#…I just my brain is now wired than whenever I see a ghost I just think about those three <3

[mouse-fantoms]

I saw this picture right,

Hear me out:

[ghouljams]

My dear, so sorry but allow me to brain root this idea here. Feel free to delete it or just kill me for bothering you.

Street race!au

All of the boys work on cars after deployment as a hobby. Maybe Alex or Gaz open a mechanic shop just to have something to do in medical leaves. Their first contact with street race was in a small car gathering, one guy got too cocky about his Bugatti and shit talking the other till Soap got enough. After winning with his Dragster project, people keep inviting them for other races.

Price and Laswell are against it in the beginning. If police ever get one of them it's game over, Martial court and prison. Definitely something they don't want to have to report on, but after some persuasion (it's good to keep the reflexes going, Gaz said, and Ghost can finally learn how to drive better. Much to Ghost protests, it actually helps him understand that scratching the car only means he will be the one paying and fixing it, so he started to avoid getting too close from guard rail or other cars, curbs and signals.) They finally give in, with only a promise to not get near civis! Only empty streets, roads or particular sites or Price himself will skin them.

None of them really buy brand new, no they got to auditions selling broke down cars, going in places with abandoned car bodies. You know seeing something broken and thrown away coming back to life by their hands always brings a smile to their faces.

Price with a Rolls Royce, liking to run on long and straight roads. Gearbox is as stiff as his neck. Break lights blinking as if passing a Morse code. He is better at calibrating things, tried once to work on the electric part and now his radio always turns one whenever he goes left.

Ghost with a GT- R Godzilla, hating curves and dirt roads. Has a skeleton keychain on his rear window gifted from Soap. Likes to work on motors and such. Once have fallen asleep under a project and Gaz and Soap thought it was going to be a great idea to wake him up by smashing an empty cane on his feet. One bruise later, the two of them will work on his car for free to pay the headache.

Soap with a Dodge Challenger dragster, Loves to pop his exhaust to challenge people. More than once his tires explode when burning tires, has to take a lift with Gaz. Do bodywork in the office but prefer to paint and custom.

Gaz with a supra, confident in curves and sew. His car has a generic green plastic soldier hanging on the rear window, Soap gift. The only one with actual patience to do electric work and welding. Once was convinced by Soap to try and use the solder to heat up hotdogs, Ghost swears that the smell of it hunts the place.

(wanted to write more but I think it's alright a small bible.)

Thanks for letting me bored you. Hope you have a wonderful month. 💕🌹💕🌹

Ok, I'm not a car guy (except the dodge challenger, fuck I love a hellcat) but I have watched a lot of Initial D so... I'm basically a drag racing expert.

First thing's first I firmly believe Ghost does not have a license, this man is driving so fucking illegally it is unreal.

Second, headcanons:

I love Soap in a muscle car, it fits him like a glove. He's pulling up with a worn out leather jacket and a sandwich from tesco, late for the race because he knows he'll win. Loves corners. The thrill of seeing how close he can get to the rail is almost as good as watching a bomb go off. He's got those good precision fingers too, I bet he does a lot of filigree and line work on the cars he paints. Probably has a signature style to it that people pay through the nose for. Price has told him multiple times to stop upcharging, he is not going to. Also feels a lot like a trick driver. Driving backwards, lots of donuts and super quick drifts to whip his car around. I think electrical would also be his thing, again it's those precision fingers. He already does wiring for demo work why not cars?

Gaz on call for pickups every time Ghost or Soap fucks up their car. Ghost is in the passenger seat all the fucking time because he stalled his car and it won't start again. Gaz has literally never seen a car stall as much as Ghost's car stalls. Gaz is point man for setting up races, he knows everyone who has a fast car, knows what streets will be empty, knows where the cops will be, he's calling flag girls just to keep this shit classy. You will not catch him slipping. He's an all around-er. He's got the curves, the straight aways, he can do it all and he does it with a smile. He's having the best time. If you ride with him you will be holding on for dear life because he is not slowing down for that turn. Ghost nearly pisses himself the first time he catches a ride home from Gaz, Soap throws up. Price will not get in the car with him.

Price strikes me as a coach type, he's attempting to manage the team Gaz has put together, but he's really just there to watch. I agree I think he's best in the straight away. He's definitely suped up his rolls, and can blast through any competition, as long as he doesn't have to do too much drifting. Gaz attempted to drive his car once and learned the hard way that the gear box cannot handle curves well. Price doesn't care, he likes to go fast so he doesn't need to do much else. He's in the shop every other month staring at the engine while Soap and Gaz hover. He will not take suggestions, eyes on your own work soldiers.

Ghost doesn't like to drive as much as he likes working pit, hard agree. He's a real black thumb, engines are his bread and butter. I want to see that man in coveralls, wiping his oil covered hands on a rag as he inspects his work. Lowkey hates driving. Gaz and Soap are insistent that he knows how to race, because there's nothing more terrifying that having Ghost pull up to a race in his blacked out Godzilla. Definitely gets pulled over all the time for having his windows tinted too dark. I think his engine is loud once it gets up above 140 kph, by design not because there's anything wrong with it. Stalls his car all the fucking time because the man cannot drive if he's not racing. Certified passenger princess. Soap makes him a shitty pink glitter t-shirt that barely fits and Ghost wears it all the time around base. Pisses Price off to no end, have some goddamn self respect.

[thornsandflames]

Reasons Why I Am A Horrible Person and You Should Never Talk To Me Again

I. The mirror always has water spots on it. I never clean it because when I was thirteen my friends wanted to play Bloody Mary, but Emma cried so loud we stopped on the second one, and now whenever I look into mirrors I fear what I’ll see looking into my eyes. My brain can conjure worse things than a glass ghost without any prompting and sometimes they spill from my mouth just as easily. Misery loves company and I am a miserable parasite begging for a victim to latch onto. What do I win in trauma bingo? I hope it’s a fifth of vodka and mirror cleaner.

II. Nothing in my room belongs to me; it’s all fragments of a girl who was here for a second and then gone. What am I if not fleeting moments of lucid character held together by alkaloids and scar tissue? When I can’t sleep at night I pick a moment I wish to be back in, but that girl wanted to be in my shoes now and the guilt staples my eyes open. If I can’t be the hero to a teenager then what can I be? Maybe twenty melatonin pills will pick for me. My roommate has to lock her medicine cabinet again tonight; maybe I’ll remember to return her blanket.

III. Hints don’t work yet I still keep dropping them, as if I’ve forgotten your brain is as oddly wired as mine. Sometimes my fear is I could wave a banner in your face and you’d still never acknowledge it; maybe I made up the fire in my chest and the stars in your eyes and the way that living seems less hard when you’re by my side. The only way to know is a leap of faith, but I promised my younger self I’d stop trying to jump off cliffs.

IV. There are more ex best friends in my life than just exes. You’d think I learn by now how to move from stage one to stage two rather than tossing stage one into the incinerator. I keep telling myself they weren’t all my fault. Amelia wanted to be popular, Jenna never liked me, Emma’s parents wanted her away, Olivia made her choices, Makayla couldn’t talk, Maddy just followed orders. If you squeeze a kitten too hard it wails and never comes back; if you just let go it breaks its neck from the fall. I never learned how to walk a tightrope before I was balancing in the middle of it and the grass had turned to fire. My skin will always smell burnt but rose-tinted glasses make it shine.

V. When I see a lamplight at dusk I imagine kissing you underneath it. Like that will cure every broken neuron in my brain and make me who I was before. I picture holding hands in dimly lit convenience stores and leaving indents in each other’s mattresses; matching jewelry which comforts in absence and clothes that smell of each other's shampoo. But those lips aren’t mine to kiss and your love is not mine to have, yet you still come to me in my dreams to welcome me home. The bed is always cold when I wake because home has never existed except behind closed eyes.

—

“Reasons Why I Am A Horrible Person and You Should Never Talk To Me Again” by Olive Aurora

[kafkaoftherubble]

📷 🌸🙃

Whoa. I didn't expect an ask at all, but an anonymous one? I thought I specifically said I'm too boring to be asked so why are you, O Mysterious Grey Face, acting like a rebel

📷 What’s set as your phone’s lockscreen?

This is supposed to be my placeholder lock screen. I like these two, I love watercolor art, but most of all, it combines two of my favorite things: "ghosts" and "lotuses." I kinda derived my own meaning from what this picture could be about and resonated with it, which is stupid, because of course you'd resonate with the meaning you yourself derived, you dumbass 😂

It's meant to be a placeholder because I was kinda waiting... for a picture. Maybe it'll be a permanent placeholder—oxymoronic for sure, but that's the way I like it. liMINAlitY!

---

Oh, it's not part of the question at all, but I do kinda like seeing pictures in my own text, so I'll show you Zelda's (the tablet) lock screen too.

Its lock screen actually changes after a certain period, so right now, it's this:

It's drawn by Loputyn, from her Aether artbook. To be fair, I found this on Pinterest.

🙃 What’s a weird fact that you know?

The brain is not a perceiving or sensory machine, but a predicting one. Your reality is constructed by your brain from memories, you see.

Your sensory organs are actually used to calibrate the accuracy of your brain's effort, and the brain's job is to quickly correct any error in its prediction whenever your sensory organ perceives one—and it has to do it before you notice it, or before that error costs you.

In other words, reality—to us—is more of a controlled hallucination than an objective observation. There is a real world out here, for sure. That's what you and I try really hard to perceive, as correctly as we can. That's what scientists are trying to capture and record.

But reality is actually quite conventional!

(It's not really a weird fact though, is it? Facts aren't weird. We just didn't expect them to turn out one way, so we think it's weird and have our self-stimulated feelings to back up our thoughts, innit?)

🌸 Best compliment you ever received?

Hmm... There's always a new one to succeed a previous Best Compliment though! Hahhahaha!

I tend not to decide what "the best" compliment might be because

that compliment was for that Lyndis, not the version of this person right now. For example, one of my past versions has been praised for being a "tantalizing orator," but the "me" right now is less likely to reach that height of skill instantly. My brain has already been wired differently from back then!

I treat compliments as responses to my actions, so a compliment is the "best" only when coupled with that context in the past. Looking back right now would make the compliment a nice piece of memory, but ultimately a lot less meaningful in the present.

I forgot that compliment ever existed.

.....

........

.............

... What? You're still waiting for an answer, anon? Seriously?! DIDN'T I JUST PHILOSOPHIZE MY WAY OUT?! COME ON!

Goddamn it. Fine! It's... "Guilt is a fine motivator. However you want to put it, if you weren't kind then I don't think you would feel guilty."

Don't ask me who said that. That's classified information.

[blueluneacy]

i think i have a problem its called im too gay for pretty anime boys

its a yandere Rook Hunt/reader!

warning: paranoia, stalking, animal traps, injury, blood, predator/prey shit

You hated this feeling. It had been lingering with you for months, but there was nothing you could do about it. Nothing but sit there and let it simmer. You sighed as you looked out the window of your dorm, unable to fall asleep even like this. You had tried closing the curtains before, but nothing helped. Nothing ever helped. So you sat, looking out the window on another night where you couldn’t sleep, attempting to try and make yourself tired. It wasn’t working. You still felt those eyes on you. It was torture, absolute torture, Were you overly stressed? Would a walk help you burn off this excess energy? Would anything make this feeling go away?

You sighed as you pulled yourself out of your bedroom, pulling your shoes on as you left. Maybe a walk would help. I mean, one could hope.

As you stepped outside in the cool air, you sort of regretted not bringing a coat. Too late now. You began to walk off, moving aimlessly around campus. You didn’t know where you were going, and you didn’t care. If it meant you were running away from that feeling, then fine. If you kept going, it would go away.

… it didn’t work. Even as you started to walk in the forest, it was still there, making your stomach feel queasy. You started to speed up, to try and escape that everything, but it still continued. God, what was wrong with you?! Why wouldn’t this feeling go away?!

You eventually tripped, before feeling yourself get pulled back. You yelped in pain as a wire tightened around your ankle, leaving you half suspended. You weren’t dangling in the hair, it seemed the branch that wanted to snap back after you set off a trigger was not strong enough to pull you all the way up, leaving your chest and head on the ground, but the rest of you upward. You hissed as you felt the tight, metal wire digging into your skin as you squirmed wildly. Only you! Only you would be in a situation like this. You looked around, finding absolutely no way out of your trap. Who would even leave this in the path like this? You sighed, resorting to your only technique left.

“Help!! Anyone around here?! Please, help!” You cried out, to no avail. You squirmed, but it only made you yelp in pain as the wire dug into your skin. You were forced to lay there, looking up at the clouds and hoping that someone would come through here soon. And that feeling was still there. You ended up closing your eyes, letting yourself succumb to exhaustion, helpless in the forest. There was nothing else you could do.

It was a light, empty sleep, to the point where his light words were enough to wake you. Maybe he was being brash, but he couldn’t help it. After all, no one else was going to come out this far.

“My my. Pauvre petit lapin, caught in a trap. Someone must have been hunting tonight.” Your eyes shot open to see the face of your Upperclassman, Rook, staring right down at you. He was far too close to you for your liking, causing you to try and squirm again, only to groan with the digging. You looked over at your ankle, finding it to have drawn blood.

“R-Rook. What are you doing out this late- You know what, not important.” You huffed. “Can you get me out of this thing? Someone left it on the path. I can’t believe they would do something on the trail so close to the school.” You grumbled, only for Rook to laugh. 

“You’re actually fairly far off. Most people don’t come all the way up here. You must have really gotten lost.” Rook chuckled, before going over to the branch in question and beginning to saw it down so he could get the wire down. He would be able to get the wire off your ankle after.

“Well, I’m glad you were out here, at least. I’m really letting my brain get to me.” You sighed, causing Rook to raise an eyebrow. 

“Oh? Do tell, mon lapin. We have a moment before I can get this down.” He asked. You looked over, sighing a bit. This is not how you wanted to get this off your chest, but maybe it would help. You know, sometimes everything feels better after the worst things just all fall into place.

“I think I’m just going crazy. It feels like all the time now, someone’s watching me. When I sleep, when I eat, whenever. It’s like a ghost is following me, or something. But I know that no one is there.” You sighed, both out of your situation and in relief as the branch fell, and you felt the loop around your leg loosen. You easily were able to start to pull the wire out from your skin, hissing all the while as you saw that you had soaked the thing in blood. Rook just watched you, before you finally got the thing off of you, dropping it on the ground as you looked over your wound.

“So you tried to run away from it? That’s no good, mon lapin.” Rook hummed, leaning down and pulling bandages from his pocket. Why...Why did he have bandages in the first place? “I didn’t even notice the chase had begun until you had gotten oh so far from me. It was a good thing I had this trap set up, you might have been able to really get away…” He sighed. Your eyes widened as you soaked in his words, laughing nervously.

“Haha, that isn’t really a good joke, Rook. You really shouldn’t make comments like that.” You said, trying to brush it all off, but Rook laughed louder.

“Oh, mon lapin, I never would joke with you about something like that.” His voice turned dark, still grinning as he looked down at you. “I’m shocked you noticed me! Such interesting prey, you really aren’t going to make this easy for me! That’s absolutely delightful.” You felt yourself go pale as he let his gloved finger trace over your wound, starting to unravel the bandages to apply on you. You squirmed back, not wanting this man to touch you now that you knew the truth, trying to figure out what the fuck was going on.

“W… Why?! Why the hell are you doing this?!” You yelled, pointing a finger at him. “D-Do you know how many sleepless nights you’ve given me?! You’re being a fucking creep!” You yelled. Rook thought for a moment, before putting a hand to his chest. Although it was dark, you could make out how his cheeks had become red.

“My my, you’re even beautiful when you’re upset! It’s incredible! It only makes me happier to chase you more~!” He swooned, leaving you to gulp. You looked around, trying to find some sort of way out, only to say fuck it and get up, starting to walk the way you came. Rook only laughed at your avoidance, calling after you.

“I suppose that now you’ve found out, I should start hunting you for real, shouldn’t I?” He purred. You paused for a moment, swallowing as you shifted your weight, trying to test the limits of your ankle. You were oh, so tired, but it was really freaking you out at this point. Who do you even tell about this sort of thing? 

“You’re going to leave me alone, is what you’re going to do. If you don’t, I’m going to tell.” You responded, refusing to turn around. Maybe you should’ve, or you might have been more keen on how Rook easily came behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. God, was he that quiet?! 

“Oh, you should. I love it when you play hard to get, after all. Don’t worry, votre chasseur d'amour will always catch you~” He hummed. You gasped, feeling him squeeze a bit tighter. “And when I do, I’ll make you say the words “Je t'aime.” I think it’s fair to give you a chance, no?” You felt sick to your stomach at that, finding this too much to bear as you finally pushed him away, scrambling away from him.

“You… You’re crazy! You’re fucking batshit, is what you are!” You yelled, but Rook only smiled, shrugging.

“Love is often called as such.” He replied, leaving you to pale. “You know, if you really want me to stop, all you have to do is run. If I can’t catch you, well…” He thought to himself, sighing a bit. “I suppose I would have to admit defeat. You can’t catch them all. I would have to content myself with being empty handed.” He sighed. You looked behind you, down the mountain and took a deep breath.

“So, you’re telling me all I have to do is get away from you, and you’ll leave me alone?” You looked around. The pain in your ankle was bad, but it was bearable. Enough for you to endure. 

“Of course! I’m a man of my word, after all. I promise.” He told you, giving a smile.You swallowed, looking down the mountain, unsure. “I’ll even give you a head start. Go ahead. Run.” The way he said it made a chill roll down your spine, leaving you to take a deep breath, before finally taking off.

Rook just watched you, sighing a bit as he looked away. Even if you were out of sight, he could still easily smell the blood that dripped down your ankle and into a path behind you. He chuckled, counting the seconds down before finally running off after you, making no attempt to quiet himself as he would with normal prey. You never stood a chance in the first place.

“Oh, mon lapin, you should’ve known better than to try and outrun my love.”

[matrixreimagined]

The Dream Chronicles

Chapter Four on A03

or read it here!

Neo felt the pseudo-wind whip around him as he floated upwards almost leisurely until he was taller than any of the skyscrapers around him. The city scape spread out as far as the eye could see. In the distance, he could see mountains encased by a blue sky. A blue sky that had long ago been scorched.

He slowed down. It was like a video game. It wasn’t really him that was moving—it was his surroundings. He stilled, for a moment, taking it all in.

All that he had thought was real, just an elaborate dream.

All that he had thought was a dream, it was real. And it was waiting for him on the other side of the screen. The thought brought a smile to his lips as he looked down.

Trinity and Morpheus were only dots in the distance.

He began the descent, noting how his jacket billowed. Neo rolled in the air to face down as he soared back to the opposite rooftop before pulling upright to land on his feet next to Trinity.

Morpheus’ eyes were wide as he stared at Neo with something akin to awe.

"Already," Morpheus said, "already you can control your descent and trajectory?"

Neo looked at Trinity, unsure of what to say. Her hard gaze softened when they met his, but she still appeared tense. She flipped out a phone and hit the connect button.

"Tank, take us out," she said, and Neo felt the code around him burst bit by bit. And then his vision changed. Instead of Morpheus and Trinity, he was staring up at a metal ceiling lined with wires and tubes.

Apoc was by his side, quick to unplug him.

Neo sat up. The crew stood gathered at the console but were looking at him with a reverence that he recognized from his dreams. It had always made him uncomfortable but now it was overwhelming.

"If you all aren’t actually doing anything, go to bed." Trinity was already on her feet. Her tone brooked no room for argument and, immediately, Mouse, Switch, Apoc, Cypher and Dozer trailed off. "Morpheus, the office."

Trinity turned on her heel, crossing the main deck.

