heyy, i hope youre good, any chances of more chapters of your fic?🙏
Hi!!! I haven’t been here in a while! I’m planning to write more of my fic, but I’m in the middle of exams right now, so the chances of me actually writing are pretty low. I promise I’ll definitely update more in the summer!!
its like the worst thing being obsessed with a character that has like ten other fans so this year im contributing to the fanfics, art, edits anything to keep us alive!!
You’re walking to class, bag slung over your shoulder, the corridor already louder than usual. It’s the day of the ball. No one knows; no one knows that you got a little more than just an invitation. You think. Well. You hope.
Groups of students pass you, voices low but excited, whispers slipping through the air as they talk about the ball. You catch fragments as you walk by: "Gates Mansion, 8pm, can you believe it?" Someone laughs. Someone else shushes them, like saying it too loudly might ruin it. The excitement feels thick, buzzing, almost alive.
You keep your head down, pretending you’re not listening.
Then Yoko appears beside you, falling into step like she planned it. She grins, eyes bright. “Hey, girl!” she says, bumping your arm lightly. “Ready for tonight?”
You put on a happy face. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” You shrug, like it’s nothing, like your stomach isn’t twisting.
Yoko squints at you, slowing her steps so you have to stop too. “What’s wrong?” she asks. “I can tell.”
“Nothing,” you say quickly. Then, quieter, “It’s just… what if it’s not even real? What if it’s a prank? I mean, the Gates Mansion hasn’t been used in years. Not since…”
“Not since the family tragically died?” Yoko cuts in, eyes lighting up. “I know, right? If you’re asking me, that’s what makes it so cool.” She lowers her voice dramatically. “You know, people say the little girl haunts the house now. Waiting for her next victim—”
She jumps toward you suddenly.
“Oh my god, Yoko!” you yelp, heart leaping into your throat.
“Wait. The girl?” you say after processing what she had just said.
“Laurel Gates,” she says easily, like it’s common knowledge. “You don’t know? Apparently she walks around the house at night, waiting for her family to come back.”
“That’s…” you slow your steps, the excitement around you suddenly feeling distant. “That’s actually quite sad.”
Yoko’s grin fades a little. She shrugs, kicking at the floor as she walks. “Yeah,” she says, quieter now. “I guess it is.”
For a moment, neither of you speak. You picture it without meaning to: a big, empty house, lights never turning on, a little girl waiting in rooms that never answer back. Your chest feels even tighter, and you don’t know why.
“Still,” Yoko adds, brightening again like she’s embarrassed by the silence, “ghost or no ghost, it’s going to be legendary.” She says and shakes your shoulder.
You manage a small smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Something about the story sticks with you, lingering as you push open the classroom door and step inside.
You sit in botany class. Miss Thornhill is talking about something—plants, probably—but you aren’t listening. She moves slowly at the front of the room, chalk dust on her fingers, her voice calm and even. Someone near you flips a page in their notebook. Another student shifts in their chair. You stay still.
You can’t help being nervous. Okay. You’re very nervous. Your leg won’t stop bouncing under the desk, and you keep pressing your pen down too hard, like it might slip out of your hand. You don’t know what’s going to happen tonight. You don’t even know if it’s real. This could all be a prank, something elaborate and humiliating, and you’d be the idiot who showed up anyway.
The Gates Mansion hasn’t been used for years. Everyone knows that. The whole family died there, tragically, a long time ago. Since then it’s just been sitting there, falling apart, empty and watching. No lights. No people. Just ruins.
There’s no way the story about Laurel is true, you tell yourself. People must have made it up to scare everyone, to make the night feel bigger than it really is.
Then your mind keeps going anyway. What if the girl is real? What if she’s the one who wrote the invitation?
No. It can’t be.
Wednesday had told you the plan, like she promised, a few days ago. It wasn’t much or complicated. It was 'simple', that was the word. All you had to do was wait. Stand around. Do whatever until the person comes up to you… if they even show up at all.
You still don’t know what the point of going is. So Wednesday can unmask another person, expose another secret, and look like the hero again.
Yay.
You roll your eyes at the thought and look back down at your desk, dragging your pen across the paper. Little shapes take form without you thinking about them: loops, lines, the same pattern over and over. You don’t even realise the bell has rung. Chairs scrape against the floor, voices rise, people start getting up, and it all washes past you until someone says your name.
You look up.
It’s Miss Thornhill.
“Love, can you come here?” she says, rounding her table. “Just for a minute. I won’t keep you long.”
“Of course, Miss Thornhill,” you say, pushing your chair back as you stand. You quickly gather your books, slide them into your bag, and sling it over your shoulder before walking toward her.
“Is everything okay, Miss?” you ask, stopping in front of her. You shift your weight from one foot to the other. Around you, students are filing out, their voices low hums of conversation, the scrape of chairs on the floor punctuating the air.
Miss Thornhill sighs, a soft, almost sympathetic sound, and pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “I think I should be asking you that,” she says, her eyes flicking to yours.
“What do you mean?” you ask, frowning slightly, shifting your bag on your shoulder.
“Well,” she says, leaning on her desk, fingers tapping lightly against the wood, “for one, not once did I see you put your hand up. You’re normally the first person. And second… you were drifting off into space for most of the lesson.” She tilts her head, studying you like she’s trying to read something hidden just beneath the surface.
“Oh! I’m so sorry, Miss Thornhill,” you say, twisting the strap of your bag nervously in your hands. “I’m just… nervous about something I have later.”
