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hemsworth: what are your goals?

evans: to pet all the dogs

hemsworth: i mean fitness goals

evans: to be fast enough to pet all the dogs

Me, who hasn't consumed any MCU content in the last 5 years: SIX??? WE WENT THROUGH SIX PHASES ALREADY???????

The ghost I left behind

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Reynolds x reader

Summary: Y/N and Bob had a life before he disappear, full of love, hope, and a lot of chaos, but they managed each other, she was the only one who truly could make him avoid the void inside his mind. How could he turn his only light into a shadow in his mind ?

Note: I wrote this with Sunshine & Rain.. By Kali Uchis, feel free to enjoy this with that on repeat to really feel it burn. Also please somebody give me HD gifs asap. Also if you hadn't read the preview yet, I recommend it!

Word count: 4,7k

Preview

--

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting an ugly green tinge over the already-drab walls of the 23rd Precinct. Y/N pushed the door open with her elbow, hands full—one holding a stack of wrinkled flyers with Bob’s photo on them, the other clutching the hem of her coat closed.

The front desk officer didn’t even look up.

The bell above the door had long since stopped ringing for her.

She shuffled to the counter. She was wearing the same hoodie she always wore—his hoodie, oversized and faintly smelling of old laundry detergent and smoke. Her stomach was just beginning to curve outward, subtle but undeniable beneath the fabric. Four months.

“Hey, Ms. Y/L/N,” the desk sergeant mumbled without meeting her eyes. “You’re back.”

She placed the flyers down with quiet urgency. “I printed new ones. Better quality. I added a note about the reward this time, in case someone’s seen him.”

The sergeant sighed, his pen clinking on the desk as he leaned back.

“I told you last time. No new leads.”

“I’m not asking for a miracle,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Just—please check if anything came in since last week. A tip. A sighting. A… a body, no, not that, but anything really.”

A uniformed officer behind the counter—young, smug, cruel in that casual way people are when they forget you’re human—snorted. “Lady, you know the guy was a junkie, right? Odds are he got tired of playing house and ran off when the stick turned pink.”

Y/N’s heart splintered. Her hands clenched the flyers. “Don’t—don’t you dare say that about him.”

He shrugged. “C’mon. You don’t have to be a detective to figure it out. He got high and vanished. People like that don’t come back. Especially not to play Daddy.”

“He’s not like that!” she shouted, her voice cracking.

The room went quiet.

A throat cleared gently behind her.

“Y/N?” came the familiar rasp of Officer Cooper, stepping out from a side hallway. Silver-haired and weathered, he’d been on the force longer than most of the others had been alive. He always spoke softly, like he didn’t want to scare away whatever kindness he still believed in.

Y/N blinked back tears and turned.

“Let’s take a walk,” Cooper said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get some air.”

--

Outside, the sky was overcast. Cold. Cooper lit a cigarette but didn’t offer her one.

They stood in silence next to the station’s rusted bench. She stared down at the pavement, at her frayed shoelaces, at the grey world around her.

Then she broke.

“I can’t sleep, Mr. Cooper,” she whispered, voice small. “I dream about him every night. I wake up thinking maybe he’s home, maybe I missed a call. But then it’s just me. Just me and this baby. I don’t know what I’m doing—I don’t have money, I don’t have family. He was my family.”

Cooper nodded slowly, his expression unreadable.

“I know you’ve been kind,” she said, her voice rising. “You’ve listened. But I need more. I need you to put more people on this. I need you to look for him like he’s not just some addict you all gave up on.”

She wiped her face with her sleeve. Her tears soaked through it instantly.

“Please. Just… just try. For me. For him. For our child. Bobby wouldn’t leave me. Not like this. Not without a word. Not him.”

Cooper took a long drag from his cigarette. Then sighed.

“There’s something I have to tell you.”

She froze.

His eyes softened, like he wished he could lie. Like he hated what he was about to do.

“We finally traced a lead. Someone matching Bob’s description was seen boarding a flight out of the country.”

She couldn’t breathe.

“Where?”

“Malaysia,” he said quietly.

The word hit her like a sledgehammer.

“No,” she whispered. “That’s… no, he wouldn’t… He didn’t have money. He didn’t have a passport.”

