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notmyneighbor · 2 months

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Let Me In ~ Doppelgänger Francis Mosses/The Milkman x Female Reader

Chapter 5

Word Count ~5k

Rating ~ Explicit

CW ~ sexual content, mild body horror and violence

Also available on AO3

taglist @luthien-elvenia-asher

Fanart used with permission @kaworinx on Instagram and TikTok

The power is restored later that evening.

You are still sitting on the living room sofa before it happens, still tucked against the doppelgänger. Listening to the death of the storm outside. Watching the gray light oozing through the windows grow dimmer.

“How far did you walk to get here?”

“Not far. The delivery truck broke down about a mile from your house.”

“I’ll give you a ride back into town tomorrow, then. You’ll need to get it repaired as soon as possible.” It was strange, planning things with the imposter like this. As if you were truly allies and not sworn enemies. “What are you going to do once you move back?”

“I haven’t decided my next course of action yet.” His thumb is caressing the line he’d carved on your arm. Gentle, absent strokes.

A blossom of light suddenly illuminates the room. Electricity. You sigh with relief, straightening. You notice your panties still lying on the floor where he’s discarded them. The things that had seemed forgiveable in the darkness now feel indecent under the lighting. Like you’re being judged for your transgressions.

You look at what had once been Francis Mosses and your heart turns over again. And this is why you’ve done it; all of it. Because the sight of him instantly weakens you. You can’t help yourself.

His clothing, still in a state of half-on, half-off, is rumpled, still dirt stained from his trek to your house.

“I’ll draw you a bath,” you say. “While I make dinner.”

He rises, hastily fastening the button of his fly so the work pants don’t drop to the floor. The belt buckle he leaves as it is, the end with the metal piece jingling as he walks, following you up the stairs. The farmhouse squeaks in protest with each step. A heavy tred, though the milkman had never seemed anything but lean. Perhaps what was dwelling inside lent the extra weight.

You turn the lights on as you go, making sure every corner is devoid of shadows. There’s a tiny linen closet in the hall you retrieve a bath towel from. You’re considering what clothing you might have that he could wear while you wash his. Something a former boyfriend had left behind, maybe. You lean and turn the faucets of the claw foot tub on, testing the water temperature and adjusting accordingly.

“I have to find something for you to wear. Just leave everything on the sink and I’ll wash it for you.” You’re about to exit the room when he halts you, fingers lightly closing over your forearm. The previously injured one.

His lips touch yours. Just once. Just for the feel of it, to place a reminder there. You were his.

The deceiver releases you, working on the buttons of his work shirt’s cuffs. You duck out of the bathroom, making your way to your dresser. Nearly every piece of furniture in the home is hand made, built to last. Solid pine, the scent of it still strong after all these years as you begin rummaging inside. There, at the bottom. Shoved way back. Undershirt, briefs.

You snatch at them and return to the other room. Finding the imposter nude, standing beside the tub. You blush, not looking directly at him as you shut off the faucets. You test the temperature a final time and decide it’s safe.

“Soap, shampoo. Here’s a wash cloth.” You point out the items. Wondering if these creatures ever bathed. If cleansing their true form was ever a concern.

One foot sinks into the water. The other follows. He sits down slowly. A little sigh escaping at the feeling of soaking in the warmth.

“I’m going to go start supper.” You close the door softly behind you, descending the stairs. Considering your options for a meal. You’d never gotten a chance to check the garden earlier, so fresh vegetables were out. Canned ones, then. Green beans and instant mashed potatoes from the box. Leftover meatloaf from the previous evening. A quick, easy meal to prepare. Your eyes linger on the bottle of milk in the refrigerator. Not from Francis’ company, but a reminder nonetheless. You shut the fridge again after grabbing the necessary ingredients, then preheat the oven.

It doesn’t take long to get things ready. How strange to see two place settings on the oak kitchen table. You hadn’t had company over in a long time.

Still no appearance from your current guest. You walk to the foot of the stairs. “Francis! Dinner is ready.” You were still unsure how else to address him. It just seemed easier to call him that. If it bothered him, he didn’t reveal it.

The pretender returns just as you’re pouring two glasses of iced tea. You’ve never seen Francis with wet hair; it lies so dark and flat when it’s wet. The clothing you’ve lent doesn’t quite fit right, a little loose on the shirt and tighter on the material clinging to his hips.

“I’m sorry I don’t have anything better to offer you. I wasn’t expecting…”

“It’s fine.” He holds out a hand, turning it over to stare curiously at new wrinkles along each digit.

“You pruned up. Spent too long in the water,” you explain. “How was the bath?”

“Enjoyable.”

“Good. Have a seat.” You drag the chair out slightly and he finishes the task, settling at the table about to be laden with food.

The dark eyes follow your movements around the kitchen. Potholders in hand as you remove the reheated dish from the oven. It seems too quiet in the house. You wish you had switched on the radio in the living room. Just for the comforting sound of background noise. Something to soothe your frayed nerves.

You sit across from your guest after you’ve filled both your plates. He still hasn’t touched anything. Hesitant. Waiting. And then you realize it. Francis would have said grace. You close your eyes and bow your head, reciting the words. “Bless us, oh Lord, for these thy gifts that we're about to receive from thy bounty through Christ our Lord, Amen.”

A soft echo of the last word. You wonder if it would be considered blasphemy, what you’ve just done. The invader participating in it. You’ve never been overly religious yourself. You suppose you’ve committed far worse transgressions than this one over the course of the day.

The dark haired creature lifts a spoon and takes a tentative scoop of the white mixture, bringing it to his mouth. Considering the taste. “Good.”

You realize you’re starving and you dig in. Stabbing the loaf and cutting off a piece, blowing on it to make sure it’s cooled enough before taking a bite. Still moist. Your grandmother’s recipe. The figure on the opposite side of the table mimics your actions. “Careful. Don’t burn yourself. It’s still hot.” You hate burning your tongue. That awful soreness, the awkward numb feeling.

It doesn’t take long for the imposter to clear his plate. “Seconds?” He nods and you push back your chair, lifting his plate and returning to the counter. The glass he refills himself from the pitcher on the table. “Have you eaten before this?”

“Yes. But it wasn’t…” He pauses. “Different than this.” He seems reluctant to elaborate and you’re not sure you want him to, so you let the subject matter drop, setting another helping before him and retaking your seat.

You struggle for a safe topic of conversation. Everything you think of, each query you seek answers for, seem anything but. This domestic peace between you feels fragile. You’re not sure how long it will last.

After the meal concludes you bring your dishes to the counter and the false milkman copies your actions, piling them next to yours beside the sink. You let the water run hot and then plug the drain, filling the sink halfway. You squeeze a generous dollop of dish soap from the bottle tucked on the rim of the porcelain basin. A little too generous, maybe. There are a few little iridescent bubbles that drift through the air in front of you.

One arm tucks around your waist from behind. Lips beside your ear. You struggle to scrub the plate in your hands, your heart pounding. A throbbing further down. Still hungry for him.

He hums Francis’ song. You feel tears welling in your eyes again. The dish you set in the drying rack nearly falls, your wet fingers clumsy.

“Did he suffer?”

The humming stops. “What?”

“Francis. When you took him over. Was it quick, at least?”

“Yes.” He could be lying, of course. But why would the alien care about your own comfort?

You pull the drainer from the sink and the water level begins descending, the last of it suctioned inside with a loud squelching noise. He’s still holding you. His breath warm by your cheek.

You can see nothing through the window above the sink. You stare at that void, blinking away the tears.

***

You’d forgotten about the bloodstains on Francis’ work shirt.

You’ve just begun lathering the fabric with soap in the bathroom sink upstairs when you notice the incriminating flecks.

Hydrogen peroxide will remove them. Erase those traces of the milkman’s lifeforce that had spattered upon his surrender.

It makes you want to weep again.

Once your chores are completed you take your own bath.

You don’t linger. You’re thinking of the doppelgänger resting in the chair in the corner of your bedroom. Trying to figure out where he’ll spend the night. The living room couch, maybe.

The mirrored medicine cabinet is clouded when you emerge. You swipe at it ineffectually with your towel, still damp from your body. The one the creature had used lying in a pile on the floor by the tub. You toss it into the hamper before dragging a comb through your hair and brushing your teeth. Hastily sliding into a sleeveless nightgown. Tiny lilacs printed on the fabric. You have them growing in the side yard, the perfumed scent when they’re in bloom wafting over you when you walk by. You touch the purple satin bow at the scooped neckline. A delicate little detail.

Those dark eyes watching you as you begin to strip the bed. He moves to assist you in stretching a fresh fitted sheet over the mattress. You can hear the drip of the water from Francis’ clothes hung to dry over the tub in the next room.

He sits on the side of the bed while you rub moisturizing lotion into your elbows, over your hands and arms. Legs once you’re seated on the opposite side. He’s moved so that he’s propped upright against the carved headboard, lower limbs stretching out along the length of the bed. Inviting himself in. Maybe it was better this way. At least you could keep an eye on him. Not worrying and wondering what he was doing downstairs all evening.

You switch off the lamp on the nightstand and lie down. Hear him scoot lower until he’s resting next to you. There’s just a top sheet at the foot of the bed. It’s really too warm for more than that. Through the cracked bedroom window you can hear the crickets chirping near the foundation outside. You turn away from him, reclining on your side, facing the wall. Willing your eyes to shut, to get some rest.

Succeeding.

You awaken and it’s still dark in the room. There is a hand on your bare shoulder, stroking circles along your deltoid muscle, grazing the path where your neck meets your shoulder, dipping into the hollow above your collarbone.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, and you hold your breath. Wondering again over how fast your body reacts to his touch, to his voice, to everything. “What are you doing to me?” As if you are the one caressing him in the middle of the night and not the other way around. “What is this feeling…this ache…”

You turn onto your back. He reaches blindly for your face. Following the angle of your jaw. His thumb seats in the dip in the edge below your bottom lip and he tugs gently, your mouth opening. His mouth finds yours. Tongue slithering between. You whimper. Your fingers seed in his hair. Still slightly damp. Refusing to dry in this humidity. He reaches for the hem of your nightgown, sliding the cotton material upward. Immediately at your panties, eagerly working inside. A heavy sigh of satisfaction from him. You gasp, your legs falling open. So wet already. Your body not caring if this isn’t really the man you love. It wants this. It craves this forbidden touch.

He’s so, so good at the touching. Retaining everything you’d showed him previously. Expertly manipulating your clit. Thrusting inside of you. You moan into his mouth. The side of his throat. You lap at that skin. Rough now. The first pricks of new growth of facial hair coarse against you.

“My sweet girl. Mine. You’re mine.” You do not protest. Your hips are lifting, grinding you against his fingers. It doesn’t take long to find your release. Your nails rake his back. The praise spills from his lips. The claims that you belong to him continue. His possession. His. To do with as he wishes. “Touch me, love. I need you.”

You find his cock leaking against the tight fitting underwear. You shove at the elastic top, releasing it partially from its confines. Stroking. He shifts positions, resting on one forearm. Fucking into the tight ring of your fingers. “Francis.” He’s not him, he never will be, but it’s so easy to pretend when it’s like this. In the dark and the heat of the summer weather, from the exchange between your bodies.

“I want to be inside of you. I want…I want…”

His breath shudders and his hips stutter as his orgasm rocks through him. Spilling hot seed over your fingers. The mattress dipping and creaking as he drops his full weight down onto it. You slip out of bed, padding barefoot into the hallway to retrieve a wash cloth. Washing your hands at the sink in the bathroom before bringing the dampened material back to the imposter in your bed, dragging it over his skin until you’re satisfied he’s clean.

You leave the soiled cloth on the nightstand, lying back down with your back to him again. He pulls you against him. The curves of your bodies fit together like spoons resting stacked in a silverware drawer. Your hands rest on the forearms curled around your torso. Feeling the threads of his body hair. He breathes your name into your neck and you shiver. There are still so many hours before dawn.

***

The week of your suspension passes quickly.

Francis’ doppel has already moved back into the apartments. Calls made. To the milkman’s employer. To the DDD director. He says he seemed placated, but you know better. They’ve been alerted. They’re going to be watching him closely. Both of you.

You like having him visit your home far more than you should.

It’s beginning to feel comfortable. A routine developing. He helps you sand and repaint the front porch once the weather is no longer humid. Tending to the garden. Mending the fence bordering the side yard. Replacing the broken bracket for one of the pantry shelves. Tightening the gasket under the kitchen sink when you hear water dripping during dinner one evening. There are endless repairs when one owns a home. Especially one of this age. It’s strange to see the imposter working so diligently to maintain it.

Stranger still how much you enjoy him in your bed.

There are many kisses and touches. Moments of taking each apart with hands and mouths. You learn each other’s bodies. You know he wants even more of you. You want it, too. But you’re reluctant. For so many reasons. Fearing an accidental pregnancy not the least of them.