(The ball, of course, but she doesn’t need to know that—you’d probably get in trouble. You’ve already been out twice this week.)
She looks at you strangely. It is ust a quick glance, so small you almost miss it. Like she already knows what you’re up to. But the moment you notice it, it’s gone.
“Oh,” she says, smoothing it over, “well, I hope everything goes… okay.” She sits back down in her chair, the legs scraping softly against the floor. She pulls open a drawer, rummages for a second, then takes out a small piece of paper. A note.
“You know,” she says, looking back up at you, her expression gentler now, “you can always come to me if you need anything.” She holds your gaze. “My door is always open.”
“Thank you, Miss, I really appreciate it,” you say, smiling at her. Your hands fold together in front of you, fingers resting awkwardly against each other as she smiles at you in return.
You get the feeling the conversation is over. She looks back down, already writing something on the piece of paper, pen moving in neat, careful strokes. You should leave. Everyone else already has.
But you don’t.
You stay where you are, rooted to the spot, like something unseen is tugging at you, pulling you to linger just a second longer.
You notice her writing. It’s beautiful, the pen gliding easily across the paper, letters looping into one another like they’ve been practised a thousand times. Almost as if… you’ve seen it before.
Huh. Maybe you have.
It’s cursive. Just like the invitation.
Obviously it’s just a coincidence. You’ve been seeing those a lot this week. Like earlier, when Yoko was holding a rose and you nearly had a heart attack, convinced for half a second that maybe it was her. It definitely wasn’t. You’re just being paranoid.
“I like your writing,” you say before you can stop yourself. “It’s so pretty.”
“Oh, well, thank you, love,” she replies, scrunching her nose as she smiles. If you’re being honest, it’s your favourite quirk of hers. “I learnt it when I was young.”
“Oh really? My family doesn’t write in anything other than cursive,” you say, twisting your bag strap in your hands. “Was yours the same?” You ask because if you’re being honest, you picked it up from them too.
But you had stopped before it could really sink in, before it could stick. Maybe Marilyn was the same but maybe she didn’t stop.
She pauses, pen hovering over the paper. For a moment, she hesitates, like she’s not sure what to say.
“Yes,” she finally says, careful, measured. “You could say that. My mother taught me.”
You nod slowly, your eyes following the way her pen starts moving again, smooth and unhurried. “It’s… nice,” you say quietly. “Cursive makes things feel… careful, I guess. Thoughtful.”
She looks up at you then, one eyebrow lifting just a little behind her glasses, something almost amused flickering across her face. “Careful and thoughtful, hmm?” she says. “I like that.”
Your stomach twists. You don’t know why it feels like she’s looking straight through you.
She finishes writing, the pen finally still, and lifts the paper from the desk.
You’re surprised, she holds it out to you. You reach for it, fingers brushing hers for a moment as she lets go, and take the small, folded piece of paper.
“If you need to talk,” she says, “here are the times that you and I are both free during the day.”
You glance down at the note, brow furrowing. “Thank you… but how do you know when my frees are?”
She lets out a soft chuckle, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “I’m your dorm mom, silly. I know all of my girls' timetables.”
“Oh, you’re right. Silly me! That makes so much sense,” you say, tucking the note carefully into your bag. She looks… almost pleased at your reaction, a small, quiet satisfaction in her eyes.
“Thank you so much, Miss Thornhill,” you add, smiling genuinely this time.
“Of course. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says, standing and gesturing for you to follow. Her hand rests briefly on the small of your back as she guides you toward the door, and you feel your cheeks heat up a little.
As you reach the hallway, she glances at you with that same unreadable expression. “Try not to stay out too late tonight, alright?” she says, her voice casual, but somehow it feels like she already knows exactly where you’re headed.
But someone in Ophelia Hall has probably told her. There are snitches everywhere. And who wouldnt be able to resist telling her when she asks what everyone is talking about. It is Miss Thornhill. After all, she has that effect on people. You smile in response, giving a small wave, and step out into the hallway.
Unbeknownst to you, she watches your figure retreat down the corridor for a moment longer, silent and still, before finally closing the door behind her.
Not long after you start walking, someone suddenly pushes you into a corner of the corridor.
“What the hell?!” you jump back, heart racing.
It’s Wednesday.
“Wednesday! Didn’t I tell you, like, last week, not to jump out at me like that?” you say, brushing yourself off, trying to sound more annoyed than you feel.
“Did you really think I’d forget?” she says, her voice flat, eyes scanning you like she’s already three steps ahead. “Pay attention next time.”
You completely ignore what she says; there is no point in arguing with her.
“I—look, about the plan for tonight…” you start, trying to steady your voice. “Are we still doing it like you said? I don’t even… I don’t know what’s going to happen.”
Wednesday tilts her head slightly, regarding you with that same unreadable expression. “Yes. We’re still doing it,” she says simply, as if that should settle everything. “Just follow instructions. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Okay… but if I get killed, it’s your fault,” you mutter, folding your arms and leaning back against the wall. You glance down the corridor, half-expecting something to jump out at you again.
Wednesday doesn’t react the way you want her to. She barely blinks. “Statistically unlikely,” she says dryly. “But if it happens, I’ll make sure it’s quick.”
If you’re being honest, you’re a little flattered. In Wednesday’s language, that’s practically affectionate. It means she at least likes you.
“Anyway,” you ask, pushing off the wall and brushing imaginary dust from your sleeves, “why did you need me?”
Wednesday’s eyes flick briefly down the corridor before she looks back at you. “Change of plan,” she says. “We’re going in first. Before any other guests arrive.”