“He did,” Cooper said, sadly. “We checked. It was valid. Bought the ticket in cash. No forwarding contact. No signs of foul play.”

She staggered back, her body suddenly too heavy. Her hand flew to her belly as if to anchor herself.

“So… you’re saying he left me.”

“I’m saying,” Cooper murmured, “that we don’t believe he vanished. We believe he made a choice.”

“No,” she choked. “No, he didn’t. He loved me. We were building a life. He called me his miracle. We were deciding on a name. He cried when I told him. He held me all night and said he’d never leave.”

Cooper looked down at his shoes.

“I know, kid.”

Tears streamed down her face now, silent and relentless.

“I waited. Every day, I waited,” she sobbed. “I believed in him. I still do. He’s sick, not a monster. You’re telling me he abandoned his child before the baby was even born?”

Cooper said nothing. There was nothing to say.

Finally, she whispered, “Is he coming back ? Did he buy two tickets? He did, right, to come back to me, to us?”

Cooper crushed the cigarette beneath his boot.

“One way ticket. Maybe it's better if u go home, take a breath, and just... you can call me, ok ? I have a daughter just like you and she's an amzing mother, you will be too. You have to go to work, just rest.”

She just looked at the flyers in her hand. For months he just disappear, all her money spent in paper, organizing searches, paying potential dealers for a tip of his whereabouts.

"So this is it?"

--

2 years ago

The Cluckin’ Bucket wasn’t exactly a place dreams were made of.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like a swarm of angry flies, flickering over cracked linoleum tiles and chipped yellow walls. The scent of fried oil hung in the air like a second skin, clinging to every surface. It was 11:43 PM, just seventeen minutes before closing, and the only two souls left inside were Y/N, wiping down tables, and Bob, in the back room, peeling off the heavy, foam-rubber chicken costume that had been slowly cooking him alive for eight hours.

He winced as he pulled the beak off his head, his sweat-damp hair sticking up in odd places. His T-shirt clung to his back, his jeans sagged slightly on his hips, and his bones ached in that weird, chemically induced way that only came from a cocktail of meth and shame.

He hadn’t wanted this job.

He sure as hell hadn’t wanted the chicken suit.

But here he was—twenty-something, barely scraping by, dancing on a street corner in 95-degree heat to try and convince people to buy discount wings.

He tucked the suit away in its plastic bag, sighing, and padded into the dining area, rubbing the back of his neck.

And then he saw her.

Y/N.

The new waitress.

She was crouched in front of the soda machine, elbow-deep in the syrup line, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, earbuds dangling from her neck. She was humming something—Fleetwood Mac, he thought—but he couldn’t be sure.

She wore her name tag crooked on her chest, and there was a smudge of sauce on her cheek.

But to him? She looked like she belonged in a painting.

He froze for a second too long, just staring.

God, she was pretty. And he was in a chicken suit just minutes ago. And probably still smelled like sweat and fryer grease. Cool. Real smooth.

She glanced up—and caught him.

Her eyebrows rose a little. Her mouth quirked.

“Robert, right?” she asked, tilting her head. Her voice was warm, amused, like she already knew the answer.

His throat caught. “Uh. Yeah. Bob, actually.”

“Bob,” she repeated, like she was trying it on. “Can you help me with something?”

“Sure,” he said too quickly.

She straightened, gesturing toward a box at her feet. “I’m trying to get this up to the top shelf, but it’s heavier than it looks and my arms are, like, noodles right now.”

He nodded and stepped forward, kneeling to lift the box without much effort. He was wiry, but stronger than he looked. She watched him, subtly biting the corner of her lip.

“Thanks,” she said as he set the box down on the shelf. “You’re stronger than you look.”

He gave a sheepish laugh, rubbing his arm. “Yeah, well… spinning a giant arrow for eight hours a day builds muscles, I guess.”

She smiled. “Don’t sell yourself short. That costume? Kinda iconic.”

He turned bright red. “Oh, God.”

“What?” she teased. “I think it’s cute.”

“Cute?”

“Yeah,” she said, wiping her hands on a rag. “I mean, it takes a certain kind of confidence to dance in a chicken suit and not die of embarrassment.”

He snorted. “More like a lack of options.”

There was a pause—just a second too long.

“Still,” she said, voice softer now, “You’ve got a good smile, Bob.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I said, you’ve got a good smile.”

