#I originally posted this on Ao3

[starfinss]

ɪɴᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴛꜱ ᴀᴛ ʙᴀɴᴄʀᴏꜰᴛ ʜᴀʟʟ — ᴄʜ. 1

Chapter Two can be found here!

𝘍𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘮: Lockwood & Co.

𝘗𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨: Anthony Lockwood + Lucy Carlyle

𝘙𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨: SFW

𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘊𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵: 7,227

𝘚𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺: 

“Skull,” I hissed, “is there something here with us?”

“Nothing dead, if that’s what you’re asking.”

I didn’t respond, thoroughly miffed, but still on guard. I positioned my rapier in front of my body to act as a shield, and when I heard another sound, I found myself whirling around, zeroing in on the source of the disturbance with mechanical efficiency, only to come face to face with…

A person. A girl. Wide, made-up eyes stared back at me, set in a cute, freckled face, and attached to a throat I was currently pointing my rapier at.

Or, alternatively, the client’s daughter flirts with Lockwood, is a massive nuisance, and Lucy gets jealous, among other things.

It was a bright, cool autumn morning, just after the rather perilous conclusion of the Case of the Flying Top Hat, and Lockwood, George and I were just tucking into breakfast, when someone came ringing the bell out in front of 35 Portland Row.

Holly welcomed whoever had come round dutifully inside without any of us prompting her to do so, and I heard the various sounds of her getting them settled in the living room before her footsteps came towards the kitchen; she poked her head through the open door.

“There’s a client here to see you,” she said, “a Sir Ignatius Quintrell.”

“Fine,” Lockwood said, placing his napkin on The Thinking Cloth, “we’ll be right out.”

The man sitting in our loving room was somewhat an odd fellow. He was a barrel chested man with long arms and legs. He had a great square head with small, watery blue eyes set under heavy, dark eyebrows, and a carefully combed head of jet-black hair, greying at the temples. The handlebar mustache that dominated his upper lip made him resemble a cartoon villain. A spotless bowler hat sat atop his head. He reeked of money and class, as evident from his Italian suit that undoubtedly cost more than myself and Lockwood combined, and his garish scarlet tie, fastened by an ornate gold tie clip. That bit cost more than George. From the top of his hat to the toes of his gleaming shoes, he was a strange amalgamation of something out of a Victorian novel and a character from a comic book.

“Ah,” he said in a booming voice, and though plaster didn’t fall from the ceiling, it came close, “Mr Lockwood. A pleasure to meet the young man who vanquished the spirits in Combe Carey Hall, and his associates. I am Sir Ignatius Qunitrell, and I implore you help me.”

He spoke with one of the poshest accents I’d ever heard, and that, alongside his manner of of dress, made everything about him mildly comical. From the bemused look on my colleagues faces, I could tell that my observation was one we all made.

Lockwood broke the silence with a cough, crossing to sit on the sofa. I joined him after a second, and George busied himself with gathering the things to make a fresh pot of tea.

“How may we do that, sir?” Lockwood asked, folding his hands neatly in his lap.

A broad smile appeared, revealing a gold tooth on the right side of his mouth. “Marvelous of you to ask, Mr Lockwood. My wife and I have recently purchased a third house, over in Buckinghamshire. Lovely property, with a smashing guest house and pool. But my darling girl, my Madeline, has been seeing something in her new bedroom, I’m afraid. She’s scared out of her mind, and refuses to sleep in there, but won’t sleep anywhere else. You can see my problem, yes?”

Lockwood nodded empathetically. “Yes, sir, quite clearly.”

“My sweet Madeline is beside herself with fear. She read about your agency in True Hauntings, and asked for you specifically, so I came to fetch you. We’re willing to pay whatever figure you name— plus extra.”

I could already tell Lockwood was in by the way he was smiling. I knew as well as he did that this man was high society; completing a job with him would be excellent publicity. Besides, I knew him well enough to know that he would never refuse being asked for directly by a client.

George reappeared after a moment with a trey of teacups, which he passed out before taking a seat in his usual armchair.

“Tell us more about your ghost, Sir Quintrell,” Lockwood said after taking his cup, interest glittering in his dark eyes.

Relief seemed to show on Sir Quintrell’s face for a few seconds before the expression grew pleased. And so, he settled into his armchair, took a deep drink of tea, and began to speak.

“The property, called Bancroft Hall, was built in the late middle of the nineteenth century, and originally belonged to a duchess by the name of Cornelia Bancroft. She had the home built when her husband died, and lived there with her three young daughters. Some years later, the Duchess met a local businessman by the name of Daniel Frayne, and fell in love with him. They married after a rather short courtship, and the marriage was frowned upon because of his lower social status. All fairly normal happenstance, if you ask me.”

“But?” George asked, popping a biscuit into his mouth.

Sir Quintrell gave another wide smile. “Ah, yes. How astute of you, my good fellow. There always is a ‘but,’ isn’t there?” He folded his hands in his lap. “Their marriage was happy for some time, but soured, according to a servant’s recount of the events, a scullery maid, if I recall. The pair would argue often, and then there were mentions of a mistress, though I never found much information about that while looking into the estate’s history. All that matters is that Frayne ended up murdering his wife one night, and then proceeded to hang himself from the bedroom’s chandelier.”

“And the daughters?” I asked.

“Yes, the daughters,” Sir Quintrell said, “two of them left the estate and never returned. But one, the eldest, stayed behind to care for her mother’s home. She ended up dying on the property as well, unfortunately, by drowning herself in a bathtub. The house was eventually sold to the county, and was turned into a boarding house. It then went to one of the Duchess’ distant relatives after a time, and it remained in the family until the last member died, and my wife and I purchased it. It wasn’t until we moved in that we noticed the Visitor activity.”

“An esteemed history, indeed,” Lockwood said, “Holly, did you get that? Good. George will need it.”

“Does that mean you’re accepting my offer?” Sir Quintrell asked. Lockwood’s smile grew.

“When do you want us to be there?”

A light sparked behind our new client’s eyes, and he clasped his hands together.

“As soon as you can, Mr Lockwood. The sooner you can come, the more I will pay you, in fact.”

“Then we’ll be there tonight,” Lockwood said, and I looked sidelong at George, fully expecting the outraged expression he was wearing. He rose from the sofa with a sigh, shuffling off into the house, undoubtedly to prepare for a trip to the archives. Holly handed him her notebook on his way out.

The conversation after that was short, mostly just Lockwood and our guest exchanging pleasantries that I was surprised didn’t put me to sleep before Sir Quintrell excused himself, picking up a long, slim walking stick I hadn’t noticed before from beside his chair, and then he was gone just as quickly as he’d come.

“You ought to think more about George before you agree so quickly,” I said, and Lockwood simply smiled.

“He’ll be alright. You worry too much, Luce.” He gave me one of those smiles of his that made my stomach feel all funny. “Now, would you like another cup of tea?”

As the day grew late, we worked in the basement office as Holly cleaned and organized our kit until it gleamed, and then once more until it was blinding. George came back a handful of hours later, still grumpy about the time crunch, and told us that Sir Quintrell had told us most of what we needed to know. He had found a floor plan of Bancroft Hall, however, that he’d photocopied for all four of us. He’d also found guest registry from when the hall served as a boarding house, but beyond that, much of the information was what we already knew.

Holly rechecked our kits, and I helped her sort through them before repacking and making sure the iron filings had been filled and stocked sufficiently. I knew I didn’t need to, Holly was perfectly efficient as always, but it gave me something to do besides stabbing a dummy with my rapier.

Shortly before dusk, we were on the train to Buckinghamshire.

“I reckon we could get to Chequers from here,” George remarked as we got off the train, heavy duffle bags slung over our shoulders, “just pop round. I wonder if the P.M. is in.”

“Maybe he’ll need our services one day,” Lockwood said with a grin, “we’d be set for life with that sort of money, wouldn’t we?”

As we left the station, a stout, flaxen haired youth was waiting for us with a car, and he said very little as he took the bags from us with surprising ease and shoved them into the boot.

The resulting car trip was short, and gave me some time to watch the rolling green hills go by. It looked like a painting, one you’d see hanging at an art museum. Fluffy sheep grazed in the fields, seemingly unaffected by the chill of autumn. The sky was blue, fading into pastels as the sun sank, leaving hues of lavender behind and speckles of stars.

George tried to question our driver about the reputation of Bancroft Hall, but got little out of him besides that he didn’t know the Quintrell family very well, they were paying him twenty quid to pick us up, and that he was late for church. That was all he would say, and when Lockwood tried to start small talk, he was met with a vicious glare.

