London to join his sister at the University of Cambridge, an exemplary student with a bright future. He surprised everyone when instead of following in the footsteps of his parents and going for Medicine or Architecture, he chose Engineering with History of Art as his minor. A respectable career, granted, but not what he was supposed to do—not what had been predetermined for him.

Four years of nothing but rain, libraries, books, and dorm life, he’d finally graduated with Honors, and went to join the real world, with its many offers, all miserable and soul consuming. It didn’t take long for the masks to fall, the pretenses to seize. Seungmin was fucking over it, wanted nothing more to do with the path he’d led for all those years, nothing to do with his parents’ expectations, the appearances to be kept, the role he had to play, to maintain, so they can boast and gloat, and fill their bellies in their private fucking golf clubs, to their insufferable little friends with the pretty daughters, and the arranged marriages.

Yeah, fuck no.

What he did alternatively—he took a loan out. He opened a bookshop in Pimlico overlooking the Thames, and he never looked back. He lived with three roommates in a crammed-up apartment on Winchester Street, a tiny room with a twin bed, a desk and a refrigerator, until he was able to stand on his feet, and move somewhere nicer, somewhere private, and do not get him wrong, that took two entire years—years of learning the ropes of handling a business, of making orders, of studying his crowd and getting a feel of the area, and even then, sales weren’t booming, they weren’t even fucking flickering, till more café’s opened up, bringing people towards that part of the river, the hibernating one, with the sleepy tree branches looming over Seungmin’s head every time he walked to work. It was hard, being independent. But he did an excellent job hiding it, and after a while…well maybe he was just a natural pretender.

Eventually he got a bike. It was a used, secondhand thing, and he had to change the chain on it, but after that it worked just fine, so it was enough for him. With a ‘help wanted’ sign under his arm, pedaling the ten-minute ride to his shop, his only stop the local bakery where he purchases his warm cappuccinos and apple strudels every morning. The co-owner of the place, Han Jisung, always asks the same question upon arrival—the usual, then?

The usual. Seungmin was a creature of habit from a young age. He had to have a plan, an extensive list of steps to be taken, a routine. He thinks his life would’ve turned out completely different if he wasn’t like this; he would’ve ended up working a corporate job, a nine to five, sitting on a desk with a suit and tie, holding a briefcase, that kind of thing. Something simple, mind numbing. Instead, he chose the calendar, the extra assignments, the sleepless revisions. All which ended with him thousands of miles away, managing an establishment with no outside help. The point was—he needed to find someone immediately. He couldn’t possibly bear to manage everything on his own anymore, what with the seminars and people going in and out in a regular stream, only pausing for a couple hours at lunch time.

Sometimes, the strudel would go to waste. There’d be no time. Still, the usual. Why bother switching something that’s worked so well for so long?

“It’ll be raining for weeks, I heard. Better get yourself a raincoat if you want to keep riding that rusty bike of yours,” his friend advised him, handing him his order with a tight-lipped smile.

Seungmin mirrored his expression. “Will do, mate. Thanks for this.”

“No problem. Hey, don’t forget—you, me, the guys. Friday evening. Drinks at The Morpeth Arms.”

Here’s the thing. Seungmin never forgot, he wasn’t the forgetful type; in fact, he had a spectacular memory, something that helped him immensely during his academic career, and earned him a few nods of amazement, the casual ‘memory of an elephant, this one.’ No, Seungmin just hated social events, especially the ones that included drinking yourself into a stupor, traveling in packs holding on for dear life, and paying an enormous amount of money just for your liver to turn black later on. He’d rather be at home, eating comfort soup, watching his home country’s drama shows, and falling asleep on the couch, glasses inadvertently positioned on the very tip of his nose, every single time.

Yeah, Seungmin never forgot. He just had other things to do. Something warned him though, that he might not be able to get out of this one. Undeniably so. He’s bailed on his friend group more than two times in a row, had no good excuse for it today.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he replied, waving a quick goodbye, and making a run for it.

“Don’t just see, Kim Seungmin. Do!” he heard the boy yelling after him, but he had already passed the threshold of the bakery, securing his things in the basket on the front of the bike.

Jisung was a force to be reckoned with. Same age as him, of Korean descent as well, a graduate of the Royal Academy of Culinary Arts, he took over his mother’s bakery and revamped the entire place, a smart move, which turned out to work in his favor, tripling the monthly profits in the first six months of reopening. Things seemed to just…go well for him, whatever he did, something Seungmin envied, but tried his hardest to learn from. It's always been him, Seungmin, and Hyunjin, an Art major, currently in his last year of school, ever since he came to England. Jisung had an ex-girlfriend attending Education classes at the same university as the bookshop owner, and Hyunjin would tag along only with the promise that he’d be able to stay in the premises and sketch the gardens.

Eccentric at times, the two of them, but the interesting kind, the kind that makes you want to stick around just to witness where it is all heading. Although they could get quite annoying when they wanted to…

He unlocks the wooden door with the glass pane, the intense smell of books hitting him at once. Moving in the familiar area, he makes sure to secure his bike along the wall, so it doesn’t slip and hurt any customers, and goes to turn on the lights from the panel in the back, resting his breakfast on top of the checkout secretaire.

The small bookshop lights up like a tree at Christmas, the fairy lights he’d installed earlier in the year hanging gracefully amongst the bookshelves running from floor to ceiling, stacks upon stacks decorating each section, all alphabetized and in categories, all carrying a purpose. Seungmin fixes his glasses on his face, running a careful hand through his parted hair, before removing his brown coat, rolling the sleeves of his white, crisp shirt high up on his forearms, and getting to work.

There’s a sort of ambience he particularly enjoys, a specific scent to accompany the unique odor of books, of yellowed out pages or alternately, of freshly published novels, recently sewn together, a big section of them in front of the big window as soon as you enter, with an exclusive segment of Seungmin’s Top Ten Picks of the Month. More lights along the walls, lantern looking designs, made specifically to give off a vintage overtone to his business, and a couple velvet armchairs in the corners, with decent sized tables, and candles on each side to provide a moment of relaxation for the customers.

Cinnamon and vanilla. A tiny tea and coffee cart next to his workspace for anyone that cared for it, always filled and ready to be taken advantage of. When Seungmin cared for something, he took it to the absolute extremes, made it part of him entirely, took care of it tenderly, tended to it regularly. This is why, he thinks, he succeeded in marketing this place. Because it isn’t just a means of income for him, because he’s genuinely a book lover, an avid reader. Because this is the inside of his soul, perfect to a T.

He starts the playlist on his tablet, lowers it to a gentle hum, and stands for a minute, taking in the warm palette of colors around him, sipping on his coffee, tasting the apple wrapped in puff pastry. It’s exquisite, as always, Han really has a fucking talent, he thinks as he peals the sticker off the sign he picked up from the printer shop earlier, sticking it on the storefront window, capital black letters in Times New Roman looking outside.

Hopefully, someone will show up within the week. In the case no one’s interested, well—he’s fucked. No plan B there. He counts on the broke students pacing up and down these streets daily to fill in the position. No one else in their right mind would work at a bookshop, of all places of employment, and for that he won’t dare fault them, not one bit. He can pay a fair wage, but it’s nothing to start a proper life, he’s aware of that. It doesn’t change the fact.

A little after ten, it starts raining; the fat, gray clouds he saw looming over him on his way there, finally giving way to fat droplets of water, drenching everything in their wake, a blurry watercolor painting. Seungmin sighs, leaning back on his chair, as he checks off inventory and researches up-and-coming authors to feature for next month. He accepts that it might be a slow day, and gets comfortable in his seat, yawning and stretching his limbs.

You enter in disarray, dripping water everywhere, closing a bright colored umbrella halfway in your attempt to shut the door behind you. The tote bag is the first thing he notices, it looked heavy on your shoulder, worn down. Then your coat, a deep emerald green, an entire forest, how it looks from above, and then finally your face as you turn to him, your expression bewildered, staring down at him like a deer in headlights, slightly confused, but not lost, not entirely.

There you are.

“Good morning,” he greets, no other words present in his brain. How peculiar. He adds a soft smile, for good measure.

Normal. Nice job, Kim Seungmin.

“Dreadful, isn’t it?” you say, and he guesses you refer to the rain, so he nods, watching you observe his establishment with curious eyes, leaving your umbrella behind as you walk over to the bookshelves. “It smells nice here. Are you the owner?”

Seungmin stirs, stands up straight, his tablet forgotten in his hands. “Yes,” he mutters, doesn’t sound sure of it. “Yes, I am,” he repeats, louder this time.

You hum and disappear behind a row. He finds himself leaning to find you again, stare at you a bit longer. He snaps out of it almost immediately, clearing his throat. Three things, he grounds himself.

One, the beautiful girl from last time had just entered his shop, yet it felt more like she’d shook through the foundations of the building and was coming for his very life.

Two, said pretty girl rendered him stupid two seconds in your interaction. What did that say about him as a person? He wasn’t usually like this. He’s had dates, and girlfriends, but they never felt like this—a blow to his stomach.

Three. He absolutely fucking needed to learn your name.

“Are you looking for anything specific?” he asks, nervous, wanting to cut through the tension he felt overtaking his entire body.

“Mythology classics!” your voice is an echo, a perfect ring of a pitch, reverberating through him.

He gets up at once, jumping at the chance to be useful to you, and crosses the shop, closing the distance between you. You’re skimming through a thick book unrelated to what you’ve just told him, your eyes moving on the pages. He doesn’t dare disturb you, not at first, but then the more he looks at you, the more he can feel his heart attempting to jump out of his fucking chest, so he deems it dangerous business, and breaks the silence. Your hair is wet, he finds, he sees. He wants to dry it for you.

Dangerous fucking business.

“Those would be on the other side, after poetry,” he informs you, and your gaze devastates him. It’s bright, it’s glorious, it’s a place he’d want to explore, dive into, and lose himself forever.

It’s looking up at him, waiting for him to lead the way. He blinks and moves. Your perfume is something light and floral and Seungmin wants to offer you coffee with sugar, give you books for half off, hire you part time, let you consume him. What a strange feeling to have for an absolute stranger, serving your heart on a silver platter over a mere ‘hello,’ and hoping they’ll accept it.

It terrifies the living shit out of him.

“Thank you for showing me. I loved this place when I came last time—I thought you just worked here. It’s hard to find what I’m looking for elsewhere,” you give him an excited smile, bending at the knees in front of the small section to pick out what you need.

He wants to know everything about you. “Are you a student?”

“English lit, fourth year. Aha!” you jump up, and Seungmin steps back, surprised. You wave the paperback cover in his face. “The Oresteia. Need to write a dissertation on it.”

Seungmin speaks as if in a trance, quoting the play he knows by heart. “‘This was always going to happen. She’s been dead since the beginning.’”

You’re beaming, buzzing, electrocuting him. Then you go right back down, your search not over yet. “You’d read this? It is quite extensive, is it not, and you need to watch out for the translations, some are over complicated, and hard to understand…”

“I enjoy the classics,” he admits, shyly. “You’re welcome anytime around here. To browse, or…whatever. And if you can’t find something, let me know. I’ll order it for you.”

“You’re too kind, bookshop owner, aren’t you?”

Seungmin stares, stares, stares—at the top of your head, at your elegant hands reaching for the spines of the books, flipping them over, inspecting them. He prided himself on his eloquence, his extensive knowledge of words, his friends sometimes teased him, called him a ‘walking dictionary,’ but what does he do with all this, when he must force his throat to open, unable to voice those same words he’s studied over the years, grown familiar with. They’re all traitors to him now, he will never depend on them again. Ridiculous, what’s happening.

You’re a customer. He shouldn’t be treating you any more than, any different. Why then did that one, singular smile of yours make a home in him, right under his ribcage? He pictured butterflies erupting behind you, wild in color, beautiful in their movement, flying too close to the fairy lights. This was unreasonable. It would wreak havoc in him, rearrange his world view, have him fantasize about things that could not be, should not be. Your lips, he thinks.