He swallowed, heart hammering for no reason he could explain. She was looking at him. Not through him. Not with pity. Just… seeing him. And it had been a long time since someone had done that.

They started talking more after that.

Little things. Jokes during their shifts. Late-night scraps of conversation while wiping down counters or restocking sauces. She’d bring him a free soda when she noticed him flagging. He’d sweep her section when her feet were too tired to move. Neither of them said it out loud, but it became something—a rhythm, a comfort.

He never told her about the drugs.

But she saw the shadows under his eyes. The way his hands shook sometimes. The way he chewed his inner cheek when he thought no one was looking. She didn’t ask, and he was grateful.

Until that one night.

They were walking out together. The parking lot was empty, bathed in yellow streetlight. The air was thick with humidity. Bob carried his bag over his shoulder, still fidgeting with the zipper.

Y/N was quiet beside him, arms crossed over her chest.

They reached the edge of the lot. Her car was parked beneath the flickering sign.

He stopped. She didn’t.

Then, she turned back.

“Hey,” she said. “Can I ask you something?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

He blinked. “Uh. No. Why?”

She smiled—and it knocked the air out of him.

“Just wondering,” she said, stepping a little closer. “Because if you don’t… I was wondering when you were going to ask me out.”

He stared at her, stunned.

“I—I mean—I didn’t think you’d—why would you—” he stammered.

She laughed, shaking her head. “Bob. I like you.”

He swallowed. “You do?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Even with the chicken suit.”

And then, because his body moved before his fear could stop him, he smiled—wide and real.

“I… would really like that.”

“Good,” she said, walking backwards toward her car, grinning. “Then don’t keep me waiting.”

He stood in the parking lot long after she drove away, heart pounding, a dumb grin on his face.

For the first time in years, the night didn’t feel so heavy.

--

Central Park in the early evening was dipped in gold.

The last fingers of sunlight threaded through the leaves like warm lace, casting dappled shadows on the grass. It was one of those rare New York days—cool but not cold, the air kissed with early autumn, the sky a watercolor blend of lavender and peach.

Bob stood awkwardly near a bench beneath a sycamore tree, tugging at the hem of his second-best flannel. His fingers twitched in his jacket pocket, where he kept the meth pipe he hadn’t touched in two days.

He was sweating.

Not from the weather.

From her.

Because Y/N was there, spreading out a gingham blanket on the grass near the edge of a pond, her hair tucked behind her ears, a small cooler bag next to her feet.

She looked like someone who belonged in the light.

He still wasn’t convinced he deserved to be sitting beside her in it.

“Okay,” she said, brushing imaginary dust from the blanket. “Don’t laugh. I made too much.”

Bob walked over slowly, hands in his pockets, watching as she pulled out a series of plastic containers and neatly wrapped foil packets. Sandwiches. Potato salad. Tiny cupcakes with blue frosting that had clearly been made with care. Even folded napkins.

“Holy crap,” he said, blinking. “Did you raid a deli or something?”

She grinned. “No, I made it. I… I like cooking.”

“For me?”

She looked at him like it was obvious. “Yeah. Who else would I be trying to impress, Bob?”

He knelt on the blanket, legs crossed, still a little stiff, watching her with barely restrained disbelief. “I just… I’ve never had anyone… you know. Do something like this. For me.”

She shrugged, setting a container between them. “Well, now you have.”

He picked up a sandwich, still stunned. “You made all this… for a guy who dresses like a poultry mascot?”

She chuckled. “I happen to like that guy.”

Bob opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. He just smiled—a shy, crooked thing—and took a bite.

Bob sat on the edge of the picnic blanket, chewing slowly, trying not to look too shocked by how good the sandwich in his hand was. “Okay,” he said between bites, “you’re going to have to explain to me how you made this taste like something from an actual restaurant. What’s in this?”

Y/N grinned, tucking a napkin under her leg to keep it from blowing away. “Nothing fancy. Chicken, basil, a little Dijon, homemade aioli—”

“H-homemade? Who even makes aioli? That’s, like, elite-level cooking.”

“I like cooking,” she said simply, with a shrug. “It calms me down. Helps me feel like I’ve got control over something, you know?”