You stare at her. “What? Are you crazy?” You gesture wildly with your hands, your voice dropping into a harsh whisper. “What if it’s a trap? Then we get killed.”
Wednesday tilts her head, expression unreadable, but there’s a faint glint in her eyes. “Exactly,” she says, voice flat. “It makes it more… exciting.”
You roll your eyes. “Right, because your girlfriend will be so happy.”
If looks could kill, even more than usual, she’s managing it now. “Enid is not my girlfriend,” she says, voice flat but sharp.
“Well, you knew I was talking about her, so she must be,” you laugh, teasing.
Then you see the look on her face. And just like that, your laughter dies in your throat. “Okay… jeez,” you mutter, holding up your hands.
Wednesday doesn’t say anything more. She simply steps aside, letting you pass, her eyes lingering on you just a second longer than necessary. You take a deep breath, heart still racing, and walk down the corridor, the weight of the night ahead pressing against your chest.
The shadows stretch long in the dim light, and for a moment, everything feels like it’s holding its breath with you.
hey! hope you're doing okay <3 first of all thank you for writing both jen and helen- know that we are all feeding off your fics and most importantly know that the people need more so im shooting my shot here! (ignore if u dont wanna)
- its for jen actually, what if the reader is making their broadway debut in a big role and theyre close to having a meltdown before showtime (its opening night and it all finally dawns on them) and jen's there to save the the day!! sad ended with fluff ofc! i'll leave it all to you <3
Hey! Thank you so so much for the kind message! So, I have to confess... I actually wrote this request ages ago but I never posted it! I'm pretty sure it was because I wanted to tweak something and make it longer but never got round to doing so. It's not as long as it could be, and it's not my best writing, but it's something (and hardly proofread!). Enjoy <3333 read here.
you are nervous and doubting yourself after having to go on last minute as madeline ashton. jennifer is there to comfort you. requested here.
You literally can't breathe. You are called in at the last minute to perform as Madeline Ashton because the flu has basically knocked everyone out.
You are sitting in your dressing room, and your team has got you ready for your big debut. Everyone around you seems excited for you, seemingly more than you yourself.
You are so fucking nervous. More nervous than the last time you made a debut. Why? You don't know. Actually, you do know – you don't want to screw it up in front of your silly little crush, Jennifer fucking Simard.
You had become close during the first week of rehearsals. You ended up spending most of your time in her dressing room in Chicago, and to be honest, you still do now that the show is on Broadway.
As you sit there, looking in the mirror, leg shaking and trying to keep tears from falling, the door opens.
"Hey, honey, are you ready?"
It was Jennifer, already dressed as Helen. Great.
You didn't reply to her. You just sat there, frozen, still staring in the mirror.
"Love... what's wrong?" she said as she made her way over to you. She stood behind you, her arms placed on the back of the chair that you were sitting on.
You can't respond because you know if you do, you definitely will start crying. So, you shrug in response, but the lip that begins wobbling betrays you, and you allow a tear to fall down your cheek, which you quickly wipe away.
"I-I- guess I'm just nervous, that's all," you say, moving your gaze towards the ground.
Unexpectedly, she turns your chair around, giving you quite a fright. "Whoa, Jen, what are you doing?"
She grabs your chin so you look directly in her eyes. You shy away, blinking the tears away and looking anywhere but at her. To put it lightly, you were a mess.
"Uh uh," she whispers, "look at me." You know, and she knows, that you would never ever not do what she says, so you look at her.
She frowns sympathetically at you. "What's bothering your pretty little head?"
It's as if she sees through you; she knows you too well to know that it's not just that you're nervous.
She gives you a second to reply, knowing that you'll tell her eventually. Although, as she thought that, the 5-minute call came on.
"I just don't feel like I can do it," you say. "I mean, I just don't feel like I'm good—"
She cuts you off. "Absolutely not, do not finish that sentence," she moves her hands to hold your shoulders, "you are good enough, love."
Jennifer squeezes your shoulders and you shake your head in response, the words bouncing off you like raindrops on glass. “I don’t know if I can—”
She hushes you, brushing her thumb across your cheekbone, wiping away the tear that slipped free. “You can. And you’re not doing this alone. I’m right there with you the whole time. Okay?”
The four-minute call crackles through the intercom. Your heart spikes. You grip the arms of the chair, your knuckles whitening.
Jennifer crouches so you’re face-to-face now, her eyes steady, grounding. “Hey. Breathe with me.”
You try. Inhale. Exhale. She matches you, her rhythm slow and steady until yours falls in line with hers. It feels ridiculous, but by the third breath, your chest doesn’t feel like it’s collapsing anymore.
“That’s it,” she smiles, though her hand lingers on yours longer than necessary. “See? You’ve got this.”
You whisper, before you can stop yourself, “I don’t want to disappoint you.”
Her expression softens—so much it nearly undoes you. “Oh, honey.” She tilts her head, almost amused at the thought. “You couldn’t, not in a million years. Don’t you know I’m already proud of you?”
Something twists deep inside your ribs. You want to believe her. You do believe her. Maybe that’s what scares you most.
The three-minute call. The walls feel like they’re closing in, but Jennifer stands, taking both your hands, pulling you up to your feet. She gives you a little playful shake, as if she’s reminding you who you are.
“Now, shoulders back. Madeline Ashton wouldn’t dare walk out there looking like she doubted herself. She’s a goddess. And you—” her eyes sweep over you, making heat climb your neck— “are about to steal the whole damn show.”