Cherry flavored.

“What’s your name?” he caved in. He wanted to pull you up, feel you under his touch, see for himself if you were real.

You got up once again, two more books in your hands, as you tilted your head in question, strands of hair falling in front of your perplexed face. “Do you always ask your customers for their names?”

Seungmin swallowed. He’d been caught. What he had—honesty. “Only you.”

You smiled again. He almost clenched his chest. “Good save. I’m (Y/N).”

He repeated it internally. (Y/N), (Y/N), (Y/N) …he imagines it rolling off his tongue, your body under his, those delicate wrists pinned above your head, whispering it to you again, and again, and again.

Fuck him.

“Seungmin,” he extends his hand for you to take, trying really hard to conceal what contact with you would do to him.

He’s defenseless against his own desires, he realizes. He’s never wanted to take someone as his own so badly before. His mind was in overdrive, completely overwhelmed. You’ve exposed him, laid him bare—have your way with him. He’d do anything, he decides right then and there. Anything. Say the word and he’s yours.

You take it, kickstarting a whole new series of events and catastrophes inside him.

“Well, Seungmin, I’m done here, and I have class in about ten minutes, but I’ll pass by again soon, yeah? Ring me up, won’t you?”

You brush past him walking up to the register, and he’s left watching your figure slip away from him, so easily, no further regard to him, that forest green coat of yours flowing around you, your boots stomping with certainty. A fucking vision, you were. Stomping your way into his shop, into his life, into his heart. Oh, what is reason? What are words?

Metamorphoses, The Oresteia, Theogony. What you purchase. He hands you the books, per your request, and you slide the tote bag down to your arm, shoving the books in there at once. He watches all this, in awe, speechless, afraid to let you go, knowing he can’t beg you to stay longer. It’d be weird. And slightly creepy, he thinks but it’s more of an afterthought. He notices he doesn’t really care—anyone that would grant him the wish to stare at you more, to marvel at your cute features.

“It was nice to meet you!” You grab the umbrella again and rush out of his life, the same you stumbled in.

He watches in mystified delight.

‘Water is not a solid wall, it will not stop you. But water always goes where it wants to go, and nothing in the end can stand against it. Water is patient,’ he remembers reading once.

He becomes half water. He waits.

Friday comes. Seungmin decides to go to the Arms, straight for them, no second thought about it, one and done, but then he procrastinates getting dressed, looks for his watch for ten minutes, and his keys are nowhere to be found, so he takes that as a sign he shouldn’t go. It’d be bad if he went. He shouldn’t go.

Then he remembers he doesn’t believe in the signs of the universe and locks his apartment behind him.

Two beers, then he’ll go home, he tells himself. Just enough so his friends can’t say anything to him, can’t be mad at him, will stop calling him incessantly, whining about how he’s neglecting them so, and what kind of a mate are you, Kim, not a very good one, eh?

Seungmin thinks he’s a pretty good lad, actually. He helped Hyunjin move this past summer and has offered many a solution to Jisung’s never-ending on-and-off relationship with that indecisive girlfriend of his. Hasn’t committed a crime in his life, not even a petty one, not a traffic light. He’s never littered in all the years he’s been conscious about his person. He’s been an upstanding citizen, and a supportive friend. He’s just a bit of a homebody, and when has that ever hurt anyone, really.

The pub is filled to the brim by the time he arrives, incredibly loud, with a game playing in the background. He finds Jisung easy enough and goes to him, to that table he frequents all the way to the wall by the bar and slips his coat off wearing it on the back of the chair.

“Couldn’t have picked a Sunday, yeah?”

Jisung claps his shoulder and shakes his head. “You’d complain about any day of the week, Min, so just sit here and look pretty like you do. Hyunjin’s bringing us drinks.”

The baker’s hair had faded to a light brown from the August sun back in Seoul, his yearly vacation, and just as Seungmin is about to make a joke about it, Hyunjin enters his vision holding three pints of beer, muttering excuse me’s to the table next to them. Blonde hair, soft looking cardigan, tall, long limbs and all, full scholarship artist-to-watch-out-for Hwang Hyunjin, on his way to an amazing career.

“Would you look at who the cat dragged in—my God, Kim Seungmin, is that really you? Gracing us with your majesty’s presence? I must be dreaming!”

His ‘majesty’ sighed and grabbed the beer, an unamused look on his face. “You know, surprisingly, this isn’t making me want to show up any more than it makes me want to dump both of you and find new friends. About time, I say,” he drawled. “Cheers!”

The two men looked at each other and burst out laughing. “Cheers, fuck it,” Jisung exclaimed.

Hyunjin turned elegantly in the chair, legs crossed, mischievous expression on. “What have you been up to, huh? Who’s the girl?”

Seungmin froze, then reassured himself they had no idea about you, and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose—a habit that gave him away. The blonde ‘aha!’’d and bumped his elbow against Jisung’s, giddy as ever.

“See, I knew it.”

Jisung didn’t look particularly convinced, though. “Where would he even meet a girl, Hyun? The only dates he’s been on for the past year have been with his TV.”

“Ouch, bro.”

He wasn’t wrong, yet Seungmin wanted to let him know—about the girl that walked into his bookshop, has swept him off his feet. Just so he stops talking shit, just so it can finally set on him; that you’re real, that you happened. How you will never stop happening from now on.

Instead, he scoffed. “Fuck you, Han. You’re one to talk with that toxic shit you’re pulling.”

Jisung had the audacity to look shocked, and even appalled at the accusation. “I’m hurt you think I’m somehow at fault with how I’m being treated. I should just break it off once and for all, show you fuckers.”

Hyunjin casually sipped on his beer, palmed a few sunflower seeds. “It’s not about showing us—it’s about showing yourself, baby.”

Seungmin chuckled at that, chuckled even harder at Jisung’s blown out face, with the puffy cheeks and the big, wide eyes. He’d missed this, how carefree it all felt. It brought back memories, reasons why these people were close to him, why he could never get rid of them. They kept him sane. And gained him points with the ladies—Jisung’s humor, and Hyunjin’s angel features were a double threat. He just completed the group with the boy next door vibe, and sharp styling choices.

“Where’s Jeongin?” he asks, opening the bag of crisps laid out on the table.

“Late night studying, he’s already driving himself against a wall,” Hyunjin replies, a seed between his teeth.

“Chris has a late session, as well,” Jisung adds. “Music majors—perfectionists.”

It was at that point that you walked in. Seungmin hadn’t noticed you, not until his friends looked towards the door, and then looked again, making him curious. It was indeed you, he concluded after blinking several times, you, the most beautiful fucking girl in there, searching for empty tables with—a guy. A guy taller than you, taller than him, and fuck him, he didn’t need to see that, he didn’t have to know who you hung out with, if you had a boyfriend and how long you’d been together—he could do without all those things.

But now they’re overtaking all available space in his mind. Now there’s green inside him, eating away, molding, rotting away everything, and he’s jealous, he’s jealous, he wants you, he wants you alone, single, to himself, forever—

“She’s cute, no?” Jisung comments and nudges him.

For a moment, just for a moment, Seungmin takes off his glasses and glares at his best friend, filled with fury and green, green, green, but then he comes to his senses, reasons that Jisung hasn’t got a clue who you are, what you are to Seungmin, and so with that he breathes. He breathes and downs his beer, fuck the crisps, fuck the plan.

“It’s her,” he confesses.

Hyunjin leans in, suddenly very interested, and Jisung furrows his eyebrows, clearly confused. “What do you mean?”

Seungmin looks at you again, sees the hand around your waist, the casualness of the movement, and doesn’t want to jump into conclusions, doesn’t want the conclusions to jump him, but he’s fairly certain, he’s almost a hundred percent—

“The girl that’s kept me away, let’s say.”

At first, “No fucking way,” but then Hyunjin studied his friend’s expression, the unwavering gaze, the set of his mouth, the defeated slump of his shoulders, and his head tilted, his own mouth hung open, stared.

“I’ll be fucking damned,” he deadpanned.

“But who’s that dude, then?” Jisung questioned, hanging off the edge of his seat, thirsty for the gossip.

“No idea.”

“How’d you meet her?”

“Customer.”

“Kim Seungmin!” Hyunjin gasps, a hand on his chest, over his heart. “The scandal!”

Jisung rolls his eyes. “Don’t listen to him. Is she aware of your feelings?”

Just as Seungmin was about to answer, the entire pub breaks out in boo’ing, the team on the TV losing dramatically, the place vibrating, and his fists tighten at the sound, his whole body alert, aware of you, in the same space as him, outside of the magic of his bookstore, outside of the owner/customer dynamic.

“I’ve only seen her twice, Han. My feelings don’t even make sense to me.”

A devilish smirk spread across the blonde’s face. “I think you want to fuck her, Min. This sounds like an attraction to me.”

Jisung slaps his hand on the table and points at his face, nodding his head. “That’s an excellent observation, my dear Hyun. Kim, you just need to get her out of your system.”

Seungmin groans and gets up, grabbing his empty glass of beer. “Shut the fuck up. Anyone need a refill?”

The men glance at each other’s half empty beers, slightly concerned. “We’re good, mate.”

The truth was, he had thought about the possibility. What he’s felt for you he hasn’t felt for anyone, not this strong, not this constant, even in your absence, especially in your absence. You should’ve been just another English literature student shopping for books to him. That should’ve been it.

It wasn’t. It didn’t feel like it could be.

Waiting for the beer, he dared a peek at you. You sat with your back facing him, your head thrown back at something that guy had said, the other members of your party smiling brightly at you. Your hair was down, moved with you. Seungmin could bring your scent forth in his mind, the flowers, the sweetness that surrounded you. It physically hurt to ignore you, to pretend this wasn’t killing him. He needed more, he needed to pull you away, he needed to vomit all this out; the attraction, as Hyunjin eloquently put it, the heart stabbing, the turning of his stomach—the fucking boner he got first time he saw you in that dainty dress of yours.

He needed you to know, to make a decision. He wouldn’t sit still, there’d be no sleep for him until he did something about it, until you were aware of this, whatever the fuck it was, also.

“I’ll come back for this,” he informs the bartender, and his feet carry him before he’s even concluded thinking about it before he even sets on it.

“Excuse me,” he says loudly. The entire table turns to him. You turn to him.

“Bookshop owner!” you grin at him, and he’s at ease at once. He doesn’t need anything else. “What a coincidence. How have you been?”

You’re kind, then, you don’t shun him away. He’s chosen well. Seungmin feels his heart blooming, expanding, threatening to take over. You’re kind to him. You don’t know him, not as well as he wanted you to, but you still chose decency. Did he deserve it with the thoughts currently swimming in his head? Probably not.

He spares one glance for the hunk of a guy sitting opposite you, only one, not more than that, because he might be half his size, but Seungmin had always been exceptionally strong whenever he deemed it necessary. Then his eyes are back on you, and God, why did he ever look away?

“I’ve been well,” he touches his glasses. Catches himself. “Could I please steal you for a moment?”

Your eyes widen a bit, hands holding the table, ready to pounce on your feet. “Sure, but why? Is everything okay?”

Seungmin nods, offering you a soft smile and his hand. “Everything’s fine. It’ll only be a moment.”

“Okay,” you turn to your friends. Seungmin looks at his, already staring at him. Hyunjin winks. Seungmin blinks.

“I’ll be back guys.” You grab his hand, bringing him back, setting him on fire.

He tries to hide, push it all down, away from you, because he needs to be careful. One wrong move, he tells himself. One wrong move and that’s it. He opens the door for you, walks out after and into the chill of a September night. At least it’s quiet, at least he can hear himself think. One wrong move, it repeats, one wrong move…

“I apologize for taking you away from your friends,” he starts, walking to the side of the building to stand under a birch tree, almost completely devoid of leaves by that point. You follow, patient, kind.