He nodded slowly, finishing the last of the sandwich. “Yeah, I get that. It’s like spinning that dumb arrow—kinda zen, if you ignore the back pain.”

She laughed. “That’s tragic. I cook to relax, and you give yourself arthritis.”

“Hey, I’m not proud.”

She passed him a small container of fruit salad, their knees brushing slightly under the blanket. There was a breeze picking up, threading through the grass, fluttering the corners of the gingham cloth. In the distance, a dog barked, and somewhere near the pond a violinist had started playing faintly.

“You live with roommates? Alone?” Bob asked suddenly, trying to picture what her place might look like. “Your kitchen’s probably better than mine. Mine’s got, like, one working burner and a fridge that sounds like it’s dying.”

She hesitated, then looked down at her hands. “Actually… I live alone now.”

His brows lifted slightly, sensing the shift in her voice.

“I didn’t always,” she continued. “My ex boyfriend and I used to live together, in this little apartment off Bedford. It was cramped, noisy, walls were paper-thin… but it was kind of cozy. It felt like ours.”

Bob stayed quiet, letting her speak.

“He left about nine months ago,” she said. “For someone else. Someone with shinier hair and a ‘real’ job, probably. I don’t know. One day he said he didn’t love me anymore, and that was that.”

Bob’s chest tightened.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

She waved a hand, but her smile was tinged with something older than the moment. “It sucked. But if he hadn’t left, I wouldn’t have taken the job at Cluckin’ Bucket. Wouldn’t have ended up on night shifts. Wouldn’t have met you.”

He blinked, thrown. “That’s… wow. You really think that’s a good trade?”

She shrugged again, but this time with a little smile. “I’m here with you, aren’t I?”

Bob looked down at the cupcakes, the homemade food, the folded napkins. All for him.

He cleared his throat. “I just don’t get it. How someone could be with you and let you slip through their fingers. That guy had the f—freaking lottery ticket and he just… walked away?”

She glanced at him, visibly surprised by the fire in his voice.

“I mean it,” Bob said, quieter now. “If it were me… I’d never let you go.”

The moment stretched between them, warm and tender.

She looked at him for a long time, something soft and wounded behind her eyes.

“You’re sweet, Bob,” she said quietly.

“I’m not,” he replied without thinking. “Not really. But I want to be.”

Her lips parted like she wanted to say something else, but instead she reached for another sandwich.

They sat in silence again, this time heavier.

Then Bob spoke, his voice rough.

“I don’t have anyone either,” he said. “No family. No ties. Just a bunch of mistakes and a backpack that smells like old socks.”

She looked at him. “No one at all?”

He shrugged. “Not since my mom passed. My dad was… not really in the picture. I’ve kinda just been floating since then.”

“Me too,” she said. “It’s like… we’re both ghosts in a city full of people who have somewhere to be.”

That hit him harder than he expected.

He nodded slowly, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“I always thought,” he murmured, “that maybe I was just built to be alone. Like I was meant to burn out early. Some people are just… too messed up to fit.”

She leaned toward him, brushing a thumb gently against his hand.

“You’re not messed up,” she whispered. “You’re just… lost. And that’s not the same thing.”

His heart nearly stopped.

“You’re the first person who’s ever said that,” he admitted.

“Then everyone else was wrong.”

He didn’t know what came over him then—maybe it was the sunset or the food or the warmth of her fingers against his—but he turned toward her, and for once, he didn’t feel ashamed.

“Can I… see you again?” he asked.

Her eyes crinkled with a smile.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

--

present day

The apartment was still.

Still in the way a place only gets after someone is gone—not just physically, but really gone. Like the soul of the place had followed them out the door and taken all the warmth with it.

The late afternoon sun filtered weakly through the dusty blinds, casting long stripes across the bed where Y/N lay curled on her side. Their bed. His side still had the indent of his body, even after months. She hadn’t brought herself to sleep on it, like maybe the dip in the mattress could hold his shape long enough for him to come back and fill it.

Her hand cradled the curve of her growing belly. Just past four months. She was showing now. Her body knew, even if the world didn’t care.

Across from her on the nightstand were the pictures—cheap Polaroids and one dog-eared photo booth strip from Coney Island, taped crookedly to the wall. Bob’s stupid half-smile grinned back at her in every frame. The one where he was pretending to flex with a corndog in hand. The one where he looked away, caught off-guard, cheeks red from laughing at something she said.

