#astrids2th

However strangely so, it seemed they actually did. The woman at least, the man you weren’t so sure. It appeared he just sort of believed anything the woman said, which you supposed was a nice change since your time. But those nice changes were far and few between. Truly, look what they did with the kitchen! Absolutely atrocious!

The woman, Lorraine apparently, had sensed your presence practically as soon as she’d set foot in your house. As usual, you’d quickly gotten to knocking down stuff, messing with the lights and shouting like an angry toddler, in an attempt to scare them off like you always did whenever the habitual foolhardy teenager and their god-complex encroached on your personal space, in their hunt for a cheap high. It had of course caught the attention of the couple and the small group they’d brought along with them, as intended. But what you had not expected, was for the woman to look right at you. Not right through you like you’d gotten used to since departing from the world of the living, and by extension, also from the human line of sight. No. No, she looked right at you. Actually perceived you. Furthermore, you’d much less expected them to actually move the fuck in. Who the hell moves into a house where they’ve just been ambushed by a rather discontented ghost? No one does! At least no sane person, that’s for sure!

To be fair, these people definitely were far from sane. During the first couple days, the lad, Ed, had spent most of his hours in your old bedroom, creating some rather… Well, interesting illustrations, to put it kindly. They certainly were no Picassos, but you supposed you’d seen worse. Much worse, in fact. Though you found him the less interesting of the pair to tease and taunt, as it seemed none of your tricks actually really got to him. It was infuriating. You’d smash a mug off his desk, he’d hum and clear it up, leaving you seething in the corner of the room. You’d pick every painting off the walls of YOUR bedroom, and he’d chuckle and remark that ‘they’d look better rearranged anyways’, in turn causing you to furiously storm out the room. You had quite literally swept every single piece of paper on his desk, off of it and onto the floor. And the moron had just calmly picked it all up! ‘must’ve been the wind’, he’d mused, closed the window, and gotten straight back to work. It had sent you on a rampage, bolting down the stairs and taking every picture along the wall beside you, down alongside you, smashing their frames in the process. Dear god, these people would be the metaphorical death of you!

Now the wife however was different. Jaded from whatever work they were doing, yes, but not quite as desensitized. She had a harder time ignoring your presence, as you were sure Ed was adamantly trying to. At points, you were actually concerned she was the one pursuing you and not the other way around. Whenever you made your presence known in a room, you’d see her gaze travelling to every corner, as if trying to catch you with her eyes. And she’d sometimes even get up and look around, reaching out as if convinced she’d be able to touch you if she tried hard enough. And maybe she could, you couldn’t quite be sure with her. It was… Strange, to say the least. A tad bit unnerving.

Today it was a Sunday. The day of the Lord. And yet, in spite of all the crosses that Lorraine had littered this house with, there sure as hell was nothing holy about this dump of a house. Only you, and your ongoing effort at driving this happy-wholesome family out of your house. However, today, you started out your day with an agenda. Not just aimless chaos anymore, no, that clearly wasn’t working with these people. Instead, you’d laid out a plan. As much as you hated doing so, you were going to make contact. Clear up some things verbally, communicate your feelings like the sensible 100-or-so-year-old adult you were. And then you’d threaten their lives and hope they left. Bulletproof plan right there.

Recently, Ed had been moving things around. Renovating, "modernizing" things, changing the house from how you had known it. And you were at your absolute wits end. Nobody touched your stuff. And especially not kooky would-be ghost hunters.

You rumbled your way up the stairs, making as much noise as possible on your way, as you’d made a habit of doing since this all begun. Your footsteps echoed against the hardwood floor as you made it up to the second story of the sizeable home, where you then moved down the hall. This would be the room that the pair had now apparently claimed as their own. It made you grimace and scoff softly, before pushing open the door and slamming it hard behind you, hopefully calling attention to your attendance. Your mother’s old room. Still as it had stood, which was lucky you supposed. If that man had laid even as much as a hand on your mother’s furniture you would’ve surely sent him tumbling out one of the windows by now. Now that you thought about it, you were surprised you hadn’t done that yet. Idea noted down, you thought.

Lorraine was nowhere to be seen in the large bedroom, and you stood for a moment, wondering. It was early in the morning, but the pair had proved to be quite the morning people. Yet another thing to be annoyed about. Only psychopaths get up this early, you were sure. But Ed had gone to the gardens, you could see his silhouette through the dusty windows, working away with the overgrown gardens; which had been left entirely up to the wits of nature since your untimely death. Which was then subsequently followed by the departure of your family and refusal by locals to move in. Your doing, of course.

But your eyes then fell on the half ajar door leading to the ensuite bathroom, and you could hear the quiet hum of a faucet, before it was swiftly turned off, replaced by the sound of bare feet on tile. Well, that explained the empty chambers.

For a moment you paused, considering whether postponing your confrontation might be the right choice. You were a ghost not a pervert after all, and you didn’t choose to remain forever wandering earth just to spy on women showering. Though you quickly brushed off the idea. You had a mission for God’s sake, and you were no wimp...

And so, you quickly crossed the room and slipped into the bathroom. There you were grateful to find the apparent psychic at least half covered by a fluffy, white towel, so you were spared the awkward decision of whether to cover your eyes or not. She appeared relaxed, meaning she most likely hadn't caught sight of you yet, otherwise she'd be less calm, that was for sure. So you decided to proceed, and you let your ghostly form glide past her to inspect the room while she stood before the mirror, plucking in her earrings. When you had satisfied your own curiosity, and made up your mind, you came to a halt, standing behind her like a looming monster in a cheesy horror flick, glaring at her through the reflection of the wiped down mirror.

You had been left in mostly the same condition that you had taken your last breaths in, if a bit diluted, not entirely solid. An echo left behind from a former person, flickering and halfway ebbed out. Like rings in water, slowly disappearing. And so, you hoped that the sight of you in your bloodied up night clothes would frighten her enough to take you seriously once you spoke. Like a Bloody Mary of sorts.

The room was left in a thick silence for a beat, the only sound being that of the jingling of chandelier earrings as Lorraine struggled to place them just right. Perfect like always. It only made that all-to-familiar warmth rise up inside you, like water boiling in your lifeless veins. A sensation that you dismissed as anger. Not… Anything else. Nothing weird.

Then you spoke; “This isn’t your house.” It was a whispered statement, a soft, bristling assertion with all of your conviction behind it. Lorraine didn’t react immediately, and you found yourself momentarily put off by the calmness. Had she even heard you? Had you misjudged her entirely? Perhaps she wasn’t a psychic at all and you’d only mistakenly locked eyes that first time, it had all been a chance occurrence. Nothing more. But then for once she was the one who surprised you and not the other way around. The wrong way.

In a swift, elegant turn of movement, she tilted her head towards you, and faced you, eyes once more meeting like they had back then. You wondered how your expression looked to her. Surprised? Confused? Or angry? Preferably the last one. You didn’t get to wonder for long before she too spoke. “I'd argue it is. We bought it. It’s not yours, not anymore,” she uttered calmly, though with an ever present apprehensiveness behind the carefully crafted veneer of calm she put on.

"But there's something keeping you here, isn't there. Why is that?" She asked with a genuine compassion, a desire to help. Her kindness made you want to both cry and gag all at once. She spoke as if you were simply another person, in any other mundane situation. Just a painfully normal, tranquil morning with birds chirping away outside the bathroom window, likely building their nests this time of the year. Just like they had likely been doing this exact day, all those years ago when it had been your mother changing in this bathroom.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m alive! You know that I’m not. I never sold this house,” you snapped at her with a sudden defensiveness, your frustration coming off you in waves that you were certain she could sense on you easily. You wore your emotions like a second skin, and really, with your current state, it was the only tangible thing you had left. And in any case, calm and adjusted people who could control their emotions while alive, likely didn’t become ghosts. People like you became ghosts. Angry people with unfinished business.

“No, I know you’re not alive. That's the problem. You shouldn't be here. So, what is it you want?” Lorraine then surprised you once more by asking matter-of-factly. And you could practically see before you how your expression must look to her, as you were left stunned into silence, eyebrows furrowed in utter bewilderment. What did you want? What did you want? In your 100 years of death... How dare she. How DARE she make you question your own motives!

“I- I do not want anything from you! I want you out of here is what I want! Nothing more!” You quickly rebutted, refusing to stand down from your initial objective. Once more you attempted to put on a brave face, glaring her down. But all you got in response was a small quirk of her lip, turning into what could only be described as an amused expression. She was entertained it seemed. Entertained by you. Infuriating...