With a last, awe-filled look at Neo, Morpheus followed.

Neo glanced between the door they had gone through and the operator before asking, "I don't have to go with them, do I?"

"Nah, this is between them. She's scary when she's angry."

Neo laughed, stifling a yawn as he swung his legs over the chair. "You don't have to tell me."

Tank nodded, a smirk on his lips. "I’m Tank, by the way."

Neo blinked at him, surprised at the introduction, and then he remembered. He knew them. They didn’t know him.

And he wasn’t even sure if he did know them. It was all so confusing and, aside from Trinity, he wasn’t sure what and who he could trust.

Ghosts and shadows, he thought back to his conversation with Trinity earlier. Close to reality but not quite real.

He glanced back to the door. He needed her. To talk with her. To figure things out. Just to be by her side while he thought through shit.

He noticed that Tank was still looking at him and it occurred to him that he hadn’t actually responded to the introduction. "Right. I’m Neo."

"Good to meet you. Officially. Given the dreams, and all."

Neo nodded, reaching a hand up to rub at his eyes. It still boggled the mind.

"You feeling okay?"

"Tired," Neo said. "My body feels like I was really fighting Morpheus."

"Your mind makes it real. As far as your brain is concerned, you just went three rounds with Morpheus and then pulled that superman shit in the jump program."

"Superman thing?"

"You know, making a mockery of the fact everyone fails the first jump by floating and flying over the gap like it was nothing." Tank grinned before adding, "That ain't normal, Messiah."

"Which is why Morpheus was pushing."

"Yep. You'd still be in there if Trin hadn't gone all mama bear. Looks like a good thing, too. You ain't going to pass out on me?"

Neo shook his head. "No, but can I lie down for a bit?"

"Go for it. Come find me whenever and I'll run you through some more trainings. You, uh, you remember your way around?"

Neo nodded, covering a yawn. "Yeah."

He pushed up from the chair and made his way towards the crew quarters, his mind barely registering where he was going. Step by step until he reached the door he recognized as his own. He pushed it open and kicked off his boots, eyes already starting to close. Asleep, the moment his head hit the pillow.

.......................................................

"He's the One!"

"I don't care! He is still human, Morpheus! We never, ever, start sparring the first day, regardless of what he already knew."

"He could fly."

"I was there, Morpheus. I saw it too. But you are so obsessed with the One, you're blinded to the fact that Neo is still human! He's barely woken up and you're acting like he's completed his training!"

"Did you see him in there, Trinity! What he's capable of? We don’t know his limits."

"And we won’t find them by breaking him! Jesus Christ, he isn’t a weapon. No matter the extent of his powers, he is still human!"

Morpheus regarded his first officer, seething before him. He shook his head, unable to understand.

"Not two months ago, you were completely against me trying to free him—said he was too old, that it was too much of a risk. Then a week later, you stopped arguing and started picking up shifts just to watch him— don’t deny it. I thought, maybe, you were beginning to see what I see. But you see something different when you look at him."

He wasn’t wrong but it was irrelevant.

"He’s a man, Morpheus. He still bleeds. Neo needs to be treated as such, not like some lost messiah."

"But that’s what he is."

"It’s not." It came out harsher than she intended. "He does not need to eat, sleep, and breathe being the One. He is so much more than that."

Morpheus closed his eyes, leaning against the desk. A sigh escaped him as the moment passed. Without opening his eyes, he spoke, "He woke up and said your name. When you weren’t there, he started ripping out his IVs. Dozer tried to block him at the door, and he started swinging." Morpheus shook his head. "He was so desperate to get to you. He recognizes the rest of us, but in that moment… I don’t know what he knows. I don’t even know what you know. But I will trust your judgement." Morpheus opened his eyes. "What do you propose we do?"

Trinity felt herself exhale. It wasn’t over, not by a longshot but the captain was listening. That was a start. A step in the right direction.

"Let him do his trainings, let him follow the course that any other redpill would take. Give him time to adjust—at least a week to catch his bearings and align the world from his dreams to the real world. Then we take him to the Oracle."

It was reasonable, neither could deny, even if they both disliked the proposed timeline. It still felt too short, but she could always push for more time if Neo needed it. By then, at least, they would know more.

Morpheus acquiesced with a nod.  "We will start training tomorrow," he said, "but he will need to be tested eventually, Trinity. If that's what he's doing after an hour, imagine what he'll be like after a week."

And fuck, she knew that, too.

"I'm just asking for time."

"I'll allow it lest you take it anyway." Morpheus gave her a smile. "And perhaps, in time, you’ll be able to share with me whatever… whatever it is that is going on with you and Neo."

Trinity nodded gratefully and turned to leave. Her hand was on the door when Morpheus spoke again. "Trinity." She turned. "He’s lucky to have you."

The captain didn’t miss the way she flushed as she turned back to the door, not saying anything. She paused, taking a breath, before walking back out to the main deck.

Her eyes scanned the room. It seemed that everyone had followed her orders, at the very least. She had worried that they would have been too overcome with excitement, but the room was empty, save Tank sitting alone at the console.

Neo was nowhere to be seen.

She crossed to the operator, who glanced up as she walked over.

"Hey, mama bear."

"You’re hilarious," she said, although her face did not change. "Can I get a readout of his brain waves while he was in the Construct?"

"Already ahead of you. Sent a copy to both you and Morpheus. Should be on your scanner when you go back to your quarters."

Trin nodded. "You’re the best."

"That award might go to your boyfriend." Tank leaned back in the chair, as he recalled. "He didn’t even make the first jump… he fucking demolished it."

She sighed, moving to lean against the console desk. Her hand ran roughly through her hair. "He can fly."

"I thought Mouse was going to shit himself."

His words had the desired effect and Trinity cracked a grin. "How was Switch?"

"Got over excited and nearly broke one of the monitors. Christ, Trin, everyone was losing it on this side. What he knows already, what he’s been able to do. Even Cypher couldn’t begin to explain it. If all that dream shit wasn’t enough, no one who sees the readings of what just happened will be able to deny it."

"It hasn’t been more than two hours," Trinity said. "He barely has his footing in this world. Hasn’t even begun any sort of real world regimen, Tank."

"We’ll get him started. Between you and Apoc, you’ll bust him into shape in no time."

"I’m not worried about that. I know he’ll be fine. But he’s coming into this world with so many expectations on his shoulders. And we don’t even know how much he knows. Yes, he’s had dreams of this place but that doesn’t mean he’s outlined a path to destroy the Matrix."

"We’ll talk to him. We’ll find out what he knows and build from there. No one is asking him to destroy it tomorrow. He’s got time to figure it out."

She shook her head and said, "He’s not a weapon. He isn’t. And this is what I’m afraid of. When the Council gets a hold of him…"

"They won’t," Tank said, almost smirking. "You won’t let them."

Trinity stared at the operator before letting a small laugh escape. "True." She folded her arms over her chest. "But I can’t protect him from everything. Especially since…" she trailed off.

"You can say it." Tank’s expression was devoid of judgment and far too kind and understanding for her tastes. She preferred him when he was being a sarcastic little shit. "You can say that Neo is the One. With what we just saw, I’m not sure Lock himself would be able to deny it."

Trinity was saved from responding with the door to the office opening again, Morpheus exiting looking positively exhausted.

"Where’s Neo?" he asked without hesitation, finding only Trinity and Tank.

Tank answered, "Said he was feeling tired and asked to go lay down."

Morpheus nodded. "So you took him back to the infirmary?"

"He said he knew the way," Tank said.

"I’ll make sure he has blankets and is settled. Then I’m going to bed. I suggest you both do the same. The alarms will let us know if a sentinel comes close."

Trinity nodded, the lack of sleep catching up with her. "Will do."

"Good night, Captain my Captain." Tank watched as Morpheus left, waiting for the footsteps to fade. "Take it day by day," he advised. "It’s too much for any person to take in at once. I’m still reeling from what he knows. Morpheus is damn near going insane. I can’t even begin to imagine how this is for you."

She stared down at the ground, unable to deny how much Neo was affecting her. His presence, his knowledge. His confusion tugged at her heart strings and she felt torn between playing his fierce protector and picking up where they had left off earlier, before Apoc and Switch had interrupted and forced them to remember their surroundings.

It didn’t matter, she supposed.

Asleep, in the real world, Neo was shockingly safe. From Agents, from Morpheus, from his own curiosities. At least until morning.

"I’m not going to lie," she said finally. "I’m scared. For him. Of him. I’m not sure how to manage all of this. He talks to me like he knows me. And I find myself talking back, like I know him. But I don't. Today was the first day I spent with him awake for more than five minutes. And I keep reminding myself of that but, honestly, I don’t care. And then that scares me."

Tank nodded along. "You two… have something. Whether it’s based in dreams or not, you and Neo have something. And love, even just infatuation, can mess with the most put together person and tear them apart. And this is more than just that."

"I know."

"So, give yourself a break. No matter what happens with you and Neo, your life just changed dramatically. You’re allowed to take time to adjust."

"It just seems—"

"Tank!" Morpheus’ voice echoed from the hall into the main deck.

Trinity grimaced and Tank gave her a commiserating look as he shouted back, "Yeah?"

Morpheus crossed the threshold onto the deck. "He wasn't in the infirmary. Are you sure that's where he went?"

"He said he was going to lie down," said Tank, "and that's where I’d imagine he'd go. Did you check the crew quarters?"

"He wasn't in the one we assigned for him, nor any of the other empty ones."

Her heart stuttered as the obvious thought hit her. Swallowing, she asked, "Did you check my quarters?"

Morpheus and Tank both looked at her wide-eyed.

Keeping as blank a stare as she could, she reasoned, "We’ve established that he’s seen me naked. And he knows the book on my bedside table in Zion. I think it's safe to assume, if he's going off of memory, that he probably sleeps with me."

Tank was trying, desperately, to keep a straight face. She could see his lips twitching as he worked at stilling his features. It was a losing battle. Eventually, a giggle bubbled up. His hand went up to cover his mouth and Trinity resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

"Laugh it up," she said as Tank shifted into truly guffawing.

"Oh my god," he laughed, leaning back in the chair, "I’m sorry. But this…" The laughter continued and she caught Morpheus’ gaze.

She could see the confusion, the wonder in his eyes.

"Do you…" Morpheus’ face was reluctant, even as he made the offer, "do you want me to have him moved or…?"

She waved a hand. "It’s… fine. We’ll work it out, Neo and I. Whatever it is that’s going on, we need to be the ones to sort it out." Trinity gave him a small smile. "I’m going back to bed. I’ll see you all in the morning."

"Have fun!" Tank called, still laughing.

The walk to her quarters never seemed so long. She took a breath before opening the door, slowly as to avoid the creaking.

Sure enough, even in the dark, she could make out the lump on her bed that certainly wasn’t blankets.

Trin closed the door and toed off her boots and socks. The floor was cold beneath her bare feet. She paused for a moment, looking down at the man in front of her, nestled in the blankets, stirring ever so slightly.

Neo’s eyes flickered open and he inhaled. "Hey," he murmured.

"Hi," she replied softly, not wanting to disturb him.

Neo opened his blankets upwards, making room for her to climb in. She did so, settling in between his arms in a way that felt right. She closed her eyes as her head rested on his forearm and quickly drifted off into sleep.

[thatwasthenightthingschanged]

hello I think The Archer is a criminally underrated song just because it has been released pre-album release so here’s an interpretion of the lyrics (& at the same time reasons why this song is one of the best ones Taylor has ever written) because I’m bored in the house and I’m in the house bored (also please note that every interpretation is always highly subjective so this is just my take on it)

(okay before we start CAN WE PLEASE TALK ABOUT THE PRODUCTION OF THIS SONG? I literally feel like I’m ascending into another dimension whenever I listen to it)

“combat, I’m ready to combat. I say I don’t want that, but what if I do?” the first line of the song, even though it is repeated at the end again, is very different from its meaning compared to the end of the song. Here, Taylor is doubting herself. She realizes that she has a tendency to fight with the people she loves, maybe also fight with people in general, and she always thought it just happens to her and she has to react, but maybe she kind of thrives a little bit of the drama, too? maybe, when she fights with loved ones, she does it on purpose, because she’s so scared of being left (see: “you gotta leave before you get left”) that she starts fights and gets herself all worked up about nothing just so she can leave the other person before they have the chance to do so (kind of in the sense that it hurts less if you leave first because then you at least could prepare yourself for what’s coming). but we’ll get to this point again quite a few times in this song I think.

“’Cause cruelty wins in the movies” this of course ties to the interpretation of the last lyric, but perhaps it’s also a sense of in movies, when people fight, they get back together and are even closer than before, so maybe that’s her thought process? like the feeling of the more fighting there is in a relationship, the better it is?

“I’ve got a hundred thrown out speeches I almost said to you” So, as already said, she has this urge to start a fight, she’s thinking about different potential scenarios in her head (maybe also imagining what she’d say if the other person says they’d leave her) and she can’t help but think about what would happen if things would go wrong (I think it’s kind of like a defense mechanism, again; if you have already thought about every potential bad outcome of a situation, you’re less surprised if it actually happens. But what she realizes is that having this thought pattern also takes a mental toll on you as well as a toll on any potential relationship because you always assume the worst)

“Easy they come, easy they go” she falls in love fast, and they do, too but they also leaves as fast as they have arrived which might lead her to question if it maybe is not just their fault, but hers too

“I jump from the train, I ride off alone” sometimes she’s also the one who’s leaving the relationship when she feels like it goes too deep too fast but whenever she does she just ends up more lonely than before because she realizes she lost something good due to her fear of being vulnerable with someone else

“I never grew up, it’s getting so old” This obviously also ties back to what Taylor is saying in the Miss Americana documentary, as in she felt frozen at the age she became famous and she still had the same coping mechanisms she had when she was 19, as in she always assumed the worst of whoever was trying to get close to her because she had been let down too many times and this anxiety might have gotten in the way of quite a bunch of good things. However, she’s tired of it, she finally wants to be able to change for the better, she doesn’t want this relationship she’s in now to end like the ones before

“help me hold on to you” of course emphasizes that, she’s literally begging the other person to stop her from ruining something good again just because her anxiety is telling her to mess things up before the other person can mess *her* up

“I’ve been the archer, I’ve been the prey” Again, love-wise, she has been the one leaving other people and hurting them, but also the other way round. might also mean that she has gone after people publicly and people have gone after her as well. here she acknowledges again that she has done some wrong in her life and hurt others, and she feels sorry about it because she has been on the receiving end before and knows how much it hurts

“who could ever leave me darling? but who could stay?” so there’s this inner conflict going on inside her: on the one side she feels really confident about herself, who could ever leave her? she’s an amazing person. And if there’s a breakup then she’s going to leave, not the other way round. However, at the same time, she has a lot of moments of doubts, feeling unlovable and asking herself if anyone could ever stay because she might feel like she’s genuinely too much for people and that the way her fear overtakes her sometimes is not something anyone could ever handle

“dark side, I search for you your dark side. but what if I’m alright here?” this is honestly my favorite lyric of the whole song (because oof, hella relatable). when she lets someone new into her life, she is scared. She is scared they will leave her again, they will betray her again, as so many people in the past have. So immediately she tries looking for something that could go wrong, or looking for how they could hurt her and always assumes the worst. another self-defense mechanism, with the same goal: if she is prepared to be let down, maybe it won’t hurt as much. But this time, something is different: She starts realizing that the other person genuinely likes her and has no intention of ever betraying her or leaving her. It’s a new feeling, and she’s intrigued by it.

“and I cut off my nose just to spite my face, then I hate my reflection for years and years” same point as before: She intentionally leaves people because her fear makes her scared that they could hurt her, so she hurts them first in an attempt to protect herself. But the only thing that does is that she recalls these mistakes for years and she hates herself for it, for a) acting upon her fear that isn’t really based on facts and b) hurting someone who didn’t deserve it.

“I wake in the night, I pace like a ghost. The room is on fire, invisible smoke” In the night is when her anxiety always reaches its peak. She cannot sleep and starts imagining every possible bad outcome there could be. She “paces like a ghost” because in these moments she feels more dead than alive, the anxiety takes over her entire body and the only thing that’s left is a ghost of her personality. She feels like she can’t breathe anymore, that there’s danger aka hurt on the way when it actually isn’t (”invisible smoke”) and she often takes those anxious thoughts and believes them and then once again destroys good things when there’s actually no reason to.

“’Cause all of my heroes die all alone. Help me hold on to you.” While she does tend to push nearly everyone away, she’s also incredibly scared of ending up all alone, like her heroes do. With no partner to share the good and the bad stuff with. So she begs the other person, again, to help her hold onto them because she doesn’t want to break up and be on her own again.

“They see right through me” Her friends and family have observed that trait about her and know that sometimes when she acts out on them it’s because of her anxiety, not because she’s actually mad at them.

“Can you see right through me?” Can you see it, too? Do you know how my brain is wired? Because if you do, does that mean that my behavior isn’t something that you mind? Are you staying because you know it and still love me?

“I see right through me” Even she has realized her toxic behavior, and now that she’s aware of it, she’s trying to change but that change can of course not happen over night.

“All the king’s horses, all the king’s men couldn’t put me together again” sometimes she might have also seeked relationships to distract herself from her problems and her hurt, thinking that the other person could save her, could make her love herself again, but of course these attempts have failed because if you don’t believe you’re worth the love you’re receiving, you’re likely to leave before the other person sees (what you think is the truth) that you’re not good enough for them

“‘Cause all of my enemies started as friends, help me hold on to you.” Again, she has been betrayed and hurt so many times in her life that she always assumes the worst of every person she lets close to her. Therefore, she also questions her partner’s motives, thinking they will turn out like the rest of them again. Here, again, she’s also scared of herself, that she will mess things up purposefully again just because of the whole “leave before you get left” mantra.

“combat, I’m ready for combat.” This, to me, feels entirely different. I think I made a post about it already shortly after the song was released, but basically this time, these lines feel almost hopeful. She is ready not to fight the other person, but to fight her anxiety and fight for her love because she has found something good and she has made the decision not to give up on it no matter what.

[angelicspaceprince]

Ouija

Author: Ama

Title: Ouija

Pairing: Possible Future Beetlejuice/Reader

Character/s: Beetlejuice

Word Count: 2, 473 words

Warnings: Beetlejuice has dyslexia, I do not, I tried.

Tags: @yankyo, @justballoonfishthings, @breadbudzo, @aethersghoulette, @ironically-deadinside, @beetlejuicecansteponme, @beetlebitchywitch (some of you asked, some of you I just tagged bc)

Prompt: You find a Ouija board and end up communicating with a ghost who has trouble spelling. Together you figure out a way for him to communicate with you a little bit easier.

Notes: I promised this fic like ages ago, based off of @slut-4-beetlejuice hcs that they wrote ages ago and we kinda did a dance of reblogs where we added to each other. But yeah, this is what I came up with! My plan for this fic is to do it in two parts and if y’all want more I can write more later, but I’m basically gonna portray your side of the story and then our favourite residential ghost with the most. This, obviously, is the reader’s side of the story. This is my first attempt at writing Beetlejuice as a fic, not as a hc so please be gentle with me. I hope y’all enjoy!Also, I had speechie friendo talk to me about dyslexia and I based Beej’s spelling mistakes around the notes she sent me.

Ouija Board Inspiration

Buy Me a Coffee

Ouija

It had started out innocently enough. You were bored and decided to spend the day exploring your new attic. You found a box filled with old games and decided that you wanted to sort through them, see if any were unusual or rare that you could keep. Most of them, you planned to donate somewhere, or put them back into storage.