We sat in uncomfortable silence until we reached the hall, all afraid to anger the driver into crashing the car, or something similar, and when we were safely out of the vehicle, our kits in our hands, we weren’t at all surprised to see the car speed off, leaving a plume of dust in its wake.

That was when we caught our first glimpse of Bancroft Hall.

It was a massive, sprawling structure of two wings, built in Victorian style, out of bright stone blocks. Pillars with scalloped edges held up the great carved awning, which yawned over us like a massive jaw. The windows were wide and tall, with lush red curtains hanging beyond the glass like eyelids, obscuring the recesses. Molting bushes hugged the walls, colorful leaves dotting the space around them. Conical bushes lined the front walkway, groomed immaculately. The entire house seemed to be leaning towards us, casting chilly shadows as it sat before us, backlit by the setting sun, making it seem like it was a living thing. It was a beautiful house, regardless. It reminded me of what a mausoleum would look like if it were for the living.  

“Well,” Lockwood said, flashing a smile, “shall we?”

Before he even rose his hand to use one of the great brass knockers, the door swung open to reveal Sir Quintrell, grinning at us broadly. He ushered us in with the grandiosity we expected of him, even after our rather brief interaction with him at Portland Row.

The entrance hall was a vast room, decorated with soft blues and pastel yellows. The carpet, an intricate Persian thing, was spread across the hardwood floor, just before the sweeping steps, which were made of deep mahogany. There was a sideboard made of heavy, polished wood over by the staircase, which had been stuffed so full of family photos that no room was left on the surface for anything else.

“We’ve been waiting for you, Mr Lockwood,” Sir Quintrell said, voice as booming as ever, “my wife has cooked a sumptuous meal, so I hope you all have an appetite. Surely, we have time before you need to work, yes?”

“It will cut it a little close,” George said, “We need to get ourselves set up, sir—”

“Nonsense,” Lockwood said, waving George off, “we have time for a short meal. George, stop worrying so much. Surely, it would be rude of us to refuse.”

We followed Sir Quintrell into the dining room, where a wonderful scent hit me, and suddenly, the sandwich I’d had on the train was hardly enough to fill my stomach. A woman was waiting in the room at the head of the table, grinning broadly at the four of us.

She was rather short, and shaped very much like a pear. She had a face that reminded me of some sort of holiday elf, with round, merry cheeks and happy, upturned green eyes. Her hair was bright red, done up with clips and piled high on her head. She wore a pair of black slacks paired with a pale pink blouse under a cream colored cardigan that almost completely swallowed her body. A pair of diamond earrings that surely cost more than our house dangled from her earlobes.

The woman, Lady Quintrell, was a warm, motherly sort, who behaved as if she’d known us our entire lives, making sure all of us ate our fills, serving us a delectable plum pudding upon finishing our meals. I could barely finish mine, I was so full, so I discreetly passed my dish to George when Lady Quintrell wasn’t looking.

As we polished off our meals, Sir Quintrell excused himself, saying no more than that he’d return shortly, and when he did, he had a young girl with him.

She looked like a combination of Sir and Lady Quintrell, so I could only imagine she was their daughter. She looked to be a little younger than me, possibly fifteen at best, maybe fourteen. Her hair was the same flaming red as her mother’s, worn hay straight, and her eyes were pale blue, like her father’s. She had a round-ish face, with a small chin and rosy cheeks scattered with countless freckles. Her eyes were large, and I’m no makeup expert, but I’m fairly certain she was wearing a touch too much mascara. The resulting look made her appear to be in a constant state of shock. She was wearing a fitted white sweater dress with dark leggings, as well as high heeled ankle boots that couldn’t possibly be comfortable.

For some reason, I instantly hated her. I’ve gotten better at having positive opinions about other girls upon meeting them, becoming closer friends with Holly had certainly helped with that, but I felt that familiar feeling of disdain well up inside me as I studied her. I tried to shove it down, telling myself to give her a chance before making a judgement, but something about her boiled my blood.

“Mr Lockwood, I’d like you and your associates to meet my daughter, Madeline. She’s a big fan of your work, I hope you know.“

The girl’s round eyes scanned our faces with interest, pausing on Lockwood’s for the longest, a sweet smile spreading across her pretty lips. I felt my stomach do a funny twist, but I ignored it. I didn’t have time to think about what that could mean just before a case. I left those sorts of emotions at the door of a haunted location, no exceptions.

“Charming,” Lockwood said, the megawatt smile he reserved for clients appearing on his face, “it’s quite an honor to be the agency you think of highly enough to request for your problem, Miss Quintrell.”

Madeline let out a soft, tinkling giggle that made my blood squirm in my veins. I forced a polite smile, as if she wasn’t making odd, angry thoughts fill my mind. It was not a gesture that was returned.

“You’re really a genius, Mr Lockwood,” she said, batting her overdone lashes, “I love seeing you in True Hauntings and The Times.”

Lockwood puffed up, glowing from the praise. His smile grew. “Yes, well. It’s even more charming to meet a fan, isn’t it?“ His dark eyes fixed on us, glittering with merriment.

The three of made varying noises of assent, with Holly’s sounding the most genuine, but from the guarded, polite smile on her face, I could tell she wasn’t entirely sure what to make of this girl either.

George cleared his throat suddenly, rising from the table. “We really should get started,” he said, “before it gets darker.”

“Yes, indeed,” Sir Quintrell bellowed, and I swore the windowpanes shook, “wouldn’t want us keeping you. My darlings, let us get to the guest house and let the agents work. If there is any problems, Mr Lockwood, ring us down there. There is a phone in the kitchen. No reason is a silly reason, even if you’re simply calling to chat.”

Lockwood smiled politely. “Your hospitality is splendid, Sir Quintrell. We will keep that in mind.”

The Quintrell family left shortly after that, only interrupted by Madeline claiming she’d forgotten something in her bedroom, and then they were gone, closing the door behind them, and leaving the house to us.

“RIght,” Lockwood said, pressing his gloved palms together, “fine. I suppose there’s no need for biscuits, but who’d like some tea?”

Holly put the kettle on, and as we drank tea, George went over the floor plan with us. The house was a maze of a thing, full of winding corridors and dead ends. It was nowhere near the level of Combe Carrey Hall, but it was a monster of a structure, and I imagined that it would be quite easy to lose one’s way. George had marked spots of activity on the maps he’d passed out to us, as well as routes to and from said active points, leading both to the entryway and to the kitchen, where we’d decided to set up our base due to the large amount of iron located there.

The points of activity marked were the master bedroom and the bathroom attached to Madeline’s bedroom. This made sense, due to the deaths that occurred in such locations, but, like always, I imagined things wouldn’t be as open and shut as they seemed. That was just how it went when you’re with Lockwood & Co.

This was proven by the point of activity in the third floor sitting room, which George hadn’t found much on besides rumors, but according to him, it was worth checking out regardless. The rumors entailed the sound of weeping and a horrible feeling of dread when one sat alone in the room, and Holly remarked that it sounded like a Shade or a Lurker, something we all agreed with her on.

With that all squared away, Holly decided she’d investigate the third floor sitting room with George, and Lockwood and I would investigate the second floor’s visitations. After the bathroom and the sitting room were taken care of, we’d regroup and investigate the master bedroom as a team due to the fact that this was where the initial deaths had occurred, making it the most likely epicenter of the haunting.

As Lockwood and I ascended the stairs to the second floor, I reached back to turn the tap attached to the jar in my backpack. As I did, a psychic pressure materialized, settling neatly into a familiar spot inside my inner ear, and the sardonic voice of the skull in the jar filled my head.

“Ah, good,” the voice whispered, “You’re listening. Now, Lucy, find a nice heavy pan and hit that red headed blighter—”

“No,” I said, before it could finish, “I’m not doing that, skull.”

“You never take my advice,” it said, “but really, you’d be better off in the long run. What’s that girl ever going to provide for society besides dimness and far too much cosmetic application?”

I ignored its last comment. “I take your advice plenty. When it’s useful, though, not when you’re suggesting the casual murder of our client’s daughter for no other reason but your personal amusement.

Lockwood hid his laugh with a cough. “What’s it saying?”

I rolled my eyes. “The usual drivel.”

A soft, spectral scoff. “I’ll have you know that this is no drivel, but a serious suggestion that will benefit all of us. I have only your best interests at heart, Lucy.”

“And Ghost Touch isn’t lethal,” I shot back, “do you sense anything yet?”