The guilt of betraying the real Francis that still haunts you.

***

Your replacement as doorman had not been very tidy.

The desk is cluttered with papers, confiscated entry requests and identification cards. Pens no longer in their cup beside the phone. The day’s listing taped sloppily to the wall beside the window so it hangs at an angle.

You spend some time rearranging things. Restoring order. Internally, you’re trying to get yourself back into the right frame of mind. You have a duty to protect the residents. The replicants are not welcome. Never to be trusted. Francis’ copy is the only exception.

You shouldn’t be making it.

He’s there at your window later that day. Looking tired. Thrusting his ID and paperwork through the narrow slot at the base of the glass. Merely for show, of course. There is a security camera inside the office now. That video feed being constantly monitored by a DDD member. You’ve already warned him about it.

There’s an extra piece of paper beneath the entry request form. A small scrap with a torn edge. You tuck it into your palm quickly before reviewing his documents, then handing them back with a smile before pressing the door to allow him to enter.

You make a show of shifting some papers, your back to the camera as you quickly unfold the secret message. An invitation to come to his apartment once your shift is over. It wasn’t wise to draw attention to him. But you find yourself unable to resist the offer. You see the pilot that lives near Francis leaning in the open doorway of his residence as you exit the elevator after your workday ends, smoking a cigarette.

“Mr. Rudboys,” you greet him, nodding. “I’m just dropping off some paperwork for Mr. Mosses.”

He grunts, a smirk twitching his thin lips. “Sure you are, doll.”

Your spine stiffens in embarrassment, your neck warm beneath your shirt collar as you knock on the apartment door.

Your lover opens it and you hastily bid farewell to his neighbor before you enter, closing the door behind you with a little sigh of relief. “I think he might suspect—” You don’t get a chance to finish as his mouth covers yours. “Francis,” you gasp.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, planting kisses along your throat, unbuttoning the top of your blouse and seating his lips in the hollow there. “This tedious work routine is unbearable.”

“I did warn you. You have to earn a living. Pay bills. I still don’t understand why you wanted this.”

“It’s not the mundane work ethic you devote yourselves to that we’re interested in, I assure you.” He nibbles your ear.

“So why do it, then?”

He sighs, his affectionate gestures ceasing. “Do you really want to talk about this right now? I had envisioned a rather different evening for us. I have a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?”

“I found something I know you’ll like. Come here.” He leads you into the living room. There’s a tan object resting on the coffee table. The length is too short to be a suitcase, the height making you realize what it is a heartbeat before he lifts the lid. A portable record player. Beside it, a shallow stack of vinyl albums. “Saw it in a shop window on my route downtown. I’ve no idea if you like those artists, but…”

“Francis.” You cover your mouth with your hand. You can hardly believe it. Such a thoughtful gesture. From the intruder or some sentiment of the man he’d taken over. You don’t know which is which. You never have.

“Try it out,” he invites.

You already know which record you’re going to play. At the very top of the pile you see Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong’s collaboration. You slide it from the sleeve and place it on the turntable. Setting the needle down gently on the ebony disc, you grin when it starts to play.

“Turn the volume up. It’s only fair, considering.” He nods towards the direction of the apartment where Mia Stone and her fiancé reside, a mischievous smirk on his features.

You comply, still uncomfortable with making it too loud. “Dance with me?” You’re not certain if he knows how. But the memory is there for him, plucked from the depths at this hour of need. His hands rest on your waist. You twine your arms behind his neck.

Stars shining bright above you

Night breezes seem to whisper, I love you

Birds singin' in the sycamore trees

Dream a little dream of me

He turns, lifting you easily. You smile again, allowing him to pull one of your hands free to clasp beside you as you rest the other one on his shoulder, swaying gently as your bodies move in a tight circle.

Say nighty-night and kiss me

Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me

While I'm alone and blue as can be

Dream a little dream of me

The doppel leans suddenly and you gasp, but his hand is strong against your lower spine, the other holding your hand tightly. The throaty male singer’s voice begins the next verse as you’re lifted upright again.

Stars fading but I linger on dear

Still craving your kiss

Now I'm longin' to linger till dawn dear

Just saying this

“I thought you didn’t like music,” you murmur against his ear, lifting slightly on your toes.

“It’s growing on me.” You draw back to find him smiling. Francis’ smile. Your heart lurching in your chest again as the artists’ voices join together.

Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you

Leave the worries behind you

But in your dreams, whatever may be

You've gotta make me a promise, promise to me

You'll dream, dream a little dream of me

The song ends. His hands cup your face. “Sweetheart.” His mouth hungry on yours. “Come to bed with me, love.”

You nod, following him to the bedroom. Undressing each other. Practiced at this now, clothing quickly shed. Not stopping to move the comforter, pressing your naked body down on top of it.

“I want to be inside of you.” He says this often, and it frightens you as much as it thrills you.

“Francis…”

“Let me in, love, please. My special, sweet girl…” His hand wedges between your thighs. Never once has he forced you. Never once have you denied him. You open your legs and he straightens, kneeling between that v shaped space. Running his erection along your pink flesh, parting your nether lips, spreading the slick from your core through them. Massaging your hooded button. Pausing outside your entrance. Waiting for your permission.

“Please,” he says, and it’s the first time you’ve heard him say the word.

“Okay.”

Pressure as the fattened dome violates your canal. You gasp and his hands instantly reach to soothe you, caressing your thigh as he thrusts inside gradually. He leans his weight forward in small increments, bringing your legs up as he goes. Pressing deeper inside of you. Still more than you’re used to. There’s a burn accompanying the stretch as his prick fills your pussy. A kind of raw ache when he is fully sheathed, bumping against the edge of your cervix. Lifting his hips, the shaft sliding back. Thrust in again. A slow rhythm that you know belies what he really wants. His arms tremor with the tension on either side of you. Your knees hug his ribs. He kisses you and you rock against him. The movements become easier. A wet sound every time he bottoms out, his cock fully buried, the base of his groin tapping your own.

“So perfect, love. So tight around me.” He’s already perspiring. He hadn’t opened the window. The air in the room is stale and warm. You taste the salt of his leaking sweat when he kisses you.

“Francis. You feel so good…” The discomfort has subsided. Now, every motion brings nothing but pleasure. Your nails dig into his shoulders. The warning your mind attempts to deliver is ignored. You want this. You want him. You’ll worry about the consequences later.

He moans loudly. “They’ll hear you next door,” you caution.

“I don’t give a fuck. You’re mine,” he growls, nipping at your throat. “I want to mark you again. Somewhere everyone will see.” Sucking kisses near your collarbone. Moving back to your neck.

“Oh, Francis, don’t.” You know how difficult it is to conceal a hickey. You can’t allow it. Imagining greeting the residents with a bloom of raspberry on your throat after the fragile vessels beneath had burst. It was too much.

“A different kind of mark, then. Like the one I made before. Somewhere they won’t see.” There is still an ache to the healing wound he’d previously left. The sutures have been removed, the edges knitting together nicely. “I like being able to feel you when you’re not with me.” He thrusts back inside you. “I won’t hurt you, I promise. You don’t have to be afraid of me.” His pelvis jerks faster, his passion building once more. A hand snakes between your bodies, thumb stroking your clit.

“Oh…” Your hips roll up, making that finger collide more firmly. The familiar sensation of release building inside of you. The coil tightening. “Francis…”

“Cum for me, love. Want to feel you around me.”

Your lower spine is on fire. You can’t hold back any longer. You climax, the walls of your canal spasming around him as the pleasure wracks through your body. Trying to milk your partner’s release. It’s working. You recognize the tell tale shudder. The way his breathing becomes ragged. “Please let me,” he says again, his voice full of need.

“Yes.”

A sound somewhere between a groan and a sigh escapes him. His mouth at the place where your neck and shoulder meet. An instant of heat and needle sharp pain. Something piercing you. Not Francis’ teeth, but belonging to the thing inside of him. The hurt vanishes, replaced by another sensation. You’re warm again. Your body ready for another release. The wave of a second orgasm dragging the doppel through his own. You feel the wet heat of his ejaculate filling you deep inside.

The damp skin you’re clutching ripples. That hazy shimmer visible when he draws back slightly to regard your features, still buried in your womb. You haven’t seen this struggle for many days now. Nearly forgetting its existence. Allowing yourself to be deluded.

Now reminded as the imposter fights for control. The hand that had been draped loosely against your throat tightens slightly, a sharp prick of claws digging into that soft skin, nearly enough to invade that barrier. Your eyes widen in alarm. “Francis,” you manage to choke out.

He abruptly releases you. Looking at his hand as if it’s foreign to him. The movement beneath his flesh stops, the halo fading. He is whole again.

“I’m sorry. I was overwhelmed, I…” His voice trails off. You struggle to move and he withdraws. You feel his cum dripping out of you, staining the blanket beneath you. “Sweetheart.” Worry in his eyes. Touching your cheek. Your force yourself not to flinch. Not to think about the unnatural seed he’s just filled you with. What that union could possibly result in.

The bite he’s left tingles. You reach for it absently, the flesh warm beneath your fingers. It’s slightly raised and firm. Like getting an insect bite, your body reacting to the venom injected.

“It will go away. I didn’t…it’s not deep.” His fingers nudging yours, feeling the injury. “Sweetheart. You’re so quiet. Talk to me. Tell me how you’re feeling. What you’re thinking.”

“I don’t know.” There are so many of each, all competing to be heard and felt. “I think…I think I’d better go home now.”

“Stay,” he pleads. This sudden begging of his, you’re not sure what to make of it. “Even if not for the night, just stay with me.”

You shake your head. “I should go. It’s well past curfew.”

“I don’t care about your stupid government’s rules,” he snaps impatiently.

“I do. I have to live by them.” You move to sit on the side of the mattress, his hand reaching for you, settling on your scarred forearm.

“I thought about you all day. All I wanted was this. To be with you.”

“Francis. I can’t stay. Truly. I’ll see you tomorrow.” You bend to retrieve the nearest article of clothing you can reach.

“You’re upset with me.”

“I’m scared, Francis.”

“Of me?”

“Yes. No. Not just you. Everything. You guide his hand to your abdomen. “What will you do if there’s a baby?”

“Is that what you’re so concerned about?“ He sighs heavily, looking relieved. “I’ll protect it. Just like I’ll protect you.”

“They would never let us keep it. Not your species. Not the organization. The DDD would dispose of it. Your race…you wanted it for an experiment. You told me that.”

“That was before.”

“Before what?”

“You know what.”

You swallow thickly. “This is so dangerous. And you act like it’s not. They’ll kill us, Francis.”

He shakes his head firmly. “No. I won’t let that happen. Did you notice there were no doppels today?”

“I did. It’s unusual, but it does happen on occasion.”

“That’s because of me. Because they recognize this.” He caresses your marked arm. “No one would ever dare harm you.” His fingers now on the new puncture he’d created.

“Even if that’s true, it won’t stop the DDD.”

The imposter cups your cheek. “You’ve done something to me. Not something visually apparent. Something inside. I have to be with you.” He kisses you, the intially chaste gesture deepening and your hand relaxes, dropping the garment you’d retrieved back to the carpet. “Stay with me. We’ll figure it out in the morning.”

You can’t refuse.

#francis mosses x reader #francis mosses x you #thats not my neighbor #milkman x reader #milkman x you #francis mosses #milkman

1K notes · View notes

keerysfreckles · 26 days

Note

lando not being able to be with reader!bestfriend during her birthday because its right after a race weekend and hes got media commitments. so when he gets back he surprises her by throwing her a second birthday party for just the two of them and she just gets all mushy and sappy and all she wants to do is hug him all night -🍒anon

happier — LN4

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

warnings: just a bit rushed :/

a/n: i. love. lando. so. bad.

masterlist !

⋆ ˚ ｡ ⋆ ୨୧ ˚

y/n knew how much dedication it took to be in formula one. she knew when kando signed his first contract with mclaren that his schedule would be packed week to week. so the girl felt selfish for wanting her best friend to be home for her birthday.

she called him that morning, unsure of the time since he was almost always in a different time zone than her.