You laugh, a shaky sound, but it’s real. She grins at the victory.
The two-minute call. A stagehand pokes their head in and shouts
“Places in two!"
Then they disappear.
Jennifer squeezes your hand once more, reluctant to let go. “Come on.” She walks you toward the stage entrance, hip brushing yours with each step, like she’s keeping you steady.
You hover in the wings, every nerve ending alive, your pulse in your throat. The murmur of the audience is a storm waiting to break.
Jennifer leans in close, her lips brushing your ear so only you can hear: “You can do it.”
The stage manager’s voice calls: “Places, please!”
Jennifer presses your hand one last time, then slips away.
There was a lot more gay energy between Madeline and Helen on that stage than usual that night.
[ SERIES SYNOPSIS ] — an invitation arrives in careful handwriting, personally addressed to you; others are invited, but none so deliberately, calling you to some sort of party at the long-abandoned gates mansion. the gates family are said to be dead, the house empty. it isn’t. as the night unfolds, you are guided, watched, and chosen. these parties begin to happen more often and slowly, dangerously, you become enamoured, unable to imagine a world where she does not exist. [ marilyn thornhill x reader ]
you sigh into your pillow, sprawled on your bed with your phone hovering inches from your face, doomscrolling without really seeing any of it. your thumb keeps moving out of habit. you have nothing to do. the quiet stretches, heavy and dull.
it’s the start of october, your favourite month, and you’re meant to be sorting out what ophelia hall is doing for halloween with enid. decorations, themes, something fun.
instead, you’re stuck here, watching the minutes slide past.
enid was supposed to help, but of course she’s busy with wednesday. said she needed “help” with something. you snort softly at the thought, rolling onto your side and locking your phone. as if you believe that.
you drop your phone somewhere on the bed without looking and drift over to your vanity, sinking down onto the chair.
if you’re being honest, you’ve only moved from one spot to another to do the exact same thing—rot in your boredom, just with a better view of yourself.
the room feels too quiet.
divina is off who knows where, which means you can’t even bother her about her obvious crush on yoko.
that thought earns you a soft huff. you lean forward, elbows planted on the vanity, palms pressing into your cheeks as you stare at your reflection. your expression looks as bored as you feel.
you don’t even realise how long you’ve been staring at yourself until, out of the corner of your eye, you see a shadow slide past the door, thin and sudden. you barely register it at first. it's someone passing by, probably. nevermore is full of people after all.
then there’s a knock.
you straighten, pushing lightly off the vanity so the chair spins beneath you, slow and lazy. you stand, the motion unhurried, and cross the room toward the door, your steps soft against the floor.
“you know you can just come in, right? you don’t have to knock,” you call out, your voice carrying as you make it halfway across the room.
there’s no response.
you open the door anyway. the hallway is empty. no footsteps fading, no retreating shadow. nothing. the air feels still, almost expectant.
a frown pulls at your mouth as unease prickles up your spine. you stand there for a second longer than necessary, wondering if you’re finally losing it, if you imagined the sound entirely. did someone actually knock, or did your boredom just start messing with you?
you peek your head out fully and glance to the left. no one. then to the right. still no one. that’s… weird.
you step out into the hallway, and something brushes against your foot. you jump instinctively, heart kicking up into your throat.
“oh!” you blurt, looking down.
it’s a piece of paper? you bend down and pick it up, fingers pinching the corner. it’s thicker than you expect. not just paper, but some kind of letter. the front is written in neat cursive, dark ink looping carefully across the page.
the vampire of ophelia hall.
you frown. that’s… weird. it has to be for you. yoko recently transferred halls, definitely because she couldn’t handle the tension between her and divina, so it couldn’t be for her.
you turn it over in your hands. on the back, a red wax stamp seals it shut, pressed with a small family crest: a curling symbol framed neatly around a single 'g'.
your thumb hesitates for a moment before you peel the seal open, the wax cracking softly. you slide the letter out, holding the paper carefully as you unfold it.
you read it slowly. the cursive is tight and elegant, a little difficult to follow at first, but you manage. besides, you come from a family who wouldn’t dream of writing in anything but cursive. your eyes know how to trace the loops and slants without thinking.
'to the vampire of ophelia hall,
you are personally invited to attend a ball at gates manor at 8p.m on october 14th. i trust you know where it lies.
the evening will be held in black and white. however, i have taken the liberty of having a dress delivered to you—one i believe will suit you perfectly.
you have been placed at the head of my table as guest of honour.
until then, i await you, my love.'
there’s no signature at the bottom. no name, nothing. just the empty space where one should be, staring back at you like it’s waiting to be filled.
what in the world? a sound comes from behind you and you turn your head quickly. the candle on your vanity has gone out, the flame reduced to a thin thread of smoke. now the only light comes from the hallway, pale and stretched across the floor.
your dorm lights had broken recently, so there’s no point reaching for the switch.
you move back toward the vanity anyway, careful and slow, setting the letter down, hopefully in the right spot, before feeling along the edge for the drawer. your fingers find it. you pull it open, rummaging briefly until you hit the box of matches.
you strike a match and light the candle, the flame catching and blooming softly. once it’s steady, you drop the matches back into the drawer and push it closed.
when you look up again, you jump.
there’s a box sitting on the counter.
you reach for the box and lift the lid. resting on top is a deep red rose, its petals dark and velvety. beneath it, folded carefully, is a sweep of white fabric.
you pick up the rose first, setting it gently on top of the letter from earlier, like it belongs there. then you lift the fabric out of the box.