And in your indignation, you scoffed and took what was supposed to be a threatening step towards her, your fingers itching to reach out and shake the woman violently, though you refused to lower yourself to such lows. Your mother had raised you right, in spite of the rather unfortunate end which had met you. And you would not lay your hand on another person. Only, perhaps Ed. And even with him, you were only throwing things at him so technically you weren’t exactly making direct contact. “I have every right to be here! This is my house, witch!” You asserted once more, narrowing your eyes into angry slits as you stared her down. Another beat of silence, and Lorraine simply quirked a slim eyebrow, and placed down the makeup powdering puff she’d been dabbing her face with, to instead face you fully.

“Then show me around.”

☆═━┈┈━═☆

~ 1978 ~

In tarot, The Fool card is often described as being one of the most misunderstood and misjudged cards in the entire deck, alongside The Devil, of course. Whereas most would believe the fool to represent, say, dumb fucking decisions, in reality, it's true meaning symbolizes something much different. However, at this very moment, standing in the dust caked attic, snaking your way around old, neglected furniture covered in white linens, you felt as if that first 'wrong' interpretation, fit just fine on you. Dumb. Fucking. Decisions.

As you turned the corner around another mountain of old rubbish, craning your hip in a manner which kept you from tripping over a, by now unrecogniseable, but probably at some point yellow, toy car, you looked up. You couldn't allow yourself to lose track of this mortal which you'd for some reason allowed up here. What a fool you were. But it was too little too late to turn around now, and listening to the yelp which escaped her when another old toy revealed itself beneath her foot, you decided that perhaps something good could possibly come of this strange situation. 'Look on the bright side of things,' or something like that. Wasn't that what mortals always said? And as you watched Lorraine stagger forward with a slight yelp, you thought personally that things looked very bright, and you made no move to assist her.

She however quickly caught her footing once more, tragic, and without a word continued her exploration of the clutter-jungle which had once been your family attic. Light shone through a small, clock shaped window, casting the sun through the window in yellow stripes across the room. Dust danced on the gentle beams of early morning lustre, like tiny fireflies, dashing in between one another and stirring just slightly whenever interrupted by the Lorraine's movements around the space. Your own steps didn't seem to affect anything in the room, it was as if you weren't even there. Because you weren't. Even your own shadow had abandoned you along with your pulse and breath, and had it not been for the odd creak of wood beneath your bare feet or Lorraine's sporadic glances backwards towards you to make sure you were following, your presence would have been entirely unnoticeable and insignificant. Simply another one of God's cruel jokes on humanity, or perhaps even just an oversight.

"I reckon you've seen enough now. Now, I'd much like to have my house back," you broke the silence, fighting hard to not repeat your earlier outburst. Now was not the time, and you'd prefer to keep your composure right at the moment. Even in death, your mother's expectations loomed heavy over you. You were a lady before you were a ghost and you would be sure to act as one. No crude language or unbecoming behaviour. Unless it was towards Ed. He was an exception to the rule.

But at once, you could not escape that you were your father's nature as much as your mother's nurture, and you could feel rage slowly bubbling up within you. Because Lorraine did not halt and did not leave immediately as you had hoped she would've.

"Just a moment." Was all you received in response, as the woman continued forward, now standing a couple paces in front of you. But more than too many moments had already passed, and your patience was slowly but surely ebbing out into an all too familiar rage. Screwing up your expression into one that your mother would've surely scolded had she been here, you stalked forward, wanting to see what it was that was keeping this witch so distracted.

The smell of attic and old, decaying furniture was potent but not unpleasant. It was a stench which had haunted this place even when you had lived here with your own family so long ago, and did nothing to deter you as you traversed the many layers of knick-knack and trinkets. With determination, you strode forward, reaching Lorraine in quick, angry strides and was at her side in an instant. But there you froze just as swiftly.

She had been standing at an old, worn piano. A once sleek looking, black and polished musical instrument which your father had once so greatly adored, sitting at it for hours at a time, tinkering away at the keys. His otherwise gruff and work-torn fingers gliding across the keys like gerridaes on water, balancing just right and squeezing out the most exquisite of tunes. They still hung there some of them, in the air around the large stringed instrument. Delicate fog on a winters morning, the kind of tension which makes you feel like you should whisper when you speak as to not break it.

You could feel your breath hitching as you saw the instrument. Why was that still here? Why had your father not brought it with him. He had cherished that thing like a third child, poured everything into it. It had been the most expensive thing in the house, a sort of status symbol, a reminder of the greatness that could have been. It was a concert Grand, hand carved and regularly tuned as to keep its sound just right. And yet, now it was here, a ghost much like yourself. Left behind to the whims of a withered away attic. Forgotten and neglected. Nothing but a memory.

Lorraine reached forward tenderly, her delicate hand aiming to slip across its still glazy surface and wipe away the dust which had caked atop it over the centuries. But before she could even get near it, you had instinctively struck forward with a shout, and swiftly felt your own ghastly apparition of a hand land over hers in a whipping motion. "Don't! Don't touch it!" You practically sneered, eyes blazing with fury and indignation which was foreign even to you. And almost just as fast, with a surprised expression which was mirrored naturally in Lorraine, you drew back as if burnt. A thick silence settled between the two of you. Lorraine hadn't lectured you as she had done earlier, and was now just watching you. Which was, in a sense worse. Could she not just yell at you? Shout, get angry! Anything!

But she didn't, of course she didn't. Because she was just perfect wasn't she. God, your mother would've loved her. Infuriating.

Clearing her throat, Lorraine straightened up, still watching you, and she made no move to touch the instrument once more. Instead, she circled it, getting a good look at it. "You used to play?" She then asked softly, a question which momentarily stunned you, your lips parting in preparation for another snarky response. But nothing came, only a pathetic 'well, uhm…' It seemed that Lorraine had quickly recovered from the outburst, and was now inspecting the gold inscription on the piano's smooth side. "Once, I suppose. A while ago I did. All respectable children my age did," you replied dryly, still trying to keep up face, earning an amused smile from the woman in front of you. "Respectable children," she repeated, and you rolled your eyes in irritation.

"You know well what I mean." "Sure I do." The smile did not leave her face, and she continued her curious survey of your father's favourite child. You tensed slightly whenever she got just a tad too close for comfort, wanting nothing more than to just leave, and for Lorraine and her strange husband to do the same. With a slight shiver which had nothing to do with the temperature, you spoke up once more. "In any case, what does it matter to you," you grunted in faux indifference, turning up your nose just as you had done so many times before. Lorraine's blue eyes met yours , expression a void of any of the malice that you were otherwise accustomed to. And for a moment you softened.

Lorraine's smile mirrored that easing of tension, and a warm chuckle left, causing your body to ripple with shivers once more. God you could just punch yourself right now… Get yourself together! "Could you play for me?" She then suddenly questioned, stunning you half daft for a beat, and causing your ghostly form to flicker somewhat, disappearing if only for a moment. But you were back at once, blinking stupidly in response to the witch's strange request. Was this some sort of dumb joke?… A trick to pull your leg and make a simple fool of you? Your mind was just reeling! And without a second thought, in perhaps an effort to reclaim some semblance of composure, she stuttered out a meager, "fine."

Quietly, you sat down on the dusty piano stool, the plush, red bolster not even creasing in acknowledgement of your presence. Only the slight groan of wood exposed you, and for a moment, that was all there was. You sat like a statue there, staring at the white keys in front of you. They were yellowed like the maw of an old hag, baring her stained teeth furiously. Yelling at you, screaming at you to leave, go! You didn't belong here and you knew that very well.

And yet, you stayed. Right where you sat, nailed to the stool as if Medusa herself had set her hateful eyes upon you. Willowy fingers reached forward towards the dented in keys, apprehensively, as if scared they might shock you. But at the feeling of smooth ivory beneath your subtly fingertips, it was as if a nostalgic sense of ease came upon you, and your otherwise rigidy spine leaned itself forward over the instrument, body wanting to be as close to this sudden source of comfort which had found its way to you. Years, no, centuries had passed, and yet the music which flowed from your fingers was still young. First it came slow, almost mournful like the very music which had played at the empty burial of what earthly remains you had left behind, but surely it had sped its way up, your fingers moving deftly across the black and white keyboards. It was as if being sucked into an entirely different universe, in which it was only you and this moth infested attic.