“No, nothing yet,” the ghost said, “and I still say my plan is the only sensible option. I’ll bet the office has a nice letter opener you could use. Sneak down to their posh guest house and drive the blade into her posh throat. Get her posh parents while you’re at it. I won’t tell.”

I hummed. “You won’t, no. Because I’m the only one who can hear you, skull.”

A quiet excitement filled the voice when it spoke next. “So you’ll do it? Lucy, I knew you’d come around. Now, first—”

“No, Skull,” I interjected, “I’m not murdering anyone with a letter opener.”

“Drat.”

“Yeah,” Lockwood said, mirth spilling into his voice, “normal things, I see.”

The skull stayed quiet as we rounded the corner, following Lockwood’s map to Madeline’s bedroom, our boots ringing faintly on the hardwood floors. The sun had fully set, and the hallway was dark, casting us in semi-darkness as moonlight spilled through the tall, floor to ceiling windows.

“Should be here,” Lockwood said, stopping before a door, then stepping back with a dramatic flourish, “ladies first.”

For once, he was right. He’d been the one to open the first door during our last investigation, and I supposed I did owe it to him, because upon pushing open that door, he’d immediately been accosted by a mountain of falling cushions. Oh, and a Limbless, too. That was far from pleasant. Don’t ask me what a Limbless was doing in a linen cupboard, because I wouldn’t be able to tell you.

I stepped past Lockwood, resting my hand on the knob and focusing, tapping into my inner ear, but got nothing. Slowly, I turned the handle, pushing the door open.

The room reminded me of something out of a magazine or a teen film. The bed was large, set in a four poster frame, cheerfully painted white. The duvet was patterned with daisies on a soft, sky blue backdrop, with matching pillowcases. A handful of stuffed animals sat against the throw cushions. Posters for bands and television shows hung on the walls, and below the window on the left wall was a desk, painted the same white as the bed frame. Textbooks and school supplies sat neatly arranged on the desktop. A vanity was nearby, the mirror wreathed in photographs, makeup organized on the surface. A walk-in closet was attached to the wall to the right of the bed, and on the right side of the room was a door, leading to what was undoubtedly the bathroom.

“Blimey,” Lockwood said, “looks like an advert for a furniture shop in here.”

As we stepped into the room, I heard a sudden crash. I started, and I was about to ask Lockwood if he’d heard the same thing, as he often doesn’t hear all the same things I do, but from the look on his face, I could tell there was no need for me to ask.

“The devil was that?” Lockwood asked, and I simply shrugged.

“Stay here,” I said, “It sounded like it came from the study next door.”

“Oh, goodie,” the skull jeered, “yes, go get the letter opener.”

I ignored it, drawing my sword as I stepped out of the bedroom and into the hall. Slowly, with practiced, catlike grace, I approached the closed study door, pressing my ear against the wood. I could hear something inside, moving about, but I wasn’t sure if it was something living or not. George hadn’t said anything about a visitation in the second floor study, but it was possible he’d somehow missed something.

Rapier at the ready, I pushed open the door, eyes scanning the dim room for any sign of movement. The room was a high-ceilinged, airy space, with tall, floor to ceiling windows on the far wall, overlooking the rolling hills behind the property and flooding the space with moonlight. The desk was punished against the wall with the windows, scattered with books and writing utensils. Heavy mahogany bookshelves lined the walls, stuffed full of thick volumes. A bright red area rug dominated much of the floor space.

Because of the windows, there was little space to hide in the shadows, so I assumed, as any agent would, that what I’d heard had been a Visitor. I was about to pull my map out to check the floor plan when I heard another bit of shuffling, just over my shoulder. I tuned myself to the room, listening, but I picked up nothing besides the usual empty silence that comes with un-haunted rooms. I furrowed my brows, puzzled.

“Skull,” I hissed, “is there something here with us?”

“Nothing dead, if that’s what you’re asking.”

I didn’t respond, thoroughly miffed, but still on guard. I positioned my rapier in front of my body to act as a shield, and when I heard another sound, I found myself whirling around, zeroing in on the source of the disturbance with mechanical efficiency, only to come face to face with…

A person. A girl. Wide, made-up eyes stared back at me, set in a cute, freckled face, and attached to a throat I was currently pointing my rapier at.

“Ooh,” the skull said, “now, there’s your reason to kill her. Or, you could just let the ghosts do that. Letter opener to the neck, lob her head off with your rapier, or let her get Ghost Touched. Your choice, Lucy.”

I stared at Madeline, forcing myself to take in what I was looking at as I lowered my sword, but I didn’t put it away. I stared at her some more, struggling with the feelings of sheer, utter confusion and absolutely boiling rage.

“What,” I hissed, “in the hell are you doing here? I could have run you through.”

She stared back at me, her jaw opening and closing like a rather shocked fish. “But I’m not a ghost, I’d’ve died if you’d done that.”

“Yes,” I said, stunned, and questioning whether or not she had a working brain, “you would’ve. I don’t carry a sword for fun, you nonce. Now, you will answer my question. What the hell are you doing here?”

Madeline shifted, a sweet smile spreading across her face, one that I suspected was known to work quite well in aiding this girl with getting her way. At present, it wasn’t doing its intended job.

“I just thought I could help.”

I wondered very seriously if she was completely brain dead, because only someone incredibly stupid would try to go into a known haunted location without any training or kit.

“Is she mental?” The skull said, a note of amusement in its voice, “well, who cares if she is? One less problem for you.”

I ignored the skull, continuing to stare at Madeline, unable to come up with a response to her statement that wasn’t a shriek of indignant rage.

“You thought you could help?” I parroted, my eyes narrowing in askance, “are you mad?”

She had the nerve to look offended. “Well, no. I—”

“You just assumed,” I said, incredulous, “that you could come in here, pick up a rapier, and do our job with us? Have you passed your Forth Grade? Undergone training? Do you have a copy of The Fittes Manual for Ghost Hunters? Done any form of rapier training?”

She laughed; a soft, simpering sound that made my blood boil.

“I’m sure it can’t all be too hard, can it? Where’s Mr Lockwood?”

I let out a derisive laugh, my bemusement showing plainly on my face. “Oh, you want to see Lockwood? Alright, I’ll take you to him.”

I shoved my rapier back into its spot on my belt, and, without worrying about being gentle, I grabbed Madeline around the upper arm and began to walk, marching her around the corner and into the bedroom where I’d left Lockwood. When I arrived, I didn’t let go of her, despite her weak struggling.

“Found anything, Luce?” Lockwood’s voice called, coming from the en-suite bathroom.

“Oh, yeah,” I said, my voice dripping with sardonic rage, “you’ll want to see it for yourself, this.”

Lockwood, undoubtedly put off by the tone of voice I’d adopted, appeared in the bathroom doorway with a thermometer in his hand. He looked at me for a few seconds, then at my squirming captive. He was clearly at a loss for words, and when Madeline smiled at him, as prettily as she could, his mouth pressed itself into a firm line.

“Hello, Miss Quintrell,” he said, forced professionalism saturating his words, “what are you doing here?”

“Oh,” she said, casually, like they’d met at a shop or something, “hi, Mr Lockwood. Please, just Madeline is fine. I just wanted to see if I could help. Do you have any spare rapiers? Maybe you could teach me, I’ve heard you’re very good with a sword. I’ve got good eyes, too.”

A muscle in Lockwood’s jaw twitched, something that only happens when he’s trying to keep his temper in check, which is rather a rare occurrence. I’ve only seen it happen when Kipps is involved, so this had certainly gotten on his nerves. Lockwood cleared his throat, the smile that appeared on his face a touch wolfish.

“You can let her go now, Lucy. Thanks. I’d prefer to stay professional, Miss Quintrell,” Lockwood said, voice eerily calm, “and furthermore, you do not have the level of training required to work alongside operatives such as Lucy or myself. It is far too dangerous. You need to leave.“

Madeline let out a soft, affronted scoff. She clearly wasn’t used to people telling her no. She crossed her arms, batting her lashes at Lockwood, who stared back at her, unmoved. His lack of a reaction seemed to trouble her.

“Come off it,” she said, the saccharine smile reappearing, “can’t you just protect me, Mr Lockwood? Can I call you Anthony?”

Lockwood’s expression didn’t falter, but I could tell she was testing his patience. “Just ‘Lockwood’ is fine,” he said, “everyone calls me that, even my friends. Nobody really uses my first name. And, I can’t keep my full attention on you during an investigation, I’m afraid. We can’t have you getting hurt, now, can we? Ghost touch is nasty business.”