it’s a gorgeous white dress with a fitted corset and soft folds that spill over your hands. you gasp quietly, caught off guard by how beautiful it is.
you hold the dress up against yourself and look into the mirror, lining it up the best you can. it fits. perfectly. your stomach flips. how the hell did this person know your size?
actually, nevermind that. how the hell did it even get here? you were standing right there no more than forty-five seconds ago, probably less, and the counter had been empty. the thought makes your grip tighten on the fabric.
the more you think about it—the letter, the dress, the way it all appeared so easily—the more it starts to scare you. the excitement drains, replaced by something tighter in your chest.
who was this person, really, to be able to do all of this?
you quickly fold the dress back into the box, hands moving faster than your thoughts. before you can spiral any further, a high, excited squeal cuts through the room.
enid.
you turn just in time to see her in the doorway, practically vibrating in place. she’s grinning so wide it looks like it might hurt, eyes bright, shoulders bouncing with barely contained energy. there’s a letter clenched in her hand.
“O… M… G,” she says, already hopping toward you. “look what wednesday and i just got.” she all but shoves the piece of paper into your face, excitement spilling out of her in every movement.
“woah, enid, calm down,” you say, laughing a little as you take the paper from her hands and glance down to read it.
“don’t tell me to calm down!!” she squeals immediately, sliding in beside you and craning her neck to peer over your shoulder. “we’ve just been invited to the gates mansion for a freaking party!”
the note is short. much shorter than yours. it isn’t handwritten either. it’s typed, clean and impersonal, like it could’ve been copied a hundred times over. the words are brief and vague:
you are formally invited to attend the gates mansion ball.
theme: black and white.
14th october, 8:00 pm.
“weird,” you say, the word slipping out without much feeling behind it.
“what do you mean, ‘weird’?” enid asks, already snatching the note back from your hands so she can reread it. “did you not get invited?”
“i got an invitation too,” you say, turning back toward the vanity, your voice casual despite the way your shoulders tense.
she follows you over, stopping right beside you. her eyes widen almost immediately. “no way,” she breathes, already picking the letter up from the vanity and scanning the page.
by the time she finishes reading, her excitement has dulled into something more uneasy. she lowers the letter slowly, glancing at you. “guest of honour? a dress delivered to you?” she shakes her head. “okay, what kind of freak show is this?”
“my kind."
both of you nearly jump out of your skin.
“jesus, wednesday,” you blurt, clutching at your chest. “i’ve nearly had a heart attack too many times today. do you think you could maybe, i don’t know, tone it down?”
she fixes you with that signature wednesday glare, dark eyes sharp and unreadable, then steps closer, her movements slow and deliberate.
“obsession,” she says flatly. “fixation. devotion bordering on delusion.” a pause, the corner of her mouth almost—but not quite—curling. “yes. that sounds like my kind of night out.”
the three of you look at the scene laid out in front of you: the letter spread open, the red rose resting beside it, and the white dress folded neatly in the box.
wednesday reaches out and picks up the letter, reading it in silence.
“i don’t think we should go,” enid says after a moment, gnawing nervously at her multicoloured nails. “i mean, i was excited at first, but now i’m just… terrified.”
“we’re going,” wednesday says, voice flat and final.
“no… i agree with enid. i’m creeped out,” you say, fingers worrying at the hem of your top, twisting the fabric without realising it.
“we need to find out who it is,” wednesday replies, unblinking.
“i’d rather not,” you and enid say at the same time.
for a second, you both smile at that. then the smile fades as you speak again.
“i mean, no one’s lived in the gates mansion since god knows when,” you say, rubbing your arms. “it’s literally ruins.”
“exactly.”
and just like that, you know you aren’t escaping this. there’s no arguing with that tone, no backing out now. you’re going.
besides… a small, traitorous part of you is curious. you want to know who wrote that letter. who knew you well enough to address it like that.
suddenly, voices spill through the hallway—too many at once, overlapping and loud. you all glance at each other before moving toward the door together. stepping out into the corridor, you’re met with the sound of excited chatter, everyone talking over one another at once.
loads of people are standing outside their doors, clustered in small groups, all holding the same invitation that enid and wednesday received. voices buzz with excitement and confusion as they compare notes.
you take it in slowly, your gaze drifting from paper to paper, until something clicks. it’s only the upper years. none of the first-years, none of the newer students. just last years, all holding identical, typed invitations.
enid breaks the silence, her voice pitched low despite the noise around you.
“what the freak is happening?”
a girl approaches the three of you, hovering a little awkwardly before stopping. you recognise her vaguely. you’ve exchanged a few hellos in passing, nothing more.
“did you guys get invited too?” she asks, holding up her letter.
you nod and say yes, keeping your voice casual. you don’t mention the small differences in yours.
a voice cuts through the chatter, sharp and unmistakable. “girls, what are you doing? it’s lights out!”
it’s miss thornhill. you can tell even before you see her properly, the flash of ginger hair just visible above the crowd as she moves closer.
everyone turns at once, then quickly scatters, doors opening and shutting in a rush. within seconds, the hallway empties. everyone except the three of you.
wednesday leans in slightly, her voice low and precise. “do not mention your invitation. not a word.”
you nod immediately. god knows the trouble it would cause if thornhill found out. she’d make a whole thing of it: questions, concern, rules. and then principal weems would know. you don’t even need to look at wednesday to know how she feels about weems getting involved.
“girls, what is happening?” she asks, a plant pot balanced on her hip as she nudges her glasses back up her nose.
you can’t help but notice it but she’s absolutely gorgeous. soft and warm in a way that feels almost out of place here, and so dorky it borders on endearing. it’s… charming, in your own strange way.