“Oh, that’s—” you wave your hand, pft’ing. “They’re just classmates. We’ll be working together for a while.”

Just classmates. Seungmin stands up straight to that, in his full height. Just classmates you say, but that hand didn’t look friendly, that hand looked exactly how Seungmin feels about you, protective, territorial. You thought nothing of it, because that’s who you were, he could tell, you didn’t take things too seriously, you were alive, kind, kind, kind, what was another word—innocent.

He licked his lips, gathering the courage required to say what needed to be said, what needed to spill out his chest. He stood close, you stood closer. You were oblivious. For Heaven’s sake. This would be the hardest thing he ever had to utter.

“I—have no other way to say this, (Y/N) so, please just—fuck,” he chokes out a breath, looks you right in the eye. “I’m completely enamored by you. You have all control over this, you can curse me and walk away right now. But you need to know. I want to take you out.”

At first you just stared at him, the words slowly registering in your ears. Then, you opened your mouth to speak—closed it. Then opened it again, taking a step towards him. He remained in his place, hands in his pockets, afraid he’d reach out otherwise. He had no right, not until you gave him permission.

“You’re very handsome, you know that?” you say, placing a hand on his cheek. He doesn’t breathe, he doesn’t think. Your eyes are dark against the backdrop of the moon. Nothing moves. “And sweet, and interesting. I’m—nothing in particular. Seungmin, you’d get bored of me.”

“Never,” he’s quick to retort. “You’ve no idea what you’ve done to me, have you darling? From the moment you walked in my shop—that was it. I was done for.”

You shook your head, your fingers stilling in their caress, your hand goes to drop—his own shoots out, holds it, keeps it there, wills it to stay, desperate to show you.

“You really are very sweet,” you inhale. “No one’s ever said they want to take me out. No one’s asked.”

Seungmin doesn’t understand why, doesn’t want to ponder over it. He’s here now, and he wants you. He’d show you; he swears.

“I’m saying it. Go out with me, darling. If you hate it, you don’t have to see me ever again.”

You smile at that, your lips quivering. “Shame. I really like your bookstore.”

He smiles back. “I really like you.”

You bite your lip, and then you nod. “Okay.” A moment. “Could you kiss me, Seungmin?”

He needn’t be told twice. Pulling you closer by that arm extended on him, he closes in around you, smashing your lips together. It takes everything in him not to groan into your mouth, the softness of you, your smell, all driving him crazy, all intoxicating him, rendering him unable to think straight. You melt into him, something he loves, and he guides the kiss, his arms wrapping around that waist that he’s seen being claimed, bunching the fabric of your shirt in his fist, tightening his grip around you, devouring you.

He'd like to slip inside you, fuck slow, deep strokes into your cunt, bring you into a state of deliriousness with his cock. He can already imagine how good you’d take him, how you’d open for him. Buried in between his thighs—Heaven. Seungmin walks you to the bark of the tree and pushes you against it, deepening the kiss, his tongue pushing past your lips, exploring your mouth, tasting the ale you’d been drinking. He’s having incoherent thoughts now, nonsensical things; how he’d like to drink you, let the very flavor of you invade the top of his mouth, fill his senses, allow you to run down his throat, sip into his every pore. Fuck him, he’s whipped, isn’t he?

“There’s no going back from this, darling,” he pants against your mouth. “I’m never getting over you—never getting over this taste.”

You pull him back in. “I don’t want you to,” you whisper, your lips curving.

“Sunday, after six. Come,” he mutters, his fingers tangled in your hair, holding your head in place. You gaze up at him. “Promise me.”

“I do. I promise,” you kiss him again. “I’ll come.” Again, and again, and again.

Another day spent waiting.

By noon Seungmin thinks you won’t show. That it was all a lie, perhaps an illusion of the full moon and one too many drinks. Then he checks out a freshman buying The Iliad, a tote bag on his shoulder, the warm scent of cinnamon coming from the pale cup he’s holding, and he’s sure you will.

You happened, you will.

Oh, to trust that someone won’t drain the blood from your heart. A treacherous road.

He must’ve drank three cups of coffee by the time the stream of customers slows down, signaling lunch time. He digs for the wanted pamphlet in his drawer of take-out menus, and calls the number at once, ordering a barbeque chicken pizza with a side of cheesy bread. As he glances outside, clouds gathering already, the sky gray, dull, Seungmin throws his head back, sighing deeply, and listens to the cashier informing him of his total at the point of delivery.

“Thank you,” he says and hangs up. ‘Do you know if she’ll come,’ he wants to add, but he doesn’t, because that’d be crazy, nonsensical. Still, the question—it stands.

He breaks down boxes, organizes book labels and invoices, and even dusts the shelves. Five pizza slices and a heartburn later, Seungmin sinks back into his chair, and decides that time will not help him today. The anxiety is eating at him, at the tips of him, like a parasite, slowly making him sick, feverish. He won’t be able to keep this up for long, he wishes he’d told you to come earlier, maybe this way this endless questioning would’ve stopped by now, maybe the heartbreak would’ve been easier to swallow with people around. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to handle closing down shop with no trace of you.

God, the waiting. Seungmin doesn’t like doing this, has only done it once before–he takes the scotch out, a bottle he’s kept since opening this place, and drinks two big gulps of it. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he thinks he might have to daydrink his way to getting you out of his mind. And the rejection. And the outline of your body on his. No other way about it. Alcohol or going mad, his two options.

Fuck him.

The clock on the wall behind his desk says five minutes to six. By that point he has no hope, no patience, no heart, no will–no scotch. He drags himself over to the door to flip the sign from ‘open’ to ‘closed,’ and he leaves nothing but the fairy lights on, an indication that the shop is closed, but someone’s still inside.

He’s not drunk but he’d like to be. One thing about Seungmin, why he doesn’t like drinking–it does nothing for him. His damn tolerance is too high. He can drink and drink and drink, but it will make no difference. Only thing he’ll be left with is a dehydrated, scratchy throat; more of an annoyance than a relief.

Seungmin sweeps, mops, then proceeds to put every single book in the wrong area back to its original place. That should take him a good while, he thinks, definitely–it doesn’t. It takes him ten minutes, because this is his store, he knows it inside out, he’s done this hundreds of times before, and why aren’t you here? You should’ve been here by now.

The glasses come off. He won’t go down that road, he can handle rejection, he’ll move on, you’re just–well, you’re…unforgettable. Haunting. All he can think about, all he wants, all he craves. Outside is pouring, thunder cracking, always a blurry watercolor painting now describing what’s going on internally, draining away any opportunity of you showing up. He tells himself he’ll stay until the rain calms down, until it’s safe to ride his bicycle.

He tells himself he will never get over you, but that the water will eventually wash you away. It has to. It’s six-thirty and you are nowhere to be found. A little more. He’ll wait a little more. Out of desperation if nothing else. He won’t be afraid to admit. He kissed you, he tasted you. He’ll wait. You’ll come, you have to. You kissed back. You–

You’re standing right there. Drenched, shaking that god awful umbrella, looking through the glass, pushing the door open–spilling into his bookshop like nothing happened. Like before. Like a story repeating itself. Forest green coat, hair sticking to your face, disheveled expression.

“I’m late, aren’t I?”

Are you? Seungmin’s knees almost give way. He exhales shakily, blinking at your drowned figure. You’re not. You’re not. You’re right on time.

“You’re soaking wet,” he notes, and comes back to life, taking long strides towards you.

You chuckle nervously, shivering, apologetic. He grabs the umbrella and leaves it by his bike, his hand staying in yours, tracing your fingers, feeling for himself that you’re really there, that you really came. You look up at him, wide eyed, mouth falling open, studying him.

“Better take this off,” he mutters, and waits for your approval. He removes the coat from your shoulders, shaking off the rain droplets, catching a whiff of that cologne he so adores. He’s a fucking animal, he can’t even be near you without his mind doing a complete one eighty on him.

“I’m sorry,” you start, watching him take care of you. “I…wasn’t sure if I should come.” His hands push your hair back, listening calmly. “Bookshop owner, I don’t–”

“Seungmin,” he cuts you off, his gaze snapping down to meet yours. “Say my name, darling.”

“Seungmin.” It’s breathless, it’s surprising. It’s perfect. His cock twitches in his tailored pants.

He bites his lip. “Will you let me remove your shirt, (Y/N)? You’ll catch a cold if you stay in these clothes.”

A single moment of silence, your eyes clouding with the same intentions. “Yes.”

He expertly undoes the buttons, exposing your white, lacy bra underneath, your breasts deliciously tucked in the cups, better than his dreams, better in every way because it’s reality. Seungmin wants to take his time with you, wants to take you out on a proper date, pay for you, make sure you’re having fun, that you enjoy being with him, establish a connection before he–

He thinks he can’t wait. He thinks if he doesn’t take you right here, right now he’ll fucking die. None of the internal struggle shows on his face. You wiggle off your shirt, and he lifts his arms to remove his vest. Picturing you in his clothes, in his shop, surrounded by your smell, and the smell of vanilla…a fucking dream. His Aphrodite, compliant under his touch, willing, those lips teasing, their pink tint inviting. Fuck it all to Hell. You look absolutely beautiful, the brown of the fuzzy fabric making you appear softer, if that’s even possible. He pulls you into his arms, falling victim to his own wants, his own desires. He holds you tight, your freezing body gradually warming up under his caress, flush against him.

“‘I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself,’” he quotes in your hair, his palm rubbing circles on your lower back, hoping you’d know. That you’d get it.

“Frank Kafka,” you answer with a breathy laugh. “‘What’s happened to me? It was no dream.’”

Something opens in his heart, tears itself out. There’s no stopping it. “My darling,” he whispers, and lifts you up. You gasp, his name falling from those lips. It happens fast, he walks you to the mythology section, in front of the window, a consequence he won’t think of until later, your back hitting the shelves, as your arms circle his neck. Seungmin kisses you, then. What’s there left to do? There are no words to describe this. You taste like rain and hard candy, and his fingers get lost in between your thighs, pushing aside fabric, and feeling the slick of your cunt. All reason escapes him, all but the sensation of your excitement for him on his digits. He kneels down, has to have a taste, needs to, for his sanity. His arm snakes around your ass and keeps you there, as his tongue comes in contact with your leaking pussy, lapping your juices, slurping loudly, shamelessly.

The back of your hand presses against your mouth, moans tearing through anyway. No one’s ever gone down on you, you didn’t even know how it felt, nevermind that it felt like this, wet and embarrassing, but so good, oh my God, so good, fuck, your fingers getting lost in the mop that is his hair, tugging, your breathing ragged, fast, your knees shaking, the smell of books engulfing you–

“You taste like Heaven,” he grunts, and his tongue gets replaced by his hand, as he makes his way back to your mouth. “Taste yourself, darling, see for yourself what you do to me, how am I supposed to stay away when–that’s right, fuck my fingers, go on, my love…”

There’s still water dripping from your hair, and he leans the side of his face on it, enjoying the coolness it provides while his entire body is on fire. You’re everywhere on him, he feels all of you, and his fingers curl inside you wanting that release, craving those broken moans he’s eliciting out of you to get louder, to deafen him, to fill the entire shop and stay, echoing over and over so he never forgets this moment, so he’ll always have you. You’re biting his neck, your nails digging on his shoulders, in his back, falling, going to his belt, coming to the buckle, undoing, all the while coming undone.

Right before you start spasming, he lifts you up again and slips inside you swiftly, cupping your face with one hand, his mouth taking yours in an open-mouthed kiss, cursing at how tight you fit around him. For one second, just one single moment, he does not move, no matter how much you want him to, no matter how you’re wiggling and arching, against all of his thoughts of fucking you into the bookcase to have and admire you whenever he wants. No, he marvels in the way his cock is throbbing inside you, all of you alight, in flames, and only then–only when you mouth his name, staring in his eyes desperately–only then he finally begins thrusting, causing you to wrap your legs around his torso, holding on for dear life.