“I won’t get hurt,” Madeline said, giggling, “really, I’m a fast learner. I’m very good in my lessons, all my instructors love me. They say I’m a star pupil.”

“Ooh, I’m betting you wish you’d followed my advice just about now,” the skull jeered, “stabbed her just there, in the jugular. She’d have been dead before she hit the ground.”

I ignored the skull again, but as it finished speaking, I felt something snap, and I was slightly more accepting of the letter opener idea.

“Miss Quintrell,” I said, voice cold, “it is too dangerous for you to be here. You’re only going to get in the way. It is safest if you leave.”

Lockwood chuckled, a little awkwardly. “She said it less delicately than I would have liked, but yes, Lucy is correct. It is for your own safety that you leave and join your family in the guest house, Miss Quintrell.”

Madeline turned towards me, and she did something that I’d seen girls do countless times before. With eyes like a predator, like I was something she’d stepped on, she scoffed. She was looking down on me, like I was some silly girl who didn’t know what she was talking about.

“Well, Lucy,” she said, “how do you know that you don’t get in the way?”

Rage boiled inside of me, and I was about to answer her, when Lockwood did it for me.

“That’s enough,” he said, voice frosty, “Lucy is one of the best agents in London, if not the best. She’s well trained, her Talent is strong, and she knows what she’s doing. You’d do well not to talk like that about my operatives, Miss Quintrell.”

I felt that funny, pleasant rush I get when Lockwood compliments me, and I smiled despite myself.

“Careful now,” the skull said, “something’s stirring. Or don’t be careful, this is only just starting to get good.”

That was something I wouldn’t ignore. Madeline was mid-sentence when I held up a hand, signaling for quiet.

“What is it, Luce?” Lockwood asked, “you hear something?”

“Maybe,” I said.

I tuned myself in, closing my eyes, and I listened. Ah, there. Just buzzing at the edges of my senses, I could hear something. The thrum of running water. It was clear enough that it could actually be there, outside my psychic senses; it sounded like someone running a bath behind a closed door. But I had a feeling that wasn’t what it was. I’d been stupid, letting my anger grow. The visitation had started.

“Did you turn on the tap, Lockwood?” I asked.

“No,” he replied, “do you hear water?”

“Yeah,” I said, “it’s quiet, but it sounds like a bath running. What was the temperature in the bathroom?”

“Fifteen,” he said, and he turned, walking into the bathroom again.

“It’s at ten now,” he remarked upon reemerging, “good bit colder.”

“What should I do?”

Both Lockwood and I started at the sound of Madeline’s voice. I’d forgotten she was there for a moment as I was faced with the responsibilities that come with my line of work.

“Miss Quintrell,” Lockwood said, with forced cheeriness, “you’re still here. You really should leave now. It’s not safe.”

“Stirring? I said stirring, didn’t I?” The skull mused, “it’s more like a whirlpool now, really. Use the girl as a shield, there’s an idea. Let her get Ghost Touched.”

“Skull, shut up. Lockwood, it says something’s here. Miss Quintrell, I’m going to set up a small circle of iron chains, which I want you to stand inside of and not move from. After this visitation ends, you are leaving this building.”

“Skull? What skull?”

I ignored Madeline. Psychic pressure was building in my ears as I walked over to the kit, pulling one of our smaller lengths of chains from the bag and making a circle wide enough for a single person to stand inside of. Then, with little ceremony, I grabbed Madeline by the arm and shoved her into the circle.

“Do I get a rapier?” She asked, and I nudged the kit bags away from her with my boot, even though our spare blades were down in the kitchen. I just didn’t want her getting any ideas with a Magnesium Flare and setting her own bedroom ablaze in a further act of blinding idiocy.

“No,” I said, “you stand there and you wait. Stay inside that circle and you’ll be safe. Step outside, and your chances of dying go up quite a bit. I think that’s simple enough for someone as utterly thick as you to understand, yeah?”

I admit that I was being mean. But I had very little patience for someone who thought entering a haunted location with no protection or training just because she wanted to flirt was a smart decision. If there’s anything an agent hates, its when civilians try and interfere during an investigation, especially flirty schoolgirls with underdeveloped cosmetic skills. Maybe that last bit is a personal preference, but I’m sure at least a few other agents would share that sentiment.

I drew my rapier, following Lockwood into the bathroom and into the circle of chains he’d set up inside, where I could definitely feel the beginnings of creeping fear, sending chills up my spine. The first tendrils of Ghost Fog had begun to roll across the floor, swirling around our ankles.

“Temperature?” I asked, and Lockwood glanced down at his thermometer, its luminescent dial casting shadows across his thin, pale face.

“Dropping,” he said, “a bit nippy now.”

I could hear the sound of running water more clearly now, liquid splashing against porcelain. It was a musical sound, usually, but right now, with no physical source, it was just rather eerie.

“Do you see anything?” I asked, “I can hear the water now.”

“Death glow, not too bright,” Lockwood said, “just there, in the bathtub.”

I closed my eyes, focusing on the sound. I removed one of my gloves as I paced over to the bathtub, letting my fingertips run along the edge. I could hear a quiet weeping, followed by water running, overlapping with what I already heard in a strange echo. The surface grew cold under my fingers, and I focused harder.

Suddenly, I was being yanked back, Lockwood’s arm around my waist. My attention snapped to the tub, where a softly glowing hand had been reaching out, its thin fingertips searching the spot my hand had just been. I watched as the hand wrapped around the edge of the bathtub, followed by another hand, and then the top of a head, moving up to reveal a face, staring out at us with blank eyes.

The hair was the color of spilled ink, falling around the pale face in water logged strings. The skin was blue and bruised, eyes sunken and blank. The eyebrows were pitched upwards, giving the apparition a horribly sad appearance. I could hear the soft weeping again, mixing with the sound of the running water.

Slowly, the head rose, followed by thin, pale shoulders, and the mouth came into view.  Her lips were pale and blue, on par with the rest of her whole drowning victim thing. The cheeks were hollow and sunken, stained with dark tears running down from the empty eyes. I felt like I was standing in a vat of molasses, and I tried my best to shake off the Malaise, hitting my temple with my palm to snap myself out of it and avoid the inevitable Ghost Lock.

“Got any gum?” I asked Lockwood, “tastes awful sour right now. I forgot to go to Arif’s before we left Portland Row.”

He wordlessly passed me a stick, which I stuck into my mouth after unwrapping it. The burst of mint on my tongue helped clear the supernatural influences away, forcing me to focus on something else.

“She’s not moving,” Lockwood remarked, “maybe just a Shade? She’ll probably vanish in a moment, and repeat that whole rising from the bath bit. We’ll look round for the Source once she’s gone.”

Just as he said that, the Visitor rose from the water fully, revealing the thin white nightgown on the body, dripping with plasm as she stepped out and onto the floor. Or rather, through the floor. The ankles sank through the floor tiles, like she was wading through shallow water, or walking through some unruly grass. Regarding us blankly, the Ghost glided towards us, stopping before the barrier provided by the iron chains.

“Or she could do that,” Lockwood said.

The air had turned bitter cold since she’d approached, and Lockwood’s and my breath could be seen in the air in front of us, highlighted by the Other Light that wreathed the staring Visitor before us. Her head tilted, as if quizzical, and I heard the weeping increase in volume as she moved.

“Right,” Lockwood said, “is she saying anything?”

“No,” I replied, “she’s just sort of standing there and crying.”

“Not very cheerful, is she?”

With that, Lockwood waved his rapier, passing the blade through the Ghost’s form, and she shrieked, jolting backwards. As if offended, her shoulders slumped as she drifted towards the bathtub, where she vanished.

“Ah, she’s gone,” the skull said in my ear, “one less problem for you.”

“I can see that she’s gone, Skull. Easy enough Vanishing Point,” I said, “but you’d think someone would notice an entire bloody tub being a Source. Should we look underneath?”

Lockwood smiled at me, and I felt my stomach go all funny. “Excellent thought.”

The two of us got on our hands and knees, peering down into the space beneath the claw foot tub. It had been bolted down, as tubs often are, so there was no trying to haul it aside. We shone our torches into the wedge of darkness, and just at the very back, I could see something glinting.

The psychic pressure was back. With a grunt, I shoved my arm beneath the tub. I had to hurry, before the Visitor returned, but with a space as snug as this, that was easier said than done. I strained myself, ignoring the twinge of pain in my shoulder as I overextended, and finally, I felt my fingers brush against something small and round. I hooked my pinkie finger through it, and withdrew my arm.