“miss thornhill, hi!” enid chirps, clasping her hands behind her back. “they’re just excited because they got invited to a party.”
“oh, well,” thornhill says with a gentle smile, adjusting the pot in her arms, “outside of the semester, i hope?”
“yes, absolutely!” enid says a little too quickly.
she scrunches her nose slightly. “i don’t mean to be a bore,” she says, glancing at you before looking back at enid, “but do you think you could, you know, go to bed?”
“well, yes, of course, miss thornhill,” enid replies quickly. “wednesday and i were just going.” she reaches out and grabs wednesday’s arm, earning an eye roll in response.
“don’t rush,” thornhill adds. “i’ll be back in five minutes to check.” her gaze flicks to you again, lingering for half a second too long. then it’s gone, replaced with a pleasant smile. “i trust you girls.”
she turns on her heel and walks away, footsteps fading down the corridor.
once you’re sure she’s definitely gone, wednesday turns to you. “tomorrow, we discuss the plan.”
you blink. “wow, wednesday. you’re actually including me instead of doing it on your own?”
she tilts her head slightly, eyes dark and unimpressed. “well,” she says coolly, “you are the one with the sadistic obsessor. it would be inefficient not to.”
“okay, fair enough.”
wednesday gives a small, almost imperceptible nod before turning and disappearing into her dorm room. enid lingers for a second, offering you a nervous, apologetic smile before slipping in after her.
you’re left alone in the hallway, the quiet settling back in. although, you don't feel like you are alone.
[ SERIES SYNOPSIS ] — an invitation arrives in careful handwriting, personally addressed to you; others are invited, but none so deliberately, calling you to some sort of party at the long-abandoned gates mansion. the gates family are said to be dead, the house empty. it isn’t. as the night unfolds, you are guided, watched, and chosen. these parties begin to happen more often and slowly, dangerously, you become enamoured, unable to imagine a world where she does not exist. [ marilyn thornhill x reader ]
[ TAGS ] — MDNI. 18+ nsfw. contains explicit sexual themes and content. angst. hurt/comfort. hurt/no comfort. slow burn. fluff. violence. alcohol. family death. family trauma. reader slightly oc. obsession. tags will be updated as the series continues.
✮ ch 1 || the invitation ✮ ch 2 || the note
✮ ch 3 || coming soon ✮ ch 4 || coming soon
✮ ch 5 || coming soon ✮ ch 6 || tbd
✮ ch 7 || tbd ✮ ch 8 || tbd
✮ visuals ✮ playlist ♪ ✮ pinterest board ✮ asks
✮ ao3 (registered readers only)
[ INFO ] — this series is lightly based off of phantom of the opera because that is my hyperfixation rn xxx
the sad little girl in you comes out and folds herself into marilyn’s heart, utterly certain that this is where you belong. and oh, how marilyn knows how to use this to her advantage. fluff + mild smut / teasing. materlist here.
you sit in the library, legs curled beneath you, turned sideways on the bench. the wood is cold through your tights, but you don’t move. you’re trying to distract yourself from everything going on around you—the quiet murmurs, the distant footsteps, the way the building seems to echo more on nights like this.
it’s a saturday night. the kind of night that’s supposed to feel fun. easy. loud. all the girls in your dorm have gone to a party. music spilling out into the halls as they left, laughter bouncing off the stone walls.
a party you would “find boring,” yoko had said earlier, laughing with divina as they shared a low five. it wasn’t even subtle. the way their hands met, the way they glanced at you like it was a joke you weren’t in on. something that doesn’t go unnoticed by you, no matter how much you pretend it does.
you stare down at the open book in front of you. you’ve been on the same page for at least fifteen minutes. the words blur together, refusing to stick. you keep reading the same sentence over and over again, hoping eventually it’ll mean something.
they aren’t mean to you. not really. the girls in ophelia hall, that is. they say hello. they ask polite questions. they don’t shove you out of the way or whisper when you walk past.
except maybe yoko. though even then, you can’t tell if she’s actually trying to be horrible to you, or if it just feels that way because you’re already expecting it. sometimes she smiles too wide. sometimes she laughs a little too loudly at things that aren’t that funny. sometimes she says things that linger in your head longer than they should.
you sigh, shoulders slumping as you lean forward, elbows resting on the table. you think about it more than you mean to. about the way they all left together. about the empty space they left behind.
enid drifts through the back of your mind. the way she’d hovered by the door, half turned back toward you. the guilty smile she gave you. the small wave goodbye, fingers wiggling like she didn’t quite know what else to do. and then she was gone too.
leaving you behind.
you tell yourself it’s fine. you tell yourself you like the quiet. you tell yourself the library is better anyway.
you don’t realise someone is standing in front of you until they wave a hand directly in front of your face.
“love? are you okay?”
you blink, breath catching as you snap out of your trance. your eyes follow the movement automatically, tracing their hand up their arm until you reach their face.
oh.
thank god.
it’s marilyn.
she looks slightly concerned, brows drawn together behind her glasses. her cardigan hangs loose around her shoulders, familiar and comforting. she always looks like she belongs in places like this. like the library would miss her if she wasn’t here.
you meet her gaze, your hands sliding up and down your thighs without you really thinking about it. the motion is grounding, something to focus on. you try to settle the tight feeling in your chest, the one that’s been sitting there all evening.