“Is it supposed to feel like this–God, please, please don’t stop, never stop–”

Seungmin wasn’t planning to. Stopping was the furthest thing from his mind as his hips picked up pace, his thrusts angled, deep and hard, bottoming out every time, skin hitting on skin, your hot breaths mingling, mixing, one one one– You felt exactly how he imagined, and a thousand times better, Christ, your tits perfectly bouncing, your cunt squeezing him closer. Books fall, all around you, the sound of them magnifying what the two of you are doing, what’s in process, an altering of souls, because he knows this will never again be the same for him, this shop without you, it will always be more, more, more, he will fuck you over every surface, he will make you part of him, he swears, you’re never leaving, not when your juices are the only thing that can get him drunk, not when you sound this hot moaning his name, his name, it’s never vibrated through him like this before, a name, you make it holy, you make it matter–

“Cum with me, cum with me Seungmin, please, let me feel you, fuck, fuck, fuck–”

He’s your servant, he would do anything you asked. He comes with a ferocity unknown to him, panting, sweaty, holding on to you, drilling the last bit of cum deep within your walls, his hands holding, squeezing, digging into your waist, forehead on your sternum dropping soft, abenseminded kisses, and you let him. You let him, because you have no idea what the fuck just happened, you only know that it was the best thing, the rightest decision you’ve ever made in your entire life.

“You look so handsome without your glasses,” you compliment him shyly, smiling.

He carefully puts you down, adjusts your skirt, and tucks himself in his pants, before touching the bridge of his nose. There was nothing there. He chuckles, and his arms are around you again. He can’t bring himself not to touch you, can’t find a reason why he should stay away, put some distance. You belong in his arms, he concludes.

You belong with him.

“So, I’m not when I wear them?” he teases, his lips on your forehead.

A weak punch on his stomach. He hufs a laugh, moving back just a breath so he can stare down at your face. You look fucking beautiful. You look like you’re his.

“You’re like a sexy professor with them on, you know what I mean, or like a–”

He kisses you. He’s falling in love. He’s already fallen.

#stray kids scenarios #skz scenarios #stray kids smut #seungmin scenarios #seungmin smut #seungmin fanfic #stray kids #stray kids seungmin #skz fanfic #skz imagines #stray kids imagines #stray kids fanfiction #—mine.

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marzipanandminutiae · 8 months

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I am never not thinking about The Haunting of Hill House and midcentury antipathy towards Victorian architecture and interior design

but lately my thoughts on it have been stirred up on learning that Shirley Jackson didn't exactly hate old houses. both of her houses in North Bennington, Vermont were 19th-century; the latter firmly within the late Victorian style that was unloved in the 1950s even as the former's Empire/Federal look was somewhat better appreciated

I suppose these feelings can coexist- and her home was hardly equal to the more extreme, lavish houses built by her great-great-grandfather's architecture firm in San Francisco. her mother, in a very midcentury moment, included a note with an inspiration photo of the Crocker House that said "glad [it] didn't survive the earthquake"

whether Jackson agreed with this sentiment, I haven't read enough of her personal papers and biographies to know. but my assessment of her feelings and how they're reflected in HoHH is sort of shifting from "disgust" to "mingled disgust and fascination?" maybe? we'll see how I feel upon delving into it futher

(certainly that jives with how, while people in the 1950s often despised Victorian houses, they populated their horror stories and Haunted House media so thickly with them that we still go back to the Victorian era for our own image of creepy things)

I'm starting to wonder if this author, who quietly encouraged the people in her town to believe that she was a witch, identified somewhat with Hill House itself as much as any of the human characters in the story

#shirley jackson #the haunting of hill house #the real one not Netflix

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sebastianswallows · 1 year

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Dangerous and Delightful — Chapter 2 — A trip to the museum

— PAIRING: Sebastian Sallow x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: Sebastian is a purveyor of forbidden artefacts, a dark arts researcher, and a curse-breaker for hire. Ominis, desperate to save him from himself, hires Reader in secret to persuade him, by any means necessary, to leave his illegal activities behind.

— WARNINGS: Seb being an absolute public menace, but otherwise nothing.

— WORDCOUNT: 3.8k

— A/N: Here's the second chapter, my dears, I hope you like it! 💚 As a disclaimer, I have never been to the British Museum, especially not during the Victorian era, so I have no idea how accurate my description is of its architecture or setup 😂 I apologise for any inaccuracies.

— TAGLIST: @micheruhime @sarcasticpluviophile

She paced around a measly little park, in front of the same empty bench, as she waited for him. The little timepiece at her waist told her it was almost 2 o’clock, the time set for their meeting, but she had arrived fifteen minutes prior just in case. She was in the heart of Muggle London, where she and Sebastian had agreed to meet. Since graduating from Hogwarts, she had been very happy to live in a little town and forget that so many people could exist in the same place. Now that she was in such a large city, she felt as if her every move gave her away, and she expected a Ministry Obliviator to jump out from every bush.

It had been two weeks since they met, and in that time Sebastian had kept his word — looking into the sort of items that had been known to appear in the Aeolian Islands, and even into the rare magical fauna of the area that could have drawn Melancthon and his search party there. He seemed optimistic in his last owl and invited her to do a bit of research together at the British Museum.

It had seemed like nothing to agree to it then, but now she realised the weight of what they were about to do, and she wondered whether Ominis was even informed... Then again, he knew Sebastian better than she did, and probably knew of things far more daring and dangerous than this.

“It’s going to be alright,” she told herself as she paced up and down the same battered six feet of dirt. “Nothing bad will happen…”

She checked her little pocket watch again, as she had compulsively done for the past ten minutes. This hadn’t been the sort of thing she imagined herself doing after graduation — going on relic hunts in muggle museums with dangerous smugglers under false pretences — but life had a way of surprising you… She would keep one eye on Sebastian, and another on herself — she could pretend for an hour or two that she was just another frail young lady in awe at the breadth and depth of dark magic and the power of the relics that contained it, all alone in the world, worried about her brother… What Sebastian didn’t know won’t hurt him.

The watch barely showed that it was 2 o’clock when he stepped through the tall iron gates of the park and made his way toward her. Sebastian was wearing a formal black frock coat, a top hat as per the latest fashion, and exceedingly well-polished shoes. In his right hand, he held a walking cane by the neck, which made it look rather like an unhilted sword. Its ivory body was carved with strange runic symbols, as if he’d done it himself, but this was the only thing about him that stood out. All in all, he looked the very picture of a Victorian gentleman.

He smiled widely as he saw her. “Miss, it's a pleasure to see you again! You look positively radiant.”

She smiled with relief upon seeing him. Sebastian moved with such confidence among crowds that he could make himself seem to belong anywhere he chose.

“Hello, Mr Sallow. I was beginning to think you'd changed your mind.”

“Don't be ridiculous.” Sebastian winked at her. “My word is my honour.” He held out his arm for her to take and said with a grin, “Shall we?”

It was a cool spring day, and the trees were barely in bloom around them. She wore a raw green dress to fit the season, her hair piled atop her head and capped with a broad-rimmed hat to shield her from the sun. They walked to the Museum together and quickly got lost in the sea of people. Her dress had never felt tighter, but having Sebastian at her side did ease her worries, just as she hoped it would.

The building was enormous, seeming to be a place fit for giants, taller and broader than it had any business being and held aloft with great stone pillars. It was more marvellous than anything a wizard could have built, although Hogwarts in its antiquated enormity came close. And even if the art inside it did not move and all the glowing lights were an artifice of electricity, it was still wonderful to behold.

“Not too bad, is it?” asked Sebastian, grinning when he saw her stare.

“It’s beautiful,” she said with a gasp. They walked slowly through the first art gallery on their way. She let go of Sebastian’s elbow to fold her arms at her waist, fingers squeezing each other in an attempt to calm her nerves. “Almost… almost makes me feel like back at school,” she added, turning to him and smiling.

“Resembles some of the nicer corridors, right?” he grinned.

“I suppose you’ve been here many times. Nothing left to impress you…”

“Oh there’s always a thing or two,” he said as he looked her up and down, folding his arms behind him. “But yes, I’ve had the pleasure of coming here often.”

“On business?”

“Why else?” he laughed.

“I suppose muggle achievements don’t move you,” she whispered with a tilted smile.

“They don’t,” he shrugged. “Nor should they you. Now come, the room we want is this way.”

They passed by portraits and pastures, noble busts and twisted nudes — as if going through the history of human thought and feeling, and their expression of beauty. She caught sight of as much as she could while Sebastian led the way in large hurried steps to the Natural History section.

Compared to the art galleries, these parts of the museum were darker, furnished in black wood fittings and lit only selectively. In place of the proud statues looking down at them, now there were skeletons of toothy beasts, and petrified remnants of trees held up by wires like puppets on a stage. Behind glass cases all around them were items organised according to their size and place of collection. Some were mere fragments of fossils, others were blooms of stone in bright colours, while others still were indecipherable formations of perfect geometry.

Sebastian stopped them in front of a quite long exhibit. A series of items that looked almost like toys, carvings so rough they could not have served any purpose. The note beside them said they had been excavated at a tomb in Normandy. Sebastian looked at them with fascination. He knew most things weren't exactly what they appeared to be.

“Quite a sight, isn't it?” he said as she joined his side. “There are many secrets hidden in plain sight for those who have the right eyes. This room, for instance, holds many artefacts created for a different purpose than they currently serve.”

“Such as?”

“The ones before us, for instance,” he said, his grip tightening around the cane while the other hand gently held her elbow, pulling her along with him as he described each item beneath the glass in close whispers. “Here, Miss, are tokens of Malevolentia, each a curse that is planted like a seed and takes root — not in the one beside whom they are placed — which would be a corpse in his coffin — but in his descendants too.”

She swallowed thickly at his description, which held a tone of admiration in it for its evil ingenuity, but she stood by his side and made no move to lean away, listening patiently as Sebastian continued.

“As this majestic room holds no persons on a constant basis, the curse is broken. But should anyone take one of these into his home, he might find, whether during his lifetime or later, all manner of misfortune befall his loved ones.”

“Horrifying,” she gasped.

“Yes,” grinned Sebastian.

“You’ve come across such things often in your travels?” she asked as they walked slowly together.

“Naturally,” he said. “The world is filled with dangerous items. There are about as many curses as there are benevolent spells, and more cursed items than one might imagine, created and lost to time only to be found by some unsuspecting scholar centuries later. The desire to harm others is as old as humanity.”

“It might be morbid of me to ask, but, can you tell me more?” she said, looking up at him with large, curious eyes. “What sort of things have you encountered?”

Sebastian didn’t need to be asked twice. He leaned in closer to her so that the muggles around them couldn’t hear, and began telling her of some of the most horrifying things he’d experienced.

“I've seen a curse that would kill everything in a thirty-yard radius, and which was impossible to break. I've encountered curses which turn their victims into monsters. Curses which drive a man insane, curses which make him a slave to his own obsessions and desires. Curses that, if not handled carefully, can bring about endless torture.”

She looked at him quietly, staring with large eyes at him, and Sebastian couldn’t help but grin — that was certainly one way to get a lady’s attention.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked.

“No,” she said, “go on.”

“I've encountered curses that can only be defeated by a specific kind of magic, or by a specific kind of person, or by a specific kind of word — that one was the most terrifying, I think, for it was no word in a language anyone still speaks. And the sound that filled the air around the object of the curse — an ancient tree in the middle of a barren valley, where you thought the wind was howling… only it was not the wind. It was a ceaseless incantation that drove you mad to hear for long. It was... incomprehensible. Like looking into infinity. I nearly lost my mind. It was terrible.”