"i'll try and be there next week, i promise," he rushed out before hanging up.

y/n let her day go on normally, but her mind would often wander to the curly headed brunette. three of her closest friends surprised her with a birthday dinner, insusting that no one should be alone on their birthday.

they got her a miniature cake, with two bright pink candles, and there were probably a hundred different pictures of y/n wearing the hot pink birthday tiara somewhere in one of her friend's phone.

once again, as she and her friends were enjoying the cake, she couldn't help but want lando there beside her.

she hugged her friends goodbye, and started cleaning up. she threw paper plates, wrapping paper and confetti away.

y/n sighed, while placing the ridiculous birthday tiara down on her living room table. she was aware of it being a busy weekend for lando, considering he was in singapore for a race. so calling him was out of the question.

she debated on texting him, asking how the weekend was going, but refrained.

the birthday girl turned off her living room light, before humming the birthday tune her friends sang to her moments ago, as she made her way down the hallway towards her bedroom.

the next morning, y/n was woken up by her front door closing (quite loudly she might add). at seven in the morning, she wasn't sure if her brain was comprehending anything. so she wasn't sure if it was real, or just her mind playing tricks.

she chose the ladder as she rolled over to face the opposite way.

four and a half minutes later she heard the door open and close again.

not a coincidence, she thought. certainly a burglar wouldn't close the door so loudly, so y/n threw her blanket off before opening her bedroom door. she was met with an empty hallway, only provoking her curiosity.

her sock covered feet tred through the hallway, not entirely sure what she'd meet on the other end.

she turned the corner carefully, and her eyes widened at the scene in front of her.

lando norris was in front of her. there was a decently wrapped present in his hands, and the same birthday tiara from last night still on the table. she looked around the room, noticing the few streamers taped to the walls.

"lando!" she can't help but laugh in shock.

"happy birthday y/n!" lando holds his arms open, after filling her apartment with the sound of an obnoxious party blower.

"what are you doing here?" she asks while running into his arms.

he's quick to hold her against him, spinning her in two circles. "i hoped on the first flight i could as soon as the last media conference was done," he spoke into her neck, his smile never leaving his face.

after a few minutes — yes a few minutes, y/n did not want to let go of the brit — the pair now sat on the couch. lando handed the gift to the day-late birthday girl before putting the pink tiara on her head.

y/n laughed as she peeled back the wrapping paper, revealing two new pieces of mclaren merchandise to add to her collection.

"of course," she laughs again, holding up the shirt with lando's number on the back.

the other item in the box is a light pink mclaren hat. y/n simply puts it on her best friend's head, with him adjusting it as soon as her hands leave the material.

"thank you lan," y/n's eyes are filled with adoration as she looks at the boy in front of her.

"i could never miss your birthday," his warm smile appears on his face once more.

"technically you were a day late," y/n jokes.

"i'm here now aren't i?" lando playfully states. y/n leans forward to press a kiss on his cheek, a motion both have grown accustomed to over the years.

401 notes · View notes

mostly-imagines · 6 hours

Text

Who Needs Heaven? : The Drop-In

jason todd x fem!reader

aka jason meets his daughters

warnings: it’s not specific if the kids are bio or adopted — this probably doesn’t make sense on multiple fronts but i DON’T CARE

see for: the vibes

His body jolts like he’s snapping out of sleep. The first thing he processes is loud conversations echoing, the sound of young girls talking over each other. He surveys over a book in his hands that he’s never heard of, though it’s opened more than halfway through and considerably worn. He drops the book to the side, coming to a stand and scanning over the environment.

He looks around the adorned living room, taking in details rapidly. He doesn’t recognize the house he’s in but he can tell it’s somewhere he definitely does not belong. The room is filled with books on shelves and picture frames are littered in every free spot in between. The lights are warm and the furniture is colorful with pillows and blankets strewn all over. It’s a stark contrast to the refined stoic Manor he’s so used to; there’s a distinct feeling of homeliness and warmth that seeps through the walls.

He creeps into the front entryway to the house as quietly as he can, peering up the staircase to the landing above for any signs of familiarity or danger. From his right, a girl comes darting into the space, running face first into Jason. He immediately reaches out to steady her but she shows no sign of disruption. She makes a point of holding the wrapped popsicle in her hand away, keeping it safe. She blinks up at him before taking off past him, calling out, “Sorry, dad!”

Dad?

“Anna, I swear to God—” Another girl of similar age runs past, paying him no mind.

He gapes after her, thoroughly confused. Where the hell is he?

“Daddy?” He turns around and looks down to a younger girl who looks about six at most. She stares up at him with wide eyes and freckled cheeks. “Are you okay?”

He can’t think.

This isn’t…this can’t be real. It can’t be. This is a dream. He got knocked out. He’s hallucinating. He’s dying.

He tries to keep his breath steady as this little girl peers up at him with curious eyes. “Daddy?”

He opens his mouth, struggling to find words, let alone get them out. “Where…where’s your mom?” He can barely make out his own voice.

“She’s in your room,” she tells him, looking up the stairs.

He treds up the stairs slowly, the chatter downstairs barely getting any quieter. The second floor seems deserted in terms of the presence of children. If, if this were real (or more likely, a dream) you’ll be here somewhere. There’s no scenario where he’d ever imagine a life in a big house with a big family without you—subconsciously or otherwise.

Several doors line the wide hallway, most of them open. He peers in the room closest to the top of the staircase, finding a heartily decorated bedroom with two twin beds. Polaroids and movie posters litter the walls and clothes are strewn across on top of the bed covers and in a few small piles on the floor. An orange lava lamp illuminates the room from a desk, shining off the glossy cover of magazines. Above, sports medals dangle off the wall against a white board, a scribbled on game of hangman midway through. A full-length mirror covered in stickers along the edges reflects a bookshelf across the room, dozens of books stuffed on each shelf. He blinks vacantly, pulling back from the doorway and continuing on.

He continues on down the right side of the hallway, passing up a bathroom and a closet before peering into the next room. It also has two beds, but it’s filled with remnants of young children. A small table with a tea set laid out on top sits in the middle of the room with various princess dresses draped across the short chairs. Pink bed sheets and butterfly-filled curtains joined by toy cars lined against the wall and strings of pink starry lights hanging from the ceiling. Both beds have stuffed animals arranged in thoughtful piles. It takes Jason a moment to notice the tattered, worn elephant with the green polka dot tie on the bed with the Cinderella comforter. Pickles. It was his when he was a kid. It’s placed delicately at the top of the pile, like he’s the king of the crop. A grand dollhouse sticks out against one of the walls, the dolls all lying asleep in their makeshift beds. Fluffy bubblegum and fuschia rugs scatter the floor just enough that you could jump across the room without ever touching the hardwood.

He turns to the last room, a door directly across that’s just cracked open. He can hear light music coming from inside and the almost inaudible shuffle of movement. He pushes the door open cautiously and takes in the sight of a woman, back to the door, folding laundry on the bed. He doesn’t even need to see your whole figure to know that it’s you.

“Sweetheart?” He sounds like he’s out of breath.

“Yeah?” You turn around with your same kind eyes and gentle disposition. You look older, not much older but your face is more mature. You even hold yourself a little differently. You quickly notice the way he scans you with a look of bewilderment on his face and jump into concern. “What’s wrong?” You drop the shirt that you’re folding on the bed, approaching him with soft steps. Everything feels fuzzy.

“This—this is…” His voice seems far away, this body feels further. “This isn’t real…”

“What? Jay, what are you talking about?” You’re so genuinely concerned about him it makes his heart hurt and does nothing to help clear his head.

His breathing starts to stutter and his eyes can’t pick something to focus on. Everything is telling him that this is a false sense of security, he’s not safe, you’re not safe, everything’s wrong—

“Woah, hey, hey. It’s okay.” You take his face in your hands the way you know tends to ground him. “Catch me up.”

He tries to focus on the sliding clasp of the necklace around your neck. “I…I think this is…” He doesn’t want to say it. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up only to wake up in a few seconds and find that it was all pretend. Instead, he’ll settle for, “...This hasn’t happened…”

You frown at that, tilting your head. “What do you mean?”

He breathes out heavy, “I think I’m dreaming.”

“What are you dreaming of?” You walk along this train of thought with him, though he has no idea why you would entertain it. This really must be pretend.

“The future…this is…is this the future?” He’s whispering, he’s not even sure if he’s asking you or himself or maybe even God.

You’re quiet for a minute before you speak again. “Oh,” you say contemplatively, not nearly as alarmed as you should be. You should probably be calling him crazy, right? “This is—you told me about this. Yeah, it had something to do with that clock guy—”

He blinks a few times, “The Clock King?” That does sound…familiar. Was he—he was with Bruce wasn’t he? Or maybe Dick. Both?

You nod, “Yeah, yeah. You said you ‘time traveled’ for a minute...but that was in, like…”

He fills in the blank with the year as he remembers it and your eyes go wide. “Well, this would be a bit of a surprise then.”

“We have kids?”

You laugh, brushing his hair back gently, “Yes. Yes, we definitely do. Five girls.”

“Five?” He breathes.

“Yeah. Wasn’t the plan but…” you shrug easily, “Here we are.”

He barely stops his next question from coming out of his mouth and replaces it. “Is this something I should be hearing?”

“What?” You tilt your head for a second before realization flashes across your face. “Oh, you don’t end up remembering any of this.” You shrug, mouth scrunched up to the side, “So why not?”

He does really want to hear about them. “Please.” He whispers faintly.

You nod reposefully, “Okay, well…” you pause, eyes on the ceiling. “Oh, wait.” You dart over to the bookshelf against the wall and pull a book from the second shelf from the top, a large pink photo album.

You shuffle back, guiding him to the bed and sitting thigh to thigh with him and placing the album on your laps. You flip it open to the first page, which displays an array of photos of who must be his daughter.

“This is Mia—Miriam—she’s the oldest. She’s thirteen now, she’s very smart and a sort of a perfectionist. Really a perfectionist.” A couple of her baby pictures were taken in your apartment and it makes his heart absolutely melt to see you as he left you, holding a baby—his baby—with a glowing smile on your face. There’s another photo of her, kindergarten aged, dressed up as Spoiler for halloween. One shows her on a bike with shimmery handlebar streams, Jason holding her steady as she learns. He’s wearing the brightest smile he’s ever seen on his own face.

“Then there’s the twins,” you continue, flipping to the next page. You laugh when his breath hitches at that. “I know. It’s not as scary as it sounds. Well, not now that they’re older. Ryan and Anna.” You point to them as you say their names, and he recognizes them quickly as the two girls that had run past the stairs. The twins look identical, the only discernible difference found in that Ryan is grinning in every picture with a glint in her eyes and Anna nearly always has a stoic look on her face.

“Ryan is her father’s daughter. She thinks she’s very clever and even more funny, and she is but don’t tell her that, it goes straight to her head.”

There’s a picture that has to be a couple of years old by now of the two of them dressed in what looks like brand new soccer gear. Another depicts one of them chasing Tim with a firework sparkler at dusk. He sees one of Ryan covered in dirt and tiny cuts, smiling big, helmet crooked on her head.

“Anna’s a happy kid, she is. Don’t let her attitude trick you—she just likes to keep her feelings to herself.” Anna’s pictures remind him of Damian in some ways. The very intentional lack of a smile but the happiness still seeps through anyways. One of her pictures has her cuddling with two rottweiler puppies in classic Damian style. Another one shows her a bit older, on Jason’s shoulders, surveying the land.

You turn to the next page, “And Laine, uh, Elaine,” you smile, “She’s a bit eccentric. She lives in her own world but she’ll bring you into it with her. She likes magic and glitter and offbeat things.” Laine’s pictures leave a particular warmth in his heart. She has the absolute widest smile and the brightest eyes he’s ever seen. One photo shows her having a picnic with several stuffed animals, another has her drawing a rainbow with sidewalk chalk. One picture towards the bottom of the page grabs his eye, one of Laine happily braiding Cass’ short hair at what appears to be the Manor.

“And then the little one is Aurora—Rory,” You turn to a page full of pictures of the wide-eyed girl, who has the sweetest baby face. He can tell from the pictures alone that she has your personality. You point to a picture of her giggling with bubbles all in her hair as you explain, “She’s still small but she has a big heart and a very sensitive soul already.” Jason’s practically staring a hole in the picture of Rory as a newborn in the hospital, held delicately by Bruce.

You play with the hair at the nape of his neck as he processes quietly, letting him take his time.

“They’re happy?” He asks in a whisper.

“We’re happy.” You say affirmingly. He looks you in the eyes and you see a specific vulnerability in his that you haven’t seen in a long time. “You are a good dad, Jay.”

He’s still surprised that you can read him like a book, even though at this point you’d have been together for at least fifteen-some years. His eyes burn and he’s not sure he can keep it together. But you dig the knife in all the same, “They love you. A lot. We couldn’t live without you.”

You flip through until you find a page later in the book, plopping it back open fully. The first picture he takes note of shows him outside with picked flowers scattered in his hair wherever they’ll stay put, Laine and Rory trying to straighten them out. Another is of Anna hesitantly feeding a horse an apple, Jason crouched next to her, reassuring her. On the other page, Rory is mid-air being thrown into an absolutely massive leaf pile, glee adorning her face. He turns the page to find one of the girls with a red hoodie pulled over her head and a makeshift mask made from a red plastic plate with holes cut out for the eyes. One has Mia resting against his back, passed out, as he helps Ryan tie off a friendship bracelet on her wrist.

This isn’t—he doesn’t deserve this. This can’t be true, this is more than a happy ending and he’d never even expected you to love him this long, let alone give him the world and then some. He stares at the page for a while, trying to burn every detail into his head.