A soft body next to yours however quickly reminded you that you were not alone. And yet, for once it did not disturb you. In fact, the steady heartbeat and slow pulse which pulsed so rhythmically next to you, counterbalancing your own lack thereof, only spurred you on. And you kept playing. Steady tunes were all you felt, they moved, flowed through your empty veins like the blood which had left your body so long ago, it felt warm, it felt right and just so alive. This feeling, you thought it had abandoned you forever.

Your fingers stilled at last, the final note trembling into silence before dissolving into the dust-heavy air. The attic seemed to hold its breath with you. No laughter, no crashing, no mocking words to shatter this fragile moment. Only Lorraine, standing there, close enough that if you were still alive, you would've likely been able to feel her warmth brushing up against you.

When you dared to glance up, her eyes were already on you. Not wide with fear, not narrowed in suspicion, but soft. Too soft. As if she had been watching not a ghost clawing at scraps of a long forgotten life, but simply… you.

“That was beautiful,” she whispered, and the words were so genuine, so unguarded, that for a second you almost forgot to scoff. Almost. The truth lodged in your chest like a stubborn shard of glass. You should tell her to leave, to get out, to never look at you like that again.

Instead, all you managed was a muttered, “It’s out of tune.”

Lorraine’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it grew. “Then we’ll fix it.”

We. The word clung to you like ivy, refusing to be shaken off, even as you pulled back, even as you flickered out of sight in a burst of prideful indignation. But the echo of her voice lingered, low and certain, following you into the corners of the attic.

And for the first time in a century, you found yourself wondering what it might mean to let someone stay.

Jun 12, 2022, 17:41:22 CAM 03

You were already watching when Ilsa entered. Sat, hiding behind thickly rimmed sunglasses in spite of the sun setting outside the dust coated windows of the coffee shop. It was always at hours like this when you knew you could find her. The woman didn't exactly allow herself many pleasures, and she was used to always being on the move, especially during times as these. Never staying in one place too long, afraid it might give away her position. And yet, it seemed, she was and would always be a creature of habits. Habits easily recognised to the trained eye. And eye like yours.

Gently adjusting your sunglasses, you heard the by now all too familiar shuttering sound of the camera which was conveniently embedded into the plastic pieces shading your identity. You didn't quite know why you were capturing exactly this moment. After all, you'd been tasked with photographing incriminating activity, not simply afternoon recreational coffee drinking. An innocent café visit wasn't necessarily unlawful. Although, Ilsa did take her coffee with an alarming amount of sugar which in itself could be considered a crime.

Nonetheless, you supposed you might just find this moment a tad… Quaint. Especially for a character like Ilsa herself. A rogue on the run, convicted of countless murders and crimes treacherous crimes against her country. Her ledger contained such an extensive list of offences you were sure you'd require an army's worth of hands to count them. And yet, now, through the lens of your camera, you watched on as she nipped carefully at the scalding mug of coffee. Buried in a book. Framed ominously with your glasses' ample facial recognition technology, naming her a 'threat' and a 'target', in large, bold, blood red letters.

It reminded you of just where you were, and with who. Because in spite of how preoccupied she looked to be, gaze flitting across a newly turned page in her book, that look in her eyes was all too recognisable to you. To the average passer-byer she seemed only particularly engrossed in whatever novel it was that she had picked out, but to you, to your countless hours of training and briefing on who exactly she was, it was all to clear. The focus. The sharpness in those forest green eyes, the memorisation of every word she read. You could not get distracted.

You only hoped those sharp eyes hadn't noticed you, and just how intensely you were observing her. Ideally, your heavy tinted shades would conceal exactly where your gaze was directed. And if that failed, your disguise would make a cover for your next encounter, and you'd be written off as just a curious civilian. And there would be a next encounter. And then another one, and another one. This was your mission. To trail. To stalk. And to capture any incriminating moment of her daily routines, any and ever single lapse of judgement which could land her with a final conviction from the country she'd earlier served, and could finally get her imprisoned and out of their hairs.

You'd pass by her on the street, glancing at her through the reflection in a window, whatever was behind the glass mere background noise to you as you pretend to window show, your focus solely and completely on the woman walking by peacefully. Obliviously, or so you hoped, at least. You could never be quite sure with Ilsa. She was, after all, dangerous. Treacherous. She was your enemy, your target. No space for slipups or lapses, you were loyal. Loyal to your superiors and the state which employed you.

It had been a while now, and your mind had grown used to watching her. By now, you were quite sure you could follow her blindfolded, you knew her patterns. You knew how she took her coffee (suspiciously sweet), what sorts of books she read, you recognised how she walked, knew what made her laugh and what made her frown. Why you had picked up on such details, you didn't really know. And additionally, you didn't really want to think about it. It was all just distractions, you thought. Red herrings and all that. Admittedly, she'd become a bit foreseeable in her actions, and only more so over time since you'd started this job. Which you knew was… Well, a bit unusual. You'd expected more unpredictability, more inconsistencies in her movements and routines, after all that was what agents were supposed to do. All in order to shake off possible stalkers, like yourself for instance. So why was she playing the course so compliantly?... Perhaps she had grown tired of running? You, for one, had been in that position before. It was how you'd ended up with your current employers. Subdued. Caught. And offered a job. You'd gotten sloppy. Maybe she had too.

But now was not the time to dwell on such things. Ilsa was there. A problem to be solved, a traitor. And you were an artist. A photographer, if a bit of an atypical one. It was all about catching her in moments where she thought she was alone, unwatched. When she thought the coast was clear and she was safe to open her Pandora's box. Expose herself for the criminal she was. Angles, lighting, timestamps. Habits. All through your lens. Click. An opened computer, shot over her shoulder when she thought nobody was watching. Locations, weapons sales, the liked. Secrets unravelled on a glowing screen, baring the warm underbelly of the very criminal spider's web in which Ilsa had entangled herself. You were a hero, you thought. The knight in shining armour, doing what you were told, what was right. And she was the villain. She had to be stopped, no matter at what cost.

Jun 13, 2022, 17:22:43 CAM 03

And so, you returned. Same street, same time of day. All the same. Predictable. So predictable. Click. Another picture. Ilsa was stood at the disk, giving her order to the worn out clerk behind the counter. The same as always. What more could you expect at this point. And yet, it didn't quite bother you. Not anymore, at least. In a sense, you'd come to enjoy the mundanity of these moments, it felt almost domestic. Normal. Unlike so much else happening around you. Your life had become such a wrangled mess of chaos and orders, flung about you like tiny meteorites that you were never quite able to catch and grab onto. But this, this was different. Like a warm sun, standing still in the chaos. Something you could hold and keep. And indeed, you always kept these pictures, no matter their usefulness. No reason to, no logical one at least. Although so much about you had become undone these last couple weeks, not a lot of your decisions really remained "logical" anymore. You didn't really think so much anymore, just kind of do. That had always been your problem, hadn't it.

Ilsa just seemed so human beneath all that armour. All the missions and war, it had jaded her, made her seem more so like a statue, a concept. Something, not someone. Something to use as a lesson, not someone with her own desires and beliefs. Those books she always picked up at the library while you stood at some other random shelf. They were so personal. Always distinct, of all genres. Romances, thrillers, mysteries and everything in between. She especially liked Agatha Christie, you'd noticed, which was a given. And Doyle and Capote. All the classics, comforting in their predictability, just as herself, in a way.

She was still a criminal, of course! She had to be secured and put behind bars, far away! But, you still couldn't help but enjoy this time. It was unlike any of your other missions in all its boringness and mundanity. You'd come to anticipate Ilsa, unlike you anticipate any of your other missions or targets. At points, you caught yourself arriving early at the café, sitting down at your designated table as any other regular patron of this shop, book in hand, ready for your afternoon of recreational coffee drinking. You knew she'd arrive. She always did. And in your own newfound comfort, you grew sloppy. Predictable, yourself. Because that would always be your weakness, wouldn't it?

Jun 16, 2022, 17:22:43 CAM 03

You're early again today, as you've gotten into the habit of doing. Earlier than necessary. And earlier than protocol requires.

17:19:08.

Ilsa first arrives at 17:21:32. you know this perfectly well, and yet you're already seated at your designated spot. You know when she arrives because you've catalogued it. You catalogued every single thing thing about her, in fact. Because routine is weakness. Because predictability is leverage. Because you are good at what you do. Attentive to detail and diligent no matter how painstaking. The bell above the café door rings, and carefully correct your sunglasses, allowing the facial recognition in the glass to focus in on your target, framing her in green visuals that flicker and zoom. She's 4 seconds early exactly.