“Why would you even approach such a place?” she asked, clinging to his arm as they walked slowly together.

“A wealthy wizard wished to build a mansion there. The tree was in the way, and all the men he hired to cut it down went insane, turning their axes on each other.”

“How did it end?” she asked, almost afraid of the answer.

“The tree was cursed, the earth was not. It took several of us, but we could lift several feet of dirt from around the tree, roots and all, and planted it elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?”

“We charged extra to curse his neighbour,” he grinned.

“That’s horrible,” she said, but started laughing, and Sebastian laughed too. His grin was bright and charming, and she could only look at him with a chastising smile, wondering whether he was telling the truth or only teasing her.

“I have to ask, Mr Sallow... how did you get involved in this career?”

“Oh, I've always been very curious, even as a boy. Always wondering what sort of things were kept beyond reach, what our professors weren’t teaching us... And I’ve always been fond of books. Books do not distinguish between ‘good’ knowledge and ‘bad’ knowledge. They were my most honest teachers,” he said, smiling fondly.

“And your family doesn’t find your interest dangerous?”

“The way your family does?” he grinned. “My parents passed away before I could consult them about it,” he continued, looking away from her. “My sister was just like me, but became more disapproving of it over time — encouraged in that view, no doubt, by our legal guardian, our uncle… Unfortunately, she has not had the chance to berate me about it for many years,” he sighed, speaking quite intentionally about his sister as if she were dead — because he was dead to her.

“Oh… I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, laying a sympathetic touch to his elbow. “It sounds as if your sister might have been a good influence,” she smiled.

“She tried to be, but not hard enough, I suppose,” said Sebastian, turning to grin at her again. “Losing her was... difficult. It’s been a challenge, honestly. Still is, every day. But I like to think she’d actually enjoy some of the things I’ve gotten up to. If anything, I think she would be proud.”

“I’m certain she would,” she smiled.

“Are you proud of your brother?” he asked, smiling slyly as he brought the conversation back to her.

“I think I might be once I see him home safe. Until then, no,” she said with a tense laugh. “What is he off doing, do you suppose?”

“Do you know for a fact that he’s hunting for a cursed object?”

“I know he’s been hired to retrieve something, and that he was told it’s dangerous. He was saying before he left how we would be able to afford that expansion to the house we’d been talking about for two years… And he’d been borrowing the strangest books for months before he left. I’m convinced it has something to do with dark magic.”

Sebastian nodded as he listened to her.

“How do you even go about it? Getting rid of a curse, I mean?”

“Well, that is only half of the work, breaking curses. Sometimes, it’s not even possible. The other half, the more challenging one, is keeping them sealed away. Curses are useful, you see. A curse can be an asset in the right hands, but if handled improperly it can destroy a whole town. It calls for the most delicate sort of magic work.”

“Useful?” she frowned.

“Well, very often they’re created for protection. To keep thieves away, or punish them,” he chuckled. “It can serve to protect an item, or a person, but it can also be used to do the opposite — and to do it in the worst possible way. It has terrifying versatility, which is why such items are so sought after, and so expensive both to retrieve and create.”

She recoiled from Sebastian the longer he spoke. By now, the warnings Ominis had given her seemed understated.

“This is not just a profession for you, isn’t it?” she said. “It sounds more like a passion.”

Sebastian gave an easy smile and leaned in closer. “I think we should continue this line of questioning in more private quarters,” he whispered, then looked up as they were walking and said cheerfully, “Oh look, that’s what your brother’s after.”

As if guiding her through a dance, Sebastian brought the two of them in front of an exhibit of volcanic glass. They looked at first glance like black stones, but some had been polished quite deliberately, even left with a little handle on top through which red tassels were tied. In their round and flattened shape, they looked like mirrors, reflecting a perpetual dark.

“Obsidian, polished to a shine. Serves as what is sometimes called a spirit mirror. The wizard John Dee used to have the largest collection of them in England,” he said, looking down with admiration.

“And… and this is —?”

“—What I believe your brother is after. They’re used for divination, of all things,” he chuckled. “But, I suppose, the environment that creates them is extreme enough that they can fetch a nice price.”

“No cursed treasure?” she asked, looking at Sebastian from the corner of her eye.

“Not unless you count the volcano’s fiery wrath,” he shrugged. “I could be wrong, of course. But from what you’ve told me — where he is, what he’s after — these spirit mirrors are the only thing that comes to mind.”

“It shouldn’t be so difficult then, should it?” she said, breathing heavily as she looked at the dark, cool, quiet items sitting behind the glass. “To go there, pick some up…”

“Who knows what he’s run into,” said Sebastian, circling the display. “Perhaps the volcanoes are active and they’re barred from going up. Perhaps there are rival collectors there… The journey is long, and all manner of things could happen between here and there.”

“Oh, don’t tell me that,” she fretted, squeezing the fingers of one hand in the other.

“But I trust that at least seeing them has helped alleviate your concerns?”

“Yes, somewhat,” she smiled, the tension slowly leaving her.

“I’m glad to be of service,” smirked Sebastian, circling back to her side. “Now we can enjoy the rest of the museum.”

She let him walk them onward, giving one last look to the display of obsidian.

“I still don’t know why he isn’t answering any of my letters,” she mumbled.

“Perhaps he’s distracted,” offered Sebastian. “Maybe he’s having too much fun.”

“Fun?” she said, sounding offended at the idea. “There’s plenty of fun in correspondence.”

“I’m sure there is,” he chuckled.

“Don’t patronise me, Mr Sallow.”

“I’m not,” he said, laying a warm hand over her upper back. “Alright, maybe I am a little, but I can’t help it. It’s endearing to see a sibling so worried about the other. Although…”

“Although?”

“Are you sure it’s just worry on your part, and not simply an inability to let your brother go?”

She looked up at him, frowning, her lips parted in an attempt to say all manner of scathing things, but none came out.

“Believe me, nobody would understand you better,” he added quickly. “After growing up together, being each other’s childhood, always having that other soul there to confide in, to trust, to rely on, when all the adults around were busy with their own disconnected concerns…”

She looked away, letting him walk the two of them slowly through the exhibits of fossils and petrified trees and skeletons as if advancing together through history, forgetting about the meaningless multitudes around them.

“Thinking you will always be able to rely on one another… And then, one day, to have that gone. No warning, no time to plan for it or to prepare, just have that other half of you get taken away. It’s worse, too, if it’s at their initiative. A loss seasoned with betrayal.”

She walked, unknowingly, closer to him, wishing she could hold him and convey her sympathy. His hand, by now, had fallen from its place at her back, and she felt colder for it. She looked up into his warm brown eyes that moved quickly from her to the exhibit of ancient skeletons before them, smiling but distant.

“I, too, have a hard time letting go,” he said quietly, looking intently at the bones arranged before them.

They were a couple, small and bleached, put together with nails and wires and fitted into rigid poses, their insides on the outside for all the world to see.

She cupped his elbow, the closest thing to an embrace that she could dare in public, and looked quietly at the display with him. The remnants of two human lives. The tag beneath their case said they had both been found in the Scottish Highlands in 1875, and that they were believed to be five thousand years old. Had they known each other? Regardless, all that they had been through in life amounted to this — that they stand side by side, in this distant unfamiliar year, reduced to bare and empty bones. All their rivalries and hatred and loves were turned to dust, faded into nothing, and all that remained… was this cold, eternal, companionship.

She looked at them, lost in her own thoughts, when suddenly with a little tremble and a creak the two skeletons began to move, and their arms came up to encircle each other.

She looked at Sebastian and smiled. From the corner of his eye, he looked at her and gave a little wink. Beneath, at his waist, she could see him deftly move his wand — it had been hidden in a holster at his chest, not within the cane as she initially suspected. It was an elegant piece of white wood with a checkered black and green pattern at the handle. Before them, stuck inside their cases, the skeletons fell away from their metal supports to lean on one another, skulls laying on each other’s shoulders.

“You like playing with fire, Mr Sallow.”

“Call me Sebastian,” he whispered.

Behind them, a shrill and raspy cry startled the constant flow of murmurs from the crowd. They turned to find a woman, thin and tall and with a wide froggy mouth, her face littered with black moles like rat droppings, staring and pointing at them — or rather, at the embracing skeletons in the case. She was holding a little dog with ruffled grey fur like a pile of rags, and in her shock, she clutched him to her chest as if he could protect her. The little ragdoll thing began to yap, drawing even more attention.

“They moved, they… the bones…” the woman rambled in a rough voice.

Sebastian and his companion looked at each other, then back at the woman. When they saw other people begin to stop and stare, they decided to slowly make their exit. Sebastian stepped to the side and she followed, walking in small brisk steps, then faster, and faster.

“That was a mistake,” she muttered under her breath, which came out in gaspings as her corset began to feel ever tighter.

“We’ll be fine, it’s alright,” said Sebastian lowly, navigating them through the museum.

More screams rang out behind them as Sebastian’s spell fell away and the skeletons reverted to their original pose. They looked over their shoulders, but nobody was following them. Still, Sebastian took her hand and they began to walk even faster.

“Come on, this way,” he said.

“You careless, thoughtless, irresponsible…!”

As she muttered curses, she let him whisk them away from trouble. Soon, they found themselves at a back exit, far from the fuss they had caused. Sebastian looked left and right before he opened the door, letting her go out first. He followed, closing the door behind them. They found themselves in an enclosed yard filled with ladders and buckets — trapped. She looked around, ready to ask where they were supposed to go now, when Sebastian took her hand again.

“Hold on tight,” he said, giving her another of his confident smiles.

Before she could blink, the scenery before them disappeared, and the barren landscape at the back of the British Museum turned into a green and grey expanse of wide sky over green fields, cold and open and lonely. A little house stood before them as if it had grown out of the ground, all grey stone crawling with ivy. He had Apparated them somewhere.

“Ah,” said Sebastian, turning to look around. “A bit further than I intended, but…”

“Where are we?” she asked breathlessly.

“Feldcroft,” he said, and immediately started walking away from the little house without any further explanation. It looked unlived in for many years.

“So you mean we’re close to —”

“Close to Hogwarts, yes. Although I doubt we’ll be welcome. Middle of the school year and all... Hogsmeade is not much further, if you feel like walking there.”

She threw an incredulous glare at him, but he just kept walking — backwards, so he could grin at her. There was not much left for her to do but to shrug and follow him.

#Sebastian Sallow #hl #Sebastian Sallow imagine #Sebastian Sallow x reader #Sebastian Sallow x MC #Sebastian Sallow fanfiction #sswallow;made a thing #sswallow;fanfics #fanfic;danger and delight

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dross-the-fish · 4 months

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Do you draw architectures or houses?

I have been wondered how does Talbot’s manor looks like.

If you haven’t drawn it, do you have any references pictures for it?

I don't have any art or floor plans of it currently. I drew a basic map of the first and second levels and the grounds back when I started the DnD campaign but have no idea where they are now. I kind of envisioned the manor to look like this

Kind of a classic Victorian era property with spacious grounds

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hometoursandotherstuff · 7 months

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Gorgeous 1888 Victorian is a mansion in Reading, Pennsylvania for only $497K. 7bds, 4.5+ba. The architecture, especially on the tower roof, is stunning.

Beautiful entrance hall. The wood was painted white, but the stairs and rail are wood. Isn't that an unusual fireplace? It's stone, but looks like logs. This home has amazingly stunning floors.

Pocket doors open to a wonderful sitting room. The long room has a rounded wall of windows, and an elegant original fireplace.

The dining room is very cheerful and right off both sitting rooms, which is great for entertaining.

Look at the murals in this sitting room. The ceiling is so dramatic.

Very nice den/library with built-in shelving.

They're not showing the whole kitchen unless this is it. It's not at all overly remodeled, but I wish they would've shown it. This sink unit looks like it could be the butler's pantry. Notice the faucets in the wall.