You weren’t expecting much. Maybe a torn-up game of Twister, or Mouse Trap. Half a pack of Uno cards, or a ruined game of Trouble, and for the most part, you got what you expected. But when you found the Ouija board, you were a little surprised. Most of the games were for children, and weren’t in good enough nick to keep, let alone play. But the Ouija board looked like it just came out of the factory that created it. You go to lift the case from the bottom of the box, surprised by how heavy it was when you started to lift, nearly dropping it twice when you finally got it out and onto the table in front of you. Carefully, you lift the lid.

No wonder it was heavy. The Ouija board was wooden, and bigger than you were expecting. The dark wood had been engraved with the usual things a Ouija has, Yes, No, Goodbye, numbers 0-9 and every letter of the alphabet, the outside decorated with various designs you couldn’t make out in the dark. The one you could recognise was the pentagram engraved between the Yes and the No on the board. The planchette was also heavy, made from the same wood as the board, engraved with just two x’s, indicating where to put your finger.

You look over at the board as you hold the planchette in your hands. You were bored, yes. The attic was now in a state, yes. But the urge to test out the Ouija board was beginning to get too great. You organise yourself on the floor, placing the planchette in the middle of the board and just.... waiting. Not really sure on what to do now.

“Uh…hello?” Your voice is uncertain before you yelp when the cursor on the board begins to move. Yes, your fingers are on the x’s, but you weren’t providing any pressure. It just moved on its own.

‘H – I.’ The cursor spells out as your brain sort circuits as it returns to the centre of the board.

“Uhhhhh.” You pause, not sure how to proceed. “I’m Y/N. What’s your name?” The planchette seems to shake a little before moving towards the ‘No’ part of the board, returning to the centre. “You don’t want to tell me?” It moves back to the ‘No’. “That’s ok then. Can I ask if you’re really dead?” It moves to the ‘Yes’. “Is that yes I can ask, or yes you are?”

‘YES, I – A – M – D – E – D.’ You repeat the phrase once you’ve spelt out the letters quietly to show you’re aware of which letter the ghost was indicating with. “Sorry, I didn’t think I’d get a response, or one so soon.”

‘F – L – G – U – R – E – D.’

“Can I ask some questions about life after death?” You wait for the cursor to move over the Yes before continuing. “Is there a hell?”

So, it continued. Every day, after work, you’d come home and race up to the attic and spend time talking to your ghostly friend, who still wouldn’t tell you their name. All you knew was they were dead, had been for centuries, were bored, and were something called a bio-exorcist (which took a couple of attempts to spell). You also learnt that any form of parental figure, they hated, and any form of rules and regulations was not something they enjoyed.

You also noticed that they had a weird tendency to refuse certain questions or struggled to spell words correctly when they did. Sure, exorcist, intelligence and February weren’t easy words to spell when you weren’t writing them down, but replacing b’s for d’s and p’s for q’s, c’s for o’s and n’s for m’s. There were a lot of little things you picked up over time made you think perhaps there was more to this story.

So, you changed direction. One evening, you were talking about work and things that annoyed you and a question you thought they’d be fine answering, but the planchette just started to shake. You pause for a second, trying to figure out what was wrong. “Do you want to answer the question?” The cursor slides quickly and heavily to the ‘Yes’, causing you to move your whole body with it before it tentatively returns to the centre of the board. You think for a second as the planchette continues to vibrate with what feels like annoyance. “Can you spell the answer?” The planchette stops moving and everything is still. It’s so quiet, you could hear a pin drop. You wait for thirty seconds before you say “Hello?” and like that, the cursor slowly, tentatively, goes over towards the ‘No’ part of the board followed by a ‘A-L-W-A-Y-S-B-E-E-M-A-B-A-D-S-P-E-L-E-R. “Oh. That’s ok, I’m pretty rubbish without spell check too. Take your time.” Everything stops for a second, the energy that is always humming when you’re up here seems to have dropped to a low throb, and you slowly remove your hands from the planchette as you think.

‘How can I make this easier for them?’ You hum for a second before returning your hands to the board. “Would you prefer yes or no questions?” The planchette slides quickly over to the ‘Yes’ and you smile. “Ok, if something isn’t a yes or no question, I’ll provide answers and you can slide to the numbers to tell me which one is appropriate. Does that work?” Again, ‘Yes’.

Life moves on. It was weird at first, but you got used to asking only yes or no questions and becoming content with that as a response. A few more weeks went by, you slowly began to spend more time talking to the ghost in the attic. It was fascinating, and you were lonely and suspected they were too. Why else would they talk to you night after night after night? You never brought up the idea that perhaps they may have been lonely, but you focused on making sure like they felt like they had a friend.

A few more weeks had passed before you came up with a new idea. As good as it was to make them feel like they weren’t stupid for their spelling, you felt like you were muting them or speaking on their behalf. So, on your Saturday evening as you ate your dinner and you asked a question about if they enjoyed scaring people whenever they got the chance and the planchette moved by its own accord, you stared down at the board for a few minutes in shock. “You can move things WITHOUT me helping?”

‘Yes.’

“Why the fuck do I have to hold it then?” You forget to offer options as you take a breath, hearing the planchette slide across the board. “Its fine, I was just in shock.” You explain, not looking at what the ghost was being said. An idea pings in your head. “With your bad spelling, does it affect your reading or is it easier? One for both are hard, two for reading is easier.”

The planchette wobbles for a second before it slides over between the two. ‘R-E-A-D-I-M-G-I-S-S-T-I-L-L-H-A-R-D.’ It spells out. ‘B-UT-N-O-T-A-S-H-A-R-D-A-S-S-P-E-L-I-M-G.’

You can sense the confusion in the room as you nod, already thinking of a plan. “Have you always struggled with reading and spelling?” ‘A-L-W-A-Y-S-B-U-T-I-N-J-U-S-T-S-T-U-P-I-D’ You you’re your heart break slightly when they call themselves that. “Sweetheart, have you ever heard of the term dyslexia?” ‘No’. “It’s where your brain struggles to recognise letters or sounds, it makes it hard for people to read and write. They often miss letters or get letters mixed up, or sometimes even add letters that aren’t meant to be there.” You explain gently. “I think you may have the same kind my friend has. He reads a lot even though it’s a struggle, but if you get him to spell, he’s absolutely hopeless. Amazing at math, though. Like a walking calculator.” You smile as you get distracted before you shake your head and bring yourself back to the present. “I don’t think you’re stupid, love, I think perhaps your brain just isn’t wired to like letters and words.” You explain as you fiddle with your hands, unsure on where to put them. The planchette doesn’t move, but you can feel the air growing thicker.

‘N-O-T-S-T-U-P-I-D’ – the planchette draws a question mark over the entire board. You shake your head.

“Not stupid at all, pet.” A few seconds pass before the planchette moves over to the ‘Goodbye’ section. You sigh, slightly disappointed that they wanted to leave so soon. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

You ran late to work the next day, replaying the conversation in your head with your resident ghost over and over again as it kept you up later and later into the night. Your plan wasn’t well thought out at this stage, but you could get things started.

You stay late after work to make up for the hour that you missed this morning before rushing to the bookshop, making it there 10 minutes before they closed. You found what you wanted and quickly purchased it before rushing home, making sure to grab something for dinner as you drive home.

The moment you arrived home and placed your bags by the front door, the house felt empty. For the first time since using the Ouija board, the house felt like you were the only one in it. Pulling out the Ouija board, you asked if they were here. Nothing. You put your fingers on the planchette. Nothing again. You call out to them to see if they were there, nothing. You sigh before packing it back up. Perhaps your new-found friend had moved on.

It was a few days before your ghostly friend returned. The house had felt barren the entire time they were gone, you had stopped bringing out the board the day they returned, figuring that they just weren’t going to come back. A loud crash from the living room caused you to run out from the kitchen where you were preparing dinner to see what had happened. On the floor was the Ouija board, set up and ready to go with the planchette moving wildly across the board, so fast you couldn’t keep up.

“Hang on, hang on, hang on.” You rush back upstairs to grab the item you had purchased for them the week prior before rushing back downstairs and putting it next to the board with a satisfying thud. “I got you a dictionary, they had one with pictures which I thought could help.” You explain to where you hoped the ghost was. You put a pen in front of the giant book. “Just…. point I guess to the word you want to say. If you want to try it this way that is, I thought it might be easier for you.”

The air seemed thick as you waited for something to move, the planchette or the book. Suddenly, the cover of the book seemed to gingerly open as the ghost slowly looked for the words he was looking for. ‘IT-IS-EASIER’ they indicated with the pen. You smile as the pages begin to turn in a flurry, clearly excited to be able to communicate with you a bit easier.

So, life continued. The ghost (who you later found out was a man) would follow you from room to room, carrying the pen and the book to indicate different words to you, making comments on nearly everything that he wasn’t able to before, from the shade of paint on your walls (he thought they should be green) to what you were wearing (he was really into you wearing stripes for some reason), he would readily give your opinion on everything. It was weird, but you could feel yourself slowly falling for the now forever talking ghost. The freedom that came with the dictionary meant that your conversations become more…. conversation like. He wasn’t restricted to just yes or no answers, and you weren’t restricted to staying in one room. You found yourself having dinners next to the constantly page flipping book and laughing at his bad jokes and giving some back of your own. You found small doodles on the outside of the dictionary too, his own little crude drawings he did when you weren’t home. It was nice, it felt like some kind of perverse kind of domestic.

It had been months since your initial contact with him, and you still didn’t know his name and, to be honest, it was beginning to bug you. You didn’t say or show your annoyance about not knowing his name, but you figured it was time you knew. So, when you came home that night and had set up your dinner in your usual set up, you finally decided to ask. “Can I know your name?”

It took a minute before your squatter decided to respond. ‘ORION-BRIGHT-STAR’.

“Orion’s brightest star?” You say, almost as a question as you pull out your phone to do a quick Google. “Beetlejuice?” You look up to see a fury of pages flying as he quickly makes his way over to the ‘A’ section of the dictionary.

‘AGAIN’

“Beetlejuice?”

The pen slams back down on the page. ‘AGAIN.’

You hesitate. “Beetlejuice?”

There was a crash, a bang, and way too much smoke that filled the room as bright green lights seemed to radiate from outside your house. You cough and wave your hand to clear the smoke from your mouth when you finally hear it.

“Thanks for that babes, I’ve been wanting you to see me for months now.” You blink before you see him. He was-

Cuter than you were expecting. Shorter too. Not the scary man you had envisioned, but rather an adorable guy dressed in arguably way too many stripes, even though it seemed to suit. The green in his hair was vibrant and his whole being seemed to shake with excitement. For the first time in a long time, you didn’t know what to say.

“What’s wrong babes? Cat got your tongue?” He leans in closer to take a better look at you, but all you could focus on was the bright green of his eyes.

“You’re hotter than I imagined.” You heard yourself say before you turn bright, bright red. The grin on his face widens as he chuckles lowly, sending a shiver up your spine.

“Oh babes, we are going to have so much fun.”

[dvp95]

quiet on widow’s peak (15)

pairing: dan howell/phil lester, pj liguori/sophie newton/chris kendall rating: teen & up tags: paranormal investigator, mystery, online friendship, slow burn, strangers to lovers, nonbinary character, trans character, background poly, phil does some buzzfeed unsolved shit and dan is a fan word count: 3.2k (this chapter), 49.6k (total) summary: Phil’s got a list of paranormal experiences a mile long that he likes to share with the world. Abandoned buildings, cemeteries, and ghost stories have always called his name, and a particular fan of his has a really, really good ghost story.

read this chapter on ao3 or here!

"So," Phil starts, and then pauses. He has no real idea how to say this.

His parents wait patiently for him to gather his thoughts and his mum mutes the telly. Having their undivided attention doesn't really help, it just makes Phil sweat a bit. He can't even bring himself to sit down, too wired with anxious energy as he is.

The video has only been live for a day, but it's already one of Phil's most popular. People are clamoring in the comments for more; demands for proof and simple curiosity about what could explain his experiences. He's already had a call from Martyn about the benefits of going back and doing an update, but PJ and Sophie have put their two cents in as 'absolutely not'. Chris offered a don't care and then asked for Phil's mum's lasagna recipe.

Phil wants to stay. It's not so much about the mystery, for him, but he's pretty sure his friends and maybe even his brother already know that. He's got his own reasons for not buying a train ticket the moment the video went live and asking his divisive audience what they wanted him to do. Yeah, he'd been sort of hoping for this outcome.

He's not sure if he wants to stay for himself, for the stagnation that being here allows him, or if he wants to stay for deep dimples and a nice laugh. Probably a bit of column A and a bit of column B, if he's honest with himself.

"I uploaded the video on this case," Phil tells his parents. "And there were a lot of, um, unanswered questions. Because of that whole thing with the footage."

"Phil," his dad says, exasperation in his voice already.

"And that means more money from one case," Phil presses on, "because I don't have many expenses here and the ad revenue was really good in comparison to my last five videos. Martyn really thinks I should look into this some more. I promise I won't be here for months or anything, I just - just give me another week. Please, I just need a week."

Money talk usually gets his parents to back down a bit, but they exchange a long look between them that convinces Phil it isn't going to work this time. His mind is already whirring quickly, trying to settle on arguments that it thinks might win him this battle. He considers telling them that this is more than just a video to him, that his whole future feels like it's resting on this one mystery, but he has a suspicion that they wouldn't be very impressed with that lack of foresight. He's ready to bring out specific numbers when their silent communication breaks and his mum gives him a small smile.

"Phil," she says, echoing his dad with a bit more warmth and a lot more pity. "You know we need to talk about this, dear, why don't you sit down?"

He shakes his head and shoves his hands into his hoodie pockets so they don't see the trembling. He's not scared, he's just anxious, and his brain and body are conspiring to make him feel like he's going to die if something unexpected happens.

Phil doesn't like change. He doesn't like seeing his childhood house like this, he doesn't like having his career up in the air, and he doesn't like the way his parents no longer trust him to do what's best for himself. The worst part is that he's not even sure they're wrong - Phil knows he isn't thinking logically right now, that Martyn is the one who even mentioned ad revenue while Phil was busy wondering how best to prove himself.

"I'm good," says Phil. He hopes that the nerves aren't as palpable as they feel to him.

"Okay, well," his mum says, briskly rearranging things on the coffee table like she has to be doing something with her hands while they talk about this. He's reminded a bit of Dan in the coffee shop, of Chris in the attic, and he wonders what it is about him that makes people need to split their focus like that. "Your dad and I have been talking."

"About how I need to grow up?" Phil offers, heart in his throat. It feels like he might laugh or cry at any moment. "Yeah. I've noticed."

"We're retiring, Phil," his dad says. That's not exactly news to Phil - he knows why they're selling the house, after all - but he bites his tongue and lets his dad speak. "We've understood the... unstable nature of your work for several years now, but we can't keep bailing you out whenever you have a bad month. You're a smart man and you've got a good degree, you should have something steadier under your belt."

"We love how creative you are," Phil's mum chimes in. It almost sounds like they've practiced this. Phil bites down harder. "And if you can channel that creativity in a way that isn't so dangerous, you'll have our full support."

Phil kind of wishes that he already had their full support, but he's already had this conversation with himself. The work isn't fun for him anymore, and the risk of getting arrested for trespassing isn't a low one. It's almost not worth it when he doesn't have that full-blown excitement about a case.

He doesn't need every haunt to have a nice ending wrapped up with a bow, but he does need to like the content he's producing. Otherwise there isn't any point to it.

Still. It sucks to hear.

Phil deflates a little bit. His automatic defensiveness that springs up whenever his parents start questioning his many bad decisions in life is fading to something that feels like bone-deep exhaustion. The anxiety is still there, thrumming under his skin, but there's nothing he can really do about that. The truth is that he's been feeling listless and defeated and trapped for a lot longer than he's been back in his parents' house. There's no real point in pretending otherwise.

"Give me a week," he repeats, quiet. "I want to finish this project either way, y'know? Just let me stay for the rest of this week and - and if it doesn't pan out, if I don't find anything new, then... then I'm done. I'll stop. I'll find something else."

"Are you sure, sweetheart?" his mum asks. The relief that pulls at her shoulders and her pursed lips is enough for Phil to be sure.

"Yeah," says Phil. He gives them a little shrug. "I'm comfortable with what I'm doing. I like making videos and exploring places with cool stories, and even talking to people has been getting better. But you're... you've got a point. I can't keep doing this forever. Not at the pace and quality I like to maintain. If this video goes well, it might help me break into a more diverse and less dangerous niche, which would make everyone happy, I think."

His dad nods at him. "Okay. You can stay until Sunday, because that's when we're going to the Isle. You can do whatever editing and post-production stuff you need to when you get back to Brighton. We'll expect a call when you know for sure what you're going to do, Phil."

Phil swallows, clenches his fists tighter in his pockets. "You'll be the first to know."

--

Nobody asks Phil to leave, but he can't stay in the aggressively neutral version of his parents' house and field their 'casual' questions about what sort of things he might want to do if YouTube doesn't work. He escapes to the city again, sending a message to Dan on the bus. Instead of asking if they want to hang out with him, he simply asks where he can meet them today. As if it's a given that they're going to be spending time together.

Maybe that's presumptuous of him, but Dan uses an exclamation mark when they reply, im at home!, so Phil thinks it's probably fine.

Dan meets him at the door this time, mid-ramble about the broken dishwasher in their flat as if social niceties are no longer expected of them. That suits Phil. He grins back at Dan and joins them in the small but tidy galley kitchen, letting Dan talk his ear off while they scrub at some discoloured Tupperware.

"Sorry," Dan interrupts themself, turning big and apologetic eyes on Phil like they've just registered that he's standing there. "I'm having a weird brain day. Bit all over the place, you know."

"That's fine," Phil says honestly. He smiles, because Dan doesn't look all that convinced by it. "No, really, I don't mind. I like listening to you talk."

The blush spreads across Dan's face too quickly for them to hide by turning away. They try, anyway, and Phil is left looking at their face in profile, turned down and rosy as it is. "Normally I at least break for breath. What's new with you?"

"Since two days ago?" Phil teases. Dan's dimple makes an appearance right before the smile splits their face, and Phil has to twist his own fingers together so he doesn't reach out and poke at it. He's still working through some stuff, still doesn't want to make any decisions about this without thinking it over carefully, but he's never been good at resisting temptation either. "Uh, not much. My parents are still on my case. I'm getting good feedback on the video, but you probably know that already."

"It was a good video," says Dan. They pause as they dry their big hands on an old tea towel. "I... appreciate you saying that stuff about me."

"I didn't say anything that wasn't true."

Dan meets his eyes again, almost stubbornly ignoring the colour in their own cheeks. "I can appreciate things that you think are true, dingus. Take the gratitude already."

Phil grins. "Never."

--

There are snacks after that and some video games that Phil loses spectacularly and some good ferret snuggles. As the afternoon turns to evening, Phil watches Dan rearrange some titles on the bookshelf as they chatter about one of their science-y classes, no longer self conscious about how much they're talking. He's sitting on Dan's soft, unmade bed with Pixel, who keeps rolling around in the sheets like she's trying to get comfortable.

Phil is already comfortable. It's hard for him to ignore that Dan's bedroom feels so much like a safe haven in the way that his old house no longer does.

At some point Dan gives up on whatever system they were trying to implement. They pick Tofu up off the floor and flop onto the bed with Phil, wiggling around in almost the exact same way Pixel had. Phil presses his lips together tightly so he doesn't laugh.

"I think that things can be improved," Dan is saying, and Phil tries to figure out if they're still talking about the environment or if Dan has picked up the loose thread from their earlier rant about Bethesda. Pixel and Tofu are both running around like Dan and Phil are just bony jungle gyms, and Dan barely even stutters when one of them steps on their nose. "Of course they can be improved, it's not something you just give up on when things get tough, but the problem is that the people in charge have to implement the changes that are necessary for improvement, and - ow, that's my ear, don't bite that - and, uh... where was I?"

