Sammy Lawrence x Reader (DISCONTINUED)

A Peculiar Visitor

3/14/20
(A/N: tell me of any spelling errors in this. Both my keyboard and Notability were bugging the hell out as I was writing this.)

It wasn't the same. Nothing was as he remembered it. About thirty years it had been. Thirty. Whole. Years.

He closed the gate behind him, irritated by the obnoxiously loud creaking from the unoiled machinery. Right off the bat, just as he did every time he left his sanctuary, he took a mental note of the state of the place. The once bright, somewhat cheery, and lively Music Department was now dim, empty, and leery. There was dust everywhere. Why, there were even specks of it floating in the air all around him, softly landing on his mask, his inky head, and anywhere else.

Aimlessly, he trudged around the Recording Studio, occasionally glancing at the old projector head resting on the railing of the right-side balcony above. He walked into the heart of the large room, his interest now piqued by the few various instruments thrown about the room. A drum, a bass, a violin, a banjo, and a piano. All of them his favorites, but a particular few played in a particular order would always be true music to his ears.

It took him a second to, once again, get over the fact that's the he and his studio itself would never be the same again. From that day way back thirty years ago and onward, it was to only be a dark, lonely place. Directing his focus back to the real reason why he dared leave his sanctuary, he turned towards the exit.

He heard footsteps entering the foyer of the Music Department, soon fading down the hallway to his right. It was at that point that, as his eyes came to rest upon a strange sight, his heartbeat increased, yet his reality slowed. There, walking down the hallway towards his office, bearing a body of human skin untouched by ink, was a female.

"What the....?" He whispered to himself in confusion. He felt as if he remembered that face. Had she worked at this studio? Had she ever even spoken to him if that were true? While he had always locked himself down in the old Music Department, he tended to remember two kinds of faces. The ones of those who annoyed him, and the ones of those who thankfully let him be. But why wouldn't he remember a beautiful one? And why would a beautiful face be lingering down in the depths of the studio?

Slowly, he crept forward and peered at the girl from around the corner. His fingers lightly tapped the wooden frame of the entryway in thought, surprised to see a strange spot of ink on the back of her hand. "It looks recent." He observed the splotched ink, seeing how it still dripped and glistened, although very slow.

Suddenly, he heard the door to his office creak open. Why she went in there? He had no idea. His heart nearly stopped as she sat in his chair, right in front of the long glass window panels, giving him a clear view of her face from afar. So innocent, so beautiful, so healing to his tortured, inky soul. A sight for sore eyes she was.

He watched as her eyes scanned the top of his desk, eyeing the Ink Machine blueprints that had been left there ages ago. She looked so confused by them, so suspicious and unnerved. When she noticed the small radio sitting in the far back corner of the wooden desktop, she fiddled with the knobs until the music came through as clear as a fuzzy, staticky radio could at the time. The upbeat song echoed through the open door of his office and down the hallway, reaching his ears at the other end.

His eyes widened at the sight before him. She began to bob her head to the music, her hair gently flowing and bouncing around as if gravity had no effect. Her captivating eyes brightened at the lively tune and a bright smile came to her face as she started to subtly dance in the chair. Everything about this girl was so surreal, almost like a dream as no human soul had never entered the studio since the last one left thirty years ago. But he didn't care. He enjoyed her presence.