Her thumb brushed the edge of the picture. Her throat burned.

“God, Bobby…” Her voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

A fresh wave of tears pressed from behind her eyes and spilled freely down her cheek, soaking into the pillow. She clutched the blanket tighter with one hand and her belly with the other.

“You left,” she murmured. “You really left.”

She bit her lip so hard it nearly split, the ache in her chest unbearable.

“I defended you. I told them you’d never run. I called every hospital, every shelter. Put up posters with your face in every goddamn corner of this city. I begged the police to keep looking because I knew something was wrong. I thought maybe you were in trouble, or hurt… or…”

Her voice broke, raw and low.

“Turns out you were just gone. Just—just done.”

She sat up slowly, wiping her face with the sleeve of Bob’s old hoodie—still too big on her, still faintly smelling like him, like cologne and smoke and something warmer.

“You saved up that money. You actually planned this,” she whispered, hollow. “You looked me in the eye… kissed me goodnight, touched our baby, and you already knew you weren’t coming back.”

Her breath hitched as her hand moved over the swell of her belly, as if trying to protect the child from the truth pressing in.

“You knew I was pregnant. And you still left. That’s what makes it worse. Not the addiction. Not the lies. That. You knew, and it didn’t stop you.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

“I gave up everything trying to find you, Bobby,” she said, louder now, choking on the grief. “I drained what little savings I had. Every cent I scraped together went to flyers, gas, private search sites. I even hired some guy off Craigslist who said he could ‘track people down for a price.’ That was three hundred dollars I’ll never get back.”

She laughed bitterly through her tears.

“I work double shifts now just to stay afloat. Still serving greasy food to assholes who think I’m invisible—coming home to this empty fucking apartment, sleeping in a bed that feels like a coffin.”

She fell back onto the pillow and stared up at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling in short, shallow breaths.

“I really thought you were different,” she whispered. “I did. I thought… maybe this time, it wouldn’t end with someone leaving. I really get left for everything else at this point, not good enough, prettier women, drugs. And maybe that’s worse. Because at least he looked me in the eye and said goodbye. Or maybe…did you find a better woman Bobby?”

Her lips trembled as another sob escaped.

“You said you loved me. You said we were in this together. We made something together, Bobby. We made a life. And you just… vanished.”

She reached for the ultrasound photo tucked into the drawer and held it to her chest.

“I swear he moves and grows everytime I cry,” she whispered. “Like he knows I need a distraction.”

She ran her hand down her belly again, slower this time.

“But I won’t let them grow up thinking he or she was a mistake. Or unworth staying for.”

The room felt unbearably quiet now. Still, again. But this time, colder.

She closed her eyes and curled tighter around herself, the photos, the baby. Everything she had left.

“I’ll do this without you,” she said softly. “Even if it breaks me.”

And in the stillness, in the tiny home they had built, she stares at the ceiling. Thinking. Doubting. Is this all that life can be ? How would she be able to take care of a little human? Maybe this baby wasn't meant for her. Maybe it was someone else's place to be their mom.

Maybe that's it.

Then I will wait. Just until the baby comes.

TAG GAME!!

RULES: Spell out your user using songs

TAGGED BY: @cultofandom

AGORAPHOBIC by CORPSE

READY TO RUN by One Direction

THROUGH THE FIRE AND THE FLAMES by Dragon Force

I WANT IT THAT WAY by Backstreet Boys

SHEER HEART ATTACK by Queen

TAKE ON ME by A-ha

-

BOP TO THE TOP by Ashley Tisdale and Lucas Grabeel

BETTER THAN WORDS by One Direction

YOU AND I by One Direction

•

Tagging: @ anyone

tag game!

rules: spell out your user using songs

tagged by: no one

—

wish you were sober by conan gray

hot girl bummer by blackbear

agoraphobic by corpse husband

tounge tied by grouplove

idwgtyp by lovelytheband

nice to meet ya by niall horan

to be so lonely by harry styles

heather by conan gray

youngblood by 5 seconds of summer

white tee by corpse husband

only human by jonas brothers

roxanne by arizona zervas

lie to me by 5 seconds of summer

death bed by powfu

—

tagging: @buckybarnesthehotshot @buckysmischief @bastillewolf @skyeet-the-writer @corpsehusband-simp @cultofandom