You do not look up immediately. You have trained yourself not to. Peripheral vision only. Reflection in the spoon resting against your saucer. The warped curve of metal makes her taller and stretched but you don't make an effort to get a clearer view, not quite yet. She's wearing a forest green coat today, framing her body in a way that creates a silhouette that's so distinctly her own. It… Suits her. Hair tied back, no weapons visible. Or at least none that neither your eyes or the camera fixed into your glasses, could pick up on.

She moves forward, practically floating across the stone paved flooring. But halfway towards the counter, she pauses. This is new. A deviation in the routine, it makes your heart pause right in your chest for a split second, and you tilt up your chin. She's not looking at the counter, or the menu. She's looking… She's looking right at you! Or- through you? Your pulse misfires once, sharp and humiliating. It's impossible. Your positioning is controlled. Table facing the exit, back to wall, the sightline is clear. Sunglasses conceal eye direction and contact, and micro-camera inactive between captures.

You quickly lower your gaze to your book. The page hasn't been turned for the last 6 minutes. You swallow, and mechanically turn the page. Perhaps… Perhaps it was just an overreaction on your part. The fact that she looked at you didn't necessarily mean she SAW you. Or knew who you were. Strangers look at each other all the time. Right? Chance encounter. The barista calls out for the next customer, and Ilsa moves at last. You let out a sharp breath, one you hadn't sensed though it had sat lodged in your throat like a boulder. You log it mentally.

Deviation: 8 seconds at entry. Coincidence.

After a moment of you just staring at the smooth page of your book, you stand to dispose of your paper cup right as she steps away from the counter. It's accidental, it's timing. It is poor. planning. But you just couldn't help it, you needed to clear your mind, everything was just spinning, you were in shock and you had to-

You almost collide. Not dramatic or theatrical, no, quite the opposite in fact. You just, bumped into each other. Right as she stepped away from the counter after paying for her coffee. Either you were the one not minding your step, or she was deliberately targeting your path. Either was a possibility, and in your confusion, you could be sure you noticed a slight smirk touch her features.

"Careful," she mused, and the two of you locked eyes for what felt like hours, though it likely lasted no more than just a couple seconds. "Yeah… Yeah, sorry, my bad" you simply muttered in response, clearing your throat and attempting in vain to recollect yourself and get your bearings. To at least resemble something a tiny bit normal. But it felt impossible with her eyes boring into you. Like two shards of icicles, glaring into your soul. It made all the hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention, as a cold shudder wracked your body. So, you cleared your throat, and lowered your head as you progressed towards the trashcan. As you were finally out of her line of sight, your entire body seemed to melt on the spot and you swore you could've collapsed right there on the spot, in front of everyone in the café. This entire day had only just lasted a couple hours and everything was already splintering between your fingers, this was not the plan!

And yet, at once, you somewhat found yourself feeling disappointed. Not at yourself or your own apparent lack of spacial awareness and utter incompetence throughout the entire encounter. Or, well, yes, also that. A tiny bit maybe. But there was something else swirling about inside of you. Something else which just felt utterly wrong and entirely misplaced. Why didn't anything more happen?…

Collision: 2 minutes at entry.

And so, after everything, you decide to return home. Perhaps this day was just bound to go wrong, perhaps you just got out of bed on the wrong foot and now everything was crumbling. Nothing felt right, not anymore.

The door to your designated darkroom creaks upon entry, a subtle greeting. Welcome back, and, you're early. The red lighting illuminated only your nearest surroundings enough for you to not trip a second time today. One smooth metal table, and a couple strings fastened around the room with pictures hung to dry. Developed from that tiny camera built into your glasses. Convenient and easy. You could've easily just sent the pictures straight to your employers raw and undeveloped, but something inside of you gained a sort of satisfaction from watching them become tangible. For you to be able to hold them. It was almost therapeutic in a sense. Which was why you stood here now, leaning on the metal table nearest you as you rummaged through a box of newly dried pictures.

All of them entirely useless. At least, that was if you asked your boss. None of them really carried anything incriminating, only ordinary, everyday tenderness. Should you even report these? Really, there was nothing to report back. Your eyes scanned quickly across the thick pieces of printed paper. Nothing on this one, nothing on that one. One of Ilsa lounging in a library, immersed in yet another thick novel. The book sprawled across her legs, positioned, open, in between her thighs while she sat like a shrimp, hunched in a large, tall backed chair. And another one, this one of Ilsa on a walk through the park. Her hands were buried in her pockets and she was wearing a pair of earphones. You wondered what she was listening to in that moment. Perhaps something classical? She seemed like the type. Or something entirely different.

And as you pondered on that, you realised just how truly useless this all was. Here you were, supposed to capture incriminating pictures of a rogue, runaway agent. And instead, you were considering what kind of music said dangerous and rogue agent might be listening to on her evening stroll. It was utterly hopeless. Every word of the MI6 rung hollow in your mind, no longer really seeming to carry the sort of weight it used to. This woman, this apparent danger to society, was living her life finally far removed from a world that had almost killed her on numerous occasions. You'd heard the story too many times. Ilsa, almost shot by one guy and at another point stabbed by another. And now she had finally escaped. And England wanted to what, punish her for it.

God, you were really defending her? You should be feeling shame, you knew that. You should be more loyal to the country which had nourished you and trained you, now only demanding that you take a couple pictures and nothing else. And yet, you didn't. You felt nothing.

Your hands dived into the box of pictures once more, and you withdrew a third picture. This one, however, looked different. In the picture, Ilsa was sat in the very same café she'd been in earlier. Her computer sat ajar in front of Ilsa on the table, the screen clearly in view from your own position at the far end of the café, your own usual spot. And on the screen, what you supposed to a government website sat clearly displayed. A government website Ilsa wasn't exactly supposed to have access to organically. Only officials. Evidence. Without a second thought, or perhaps any thoughts at all, you found yourself picking up the picture, holding it up in front of yourself. And in the other hand, your lighter.

The flames licked gently at the sharp edge of the sharp corner of the photograph, slowly eating away at the paper. It evaporated there between your fingers, and you did nothing but watch on as ashes scattered beneath it on the table. Remnants of what should have been the very evidence you'd been told to provide your country.

Jun 16, 2022, 22:46:03 CAM 04

The cold air of the early night brushed across your features like a gentle caress. It was colder than you expected, the night had only just arrived. You hadn't bothered with a coat when you stepped out, needing just a moment to regain control over your fractured mind. The door to the building clicks shut behind you, the sound too loud in the quiet street almost casing you to flinch at the sudden interruption. For a moment you simply stood there, breathing in the night air like you had surfaced from underwater.

Your fingers still smell faintly of smoke. Ash had collected in the crease of the metal table when the photograph finished burning. You left it there to sit, didn't clean it up, didn't take another picture to replace it. Right now your barely even had the capacity to truly consider the consequences of your actions, let alone look at the evidence of them.

You rub your thumb against your forefinger absentmindedly, as though expecting soot to still be there. But there was nothing. Just you and your thoughts on a still street, far, far away from home. Alone. It was only now in the silence that you truly had a moment to contemplate your predicament. How had you even ended up here? Was this considered a mental breakdown? What the hell were you going to make for dinner?!

You shook your head and groaned. The street was quiet. London always had a such a strange stillness to it this late, a contradiction to the usual bustling of people and vehicles, conversations from passer byers and the occasional outburst of a discontented toddler. Not exactly silent, but muted. As if someone had put the entire city on pause. Cars were passing somewhere distant. An underground train rumbling by faintly somewhere beneath the city like a giant shifting in its sleep.

You start walking without even deciding to. Just away. From the darkroom. From the box of photographs. From the place where you had stood and watched proof dissolve into grey flakes. Your route turns familiar before you even notice, and with an almost ashamed expression, you reach into your bag. From it, you fetch a pack of Marlboros. Stone pathways stretch out in front of you, framed by cold, iron fencing. Tall trees with fresh, green branches bloom from the grass on either side of you, swallowing most of the streetlamps. It was the park. You lit your cigarette, the movement of your hands almost automatic as you did. Practised and repetitive. You hadn't smoked in years and yet, your hands still remembered the gesture.

You don't remember choosing this direction and yet here you were. It was as if you'd entirely lost control of your body, like a zombie walking in whatever direction its decaying brain thought made sense in that moment. The gate creaks softly as you push it open with your free hand, the metal cold against your palm, almost bringing you back to life in that second. Gravel crunches beneath your shoes, and wind rushes through the thin branches of the trees above you. The park is empty. Not even a mere dog walker in sight. Just you, your thoughts, and the trees that by now seemed almost alive. It felt normal. Ordinary. Safe.