You tear your gaze away from his face to glance at the clock on the side table, muttering, “Oh shit. Hang on.”

His eyes follow you as you stand from the bed and walk across the room to the door, cracking it open a few inches before shouting out, “Bed!”

There’s a brief delay before a clamor starts towards them, all five girls thumping up the stairs.

You turn back to him, heedfully, “You can stay in here if you want. They’re a little…a lot.” You say tentatively. Well, if there’s anything he’s accustomed to it’s big families with bigger personalities.

Jason lingers behind you as you enter the hallway, looking like a little kid in an unfamiliar place. Whatever conversations were going on downstairs have simply moved location, no urgency present whatsoever to continue on with the progression of the night. You’re trying to verbally corral them towards their respective bedrooms, but it’s a tough job with two clear headed parents on a good day.

He stands frozen in the midst of the clutter of them as they rattle off to you and to each other. He’s scared to say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing. He doesn’t want to upset or alarm them. But because he is their father, they don’t need him to do anything strange to realize that he’s being strange.

Ryan squints up at him, “What’s wrong with you?”

The question grabs Laine’s attention and she looks to you with wide eyes, “What’s wrong with Dad?”

You shake your head, “Nothing’s—”

“He’s not having a stroke already, is he?” Anna faints, no alarm in her words. Mia thumps the back of her head for that with no returning acknowledgement given by Anna.

Ryan is looking at him like she’s sizing him up. Something you did not get a chance to tell him about Ryan is that she can smell blood in the water like a shark. So it’s not surprising to you that she picks up on Jason’s disoriented state.

“Father?” She calls out sweetly.

You sigh, “Ryan—”

“No, it’s okay. I want to ask dad specifically.” She turns him away from you with a smile. She doesn’t know what’s going on and she doesn’t need to. She’s an opportunist like that. “Could I have the last popsicle?”

Anna cuts in harshly, “You better n—”

“Hey Annie, few notes for ya,” Ryan says with widened eyes and a pointed finger, “One, you shouldn’t interrupt your father, it’s disrespectful,” Anna’s face contorts at that, and she’s about to bite back but she’s cut off quickly by Ryan’s dedication to dishing out her hypocritical sermon. “Two, you shouldn’t interrupt me because it’s potentially the single greatest sin you’ll ever—”

Alright, you gave her a chance to turn it around, she’s done now. “No, you’re all going to bed now and if you’re lucky that popsicle is still there when you get home from school tomorrow.” You tell Ryan with a pointed look. She gives you a half-hearted glare, absolutely nothing compared to her real one.

“Mom, you said—” Mia throws her hands up as she recounts a promise that you may or may not have given her, it’s anyone’s guess.

Then Anna starts up, “That’s not fair, I called—”

Rory pipes up from behind you. “We’re supposed to read our story first.”

You inhale sharply, turning to face her, “Oh—” you crouch down to her level, holding her waist. “How about I read it tonight, Rory?”

She frowns, “Daddy always reads it.”

Ryan taps on Jason’s shoulder, pulling him closer. “Dad, listen,” she says lowly, like she’s trying to get him in on the deal of the century. “Anna doesn’t deserve it, she’s rooting for you to stroke out��”

You frown at Rory with repentance, “I know sweetheart, but—”

Laine looks quite contemplative as she announces, “It’s unholy to break tradition.”

You scrunch up your face and swivel your head to her, “What?”

This declaration does enough to break Ryan away from her scheme. She turns to her and says flatly, “You haven’t said anything that makes sense in like two weeks.”

Jason’s mind is going a mile a minute, trying to process the fifteen things that are going on all at once and take in the fact that these are his children. His daughters and they’re so loud and opinionated and bold and he loves it. He thinks this is the closest he’ll ever get to heaven. Hell, he’d take this over heaven a million times over.

“Mom. Mom!” Mia urges, “Can you help me?”

Your head stutters between your daughters, “I—yeah. Rory, just—”

“I can do it.” He says quietly.

“Yeah?” You look up at him, hopefully, genuinely delighted that he wants to jump into this mess without the twelve years of prep that you’re dependent on.

“Yeah.” He nods, determined and you and Rory smile up at him. Mia all but yanks you up from the floor, pulling you to her room and you can just barely make out Ryan’s hushed murmur of, “I’m getting the popsicle…”

Rory takes Jason’s hand, drowning her own in his. She leads him to the pink bedroom with all the toys, and climbs onto the unicorn bed, shoving all but a few of the stuffed animals onto the floor. Elaine follows close behind and does the same with her own bed, though the only one she keeps is Pickles.

He stands next to the bed a bit awkwardly as she pulls a book off the table next to her, the length of the book easily taking up half her arms. It takes her looking up at him expectantly for him to get the hint, shuffling to squeeze in next to her on the small bed.

She hands him the book and he regards it with a smile. Little Women. He pauses as he starts to open it, “Where, um…where did we leave off?”

She looks at him funny, smiling like he’s messing with her. She flips the book open a little more than halfway through and stops on chapter fifteen. She presses her pointer finger down to the start of the chapter with a thump. “Right here.”

Jason takes a steadying breath and begins reading in the same soft voice he reads to you in, and it seems to appease both girls. He’s not processing what he’s saying as he sits there with his littlest daughter tucked into his side and hanging on to every last word. He can feel her breathing in and out softly and it all feels so surreal now.

““I don't think you'll blame me, for I only sold what was my own." As she spoke, Jo took off her bonnet, and a general outcry arose, for all her abundant hair was cut short.” Rory giggles as Laine gasps, and Jason can feel the rhythm of his heart fluttering in a new way.

He reads to the end of the chapter and returns the book to its place on the side table, and reluctantly pulls away from Rory, standing up again. He tucks her nicely, if not inexperienced, into the sheets and kisses her forehead. She immediately holds out her toy bear, silently requesting the same treatment for him. Jason kisses the bear too, happily. He does the same for Laine, taking particular note of the way she hugs Pickles to her chest tightly.

He starts towards the door, but is quickly put to a halt. “Wait,” Laine calls out. He turns back to her wide-eyed, terrified he did something wrong. “The lights,” she says, looking up to the ceiling at the dangling stars. Oh, right. She watches him skeptically as he innocently looks around for the switch, and Rory tilts her head at him, not sure what he’s playing at.

“It’s right there,” Rory points with a mildly sullen look to where the mechanism dangles near the outlet. Jason quickly flicks the lights on, the soft orange-pink glow of stars illuminating against the walls. Rory’s pleased enough and adjusts to get more comfortable in her bed.

Laine however, hisses out a, “Hey,” gesturing him towards her. He sidesteps the tea table and comes around to her side of the room, kneeling down by her bed attentively. She glances over at Rory before asking in a hushed voice, “Are you an alien?”

That, he wasn’t expecting. “...What?”

She shakes her head reassuringly, “It’s okay, I won’t tell. But um…I would like my dad back eventually please. If that’s okay.”

His breath stutters and he forces out an, “O—okay.”

She holds out her pinky and it takes him a second to register what she’s asking. He wordlessly pinky promises her and she smiles big, pleased with the agreement.

He stands again, feeling light headed as he heads for the door.

“Goodnight, Daddy,” Rory murmurs against the pillow, watching him leave.

His gaze flickers back and forth from them to make sure they like having the door closed, Rory watches him bemusedly and Laine nods at him slyly with a twinkle in her eyes. “Goodnight, Dad.”

“Goodnight,” He exhales, not as loud as he meant to. He clicks the door shut softly and there’s a warmth in his chest that he could get addicted to.

He wanders down the hall towards the sound of your voice, passing Anna and Ryan climbing under their covers and murmuring something to each other, half eaten popsicle in the ladders hand. He passes the staircase, peering his head into the next room over. His eyes immediately land on you and Mia stood in front of an armoire, shuffling through clothes having an exchange of considerative words.

Mia’s room is very neat and put together, everything is placed with much more intention than in the other girls rooms. Her room has more mellow colors too, largely white with soft shades of pastels throughout. There’s a desk with organized notebooks and multiple vases of flowers, with bundles of yarn placed nicely in a basket in the corner. A tall bookshelf is filled with fifty-some books with a violin case leaning up against it. Nail polishes rest beside a jewelry box on the side table next to her bed. She also has picture frames across the walls, some containing photos of flora, others of the family, and a few of what appears to be her own sketches.

“—worried it’s too showy, you know?”

You hum, “I don’t think so, I mean, not for picture day.”

Mia turns to Jason, shirt held up against her body. “What do you think?”

He takes a second to bounce back from the surprise of being asked the question, “I, uh…I like it.”

You smile at him as Mia faces you again, “Okay, so this with that flowy lilac skirt?”

“The lilac…yeah, that would be cute.”

She nods pleased, draping the shirt over the back of the armchair in the corner.

You and Jason head out of the room, closing the door on your way out so she can change into her pajamas.

“Goodnight!” she calls out through the crack in the door. You and Jason return it in sync, clicking the door closed. You hold his hand as you walk past the twins' open door, giving them the same sentiment with Jason’s own following quickly after. They call it out back, louder than necessary, and you close your bedroom door behind the two of you.

You rest against the door and he leans his head back against the wall next to you, glancing over at you. “I won’t remember any of this?” He seems dejected at the idea, not happy to have been handed the world and then having it swiped from his memory immediately after.

You consider it for a second, shaking your head, “I don’t think so.”

He’s quiet for a bit, thinking. “Do you have a marker?”

“A marker?” You look around casually, “Uh, yeah.” You unclip a sharpie from the mini calendar pinned against the wall, tossing it to him. You watch curiously as he holds his forearm out in front of him, popping the lid off with his mouth.

The light in the room starts to dim dramatically until his vision is completely dark. The pull of gravity on his body feels wrong and a pang of fire shoots against the side of his head.

“Hood.” He hears in the darkness, “Hood.” The commanding voice startles him awake once again. “Are you alright?”

He blinks up at Batman blearily, feeling like he’s just gotten hit over the head with a chair. “What…what—”

“The Clock King. He threw some sort of device at you. It knocked you out for a few minutes. Are you alright?”

He feels dizzy. “Uh…yeah.”

He cranes his head to glance over at where the Clock King is hunched over on the ground, handcuffed, inspecting the cartridge of his device closely. “Damn it, I knew it wasn’t right. Meant to knock him into the past.” He tells Nightwing like it’s some common mistake they can bond over.

Nightwing moues at him “I don’t care?”

Knock him into the—did he go to the future? He can’t get his thoughts in order, let alone summon memories from the future. Frankly, it doesn’t matter that much to him right now—he’s sore and wants to just fall asleep next to you.

He sits up slowly, grimacing as the pain in his head sharpens for a moment. Batman clasps his hand on his shoulder, holding him steady. “Can you stand?”

Hood grunts and pushes himself up, anchoring his weight against the ground. “Fuck. I’m going home.”

Batman says nothing to protest, instead joining Nightwing and pulling The Clock King up from the ground. Jason stumbles away towards his bike, thankful that he’s only a couple miles away from your apartment. Jesus, the future? You’re not going to believe that shit.

He climbs onto the bike with a groan, pushing up his sleeves as he prepares to start the bike. He doesn’t notice it until he revs it, but when he looks down at his left arm, he sees scribbled on his arm in sharpie:

WE’RE HAPPY

❤️ REBLOGGING = SUPPORTING ❤️

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inanoldhousewrites · 7 months

Text

Geralt limps.

Of all the changes between this journey and all their others, this is the thing that stands out to Jaskier. Not the new Roach, not Milva striding beside them, not the fact that instead of wandering wherever the next contract calls them they have an urgent mission, not the fact that everything is different about their relationships to Yennefer. No, it is only this fact.

Geralt limps.

When they first started traveling together, Jaskier was the one who was prone to limping: his boots were truly not made for traversing long distances. Blistered abounded, accompanied by the occasional misstep leading to a tender ankle. But Geralt, would tred on, surefooted as anything.

This time, Geralt limps.

Geralt has been one of the constants in Jaskier's life, one of the unchangeable facets. Find Geralt, follow him, sing about him, never doubt him for a second. Jaskier used to be able to keep time by Geralt's sure and consistent footfalls.

But now, Geralt limps.

As a witcher, Geralt's healing is both accelerated and magnified, bolstered by his potions, which would kill a normal man. Jaskier once saw Geralt stuff his own entrails back into his body and sew the wound shut. His ability to heal from almost anything was as unquestionable in Jaskier's mind as the sun rising.

And yet, Geralt limps.

Jaskier was a young man when he first met Geralt, and in the ensuing decades has not been untouched by time. He wakes with aches now, stiffness that would have been unthinkable in those early days. The road of aging stretched before him, the inescapable path of slowing, weakening, and eventually having to stay behind, while Geralt, seemingly unaging, walked on.

But instead, Jaskier walks easily and Geralt limps.