"You were telling me about climate change," says Phil. "Or potentially Todd Howard's ambivalence towards a quote-unquote 'perfect game'. I honestly lost track."

For a moment, Dan is quiet. Phil's anxiety rears its head for the first time since he got here, but luckily he hasn't stuck his foot in his mouth this time - Dan starts laughing, more or less cackling, and they roll closer to Phil to bury their face in a pillow.

Phil grins and reaches out to tug at one of Dan's curls, fascinated by the way it just springs back into place. He's done this to PJ once or twice or six times, but he's usually had a couple drinks before he resorts to it. Dan comes out of hiding with tears of laughter welling up in their pretty brown eyes and their dimples in full force, grinning up at Phil like he's the funniest person in the world.

"Those are both really important issues," Dan says, trying their best to sound deadpan when they're so obviously gleeful.

They wiggle around again and Phil says, "You look exactly like Pixel when you do that."

He's pretty sure that Dan honks at that, but he's immediately distracted by a ferret trying to bite his eyebrow.

This is good. Phil likes this. He's trying to dig himself out of the mindset that he'd backed himself into when he first started noticing Dan, because PJ might have had a point. Okay, so PJ definitely had a point, and Phil has been a bit of an idiot.

He won't know for sure how Dan feels about him being gay and uncompromising about that fact unless he asks, and he doesn't think he's ready to do that just yet. But there's a rainbow flag on Dan's wall and they don't consider themselves not not a guy, so... Phil thinks that maybe he's been assigning a strictness to Dan's own relationship to gender and sexuality that isn't actually there.

Dan is talking again, to their ferrets this time, and Phil is almost overwhelmed by the force of affection that washes over him now that he isn't trying so hard to hold it back. Dan's leg is pressed against his own and they're holding Pixel up like they're playing airplane with her and Phil likes them so goddamn much.

"Did you want to," Phil starts, interrupting Dan's musing about what goes on in a ferret's tiny brain. Dan looks up at him with such genuine happiness on their face that Phil's words stick in his throat. He should be asking if Dan wants to go out for dinner again or if they've seen whatever blockbuster action film is playing in cinemas this week, but that's not what comes out of his mouth. When Dan raises their eyebrows quizzically, what Phil ends up asking is, "Uh, come spend the night in the haunted house with me?"

Great. Real romantic.

--

Dan doesn't make a secret about how much they hate this plan. They say it over and over, but they don't take any of the outs that Phil offers them.

"I hate this plan," Dan says as they make a bunch of sandwiches. It seems like way too much for just the two of them, but Phil isn't about to say no to having a near endless supply of peanut butter and bread when they're stuck in a dusty attic again. "This is stupid. You should have just left it at the first video, Phil, that was fine."

"You don't have to come with me," Phil reminds them for the umpteenth time.

Dan glares. "No, I'm coming."

"You're a very complicated person," says Phil.

With a heavy sort of sigh, like they've been dealing with Phil for years instead of a week, Dan finally sets the peanut butter down. "Look," they say, pointing the dull knife at Phil for emphasis. "I can hate this plan and still want to make sure you don't get fucking arrested or possessed or trip down the stairs or something. PJ knows where I live."

"I think he'd be in the camp of me deserving it if I died in the Wilkins place," Phil says, his lips tugging into a grin. "But thank you."

"Yeah, yeah," Dan mutters. "Will you at least tell me why we're going back? I know you're fucking stubborn and all, but I didn't figure you for someone who beats dead horses."

"Oh, that's a terrible idiom," Phil says, mostly to himself. He reaches out to squeeze Dan's shoulder when he sees them get all huffy at the apparent avoidance. The tension leaving Dan's body under his palm is frustrating to feel, because there's nothing Phil wants more than to lean into it. The problem, of course, is that he really does need to talk to Dan before he starts trying to hug them in their own kitchen. Phil lets his hand drop awkwardly between them and shrugs. "Well, uh. This is the first time in a long time I've actually been excited about a project. And that makes me think that maybe I've worn out my welcome here. Not... not here like Manchester here, but here like... my job, here."

Dan leans their hip against the counter and looks at Phil with their brow all furrowed. "This is an ultimatum," they say. "Like, to yourself."

"Yeah," says Phil. "I need to solve this - or at least find something else that I can show to people. Because if I don't, then I need to actually look at myself and admit I'm not doing something I like anymore."

"It sounds like you're already looking at yourself," Dan says quietly.

"I guess."

"No, you are," Dan insists, their voice stronger now that they can assert an opinion. "Trust me, I'm a pro at unproductive self-reflection and existentialism. Who am I, what does it all matter, I know the song and dance. And I don't think that getting more footage is going to erase what you're already thinking, Phil. Tell me if I'm out of line, whatever, but if you want to do something else with your life then just do something else with your life."

The automatic defensiveness threatens to make Phil snap back at Dan that this isn't any of their business, but he's had a lot of practice in keeping his negative thoughts to himself. He gives Dan a little humourless smile and shrugs his shoulders.

"You're twenty-one," Phil says. "And a student. I don't really expect you to get it."

Dan puts their hands on their hips like they're settling in for a proper row, but instead they just say, "I know. I don't know what you're going through, sure, I doubt anyone knows what anyone else is going through at any time. And, yeah, I've got another year before I have to worry about my career. But I've made some fucking tough decisions in my life, mate. I dropped out of my law course after two lectures. I don't talk to my family anymore. I've tried on so many different names and labels that it would make your head spin. You don't like your job anymore, and one video isn't going to change that."

"Yeah, probably not." Phil looks down at their little collection of sandwiches, feeling lost and stubborn and a bit scared about how much Dan sees him. "But I have to try, y'know? I can't just give up. I have to try."

There's a long moment of silence. Then, Dan sighs.

"Okay. Put these in a container, we don't use unnecessary plastic in this flat. Just whatever they fit in. I'll make some coffee for the road and find our Scrabble board."

[prettywordsyouleft]

Sage

Summary: Chanyeol had gone to the extremes of warding off the spirit living in his new apartment. What he wasn’t ready for was just how adamant you were to stay.

Pairing: Park Chanyeol x reader

Genre: ghost au / fluff

Warnings: none

A/N: Welcome to the first story in this week’s Haunted theme! This scenario is part of the Frightful October series this month. For more stories in this series, please check the Masterlist below.

Word count: 2674

[Frightful October Masterlist]

Throwing the blankets over his head, Chanyeol hoped this would muffle out the sounds around his apartment. It was fruitless; ever since he had bought his home there had been no way to get a decent night’s sleep. The pattering of feet across the tiles, the opening and shutting of doors, the humming - it would go on all night long. 

Chanyeol would be more understanding if he had a roommate. Or a pet that was allowed to roam freely around the home. Yet he had neither. It was just him in this brand new apartment.

Oh, and a ghost too.

He had figured the place was haunted about two weeks into living here. He had eliminated all the more obvious conclusions, making sure the doors and windows were latched closed before going to sleep, checking in to see if there was any possibility of an infestation of some kind, asking neighbours on the floor above if they were up late at night, and even replacing brand new light bulbs and batteries in appliances - you name it. 

You know, the more plausible reasons for noises around his home. Everything was new for a reason, and he was beyond exhausted from trying to rack his brain for an answer. 

It was from this sheer exhaustion that he found the cause of his night time interruptions. Now desperate, he threw his arms out and shoved the blanket off of his head, whining unattractively due to his lack of slumber. Eyes wide yet miserable, he stared at the ceiling in distaste. “I just want to sleep, would you stop it?!”

He hadn’t been this frustrated with his wording when he first figured it out. Instead, he had been tentative, almost chiding his sleep-deprived brain for even entertaining the idea. And yet, Chanyeol had sat up in his bed, chewing his bottom lip hesitantly before uttering the pressing question. “Is someone there? Knock three times if you are.”

A knock happened as soon as he was silent. Ears listening, a second and third soon followed and he had screamed, leaping up and running out of his apartment, going over to Baekhyun’s in the neighbouring complex and refusing to come back until the morning sun dispelled any chance of shadows. 

He had spent more than enough time hiding out in his friend’s apartment that the purchase of his new home seemed pointless. And it was with that mindset that he was back, now annoyed more than anything else. How dare a spirit come and make themselves at home in his newly built apartment! He had worked all too hard for this place, and he wasn’t prepared to give up without a fight.

The noise only stopped momentarily, perhaps now listening for what he would do next. Instead of the usual humming or running around out there, his mouth fell apart at what he heard now.

A melodic laugh. 

His unwanted guest was now mocking him.

Chanyeol managed to get some sleep into the early hours of the morning, though it wasn’t nearly enough to start his day out with. Even with copious cups of coffee, he was unable to be as productive as he hoped to be at work. Though he was definitely wired on his way home. This didn’t come from the coffee, however, but from what he planned to do.

He wouldn’t allow his haunting spirit to continue driving him out. After all, they didn’t pay rent or even respect his much-needed hours of rest. So he would get them to leave instead. 

Unlocking the door and stepping inside, he walked over to his kitchen countertop, placing down his bags of supplies. For some reason, perhaps because he had established he wasn’t living here alone, he knew he was in the company of his unwanted guest immediately and smiled brightly.

“Time to make this place spirit-free,” he proclaimed confidently, feeling somewhat manic with how excited he was to try all the things he had read online to do.

First, he took to sprinkling salt along the windowsills, ensuring to even do so in his spare bedroom. He then lit an incense stick he had picked up from the store he had gone to for advice after finding out about their services online in his Google search of warding off evil spirits. The clerk had also suggested some cleansing crystals and Chanyeol placed them around his apartment, hoping he had chosen the best spaces to do so. Admittedly, he was feeling a little out of his depth now. Although he had been actively soaking up the advice he received and was willing to do anything, when he got to the final element of lighting up a bunch of sage to smudge around the apartment, his confidence faltered a little. Why was he even doing this? He felt stupid, waving it around now with less enthusiasm. Desperation had led him to this point, but now he wondered if he was just going crazy instead. That there was no spirit keeping him up at night, just an overactive imagination. He was easily frightened, so had he simply scared himself into believing someone was there? That the knocks were something he so badly wanted to hear irrationally or not that he had conjured them himself? Chanyeol grew confused, holding onto the sage mid-air and zoned out with his problematic thoughts.

“Careful,” someone said, and he blinked softly, head tilting towards the warning. “You might burn yourself.”

Shrieking in realisation, Chanyeol pointed the bunch at the apparition before he passed out from the shock.

When he came around, you were staring back at him, your expression concerned. He blinked slowly, wondering if he was actually awake or not. In the evening light, you didn’t look scary at all. Your long tresses fell around you like a halo, and your smile made you seem kind, approachable. Your hand was on his gently and you knelt beside him, knees against his waist. 

It was then he realised just how cold he was. 

“You’re not real,” he murmured and you pouted sadly, your smile evaporating.

“That’s not very nice to say to someone who’s sat beside you all this time. You hit your head pretty hard when you fell. Do you know how hard it was for me to drag this pillow over here for you to rest upon?”

He glanced to the edge of the pillow his head was now placed on and then chuckled. “If I hit my head, then you’re definitely not real.”

“Yet you acknowledge my existence every night,” you retorted, your cherry coloured lips now pursing together with amusement. “You’re a hard human to please.”

Slowly sitting up, Chanyeol glanced at you properly. He noticed the aura of light surrounding you, that along with the coldness of your touch, distinguished you from the living. You were his problematic guest. 

He had to admit, he hadn’t expected you to be so beautiful. 

“What were you even attempting to do? Are you foolish? It looks like you were tricked into buying a whole lot of unnecessary stuff.”

“I’m trying to get rid of you,” he breathed heavily, and you snorted which irked him immensely. Beautiful or not, if you were the spirit causing him to miss out on sleep, he needed you to leave peacefully.

“Well, you’ve gone about this all in the wrong way,” you told him thoughtfully, pointing to the windowsill. “Salt?”

“It keeps evil spirits out.”

You nodded whilst smiling. “It also keeps whatever is already inside here. Shouldn’t you put that up when I’m gone? That being, if I was actually evil.”

He didn’t answer you, though you did smile wickedly with that last part. You then moved over to one of the smoky quartz stones on his bookcase and admired it. 

“That works against negative energies,” he explained and you grinned.

“Hopefully yours will ease up then,” you remarked with a giggle and he gaped at you, connecting it to the one he had heard last night. You turned to Chanyeol, still smiling. “It’s really pretty though. Is that Frankincense?”

He nodded, albeit weakly. You seemed well-versed in these wards. 

“And finally the sage,” you announced, picking up the bundle he had once held. He stared at the floor where it still remained, or at least a bundle did. You admired the one in your hand and then held it out towards him. “I really love sage. It reminds me of my Grandmother. Did the lady at the store tell you all this would get rid of me?”

Chanyeol rubbed at his temples and groaned. “Shouldn’t it?”

“Sure, if I was a bad spirit. But I’m not so it doesn’t affect me. Well, the salt does. It means I’m trapped here, with you. Spirits can’t cross over it after all.”

“You’re not bad?”

You shook your head adamantly. “Do I look evil?”

“You look beautiful,” he breathed, ears now turning pink. Chanyeol then shook off his daze. “Which could be a trap.”

“If I was evil, would I really bother myself with something so trivial as enjoying a home? It was so cold on this lot until they built us a new place.”

“Us?” he repeated and you nodded. “There’s more of you?”

“Well, not in this apartment. This is where my home was once. But Old Maggie is down the hall and Frank is up two floors. There’s even a whole family downstairs!”

Chanyeol vaguely remembered the rumour that a fire had happened here ten years ago. He hadn’t lived in this city then, and there was an overwhelming hush whenever it was raised between residents. He realised now that his new home was once someone else’s. You nodded dramatically. “That’s right! You’re actually a guest in my home. Or maybe, we’re roommates. I like that. In fact, I’ve been using your spare room. It’s nice and quiet in there.”

He snorted at your preference for peace. “It’s not quiet for me.”

“About that,” you eased into it, becoming apologetic. “I’m not quite used to living with someone else. I tend to be a night owl, even when I was alive.”

“You’re telling me, you’re not being a nuisance on purpose but out of habit?”

Clasping your hands together you laughed awkwardly.” Originally, yes.”

“But…”

“Now, I’ve been a little wicked. It’s just that you’re so adorable when you get annoyed! You puff up your cheeks and look much like a child. It’s rather amusing given how tall you are, Chanyeol.”

He wasn’t even ready to question how you knew his name and left it down to being a ghost. You smirked at his avoidance and waited for him to continue. “You’re teasing me on purpose?”

“Well, you asked if I was there and I told you I was. And then you left. You know, it was rather rude of you. I was hoping we could have a proper introduction and-”

“But you’re a ghost and I’m... and I think I’m going insane.”

“I’m Y/N,” you announced brightly, holding out your hand. “An introduction is better late than never. And I doubt you’re going insane, though perhaps if the shoe was on the other foot and I found a handsome stranger in my home, I would question my sanity as well.”

Chanyeol glanced around the room, wondering whether he should laugh or cry. Instead, he got up and made his way down the hallway to his bedroom, climbing under his blankets. You had followed him precariously, your face riddled with worry as he moved around after hitting his head. Before he closed his eyes, he gave you a stern look. “I want to sleep without any interruptions. Can you do that?”

“I no longer need to prove my existence to you so you won’t have to worry about that. When you wake up, you won’t ignore me, will you?”

Chanyeol smiled, nodding in agreement before closing his eyes. 

He hoped this was all a dream.

When he woke up the following morning, Chanyeol felt well-rested. He hadn’t stirred to anything overnight and the house was still silent even now. Smiling, he sat up and admired his bedroom and the morning light infiltrating through the blinds. He was certain you were gone. A beautiful nightmare that had now left and allowed the sun to shine through into his life. He rejoiced with a long stretch before getting out of bed, padding over to the door and across into his bathroom. Washing the sleep off his face, he then looked up into the mirror, smiling happily to himself. 

“Someone had a good night’s sleep,” you enthused and he shrieked, dropping the razor he had just picked up from the counter. Spinning around, he found you grinning at him in the doorway. “Or the crystals are working well on levelling out the negativity in your mood.”

“You’re still here?!” 

You nodded, now offended. “I held up my part of the deal, now you have to adhere to yours. Acknowledging my existence matters to me.”

“Y/N,” he called and you smiled all too happily, stunning him with how lovely you appeared. Shaking off his stupor, he then sighed. “You can’t live here with me.”

“Why not?”

“Well, shouldn’t you be moving on or something like they show in the movies?”

You shrugged. “I’ve tried that but it looks like I’m Earthbound. I don’t mind it, really.”

“Well, I do.”

You fell silent, and Chanyeol was surprised by how guilty he felt. Turning, he reached out for you on instinct, his hand brushing through you and feeling a drop in temperature. He sighed. You stared at him, unblinking and took in a shaky breath. “Try again.”

“Try… touching?” he questioned and you nodded feebly, balling your hands up as if it would give you the might for him to connect with you. Now feeling sheepish at trying to touch a spirit, he attempted again half-heartedly, gasping noisily when he actually caught your arm. “Wait, how... can I do this?”

“I’m not sure really, but I don’t like it when people go through me. It makes me miserable. I’ll try to be quiet at night as long as you accept me here during the day.”

“Well…” he started, your gaze now pleading with him. It was ironic how far he had come in such a short span of time to now be considering the feelings of someone who had been such a nuisance to him all this time. Knowing the reason why softened his heart some and he nodded without too much thought. “We’re roommates?”

You reached out rapidly for his hand and shook it much to his disbelief. “Oh, I’m so glad you accept me! We shall be the best of roommates! I promise I’m not all trouble! I like to clean and will try my best to help you out, although it does take a lot of effort for me to reach into your realm. Much more than you reaching into mine!”

He stared back at you dumbfounded, trying to take it all in. How you could exist, how he could see you now. How you had the ability to pick up copies of things in his home and they still sat where he left them. It was confusing the longer he thought about it. 

Your hand connected coolly with his cheek then and you smiled brightly at him. “Let’s just take it slow, shall we?”

“Slow would be good,” Chanyeol agreed, his heart thumping with your hand on his face. He started to worry that since he had entertained the idea of sharing his home with his now-friendly ghost that he would accept the more obvious attraction he had for you as well.

Taking in a deep breath as you prattled on about leaving him to shave and do manly things in peace, Chanyeol nodded to himself. 

He’d take one day at a time. And if you liked the sage, well, you couldn’t be all that bad.

Perhaps he would find some good from your haunting after all.

_________________

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[spiltscribbles]

Quiet Things

Alex doesn’t get jealous.

It’s just not a thing that he does, has never thought it worth while. For a majority of his life he was too busy with school and Lacrosse and plotting out his eventual path to the presidency, to ever even fathom caring too terribly if the girl he was seeing was flirting with some other guy, or was being flirted with. Besides, it’s not his place to get all angry about it. If she liked him more than Alex, well he  had no right to interfere in  that, there’s something called free fucking will. 

“Nah, ’S because you’re too obsessed with yourself,” Nora had told him three weeks after their first break up in that somewhat snide tone of voice that she can pull out as effortlessly as her future professor monotone. 

“Slanderous,” Alex had sniffed before taking a huge ass bite out his burrito— thank God that Chipotle’s a national commodity now, which means they could stuff themselves silly before the second national debate . 

“Accurate my friend,” Nora had retorted with a clucking of her tongue, stealing his side order of chips and  queso while Alex was to busy glaring a hole through the glossy photograph of Prince Henry of Wales that’s the front cover of Vogue Italiano’s newest spread.   “You’ll always love yourself most.”

“Well yeah babe, I’m the only one who could appreciate me in all the right ways.”