You progress further into the parks thicket, past the bench where you'd once watched her sit for nearly an hour, doing nothing. Past the stretch of path where she always slowed slightly just to appreciate the flowers, adjusting her pace just right before reaching the bridge. Your mind had catalogued everything automatically. Without thought. Like a machine. All tiny habits that had made her seem so human it practically ached. You could no longer bring yourself to view the routine as weakness, even though that was what you'd always been taught to do.

You come to a halt suddenly. Something felt off. It takes your brain a short moment to identify it, that feeling. Not exactly foreign, in fact, it felt almost too familiar. That faint tightening at the back of your lizard brain which told you that you you were in danger. You'd gotten far too used to this sensation and you knew what it meant. You are being watched. Your ears perked up and you straighten your back instinctively like a coil tightening, the cigarette in your hand still producing subtle swirls of smoke.

Leaves rustle somewhere behind you and you wince, turning about yourself in a halfway circle as if believing you might be able to catch whatever or whomever this was with your eyes if you just moved fast enough. God, if this ended up just being a squirrel you might just combust. However, it might just as well be Freddy Kruger himself and in that case you'd rather be prepare than not. No matter that, by now you could feel it moving closer, and your body turns once again before your brain can even process the movement or finish your thought.

And there she is. Only a few paces away from you, at attention, staring straight in your direction. Only lit by the dim spill of a lamppost and yet you recognised her almost instantly. You hadn't even heard her approach! Of course you hadn't, it was Ilsa fucking Faust, the very woman you'd been practically stalking the last, what, months?! And she's looking at you the exact same way she had earlier today, with that crooked smirk and knowing eyes, a gaze which stared right through you and yet right at you. All seeing and intense, eyes harbouring a sort of amusement, almost as if the two of you were both in on some sort of joke that you didn't quite understand yet.

She's dawning the same, forest green coat that you recalled she had at the café earlier. Hair tied back the same way, the same shoes and the same makeup, God, you remembered everything, knew everything about her. Or at least you thought so.

And she's so calm, she's always just so calm. Both of you stay quiet momentarily, the only sound being that of the rustling of leaves. Accompanying the two of you, filling the space in between you and making it even smaller and tighter than it already felt. You can practically hear your own heart in your eardrums as it gallops away and then stumbles, hard enough that you're sure Ilsa must be hearing it too. And the theory is then only made certain when she tilts her head, the smile creasing her face only growing as she simply observes you with an attentive glare. Not at all friendly, no, of course not. But not exactly cruel either.

"You're off schedule tonight." The words hit you as if you've just been shot. Or perhaps that's just your fear talking already. You scramble desperately to catch up mentally, blinking rapidly, your lips parting and closing and parting and closing. The words just at the tip of your tongue, though constantly evading your attempts at speaking them at the very last second. Finally, you manage to stutter out a few words, but you almost instantly regret it as you hear yourself. "Excuse me?" Your voice sounds smaller than you expected.

Her gaze flicks briefly toward you. Your face, your eyes, your hair and your clothes, then back to your eyes. "Usually you stay in the café until seventeen forty-three," she continues conversationally,casually almost. Had you not been so surprised, you might've been annoyed with her tone. "You leave through the side door, walk two blocks east, then disappear into that building with the broken streetlamp outside."

Your entire being seizes inwardly and your breath catches. As if she'd physically grabbed you by the hairs of your neck and tugged hard. But physically you were still standing there, frozen. And Ilsa hadn't even touched you. She takes one slow step closer now, the gravel shifting and crunching beneath her feet like a warning signal as she approaches. "You didn't do that today." She continues, taking yet another step closer. And you can do nothing but just stand there dumbly as your enemy closes in on you. "You left early." You can't breathe. Every instinct inside of you is screaming at your, your nerve endings are on fire and your brain is mush inside your skull, and can do nothing to aid you now. "...You must be mistaking me for someone else."

It's a pitiful attempt at dodging her, almost embarrassing. But it's all you've got, and so you have to double down. You shake your head, clearing your troat as you attempt to look at least somewhat collected. And once more, it's a pitiful sight. "I don't know you."

Ilsa's eyebrow lifts slightly. "Oh you don't?" She muses, a soft chuckle rolling past her lips. By now she's right in front of you. She isn't even careful in her movements. There is no apprehension in her steps or care to her motions as she shifts, closer and closer. Step by step. She's completely and entirely sure of herself and sure that you won't do anything. And you so wished you could prove her wrong.

"You know, I noticed the glasses first," she says lightly, shrugging on her shoulders and cocking her head to one side. "Your behaviour, it's very telling." You twitch, the corner of your eye just slightly. You're perfectly aware that it's a weakness, that she can see everything, notices everything. It's Ilsa Faust for fucks safe! And yet there is nothing you can do to conceal it. You've sort of just… Short circuited. And so, she's free to continue her psycho analysis of you. "You sit in the same place every time. Same posture. Same book angle every time." She gestures vaguely with one hand. "And the spoon, of course."

Your throat tightens, and you squint your eyes in confusion. She knew that too? You're wringing your hands, picking at your nails, your breath is picking up. You shake your head curtly. "The… The spoon?" "Yes. The spoon. The reflection," she says. "You watch people through it."

Her eyes flick briefly toward the nearby lamppost and then back to you with a sigh. She'd been chewing gum, you note. Those instincts, the desire to remember and notice anything die hard, clearly. Her breath is warm on your features, but you quickly ignore that part. The part of you that wanted to approach too and get closer. She speaks again, her voice is smooth still. Curt and controlled but with that underlying amusement that you'd always found yourself listening in closely to whenever you heard her talking. Whether that was just a simple coffee order, conversing with the cashier or talking over the phone. It was just so… Captivating… No… Stop it, get it together! "It took me three days to realize you weren't just another paranoid Londoner." Your thoughts were momentarily interrupted by her voice as she explained, and you slowly exhaled a breath you'd been holding back without realising it. A beat of silence passed passed. Drawn out and thick with tension. Your mind was struggling, practically burning with so many questions your skull hurt. Three days… Three. Days. That was all it had taken? You'd been watching her for weeks!

“Three days,” she repeats, softer this time, like she’s tasting the number over again, turning it over between her teeth. There’s something different in her expression now, something less amused, less clinical. It was sharp. In a sense you could almost feel it on your strangely warm skin. Like a knife being dragged across it. She was focused. Completely and entirely on you, in a way that made your chest feel too tight, like there wasn't quite enough room in your lungs to draw a proper breath. “After that, I stopped trying to figure out what you were doing,” she continues with an almost bored shrug. She advanced now impossibly closer, stepping about you as if to sniff you out. Her voice lowered just slightly, pulling you in whether you wanted it or not. She went on: “And I started wondering why.”

You swallow, hard. Your throat aches with it. “I don’t—”

She cut you off “You do,” It makes your stomach drop and spin and flip. So many emotions you couldn't at all place. It’s not exactly an accusation. Just a simple fact. Her gaze drags over your face, slow, deliberate, catching every flicker, every micro-expression you fail to hide. You can feel it happening and you still can’t stop it. “You’re not careless,” Ilsa then says, almost thoughtfully. “You’re not stupid either, despite how this must look.” A pause and a short beat that stretches too long for what it was. “So it isn’t incompetence.” Your pulse is hammering now, loud enough you’re half convinced she can hear it, map it out the same way she mapped your routines, your habits, your tells. Every single thing. She knows it all, everything about you. You force a breath in through your nose, in an attempt to steady yourself. Trying your best, at least. “You’re making a lot of assumptions.” You scoff.

“Am I?” There’s the faintest tilt of her head again, that same assessing angle and that same devious smirk. But it’s different now. More personal, almost. She takes a step toward you and it’s instinct, the way your body reacts, the way every muscle goes completely taut, and your nerves light up. Her fire to your gasoline. And yet, you don’t move back or even flinch. You should, yes. But you don’t. What the hell is wrong with you… Ilsa continues “Because from where I’m standing,” she sounds a bit quieter now. Her fingers twitch. She wants to reach out. She wants to touch you. “it looks very much like you had exactly what you came for.”

Your breath stutters and you furrow your brow, already readying up to defend yourself. But she's already a step in front of you."But you chose to destroy it. Didn't you darling?”