Cute little back hallway.

Nice vintage sink in the powder room.

Very pretty upstairs landing and it also has a leaded glass door to a porch.

Not sure what this room is. Maybe it's the primary bedroom.

This bedroom is very large size.

Vintage style bath.

I'm confused. Maybe they didn't fix up the downstairs kitchen b/c they made one on the 2nd fl., along with a dining room.

Cute 2nd fl. porch.

Long hallway on the 3rd level.

And, this appears to be the primary bedroom up here.

Love the vintage baths.

One of the bedrooms up here.

There's a living room up here, too. It looks like the family lives mostly on the 3rd floor of the house.

Beautiful big patio in the back.

And, a very pretty garden. The neighboring homes are lovely to look at, too.

Around the block is a garage with stairs to the back of the property.

#victorian home #old house dreams #houses #house tours #home tour

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beatricebidelaire · 6 months

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one wrong turn in the city (and you're confronted with your childhood years)

The mansion used to be grandiose. Now it's a ghost of it's former self.

~700 words. Beatrice Baudelaire & Count Olaf

written for day 1 of woevember of @asouefanworkevent, olaf's mansion

The City is both big enough for one to hide in if necessary, and small enough to accidentally pass by where your old nemesis you've been carefully avoiding for the past decade still lives if you're not paying attention.

One wrong turn and another and ducking into an alley to avoid traffic and dodging behind a post box to hide from enthusiastic reporters and sprinting across the street and taking another turn - and then Beatrice Baudelaire raises her head to see herself standing right across Count Olaf's mansion.

The mansion looks like the ghost of its former self, the once grandiose building now seems to barely hold itself together and in danger of completely falling apart. The beautiful green garden Beatrice remember running in as a child, hiding with Olaf from the adults in the teenager years, now only contains a few severely etiolated plants here and there. She can visibly see lots of damages just on the outside of the mansion, the things that got broken but never repaired. It's as if during the past decade the mansion has aged a century.

Maybe she's exaggerating a bit, but that's how she feels.

A shot of pained nostalgia aches inside of her, as she remembers the beautiful mansion, when the Countess was still around to maintain it.

Olaf's father was always busy with city politics and all sorts of things, and Olaf's mother was the one who ran the affairs of the house. The servants did the manual work but she was the one who organized it all, the brains behind it, making sure everything was in order. She ran the place with remarkable efficiency that young Beatrice admired so much.

Well, that was before - before everything changed. Before la Forza del Destino, Beatrice thinks.

And she knows who's responsible for la Forza del Destino. Couldn't forget if she tried. Not that she's actually tried. To her, some burden should always be carried.

There used to be a really nice and cozy family library in the mansion, filled with the records the Count kept, mostly of the scandals and dirty secrets of his political enemies, and the Countess's books of assorted topics, ranging from music to Victorian architecture. And then later there were all the books on actors' and actress' biographies and written scripts of different plays that Olaf collected, and the ones left there by Beatrice. They used to recite those scripts in the library - in the library at VFD headquarters one would have to keep quiet, but inside Olaf's mansion's library the two teens had no such reservations as they acted out various plays. Sometimes Olaf's mother would have a maid bring them refreshments. Sometimes Beatrice and Olaf would discreetly - or so they thought at that time - try out the different wines from the Count's collection.

Those were the days.

Her teenage years. Their teenage years.

She wonders if the library is still a library, if the books were still there, or if Olaf had gotten rid of them. Maybe he keeps it locked and never goes inside anymore. Maybe he goes in and broods, maybe he's completely changed the layout and now uses the place as his fort where he plans his various nefarious schemes.

Judging by how the mansion looks on the whole, she quietly suspects that it's just left to deteriorate, like everything else in the mansion, probably. Perhaps he's haunted by the memories of her. She sure hopes he is.

Because she's equally haunted by memories of him - memories of them, of their childhoods and apprenticeships and adolescence and young adult years. He should at least be equally haunted (hopefully more, of course) so it'd be fair.

Suddenly, she sees a figure by the window, and a pair of shiny, cold eyes glinting. She hesitates for a moment, and then firmly, decisively turns away, the sight of the mansion quickly sliding out of her eyes.

Beatrice Baudelaire walks away. Steady pace at first, increasingly fast, and then finally she's sprinting down the street, running away from the mansion, from Olaf, from her past.

Although deep down, she knows that no matter how far she runs, she'll never really get away. She may be able to get away from the mansion and from him, but the past - it's always there.

Quietly haunting.

Still, she runs.

Never once looking back.

In her head, she still sees the mansion at its grandest era.

#asoue #beatrice baudelaire #count olaf #olaf's house #snicketverse buildings #my writing #woevember #vfd theater kids who practically grew up together

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luvrseung · 2 years

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Hiio can you pleaseee make a Riki fanfiction something along friends to lovers trope but with some angst because why not hehe

heheh here you go ;P

𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐏𝐈𝐃 ♡‧₊˚

## pairing(s)! schoolmate!riki x reader

## genre! fluff then heart shattering angst xD

## wc! 2.64k (lowkey i got carried away ehehe)

## warning(s)! cursing, mentions of food, im not sure what else but lmk if others are needed!

## a/n! i really did not plan on making this req so long but i truly got carried away LOLOL i hope you like this tho! pls lmk what you think!!

“WELCOME TO DECELIS HIGH SCHOOL” the sign to your new school reads. You take a look around at the dark, victorian architecture and dark uniforms. “Ha,” you laugh, “doesn’t seem that welcoming to me.” Despite your unwillingness to step inside the school, you trudge forward and head to the main office. Once introductions and formalities were over with, the principal walks you to your new homeroom where everyone’s eyes are immediately on you. “Good morning, class,” the principal greets. “Everyone say hello! This is y/n she’s a new student this year at Decelis. Everyone treat her well!” And with that, he exits the classroom, leaving you behind. “Hi everyone,” you say with an awkward smile and little wave. Then, there was an awkward silence. This is what you dreaded. This is what you didn’t want to happen. You knew it was going to be a little hard for you to make friends because you’re the new kid. On top of that, everyone’s eyes were still on you. After what felt like an hour, the homeroom teacher speaks up, “Welcome to our class, y/n! It’s a pleasure to have you. You can take that empty seat in front of Kim Sunoo.” You follow the direction of your teacher’s pointed finger and see a bright and smiling looking boy who raises his hand and waves at you. As you walk to your seat, you feel quite a powerful stare. Suddenly, you make eye contact with the dark looking boy behind Sunoo, but he immediately looks away as if nothing just happened and you take your seat in front of a smiling Sunoo.

After homeroom and morning announcements, it was time to head to your next class. As you’re getting ready to leave, Sunoo taps you on the shoulder, gaining your attention. “Y/n, right? I’m Sunoo! Well, you already know that because of earlier and… okay, anyways! I know it can be a little tough to navigate the school- especially as a new student, so I was wondering if you’d like to be friends?” He asks you with the most genuine and true smile you’ve ever seen on a human being. Looking at his face and into his eyes, you knew you couldn’t say no. As you were about to answer, the mysterious boy that sat behind him cuts you off, “Hey Sunoo, let’s go to first period,” he says without sparing you a glance. “Go on without me, I’ll meet you there. I’m trying to make a new friend here.” Sunoo brushes him off with a sassy eye roll. You can’t help but let out a little giggle. The boy scoffs and walks away. You also can’t help but watch the tall boy walk out of the room. “So, back to where we were, would you like to be my friend, y/n?” Sunoo asks again with a hopeful smile, snapping you back into your current situation. “Oh, yes! I’d love to be your friend, Sunoo!” And with that, he links his arm with yours as he happily skips (drags you) out of the classroom.

By now, it was lunch time and you and Sunoo both come to find out that the two of you have every class together, except for your last period. You also realize that the tall and mysterious boy (who you come to realize is named Riki) has every class with you, as well. Even your last period. Arriving to the lunch table, you realize that you’ve also had the same classes as Riki, but he hasn’t really spoken to you at all. But, you honestly don’t really take that to heart; you are new after all. It’ll take some time to get close with new people. At your lunch table, Sunoo introduces you to his other friends. A cute looking red haired boy ,almost resembling a cat, named Jungwon who was also in your grade, and three other boys who were in the grade above named Jay, Jake, and Sunghoon; two of them blonde and one with black hair. Sunoo mentioned another boy named Heeseung who used to sit with them, but he already graduated. You were a little nervous sitting at a table with all boys, but they quickly let you into their little group of friends.

While the other boys were talking, you notice how Riki seemed to be a little more reserved than the others. He would either go on his phone or just listen to the surrounding conversation. He intrigued you, to say the least. And you weren’t blind, you saw that he was also quite attractive. You slowly tune out the conversation that the others are having and just start to subconsciously focus on Riki. He goes on his phone and you see that he has a Death Note wallpaper, which happens to be your favorite anime. “Woah, oh my god! Is that death note? I love Death Note!” You blurted. You really did not mean to say that out loud. Great. Now he also definitely thinks you were peaking at his phone. Great. Before you could apologize, Riki hesitantly responds, “Yeah, it is. You watched it?” He asks.

“Yes, of course! It’s my favorite anime!”

“No way! It’s my favorite, too!”

For the first time that day, you see Riki smile. And you don’t want to admit it, but you really liked his smile. Before the both of you knew it, the bell rang and it was time to go to your next period. You bid the other four boys goodbye, and walk with Sunoo and Riki to your next class together. In this class, like every class before, you sat next to Sunoo. Class went by, the two of you had small talk along with Riki, and the bell rang once again. It was time for your last period. Sunoo had class with Jungwon, so he walked with him; leaving you and Riki alone for your last class of the day. “Let’s head to class, y/n” the tall boy says as he pulls the loop of your backpack towards the direction of your next class. You didn’t expect him to be this friendly, but you’re glad he is.

Unfortunately, your last class of the day was the most boring one. Math. After some brief conversations, you lay your head on your desk and feel yourself slowly start to fall asleep. And Riki notices this. He sees the light from the window shine brightly upon your pretty face and he decides to use his hand to shade the light from your eyes. He doesn’t really know why, either. But he wants to make sure you’re safe and comfortable. I mean, he’s just trying to make your first day a good one… is what he tells himself. The last bell rings, meaning class has come to an end and you’ve somehow slept through all of it. Riki realized you were waking up and quickly put his hand back down from keeping the sun out of your sleeping eyes. “Got some good sleep, y/n?” He asks with a chuckle. You stretch your arms and reply, “Yes I did Nishimura,” in a sleepy tone. And that was the end of your first day at Decelis High, but that was definitely the start of something new, you just didn’t know it.

As time went on, you hadn’t noticed how close the two of you had gotten. At first, the two of you would just linger together in group settings. Then suddenly, you and Riki started visiting the convenience store after school without the others, and eventually, you and Riki were attached at the hip. Of course, you were still friends with the other boys and Sunoo was definitely still your favorite person ever, but being with Riki was a whole different feeling entirely. The two of you discovered that the school roof top was open and free after school. The day you discovered it was after another convenience store run after school. Riki had forgotten his pencil case in a classroom and begged you to go back with him and grab it. When you entered the school after hours, there were a few students and teachers, but it wasn’t nearly as packed as it is during the day. Quite frankly, it creeped you out a little bit because you were so used to the halls being full of people. You were hoping this little trip was going to be a quick in and out, but Riki had other plans. “Y/n let’s explore the school,” he said in a cheeky tone. “What? Why would we do that? Can we please just go? Decelis is fucking scary. I’m tryna leave,” you say as you attempt to head out the door. But, you’re stopped by Riki who grabs your backpack loop.

“Come on, y/n! It’ll be quick and fun! I promise.”

“It better be quick. 10 minutes. That’s it. I’m scared.”

“Aweee~ my little y/n is scared! Don’t worry I’ll protect you!”