“The only one who can stand you for longer than an hour you mean?”

Alex had pouted, teasingly, and Nora had laughed, adoringly, and neither of them really took it to heart. It was a bit of a quirk, his self absorption that is. Nora and June had noted it fondly for an eon, it wasn’t some new revelation.

Though What was n entirely new revelation was how only a few short years later, Alex fell head first for the fucking pretentious— not actually pretentious— prince of Wales, realizing he was definitely bisexual all along, and being forcefully outted by the old fuck trying to oust his mother from the oval office before her destined eight years are up. All in that order. 

God have times changed.

Alex supposes that it’s only right that amidst all of that, he also changed along the way, that he found a guy— a literal Prince amongst men— that makes his heart thud out an uneven staccato with every glance. Someone who makes it so Alex’s ADHD wired brain goes still, goes hyper focussed on him. On Henry’s pretty pale eyes and lovely thin lips and the way one corner of his mouth tugs upwards before the other every time he smiles. He found a guy who he chooses every day to spend his forever with, the first person that makes his knees go weak and the first person that Alex admits is  probably his only match. Found the guy he loves more than any other— His person, the one he’d give up the world to be with. The guy who makes his analytical mind shut off in favor for the idea that in all probability soulmates can exist…? And if so, Henry’s more than probably his.

All this to say, Alex now gets it when June— his delightfully neurotic sister— starts asking him a thousand times over if she looks okay in whichever dress she’s got on after she sees an Instagram post with Pez, forever adventuring a new part of the world, tagging a different girl, or when Nora doesn’t realize she’s being flirted with at her new internship at the Brookings Institute by another grad student. “Just cause I fuck dudes now doesn’t mean I suddenly get what’s trendy~” “You’re fucking one dude and only one dude.” “I think you just proved my point?”) 

Suddenly Alex wishes June were here, even in all her craziness, at least then he could have an honest analysis on what’s playing out right in front of him, in the middle of fucking douchebag Phillip’s birthday party. Just there, out in public, right next to the table holding up the thirty four thousand dollar cake. And oh! Look! The fucking gross ass  prick just snuck a finger to lick off some of the frosting!

Desecrating stupidly expensive desserts is there thing damn it!

The aforementioned prick is all high cheekbones and long lashes and such big brown eyes. He’s Hassan Nair, “Call me Haz.” No Alex will fucking not, thank you very much.

The prick, as Alex will be referring to him here forth, is the son of some Dubai business magnate, worth probable billions and is so sickeningly pretty that Alex would feel bad if he wasn’t dating the literal prettiest man alive, he’s kinda accustomed  with  not being exactly the hottest guy in a room.  But fucking prick boy must concede the point if the way he’s been gazing down at henry since this shindig has begun is anything to go by, and Jesus Christ, is it actually fair that he’s like half a foot taller than Alex too! No it’s not! None of this is fair! 

Alright, okay. This is not cool. Alex should not be just lurking in the shadows like some sort of Twilight love interest, gazing hopelessly at Henry and letting this totally new and totally unwelcome feeling— a bit envious, a lot inferior, and just slightly worried— be eating him hole. He’s fucking Alex Claremont Diaz. He’s the son of the American President! He’s going to an amazing law school! He’s hot and smart and fun damn it. And Henry chose him! Henry chose him when he first plunged down to kiss him, this edge of frantic, the night of that New Year’s party. Henry chose him when they stood hand in hand facing the crowds with their chins tipped high and their love holding strong. Henry chose him when he bought that Brownstone in New York and adopted a dog with Alex’s name as the co owner. 

Truly? Who is Hassan Nair in the face of all of that?

Alex watches him wink at Henry for the third time in the past five minutes and he sees red.

God damn it the prick does look like a One Direction stand-in, doesn’t he?

Fully intending to just find Beatrice  and bitch about Hassan fucking Nair to her, Alex swigs down his Bellini, but stutters still when Henry pivots around, his ever alert eyes softening once catching on him. 

Damn it, Alex is a weak, weak man.

“Lost you in the crowds?” Henry asks in greeting once Alex saddles up to them, slinging an arm around Henry’s waste in a way that Alex prays comes off nonchalant.

“Didn’t wanna just intrude,” Alex corrects, brow kinked playfully. “I’m not so gauche.”

Henry rolls his eyes heavenwards, but Alex knows he’s reluctantly charmed when that ghost of a smile passes across his lips.

“You once dragged me out from a conversation I was having with President Macron because you wanted to compete over who could catch the most bugs.”

“Hey! They were fireflies not just bugs you ass!” Alex charges, fully indignant now. “And you’re only pissy because my jar was like a thousand times brighter than yours!”

“You started for like a quarter of an hour longer,” Henry says airily, pale head tilted, imperious. 

“Excuses don’t become you sweet cheeks.” Alex informs him, positively gleeful over the dusting of red that comes over his elegant features.

“Ahem,” the prick interrupts with a cough, eyes skewering Alex. “I don’t think we’ve met?”

“We have,” Alex corrects with a thin lipped smile. “At Phillip’s wedding— Erm ah before the incident.”

“I don’t recall,” the prick just shrugs, turning his full attention back to Henry, and yikes Alex has to give him props, he’s definitely mastered the cold dismissal thing down pat. “Henry we should grab lunch soon, it’s been ages since we’ve caught up.”

Did this guy just ask out Henry right in front of Alex? What the actual fuck?

“Of course,” Henry says in that blithe, detached sounding way he does whenever he’s trying to be polite and doesn’t know how to react. Fuck is Alex so happy he knows how to decipher his different moods. “But I reckon Alex and i best get going, we promised a friend that we’d meet them for dinner.”

The prick’s bright eyes dim and he just nods. “I’ll call you?”

“Sure,” Henry grabs for Alex’s hand and it’s the best fucking feeling in the world.

.-

“Didn’t know we promised any such thing your highness?” Alex goads as they slip into the rental car, Amy and Shaan in a separate one tracking them back to the castle.

“I needed an excuse Alexander, and I never claimed to be above fibbing if it means I get to escape social situations,” Henry intones, lying back with his eyes shut. Sometimes Alex has to catch his breath when looking at him, sometimes forgets just how stunning he is. 

With a swallow, Alex forces his eyes back on the road and wills himself to sound normal.

“He seemed nice?”

Henry’s lip quirks and fuck, apparently he’s just as easy to read.

“You hated him.”

“Did not.”

“Did so.”

“I did not!”

“Lying doesn’t become you sweet cheeks,” Henry parrots in a nasally voice that Alex refuses to call an imitation of him.

“He looks like a privileged prick,” Alex finally admits, feels his heart swell at the casual way Henry clamps a hand against his thigh, squeezing lightly.

“I reckon you thought the same of me not too long ago,” Henry prods.

“Oh I definitely still do babe,” Alex snorts, winces slightly when Henry moves to pinch his side instead. “Ouch.”

“You’re rude.”

“I love you,” Alex soothes, picks up Henry’s hand and kisses the tops of his fingers dotingly. “’s Why I was so annoyed by his flirting with you so blatantly.”

Henry stiffens slightly before relaxing, flickers his gaze to Alex’s profile meaningfully. “He was not flirting.”

Alex scoffs.

“He was literally undressing you with his eyes the entire night!”

“We’re old friends,” Henry says weakly, pillar going pale. And Alex suddenly remembers what Henry had told him over a year ago now. That his first time was with one of Philip’s old school friends when he was only seventeen. That they were both firmly in the closet and understood how to keep things quiet. That Henry appreciates it for what it was but was still so confused and terrified  and lonely in the aftermath. 

And oh, it makes sudden sense now.

He wonders what different sorts of expressions must be playing across his face at this moment because Henry’s just goes sad, presses closer to him. 

“I think you’re my first love,” he says, and Alex can read the words that go unspoken that hug around the non sequitur. 

“Me too,” he assures him.

Henry nods, soft and slow, before he presses a kiss to the hinge of Alex’s jaw, the corner of his mouth, lands on the hollow of his cheek. “From the first moment Alex Claremont Diaz,” he says in the same voice he had right before their first kiss. “I knew you were it, no matter how hopeless it seemed or how much you evidently hated me. I new you were it.”

It’s Alex’s turn to flush, tries tempting down his smile.

“Shut the fuck up you dork.”

“You’re so witty and quick and too smart for your own good,” Henry just continues on, adjusts himself so that he’s got a better look at him.

“So help me.”

 “You are so beautiful and bright, like a supernova, you know that?”

“Henry I swear to God I will kick your princely ass out and make you walk.”

Henry shakes his head with a tsk, tsk. “Such pretty lips and such a dirty mouth.” 

“Now you’re sounding like a porno,” Alex laughs.

“Shall I move onto complimenting your ass or would that be too explicit for your mild sensibilities?” Henry asks, mock owlish.

“I literally despise you,” Alex groans before pulling over on the side of the road and kissing him senseless.

He’s not sure how much time passes but is forced to move off him when Amy and Shaan begin beeping their horns in a crass cacophony of sound.

“Promise to help you with the tent downstairs once we get to bed,” Henry guffaws, and in turn Alex just repeats the fact that he utterly hates him with as much feeling as he could muster, goofy grin splitting his face in half all the while.

.-

Two weeks later they see the prick at one of Beatrice’s charity luncheons, and Henry doesn’t take his hand out of Alex’s back pocket the entire afternoon.

It’s fucking fantastic. 

[trickstump]

homeroom angel 

eddie kaspbrak/richie tozier rated e 5.5k 

thank you to @eddiekissbrak for beta’ing and cheerleading me through this journey. migz, you’re a real one. 

(read it HERE on AO3) 

Richie’s not looking for it.

Of course Richie’s not fucking looking for it, though; to look for it, he’d have to have had any idea that it existed, and the idea of Eddie doing anything like this was beyond unfathomable. It was a whole other level of this could never happen that even Richie fantasies couldn’t have predicted it- and he’d had some pretty wild ones.  

But. Here the fuck it was, skipping floors two through two hundred on the Wonkavtor and busting through the top of Richie’s head, staring back at him from the page of the magazine he’d picked up.  

Eddie. 

It’d been- there were so many fucking steps, really, to them even getting here in the first place. Richie had to have found this fucking magazine when he was in colleg- not this issue, god, not this issue; if Richie had picked up this fucking issue in college, he was sure his mind would’ve exploded. But, he had to pick up this magazine in the first place in college, furtive, snatching it off the rack at the drugstore and not bothering to pay because holy shit, he couldn’t stand the idea of looking the dude in the counter in the eye and paying for a porno magazine that shouted Boys! Boys! Boys!

So. He had to pick up this magazine, and then, in a drunken fit just after his first few paid shows, he had to buy a subscription to this magazine- fake name, correct address- meticulously updated every time he moved so that it could be delivered right to his door packaged in a discreet envelope, and occasionally shoved into the bottom of his suitcase while he was on the road, because he liked to have the company of Mr. January 2016 on cold nights in decent hotel rooms.

 And, then, he had to be subscribed at just the right time, because he’d really been about to cancel his subscription entirely when the throwback issue came out. It was getting fucking dangerous, having his porn hand delivered to him like some kind of creepy old man, when Eddie had just moved in after trekking out to LA as a part of his post-Derry, post-divorce midlife crisis. There’d been an incident last month when Eddie’s found mail with the fake name that had lead to Richie having to sneak back out to the mailbox in the dead of night to do some recon before Eddie’s neat little “return to sender; does not live at this address” got his jerk-off material for the month taken away. It was the modern era; he should just make the jump and start going digital, anyway. 

So. Petty theft, years of furtively waiting for his monthly fix of scantily clad men to arrive via the US Postal service, and someone somewhere’s visonary idea of “let’s just reuse some fucking old pictures this time; these dipshits’ll crank it to anything, I’m sure” culminated to this:  

Eddie.  

Not Eddie, now- obviously, not Eddie, now. That’d be fucking insane, and Richie would be losing more of his mind than he’d already lost. He’d just been flipping through the issue, admiring this and that, and- he’d almost skipped the pages on his first thumb-through, absentminded and half hard, free hand resting on his leg, when he saw the flash of a leg and flipped back.

And then, there was Eddie. 

Younger- a few decades younger, the little white Times New Roman in the corner told him; Eddie, November 1999. November, Eddie’s birth month- happy fucking birthday to him. He only caught it the second time he looked at the picture, flipping the page and then flipping back to make sure his mind wasn’t just projecting the image of a younger Eddie onto the pages. 

It wasn’t. 

It was Eddie- his Eddie, flushed a little pink in the way he got when he was flustered, doe-eyeing the camera. His mouth was just as pink as his cheeks and hanging open just a bit, and Richie spent so much time looking at his face, he almost forgot to look at the rest of him- all of the rest of him, most of all of the rest of him, because thank god, this was not where he was seeing Eddie’s dick for the first time. Narrow avoidance, though, only because of the artful drapery of the fugly pink fur- rug? blanket?- monstrosity they had barely draped over the area, which let Richie see everything except his dick. 

God. He couldn’t even fucking think about Eddie’s dick right now. Not that he let himself think about Eddie’s dick too much, anyway. He’d think about being in love with Eddie all day long, and maybe about the fucking phenomenal sex they could be having every so often, mostly when he was lonely on the road, because there was a weird line when it came to being in love with your childhood friend, and that line was drawn exactly on the other side of “jerking off thinking about him while he’s sharing an apartment with you.” 

Speaking of, Richie’s dick went from being passively interested in the goings on to standing at attention like a goddamn car lot flag pole the second he had enough brain cells to process what he was seeing. He was achingly hard, now, and at the same time frozen in place, free hand now gripping his leg so hard he was going to leave a bruise. He couldn’t do anything but stare, heart racing like he was running a marathon.  

It was the best thing he’d ever fucking seen, and he needed to stop seeing it. 

“Hey, Richie?” 

Eddie’s voice outside his door jumped him into action, and Richie dropped the magazine like it was burning him. “Uh- yeah?” His voice broke on ‘yeah’, and he really, really sounded like a kid whose mom was two seconds from walking in on him jerking it. 

Eddie, for his part, didn’t seem to pick up on it- or, more likely, he was just fucking polite enough not to call him out. “You coming out so we can go eat or what, dude?”  

Fuck. Richie had been so caught up in a past where Edward fucking Kaspbrak, world’s stuffiest man and love of his life, had posed for a gay porn magazine that he had forgotten about the present where said childhood sweetheart was expect him to get dinner. “Oh, for sure.” He’d managed to get control of his voice, because he was a goddamn professional. “Just give me a second, man, I’m not decent.” 

“You’ve never been decent in your life,” Eddie huffed. “But, fine. Be out in, like, five minutes or I’m gonna eat without you.”

Richie waited until he heard Eddie’s footsteps disappear to exhale, and then it was just him and- well, him and Eddie again, still staring up at him from the centerfold with a look that Richie had barely ever even dared to imagine he could pull off. 

Fuck. 

He gave himself a few moments to breathe, eyes squeezed shut least the air he was just getting back into his lungs be stolen again, and he flipped the magazine closed before he opened them again. This was- definitely crossing the line he’d drawn for himself, and he should probably just throw the whole thing out before he jumped over the line and directly into something dangerous. 

But.

But, he couldn’t bring himself to- for a lot of reasons, really, chief among them the fact that he knew having a missing issue in his back catalogue would drive him absolutely fucking insane, and totally, totally, not because he couldn’t imagine ever getting rid of the only proof he had of the divine fact that Eddie could have “fuck me” eyes. Totally. 

So, instead of the trash can, or the back of his closet in a box where the rest of the issues went, Richie played into the full fantasy of being in college again and shoved the magazine under his mattress, resolving to deal with this later. The rest of his five minutes was spent trying to will his dick to sit back down by any means necessary- mostly by thinking about Eddie’s mom, which was an irony that Richie was too wired to appreciate in the moment. 

Thank fucking god they weren’t going out or anything. Eddie had just picked up cooking in his quest for independence, and liked to show off whenever Richie was home, which Richie didn’t mind in the slightest. He’d survived the last several decades on his own on Hot Pockets and takeout whenever he was home, and room service or fast food when he wasn’t.  

Eddie cooked, and Richie did the dishes. It was disgustingly domestic, and thinking about the concept rather than the action actually made Richie happy to do it, instead of mildly irritated. Love was a hell of a drug. 

He couldn’t really focus on the food tonight, though, because every time he looked up across the table- because Eddie made them eat at the table, like what the fuck was that?- he was faced with Eddie, who hadn’t changed enough in twenty years for Richie to be able to not see flashes of his pink lips and flushed cheeks every time he saw him.

It was like being haunted by a sexy, sexy ghost. 

“And I- Jesus, dude, are you even listening to me?” Richie blinked when Eddie waved a hand in front of his face. “Earth to Richie; you look like an idiot, man. What’s up with you, is there something on my face?” 

“Uh,” Richie said, trying to say anything but ‘hey, you used to be, like. Hot, in college or whatever’, but obviously not reacting fast enough for Eddie’s tastes. 

“I already got the fucking mole checked, it isn’t cancer,” he said, and that was Richie’s Eddie, vision snapping back into focus. 

“I’m not staring at your fucking mole, dude,” Richie said, rolling his eyes. “Also, aren’t they only like… cancerous if they have hair in them, or something?” 

“No,” Eddie said, and sucked in a breath, and that launched them into a conversation- well. A tirade from Eddie with color commentary from Richie, really, and that was more like their normal dinner conversations, enough that Richie could phase out his lust for past Eddie and focus on the warm fuzzies that having this Eddie in his life gave him.

 Dinner and dishes done and conversation still rolling, though they’d cycled past about twenty different topics now, they moved on to the post dinner ritual of turning on the TV and not-watching Wheel of Fortune in favor of not-cuddling on the same couch, even though there was definitely a perfectly fine recliner in the room. This was the kind of thing that made Richie think that maybe, just maybe he had a chance in hell in all this- but, fuck if he was going to make the first move, so he just sat there with his arm flung over the back of the couch, hand dangling just so it brushed Eddie’s shoulder, and pretended he gave a shit about whatever Pat Sajak was saying, and wasn’t just watching Eddie.  

Because Eddie was double his age at heart, Wheel of Fortune faded into Jeopardy, and when Jeopardy faded into whatever the fuck came after, right on cue, Eddie yawned. “I’m going to bed,” he said, and Richie nodded.

“I’ll probably turn in, too,” he said, and they both just sat there for a few seconds after Richie turned off the TV, something- something- lingering between them. This part, too, was part of the norm; there was something one of them wanted to say, needed to do, but Richie was too chicken shit to be the one to do it, and Eddie was- well, Richie wasn’t sure what Eddie was, scared, nervous, too freshly out of an intensely shitty relationship, but what it boiled down to was Eddie yawning in again, breaking the moment, and saying “g’night, Richie,” as he got up, and went to his room. 

Normally, Richie’d just sit there for a few moments and stew in the moment he let pass again, but tonight, he only had to sit there for a second before he remembered what he’d been trying to get out of his head since dinner. 

He felt like a burglar in his own home, tiptoeing back to his room and closing the door. He thought about keeping the light off, for a second, but flipped it on at the last second. If he was going to be crossing the fucking line like this, he may as well be able to fucking see it in its full glory.  

He settled onto the bed and pulled the magazine out from under his mattress in one smooth move, flipping it open to the page without having to search, like the universe knew exactly what kind of self destruction he was looking to do. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and when he looked down on the exhale, Eddie was staring back at him, legs splayed and back arched artfully, like he’d just been waiting for him this whole time. 

“Hey there,” Richie said to an empty fucking room, and too much brainpower had already switched to dick power for him to be embarrassed about it. It didn’t take too long for him to get fully hard again- because it was fucking Eddie, of course it didn’t, and Richie wasn’t in the business of teasing himself when it came to jerking off, so he inelegantly wriggled out of his sweatpants and boxers, kicking them to the bottom of the bed. 