Geralt has always had one unswerving objective: walk the Path. Kill monsters, collect coin. Nothing could move him from the Path, not adoring bards, not alluring sorceresses. And then a young princess compelled him to walk a different path. She became the sole objective. It is to her that Geralt is going, and nothing will keep him from her, not time, not injury, not as long as he has breath. And where Geralt goes, Jaskier is determined to be by his side.

So Geralt limps on and Jaskier keeps pace behind him.

#the witcher #twn s3 #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geraskier #geraskier ficlet #i haven't been writing much but I'm still not over these two

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allovertheplace-writing · 2 months

Text

Honkai Star Rail

Character(s): Sunday

Genre: None Apply

Type: Drabble

Warnings/Notes: Gender-Neutral Reader(No Pronouns Used), Hints of Paronoia and Unease

i started the penacony quest and the vibe kinda makes me uneasy(penacony and the dreamscape). the family seems very shady and them basically running penacony has me tredding lightly skdjdb

so i decided to write a little blurb :3

Reserved and indifferent.

That would be how you'd describe Sunday upon first meeting him. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary - just a way of business and that was all. Everyone needs a boundary when it comes to customers, of course, so it made perfect sense.

Epescially with particular visitors of Penacony.

Yet, as you carried on with your stay and passed him by whilst he did his duty, it felt...strange. He seemed different, somehow. Different in a way that made you uneasy. The way his gaze lingered after a distant exchange of polite smiles and how he appeared more frequently around you seemed intentional. Were you deemed suspicious in some way to The Family or was it more personal...? Either way, it made you anxious. It felt as if you were being surveyed each time you stepped from your room to experience Penacony. Perhaps even in your room too. It never felt like you were alone.

They did say The Family has eyes and ears everywhere.

#♡ - Rosie writes!#sunday x reader #honkai star rail #hsr #writing #fluff #scenarios #x reader #hcs #x gn reader #x gender neutral reader #headcanons #drabble #drabbles #fanfic #fanfiction #hsr sunday #sunday x gn reader #sunday x gender neutral reader

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xythlia · 7 months

Text

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎 — 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓

kinktober week two | biting | vampire!satan x f!reader

What Goes Bump In The Night week two is here! The theater two showing is all about vampires, so when those fangs are bared make sure your necks are too~

› you're a caged bird, no hope of faith or flight to save you from the beast that holds you in an iron grip. But do you even want to be saved?

› warnings : ambiguous 18th century setting, biting, vampire au, blood/blood consumption, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, use of pet, sacrilege/religious themes, mention of killing, reader has hair long enough for it to get in their face, noncon, cervix fucking, creampie, choking

› word count : 3k+

🔪 what goes bump in the night?

The human mind possesses a remarkable ability to adapt.

You had quit marking time here long ago, it only served to drive you deeper into despair and slowly it became clear the only choice left was to make the best of being trapped in this rotted cathedral. So be it. Things became less horrid once that shifted inside you, he was kinder for one. Less bouts of intense rage although it wasn't perfectly remedied by your obedience and you suspected the real source of his rage was his own despair at knowing there was no solution for what he was. He also allowed you more freedom of movement, though only within this decrepit place.

You also suppose it makes sense he would choose this place to be a prison, for both of you. What you don't understand however, is his would be devotion to a being that did not create him nor hold any love for him.

"Leave me." Satan greeted you. His eyes never even moved to you, it almost made you feel miffed he couldn't even be bothered to properly rebuke you.

"I didn't even know you were here," you lied. He's always here. Always in the shadow of this altar when he's not slipping into your bedroom, attempting to find a much different form of salvation. This place was obviously once resplendent, but years of abandonment have reduced portions to rubble. This main part of the cathedral was nothing more than a half cracked maw, sucking in the freezing night air.

"I couldn't sleep," you muttered, maybe more to the neglected pews than to him.

You both knew you were lying, his acknowledgement coming in the form of a bland hmph. It was strange, you hated and reviled him especially when he would lurk into your room at night but something you couldn't really describe would rear it's head as an ache for him. You were now wholly dependent on him and you loathed him for it.

When those venomous eyes finally train on you it nearly makes you reconsider. Coming to him like this was a mistake, especially if you don't tred carefully-

"Maybe I should use you to sate my own desires," he cuts off your train of thought. "How wretched you are. You call me beast more times than I can count, yet you sulk into this place wanting to be bed by said beast." He sneered, tone shot full of mocking. You were caught out.

A pit opened in your stomach, but it wasn't unpleasant. No, it was a funny mixture of desire and disgust. He was right, though that would never pass your lips.

So you decide to lie again, even though you know he can practically taste the desire wafting from you, knew you were wet the moment you walked in.

"That's not what I want from you-"

"Then leave!" He practically snarls and you wish you had the nerve to strike him. He knows perfectly well you can't leave, could never leave. He tore you away in the night from all you ever had, all you ever knew and dropped you into this decaying church because try as he might he can never resist what he is.

Your own lips curl into a snarl. "You're nothing but a pathetic creature that would spend all of his eternity knelt for a god that deafens its ears to him."

You don't stop even as he rises to stand, every movement radiating aggression as he comes closer to you. You want to hurt him even a fraction of how badly he's hurt you, the ugliness of it twines together with your arousal, twin snakes squirming in your belly.

"You're pathetic. You know no god will ever look at you in joy so you capture women, cage them and break them so at least someone will gaze at you in sick adoration-"

The words die as a garbled sound of pain as his hand grips your throat, pushing you forcefully against a half rotted support beam. The position was oddly intimate, allowing you to smell the tang of the dust that had settled on him from spending hours in that repentant pose. That shameful arousal spiked inside your gut at the way he bared those fangs at you, the way he held you in place by your neck.

"Aren't you the one gazing in adoration, pet?"

The stone floor suddenly at your back was roughly fractured in sharp contours, horribly uncomfortable but it mattered not. You blinked away the start of tears in your eyes at the breathtaking sensation of being laid out flat, you always forgot about his strength when enough time passed but his small display of violence was thrilling to you in a vile way, so was the pain.

All of Satan's focus was zeroed on you as he hunched above your trembling body. The look on his face was dark, making your thighs squeeze together in a way you wish didn't happen. His flaxen hair was haloed by the cracks of moonlight from the crumbling ceiling,for a millisecond you swear he looked like one of those stained glass depictions of an angel.

"Please not here," you squeaked out.

"What? Are you afraid god will strike you down?" He asked, then whispered, "Do you really think he cares? He has yet to save you."

You swallowed thickly, noting how his eyes tracked the movement with their overblown pupils. This was a terrible idea, one you regretted now but it was too late. You'd poked the bear until claws came out and there's no asking for them to be retracted.

In the tense quiet he brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead, the act so gentle, so intimate it nearly made you forget that you were but a meal and a thing to fuck. The faint stench of old blood brought you back to reality, knowing it came from his hands.

So, his faux repentance was prompted by another killing. It always is.

That blood-crusted hand glided down the column of your throat, making you flinch. You could tell by the hardening of his eyes that it was the wrong involuntary action to have, but there was no taking it back. That hand dipped inside your neckline to trace the curve of a breast before stilling above your heart.

"You're always so afraid," he said. It sounded almost regretful. "You know I don't mean to hurt you?"

"I don't." You whimpered. Finally a portion of truth. For all his occasional nicety it always wound back around to pain. A pain you got used to, tolerated, even sought out such as tonight, but you could never ever be sure that he would never hurt you.

He laughed and it was a mad sound, ricocheting off the cold indifferent stone and making you flinch again.

"You're just as detestable as I am, do you know that? Skulking in, acting on your own shameful desires, pretending you're not. Pretending you don't enjoy this little dance we do." His speech was coming out hard, rapidly. "I could tear you into shreds, leave nothing but ichor and parts and there's nothing you could ever do to stop me."

It was sick, how delighted he looked as you shrank against the floor. Even now your defiant streak became prevalent.

"You won't kill me," but you hardly sounded sure.

"Would you like to test it?"

You clenched your jaw, staying silent, although your trembling worsened.

Before you realized it he was leaning back, icy hands moving down violently to rip at the linen trousers you wore and horror washed over you. Horror that this was no longer a scathing back and forth, and that this time he really might make good on killing you.

"What are you doing- stop!" You cried out in dread but his movements didn't falter, no matter how much you struggled against him pulling at the fabrics of your clothes until the seams tore, leaving your cunt bare to his gaze and your ass to the bite of the frozen stone floor.

You yelped in pain as he tugged you down, scraping your back against the stone and raised your legs up, propping them on his shoulders in a hardened grip. Terror kept you locked in place even when his hands disappeared, fumbling with his own waistband looking down you saw how erect he was in his hand. Thick and tip dripping precum as you feel him smear it between your folds, and you bite down hard on your lips in anticipation of fresh pain.

As he roughly guided himself inside you struggled anew, crying out from the unprepared stretching as his girth forced your muscles and slick walls to part. Something like lust overcame you as you felt him fit fully inside, the head of his cock brushing against your cervix. It made you go limp, a gasped sob rising from your chest as he pushed your legs up against your breasts before forcefully placing your hands to hold the backs of your thighs.

His movements started slow, his breathing ragged feeling you clench around him. When he started thrusting with more vigor the back of your head scraped painfully against the floor, making you yelp as cool tears pooled in the shell of your ears from sliding down your cheeks. It hurt, the way it always did and brought a dull pounding pain that flowed through your entire body.

It was raw, being fucked into jagged stone with no consideration from the man sucking and nipping at your skin. A mockery of intimacy, but in a repulsive way it sustained you. Feeling his balls smack against the fat of your ass, gasping his name in broken syllables, feeling his fingers slip down to prod at your clit; it guaranteed your survival.

As you shift to wrap your arms around his neck an aggressive sound leaves him. All the pain made your back arch, trying to escape the ground while at the same time providing him a deeper reach that brought a burst of ecstasy to you. Pain and pleasure intensely mixed and muddled your mind as your body jostled with his cruel pace. Whatever pain there was would be rewarded, there was solace in that.

With no space between you that scent of iron and rot returned, pairing with the smell of your own acrid sweat and his golden hair tickled your cheek as he bit down with intent this time.

The wail that rang against the unfeeling cathedral left you unbidden, an animalistic response to the searing, nearly blinding pain of teeth sinking into your flesh. Sobs left you in ripping spurts, your nails clawing at his back but it did little to stop him. His pace never broke, if anything the way he circled your clit only picked up speed and your cunt spasmed around him.

It was strangely beautiful, feeling yourself coming undone and slipping away as your eyes never left the gap of starlight breaking through the musty darkness from the vaulted ceiling. The pain was ebbing away too, like a hazy afterimage that you couldn't hold onto. Faintly you knew the wet warmth seeping against your skin was your own blood, he always is a sloppy eater after all. It makes you crack a small smile, and distantly you know you look insane: fucked out, bloody, yet smiling up to the sky while he doesn't stop pumping into you, doesn't stop sucking and grunting against your skin. A barbaric display beneath the unsympathetic eye of the moon.

Though there is a happiness in knowing the dance ended the way it always does. That tomorrow you'll wake up, sore and feeling sick, but alive still.

As your eyes flutter closed and you go limp in his hold something shifts, though you're no longer awake to catch it. To him this suffering of eternal existence would perhaps be lessened if you were also eternally present, and without your current fragility.

Thick spurts of cum flood your throbbing cunt with his last sloppy thrusts as he keeps drinking, past his fill and past the point of no return. You'll wake much, much later as little more than a fledgling beast with base instincts but it thrills him to think of your anguish once you regain a sense of self.

Whatever poison you spit at him as a human would pale in comparison to what will surely leave your mouth once you realize what he's done to you. But snapping that iron will of yours a second time will taste even sweeter than you do at this moment.

#kinktober 2023 #🔪 WGBITN #obey me smut #obey me x reader #obey me x female reader #obey me oneshot #obey me satan #om! smut #om! satan #satan smut #satan x reader #satan x mc #obey me x y/n

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suncaptor · 4 months

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In the four days leading up to my birthday, January 29th, 2024, I wanted to have an event! It is Supernatural themed because this blog still is (shoutout to everyone still here), but non spn fans feel free to participate. I love to see what people have to create!! All media/art/music/writing is encouraged.

You can also post on different days/multiple from same day or post something very tangential!! if you're really late I'll probably still get to it.

25th: (post Dean Winchester birthday blues) Dean & Alastair // 4x22 voicemail // Kevin Tran // Conor Oberst

26th: fusions: your culture, field of study, science, space, music, interest, etc and supernatural // existential // mental illness, dissociation and/or unreality // liminality (and ANY application of it, from transience, liminal spaces or ritual states, applying it to stuck outside through trauma, abuse, and cycles, "Otherisation", the "you can never go home" of it all, dimensions and supernatural beings explorations, so forth on and on.)