“oh- mari, hi,” you say, forcing a smile onto your lips. it feels stiff. wrong. but you try anyway.
she doesn’t comment on it. she never does.
instead, she pulls a chair out in front of you, the legs scraping softly against the floor as she sits. the sound feels loud in the quiet space, but no one looks up.
“well,” she says gently, lips quirking, “hi to you too, love.”
you don’t say anything right away. you try to keep the smile in place, but it slips before you can stop it. your mouth trembles, and you turn your face away, biting down on your lip as if that might help.
marilyn notices instantly.
she always does.
she leans forward, closing the space between you just a little, and places her hands over yours. her palms are warm. solid. she stills your restless movements where they rest on your thighs.
“what’s the matter?” she asks. her eyes flick from your turned face to the books scattered across the table. the notes you haven’t been taking. the highlighter you haven’t touched. “why are you studying instead of going to that party?”
your heart aches at the mention of the party. the word alone feels sharp. the one you weren’t invited to. the one you weren’t even considered for.
“oh- i’m just… behind on my schoolwork,” you say. your right hand lifts from beneath hers to gesture vaguely at the open book, fingers worrying at the edge of a page. you flip it without meaning to, then flip it back. your words come out a little too fast. “so i thought i’d miss this one.”
she watches you for a moment, expression unreadable.
“honey,” she says softly, tilting her head just enough to catch your eyes, “do you really think i’m supposed to believe that?”
you huff before you can stop yourself, frustration bubbling up. you throw your arms up briefly, then cross them over your chest like you’re bracing yourself. “fine. you got me. i wasn’t invited.”
the words hang there between you. heavy. embarrassing.
you shake your head, staring down at the table instead. there’s a knot in your throat now. you don’t trust yourself to speak again.
she lets out a sharp, almost disbelieving laugh. it cuts through the quiet like a crack. “well, fuck them,” she says flatly. there’s no hesitation. no softening. “they’re just jealous.”
your head snaps up despite yourself.
she’s looking at you steadily. unapologetic. like she means every word. like she hasn’t even considered walking it back.
“you’re a pretty girl,” she adds, like it’s obvious. like it should have been obvious to everyone else too.
your chest tightens.
“thank you,” you say quietly. the words feel small. fragile. you don’t really believe her. not fully. not in the way she seems to want you to. but you say it anyway.
she smiles, like she knows that. like she can tell. and still, she reaches out, cupping your cheeks in her hands. her thumbs rest against your skin, warm and grounding, just beneath your eyes.
you don’t love how cruel she was about them. it sits oddly in your chest, that sharp dismissal. but they weren’t your friends. not really. no matter how much you tried to tell yourself they were. no matter how often you waited for them to include you.
they never made space for you the way she does.
so… yeah. fuck them.
fuck anyone who doesn’t make you feel the way marilyn does.
you swallow, fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeves as she pulls her hands back. “i just…” your voice trails off. you stare at the table again, the words stuck somewhere between your chest and your mouth. then you force them out. “i feel like i don’t fit in.”
she frowns behind her glasses, concern softening her features. “whatever do you mean, love?”
you hesitate. shrug a little, like it might make it seem less pathetic. “i mean… i’ve been here for four months already,” you say quietly, eyes dropping to your lap. “and the only person who actually talks to me, who’s actually nice to me, is you.”
something changes in her expression.
she looks at you like you’re the most important person in the world. like nothing else exists. like the books and the room and the rest of the school have faded away.
“most people here?” she says, voice lowering. “they’re just carbon copies of each other. all the same thoughts. the same little lives.” she scoffs lightly. “it's pathetic, really.”
you don’t argue. you just nod, small and slow.
you aren’t used to her being this harsh. it surprises you, how easily the words leave her, how little she seems to care about being kind to people who aren’t you.
for a moment, you catch something in her eyes. a flicker of satisfaction. like she likes the way you agree. the way you don’t push back. like her good little dolly, sitting exactly where she wants you.
then it’s gone. as quickly as it appeared.
you should feel strange about it.
but you don’t.
you like it. you like all of it.
“to tell you the truth,” she says softly, the edge gone from her voice, “i’ve never really fit in anywhere.”
she holds your gaze as she speaks. one hand drifts down, resting lightly on your knee. the touch is careful. measured. like she’s giving you time to pull away if you want to.
you don’t.
there’s something different in her eyes now. something open. exposed. you can tell she means it. you can tell this isn’t something she says often.
your chest tightens at the sight of it: her vulnerability, offered so plainly. so freely.
you love that about her.
you feel awful all at once. how could someone so beautiful and so, so smart never fit in anywhere? she’s dorky, yes. a little awkward. but that’s what makes her adorable. the way she lights up when she talks about plants. the way she treats them like real people. like they’re listening.
you don’t even think before you lean forward. your arms wrap around her neck, sudden and clumsy. your body presses against hers, almost draped over her because of the awkward angle of the library bench.
you bury your face in her hair. she always smells nice. clean. familiar. comforting. like something steady you can hold onto.
“oh!” she says in surprise, breath hitching.
then she hugs you back. like it’s instinct. like it’s automatic. both of her hands settle on your lower back, protective and steady, holding you there like she’s afraid you might disappear.
something in you breaks open at her words. not loud. not messy. just a quiet giving-in. the sad little girl in you comes out, the one who’s been waiting and watching and hoping without ever admitting it.
she folds herself into marilyn’s heart without asking, utterly certain that this is where you belong. you want to crawl into her ribcage and stay there, tuck yourself between bone and breath where nothing can reach you. you want to be held from the inside out, to disappear into the space she makes for you so naturally.
it feels inevitable. like you’ve been shaped for this. like you’ve finally found the place you were meant to fit.