It was a little awkward, balancing the magazine in one hand while he had the other on his dick, but Richie was a pro at it, at this point. Normally, though, he’d only look at the magazine for a bit  before he let it fall aside, letting his mind do the rest of the work. Tonight, he couldn’t make himself put it down, though, because putting it down would mean he wouldn’t see how fucking right Eddie looked, laying back on that stupid, ugly pink fur, arms draped above his head and legs spread wide.

“Fuck.” He didn’t say it very loud, but Richie felt like he could hear it echo through the empty room. This was going to be the shortest fucking jerk off session he’d had in maybe his entire life, but, that should really be expected, considering the circumstances, and- 

“Hey, Richie, do you think I should get this mole checked again, because I really-” 

The world stopped. 

Eddie- real Eddie, now Eddie- was standing in the doorway. Fuck, normally, he’d knock, but Richie guessed the mole thing was really fucking bothering him, because he’s just slammed it open and given Richie no time to react. They both froze, when they locked eyes, and Eddie realized what was going on, and his face skipped right past the pretty pink Richie’d just been looking at to bright fucking red. “Oh. You’re- busy.” 

“Yeah.” Richie’s hand had not moved from his dick, nor had he moved to put the magazine down, or cover himself up, or anything a normal fucking person would do. Instead, his gaze flicked from Eddie, down the magazine, and back. “I, uh- sorry.” 

“Oh my fucking god,” Eddie said, and Richie felt his heart jump into his throat for a second as Eddie started moving towards him, and- laughing? “Dude, is that a fucking magazine? What is it, the fucking sixties?” 

“Fuck you!” Richie was finally moving, now, but it was mostly to jerk the magazine out of Eddie’s reach when he reached for it. Eddie didn’t seem to care that his fucking dick was out, so Richie was gonna ignore it for the time being, and hope it went away. “It’s artful, man.” 

“You’re such a grandpa,” Eddie snorted, managing to snatch the magazine away from Richie and dance just out of reach before he could snatch it back, flipping through the pages. “Is this fucking vintage magazine porn? Richie, you’ve got to be fucking kidding m-” 

The last part of the sentence died on Eddie’s tongue as he reached the centerfold, and he went pale as a ghost. “I, uh-” 

“You looked, like... Really fucking good.” That was the wrong thing to say, the stupidest thing Richie could’ve possibly said, but he spoke before he thought. 

“It- college, man.” Eddie didn’t seem like he was entirely in himself as he spoke, still staring down at the page. “I… I wanted to feel hot. So.” 

Eddie’s voice was so fucking small when he said it, it made Richie’s chest ache. “Wanted to feel hot?” he asked, sitting up a bit. “Dude. Eds, you are hot.” 

“I mean, I used to look pretty good- I worked out and shit.” Eddie shrugged, finally putting the magazine down, setting it on Richie’s bedside table. 

“I didn’t say ‘used to’,” Richie said, using his single ounce of courage for the rest of the year. “I said you are hot.” 

“Present tense?” Eddie’s gaze snapped from the carpet to Richie’s face, brow furrowed, seemingly searching it for... something. Richie wasn’t sure if he found it or not. “You think so?”

“I’ve always thought so,” he said, because he had, and if he was being honest, he may as well go the whole way with it. Fuck the line.

“Fuck, Richie.” The two words left Eddie’s mouth in one gust of breath, and before Richie could add anything onto his confession, Eddie had surged forward, and kissed him, hands on either side of Richie’s face, holding him like he was something precious . It was honestly a very sweet kiss, for how inelegant it was, and the fact that Richie’s dick was still out, several decades worth of longing and things unsaid pushed from both sides. 

When they pulled away, they were breathless, and Eddie’s forehead was resting against Richie’s. “You were really gonna sit here and jerk off to my fucking picture while I was a room away, huh?” he teased, and even if Richie knew it for what it was, guilt wormed its way into the pit of his stomach. 

“The fuck else was I supposed to do?” he shot back. “Knock on your door and go, ‘hey, Spaghetti-O, I know you’re in the process of doing your old lady skin care routine so that you can pass out by ten like some kind of retiree, but I need you to know that I found your ancient nudes, and they dredged up every fantasy I’ve ever had about you and then some. Thoughts?’” 

“Yes,” Eddie said, and then, “You’ve had a lot of fantasies about me?” 

“You’re the only person I’ve ever fantasized about,” Richie said, and he hated how fucking honest he was being about that. “Even when I didn’t know it was you, it was always- the shape of you, the flash.”

“You’re not allowed to be that romantic when your fucking hard on is digging into my hip, man,” Eddie huffed, and then he kissed Richie again. This time, there was nothing sweet about it, all heat, biting and sucking, and when Eddie pulled away to kiss down Richie’s neck, there was nothing he could do but bite back a moan. “And, yeah, you should’ve fucking come to me. You don’t need the fucking magazine when you have the real thing.” 

“Have I got it?” Richie asked, and he wasn’t even sure what he was asking, but Eddie stopped pawing at his shirt for a second to give him the answer that he needed, anyway. 

“Richie,” he said, deadly serious and flushed the same shade of pink he’d been in the picture, now. “You’ve always had me. Now, take your fucking shirt off.”

Richie didn’t have to be told twice, and by the time he got the rest of the way undressed and retrieved his glasses from where he’d flung them across the bed in the process, he was treated to Eddie having done the same, stepping out of his sleep pants, silky, stupid, monogramed button down hanging off his shoulders. “God.” He couldn’t help the outburst, and it made Eddie look over to him with a smile- no, a fucking smirk, crawling back onto the bed like some kind of stupid sex kitten from an eighties porno and letting the shirt drop to the floor in the same move. 

“Like what you see?” 

“You already know I do, asshole,” Richie said, rolling his eyes at the line and running his hands down Eddie’s sides and back up again in the same motion. “You’re fucking hot, Eddie.” 

“I like hearing you say it,” Eddie said, surging to kiss him again. He’d settled on Richie’s lap, sort of, straddling his hips, and it was fucking rewarding to feel that he was just as turned on as Richie was, even if Richie couldn’t bring himself to look down at his dick yet. That was a shade too far; he wasn’t sure he’d be able to recover. 

“You’re fucking hot,” he said again, sort of mumbled into Eddie’s shoulder as he pressed a kiss there, and started working his way down. “I’ll keep saying it, then.” 

“You’re- shit, Richie, we’re not fucking kids, you can’t just go giving me hickies all ove- oh, you’re probably the only person I’ve heard it from in, like- a decade,” Eddie’s head was tipped back, eyes fluttering shut, and it was such a pretty scene Richie almost didn’t process what he’d heard. 

“No one’s told you you were hot in ten fucking years?” It sounded so impossible to Richie; who the fuck could miss all this, even with the not at all provocative polos and button downs Eddie usually wore- or. Well, Richie found them provocative, but he found everything about Eddie appealing in one way or another. 

“I- fuck- was married,” Eddie said. “And we weren’t, like… that kinda couple.” 

“Her loss,” Richie said. “My gain. You’re so fucking hot.” 

“Your gain,” Eddie echoed, and he was smiling, so fucking gentle that Richie forgot how to breathe, and also the fact that he was supposed to be ravishing him. “Do you, uh. Wanna fuck me?” 

Richie’s brain stopped working. “Do I want to fuck you? Eddie. Eddie, I think if I don’t fuck you, I’ll die.” 

“You won’t die,” Eddie huffed, even though Richie wanted to protest when he removed himself from his lap. “Do you have, like. Lube and shit?” 

 “First drawer on the left.” Richie made a vague gesture towards his dresser, and readjusted to give Eddie more room on the bed when he came back.

“I haven’t fucking done this in years,” Eddie when he found what he was looking for, tossing the bottle at Richie. “So, you’re gonna have to, like. Be patient.” 

“I’m so patient,” Richie said, fumbling to catch it and then fucking up his first few attempts at getting the cap open in his haste, undercutting his whole statement. “I’m like fucking Buddha, man. Did you- want to grab a condom?” 

“I checked, yours are expired,” Eddie said, settling back onto the bed. “Which tells me, like, how little sex you’ve been having. We can, like… make a run, if you really want one? But- I’m clean, and I… if you are, then.” 

“I am,” Richie said, maybe a bit too quickly, because the idea of raw dogging Eddie was the closest he’d had to a religious epiphany in his whole life. “I- am.”  

“Good,” Eddie said, the word coming out like a sigh as Richie repositioned himself once more, looming over him to steal a kiss. “Then, do you wanna do this part, or should I?” 

“Can I?” Richie was getting gift after gift tonight, feeling like Christmas goddamn Day when Eddie nodded. He shifted down again, getting probably too sloppy with the lube as he coated his fingers. Whatever, he’d change his sheets later. 

He couldn’t take his eyes off of Eddie’s face as he pushed his first finger in- slow, so fucking slow, because he was being patient, and gentle. The pink was back in his cheeks, and his eyes were half lidded, eyelashes fluttering every time Richie’s finger moved, small noises Richie wasn’t even sure he knew he was making falling from his lips. “Fuck, Richie.” 

“You good?” Richie was breathless- he’d been breathless a lot in this; maybe he should ask if Eddie had any of his old inhalers lying around. 

“Am I good?” Eddie almost sounded like he was going to laugh, but Richie must’ve hit something good before he could, because the noise turned into a drawn out moan. “Jesus, Richie. Another- another, and harder, and fucking do that again.” 

“You’re so bossy,” Richie snorted, but he did what he was told because he kinda liked that Eddie was bossy. 

Two more fingers and several minutes later, Eddie’s eyes looked like they had almost rolled back in his head, and he was tugging  Richie’s hair. “Okay, you’ve- you’ve gotta fuck me now, or I think I’m gonna lose it.” 

“Losing it is the point,” Richie said, even as he drew his fingers back. The whimper Eddie let out when he did was intoxicating. 

“Not before I’ve had your dick in me,” he countered. “I’ve waited way too fucking long for this, and I’m not gonna be waiting until I get it up again because I came like a fucking college kid before we got the main event.” 

“Then here comes the show, baby,” Richie said, shifting once again. He had to manhandle Eddie a little bit so that they were both positioned properly, handing him a pillow to put under his hips because neither of them were fucking twenty somethings anymore, and he was realistic about the level of crazy they could be getting here. 

Eddie rolled his eyes as he readjusted himself. “Don’t call your dick ‘the show,’” he said. “Even if it’s- Jesus, Richie, where do you even fucking put that thing?”

“I’ve never exaggerated a big dick joke in my life,” Richie said, a little smug because fuck yeah, finally, some respect. 

“I guess not,” Eddie said. “But, having a big dick doesn’t mean you know how to fucking use it.” 

Richie’s eyes narrowed. “That a challenge, Eds?” 

“Just an observation,” Eddie shot back, laying back on the bed and looking up at Richie with a smile that was definitely a challenge. “Prove me wrong.” 

Richie took that as his cue to do exactly that, lining up and pushing in- just a bit, at first, small thrusts of his hip before Eddie kicked- literally, fucking kicked, the asshole- him into action. “We just spent twenty fucking minutes working me up to this, Richie,” he said. “Fuck me like you mean it, now.” 

“I’m trying to be a gentleman, so you can sit pretty in your desk chair tomorrow,” Richie said. 

“You can be a gentleman next time,” Eddie said- and, holy shit, next time. “This time- fuck me like you mean it.” 

Richie didn’t have to be told twice. He was really, really considering maybe starting going to church again, with all the religious experience he was having this night, but he could mull that thought after he finished processing how fucking good Eddie looked, gripping Richie’s sheets as he rocked into him, slow at first and then building. “Jesus Christ, you’re fucking phenomenal.”  

“Stop using words with more than three syllables,” Eddie said, eyes fluttering shut and then open again, locking with Richie’s and not moving. “Your dick is turning off my brain.” 

“Phenomenal,” Richie said. “Effervescent. Show stopping, beautiful, an absolute fucking knock-out-” 

“Shut up,” Eddie moaned, tugging Richie down and kissing him. “You’re already fucking me, you don’t have to flatter me.” 

“It’s not flattery if you’re fucking everything,” Richie said, and that got Eddie’s eyes to widen.

“Everything?” he asked, and his voice was way, way too gentle for the moment. It seemed like an important question, for being only one word. 

“Everything,” he echoed, sure, more sure than he’d ever been about anything in his life. “Always been, Eds.”

“You can’t just say that shit, Richie,” Eddie said, but he kissed Richie again, and when he pulled away, added: “Say it again, anyway.” 

“You’re everything,” Richie repeated, and it became a mantra. “You’re everything, Eds,” like he was trying to burrow the idea so deep in Eddie’s mind he’d never fucking doubt it again, for better or for worse. They were fucking clinging to each other, now, and Richie wasn’t sure when this had turned from fucking to romance novel love making, but he wasn’t about to stop it. There was no way he could detach his feelings from this, if any of the shit he’d been saying didn’t make that obvious on its own. 

It only took a few more minutes of everything, you’re fucking everything, you’ve always been everything for Eddie to tighten around Richie, whole body curling like a spring when he came between them. “Richie, Richie, holy fucking shit-” 

“I’ve got you,” Richie said, sounding wrecked, because he was fucking close, too- he’d been close before Eddie’d come in, it was a wonder he hadn’t already blown it like a virgin- and he needed Eddie to know it. “I got you, I got you.” 

“Richie.” Eddie sounded just as wrecked, and it just took one look at his face- pink lips, pink cheeks, doe eyes blown wide under his lashes- to push him over the edge, coming with Eddie’s name on his lips. 

“Fuck.” His arms gave out, as he came down, and he flopped on top of Eddie. “Fuck, I think I’m dying.” 

“Don’t die with your dick still in me, idiot,” Eddie huffed, nudging him until he shifted and hissing as Richie pulled out. “God, I forgot this part.” 

“The afterglow?” Richie flopped on the other side of the bed now, and was pleased when Eddie shifted and followed, tucking himself against Richie’s side.

 “The part where I need to fucking shower,” Eddie said, making no move to get up.

“Do it later,” Richie said. “I’ll hop in with you, save water.” 

“If you hop in with me, neither of us are getting clean,” Eddie snorted, and god, if Richie hadn’t just came, that would’ve done some shit to him. 

“All the more reason,” he said, tucking Eddie a bit more securely into his side and dropping a kiss to the top of his head, getting a little bold. 

“Did you mean all that stuff?” Eddie asked after a beat of silence. “About-” 

“You’re everything,” Richie said, and he could feel Eddie’s breth hitching without even looking at him, because he wasn’t brave enough to do that right now. “Always been. It’s… yeah.” 

“Always?” Eddie sounded like he couldn’t believe it, which was stupid, because of course it was true. 

“Which part of that did you miss, Eds?” Richie asked. “The part earlier where I told you you were the only guy I’d ever fantasized about, or the way I used to follow you around like a puppy when we were kids, or-” 

“Shut up,” Eddie said. “It’s- you were my everything, Richie, so please, give me a damn minute to adjust to the reality that I haven’t been stupid for thinking that maybe you felt a little the same the whole time.” 

“Take a minute, then,” Richie said, because, oh, he didn’t know what to do with that, so he probably needed a minute, too. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

“Neither am I,” Eddie said, and that made Richie relax a little bit. “I’m staying here, tonight, by the way. I’m not sure my legs work.” 

“That good?” Richie hummed, smug, and Eddie didn’t answer, but the kiss he pressed to Richie’s shoulder did for him. “Told you, I’m fucking good.”

“One time doesn't count,” Eddie said. “You’re gonna have to give a repeat performance.” 

“Oh, I’m gonna,” Richie said. “A few- later. Probably not tonight.” 

“Probably not tonight,” Eddie agreed. “But- soon.”  

“I’ll fuck you every night I’m home if you let me, Eds,” Richie said, and sounded a lot more lovesick than he intended. 

“You’re taking me to dinner, first,” Eddie said. “Nice dinner, that I’m not cooking.” 

“Deal,” Richie said. “It’s a date.” 

“A date.” He turned to look at Eddie, then, and he was grinning like Richie had just done something amazing. “Good.” 

Richie had to kiss him for that. “I’m getting that picture framed, by the way,” he said as they both tucked in for the night. “We can hang it in the living room.” 

“We have people over, Richie,” Eddie said. “You’re not putting my nudes in the fucking living room.”

“They’re tasteful!” Richie protested. “And, like. That wasn’t a no on the framing.” 

“It’s a good picture,” Eddie said. “But, not in the living room.” 

“My office it is, then,” Richie said. “I’ll hang it right behind me, so when I do Skype interviews, it’s there.” 

“You’re the absolute worst,” Eddie groaned, but he kissed Richie again, so Richie decided he was gonna take that as ‘maybe.’ 

[theateared]

You’re One Hell of a Guy. ❜

Summary:  But deep inside, you and I are still the same kids.

      Going to Murr’s house was something he barely had time for, but he refused to leave him hanging.  Though the times that he could stop by properly were few and far between, he’d become adamant on at least trying to make them happen.

                                Murr is, after all, my best friend.  I want to see him.

       As he took a swig of his coffee  ( Murr hated the stuff but kept some in his cupboard specifically for when he visited ),  Kuro leaned on the table, cheek cradled in his hand.  The early hours were always the best time for him to visit,  the time he was the least likely to be pulled away.  Over time, Murr had grown less frustrated with him.  He’d realised that it wasn’t his fault when he was called to action.  He was yanked away from everybody equally--  even his beloved wife suffered for it.

      “I’m glad ya could come,”   Murr admitted, sitting at the table with a cup of hot chocolate between his hands.   “I was feelin’ kinda lonely.  Feels like ya’ve been a little MIA recently.”

       "Just work,”   Kuro replied with a heavy sigh, trying to will the recurring ache in his forehead away.  The last thing he wanted was for the little time he did have with his friend to be plagued by the dull thrum of an oncoming migraine.  Gently does it.  Pushing hard only makes it stick more.   “Real fucked up case.  Some kinda gang activity in Vidé.  At first we thought it was just some kids fuckin’ around but it turns out they have some real dons runnin’ the show.  Shit’s a little more serious now.”

       Murr sniffed derisively.   "Yeesh.  Sounds like a fuckin’ party.”

       "Psh, yer invited if y’feel left out.”

       “No thanks, pal.  I like havin’ my organs in my body?  Ya know--  where they belong?"

       Kuro couldn’t help but snicker at the facetious remark.  The knowledge that most Huros had on gang activity was incredibly basic, based almost solely on fiction.  It was all "buying hearts” and “selling drugs”, boisterous street rats and crime lords that struck and then vanished like ghosts.  From a place so peaceful, most had no clue about the horrors that occurred outside of their cosy borders.  Sadly, it was Huron that was the exception, not the districts that were chock-full of violence.

       The topic of his most recent play came up, and he watched as Murr became excitable, one leg crossing over his lap as his hands began to join the conversation.  He’d always been the type to talk with his body too.  Somewhere along the way, Kuro found himself zoning out.  Something disconcerting had been on his mind lately.  Though he’d never stray from his wife,  he’d been thinking a lot about Murr lately.  Innocently, almost in passing, but frequently nonetheless.  The things he never said to his friend were beginning to irritate him, like a rash that wouldn’t go away, and an alien pang of longing arose whenever they shared space like this.  You’re just so easy to be around now that I’ve allowed myself to be.  I feel regret every day now for the way that I treated you.  Maybe if I hadn’t been so one-dimensional, I wouldn’t be feeling the way I do now--

       “Helloooo?  Huron t’Sheriff?”   He refocused to see Murr leaning over the table, waving a hand almost desperately in his face.  Despite this, his expression was full of mirth.   ❛❛ Damn!  If ya really think my ideas are that borin’ ya can just say so! ❜❜

       ❛❛ No, it ain’t that.  It’s just…  I’m thinkin’ again. ❜❜

       His eyes closed as he felt Murr flick his forehead.   “Well don’t.  Ya get sad when ya think too much.  I don’t wanna have ta tell yer wife that I made ya cry, again, so ya’d better stop bein’ a dumbass.”