It was a ring. Small and dainty and silver, and burning with supernatural chill. A diamond was set in the front, hemmed in by tiny little emeralds. I deposited it into a small Silver Glass container attached to my belt, and the psychic pressure waned and then was gone.

“Nice job, Luce,” Lockwood said, “straight on, as always.”

He rose to his full height, offering me a hand, which I took, and he hoisted me up as well.

“Now,” he said, dusting off his gloved hands, “how about we see to our living Visitor?”

The pair of us stepped back into the bedroom, only to find that Madeline had gone. The circle I’d made for her sat empty, as if there had never been anyone there to begin with. I stared at it, reignited rage simmering in my chest.

“I said she’d gone, hadn’t I?” The skull said, unhelpfully.

I blinked. “You weren’t exactly specific about exactly who had gone, Skull. Did you see where she went?”

“No,” it said, “I just saw her leave. She left through the door, as many people tend to do when leaving a room, if that helps.”

“It doesn’t, thanks. We have to find her, Lockwood.”

Lockwood sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Right. Fine. Pack the kit over by the door, Luce, I’ll grab what’s in the bathroom. Hopefully we find her before she gets herself Ghost Touched.”

We packed up with trained efficiency, hoisting our kit bags over our shoulders as we left the bedroom and stepped back into the hall. Lockwood pulled his copy of the floor plan from a pocket inside his greatcoat, examining it. I took a half step closer to him to look at it as well.

“There are loads of places she could have gone,” Lockwood said, his voice laced with thinly veiled annoyance, “where else, if not her own bedroom? You think she went looking for George and Holly?”

I shrugged. “Maybe. Where’s the stupidest, most dangerous place in the house? I reckon we’ll find her there.”

“Just give up,” the skull suggested, “let her learn the error of her ways by letting her get Ghost Touched. Once she’s blue and swollen, much like a particularly unpleasant boil or a diseased blueberry, she’ll be very sorry indeed.”

It alarmed me that I wasn’t entirely opposed to that idea. I shook my head, though.

“No, Skull, that isn’t happening. She’s our client, so no matter how daft she is, we have to find her and keep her from getting hurt.”

“Right,” Lockwood agreed, “we’d best start looking, then.”

It was going to be a long night.

#lockwoodandco #lockwood & co #locklyle #fanfiction #I originally posted this on Ao3 #My writing #not a reader insert #jonathan stroud #spooky #cross posted on AO3 #this is pure fuckery #shenanigans ands hijinks #This references the books #like a lot #but you could put the tv characters in this too I guess #if you ignore Holly or something #lucewood #anthony bloody lockwood #lockwood netflix #lockwood and co

[timelessbian]

actually that ao3 post about calculating kudos-to-hits ratios to decide if a fic is worth reading has me so pissed off. someone put real time and energy into something they are SHARING WITH YOU FOR FREE on a site where you can quite literally filter and search by anything you want and you're STILL trying to find a foolproof method to find stuff that's "good enough to read"???

YOU ARE NOT THE TARGET AUDIENCE FOR EVERYTHING

you don't have to like or read everything in a given fandom or tag, but you also don't have to be a cunt about it and imply that it's not worth reading. this is the kind of shit that moves people to stop creating altogether, and to see people agreeing in the tags is so disheartening. absolutely unserious behavior.

#some of y'all would not have survived pre-ao3 fandom spaces and it really fucking shows #i have so much more i could say about this but at my core it really just makes me sad #i'm obviously not tagging the op of the original post or anything but i hope they and everyone agreeing with them learns to chill tf out

[anemomee]

Me: Is ao3 down? *opens tumblr*

Tumblr:

Me: Oh, yeah it is

#ao3 is down #ao3 #I can always rely on tumblr to tell me if it’s down or of my wifi is the issue #original post

[aludraslytherin]

Lily: Does anyone know why James and Regulus are sitting back to back holding hands?

Barty: They got in a pretty bad fight, Reg is mad at Potter.

Lily: Okay but why the hand holding then?

Remus: James got scared that Regulus doesn't love him anymore, so that's their solution until they calm down.

#I really didn't expect this to blow up lmaooo #like it's really not an original post #I swear I found one in every one of the fandom I'm in #marauders #regulus black #ao3 #james potter #jegulus #marauders era #lily evans #remus lupin #barty crouch jr #starchaser #sunseeker #regulus x james #marauders incorrect quotes #incorrect marauders quotes #meme

[grimalkhiindi]

I hate you shipping discourse I hate you unnecessarily aggressive DNI banners I hate you dehumanization of those you disagree with I hate you harassment over ships or favorite characters I hate you purposeful lack of nuance I hate you false equivalencies I hate you policing how people engage in fandom I hate you actively trying to make fandom spaces hostile I hate you refusal to filter your feed I hate you making it everyone else's problem

#like no it's actually not ok for you to send death threats to someone because you don't like how they're shipping characters #ok to reblog #i hate you meme #anyway back to ao3 #because i think original context tends to be helpful to know #this post was about zadr. and by extension an//ti zadr. #but i know this applies to a lot of fandoms

[californiatowhee]

old fashioneds and tipsy daydreaming

bonus: the subsequent drunk texting

extra bonus, if you made it this far: what happens next, in fic form (spoiler: Phoenix and Miles kiss)

Behavioral Phenomenon | Phoenix/Edgeworth | 2.5k

#narumitsu #wrightworth #phoenix wright #ace attorney #citsiurtlanu art #citsiurtlanu fic #// haha wow a multimedia post #// this was originally just going to be just texts inspired by a prompt from the nrmt discord event #// and not actually for the discord event cause texts alone seemed like not enough but i didn't want to do more #// and then i was like i guess i should draw something so that it can go on my “art” blog #// and tipsy phoenix is a cute visual #// and then i was like ok but what if i actually... did do more #// so now there is fic too #// thank you discord event (more about that in the AO3 link)

[thelandswemadeofpaper]

#writers of tumblr #fanfiction #ao3 #writting #writers #polls #writeblr #writerscommunity #fic writing #writers and poets #i was originally talking about writing FICS #but writing everything is fine too #y'all shitting THIS is my most popular post?

[hai-nae]

astral projection thoughts for mcu mk from awhile ago

#whoops i forgot to post this here #originally posted on my ao3 back in june last year #moon knight #my art #steven grant #jake lockley #marc spector #is panicking in the backseat along with steven #marvel #sorry about the terrible panel puns(im not) #to quote my ao3: #not seen is khonshu immediately after realizing what's happened slam dunking jake back into the body

[biggiedraws]

okay you know what. ive been thinking about the time between chuuya shooting dazai and dazai revealing himself to fyodor. and ive decided that we were ROBBED. cause like. dazai comes out with a splint on his leg and his shoulder wound *not* bleeding through his shirt. and like, chuuya was RIGHT THERE. he followed right behind dazai when dazai confronted fyodor. so surely. SURELY chuuya helped patch up dazais injuries. at the very least he got the splint for him. and holyyyyy shit does that have potential. like

chuuya visibly dropping the ruse and asking in a panic if dazai is okay. dazai sits up and makes fun of him for being worried and then whines dramatically about the wound in his shoulder. chuuyas like "youre such a pain, i shouldve killed you right then and there" and then settles down next to him to help fix him up.

chuuya is talking while he bandages dazais shoulder (definitely not to distract dazai from the pain. definitely not because he likes talking to dazai. definitely not because hes dealing with a lot of strong emotions and doesnt want to think about any of it. hes doing it to annoy dazai, obviously). probably complaining about having to pretend to be a vampire and how annoying it was, and then dazai makes fun of him for like. his vampire teeth or something, so chuuya scowls and aggressively tightens the bandage to get him to stop laughing (it only partially works, because dazai does stop laughing to yell at him to ease up, but hes still got that glint in his eye. asshole).

chuuya asking if dazai can walk (but not like "omg are you okay???" more like "if you ask me to carry you ill shoot you again") and dazai makes a comment about how he WOULD but SOMEONE was too rough when stopping the elevator and chuuya yells that its not as easy as it looks and maybe next time he'll just let the elevator crash. he still asks him what he needs to do for it though. bonus points if he like. rips a hole in the wall to make the splint. you know he fucking would

they both know they should be hurrying- even without the fyodor thing, they should want to be done with this and get away from each other as quickly as possible, since they /hate each other so much/. but its their first quiet moment in a while (well. not really quiet because theyre literally always bickering. but quiet because neither of them are fighting or dying) and, while they would never admit it, theyre savouring the time together. and if either of them notices how unhurried the other person is, they dont bring it up.

do you get me???? i wanna see them argue like children i wanna see the comforting familiarity of being alone together i wanna see a hint of affection buried under no less than 20 layers of repression GIVE ME THE SOUKOKU CONTENT YOU COWARDS. sigh...... *opens ao3*

#ao3 may not be enough...... *opens word document* #tbh this post is pretty much as close to writing fanfic as i ever get. but ive been considering it...... #anyway #bungou stray dogs #bsd #bsd spoilers #soukoku #skk #if youre wondering why 2 long bsd posts in a row. its because this one was originally part of the last one #but it obviously got out of hand lmao

[blindmagdalena]

The Fall

2.8k mostly sfw homelander x reader. christmas adjacent. depowered homelander.