The world doesn’t stop as you expected it to. It should. It really, really, really should, but it doesn’t. The distant hum of the city is still there, cars passing somewhere beyond, a door slamming, voices you can’t quite make out. All of it feels muffled, like it’s happening behind glass, far away from the sharp, suffocating clarity of this moment. Of her. Of the way she’s looking at you now, not searching anymore but instead looking at you like she already knows everything about you, because she does. You don’t say anything, you can't, your throat has closed up on itself like its trying to choke you from the inside. Or maybe just trying to stop you from saying something stupid, because God knows you will if someone doesn't shut you up. And at once, your brain tripping over itself, trying to grasp onto something, anything that might pull you out of this, but there’s nothing there. No excuse that doesn’t sound hollow even in your own head. No lie she wouldn’t see straight through. No escape from her.

Ilsa watches all of it because of course she does. And something shifts in her expression then, subtle enough that you almost miss it if you weren’t already staring, already caught in her little honey trap. You're like a moth drawn to her light. And she's like an angler fish, who'd been dangling that very light in front of you for weeks now. “So. that leaves me with a rather interesting problem.” She says finally, the words slow and measured, like she’s placing them all very carefully out between the two of you. Your breath catches, traitorously, and you hate that she notices. You hate that she always notices.

Her eyes flick briefly, just for a second, enough to make your heart jump into your throat. She smiles deceptively and you feel your cheeks go warm suddenly, making you subsequently turn your face away. But she doesn't let you. She reaches up and grabs your face in a way that should've been rough and cruel, but instead was just so… Horribly gentle. "You've got a choice to make. Spy," she decides firmly, and you part your lips to protest "I know-" “Do you?” she interrupts again, and this time there’s something almost tender to her tone, which somehow makes it even worse. A pause. And her voice drops, barely above a murmur now. “Because people don’t throw away their leverage over me without a reason. Especially spies of your sort.”

You can’t breathe properly. Every inhale feels shallow, insufficient, like your body’s forgotten how to do it right under the weight of her attention, her proximity, the way she’s peeling you apart piece by piece and laying it all out in the open.

The air was thick with stillness, as though the very world had been caught in some vast and invisible web. You tried to breathe, but it felt as if your lungs had filled with water, each inhale sluggish and heavy. Your body would not move. Not a finger, not even a twitch of your lips. You were aware, painfully aware, yet trapped, adrift in a bottomless darkness that wasn’t quite sleep, yet not quite waking.

A glow lingered at the edges of your vision. Blue and silver, flickering like the last glimmer light of dusk across deep water. The Source. You couldn’t see it fully, but you felt it thrumming against your skin, threading into you like the cool roots of an icicle, boring into your skull. And within that glow, you felt her.

Lanfear.

Her presence pressed against your mind with a quiet, inexorable weight, cool as polished steel, sharp as glass. She was close, closer than she had ever been. Her voice brushed against you, not spoken aloud but resonating inside your chest. Do not fight it. The more you struggle, the deeper you will sink.

You wanted to rage, to command her to undo whatever it was she had done to you- but you couldn’t. Your tongue was like lead, your lips dry and unmoving. Your body, bound in heavy, all-consuming stillness. All you could do was lie there as her shadow bent over you, the scent of rain-damp stone and winter air coiling around her like another kind of power.

“You are between,” Lanfear murmured softly, this time aloud, her lips almost at your ear. They brushed against the soft skin there, her voice sweet like freshly spun honey “Neither dreaming, nor waking. A dangerous place to linger… unless guided.”

Her fingers brushed your temple, deceptively gentle. A pulse of the One Power shivered through you, chilling and intoxicating at once. You realized with a sudden, helpless shiver that she wasn’t holding you captive by accident. This was her doing.

And you could not decide if you wanted her to release you at once, or maybe never let you wake at all.

The dream which took you came in waves, wrapping you in sea foam and dragging you into its tides. You felt her then. The ripples of magic that undulated above you, washing over every subtle dip and rise of your body, lulling you into its spells. Warm sand beneath barren feet, sun baring down from above. And Lanfear's fine strands of hair brushing over your cheek, a gentle caress. Something beneath you seemed to dip, and then her legs found yours. Skin against skin, pulse on pulse.

"Just follow my voice, darling… Let me help you."

The void around you begun spinning, swimming, as if you were floating through the endless worlds of your own mind. Her hand found your thigh, and the realization of your apparent state of undress hit you. But still, there was no way for you to move, no way for you to escape what was happening to you. And no way for you to know whether you truly wanted to or not.

Her soft fingers continued its journey across your skin, steady and slow. Like a lullaby. The pads of her fingers, caressing you, so deceptively gentle you might've believed she actually loved you. But Lanfear didn't love anyone, that much your encounter with her had taught you. Her power still thrummed at the back of your mind, a well reminder of that fact. And yet, you found yourself slowly but surely being drawn in by Lanfear's skilful deception.

Your still unmoving body seemed to soften ever so slightly beneath her touch, and as soon as you felt that shift, a thundering mass of noise erupted around you, coiling around you and weighing down. And then silence. A desert unfurled before you. Dunes upon dunes stretching out before you, reaching into the horizon with arms of hot, scalding sand beneath blue skies.

Tel’aran’rhiod.

The sun blazed down on you, assaulting your sensitive eyes with its insistent rays of fire. It had been so long since your eyelids had been allowed to part and give way for any sort of light, you felt almost reborn now with this newly granted gift of sight. For a moment, the thrill and relief of freedom washed over you, your breath hitching in excitement. But then she was on you once more, crushing that tiny seed of hope with her own heavy weighing presence. Her legs found your own in a tangle of limbs, drawing you even closer.

You gasped meekly, you're still clumsy eyes flitted about her form looming over you, trying to focus and catch her face with your gaze. And in the blur of her features, you swore you could see the subtlest hint of a smile. "This place… It can be whatever you want it to…" She rasped, leaning in as you vision continued fighting for focus. Her soft lips found your ear, warm breath fanning over your throat. It tickled slightly, making your entire body stiffen in the taller woman's grasp. "G- get off…" You practically squeaked out, voice dry with disuse.

Yet, it seemed your mind betrayed you still. There was absolutely no power behind your words, no true intention of wanting Lanfear to actually obey. A soft chuckle rung through the air, like crystal against crystal. Then Lanfear spoke again, "if you truly did want me gone, then I wouldn't be here still, love."

You shifted uncomfortably beneath her, limbs still rigid and unwilling to do your bidding any longer. It was no use. "This place… It brings out the worst of us. Reveals our secrets, even those we might not even know ourselves, " the woman hummed, while her hands continued their greedy exploration of your body.

Finally she came into view above you, and it seemed as if everything around you stilled. The wind ceased its blowing, and the sand stopped rustling beneath you, leaving the two of you in a deafening silence which drowned out everything else. Every one of your senses which had earlier been rendered useless, now seemed too keenly aware of every inch of Lanfear. The feel of her atop you, legs pressed assertively against your own, and the sweat which had begun collecting wherever the planes of your skin were connected. Her scent, that soft trace of incense which clung to the thick of her hair, filling your head with a pleasant cloud of confusion whenever it hit your nostrils. And that… Face. You shook your head subtly, trying to shake of any traitorous thought which might've snuck its way into your head like some damned parasite.

But it seemed to be getting more and more impossible as moments passed…

"You fight so beautifully," she murmured, amusement curling around each syllable like a snake, poisoning the words. “Even when every part of you already belongs to me.” It hit you worse than any blow could've possibly, and you felt the need to defend yourself. You’re delusional.” The words came rough, brittle as cracked glass. “I don’t belong to anyone.” Your words, meant to be confident and assured, to prove the witch wrong, sounding more like that of a child's complaint. Her smile was a slow bloom across her sharp features, indulgent almost pitying. “Oh, sweet thing… Do you think belonging is something you choose?” She trailed a finger along your jaw, the other giving your thigh a teasing squeeze. The air shimmered faintly wherever she touched, making you shiver. “This is Tel’aran’rhiod. Choice is an illusion. I am the only truth here.”

"Then wake me."

It was the first time in a while now where you felt you had actually spoken with confidence, and it sent a thrill through your body. To watch as your words took affect, the way Lanfear's eyebrow twitched ever so slightly. Evidence of your success. No, why were you thinking like this? This wasn't some game, you weren't meant to be playing along! A soft laugh, rich and low, maddening in its nature. “Wake you? When you were the one who came seeking me?” Her hand slid to your throat, light as starlight. “No, little dreamer. You wanted this. I'm simply doing you a favour by teaching you a lesson...”