       “Yeah yeah…  I get it.”   Maybe I don’t.  Maybe we should finally talk about this.  I have some conflicting feelings about you.  It’s making me feel like a bad husband.  A bad person, even.   "Actually...”   For some reason, he felt unbearably nervous all of a sudden, heart speeding up as he thought about how best to pose the question.  Eventually, he settled on an inoffensive:   "Can we talk?”   He watched Murr’s face fall based on his body language, waving a hand at him quickly.    “It’s nothin’ bad.  I don’t think.  It’s just…  somethin’ I’ve been thinkin’ about lately.  I feel like I should be honest with y’.”

       "Okay...”   Murr tugged at his collar briefly, as if to get air beneath it.   "Yeesh...  way t’make a guy nervous.”

       Kuro couldn’t help but chuckle, fingers drumming soundlessly against the pot of his mug.  He wasn’t entirely sure why the idea of saying something about this was filling him with so much apprehension.  It wasn’t like anything was going to come of it.  Not only was he happily married, he was almost certain that Murr wouldn’t be able to live with him after the things he’d done.  Forgiven he may have been, but it didn’t mean that the pain has miraculously been undone.  He’d still prompted Murr to almost take his life;  had still put his parents--  his second family-- through the terrible strain of thinking they were going to lose their son;  had still treated him with aggravated fury every time he’d tried to come back into his life despite having no right to.  In truth, it wasn’t a matter of whether he was truly bisexual or not--  it was that Murr was too good for him.

       ❛❛ … when we were kids…  y’know, befer everythin’ went t’shit, I sorta-- ❜❜   He caught himself then.  He almost wanted to laugh at his feeble attempt to utter an age-old confession.  It was as if he was 140 all over again, flushed and stammering through a halfhearted ‘’I like you!’’.  It was this thought that made him feel better, a tiny sliver of a smile forming on his face as he finished with a blunt:   ❛❛ I had a crush on you.  A pretty big one. ❜❜

       ❛❛ Aheh…  this’s a joke, right? ❜❜

       ❛❛ No. ❜❜

       He watched his friend’s body language closely.  On occasion, his face revealed itself to him too, but now was not one of those times.  He suddenly became very closed, as if trying to fold himself into a small cube and slot himself somewhere safe from his gaze.  The quiet lingered like a cloud, uncomfortable silence stretching between them like wire, and in his head Kuro could hear the same phrase repeating over and over:  please say something, please say something, please say something, plea--

       ❛❛ Oh.  Pfft.  Me too! ❜❜

       He all but gawked at how easy it was for Murr to say such a thing.  Though he knew that Murr had never been the type to act apologetically, there were some things the man treated with an air of secrecy.  His sexuality, for whatever reason, was one of them.  It wasn’t as if Huron was rich with homophobia;  he just didn’t seem to like labels like a lot of other people did.  For that reason, despite being his best friend, Kuro still wasn’t quite sure where on the spectrum Murr sits.  It didn’t matter, wouldn’t affect their relationship any in the slightest, but he was curious.  He’d almost been curious about his own leaning lately.  Had he not withdrawn from Murr during his tens, could they maybe have forged some sort of romance together?  There were certainly feelings involved, and now that he knew they were requited he had to wonder if either of them would have been bold enough to say something at some point.  It was this constant lack of knowledge that was turning his brain to mush.  The relationship he consciously desired with Murr was nothing more than a friendship, but his subconscious seemed to have other things in mind.

       For some reason, he felt a dull form of elation that caused his pulse to flutter.  It wasn’t as if he was still in love--  he never would have burdened a woman with a ring if he was--  but having Murr back in his life again, so close and personal after years of sombre silence, raised some primitive questions in his gut.  Could we have been together?  Could that ring have been yours, or would college have split us apart in a different way?  Would we not have aged well and not remained friends at all?  Did I need to lose you to be close with you again later?  What would have become of us?  Do I strictly like women?  Or was my attraction to you a one-off thing based on friendship?  What do I like?

       "Really?”

       "Well duh,”  Murr chirped airily, hopping up from his seat and beginning to rinse his mug clean.   “We spent all our time together!  And even back then, you were all stoic ‘n’ weird--  I was drawn t’that like a magnet.  It was interestin’.  You were different from the other kids.  So was I.  It made sense ta me.  Us against the world kinda thing, ya know?”  There was a pause as he set his cup down on the drying rack, eyes glued to one drop of water running slowly along the handle until it fell and met the drain below.  In a way, it reminded him of what he thought college would be like:  as if he’d be lowered from his awkward tenner suspension and be reunited with souls that his could understand.  After a moment of thought, he picked it back up, leaving it in his lap to fiddle with.   “… maybe that was why it hurt me so much when ya wouldn’t answer my calls or hang out with me much.  Maybe I was a little homesick.”

       "Homesick?”

       "Yeah.  You were my home, Kuro.  No two ways about it.”

       He should have learned by now to not grow stunned by Murr’s poetic brevity, but he’d always been partial to a heartfelt yet conveniently short verse.  You’re one hell of a guy, Murr.

      “... ‘n’ now?”

     There was a pregnant pause, one that latched onto his insecurities and fed much like a parasite would.  For some reason or another, a heavy sense of dread opened up inside of him, that familiar black hole sucking the life out of everything around him as it so often did.  Then, all at once, Murr released the tension in his shoulders with a shrug.

     “Nothin’s changed about that, bud.”   He moved then, perching on the counter much like a child would, long legs kicking gently.   “... are we good?  Why’d ya feel the need t’bring that up?  It ain’t like we’re the same people.”   His vision wasn’t impaired the same way Kuro’s was;  he could see his face clearly, knew the creases of worry in his brow almost as well as he knew his own hands.

     “I worry that you are the same person,”   he replied quietly, almost as if he’d been holding his breath prior to admitting it.   “‘n’ sometimes I worry that I am too.”

     The air fell still, both men cloaked in silence, and only when Kuro felt something wet on his face did he look up.  Murr’s face was clear  -  and it was pissed.  The empty cup in his hand sat tilted in the Sheriff’s direction, telling him plainly that he’d filled it and then flung it at him as if he’d desperately needed a bath.  Kuro wasn’t one to flinch often, but the scorn in his dearest friend’s eyes shook him to the core.

     “Ya keep sayin’ stupid shit like that, yer gonna flood my house,”   he said through clenched teeth.  There was no way in hell that he could tell the other man why he was so angry.  It would ruin everything he’d worked so hard to piece back together.   “If ya think I’m selfish enough t’split you ‘n’ yer wife up fer some dumb childhood crush then think again.”   The words hurt to say, an all-too-familiar pain blossoming in his chest like a thorn-covered rose, but he knew it was the right thing to do.  If he was ever to tell Kuro that he felt similarly--  that their convoluted history kept him awake at night, that he still fantasised about holding his hand sometimes, that he tossed and turned some nights, unable to sleep, because all he could think about was the what if that had steadily consumed his life--  he knew that they could both be led down a very dark road.  He didn’t believe in cheating, and he certainly didn’t believe in homewrecking.  He also didn’t believe in Kuro’s self-esteem enough to think that he would be above doing either if he was to open the door for him.  I’m saying this for you.  Maybe you don’t realise it now but you will in time.     “We’re not like that.  It doesn’t matter how it was when we were kids.  We’re not kids anymore.  You left.”   He internally cursed the bitterness in his voice at that, cursed the slight stiffen of Kuro’s shoulders even more.  He continued before he could lose his nerve--  before he could truly do something stupid.   “... and that’s just it, Kuro.”  He forced himself to smile, though the expression looked crestfallen at best.   “You’ve got somethin’ good now.  So don’t throw it all away for a couple’a stupid kids that don’t even exist anymore, alright?”

     Kuro stared at him a moment longer before averting his gaze completely.  When he tried to catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of his eye, he found that his face was blank once again.  The static spiralled tauntingly ahead of him, the dreary squiggles ruining the clear picture he’d set his sights on just moments ago.  Even your anger is better than the static.  A large hand raised to wipe at his face, ridding it of the damp as best he could before he rose from his chair.

     “Alright,”   he said with a grunt, his usual monotone drawl returning with a vengeance.  Murr’s right.  Things are different now.  Living in the past will only fuck up the present  -  and there’s a lot to fuck up now that I’m married.  His coat was shrugged on, hands slid into his pockets.   “... thanks fer the wake-up call.  Yer right.”

     “Of course I am.”   He smiled wider despite the words twisting in his heart like a knife.  It’s selfish, but I want you to stay.   “Ya should go now.  Yer wife’s gonna be askin’ where ya are again.”

     A humourless laugh escaped the other man, head bobbing once in acknowledgement before he turned around and headed to the exit.   “Remember t’mop yer floor by the way.  Asshole.”   The front door clicked shut behind him.  It was quiet, but it echoed with an agonising finality in Murr’s head as the smile faded.

     What was that?  Was he trying to approach the topic of a relationship with me?  Or did I make that up?  Gah…  it doesn’t matter.  He’s gone.  Like he’s always been.

     He hated himself for the weakness that welled up in his eyes, hot and shameful as he tried desperately to keep himself from falling to pieces.  It doesn’t take much these days.  I used to be so much more durable.  Now I’m all sensitive and lost.  A palm dug stubbornly into one of his eyes, ridding it of tears, before he followed suit with the other.  He didn’t feel much better with them dry, but he knew that he at least looked the part now.  He hopped down from the counter, grabbing the mop from inside the utility cupboard, beginning to clean, the wet sound of water spreading across a surface filling his ears like white noise.  He welcomed it, zoned out altogether, and by the time he stopped mopping, half an hour had flown by.

     A vacant feeling had always been there since college, but it ebbed and flowed, came and went in waves, and it often left him stranded in a dangerous spot between ‘okay’ and ‘absolutely falling apart’.  It was an emptiness he couldn’t quite explain;  oxymoronic in that it was so void and yet so full, as if his head was closer to imploding with every second longer that it chose to reside inside of him.  His heart felt like a rock, his brain a grenade.  If only I could reach inside myself and pull the pin.  I want to pull the pin.  I have for a while.

     When he put the mop back in its place, he thought only momentarily before stepping inside the cupboard himself, closing the door behind him.  If I put myself away like a broom or a bottle of bleach, will people forget I exist until they need me again?  What if I’m never needed again?  Will I stay undiscovered in this closet until I die?  The smell of chemicals and damp immediately rose to his attention, though it was a welcome distraction.  His head met the closed door gently, eyes opening despite not being able to see anything.  It was an accurate depiction of the void inside of him;  that inky blackness that covered everything in a thick layer of nothing, as if all it touched simply ceased to exist

     I don’t feel real.  I can’t see.  I can’t touch.  Even the smell is beginning to fade away.  I’m just an empty vessel in an empty space.  A cat in a box that is both dead and alive at the same time.  Tired bones rather than tired eyes.

     At some point, he felt himself slip to the floor, content to remain in the dismal darkness a while longer.  He hated that the only thing he could think of was him.  Sitting there alone in the dark, wondering if he’d just ruined his one chance at true happiness, he felt both horribly and wonderfully alone.

[rexinferorum]

Private Detective AU / jackson

                                        (  loosely  based  on  prodigal son  )                                                                                                          ft. @sitacross

         he’s  on  the  ground,  a  shotgun  in  his  face.    the  murderer  has  the  heads  of  his  victims  in  jars,  they  stare  back  at  him  like  the  heads  of  his  sister’s  barbie  dolls  used  to  whenever  he  wrenched  them  free.  it  had  been  a  scientific  experiment,  he’d  said  to  their  mother  when  she,  in  horror,  asked  him  why;  he  wanted  to  see  if  they’d  go  back  on  after.   he’d  always  enjoyed  hypothesis  and  experimentation,  in  seeing  why  and  how  things  reacted  the  way  they  did.   he  applied  those  same  curiosities  to  people,  though  he’d  become  a  profiler  rather  than  a  serial  killer  like  the  man  before  him.   two  different  paths,  same  curiosities.    that  curiosity  however  might  get  him  killed  today.     wait  for  back-up,  his  superior  had  said  on  the  radio  when  he  arrived  at  the  suspect’s  home,  don’t  go  in  there  alone,  avery.     he  hadn’t  listened  of  course.   they  only  had  once  chance  to  catch  the  man  off  guard  and  if  he  waited  ?   there  was  a  chance  he  could  bolt  –  ESCAPE  before  they  could  bring  him  to  justice.    he’s  just  about  talked  the  man  into  putting  his  gun  down,  into  going  quietly,  when  the  local  authorities  show  up  and  ruin  everything.  he  ends  up  splattered  in  blood,  the  murderer  DEAD.   there’ll  be  no  justice  served  today.   he  gets  to  his  feet,  stumbles  out  of  the  crime  scene,  and  punches  the  sheriff  before  leaving.

             he’s  summarily  dismissed  from  the  bureau.    conduct  unbecoming.   when  they  hand  him  his  pink  slip,  it’s  with  a  recommendation:   get  some  help.    jokes  on  them,  he  doesn’t  think  there’s  enough  help  in  the  world  to  get  his  head  on  straight.  he  knows  this,  accepts  it  even. 

     he  gets  the  call  a  few  days  later.   the  NYPD  need  help  tracking  down  their  latest  serial  killer.  “  i  don’t  know  if  i’m  your  guy.  ”   he  relays to  the  man  on  the  phone  —  a  man  who  was  there  for  him  over  the  years,  a  man  he  considered  family.    “  you  should  probably  know  i  was  fired  from  the  FBI  this  week.  ”   —  “  perfect,  that  means  you’re  available  to  consult.  ”    he  is,  so  he  goes.   

   he  steps  under  the  crime  scene  tape  when  he  arrives,  taking  a  loud  bite  from  his  apple.  it  crunches,  forces  the  other  detectives  to  turn  and  stare  at  him.  “  sorry.  ”    he  apologizes,  though  he  doesn’t  mean  it.   “  late  start.  ”    he  tosses  it  in  the  trash,  listens  to  the  captain  run  down  the  details  of  the  crime.    it’s  a  grisly  murder;   the  woman  was  strangled  with  a  piano  wire,  then  cut  into  pieces  which  were  arranged  into  a  very  specific  pattern.   it’s  a  pattern  he’s  seen  before  —  why  baird  silvermist  has  called  him  in  to  consult  on  this  case.    “  why  is  he  here  ?  ”   the  detective  —  claudia,  frowns  with  her  hands  on  her  hips.   “  we  can’t  just  have  a  civilian  traipsing  around  a  crime  scene,  baird.  ”      jacks  smiles;  bittersweet,  but  a  smile  nonetheless.   “  hi,  i’m  the  civilian.  ”   he  waves  a  hand  in  front  of  her  face.  he’s  never  been  one  to  avoid  an  awkward  interaction.   “  i  know  i  introduced  myself  as  jacks  avery  but  that’s  not  my  given  name.  ”     he  sighs,  takes  another  look  at  the  carnage  around  them.   “  it’s  jackson  elsey.   my  brother  is  vuras  elsey  …  the  pollock  killer.  ”       he  grimaces.   “  what  we  have  here  is  a  CLEAR  copycat.  ”

* * *

         it  isn’t  something  he  advertises  —  that  his  brother’s  a  serial  killer.   half-brother,  if  you  want  to  get  technical.  vuras  was  arrested  when  he  was  11  and  he’d  changed  his  name  as  an  adult  to  create  some  distance  between  the  horrors  of  his  past  and  his  future.   as  it  turns  out,  jacks  avery  wouldn’t  be  immune  to  the  pollock  killer’s  influence  either.    pollock,  because  he  spread  body  parts  out  in  such  a  way  it  had  once  been  described  as  art  of  the  most  macabre  threshold.   

      his  profile  is  coming  together  nicely.  the  copycat  is  someone  roughly  his  brother’s  age  or  older,  who  grew  up  hearing  or  reading  about  the  pollock  killer’s  reign  of  terror  on  the  news.   with  over  42  confirmed  kills,  vuras  elsey  is  known  as  one  of  the  most  notorious  serial  killers  in  modern  times.   his  arrest  was  made  even  more  shocking  given  he’d  been  a  registered  clinical  therapist.  someone  who  was  supposed  to  help  people,  who  was  supposed  to  be  good,  had  simply  used  his  position  to  get  insight  into  human  behaviors  that  he  couldn’t  quite  replicate  on  his  own.   as  a  psychopath,  the  only  emotions  he  ever  felt  were  ghosts  —   imprints  —  impressioned  from  those  around  him.   any  one  of  his  patients  could  be  the  culprit  and  with  bodies  piling  up,  jacks  knew  he  was  running  out  of  options.   if  he  could  do  something  to  get  more  insight,  to  get  a  lead,  and  he  did  nothing  ?    well  he  was  no  better  than  his  brother.   that  blood  would  be  on  his  hands.  

     so  it’s  with  shaking  hands  that  he  signs  himself  in  at  the  psychiatric  hospital,  pins  a  guest  badge  to  his  chest  and  follows  the  guard  to  v’s  cell.   it’s  a  maximum  security  hospital,  his  brother  only  permitted to  remain  there  so  long  as  he  refrains  from  starting  any  trouble.   his  lawyers  were  sharks  –  they’d  defended  him  to  the  letter,  narrowly  avoiding  the  death  penalty  in  favor  of  a  lifetime  stay  at  asphyxia  medical  center.    10  years  down  the  line  and  the  man  has  his  own  office;    connects  with  clients  via  skype,  or  a  closed  circuit  chat  system.   he  even  has  satellite  tv,  for  crying  out  loud.   (    v   has  friends  and  connections  in  high  places.  even  being  incarcerated  hasn’t  slowed  him  down  any.     the  guard  explains  all  this  on  their  walk.  )      it’s  been  7  years  since  jakson  last  visited.   7  years  since  he  last  looked  his  brother  in  the  eye. 

        he  remembers  that  gleam.    he  remembers  his  brother  looking  him  dead  in  the  eye,  smiling,  and  saying  words  that  haunt  him.   you  and  i,  we’re  the  same.  you’ll  see.  you  think  solving  murders,  helping  people,  will  atone  for  my  sins  but  what  about  yours?  i  see  your  darkness  and  it  matches  mine.   we’re  the  same.     

        they  reach  the  door  as  its  buzzed  open.  the  guard  steps  back,  motions  for  jacks  to  go  inside.   he  does,  taking  a  moment  to  collect  himself  before  walking  in.  it’s  …  not  what  he  expected.   there’s  a  bookshelf  against  the  wall  filled  with  reading  material,  a  filing  cabinet  beside  it  presumably  holding  his  patient  records.   the  man  himself  is  sitting  in  an  office  chair,  he  spins  around  to  face  him.   he’s  older  now  —   has  a  beard,  his  hair  longer  than  he  remembers  and  starting  to  grey.   he’s  in  his  40s  now,  but  his  face  hasn’t  aged  a  day.   he  still  looks  the  same  as  he  did  the  day  they’d  put  a  gun  to  his  head  and  forced  him  to  his  knees,  jacks  the  one  who’d  turned  him  in.   he’s  restrained  to  the  chair;   a  feat  jacks  finds  surprising.   it’s  easier  to  stare  at  the  restraints  than  the  man,  so  he  does.