Summary: After being struck by an unidentified projectile that renders him powerless, Homelander crash lands in your backyard, wholly at your mercy.

this is a rework of this original prompt. inspired by the fable of the mouse that aids the lion whose paw has been stuck by a thorn.  ♡

Homelander is over a hundred feet in the air when he hears something whistling through the sky behind him. Some kind of projectile. A small missile, maybe. It's nothing he hasn't handled before: It could blow up in his face and he would be fine. He’s more curious about what exactly it is, who’s stupid enough to fire it at him, and where it’s coming from. 

With that in mind–in that split second he has to react–he decides to forgo dodging it and instead attempt to catch it.  However, as the mystery projectile gets nearer, his vision begins to tunnel. 

What the fuck? 

His reflexes slow, and before he knows it, the projectile strikes him hard in his left side rib, exploding in fumes that fill his lungs and coat his skin. In an instant, he feels pain like he's been turned inside out, a sensation worse than anything he’s felt since childhood. Instantly he's plummeting towards the ground, crashing directly into your backyard in an eruption of snow and yard furniture.

With his vision going black, the last thing he hears is the sound of the world turning deafeningly quiet.

When Homelander comes to, he's being shaken. No–compressed, hands over his chest, pushing again and again in a steady rhythm. Warm lips press against his, and a rush of air fills his lungs. His eyes snap open, and out of pure reflex, he drives his fist into your unfamiliar form, sitting up with a frenzied look in his eyes.

You should have flown back thirty feet with a hit like that. Instead, you only fell back onto your ass, coughing. Homelander's hands are shaking as he looks at them, and he can feel blood dripping from his ears, taste it in his mouth. He's disoriented, his whole body heavy. He's having trouble breathing, every ragged inhale a struggle, and his heart is pounding.

"Someone tried to kill me," he rasps in disbelief. Not surprised that someone tried, but that someone very nearly succeeded. "Someone... Someone tried to fucking kill me," he says again, growing more hysteric the more the pain sets in. His own brain is hammering against the confines of his skull, beating at the backs of his eyes.

He’s certain that he’s halfway to cardiac arrest, but no matter how he tries to focus, he can’t calm himself. His strength is gone. It’s gone. He looks at you, you, who should have a hole punched through your chest. Instead, you’re staggering to your feet, totally unharmed. 

"Homelander!" You address sharply, audibly trying to rein in your own bubbling panic. He can see his own fear reflected in your eyes. You’re just as confused as he is. Just a stupid little mouse that crawled out of your hole and found him like this. "I can help you, okay? Let me help you."

There’s something about the sharp authority in your voice mixed with an undeniable quiver of compassion that catches his attention. It could be the degree of his vulnerability sinking in, but after a second of dumbfounded staring, Homelander nods.

It must be pure adrenaline that gives you the strength to help him into your house. You don’t look like you should be able to carry him. He's practically dead weight in your arms, barely keeping himself on his feet as you both stumble into your living room. The height difference does neither of you any favors.

You get him down onto the couch before fetching a wet rag, a bottle of water, pills, and a first aid kit. He watches you fumble with it, hands shaking. He assumes it’s adrenaline, though you lack the acidic stench of it. No, you probably don’t. He just can’t smell it anymore. He can’t smell anything except the faint tinge of blood, and whatever nauseating scented candle you use to stink up your home. Though, even that’s distant compared to what he’s used to. However, he finds he doesn’t have it in him to panic. Is this what shock feels like?

He takes the water you offer him, but denies the pills. “No, no. I have no idea what that shit will do to me right now.” You nod, setting the bottle aside. You then lean over him, inspecting the level of damage. His ears are ringing, and his whole body is throbbing with sharp, painful aches. Maybe the pills would help, but he’s never had to take painkillers before. He’d rather swallow tacks than lean on something so pedestrian.

As you work, he notices a mottled mark blossoming darkly across the center of your chest, just under your collarbone, approximately the size of his fist. Without thinking, he reaches up to touch it, remembering the blow he’d dealt you.

You startle, looking down where he touches with a wince. The skin looks as tender as he feels. It must sting. Is he bruised like this beneath his suit? The thought of these same ugly dark marks mirrored on his own body brings him visceral disgust. 

"Don't worry about me," you tell him, as comforting as your voice can muster. You grasp his wrist and gently lay it back down at his side.

I'm not worried about you, he thinks derisively. "That should have caved in your chest."

"Guess it's my lucky day, then," you say absently, more focused on using a wet cloth to wipe away the blood from his temple, up into his hairline, seeking the injury. You're meticulous but gentle in the way you handle him, cupping the side of his face to turn him one way, then another.

If not for how clumsy your movements feel, he’d think you’ve done this before. There is care and determination in the way you tend to him, but no obvious medical expertise. Even the kit you pull from looks out of date and sparse. You probably picked it up from a gas station on a whim because you needed safety pins. "I think these need stitches," you say as you carefully apply bandages, brows furrowed. Homelander's gaze lingers on your lips as you speak. What kind of person sees someone fall out of the fucking sky, blowing a crater in their yard in the process, and then thinks to give them CPR?

"I'm calling an ambulance," you say, moving to stand. That breaks him out of his stupor. He catches you by the wrist, stopping you in your tracks, despite how pitifully weak his own grasp feels. "No, no, not... Don't do that," he says, screwing his eyes shut briefly. No one else can know that this happened. Besides, if those psychopaths are still out there, it will draw them right to him. "Too much attention, I just... give me a fucking minute," he says, flexing his hands. They still feel weak, tingling like they've fallen asleep, but the bizarre sensation is gradually beginning to abate.

Whatever was done to him, it doesn't seem to be permanent. 

He hopes to fuck that it isn’t. "Okay," you say tentatively. Instead of leaving, however, you reposition to continue wiping the blood from his face, gently rubbing from his temples down his jaw. He watches you like a hawk, rolling his fingers in and out of fists, gradually feeling his strength return to him.

He's unaccustomed to the way you're handling him. One hand cupping his jaw, ginger in the way you move his head only when you absolutely need to. The concern wrinkled between your brows is so palpable, so sincere, that for a moment he almost forgets you're strangers to each other.

"What're you doing?" He asks eventually, voice low. You pause, looking down to meet his eye. "Oh, I just... There's still blood, and I didn't want to leave you alone."

Your response tightens something in his chest, like a steel coil wrung too tight, leaving him uncomfortable. He feels small, vulnerable, and the tenderness of your touch is doing nothing for it. "I don't need you," he snaps defensively. "I'm fine."

"Okay," you respond, aggravatingly calm. Still soothing. "What do you need?" Homelander opens his mouth, but hesitates. Your earnestness is infuriating, waiting on bated breath for what you can do for him. He closes his mouth, jaw tight. His gaze flickers back down to the bruise on your chest. It's darker now, varying shades of purple and yellow fading into one another.

Looking back up at you, he schools his expression into calm focus. "Close the blinds," he says, gesturing with his head to the window, where you have twinkling white Christmas lights strung up. 

"I need to lay low awhile." He can feel his powers steadily returning. Once he gets back to Vought, he'll find out who it was, and rip out their fucking spine.

You've already gotten up to do as he asked, drawing the blinds down, and then closing the curtains over them. Afterwards, you turn to leave.

"Hey," Homelander calls, frowning. You stop in the doorway. "Where are you going?"

"The kitchen," you answer, hand on the doorframe. "You can call if you need something."

"Stay here," he says, ignoring the bit of petulance he can hear in his own voice. He doesn't care if you're confused. He doesn't care that he doesn't entirely understand himself. He just wants you to stay.

He watches you take a seat at the end of the couch, near his feet. He exhales, closing his eyes. It isn't as though you could do anything if proficient killers did appear, but for whatever reason, no matter how useless you would ultimately be, he feels better for having you near.

Even a curtain is better than no door at all.