You narrowed your eyes angrily, your every muscle tightening beneath your damp skin. A light squeeze of your throat, making you gasp and arch your back instinctively. It elicited an even wider grin from Lanfear, who's hand on your thigh moved willingly up to rest on your stomach, guiding you back down. "Y- you don't know what I want!" "Do I not?" She chuckled, quirking an eyebrow, and gently caressing your abdomen. Light… You knew she was right… The heat which had pooled so uncomfortably between your legs by now was only evidence of that. Though you wouldn't admit it.

She leaned closer, voice brushing your ear. “I see every thought that trembles in that fragile mind of yours. I know the taste of your fear, and how easily it turns to something else.” Her hand on your stomach moved, fingers tapping rhythmically against your warm skin. Slow, gentle circles. Right where you wanted her, and yet so far away. You wanted to scream at her, both to continue and to get off. Wanted to shove her off and to pull her impossibly closer. Like two identical magnets. So similar but so different. Drawn in and yet repelled.

"You’re a monster...” Lanfear tilted her head at that, her eyes shimmering softly in the unforgiving glow of the sun. Her lips parted in the ghost something sincere, something honest. They were right above yours, you could feel them. The vulnerability of this position wasn't lost on you, and yet, you couldn't move. You didn't really want to… "I was a goddess once.” A pause, almost wistful. “And perhaps I could be again… If only I had the right worshipper.”

Her lips then met yours, hard almost punishing. As if she felt this would be some sort of release for her. It was both angry and sensual all at once. You heard yourself cry out in surprise, and for a moment, almost as if instinctively, you attempted to push her off. But at no moment did she let up. The fingers which had up until now been circling your clit finally slipped inside, and she begun moving. The pace she set was fast an unrelenting, with weeks if not months of pent up rage and tension poured into every thrust. You let out another shout, arching your back and writhing beneath her, legs tensing, stretching before curling back into a bent position, but always being kept in place by Lanfear's body on your own. You could hear her breathing, feel as it fanned over your face in between bites and kisses. You knew you should fight back more, hit, kick, bite, anything, but as another wave of euphoria overtook you, you knew there was nothing you could do.

Another shout of pain slowly ebbed out into pleasure, and you felt yourself softening beneath the touch, which earned you a mocking laugh from Lanfear. "That's right… You know I only speak the truth, don't you darling?…" Her words were rushed and strained, spoken in between huffs and groans, her own body vibrating with euphoria at the sight of you unravelling beneath her. "Fuck you!-" you spat, gritting your teeth to keep another whimper from slipping out. You threw back your head, gasping for air as your chest rose and fell rapidly, your legs trembling, and your clit throbbing around Lanfear's slim fingers as they only sped up. Her opposite hand which was still at your throat squeezed harder, pressing up beneath your chin and forcing your head back uncomfortably. "Oh shut it, you love this…" She growled, her words a low rumble.

And obviously, she was right. Your every nerve was screaming for this, begging for more. You were absolutely pathetic, pinned down and fucked dumb. Tears welled in your eyes as you slowly felt something tighten within you, your breathing picking up even more as you could feel your ever impending doom only approaching. The last step before you would topple off that inevitable cliff, and go against everything you had otherwise always believed in and fought for. "Do it, you slut, cum for me," Lanfear commanded gruffly, leaning down to nip at the soft flesh of your breast. It was the last straw, and in seconds, you were screaming. Your back arched and your body shook, eyes rolling to the back of your head. Darkness flashed across your vision, and for a moment you were as blind as when she had put you under her spell. Only now you had her warmth for comfort as she settled down on top of you, heaving for air, her heart galloping away. Slowly your vision returned, and your blood settled in your veins, no longer rushing, your pulse returning to normal for once.

Her body fit against yours like some long lost, missing piece of your puzzle, a piece from some earlier spin of your wheel. A life which might then have been more simple than this. You shivered softly, as her hand moved from your throat and instead found your hair. Silence. And then you spoke.

I should hate you for that.” Your voice comes out small, half dazed, as if the words themselves aren’t sure they even mean it. She lifts her chin subtly to gaze up at you, her own pupils still blown like a hungry wolf's.

The October air felt damp and cold, clinging to you with the still lingering scent of fading leaves and rain-soaked dirt. The drop in temperature had snuck its way up on you all the way through September, and now you'd been left with a sore throat and aching legs. Your own doing, of course, you were hopelessly clueless when it came to dressing for the weather.

And yet, you were here. Your feet dragged along beneath you, scraping along the neglected stone of a long since abandonded driveway. Lorraine was walking in front of you, her sharp eyes flitting curiously across the front of the house. God why had you taken up this job in the first place? You couldn't be sure, but your job description hadn't said anything about working during Halloween! But in any case, here you were.

While everyone else were out either tricking their way into some treats or getting drunk off their asses, you were here. Investigating what had apparently once been a functioning home. There sure as hell wasn't much of that left here. What you were now stood looking at looked more so like a set of some horror cheesy horror flick than anything, which you supposed fit the season. Though that didn't make it any more enjoyable for you.

"Feel anything?" You muttered as you came to a halt at Lorraine's side, barely moving your chilled lips enough to ennounciate the words. Another gust of win struck you and you hugged your coat tighter. But it seemed Lorraine had heard you, as she squinted her eyes slightly in thought, and pursed her pink lips in exactly that way that you had come to associate with Lorraine, and then she spoke. "Yes."

That was all you got before she set into motion once more and moved with elegant strides forward, eyes alight with resolve. It left you behind, standing pathetically like a giant question mark at the steps of the white-chipped porch. For a moment you stood, too stunned to question or complain. Which apparently satisfied Lorraine perfectly fine, as she continued forward unperturbed with no further elaboration.

Breaking out of your confused haze, your expression scrunched up into one of exapsorated indignation, and you briskly got mocing, catching up to your boss with a soft 'hey!' "What do you mean just yes!? What? Is it bad!? Or is it-"

At once, you were cut off when the door slammed shut behind the both of you. A large 'smack!' and the soft bristling of disturbed dust and dirt which was flung into the air with the sheer force of air. And then it was dark. You squeeled, shrinking back like a turtle retracting into its shell. Suddenly, the cold seemed merely superficial in comparison to the all oppressing darkness which consumed the both of you.

"Careful!" You hadn't even noticed the way you'd stumbled your way into a halfway deterorated piece of furniture before Lorraine had called out and caught you, swooping in right before the coffee table had the chance to crumble beneath you. "Wow! Jesus fuck this place is a death trap already!" You whined, earning a gentle chuckle from the woman now stood behind you. "Just get up already you nag," she mused, hoisting you up with surprising ease. Naturally, you wanted to complaim more, but instead you relented, reaching around yourself to tug your coat closer around you. As if that would keep you any safer.

Lorraine’s hand lingered on your arm a moment longer than necessary before she pulled away, already surveying the shadow-thick room once more. You swallowed hard, the echo of her warmth doing very little to quiet the frantic beat of your heart.

The silence stretched. Every creak in the walls, every hiss of the wind through broken glass, pressed in on you like invisible hands, choking you.

“Why do I get the feeling this isn’t just another of your little… ghost hunts?” you asked, your voice shaky but half-accusing. Attempting to put on a brave face and failing spectacularly.

Lorraine didn’t look at you at first. She walked deeper inside, her heels crunching against moldy wood. Only when she reached the center of the room did she turn, her dark eyes catching what little light trickled through the broken windows. “Because it isn’t.”

Before you could press her, something shifted upstairs. Slow, deliberate steps, the kind that made your chest tighten with the terrifying certainty that you were not alone.

Your breath hitched. “Lorraine-”

“I know,” she whispered, cutting you off prompty, already moving closer to you, closer than you expected. The fear in your stomach twisted into something muddled, half dread, half… something else. Something different. The steps grew louder. Dust cascaded from the ceiling like falling ash. You wanted to run, but Lorraine caught your hand in the darkness, her fingers warm and certain.

“Don’t let go,” she said.

You nodded quickly, trying to ignore the way your throat tightened, not from fear, but from the sudden rush of closeness.

Abrubtly, the footsteps stopped. The air turned heavy, thick enough to taste it on your tongue. Then, in the silence, a voice slipped through the dark. Low, breathy, curling around your name like a secret only it knew. You froze, every nerve screaming. Lorraine only tightened her grip. “Ignore it. Just keep walking.”

“But-”

“Trust me.”

And for some reason unknown to you, you did. Step by step, she led you back through the darkness until, with a groaning protest, the front door swung open on its own. Cold October air rushed in once more, and you stumbled out onto the porch, gasping like you’d just been pulled from underwater.