27th: Lucifer &/or vessels (or Sam specifically) // sambrady // Ireland

28th: Xander Harris (btvs) // Jessica Moore // psychic kids // sastiel (especially casifer mention<3)

29th: Sam Winchester and trauma, autonomy &/or OCD // anything that you want regarding me <3

extra bonus to keep extra sastiel posting into the 30th <3 it is @jackexmachina's birthday, I'll still be around, and we both love to see it!

Rules: tag #suncaptorevent or @ me or use this ao3 collection. I am totally fine with dark content, but please use trigger warnings+nsfw tags (and know I might tred carefully with certain triggers for my own sake), and if you're a minor do not use nsfw content. No w*/fluffy sa.mifer content please

#suncaptorevent #spn #incoherents #supernatural #btvs #conor oberst #sorry this is all over the place with some recycled themes this year has been >:/#events #buffy the vampire slayer #25

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emmyrosee · 2 years

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Kiyoomi hates sleeping on couches, and would rather not sleep at all if it comes down to it.

He’s knows it’s selfish, okay, it’s just this absolute rejection his body has to the lumpiness of the cushions to settle down, it’s like he can’t.

There’s so much… ick on couches, because people are just so nasty; he’s not even so big on germs, but couches are uncharted territory. One time in college, his roommate was getting busy, and when he asked a buddy to crash on the apartment couch, there was a block of instant noodles jammed in the cushions. He never asked about it, but Kiyoomi still has no idea why.

Sometimes, if practice runs far too late, he’ll crash at Bokuto’s, who’s couch is clean enough but absolutely reeks of lemon basil air freshener, and it sends Kiyoomi into an asthmatic fit.

When Atsumu’s sick, he’s has a tendency to just leave snot-filled tissues around, and all it took was one tissue to fall from the blankets on top of the backrest to keep Kiyoomi from ever even sitting on the furniture again.

(“It was an honest mistake! I get it cleaned every time I get sick-“

“Don’t care,” Kiyoomi snaps. “Never. It’s not just about how disgusting that is. You’re feral.”)

And above all, beds are just more comfortable than a couch- some floors are too, he’s convinced, but that’s not the point. There’s an emotional comfort in a bed, curled up in the sheets and warmth where negative thoughts cannot tred. He came to that conclusion during a particularly rough anxiety spell, and he never got the chance to learn any of the healthy coping skills his therapist tried to teach him.

That’s why you’re now sleeping on the couch.

It was a slip of his tongue when his blood was still boiling, he told you to go away after he’d already locked the door of your bedroom to keep you away. In his mind, he’d called ‘dibs’ on the bedroom to keep himself from getting banished to the couch, despite you never doing that to him regardless of how intense of a fight- you always let him curl on his side of the bed, facing away from you.

He knows it’s because you can’t sleep without him, but Kiyoomi is now coming to the conclusion that he can’t sleep without you, either.

Onyx eyes blink helplessly at the wall, wracking his mind for answers and clarity on how to fix this. He hears you sniffling just down the hallway, he’s such an asshole for doing this to you. The argument ended two hours ago, it’s three in the morning, yet his words stung plenty enough to still have you sobbing.

He tries, fuck, he tries so hard to force his eyes shut to get any semblance of sleep, but the cracking of your voice as you wail keeps him from even trying. The lump in his throat catches with every forced swallow he allows down, and his fingers fist his pillow to keep himself composed.

He fucked up. God, he fucked up bad.

He knows you’re probably cold, you’re more than likely sore from the cushions, your head is probably pounding from your hour long sobs. He knows you’re probably trying to keep it down too, and that only makes him feel more guilty. He’d happily be struck by lightning if it meant you two could swap places, or at least have you back in your shared bed.

Because Sakusa Kiyoomi hates sleeping on couches.

But he hates you doing it even more.

Part two here!

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oftenwantedafton · 3 months

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Indebted - Steve Raglan/William Afton x Female Reader

Rating - Explicit

Warnings - no explicit content in this chapter

Also available on AO3

The night you meet him begins like any other.

You’re walking home from your job at the small convenience store that’s one of the few surviving businesses in this less populated part of town. You always cut through the parking lot of the shuttered pizzeria that’s rumored to be haunted because it shaves some time off your trip and you really just want to get home and take a shower and collapse into bed. You don’t believe in ghosts anyway.

You become aware of the footsteps just as you step into the rear parking lot of the abandoned restaurant. Their pacing is casual, unhurried. You move a little faster along the cracked asphalt and the sounds of your pursuer intensify. You are definitely being followed.

A quick glance over your shoulder. Difficult to see in the darkness, but it’s a large shape. You hear panting. Your hand slips inside of your purse and you reach for your keys, slotting each piece of metal between your fingers. Apartment door, deadbolt, employee locker. An improvised weapon.

Your stalker is getting closer.

There’s still too much of the vacant lot ahead of you. You’re too far from any immediate signs of civilization to seek help. You can barely make out the indentation of a door in the rear of the building. You quickly weigh your options. Was it riskier to remain outdoors or try to find a place to hide inside?

You choose the latter, abruptly turning and shoving your body weight forward, relieved to find the entrance is unlocked. A curse behind you. Definitely a man’s voice. You let the door swing shut and try to move forward as quickly as possible in the foreign space. You’re surprised to find it’s dimly lit, an eerie red glow from what must be emergency lighting. Someone must have forgotten to shut off the supply of electricity when the facility had closed. You see a series of doors on the inner wall, trying the first one and finding it locked. Another, also locked. The door that had granted you access to the interior opens and closes behind you. You try to swallow your rising panic, not daring to waste time glancing at the man again. Your hand reaches towards a third handle, never getting the chance to make contact as it swings open from the inside.

There is something there, in the darkness.

Twin pinpoints of light high above you. They almost look like eyes. One of the animatronics? You recoil instantly, your back striking the wall, your purse jostled from your shoulder. Your keys are still clutched in your hand, palm sweating. You can smell the metal.

You hear a loud footstep. Whatever was inside that room across from you is now leaving it. Moving closer, into the grim crimson light. The weight of that tred terrifies you. It’s not the sound of a man but a machine. Another step. Hydraulics. Gears moving. Steel kissing cement. The shape reveals itself. A rabbit. A seven foot tall rabbit that looks like it’s seen better days. Ominous dark holes gaping in the suit. Wires jutting from exposed areas. Part of one ear missing. The rows of teeth in the headpiece bared in a permanent rictus grin, the material that had once been covered in fur decaying, giving the appearance of a rotting corpse.

Heavy breathing and normal footsteps now. Your pursuer has finally caught up to you.

You feel the breeze as the rabbit’s arm swings in the direction of the man. A surprised grunt of pain. The sound of something soft being invaded. Slightly damp. You try to creep sideways, the cinderblock outer wall still at your back. Another wet thud and a gurgling groan. Your would be assailant’s heavy body hits the floor.

The rabbit’s head swivels to regard you. The hand holding the keys trembles violently but you manage a shaky swipe in the air in front of you, a rehearsal for the scratches you’re going to attempt. A dry chuckle resonates from within the figure.

“Is that any way to thank your savior? Not that you’d be able to do any damage with that. Pitiful.”

Your arm lowers but you keep the keys clenched at the ready. “What…what happened to…”

“No longer part of this mortal coil.” The voice sounds modulated. A human speaking inside the suit? But how? What was he doing here? You realize what the suited person has just told you. “You killed him?”

“Of course. Did you think I was going to let someone that reprehensible wander in my property?”

His property? He owns Freddy’s? “You knew him?”

He makes an exasperated sound. “Not personally. But I know his type.” A pause. “Now what to do with you, I wonder.” You catch a glint of metal in the dim lighting. The rabbit was holding a knife, stained an ominous color.

“I was just walking home and I heard someone following me and I ducked inside to hide. That’s all. I’ll leave and you’ll never see me again. I…I won’t tell anyone about what happened.” You’re not sure about that last part, but you’re certainly not going to tell this strange creature that you’re ratting him out to the police.

You hear the individual inhale deeply. “So frightened. I’ve missed that scent,” he murmurs softly, then his voice sharpens. “Of course you won’t tell anyone. You’re not going to mention this dead man. You’re certainly never going to tell anyone about me. But as for simply leaving…well, that’s another story.” A brief hum. The rabbit’s head tips to one side. “The way I figure it, I’ve done you a service. Which means you owe me.”

You lick lips that have gone dry. The air is so stale inside the building. “What…what do you want?”

“I haven’t decided yet. A debt to be repaid at a later date, I think. Some night when you’re walking home again, I’ll come to collect.”

“How…”

“Did you think I didn’t notice? Security cameras, silly girl. I know everything that happens here. Everything.” He takes a step closer and you cower against the wall. “The only reason you have breath in your body right now is because you’ve never done any damage. Passing by respectfully.” He kicks at the corpse lying at his feet. “Unlike this wretch here.”

You suddenly feel an overwhelming need to vomit. “Please let me go home,” you whisper.

“Of course. You’re free to leave.”

You take a tentative step forward. Another. The figure beside you is motionless. You give the dead man a wide birth, refusing to look down again after you inadvertently catch a glimpse of a sinister looking pool of dark liquid. You count three doors and move back to the outer wall, heaving a sigh of relief when the door surrenders and you get a lungful of fresh air.

“Wait.”

You freeze. He’d changed his mind. He wasn’t letting you go after all. A cruel taste of freedom.

“You forgot this.”

Something tossed in your direction. Your handbag, the small artificial leather case landing near your feet. You hastily swipe at the strap and settle it back on your shoulder. The mascot encased figure bends and you hear a scraping sound as the body is dragged in the opposite direction, deeper into the shadows, lost from sight. You swallow another wave of nausea and hurriedly exit the building, running the rest of the way home.

***

Everything seems so deceptively normal the next morning.

You wake up and pad barefoot into the kitchen to make coffee. Maybe you’d dreamt the whole thing. Watching too many horror movies before bed. There’s no way something that scary could have been real. You continue denying the events, almost convincing yourself before your eyes fall on your purse siting on the kitchen counter. The white material is stained red. Your stomach lurches. Blood. It had been real.

You slump into the nearest chair. You’d been responsible for a man’s murder last night. Granted, he’d been planning on mugging you, raping you, God only knows what. But still. He was dead. And now you owed a favor to that…that thing in the pizzeria. A man wearing one of the animatronic suits, wandering the darkness.

You don’t want to think about what kind of dark desire a person like that might have.

He’d murdered the man so effortlessly. Without remorse. You knew somehow this wasn’t his first victim. He’s killed before. Many times.

Maybe he was the one responsible for all those missing children.

It was impossible to grow up in Hurricane and not hear the stories. Kids that just vanished into thin air, one after the other. No evidence. No answers. The only common thread the location where they’d last been seen. The news reports announcing the restaurant’s closure. And then nothing. No more missing children. No more anything. Just a building left to rot steeped in a terrible rumored legacy.

You consider going to the police. Your hand reaches for the phone more than once. But you hesitate every time. See the white eyes and the rows of teeth and hear the rusted voice. The implied threat.

You won’t tell anyone.

***

The door to the convenience store chimes as you enter.

You’re grateful you’re working first shift today. At least it will be daylight when you walk home.

You wonder if the sun is really enough to keep the shadowy nightmare of Freddy’s at bay.

“You look like shit. Rough night?” Your coworker quips.

“Yeah, you could say that. Not like that,” you add at the suggestively raised eyebrow. “I just didn’t sleep much.”

The girl smirks, depressing the pricing gun and affixing a sticker to the bag of chips she’s setting on display on the end cap. She reaches for another bag, pausing as she glances towards the entrance. “Looks like your favorite customer is on his way in.”

Your cheeks flush and you turn to see a middle aged man entering the store.

He’s been a regular for several weeks now. Very tall, well over six feet. Lean without being too skinny. Office attire. Graying hair and beard. Glasses that seem the wrong shape for his face, the lenses too large and round. The glimpses of his car in the parking lot reveal he drives an older sedan. He‘s always very polite. His voice was a little odd, a combination of nasal intonation and a harsh rasp like a smoker’s. Except he never purchased cigarettes. It was usually candy or coffee. Sometimes something for lunch. Maybe when he was rushing out the door and didn’t have time to prepare a meal to take with him. No wedding ring. Maybe no wife to pack a lunch for him?

He nods and smiles at you and your stomach somersaults. It was a pleasant change from the nausea you’d been experiencing off and on since last night. He has dimples. Nice even white teeth. He always smells good, like soap and cologne. You know you’re staring and you force yourself to look away, catching the dark grin of your coworker.

You walk to the register, rubbing a thumb absently over a peeling sticker stating the tobacco and alcohol age requirement laws on the counter. Sandwich today. Apple. Chocolate chip cookie. Bottled water. You ring it in. He hands you a folded bill and you admire the fingers pinching that currency. Long and slender, but strong looking. Wide palms. You wonder what it would feel like to have them on you.