After half an hour, his senses begin to sharpen again. It begins as a dull, irritating buzz at first. It has him rubbing at his ears, screwing his eyes shut. It rolls in and out of focus, making it difficult to adjust to. “Are you okay?” You ask from the other end of the couch, where you’ve been sitting with remarkable patience. Maybe you’re afraid of him. He hates not being able to tell by the rate of your heart.

“Peachy keen,” he replies flatly. “Hearing’s coming back.”

“That’s good,” you say, though the inflection you end with makes it sound more like a question.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s good, it’s just… Loud,” he says, grinding the heel of his palm into his temple. His skull is still pounding. “Everything’s all… Coming back in a jumble. Giving me a fucking headache,” he says, though as he speaks, he realizes he’s able to focus fairly well on the conversation, drowning out the more intrusive ambient sounds. “Keep talking.”

You look surprised by his demand, but after a beat, you oblige. After maybe an hour of idle conversation, he learns your name, that you work from home, you like decorating for Christmas even when you spend it alone, and that you've lived a thoroughly dull, ordinary little life until this very moment.

That’s just what you’ve told him.

From his personal observations, he's learned that you’re a perpetual fidgeter, that you touch your face when you're nervous, and that you would rather laugh than take any of his disparaging remarks about your mundane life to heart.

"I think it's lucky for you that I’m so boring. I might not have been here otherwise," you counter. Your smile is so inexplicably charming–nose wrinkled like you’ve somehow pulled a fast one on him–that Homelander forgets to refute your point. Instead, much to your alarm, he sits up.

"Oh, steady! Are you sure you're okay?" You ask, standing as he does, hands out as if to catch him. He stretches his hands out in front of him, and then curls his arms back in. Exhaling, his eyes flare crimson. He likes the way it makes your heart jump when he looks at you through the red glow.

His lips quirk, lasers fading out. "Good as new," he says confidently, though the aches of his fall still linger in his joints. Not quite new. He takes a few long strides across your living room, pausing in the doorway to your kitchen, where he can see through to your yard, and the absolute crater he left in it. "Vought will... take care of that," he says, gesturing vaguely to the destruction.

You can't help but laugh, crossing your arms loosely to survey the damage with him. "I appreciate it, but really, I'm just glad you're alright," you say honestly, staring out into the wreckage of your yard.

Homelander purses his lips slightly, glancing at you from his peripheral. Above him, he feels something brush the top of his head. When he glances up, what he sees hanging in the doorway makes him smile deviously.

Without warning, he puts his hands on your waist and spins you to him, lips landing warm and firm on yours. He absolutely devours the surprised little noise you make against him, halfway tempted to see what other sounds he can wring from you.

Your heart quickens to a race in his ears, and much to his delight, you kiss him back. You even surprise him by grabbing the back of his head with both hands, deepening the kiss of your own volition.

Not one to be out done, he adjusts his hold on you, one arm wrapping properly around your waist while the other slides up to cup the back of your neck, gloved fingers gently squeezing your bare skin.

To his delight, you retaliate with your tongue, slipping it between his lips and coaxing his forth.

Just full of surprises, little mouse.

Maybe you aren't so boring after all.

He meets you eagerly, exhaling a rough, excited little huff through his nose, dropping the hand at your waist to grab a cheeky squeeze full of your ass, wringing a soft moan from you that sends a bolt of heat straight to his cock.

When Homelander pulls back, you're flushed warmly all over. You smell of antiseptic wipes and peppermint, like Christmas in a hospital. It’s bizarrely appealing.

"What was that?" You ask, dazed.

"Mistletoe," he purrs, tipping his head back without taking his eyes off you, settling his hands back on your waist.

You look up slowly–taking a solid few seconds to process–and huff a gentle little laugh, nodding at the aforementioned ornament dangling above you. 

"Is this your way of saying thank you?" You manage to ask after swallowing back the lump in your throat, your shoulders relaxing, though your heart continues to gallop in your chest. "I hope you're still going to pay for my yard."

It's Homelander's turn to laugh. "Oh, no. I haven't even begun to say thank you yet," he assures you, hands lingering on your hips. 

The kiss had been pure unrestricted impulse, nothing he intended to follow through on. However, now that you're toying with the hair at the nape of his neck, your skin warm against his, your eyes half lidded, he’s not sure that he wants to let you go. Your lips shine where you’ve licked the taste of his from them. 

“I think for your good deeds, you’re owed a very merry Christmas,” he says, waggling his brows. 

You give a flustered, incredulous bark of laughter, covering your mouth as you look away from him, that flush of yours intensifying, making your whole body thrum warmly. You wouldn’t need to worry about keeping warm on these cold winter nights if he had his way with you.

“Okay, well, uhm, thank you for… for that thought,” you say, tripping over your words in a way you haven’t this entire encounter. “You hit your head pretty hard, though so maybe before you make any promises, we make sure you get checked out by an actual doctor,” you say, pushing lightly against his chest.

He maintains his hold for just a second longer, utterly immovable. It feels good to be himself again. He runs his tongue along his teeth, downright predatory in the way he stares down at you, but he does relinquish his hold.

“You should come with me to the tower. You know, now that you’re… Compromised,” he says, folding his hands behind his back. “Someone might come looking for me here. Interrogate you on my condition.”

Real fear flashes in your eyes at that. “Wait, you’re serious?”

“As a heart attack,” he gives back gravely.

“Uh… Okay. Uhm, let me… I’ll pack a bag,” you say nervously, stepping away from him to do just that.

“Okie-dokie,” he gives back simply, glancing around your home while he waits. He picks up an odd little gnome with a big red hat that covers everything but a little button nose, and a long white beard. Maybe he’ll convince you to bring along some of your festive decorations.

Merry Christmas to me, he thinks, already daydreaming about twisting the head off of whoever hit him with some kind of neutralizing agent.

He might thank them for the impromptu date while he’s at it.

#homelander x reader #homelander x you #depowered homelander #i was originally just going to edit the original post but #i couldn't add a title to it that way #so have a brand new post lol #i never posted this one to ao3 because i always meant to do this #so i'll cross-post this later #also i think i want this to serve as the foundation for my depowered HL verse #especially that one where he's seemingly lost his powers for good #my writing #ho ho homelander #enjoy some wildly out of season christmas btw lol

[shamera]

this expresses about 1.5435432% of how much i've been enjoying this series lately, and touches even less on its amazingness, but what can you do.

if you have the time and energy to spare, please go read My S-Class Hunters / The S-Classes That I Raised!!!

#SCTIR #The S-Classes That I Raised #My S-Class Hunters #I'M 80% DONE READING ACCORDING TO MY READER APP #this took me WAY longer than I thought #my photoshop has been crashing a lot on me lately #like 3 times per each of these panels #there are typos i know i tried but the crashes tired me out #istg i'm going to make a photoset for the han brothers to Start Here #i was inbetween the 'hilariously gay' or 'hilariously bisexual' but like. chloe. valerie. #originally it was going to be 'ao3 tags' but #i ramble much more on tumblr tags and i wanted to convey that #please I wanted to write 50 pages on why Yerim is such a great girl #and another 200 on the Han brothers #and I need another panel explaining why I want Moon Hyuna to autograph my chest okay #IN THIS TED TALK I WILL-- #(why do i only ever post things when i give up on them?)

[theriverbeyond]

firmly in the "griddlehark reunion will involve them beating the shit out of each other" camp they have always had their teeth and claws in each other, it only makes sense that in order for them to find each other again they need to let their teeth sink home

#hashtag griddlehark violence truther #griddlehark #gideon nav #harrowhark nonagesimus #originally posted this in a comment on the ao3 fic happily drown by valancytrinit that EVERYONE SHOULD READ BTW ITS SO GOOD #but im ripping it from there bc i ve been thinking about this Constantly. hello #trb.txt #tlt thoughts #after the violence they should kiss and fuck tho. hashtag griddlehark kissing and fucking truther

[anghraine]

Okay, breaking my principles hiatus again for another fanfic rant despite my profound frustration w/ Tumblr currently:

I have another post and conversation on DW about this, but while pretty much my entire dash has zero patience with the overtly contemptuous Hot Fanfic Takes, I do pretty often see takes on Fanfiction's Limitations As A Form that are phrased more gently and/or academically but which rely on the same assumptions and make the same mistakes.

IMO even the gentlest, and/or most earnest, and/or most eruditely theorized takes on fanfiction as a form still suffer from one basic problem: the formal argument does not work.

I have never once seen a take on fanfiction as a form that could provide a coherent formal definition of what fanfiction is and what it is not (formal as in "related to its form" not as in "proper" or "stuffy"). Every argument I have ever seen on the strengths/weaknesses of fanfiction as a form vs original fiction relies to some extent on this lack of clarity.