Lorraine followed, steady as ever, her hand still wrapped around yours. Behind you, the house loomed, its windows dark and unblinking. Just before you tore your gaze away, you swore you saw a pale face at the top window, watching.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment. Then Lorraine gave your hand a small, deliberate squeeze. “See? Not so bad.” You just laughed shakily in response, your chest still painfully tight. “You call that not bad? I’m never sleeping again.”

But she only smiled, the kind that warmed you more than your cheap coat ever could. “Good thing you’ve got me, then.”

The wind picked up, stealing away your voice along with it. All you could do was squeeze her hand back, hoping she couldn’t feel how much your heart was still racing. Because of the house, sure, but also very much because of her. Though, you wouldn't admit that. Not yet at least…

༻︵𓏶︵༺

The whirr of the old cooling unit hummed along like a lullaby in the background, broken only by the occasional sputter of sparks from a far-off corner panel. Tools lay scattered across the dampened floor like dropped coins, shimmering softly in the flickering lights of a broken ceiling lamp, which swayed with every thump of the machine which stood in the neighboring room. And at a cornered desk in the small room, sat you. Slumped over an open blueprint, your hand still clutching a grease smudged pencil, half of your face pressed to the paper. You were out cold. It seemed that exhaustion had finally won.

Juliette stood in the doorway, oil-stained hands on her hips as she eyed you, and a towel slung over her shoulder. She let out a low exhale and brushed a bead of sweat from her brow with the back of her glove. “Damn it…” She murmured. “Told you to take a break…”

Her boots creaked softly into the quiet of the room as she stepped across the metal floor, coming to a halt at your side. Carefully, almost reverently, she tugged off her blue jacket from around her waist, unfolded it and draped it over your shoulders. Her fingers hesitated at your temple, before brushing a stray piece of hair behind your ear. Her movements were uncertain and tentative. Usually, she would never allow herself to be this gentle, it was unlike her. But the sight of your exhausted form, sagged over the table like a dropped sack of potatoes. It tugged at something within her. Even if she would never admit to it.

“You work too hard,” she whispered, a small smirk pulling at the corner of her lips as she reached down to slowly rake her fingers through your hair. “Almost worse than me…”

Your head lolled slightly into her hand, and Juliette froze in place. But she didn’t move. For a moment, she hesitated, lips parting as she was unsure of what to do with herself. The trusting tilt of your head, the soft sigh which left you at the comfort you’d seemingly found against her skin. It was unlike anything Juliette was otherwise used to with the life she led. Her opposite hand hovered just above your back. Close enough to feel the warmth you exuded, not quite close enough to touch.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed working like this,” she then added under her breath, voice barely audible. She then knelt down at your side, exhaling softly. “Stupid…”

Juliette Nichols - Silo Survivor

Juliette would somehow accidentally become the best contestant in the show's history

But at the same time all the other contestants hate her because she's so bad at the social strategy aspect

She despises alliances and is sort of just on her own all the time, building shelter and water filtration systems while glaring at the others

She's constantly winning the immunity challenges and doesn't even know why herself

People are constantly trying to start drama with her but she's way too clueless so she never partakes

"If you guys would like, shut up for a moment and focus on surviving we wouldn't be having this problem."

She ends up winning the 1 million but actually doesn't want to go home afterwards, and ends up spending the money on another holiday far away from everyone

Jessica Atreides - Dune The Traitors

Jessica is IN her element in this show

She knows every liar before they've even said a word yet

In the end she manages to become almost a religious figure in a REALITY SHOW, and the entire cast just sort of does whatever she tells

"Could you get me a water-" "YES MOTHER JESSICA"

Every other contestant is having an absolute rollercoaster and a horrible time because of her but Jessica is taking a nap

Either she ends up being a Faithful and wins with everyone, or she's a Traitor and everyone's crying and breaking down

Maybe she's even doing therapy/psycho analysing sessions with the other contestants at random points of the show

"I can tell by how overly friendly you are that you have attachment issues…" Oh, okay, cool, can we go back to voting now?

Morgana - The kid who would be King Love Island

Bringing her on this show was a big mistake, this would be a fucking catastrophe

Let's be honest, she's just on this show to fuck and be a menace

Steals EVERYONE'S partners just to make a point and is never loyal to anyone, there is absolutely no strategy to this, just chaos

Oh my God, the producers LOVE her

She treats every challenge with medieval seriousness, as if she's on trial as a witch

She's at once deeply seductive and sensual and socially feral

All throughout the show she also talks like she's out of a medieval period piece, because she sort of is

"COWARDICE IS UNBECOMING" and "YOU WILL ALL BURN, WORM HEADS"

Ends up leaving the show and losing but actively sets everyone up for failure and metaphorically setting everything on fire, then immediately goes and fucks a producer because why not

Jenny Lind - The Greatest Showman The Great British Bake Off

I was a bit between putting her in The Voice or this but I feel like she'd fit so well in a bake off competition oh my God

She'd give off that “widowed in 1892” vibes and would be every other contestants favourite, plus, the judges adore her

Maybe she even has a Youtube baking channel where she's just staring at the camera with the best asmr voice while baking absolute masterpieces

Halfway through the competition everyone else sort of realise "oh shit, yeah, we're like competing against this woman", she is competent competent

Her bakes are amazingly beautiful, kind of old fashioned. She loves tinkering around with decorating the cakes, making stunning marzipan and fondant flowers, chocolate stencils and icing swirls, the whole nine rounds. So time is her greatest enemy in this competition

She cries exactly once over overproved dough and the internet never recovers

She may not end up wining the competition in the end but she wins everyone's hearts

Riza Stavros - MIB Shark Tank

Riza isn't exactly pitching a business proposal, she's pitching an entire scheme

She steps into that room with a whiteboard and giant arm movements as she explains a practical heist while subtly threatening the hosts, all while looking like that meme of the guy with the whiteboard

Mark Cuban absolutely tries to invest while the producers are contemplating calling the police

"Guys, guys, give me a month, I swear,"

She somehow gets the deal in the end but the hosts are visibly shaken

Cut to when the product is then later banned internationally

Mae - Reminiscence Too Hot to Handle

Again, I was thinking about putting her in The Voice as well but just walk with me okay

Mae enters this show entirely planning to mind her own business, but unfortunately for her, she's got mad intense divorced noir protagonist energy and everyone else is instantly intrigued

Additionally she's got that devastating eye contact and "I can fix you" energy

And everyone wants to be fixed by Mae

She forms an intense, deep and emotionally unhealthy, parasocial connection with every other contestant and they immediately unravel when they're around her

She's kind of a confessional personified and she doesn't even know why herself

throughout the entire show she's just sort of chronically confused

Also, the editors use excessive slow motion whenever she’s onscreen

Rose the Hat - Doctor Sleep Ghost Adventures

This would be almost too perfect

Zak Bagans is just trying to do his thing, narrating and talking and she is all up in his business

Zak: "Did you hear-" Rose: "Yes. Yes I did."

Bro she is having the time of her life on this show, I feel like the ghosts would be scared of her

Whenever she's on camera, the paranormal occurrences just triple in amount, they keep hearing mysterious whispers, there's figures at corners and she's just walking around info dumping about everything

Nobody on the show leaves psychologically intact and Rose is having herself a wonderful time

The producers despise her because she keeps interrupting and correcting everyone, but at the same time she's also trying to seduce them

Ilsa Faust - Mission Impossible The Amazing Race

This is kind of unfair because Ilsa would dominate the format completely, but that's also why she went on the show. For shits and giggles

She speaks multiple languages, can drive literally anything, can blend in anywhere, never panics under pressure and somehow looks amazing even after 26 hours of being awake

The only problem is that whatever poor soul she brought on as her partner is having the worst experience of their life

She'd keeping saying things like "No no no, we'll sleep after this border cross" and her partner already knows she's lying because she said that at the last goddamn border cross as well

At some point they probably bought a taxi ride, and when the driver is not going fast enough she just throws herself across to the driver's seat and hogs the steering wheel like this is a life or death situation, "here, let me-". (meanwhile the driver and her partner are both screaming btw)

Also she definitely seduces at least one rival team for information while at a meetup point, just for shits and giggles, again

Bonus! Hell's Kitchen. All of them together! 😨

 Gordon Ramsay medically retires after this

Juliette keeps repairing kitchenware mid competition and complaining about the quality of the oven

Jessica is tearing HIM apart for some reason

Morgana threatens the cameraman with a ladle

Jenny is the only one actually cooking

Rose is having a bit too good of a time

Ilsa is running the entire show like a prison yard

Mae is outside smoking while staring contemplatively into the distance

Riza commits corporate espionage against the blue team