You fumble his change out of the drawer. A soft smile that makes your stomach flutter again. He tucks his fingers through the handles of the plastic bag and leaves. You realize he’s left something on the counter. A business card. He’s a career counselor. Steve Raglan. Now you have a name to go with the face. For some reason it feels off. He just doesn’t look like a Steve.

Your fellow employee has emptied the box. She begins to break it down, slicing through the packing tape as she saunters over to the counter. “Well, shit. Looks like your dad crush has a thing for you, too. Go get him, girl.”

You blush again, tucking the card against your palm to hide it from sight.

***

You decide to call Steve Raglan on your lunch break.

The business card is already becoming dog eared, creased from your constant nervous handling. You trace the blue embossing one final time before you dial the sequence of numbers. One ring. Two. A familiar voice on the other line. “This is Steve Raglan. May I help you?”

You wrap the phone cord around your index finger. “Yeah, um, hi. You left your business card on the counter at the Convenience Mart this morning after I rang you up.”

“Ah, yes. The attractive blushing young woman.”

You feel your cheeks grow hot. “Yes, that’s…that’s me.”

“I wonder if you’d like to have dinner with me after work some night?”

Your pulse quickens. He was actually asking you out. “Sure, I’d love to.” The phone cord tightens.

“Wonderful. Let me know the next night you’re free and I’ll pick you up after work.”

“I’m doing second shift the next two nights but then I’m working first shift on Thursday. I’ll be done at four.”

“Thursday it is, then. I look forward to it.”

The dial tone hums loudly in your ear and you relax your grip on the spiraled cord.

”So? What’d he say?” Your coworker is chomping loudly on gum, blowing and snapping a bubble, her arms crossed, leaning back against the counter.

”He asked me out to dinner.”

”Dinner, huh? You’d better bring a change of clothes in case he takes you somewhere nice. And, you know, maybe plan ahead.” She walks over to the aisle with contraceptives and pulls a box of condoms off the shelf. “Do you think he’s an extra large? A tall guy like that with that thick neck and those huge hands? He has to be, right?”

Your face is burning. She’d noticed, too. “It’s just dinner. Put that back,” you add hastily as the door chimes, signaling another customer’s arrival.

#william afton x reader #william afton x you #steve raglan x you #steve raglan x reader #springtrap

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avvail-whumps · 6 months

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‘the facility’ — pre-breakout 1/3

masterlist · next

content warnings: medical whump, prison whump, captivity, imprisonment, prisoners of war, mentioned minor character death, mentioned non-con drugging, mentioned torture, psychological torture, minor violence, blood

“Noah, you’re needed on Level Nine.”

Those words sent a strange little flurry of nerves settling in his stomach, and the clipboard almost slipped from his fingers as he spun around in shock. His eyes flickered around, as if wondering if she really was addressing him, or somebody else.

A Higher-Up stood before him, a black haired woman with a plain mask covering the entirety of her face. It was a staple for the Higher-Ups, showing off their status. Flanking her were two Apoids. Noah had grown accustomed to seeing the dangerous rifles clutched in their hands, but their masked faces and robotic nature still made him weary. He set the clipboard on the countertop, hands clasping together anxiously.

“Level Nine, ma’am?” He repeated slowly, his voice wobbling. Noah had only been down to Level Nine during his induction a few months ago. There was this dangerous, dark air to the place, one that had shivers rolling down his spine whenever he thought about it. Part of him hoped she had simply misspoken, or he had misheard her.

No such luck. The woman nodded her head. “We need the blood taken from one of our prisoners.”

No doubt another brutal scheme for more torture. Noah resided on the first Level of the Facility; compared to most, life here was rather tame. The prisoners weren’t immensely dangerous, and while they were trained to proceed with caution, Noah had never had any problems or disasters. Although he had also occasionally concocted experiments under the Higher-Up’s orders, he heard rumours that it was absolutely brutal down in the lower Levels. Up here, the most blood he saw was when prisoners would get themselves into trouble and meet the fists of an Apoid.

He himself had never had to witness the torture of the Facility first hand.

Level One patients usually gave up their information relatively quickly, or they were simply just captured soldiers with no purpose. Noah hadn’t been in the Facility for long, simply getting accustomed to his patients and their medical records to prepare him later for the future.

Scientists of the faint of heart wouldn’t be able to handle the lower levels. Noah had heard the others telling him that, praying that he toughened himself up now, or be forced to live with the initial crippling, exhausting nightmares from the torture rooms. Scientists had often experienced mental breaks in their composure, compared to staff like the robotic Apoids or the busy Personnel. He knew he was doing this for greater good, and of course he’d come face to face with the idea of physically torturing people eventually.

Noah just didn’t think he would jump to the worst Level of them all. Where the scientists were known to be sadistic and ruthless, and trained interrogaters would mercilessly torture these people without a care.

Noah shivered. His mouth was incredibly dry at the thought.

“Ma’am,” he began anxiously, stepping closer. “I have patients on Level One that I’m assigned to. Besides, I don’t think I’m qualified to take on a patient from Level Nine.”

The Higher-Up shook her head firmly. It was always unnerving staring into those plain masks, unable to tell what expressions they were making when they spoke. Noah hadn’t been down in the Facility for long, but many other scientists told him they don’t tred down into the depths very often.

“You’ve been ordered to drop all of your previous patients. Prisoner Seven is all we want you to focus on from now on.”

Noah let out a trembling breath. He almost couldn’t believe what he was hearing; the idea of crawling down into the depths of Level Nine was making his heart pound in his chest, banging against his ribcage. Dark imagery and the foul smell of blood crossed his mind for a moment, and his stomach sank.

The Higher-Up tilted her head.

“And regarding your qualifications,” she said sharply, almost spitting out the word in annoyance. “You’ve been sufficiently trained to deal with possible scenarios as far as Level Nine. You know what’s expected of you should anything go wrong.”

“Yes, but only in simulations,” he breathed out, fiddling with the sleeves of his long, white coat. “If I were to—”

“Then, you are perfectly qualified,” she snapped, interrupting him without a second thought. “You know the procedures that are expected of you. Are you arguing with me?”

The cold threat pressed hard against his throat. He swallowed down his pride, eyes stealing glimpses at the Apoids by her side. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself in check.

“No, ma’am.”

She shifted, turning on her heel. “Very well. Personnel will debrief you once you are escorted down there.”

There was no arguing with that. Noah had no choice but to follow close behind her, the two Apoids shadowing them close behind as they went. A bundle of nerves set alight in his stomach. The reality of going down to Level Nine was sinking into his skin, making him crawl and itch with a terrible unease. It made him wonder why he was assigned to a patient that should already have someone working on them.

Did they—?

He swallowed, stepping quietly into the elevator. No conversation was exchanged between them, protocol setting in quickly enough. He shouldn’t think like that. It was dangerous, but the place was crawling with hundreds of Apoids. Should anything go wrong, he was well protected.

Noah’s amber eyes landed on the silver, round buttons above them. It lit up on four, then descended down to five, six, seven, eight…

Anxiety gnawed maliciously at his stomach.

The moment it brightened up on the number nine, and a loud beeping noise broke the thick silence, he had to remind himself to breathe properly. He didn’t have much time before the doors were sliding open, and the Higher-Up was leading him out of the small, bleak box.

Apoids were lining the walls, clutching their rifles tight and stood in an unmoving pose. They could have almost been mistaken for statues, and Noah resisted the urge to look at them as he went past, feeling as though he was going deeper into the lion’s den. He was guided into a room he recognised from Level One, one of the torture rooms used for their interrogations and experiments. It was empty, Noah was relieved to see, apart from some people dressed in grey uniforms.

The Higher-Up left not a moment later, but the Apoids remained posted on either side of the door, where Noah assumed they would be staying while Prisoner Seven was sent for and retrieved.

“Noah, isn’t it?”

He gazed wearily at the Personnel that approached him, a short woman with her red hair braided behind her back. She was smiling at him, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She was holding a file to her chest, covered by her arms. It took him a second to gather his wandering thoughts, and he slowly nodded his head.

She handed him the file, a pristine wad of papers with the title “Prisoner Seven” printed along the top. No doubt, this was everything regarding the prisoner medically, written by who had come before him. There were a lot of handwritten notes in scruffy writing, but he decided to look over it in a moment.

“We need you to check his bloods. The scientists down here have been experimenting with some drug induced methods of torture, and Prisoner Seven hasn’t been acting favourably. We’d like you to check that everything is in order, as well as work on the drug during your time here.”

Noah tried to process all that information with a frazzled brain, but his mind had latched onto the prospect of there being a scientist before him. It made his stomach sink with this knowing dread, not sure if he wanted to know. Maybe their contract ran out and they left the Facility.

“I’m sorry,” he breathlessly chuckled. “But what happened to the last scientist?”

The Personnel cleared her throat. “She died.”

Noah’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

“Unfortuantly,” she jumped in, as if trying to ease his visible, rising nervousness. “Prisoner Seven got loose and murdered her. But you’ll have more security in the room with you, so you’ll be perfectly safe.”

Perfectly safe. The thought made him laugh. He wondered if the previous scientist had been told the same thing.

He swallowed nervously, glancing around the room. He found an assortment of tools already laid out for his use. He walked over to them, examining the long needle under the bright lights. It was better quality than anything he got on Level One. He glanced at the clock, trying to settle his nerves.

“What time will Prisoner Seven arrive?”

“In twenty minutes. Please take your time to set up.”

They left, and Noah was alone with the two Apoid’s standing quietly and completely motionless by the door. He sucked in a sharp breath, quickly turning away from them. His heart was pounding away in his chest.

He was nervous.

There was no doubt about it. He had never handled a patient that was higher than a Level One. He was completely out of his depth, and yet why him? Why choose Noah? Surely there were plenty of other more trained scientists on Level Nine they could use?

Soon enough, twenty minutes passed.

He heard the door being unlocked, and soon, more Apoids were flooding in. With them, clutched in their gloved hands, was Prisoner Seven. He was cuffed securely, hands and arms twisted behind his back, as well as an interlinking chain between his ankle cuffs, not allowing him a chance to run very far if he bolted. He was blindfolded and gagged, with guns trained on him from every angle.

He could have swore he even saw the crackle of a taser.

Noah watched the intense scene with a heavy heart. They moved carefully over towards the table in the middle of the room, which was attached with multiple opened cuffs and loose leather straps. He stayed clear as they began to unfasten his blindfold. Prisoner Seven was tall, and big. It was clear he was a formidable soldier. Broad shoulders, muscular limbs, piercing, lidded eyes.

Oh. Noah stiffened slightly.

Prisoner Seven seemed to be staring intently at him.

Those sharp eyes took in every little detail, and Noah had to let his gaze linger elsewhere after growing immensely uncomfortable. He was probably thinking of eleven different ways to kill him with his bare hands, no doubt. These were some of the most dangerous men and women to exist.

The Apoids safely and successful secured him in the cuffs, and then proceeded to swiftly pin him down with the leather straps. They were tightened impossibly tight, leaving it virtually impossible for anybody to get out. Noah felt slightly more at ease knowing he was restrained like that. Most of the Apoids left, now only leaving four in the room. They kept their guns trained on Prisoner Seven, even while it was time for Noah to get to work.

Prisoner Seven was still gazing at him with curious eyes, and Noah attempted to ignore it. He glanced at the Apoids, trying to keep his voice steady.

“I’m taking the gag out.”

One of them nodded once.

Noah tried to ignore the sickly sweat that was beading on the back of his neck as he slowly reached forward, tugging the gag away with a firm pull. As he did, Prisoner Seven jerked under the restraints violently.

Noah leapt back with a small cry, feet staggering, desperate to steer clear of him. A quiet, rumbling laughter filled the room not a moment later, but the noise didn’t ease the sudden stab of fear that had grasped his heart. He gripped the gag tightly in his fist, a wave of embarrassment smacking into him.

“Funny,” Prisoner Seven mused, his lips pulling into a small smirk. “Something the matter, doc?”

Noah calmed the rapid beating of his heart. He took a deep breath, and slowly shuffled forward again. He was restrained down. There was no way he could slip out of them. He steadied his breathing, steeling his nerves.

He shot a glance at the Apoids, their fingers easing back off the trigger. He sighed heavily.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions,” Noah said, keeping his tone of voice devoid of any emotion. He didn’t make eye contact with the patient as trained, and took out his clipboard to begin running through the essential questions. “Please answer honestly for your own well being.”

Prisoner Seven’s eyes fell back to the ceiling, licking his dry lips. His smirk had gone, eyes lidded and dark. “Since you asked so nicely.”

Noah kept his eyes pinned on the paper. Even though his voice was steady and calm, his heart was pounding away in his chest like a relentless drum. It was hard to keep his breathing slow and concise, but he tried to assure himself that four highly trained, and armed, guards were in the room with him.