The Taming of the Rake: A. Bridgerton Masterlist

pairing: anthony bridgerton x sister's best friend!fem!reader status: ongoing

At her wit's end after Anthony's multiple attempts to scare away her suitors, Daphne employs her best friend's help to keep her brother distracted while she tries to find a husband. It's a foolproof plan, except it ends up working a little too well. (or, a Bridgerton version of The Taming of the Shrew/10 things I hate about you)

Chapter 1 - I said, "dancin' is a dangerous game" Chapter 2 - I won't confess that I waited, but I let the lamp burn Chapter 3 - it was all by design Chapter 4 - uh oh, I'm fallin' in love Chapter 5 - they said the end is coming, everyone's up to something Chapter 6 - oh, my, love is a lie Chapter 7 - I wish I could un-recall how we almost had it all Chapter 8 - if I'm dead to you why are you at the wake Chapter 9 - in my defense, I have none Chapter 10 - coming soon...

follow @bosbas-library for updates!

buy me a ko-fi!

What if.... Jotun Loki in my art style? 🤔

I almost never post shit here but I just wanna share this here with you guys.

Go check out my main art acc on twitter

If anyone asks where his hand went, it got eaten by an alligator

My twitter got suspended for no reason ;-; so ig I'll move here. Hi I'm Abby and I draw stuff.

Y/n: *wakes up * AAAH--Oh it was alll a dream *flips to face karl*

Karl with his honky badonky mommy milkies : hey kitten~

Y/n: SHOOT IT WITH A GUN--

When Alcina & her daughters are away for the day and Karl managed to sneak into her room

https://www.tiktok.com/@miserablebastard/video/6969236577134333189?sender_device=mobile&sender_web_id=6935218890298213894&is_from_webapp=v1&is_copy_url=0

(I’ve been thinking of this since last night.)

“Karl?” You called for the man, knowing your mother and sisters weren’t home. He said he was gonna step out for a moment and left your room, but you haven’t seen him in a while.

“Karl??” You closed your door behind you, looking over as you spotted someone standing at the very end of the hallway, making you gasp.

There he stood, lacking his usual attire and hammer. His entire body was adorned in your Mother’s favorite cream dress, her black hat sitting on top of his head, covering his grizzly hair. The most prominent statement in his look was the bodice of the dress, stuffed with large round bags of beans to mimic Alcina’s voluptuous curves.

“K-Karl,” You spoke with fear heavy in your tone, watching a smirk start to grow on his shade hidden face. “Wh-what the hell are you-??”

“Hey there kitten,” He spoke proudly, raising the skirts of the long dress that draped like a heavy curtain on the floor. “Do I look presentable?”

“Karl, you’re scaring me.” You backed away when he got closer, seeing he also had on your Mother’s finest pearls on his neck. “What the-why??”

“Do you like it?” He asked, running a free black gloved hand over one of his mounds. “Does my darling like what they see?” His tone got more lowered and sultry, but it only made you more terrified.

“No Karl, please stop.” The fear continued to poison your body, causing your hands to tremble at your sides. “I don’t like it, I don’t like any of it! Just take it off!”

“Oh? What do you not like about it?” He cocked his head, running both hands over his large bosom ever so slow. “It’s the dress, huh? Maybe this isn’t exactly my color, I’ll admit. But it feels so nice on me. So classy and elegant.”

“But why???” You pleaded again, feeling hot tears gather along the borders of your eyes. “Why the fuck do you-You have fucking titties Karl!!”

“Oh these?” Karl’s hands stopped over his chest. “My boobies? My massive fucking titties? My super stuffed up milkies??”

“Karl stop!” You cried out in vain, large tears rolling down your cheeks as he came even closer. “Get away from me! Take that shit off!”

“My honker wonker doinky doinkies?!” He started shouting, forcing you to turn around and run out of the hallway. He quickly chased after you, his shouting growing even louder. “My fucking fabric stretching, wind flapping, GRAVITY WELLIN SEX MOUNDS Y/N?!”

“GET AWAY!!” You screamed in horror, his laughs growing louder as he ran right behind you, holding onto the dress skirts so he didn’t trip over them.

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