“Yeah right, when I die in here it’s your fault. Now, let’s hurry up and ‘explore.’” as you air quote the word ‘explore.’

The two of you went upstairs, with Riki in the lead and notice how there was another set of stairs that you didn’t know was in use. You’ve never seen anyone else go up those stairs, actually. Naturally, Riki pulls you up the stairs with him. You didn’t realize, but the two of you were hand in hand as you both stepped onto what you found out was the roof. You let go of his hand and run to the edge and take in the view. From that day on, that spot was your guys’ spot. A place only the two of you know. Not even Sunoo knew about it. You and Riki would go up there almost everyday to just talk, hang out, eat, sometimes just sit in silence and enjoy each others’ company. The silence the two of you sat in was comfortable. Warm, like being wrapped in a blanket. Feeling so safe and secure; like nothing bad could happen. It was what you looked forward to everyday, to be quite honest.

As the days went on, you start feeling different. Your thoughts were occupied by the tall boy. Your hands would sweat nervously when you would see him, and there was definitely a funny feeling in your stomach whenever he would hold your hand. But you brushed it off. Friends hold hands, right? Friends get nervous around each other, right? And friends definitely think about each other 24/7, right? You sigh. You know you’re not right. You had feelings for one of your best friends. And now, you don’t know what to do. So you call the one person you can always trust with this kind of stuff: Kim Sunoo, of course! The boy answers the phone within two rings, and you tell him about your feelings. “Honestly y/n, the guys and I all thought you and Riki were a thing,” he says to your bewilderment. Shocked, you reply, “W-what…”

“I mean, think about it. You two are always together, right. He STUDIES with you… before you came along, I’ve never seen that kid open a book.”

“Okay, but friends-“

“No, y/n. Friends do not hold hands and make each other nervous like that. You guys like each other and that’s just the truth.”

“No way Sun, Riki does not see me like that at. all.”

“Y/n… you don’t see what we see. Riki likes you. You don’t see the way he looks at you, the way his face lights up when you walk into a room, and the way his ears turn red when ever the two of you hold hands. Like I said before, that kid likes you. Also, I’m never wrong, so.”

To say you’re shocked would be an understatement. You’re way beyond that point. “Has he really….” You say outlaid but to yourself.

“Yes y/nnie, now go confess! What could go wrong?”

“But Sun-“

“Hush hush. You think about what you’re going to do, ‘kay? I’ll let you be but you better text me updates. Or. Else. Now bye~!”

And with that, Sunoo hung up the phone. In your bed, you roll onto your back and just think. “He likes me too?” You ask yourself. You can’t help but feel giddy and giggly. Maybe Sunoo was right! What could go wrong with confessing? So you came up with a simple plan: to go to the roof top, as usual, and confess to him then! But, you wanted to make it a little more special. Like, how special could a school rooftop get? You know? So you asked Riki to meet you up there before school instead of after school. You were gonna bring him his favorite coffee and some pastries from a bakery as a token of your affection. You were excited! Everything is going to go well, really.

It’s now the day of the confession and you wait for Riki at the roof top, as planned. You’re nervous, but excited! Everything will go according to plan. Your talk with Sunoo really helped calm your nerves. He even sent you a good luck text beforehand as well! Since everything is going the way you planned, now you just wait. So, you wait. And wait. And wait. 15 minutes have passed and Riki’s still not at your guys’ spot. What could be taking so long? You decide to give him another 15 minutes. Maybe he’s just running late. You even double checked your phone to make sure you actually sent the right person the text, and you did! He even replied with an “Okey y/nnie :),” so, what was going on? The homeroom bell rang as your heart broke in two. You were sad and confused. “What happened?” And “What went wrong” was all you could think. You left his, now cold, coffee and pastries on the roof. You were too devastated to do anything, really. So you decided to just leave. To leave school and run. Run where? Who knows. Nothing was important to you right now. School along with your safety was the least of your worries. If you went to homeroom, you’d likely see Riki. And despite how excited you were to see him just this morning, Riki was the last person you wanted to see right now. So you leave school grounds. You leave school grounds running, your vision blurred by hot tears, leaving your stuff behind.

Meanwhile, homeroom started. Riki walks in expecting to see you, but you’re not there. In fact, you don’t show up at all. Riki asks Sunoo, “Sun, have you seen y/n? Is she sick? Do you know why she’s not in homeroom right now?” Sunoo takes a second to process what’s going on, “R-riki? W-why are you here? Don’t you have somewhere to be? Someone to meet?

“What are you talking about- shit,” is what Riki manages to get out before dashing out of the door and past his homeroom teacher. He ran to the rooftop. He ran to your spot. And he’s never ever ran that fast before. He ran so fast that he managed to knock a few people over. But, he didn’t care. He had to get to you. He couldn’t believe that he forgot about your morning meetup. He can’t believe how stupid he is. Once Riki reaches the roof, he scans the area for you. Unfortunately, you’re nowhere to be seen. What’s left of you is a cold cup of coffee and a cold box of pastries. He knows he messed up. Riki fucked up big time, and now he doesn’t know what to do. He leans his back against the railing of the roof and slowly slides down it with tears escaping his eyes. He hugs his legs and leans his head on them. He just sits there. Beating himself up over how stupid he could be. Just like you at the same time. Also beating yourself up for how stupid you could be to believe that he could possibly like you too.

#enhypennetwork #ficscafe #enhypen #enhypen angst #enhypen imagines #enhypen reactions #enhypen x reader #enhypen x y/n #enhypen au #enhypen ff #enhypen headcanons #enhypen scenarios #enhypen niki #enhypen nishimura riki #niki nishimura #nishimura riki #enhypen sunoo #kim sunoo #enhypen fluff

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minecraftbookshelf · 4 months

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Heyo just wondering if there are any physical descriptions of the rulers for marriage of state au? (there could have been some I have read before just can't remember) I know it is based off empires so the skins are prob somewhat relevant but the skins can be interpreted in many different ways. So I guess my actual question is, what does everyone wear??? Are chemises and stays common in some places? Do some empires wear a bunch of layers like the Edwardian and Victorian styles or are they like some specific cultural dress of somewhere? are some empires wearing an un-holy mash of a bunch of different styles? Hoop skirts and crinolines? (how do u spell that stupid word??? ;-;) I know you went into what empires wear is made out of but what garments are said textiles made into?

So I've made a few character design focused posts so far. Specifically, Joel and the Seablings so far. I'm in the process of writing Xornoth's. (I randomly generated the order for them because I am indecisive XD) They have their own section on the masterpost as it currently exists and will be one of the things I keep directly linked on the revised version when I get around to that.

On a general note, "what everyone wears" varies fairly wildly from empire to empire. My costuming decisions draw about equally from the skins and the architecture styles (e.g. greco-roman influences in the ocean empire combining with fantasy coture, Rivendell combines visual elements from the lotr movies with a viking-era Scandinavian influence, Byzantine layers and accessories in Mezalea, etc...)

chemises and stays are one of the varieties of undergarments that can be found, but very much older versions. Most of my influences are high/fallen fantasy and ancient civilizations through about mid-medieval Europe. So no hoop skirts or crinolines.

I'll save more of the specifics because if I type it all up here I'll be even slower about making the actual official character-specific posts

Edit:

There is also Official Art. So far just the Seablings. It’s linked on their posts

#ask and it shall be answered #justafeweggnoodles #marriage of state au #rain rambles #i am not a historical costumer myself #but i am close with several of them #so ive picked a lot up via osmosis #mos: asks

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madnessreruns · 1 year

Text

Try Something New (2/2)

Gotham! Jervis Tetch x Fem! Reader

Note: ahhahahah why do I keep writing for Jervis no one reads or likes my shit with him

Warnings: it’s just gross smut what did you expect

Part 1

Request: Closed

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The car ride home was quiet, an awkward unknowing filled the air, while simultaneously being oddly comforting, he was bringing you back to his home. You had to trust him, trust him not to hurt you. And truly you did, you would trust this man with your life.

Neither of you spoke, just the quiet music coming from his car radio. His eyes kept fixed on the road, one of his hands on the wheel, navigating the snowy streets. His other was gently placed on yours, intertwining your fingers with his, rubbing your hand his with thumb, reassuringly.

Speaking of outside, the cold air blew around the car, you could hear the soft whoosh of the wind even from inside. Gentle snowfall surrounding you, not enough to worry either of you about how safe you were to get to your destination, even though in hindsight you should have wondered how you were going to get home in the snow bound to be left behind. I mean, you wouldn’t complain spending an extra night with him, you didn’t think he would mind much either.

In contrast to the snowy outside, the car was warm, even if it wasn’t you would just cuddle up to the man next to you. The car smelled of cinnamon, a similar cinnamon as what his workplace smelled like, you guess he was fond of the smell of cinnamon. You honestly can’t blame him, deeply inhaling the soft scent of pastries and him.

There was a certain smell he had to him, not a bad one no, far from it in fact. It felt similar to a creamy chocolate, but it’s subtle hints of fruit mixed in, perhaps pomegranate, maybe strawberries. It was a nice subtle hint of him, his uniqueness. You’d never meet another guy who would take the chance to smell like something nice and inviting instead of the same 2 colognes all guys seemingly had from when they were 12 and in middle school.

You loved how different he was, how when you were with him it felt like he took you to another world. A fantasy land only he had access too, how he opened the door for you, he let you into his world, and only you. A private residence, only reserved for you two, if anyone else tried too get in he’d fight to keep them out, to keep you safe.

Then, another thought came in to mind. The dangers of doing this, how he could lose his job, you could lose the only therapist that helped you, how you could lose someone extremely important to you. You feel, conflicted. Should you leave? Walk the rest of the way home and apologize? Should you stay, and just be secretive about it? I mean, you could never forgive yourself if you got him fired, you didn’t know if he would forgive you either, and that was a terrifying thing in itself.

“As long as no one knows my dear, we’re safe,” his voice was silky, pleasantly smooth as he talked to you. You paused, realizing he was just doing his weird mind-read-ey thing.

“Are you sure? I mean, you could like, lose your job! Would that be worth it just to, spend this time like this? I mean, with me?” You asked, rambling and shaking, trying to receive his validation that he wanted to do this, to give him a chance to back out. He smiled at you, that warm, beautiful smile. His cheeks were a light red, dusting his beauty, he was incredible in every way.

“I run a business on my own, none of my other patients know what you look like. It’s not like I have a boss,” his smile got big, cheeky, like a little boy sneaking candy while his mother wasn’t around. The idea that you were similar to a piece of candy to him made you smile.

As you two pulled up into his neighborhood you stared in awe, it was quite a nice one to be exact. Beautiful Victorian style house and architecture, exactly his style. It was somewhere you’d expect him to live, it looked similar to a house you’d see in a fairy tale. To be true, he was from a fairy tale. He stepped out of one, bringing his magic to your life, making you feel like you were a princess, and he was your knight.

When he pulled up to his house and stopped his car, he watched your reaction, his house was beautiful. You almost couldn’t believe it.

“Woah..” you couldn’t help but express your wonder as you gazed at his abode, he smiled as he watched your amazement, the ego boost it gave him was obvious.

“Woah?” He mocked your reaction to his home, holding his head in his gloved hand.

“Sorry it’s just, your house is quite beautiful,” you mumbled.

“And that’s, surprising?” He said, teasing you as you began to panic

“No! No no!! I didn’t mean it that way- I just.. it’s not as I, as I imagined it would be!” You stuttered out a response, he chuckled at your worry.

“So you’ve imagined my home before?”

“I didn’t!! I didn’t mean to that way!! Stop being mean! Mmmhbhhmmm,” you let out a soft whine, disliking his barrage of teasing. He just laughed, cupping your face as he brought you into a kiss.

Luckily, when he was kissing you he couldn’t tease you. Which was a win-win for you, more kisses and less teasing.