Hence the inevitable "what about Shakespeare/Ovid/Wide Sargasso Sea/modern takes on ancient religious narratives/retold fairy tales/adaptation/expanded universes/etc" responses. The assumptions and assertions about fanfiction as a form in these arguments pretty much always should apply to other things based on the defining formal qualities of fanfic in these arguments ("fanfiction is fundamentally X because it re-purposes pre-existing characters and stories rather than inventing new ones" "fanfiction is fundamentally Y because it's often serialized" etc).

Yet the framing of the argument virtually always makes it clear that the generalizations about fanfic are not being applied to Real Literature. Nor can this argument account for original fics produced within a fandom context such as AO3 that are basically indistinguishable from fanfic in every way apart from lacking a canon source.

At the end of the day, I do not think fanfic is "the way it is" because of any fundamental formal qualities—after all, it shares these qualities with vast swaths of other human literature and art over thousands of years that most people would never consider fanfic. My view is that an argument about fanfic based purely on form must also apply to "non-fanfic" works that share the formal qualities brought up in the argument (these arguments never actually apply their theories to anything other than fanfic, though).

Alternately, the formal argument could provide a definition of fanfic (a formal one, not one based on judgment of merit or morality) that excludes these other kinds of works and genres. In that case, the argument would actually apply only to fanfic (as defined). But I have never seen this happen, either.

So ultimately, I think the whole formal argument about fanfic is unsalvageably flawed in practice.

Realistically, fanfiction is not the way it is because of something fundamentally derived from writing characters/settings etc you didn't originate (or serialization as some new-fangled form, lmao). Fanfiction as a category is an intrinsically modern concept resulting largely from similarly modern concepts of intellectual property and auteurship (legally and culturally) that have been so extremely normalized in many English-language media spaces (at the least) that many people do not realize these concepts are context-dependent and not universal truths.

Fanfic does not look like it does (or exist as a discrete category at all) without specifically modern legal practices (and assumptions about law that may or may not be true, like with many authorial & corporate attempts to use the possibility of legal threats to dictate terms of engagement w/ media to fandom, the Marion Zimmer Bradley myth, etc).

Fanfic does not look like it does without the broader fandom cultures and trends around it. It does not look like it does without the massive popularity of various romance genres and some very popular SF/F. It does not look like it does without any number of other social and cultural forces that are also extremely modern in the grand scheme of things.

The formal argument is just so completely ahistorical and obliviously presentist in its assumptions about art and generally incoherent that, sure, it's nicer when people present it politely, but it's still wrong.

#this is probably my most pretentious fanfiction defense squad post but it's difficult to express in other terms #like. people talking about ao3 house style (not always by name but clearly referring to it) as a result of fanfic as a form #and not the social/cultural effect of ao3 as a fandom space #you don't get ao3 house style without ao3 itself and you don't get ao3 without strikethrough and livejournal etc #and you don't get those without authors and corporations trying to exercise control over fic based on law (often us law) & myths about law #and you don't get those without distinctly modern concepts of intellectual property and copyright #none of those things have fuck all to do with form! #anghraine rants #fanfiction #general fanwank #long post #thinking about this partly because the softer & gentler versions of fanfic discourse keep crossing my dash #and partly because i've written like 30 pages about a playwright i adore who was just not very good at 'original fiction' as we'd define it #both his major works are ... glorified rpf in our context but splendid tragedies in his #and the idea of categorizing /anything/ in that era by originality of conception rather than comedy/tragedy/etc would be buckwild #ivory tower blogging #anghraine's meta

[koroart]

I realized I never shared this here — but this is the piece I did for the DMCL Exchange that happened a few months back! Did this for … shit I forgot who I did this for.

#I can’t remember #the work is originally on Ao3 and I posted it on Twitter too #just forgot here #so #:3c :3c :3c #:: my art #fe3h #fire emblem three houses #fire emblem #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #claude von riegan #dmclexchange #dmcl #dimiclaude #oh it’s kinda spicy #but I’m too tired to care rn

[sheepiemc]

your touch (a craving)

part 1: thigh

From the moment he first met you, Diavolo knew you would be his undoing. 

This exchange program was so important to him, to what he knew the Devildom could be, too important to jeopardize for any reason - especially not something as frivolous and fleeting as infatuation. 

And yet here he was, hot under the collar because your clothed thigh was hovering dangerously close to his clothed thigh on your shared bus seat. 

The cacophony of chaos from the other riders couldn't distract him from just how close to him you were sitting. He was hyperfocused on every bump and jostle that caused you to get ever closer to him. 

How did he get to this precarious situation? 

One might say it was his own damn fault. 

Another one of “the prince's whims”, you had shown him (and the rest of the student council) a movie from the human world that featured a school bus transporting students on a field trip so obviously, Diavolo had to experience it for himself. This trip was just for the student council to test how feasible it would be to take all the students at RAD on a field trip. 

There was an argument getting on the bus about who would get to sit next to you and for how long. Lucifer settled the argument when horns and wings and tails came out, determining if they couldn't decide peacefully amongst themselves, no one would get to sit with you. 

So Diavolo watched you at the back of the bus, surrounded on all sides by the Avatars of Sin, without anyone actually sharing the bench with you. Lucifer sat on the bench behind Diavolo, barely contained annoyance masked behind a polite smile. Even Barbados, his most trusted advisor and confidant, sat on the bench across the aisle from the prince, ever-present unreadable smile on his lips. Diavolo clenched his fist in the empty space next to him. 

Facing forward throughout the bus ride, but still hearing the commotion surrounding you, Diavolo imagined what it would be like for him to be just another voice in the crowd. Through the din, he could also hear Lucifer droning about what they would do once they got to their destination, though he wasn't listening very closely. Leave it to the Avatar of Pride to have a plan for everything. 

After a while of this, something compelled him to turn around; a feeling he couldn't quite place. When he looked back over his shoulder, he saw you laughing, hard. Your eyes met his across the many seats between you and you smiled at him so genuinely. His eyes widened, almost imperceptibly, and he felt his heart rate spike. He smiled warmly at you in return then turned back around in his seat. How could something so small make him so giddy, so easily? It was almost laughable. 

At their destination, Diavolo could hardly focus on anything Lucifer was saying as they went around on their tour. It was decided that the logistics of a field trip for the entire student body just weren't adding up (which even Diavolo expected). Still, the trip was a success in his eyes. 

Especially when you approached him on the empty bus and asked if you could sit on the same bench as him for the entire ride back. Of course, you didn't realize how big of a deal what you asked really was. How could you? You didn't know the intricacies and etiquette when it came to interacting with demonic royalty. Still, he was so shocked by your boldness. He couldn't remember if he even said anything, but you smiled that same inviting smile and took the seat next to him - so he must've said yes. 

Now here he was, concentrating so hard on not freaking out every time a bump in the road knocks his and your knees together. Sitting there, so close, he wondered if you would notice if he just… 

"What do you think, Diavolo?" You leaned in closer to him, your thigh now fully touching his, your words just loud enough for only him to hear. His eyes snapped to attention, searching yours. The conversation continued around him but his attention was solely on you. That smile, just as warm as ever, kind eyes inviting him to fall right in and never come out again. 

He blinked and shook his head, laughing to himself. “I must admit, MC. I have no idea about what you all have been discussing this entire time.” Your smile widened and Diavolo had to look away - out of embarrassment or because your smile was just that radiant, he wasn't even sure. 

You didn’t ask why he wasn’t paying attention. Could you see right through him? You explained the discourse and how you felt about it before you started to talk about something else entirely and no one else was on the bus but the two of you. Your thigh was pressed up against his the whole rest of the way back and the vice grip he had on his opposite knee made his hand sore the following day.

[next]

#obey me shall we date #obey me fanfic #obey me diavolo #diavolo x reader #diavolo x mc #i love doing things in parts bc i love to get attention 😌 #originally posted on ao3 #like a few hours ago lmao #if you saw what i originally called it no u didnt #OP #fic

[sugawara--san]

who is the mvp of your ship and why is it neither of the people actually in the relationship but their mutual bff who knows everything on both sides and is the one who must push everything along because they're tired

#this post is dedicated to todoroki shouto #if i see the tag todoroki shouto is a good friend i know he's ab to do the lord's work #there are lots of others but i'm blanking #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #bnha #mha #todoroki shouto #midoriya izuku #bakugou katsuki #bakudeku #bkdk #otp #origin trio #fanfic #ao3