“i’m sorry, mari,” you mumble into her hair.
“whatever for, love?” she frowns behind her glasses, voice muffled against your shoulder.
you pull back just enough to look at her, but your hands stay on her biceps. she’s so solid. so strong. it makes you feel steadier just touching her.
“that anyone ever made you feel like that,” you say, voice dropping. “fuck them.” the last part barely makes a sound.
marilyn looks amused, like she hadn’t expected that from you. she doesn’t hesitate. she scrunches her nose and smiles.
“oh, sweet girl,” she says fondly. “you’re so cute.”
then, softer but firmer: “don’t worry about me.”
it sounds gentle.
but it isn’t something you could argue with.
what she says is final.
and you know it.
one of her hands moves lower, fingers going under the band of your floral thong, keeping eye contact. heat rushes to your face and you press closer without thinking, cheeks burning as you hide against her neck. she begins to draw small circles on your skin.
“mari-” you start, then stop yourself. you swallow. “marilyn.”
she shifts slightly, nudging you with her shoulder, just enough to make you look at her. her expression changes—not unkind, but knowing.
“now,” she says, “that’s not what you usually call me, is it?”
fuck, mommy voice. it makes your stomach flip. heat now pooling in your underwear.
you shake your head a little, suddenly aware of how close you are. how easily she could pull you back in if she wanted to.
she watches you for a moment longer, "don't make me wait, babygirl."
"mommy…please." you whisper, looking down to her lips and then back up again.
marilyn's smirk widens, her hands slipping under the hem of your bottoms, fingers tightening just enough on your arse to send a shiver racing up your spine.
a small gasp escapes you before you can stop it, and you press your lips together, desperate not to make a sound. not here. not in the quiet of the library, where the air feels thick, and the soft turn of pages somewhere nearby reminds you how exposed you are.
your heart pounds in your chest, the heat between your legs intensifying as you fight to steady your breathing, your lips still pressed firmly together to trap any other sounds.
she leans in, her breath warm against your ear, whispering in that low, commanding tone that makes your knees weaken. "that's my good girl," she murmurs, her voice laced with amusement and a hint of challenge, as if daring you to break the fragile silence surrounding you.
the weight of her gaze holds you captive, her eyes dark and knowing, as if she can see every flicker of desire written across your flushed face.
"look at you," she teases softly, one hand rising to tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet her stare. "all worked up and nowhere to go. it's adorable, really." her words wrap around you like a velvet rope, pulling tighter with each syllable, and you feel a fresh wave of arousal pool between your thighs, your body betraying you despite the risk.
the tension coils in your belly, a mix of frustration and exhilaration, as you whisper a plea for mercy that you know she won't grant.
time stretches in the quiet, the only sounds the distant shuffle of footsteps and the erratic thump of your own pulse, as marilyn's hand remains firmly planted, her grip possessive yet restrained.
she watches you with that predatory gleam, her lips curving into a smile that's equal parts affectionate and wicked, making your thoughts spiral into a haze of want.
marilyn's gaze sharpens, her fingers digging a fraction deeper into your flesh, as if testing the limits of your restraint.
"do you know where we are?" she whispers, her breath ghosting over your skin and making the fine hairs on your neck stand on end. she was turning all of this onto you. it was your fault. and you weren't complaining.
you bite your lip, your body trembling under her touch, the ache between your thighs now a throbbing insistence that demands attention,.
her hand moves from your arse to your front, brushing against the damp fabric of your thong with deliberate slowness, her fingers tracing the outline of your swollen lips through the thin material, igniting sparks of pleasure that make your hips buck subtly against her.
"you need to calm this needy little cunt down," she adds, her tone laced with that same wicked amusement, her eyes locked on yours as if daring you to defy her.
the words hit you like a jolt, a mix of mockery and raw authority that sends a fresh wave of heat surging through your core, your pussy clenching involuntarily at the vulgar term she uses, as if claiming ownership of your most intimate self. as if she didnt already have it.
her fingers finding your swollen clit covered by your thong with unerring accuracy, and she presses down firmly, circling it in slow, torturous motions that draw another sharp, involuntary gasp from your lips. you desperately try to swallow back into the silence of the library but you fail.
"be quiet," she whispers harshly, her voice a low growl that vibrates through you as she watches your face contort in silent agony. "do you want someone to hear you, needy little brat?"
the words are a command and you bite your lip harder, tasting copper as the pressure on your clit builds, her fingers now coated in your arousal through your underwear, sliding with ease against the sensitive nub.
you're lost in the haze, your body arching subtly against hers, breasts pressing into her chest through the thin fabric of your shirt, nipples hardening further under the friction, but she doesn't linger.
she pulls her hand away abruptly, causing your cunt to follow her.
she lifts those glistening fingers to your mouth, offering them to you, and you part your lips obediently, sucking them clean like the good girl she calls you.
yet just as quickly, marilyn withdraws, her mouth moving to your ear. "if you thought i was going to fuck you right here in the middle of the school library, then you'd be wrong, babygirl," she murmurs, her voice dropping to a teasing whisper that leaves you throbbing with unfulfilled desire.
with that, she straightens, smoothing her clothes as if nothing had happened, and turns on her heel, slipping away into the labyrinth of bookshelves, leaving you alone in the dim corner with the books still splayed out on the table.
andulkaphoto
discoholicmusic
stormborns
jacobvanloon
annaxmalina
jbbartram-illu