He didn’t break this kiss until you let out a soft shiver, which he realized he turned the car off and then made out with you, leading to the car cooling down. Quickly, the two of you got out off the car, hopping through the snow to get to his front door.

As he fetched his keys out of his pockets and looked through the ring while trying to find his front door key, you curled up to him, the cold and winter air bullying you, almost as much as Jervis did a moment ago.

Luckily, he found it quickly as the two of you made your way into his home. Stomping the snow off on the welcome rug to make sure you didn’t trail it into his nice house, which you didn’t have to worry about, because as you took your shoes off he immediately swooped you up.

You let out a small screech of surprise as the quick movement was unexpected. He began to dash deeper into the house, making his way to his bedroom. Which led to him awkwardly opening it as he was still holding you.

“Do- do you want me to get it?” You giggled at his struggle.

“No! No I got this I got this,” he tried again. Fail. He just- like tickled the doorknob with his fingertips, unable to turn it successfully.

“Baby I can get it easi-“

“Aghhh I can get it i promise just gimmie a minute,” he interrupted you as he continued to fondle his doorknob, getting flustered as you began to die laughing at his attempts.

“Do you want me to get down?” You offered, through your giggled.

“No! I mean.. ah no I got this S/O! I promise!” He tried his best to no avail as he gave up, letting you turn the doorknob to allow the two of you access to his room.

“I could’ve easily gotten it,” he huffed, being cut off by your lips as you bring him into a other deep kiss, he complained no longer as he carried you and dropped you on his soft bed, you bounced slightly backing up. You lay on the arrangement of pillows he had specially placed.

He chuckled, removing his hat and hanging it up on a rack, before approaching the bed. He climbed up onto the mattress, he sat himself in between your legs, leaning down, his hair closing in around your head, like a curtain, hiding the rest of the world from you, or maybe hiding you from the world. He eagerly pressed his face on yours, pressing a needy, loving kiss into your lips.

His hands began to wander, down from your cheeks to your neck, your shoulders, one went to your right (his left) arm, the other trailed down your torso, resting on your chest.

He started by taking your gloves off, before following with your jacket, and socks. Lifting you up off the bed, he took your shirt off, lifting you up so he could get it off easier. That left you in your bra, and jeans.

He began to trail small kisses down your neck, stopping at your collarbone to bite and lick at that area, right where people couldn’t see. He sucked at your skin, after that he’d pull back and lay kisses and the part where he’d bruise.

He took your hair down from the bun you had it in, letting it fall down your shoulder, pooling around your head as you giggled, looking up at him. He stared down at you with starry eyes.

“Wow…” he softly cooed, you raised an eyebrow,.

“Wow? Do you see something you like?” You teased. He went red, a flustered smile crossing his face.

“Mhmm…” he said, he leaned back down, “I see a gorgeous woman, waiting to be ravished by me,” he praised, kissing your cheek as you looked away, a stupid goofy smile on your face.

He reached behind you, unclipping your bra. He almost took it off all the way, not completely removing it from your breasts, he paused.

“May I? My love?” He asked softly, wanting your permission before revealing you.

“Yes, please…” you allowed him to, he gently removed it, placing it off to the side with the rest of your clothes. He bit his lip softly, watching you like a hawk as he ran his hands up and down your waist.

They both came up, softly cupping your chest. His mouth, slightly agape, he was in awe.

“Are you alright?” You asked, teasing as he sat, frozen above you.

“Alright would be an understatement,” he chuckled, gently squeezing and massaging your chest. He had a wide smile on his face.

“God, your stunning,” he said absentmindedly. He leaned down, groping one in one hand, and taking the others nipple into his mouth.

You rumbled out a soft moan, giggling as he shivered, swirling his tongue around your bud, eagerly bouncing and squeezing your breast in his other hand.

He leaned back, admiring you, a soft, happy smile on your face as you looked at him. The soft pink light, illuminating your body in a beautiful way, it only added to your beauty.

He reached down, unbuttoning and unzipping your jeans excitedly, removing them faster then you could say ‘Please’. He tossed them into the pile, pushing them all off the bed so the two of you could have all the bed to yourselves. It’s not like you needed that space, his bed was huge.

He gazed at your body, only wearing your underwear, the warm air of his home comforting your almost fully nude body. He leaned back down to your chest, resuming his licking and kissing on your chest. He softly pinched the buds, twisting and tugging, not to hard, just hard enough to make you shiver and whine.

“Oh god, baby,” you whined, slightly leaning your head back as he gave a particularly hard suck. He bit and sucked little love-bites and marks onto your chest, surrounding your lovely, sensitive buds.

He trailed his kisses and bites down your body, his kisses were open mouthed, passionate, loving. He didn’t say anything as he tickled his tongue down your tummy, and pressed his lips to your hips, until he came face to face with your underwear.

“May I remove these? May I see all of you? Please, my sweet,” he cooed and pleaded, taking the rim of your underwear into his grip, “Say the words, and I’ll bring you pleasures you can’t even dream off,” he said, pressing a kiss to your clothed clit, a soft shiver going down your spine.

“Oh fuck, Jervis please,” as soon as you said that he ripped them off, throwing them to the side. He was about to start but then-

“Could you, take something off as well?” You chuckled, feeling a bit weird that you were the only nude one. He looked up, softly smiling, nodding. He sat up, begrudgingly leaving your need to remove his suit jacket.

You leaned up, grabbing his collar, stopping him from taking the buttons off himself. Instead, you teasingly pulled the buttons off, one by one, slowly unveiling his gorgeous chest to you. He let out a frustrated groan, not liking how slow you were going.

You giggled, kissing his revealed collarbone, before continuing. He was beautiful, his body was perfect. He was barely toned, and that was how you liked it. He was gorgeous, absolutely perfect, stunning, angelic, he was mouth-watering.

You tugged the dress-shirt off his torso, wanting to lean forward and tickle kisses all over his body but as soon as it was removed he retracted back down, in between your legs.

Letting out a breathy sigh, you leaned back, slightly elevated by the pillows behind you.

He leaned down, softly observing you before putting his hands on you again. Fuck , you were soaked, he had to pull your legs apart, cause you were so needy you were squeezing them together so tight.

He pressed this thumb to the hood of your clit, speaking open your lips, before closing them again, spreading and closing, spreading and closing.

“God, did I make you this wet?” He teased, slightly in disbelief that he could rule someone up this much. You almost aggressively nodded, opening your legs a little more to allow him more access to you, you craved his delicate touch and attention.

He smiled, pressing kisses to the insides of your thighs. He grabbed and groped the flesh, occasionally raking his teeth over it. You whined, bucking your hips towards him, he laughed at your need.

“C’mon don’t tease , that’s mean…” you grumpily huffed, looking away. He smiled, before slowly leaning it.

He licked from the bottom of the opening, to the top, giving it a few small licks around the opening. He took both of his thumbs, opening each lip with them, he leaned forward to finally start.

He moved his tongue around, swirling around your opening, lapping you up. You shivered with a moan, arching your back, he hadn’t even touched you a lot and you were already driven mad, addicted to his touch, you were addicted to his love.

He guided his tongue up to your clit, swirling around the absolutely soaking wet bud, before attaching his lips to the nerves. He eagerly sucked, teasing it with his tongue. You grabbed his sheet, covering your mouth with your hand, the embarrassingly loud moan that shuddered out of your mouth still slipping out.

He laughed into your pussy, the stupidly smug sound muffled by your lips, god it was such a turn on, how he couldn’t even talk because he was devouring you. He brought one of his fingers down, softly running over the outside of your hole, slightly poking his fingertip in, collecting you on his finger.

He was to busy working your clit to get it off, so he fully committed, pushing his middle finger all the way inside of you, it swirled and prodded inside of you, massaging your inside walls.

“Mghhffhh, oh baby,” you cried, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. He smiled into you, softly biting and tugging your clit, before rubbing it with his tongue.

Without warning, you bucked your hips up, you cried out a moan, you humped his face as everything went white, your legs shaking erratically.

He pulled away from your clit, using his thumb to massage and rub the bud, still stimulating you as you came down from your high. He smiled, getting back on top of you, eagerly unbuttoning his pants.

“Ahh- my love, I can’t wait, to be inside of you?” He stopped every few words, emphasizing them as he spoke, you excitedly watched as he pulled his pants down, tossing them to the side. He gently rubbed himself through his underwear, grunting as he grabbed himself.

As he pulled them off you excitedly spread your legs, he situated himself in between them, pulling them over his shoulder so you were completely open to him.

“Now, I’ll ask one more time,” he said, his voice was needy, desperate for you.

“May I make sweet, passionate love to you, my beauty?” He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, he was positioned at your entrance.

“Yes, yes please baby,” you said pushing your hips into the air.

He smiled, aligning himself, before sitting himself on his elbows, pushing in. As he pushed in your squirmed, the feeling was overwhelming, but he went slow, he was about halfway in as he stopped.

“Does it hurt?” He asked, he was always worried about you, making sure you were happy, enjoying yourself. Your swiftly shook your head, letting him go in, bottoming out.

As he did he groaned, an extremely sexy sound, it caused your stomach to flip, a soft, aching in your clit returned.

He pulled out completely , waiting a moment before pushing all the way back in slowly. As he pushed in again you moaned, gently squeezing around him.

It was a foreign feeling to the both of you, but god it was fucking amazing. The feeling of him, going in and out, feeling him against your walls made you shiver. And, the way you tightened around him, griping and squeezing him, it drove him insane.

He picked up a pace, it wasn’t to fast, but it wasn’t to slow, it was hard, firm, passionate. He grunted and groaned in your ear, pressing kisses along your neck, before trailing them up to your jaw, and mouth. Eagerly kissing and rubbing his lips against yours.

You both were dissolved into messes, he was sweating bullets, his cheeks were a beautiful red, his moans were beautifully soft, he couldn’t stop moaning your name, repeating it like a prayer.

He reached down, his hand returned to your swollen, used clit, your hips bucked up, legs shook, eyes rolled back again, drool pooling at the edge of your lips.

Maybe it was because of your previous orgasm, or maybe you just really loved his man, and he was oddly skilled, but a pit formed in your stomach, he knew you were close. Of course he knew he was like a mind reader.

He picked up his pace, helping him to his finish, he pressed his forehead against yours.

He stuttered out how close he was, encouraging you to bring yours, you did, your body shook, it was intense, much more then the one before, tears running down your cheeks as you let out an embarrassing, almost animalistic yell, tightening around him as you reached your peak

He finished not long after you did, letting it go with a soft yelp of your name, burying his face into your neck. You could feel him, filling you up. It was oddly pleasant, something you didn’t wanna touch on. You can uncover a new kink later, now thought, you were with him.

He rested his body on your for awhile, both of you to tired to speak. You could feel him smiling into your chest, pressing more kisses against your skin.

As he rose up you saw his tired, love-filled eyes, his wet cheeks, and his pleasured smile. He quietly got up, silently pulling his boxers and half pulling a shirt on, not caring to button it. He came back with a pair of his shorts, and a tank-top and a wet- warm towel.

He wiped off the sweat, the tears, wordlessly. Making sure it kiss and apologize for the countless hickeys he left on you.

“As long as I can give you some later, then I can forgive you,” you teased, delivering a wink to his flustered face. He rolled his eyes playfully, pulling his clothes onto you. After that he threw the cloth on the ground on the pile of you two’s clothes, giggling as he pulled you under the covers. He snuggled up to you, pressing your face into his chest.

“Baby…?” You cooed, looking up at him. He just responded with a soft hum.

“I love you…” your voice was soft, embarrassed, he just smiled, pressing a kid to your forehead.

“I love you to, angel,”

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#cas.txt #jervis tetch #jervis tetch x reader #gotham #gotham tv #gotham fox #gotham tv show #gotham x reader #gotham x you #gotham jervis tetch #gotham jervis tetch x reader

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