For what it was worth, Prisoner Seven was relatively complicit when it came to answering him. They were just standard questions to determine if there were any visible signs of blood clots or discomfort, but Noah was pleased it was going smoothly when his patient seemed to be healthy.

He moved onto the practical side of it, arguably the more dangerous. The cuff was fastened in a convenient spot, and so he got to work cleaning an area he was targeting.

“Squeeze your right hand into a fist, please,” Noah asked gently, his gloved fingers searching for a visible vein. Prisoner Seven did so, watching him intently.

“What’s your name, doc?”

Noah’s teeth clenched slightly. “You understand I cannot answer that.”

“We’re going to be getting to know each other quite intimately,” Prisoner Seven hummed. “Your name. It’s all I ask for.”

Noah’s brows flickered in annoyance, prodding for a vein. He was growing increasingly frustrated that he couldn’t find one suitable enough, and Prisoner Seven’s voice was distracting him.

“Please be quiet,” he murmured. His patient hummed.

“You’ve already broken protocol by talking to me this like this,” he spoke. “What’s the harm?”

Noah cursed under his breath, the needle fumbling in his hand. He ran a gloved hand through his hair, his voice shaking slightly as he motioned to one of the Apoids.

“Can...someone just loosen this strap for me, please?” He snapped, trying to calm down the overwhelming sensation building in his chest. Prisoner Seven was right; he was only meant to speak when necessary, not answering a patient if not needed. One Apoid slowly stepped forward, lowering his rifle slightly, but clearly still on guard. He’d been expecting him to do as he requested, but he spoke instead.

“Is it necessary?” He asked stoicly. Noah was almost shocked at the voice behind the mask. He’d never heard one speak before. Apoid’s had always been the silent and deadly powerhouses that even Noah was afraid to walk past alone. The modulation from the mask made his spine tingle, and it took him a second to snap out of his embarrassing gawking. Gathering himself, he nodded his head.

“It’s hard to find a vein when both restraints are restricting the blood flow here,” he explained, the words giving him time to regain his composure. “It’ll be for a minute.”

The Apoid slowly nodded his head. Rifles were pointed directly at Prisoner Seven as the one who spoke eased the tightness of the cuff slightly. Prisoner Seven remained still, and Noah finally managed to press the tip of the needle into his vein.

He drew the blood out carefully, and then covered the puncture sight with nimble fingers. The Apoid returned the cuff back to normal, and smoothly stepped back into his original position. It was deathly quiet while Noah checked the blood samples. He scribbled down everything he needed, before returning back to Prisoner Seven’s side once more.

“You haven’t had any adverse effects to the drugs, and you’re clean,” he explained steadily. “Any nausea or light headedness?”

Prisoner Seven’s eyes flickered over to him. “No.”

Noah sighed and motioned towards the Apoids. “Then we’re done here.”

He stayed back gratefully against the wall as the guards proceeded to do their diligent job. His eyes were glued onto the camera at the top of the wall, wondering quietly to himself who was watching, and what this was all about. As Prisoner Seven was being gagged once more, his piercing eyes landed on him again.

“Name’s Cash, doc.”

An Apoid surged forward, butt of the rifle slamming into his temple. Noah’s spine stiffened when he saw a flash of red, and the gag was pulled tight around his mouth not a second later. He was being dragged out of the room before Noah had a chance to process everything that happened.

His shoulder relaxed an inch. It was over. He’d done it.

His eyes narrowed slightly when he noticed an Apoid was still in the room with him. It was the one that had spoken, staring at him quietly from his spot near the table.

Noah frowned, feeling a little awkward. “Can I help you?”

The guard tilted his head. It was just as shocking the second time when he opened his mouth to talk. “I’m assigned to you. I’m escorting you back to your room.”

His throat closed up. “My what—?” He spluttered, shaking his head. “What do you mean you’re assigned to me?”

“Each scientist on Level Nine has an assigned Apoid for safety reasons,” the man rumbled carefully. Noah blinked in confusion.

“And my room?”

“You’ll be staying on Level Nine. Your things have already been transferred from Level One.”

What the—?

The room almost began spinning as Noah tore off his gloves, dumping them in the bin with a restricted lungs. It really was going to be permanent then. An assigned Apoid? Some part of him couldn’t quite believe it. Numbly, and through automaticness, he went to sort out all of the equipment and information, but the guard placed a hand on his shoulder.

He jumped, and the Apoid quickly retreated. Was this guard new or something? Noah had never seen one act like this before. Speaking and even touching him. His thoughts whirred. Then again, this was a different job. This Apoid was assigned to him.

“Personnel will handle that,” the guard told him. Noah blinked away the spots in his vision. “You were called down here quickly. They require you to rest first and proceed with your research tomorrow.”

He quietly nodded his head, finding there was no choice to agree. Research was something he was used to. As long as he was confined to that, he felt like he would be alright.

Noah allowed himself to be escorted to his new room, keeping his head low and his eyes to the ground as trained to do.

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randominji · 3 months

Text

𝐏𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝟏: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓

: I see the key worked... very well then, I expect you to tred lightly little one. This may only be the opening page, but with enough care to details, it could hint to anything and everything for the storyline.

[Additional information regarding scheduling will be down below]

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: None... (maybe spelling mistakes)

Page unlocked! Click -> here <- to be taken to "your family" character profile page!

Everyone in your small spread of a community knew about the tale of the forest. You've been told of its wits and games, how the shadows always lie. It was the most essential life lesson your parents had to teach you as a child, even before teaching you how to feed yourself.

Never trust the forest.

It was always the number one rule, and therefore, it was always on your mind. This sick game of oppressed "what ifs-" had led to your twisted insights on the woodland, causing a connection of curiosity to stem from deep within.

It fascinated you. How could something so pure and raw as nature be so cruel and dangerous to the wonders that cohabitate with it? How could mother nature simply allow herself to corrupt the good creatures she's tried so hard to bring up?

Capitalism blossoms in every aspect of this earth, a hierarchy of social imbalance based on stereotypical assumptions and power. They always neglect the very aspects that keep them afloat, like nature and its natural decomposers.

You guess that's why imbalance strives on the blood of the incompetent, and you refuse to turn a blind eye to that. Not now, not ever.

"Y/n, where's Maxwell?"

The same impending call of your mother rings out, her voice cutting a clean slate above what was your arguing sister and brother.

"What?!" You respond, sitting up at the mention of Maxwell, your beloved companion and best friend.

"Maxwell? Have you seen him?"

"Uhhh…" You take a second to respond, eyes realigning with the foot of your bed. "Not recently! No?"

Placing the chisel and canvas of your constructed wooden statue down, you raise yourself from your bed with a curious gaze. Where was Maxwell?

The normally occupant spot by the foot of your bed was acquainted with the mangled of a deer's metatarsal bone and a patch of thin black and white hairs. His wool blanket, knitted by your mother, was in a mess, slumped to one half of your worn out mattress and the normally chewed on wood of your bedpost had no fresh saliva on its brutally mauled exterior.

"Maxwell!" You call, only to receive no tip off on his whereabouts. Inching yourself out of bed, you feel a certain dun fill your ears at the sudden sound of what could only be Maxwell's untrimmed nails scattering on the wooden floor.

Shuffling to the only wooden flooring within your shack of a house, you find your best friend, and dog, sitting and staring at the front door.

"What's up bud?" You pause to observe him, not a single bone in his body ached to move, not even his constantly wagging tail. "Do you need to go to the toilet?" You ask, moving to rest your hand on the rusted metal hook you use as a handle.

But still. No response.

"Max?" You mumble, eyes dragging from the tips of his gone pointed ears to the sudden twitch of his moistened snout.

"I'll let you out, but only for a minute. Make your business fast, alright boy?" You give the flat of his head a quick pat before opening the door.

It was apparent that with patience, came eagerness too- as Maxwell had immediately scurried out of the door, wasting no time in looking back as you only watched his silhouette fade into the void of darkness beyond your residence.

A deep feeling of something uneasy settled into your stomach almost instantly. You had already known you had just made the wrong choice.

"Y/n? Did you find him?!"

"Ahh…" you breathe out, eyes frantically dotting around, your vision trying to pry into the small crooks of the shadows as they obscure all light.

Your eyes remain trained on the darkness as the small of scraggy footsteps invade your ears. "Y/n?" It was your mother, you could tell by the rasp of her normally dried throat. Water wasn't all that easy to obtain for your household.

“Yeah…” You pause momentarily “Hey mom, I'll be right back… I'm just getting some fresh air” and with your final words, you had slipped past the poor excuse of a front door and into the chill of the pitched night.

These surroundings felt foreign at night. The friendly wave the grass usually gave you during your walks with Maxwell was now wagging its finger at you, taunting you with the curl of their bladed tips. Even the trees seemed like giant legs, planted firm and impenetrable within the soil like a knife to a gut. The grass was still wet from yesterday's downpour anyway- a certain moisture hung in the air around you, almost suffocating you with the earthy scent.

The thud of your front door hitting your weathered door frame had you jump a small distance forward, your shoes seeming to soak the small droplets of rain that had yet to evaporate from the ground. A small huff bypasses your lips as you begin to move- your steps seemingly careless as you wonder towards the last location you had seen Maxwell- the tree line that boarded the Rimwell Forest and what layed beyond it.

In all honesty, no one from your village had made much of an effort to barricade a defence between your location of eternal residence and the eerie forest beyond. No walls, no warnings, no fences, no nothing. There were as many precautions as there were punishments.

You were only ever to be told to never enter the forest, and if you had entered, you were to be forgotten about till your return- if you ever return.

No one cares about some inconvenient disappearance, especially when the missing person is someone of your social ranking within Croydon. You were merely the daughter of a manual labourer and a forgotten mistress. No one could care less about who you were, especially with your dad suffocating in his ever-building debt.

You've seen the way the poorer families thrash around in a cheap mess, their voices ringing out amongst the whole town due to its small size. Desperate knocks on everyone's front doors would go ignored constantly from the moment they realise this was another missing person case. Parents, wives, husbands, and even close friends to the missing person would demand an investigation, possibly even a board meeting in the small gazebo your poor excuse of a neighbourhood had. They were always a mess, but the responses were always worse.

“They did this to themself”

“They're not of our priority”

“Did they contribute to our society?”

“Are they of any significance to me?”

It always seemed as if the self-proclaimed president of Croydon was too preoccupied with developing what he'd want to administer as “The perfect village.” As he saw it, if they weren't of much importance, they were a lost cause. Someone could always fill the missing gaps, someone less or more able, because at the end of the day, one missing person wasn't much of a problem.

When it came to those of a higher stance in the village, however, it was a whole new story.

Though, thinking this back over… maybe rushing out after your dog wasn't the best idea. You recognise him to resemble a child in a blacksmiths- take your eyes off of him for one moment, and he's gone- but more often than not, he always returns. Maybe you should've had some patience before having left only a few seconds after him. Who knows? Maybe he's already back home?

With a defeated sigh, you look around. Your eyes had completely adjusted to the unusually dark shadows the canopy provided by this point, allowing you to see some finer details in the area. Above you laid a shelter of extended limbs, leaves folded over one another in a shambled pattern. The thick tendrils of tree roots protrude from the ground and arch their backs, a faint rustling sound from your left, then to your right echoed around in this earthy labyrinth.

It was safe to say your hair was standing on end with how eerie everything had gotten. Your senses kicked themselves into overdrive as you examined everywhere you stepped. Every mushroom and ivory bush was consciously noted until something oddly peculiar happened…

“Wasn't that-” You mumbled, your voice lowers into a whisper as you blink at the base of a tree. It stood tall and proud like nothing you've ever seen before- except you have.

That very same carving in the tree- one that almost resembled a rabbit- you could've sworn you saw that a few minutes ago. Had you been walking in circles, perhaps? Or are you just losing your mind?

The cold touch of an old man's finger runs down your spine, a painful shiver following pursuit. Your hand almost darts to the location of the chill as it deteriorates almost as quickly as it had appeared. Your shoulders tense defensively, and your breath hitches within the dry and tightened of your windpipes.

You already knew you weren't alone anymore. Your sixth sense had kicked in. It felt suffocating as you tried to remain as calm and vigilant as possible.

If the rumours about this forest were true, then you sure as hell weren't going down without getting as far away as possible first. Doing a U-turn and running back the way you came from would at least put you somewhere closer to home if you were to die. That way, maybe your family could find you, and maybe find some closure-

What?

You tense again at the sound of a frail twig snapping, a vision of what could be lurking around had you gulping once again. Though, there was something about this sound that made it far more distinct, far more disturbing.

It was as if it was right behind you.

Update schedule: I will try my best to update every Saturday. However, due to events in my life, not every update will be guaranteed. Additionally, on some weeks, there will be a dual post if you're lucky :)

Posts for the first few chapters will be at an irregular schedule as I'd like to have as many people caught up in this before the real adventure begins :^

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