         “  well,  well,  well.   i  wondered  when  i’d  see  you  again.  ”    his  brother  speaks  and  jacks  feels  shivers  running  down  his  spine.   he  doesn’t  acknowledge  the  comment,  instead  directing  a  nod  towards  the  restraints.   “  that’s  new.  ”       v  laughs.    “  just  a  precaution.   they’re  worried  we  might  have  a  repeat  of  what  happened  last  time.  ”    jacks  blinks,  confused.    v,  in  turn,  looks  pleased.   “  i  suppose  you  wouldn’t  remember.  you  told  me  you  wouldn’t  be  coming  back,  that  you  were  going  to  college  and  starting  a  ‘  new  life  ’  and  wouldn’t  be  coming  back.  ”   his  lips  turned  down.   “  so  i  asked  you  for  a  HUG  —   a  going  away  present,   and  you,  little  brother,  were  dumb  enough  to  believe  it.  ”    he  smiles,  all  teeth.   “  maybe  memory  loss  is  a  side-effect  of  hypoxia.  hmm.  ”     he  pulls  at  the  restraints  violently,  laughing  wildly  when  jacks  flinches  on  instinct.   shit.  he  was  supposed  to  have  the  upper  hand  here.   

      “  i  didn’t  come  here  to  talk  about  the  past.  ”   in  fact,  he’d  like  to  pretend  it  never  existed  to  begin  with.   “  i  came  here  to  talk  about  my  case.   mr.  elsey,  on  behalf  of  the  NYPD,  i’m  here  to  —  ”      v’s  eyes  light  up.    “  oh,  i  know  all  about  your  case,  jackson.   i  saw  it  on  the  news.   the  pollock  copycat   …  not  the  most  original  name,  but  then  again  our  sister  was  always  more  beauty  than  brains.  ”      jack’s  stomach  lurches.   their  sister  had  been  6  when  v  was  arrested,  he’d  hoped  that  v  would  have  failed  to  recognize  her  now  as  an  adult.   maybe  it  shouldn’t  surprise  him  that  he  does.   for  someone  so  disconnected,  he  sure  knows  enough  about  what’s  been  going  on.    “  you  think  i  might  know  something  about  your  killer.   or  maybe  you  think  i  did  it.   i’m  good  but  even  i  have  my  limits.  ”   he  smirks.  “  i’m  a  little  TIED  UP.  ”    the  restraints  get  another  pull.      “  hate  to  disappoint,  but  this  one’s  not  on  me.  ”

         —    “  but  you  know  who  it  is.  ”     this  isn’t  a  question.   he  observes  the  way  v’s  shoulders  tense,  how  his  eyes  flit  to  the  filing  case  every  so  often.   these  are  tells  that  give  him  away,  lead  him  to  believe  that  v  knows  more  than  he’s  saying.   “   we’re  working  on  a  profile.   the  killer  is  male,  probably  struggles  with  mental  illness,  and  is  looking  for  purpose  with  these  kills.  they  aren’t  personal  …  none  of  the  victims  have  anything  in  common,  minus  one  thing;   the  clue  that  brought  him  here  in  the  first  place.   “  each  were  murdered  in  the  exact  style  you  adopted.  ”   he  moves  to  the  filing  case,  watches  v’s  eyes  follow  him.   “  which  means  they’ve  studied  you,  mr.  elsey.   very  closely.  ”   —  “  mr.  elsey.  ”    v  looks  amused.   “  let’s  not  play  coy,  jackson.    you  can  call  me  v.    we  are  family.  ”      jacks  doesn’t  rise  to  the  dig,  continues.   “  …  which  leads  us  to  believe  that  the  killer  could  have  been  a  patient  of  yours.  ”    finally  he  looks  back  at  v,  waits  patiently  for  the  man’s  reaction.   he  simply  shrugs,  leaning  back  in   his  chair.  it’s  evident  he  won’t  be  getting  any  information  from  him  and  without  a  warrant,  he  can’t  search  the  files  himself.    “  fine.  that’ll  be  all,  mr.  elsey.  ”   he  turns  to  go;    it’s  a  calculated  risk,  leaving,  but  if  he  knows  his  brother  he  knows  that  fear  of  never  seeing  him  again  —  never  getting  the  opportunity  to  mess  with  him  —  will  be  enough  to  stop  him.    “  WAIT.  ”       he’s  right.   

               v  gives  him  the  information  he’s  looking  for.   the  information  leads  to  a  half  brother,  one  that  jacks  wasn’t  even  aware  had  existed.    of  course  it’s  a  family  member;   there  isn’t  a  sane  one  of  them  in  the  bunch.    they  use  the  information  in  the  file  to  track  down  the  brother.   he  claims  he’s  innocent,  claims  he  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  murders,  but  they  find  another  victim  in  his  attic  and  he  goes  down  for  them  all.   he’s  found  guilty,  sentenced  to  LIFE.     it’s  only  when  the  murders  resume  again  six  months  later  does  he  realize  that  v  played  him.   he  led  him  to  the  wrong  culprit  and  hid  the  real  murderer  from  him.    it  takes  them  nearly  a  year  to  track  down  the  true  murderer  —   v’s  boyfriend,  aster  silvermist  …  the  NYPD  captain’s  son.       

[atlaslain]

@backwaterheroics          /          in response to: x.

          zack fair has grown acclimatised to relying exclusively on himself. the treacherous pits of deepground have wrung the faith from him and assimilated him into their methods of survival: their lifestyle of anticipating the knife in one’s back before an opponent ever decides to place it there. three years of sleeping with one eye open, of waiting on the razor-edge between rage and fear for the next round of experimentation, or drowning in self-hatred whenever they make him fight and he catches sight of the blood crusted under his nails --- three years has taught him pain and solitude like nothing he has ever known. and he has clung to survival anyway, tucking away the decaying glimmer of hope in his chest that this might one day get better. that his friends are still out there.       some of them. not all. not many. angeal, gone. genesis, who knows. sephiroth, gone. cloud, aerith. they’re still somewhere, aren’t they? there is light and life and warmth beyond deepground. he may have forgotten the precise airy smell of the flowers and the exact curve of cloud’s smile but they exist. zack gathers up the tatters of who he is and wraps them tight around that hope, like clinging to an anchor in a storm. 

          salvation comes in the form of weiss the immaculate. indirectly, anyway. his death. he rots under hojo’s influence and together they begin their reign over the world above, lighting the path out of the darkness and tarring it in blood. it is zack’s opportunity. the instant he crawls into the light he turns on his squadron, squashing what flares of guilt twist his stomach as his blade slides between ribs. ( his deepground-issue katana is lighter than the buster sword, not as hefty but far more adept at neatly cleaving skin. it feels strange in his hands, a desolate hunk of metal that isn’t his. ) sustained injuries are disregarded for now, blood wiped briskly from his face as he removes his helmet and tosses it aside. the streets are a mess; gunshots shatter the night and beasts prowl, dragging innocents into the shadows. and then, as fate would have it:                   a man in a ragged red cloak, faintly familiar. and a young woman --- older now, far older than zack remembers her being, an air of confidence and control about her now. yuffie kisaragi and vincent valentine. it is yuffie who stares at zack as if she’s seen a ghost, yuffie who grabs him as the force of his relief has him swaying on his feet. the first friendly face in years and she’s smacking at his arms, chiding him for vanishing, insisting he prove it’s really him and not some phantom deepground’s summoned up. ( zack reminds her of their treasure-hunting adventures and she gentles, and the world slows. ) he tells them all he knows, and then he succumbs to the loss of consciousness with the fragile hope that vincent will take care of it all. zack fair is exhausted and wounded and finally free.       the slow return of reality is painful: he awakens in an unfamiliar bed, in a room he’s never seen before. his heart slams violently against his ribs. throat tight, he casts about for a weapon. he grasps a heavy book from a shelf and decides at least he can brain someone with it if need be. his legs shake beneath him as he ventures to the doorway, pausing to take in the smell of alcohol and food from somewhere below the staircase beyond. a bar?                 seventh heaven, tifa tells him later, after he’s done hyperventilating and lashing out at her. she avoids his initial smack with the book, hands gentle yet firm on his wrists as she encourages him to look at her, to understand she is not here to hurt him. he is in seventh heaven, in edge. deepground is gone. ( vincent took care of it all. ) zack is safe. it takes him a whole week to entertain the idea. in that time, he rapid-fires questions at tifa: what happened, how long has it been, where is cloud. she answers each carefully --- it’s a long story, three years, away on deliveries right now. you can speak to cloud when he gets back.           the dim hope in zack’s chest grows, warily. perhaps this won’t be taken away from him.                 he doesn’t get to see cloud.         he has so much to say, so much it’s whipped up into a frenzy in his head. does cloud not feel the same urgency? he returned, apparently, and left again. “did you... did you tell him i was here?” zack asks tifa, voice cracking.            “yes,” she says, and the look in her eyes speaks volumes. she hands zack a rag, urges him to help her clean down her bar. she’s been giving him little tasks, as if she knows he needs to stay busy. “you have to understand, he... he isn’t the same as you probably remember. a lot has happened to him.”           and so zack resolves to understand. he pushes his own impatience down, and nurtures the hope that cloud will see him in his own time. ( far more difficult to ignore is the hurt. weren’t they good friends? after everything they went through --- after everything. how can cloud not want to see him? )               two months crawl by. zack works in seventh heaven at first, until the guilt of imposing himself on tifa is too much. he falls into mercenary work then, with a sense of resigned amusement. fighting really is all he’ll ever do. he shops for a new sword, and then another new one when that doesn’t feel right. tifa insists he continue living above the bar, citing the children as reasons he should; they like him, she says. they don’t want him to go. he reads them stories at night and patrols the bar’s vicinity into the early hours. during the day, he spends time with yuffie or works on his new bike or undertakes increasingly dangerous jobs. the fractured feeling in his mind never quite goes away, but he thinks it might ease one day.     when cloud returns again, drifting home like a wayward wind, tifa grabs him and makes him see zack. it’s a quick visit. it’s the sensation of something important slipping between one’s fingers: cloud stiff and unresponsive in his arms, eyes dull, as if zack were less than a stranger. like a static shock, it has zack flinching back, numbness tingling at his fingertips. he stands there, as unacknowledged as a specter, while cloud leaves again.               he doesn’t think you’re really here, tifa explains. we all thought you were dead.        oh.            well then.               that explains it. that barbed-wire feeling cinched round his heart. it’s the cold understanding that life has moved on without him and he is no longer a part of it. the zack fair everyone knew and remembered died riddled with bullets. but i’m alive, i never left! he wants to scream. the sense of being left behind is dizzying. cloud had moved on and now here zack is, tearing old wounds open. guilt batters him, sudden and strange.        he goes to aerith’s church. the flowers are there, yellow as sunshine and pearly-white, suffusing the air with sweetness and life. but aerith is not. she has not been for a long time. the buster sword lays at the head of the pews like a memorial and suddenly it’s all too much. he falls to his knees and chokes on sobs. he stays there for days, murmuring to the flowers as if they might carry his apologies to aerith. eventually, little marlene wallace takes his hand and leads him back to seventh heaven. he follows in a daze and doesn’t notice when he’s led to cloud’s room and told to rest. ( he rests, his heart slowing its frenzied pulse. this feels like safety. )                         he is not ready for cloud to return again. he thought he always would be, but the pain of coming to terms with aerith’s death is too fresh and sleep-deprivation has drained him. he is not prepared for more pain; it might shatter him. and yet here cloud is, slipping shadow-quiet into the room and staring with horror-struck eyes.         “cloud, please,” zack finds himself whispering, praying. he is not aware of reaching out, but he registers how brittle cloud feels: like his violent shaking might rip him apart. nausea rises in zack’s throat. he is doing this. he is hurting cloud with every touch, poisoning him. “look at me,” he sobs anyway, selfish and unable to relinquish the certainty of cloud’s place in his life.            in the end, it’s only more hurt. cloud, pale as a wraith, stumbles away and wails. the sound drives nails into zack’s heart. he gets tifa, because who else would they both rely on to fix their broken souls? the storm breaks, cloud sobs, and zack turns to leave. “i’m sorry, i’m so sorry,” he is vaguely aware of repeating, frantic. “cloud, i’m so sorry.”             he should have died on that cliff. he should’ve died before deepground could ruin him, before he could walk back into a life that didn’t want him anymore.                 “are you giving up that easily?” tifa demands the next morning, as zack shoulders his bag full of meager belongings and tries to give her a hug goodbye. she stares him dead in the eye as he squirms. “you’ve barely tried yet.”         zack doesn’t mean to raise his voice but it comes out in a burst: “yes! yes, i am. me being here only hurts him, i’m taking up space in your bar, there’s no place here for me!” it tastes like a lie. there has been a place, carved out just for him. the beginnings of home here with these people. but not if he’s only spreading hurt. “i can’t watch him scream and cry every time he sees me, tifa. i won’t. i’ll --- i’ll come visit. okay?”           it’s not okay.     he debates saying his farewells to cloud, but recognises it as an awful plan. he leaves his old shinra phone instead, the one he kept as a soldier. it’s fuzzy and barely in working condition these days, but he squirreled it away all these years just for the old pictures in its memory.            “give that to him when he feels... better. okay? you have my new number if you need me.”     he tells nobody where he’s going because he just doesn’t know anymore. it’s a good thing he’s already accustomed to relying only on himself.

[jos-corner-of-the-world]

Last House on the Left - {17}

{1} – {2} – {3} – {4} – {5} – {6} – {7} – {8} -- {9} -- {10} -- {11} -- {12} -- {13} -- {14} - {15} - {16}

Luckily for you, it came quickly.

You’d been decorating the house for the whole week, much to Mighao’s despair.  The stuff Jooheon had demanded bought at the store actually came in handy, and so did the fourteen other bags he brought over throughout the week.

“You two shouldn’t be allowed in the same room together. This doesn’t even look like my house!” Minghao said as he looked around.

“Hey! It’s my house too, remember?” you said to him.

“Yeah, starting to regret that decision now.” Minghao laughed.

“Shut up and go put your costume on.”

“What about you? You’re walking around in a freaking burlap sack, that’s your costume?” he asked.

“I’ll have you know, it’s not burlap! And I haven’t done my make up.  Shit! I need to go do that. Jooheon, I’m putting you in charge of everything!” you said to the demonic looking vampire standing next to you.

“I got it under control.” he said.

You took the time doing your makeup, but it still didn’t take you very long to cover half your body in makeup. You’d used this costume countless other times, it was almost second nature to you now.

The first thing you saw when you walked out of your bedroom was Hoshi, Seokmin, and Seungkwan dressed as the Three Muskateers.

Three stooges would have been more fitting you thought to yourself.

“Holy shit. Y/n?!” Hoshi asked as soon as he saw you.

“In all my glory!” you said as you spun around, showing the costume off fully.

“You look good. Scary...but good.” he said.

“You know who I am right?” you asked the threesome.

You were floored to see all of them shake their heads no.

“Okay, you guys need some serious education. Y’all better be prepared to stay the night because this movie is being watched. Tonight. I’m Sally from The Nightmare Before Christmas!”

From the corner of your eye, you saw the front door open and Kihyun walk in with someone you assumed to be his friend.

“Well hello Sally” he said as soon as he got to you.

“Finally someone with good taste in movies! You’re my favorite person right now!” you said, pulling him into a one armed hug.

Kihyun was dressed as Clark Kent. Not Superman, but Clark kent. Sharp fitted suit, thick black framed glasses, and shirt half undone showing the Superman logo underneath.

“Ya know, I could bitch about your costume choice...but it looks damn good on  you so you get a pass.” you laughed.

“Oh...Sorry, I should introduce myself. I’m Y/n. I work with Kihyun.” you said extending your hand to his friend.

But then you saw what he was wearing.

Your mouth literally dropped open.  His friend was a greek god.  Both literally and figuratively.  He had short brown hair, adorned with an intricate leaf band, and a full on togo, showing half his chest off.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Wonho.” he said, grabbing your hand.

“Wow, okay. Hi.” you said.

“Are you...are you speechless right now?!” Kihyun asked.  This is one of the first times since he met you you didn’t have something to say.

“Oh I’m sorry. You bring a half naked greek god into my house! What do you want me to say?!”

“You’ve said enough. Go mingle now.” Kihyun joked, pushing you away.

You walked around, looking around at all the costumes the guys were wearing.  You’d already seen the Three Muskateers, a vampire, Clark Kent, and a literal greek god.  You now saw Wonwoo dressed as Edgar Allen Poe, Vernon as Harry Potter, Jun was also a vampire, Dino was Han Solo, Joshua was Captain America...which made you smile, Jihoon was the mad hatter, and you had yet to see Minghao.

Your favorite so far though, was the quasi couple costume of Jeonghan and Coups.  Coups was dressed as the Joker, green hair and all, and Jeonghan was dressed as a genderbent Harley Quinn.  You were absolutely in love with it.

“Seriously, you make a great Harley.” you told Jeonghan.

“Figured I might as well have one last Hoorah before I got cut most of it off tomorrow.” Jeonghan said, pulling at one of his pigtails.  “It was actually quite an accident that Coups came as the joker, but we’re rolling with it.” he said.

“Hey, who’s that chick?” Coups asked you, pointing towards the  living room.

You turned and let out a quick laugh.

“Kihyun! Kihyun!” you yelled, hoping he’d come soon.

“What?! Jesus why are you yelling?” he asked.

“He’s really the one in the dress!” you said, pointing to where you wanted him to look.

Standing by the front door, looking around, was Heechul.  Dressed as Elsa.

“No! I can’t believe he did that!” Kihyun said.

“Heechul!” you yelled, running up to him.

“Gotta say Y/n, I think I’m pulling off a dress much better than you.” he said as soon as you were within ear shot.

“I’m not even going to disagree with you! You look amazing! Come on, let me introduce you to our friends.” you said, dragging him along.

After you’d made your rounds with Heechul and Kihyun, Heechul fell into the group well.

But you still hadn’t seen Minghao yet.

“Ming Ming, are you in here?” you asked as you knocked on the bedroom door.

“Yeah.” you heard faintly.

“I’m coming in.” you said, not waiting for another reply.

Minghao was standing in the middle of his room, holding a baseball bat covered in barbed wire.

“I feel like an idiot.” he said, looking at himself in the mirror again. “I hate Halloween.”

“I can’t see you, so I can’t agree or not.” you joked.

You felt your heart jump slightly when he turned around.

He was wearing dark, fitted blue jeans. He had on a white shirt that was tight against his broad shoulders, and a black leather jacket.  His hair was slicked back and he held Lucille in his right hand.

It was a simple costume, but Minghao pulled it off well.

The moment he turned around, was the first time you’d felt something for him that could be interpreted as attraction.

It's not that you'd never noticed that Minghao was good looking, you noticed the first time he answered the door he was handsome.

But seeing him like this was different. It completely different. The hair, the clothes, it was all different.

“Aren't you going to say anything?” He asked you.

“Yes. I am. Once my brain figures out what it's thinking.” You said.

He just cocked his head to the side a little and laughed.

“You look good. Really good.” You said.

“See, usually that means I look like an idiot.” Minghao said.

“No. You don't look like an idiot. At all. Leather is good. Neegan was a good choice.” You said.

“Really? He asked, looking into your eyes.

You just nodded your head.

“Come out whenever you're ready.” You said before retreating quickly.

Once Minghao and that leather jacket were no longer in front of you, you could breathe easier.

“You look like you just saw a ghost.” Jooheon said when you walked into the kitchen.

“Huh? Is that what my face looks like? That's good.” You said.

“Damn dude, you look good in leather.” Jooheon said suddenly. You didn't need to turn around to know who he was talking to.

“Thanks. I think I'll wear it again. I bought it after all. Might as well get more than one use out of it.” Minghao said.

You made a mental note to go in his room tomorrow and burn that jacket.

{18}