#LEAVE HIM ALONE!!! HES ALREADY STUCK LIVING LIKE A GHOST HIMSELF!!!

[azureemerald]

So, years ago in the Skyrim kink meme, there was this prompt that was essentially a hunter being so isolated from civilization that he had never met a woman and didn’t know what to do when he came across one, but was constantly aroused by her. I don’t know if it ever got filled, but the idea has stuck with me ever since.

A man who had been living isolated out in the wilderness for so long, he had never met a woman before (besides his mother). Set in a vague time period where hunting is part of survival for many.

He comes across an unconscious woman on his way back from a hunt and brings her to his cabin. Maybe she got lost or was running from something or someone. She isn’t helpless, just a bit out of her element here.

I think it’s a fun au and Simon Riley would fit into that gruff, survivalist hunter role. I had written a sort of rough outline for a story that I’ve been refining and tweaking a bit. Actual story is still in the works as I’m still planning out how I want it to go.

NSFW ahead, given the au was basically made for smut.

*—-> ahead is: breeding kink, m x f, p in v, fem reader, pregnancy mentioned, mentions of abuse and implied forced animal cruelty(Simon’s dad was a prick), Simon unaware of boundaries and social norms

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wildman Simon au idea

Simon Riley, a name he hadn’t heard in a long time. The few people that encounter him call him “Ghost”, a name that perpetuated from the few survivors that managed to escape his wrath. Territorial like a wolf, Ghost attacks any that get too close to his home, but chooses to remain hidden when hunting further from his territory.

He was raised by his father alone in a single room cabin, separated from his mother and brother at a young age. Cabin was a generous word for it. His father was abusive and cruel, forcing Simon to do horrible things to animals, in order to “become a man”. His father was eventually killed by a wild animal while they were hunting, and Simon did not try to intervene.

His upbringing left him with little social skills, not aware or understanding of social norms and boundaries. Not that he cares to interact with anyone, preferring to follow animalistic habits he learned by observing local wildlife. He is curious about his kind though, wondering about the life he was forced to leave behind so long ago. He’ll quietly observe hunters in their camps, watching the way they interact with each other, how they move, their tools and their clothing.

He makes his own clothing, taken from the hides of the animals he hunts. He makes almost everything else he needs as well, with a few exceptions. If he sees something on the body of a fallen hunter or left behind at a recently abandoned camp that he finds useful, he’ll take it. Usually it’s tools, as he seems to be much too large to fit most of their clothing.

He adopted a wolf pup some time ago, raising and naming it Riley to feel connected to his family again.

He’s never met a female of his species, save for his own mother, but he can’t remember what she looked like. Having observed the wildlife for so long, he understands the concept of reproduction, but not the mechanisms of his species. He understands his own anatomy to an extent, having stroked himself when the need arose.

So when he finally comes across what he believes to be a female of his species, he is completely overwhelmed.

Riley already considers her part of the pack, instinctively understanding she isn’t a threat. The wolf would curl up on the cabin floor beside the shoddily made bed she lay on, while Simon brooded over her.

Simon is fascinated and infatuated with her. He finds himself wanting to learn from her, making himself pliable to her whims. It’s not entirely innocent, as he is frequently aroused by her, loving the softness of her skin and curves of her body. A contrast to the hard muscle of his own and the rough skin from surviving the wilderness.

He often tries to initiate sex, not understanding of the why, if she rejects his advances. In his mind, he is a virile male who can provide for his female and is thus a perfect mating partner. He likes the idea that he and “his female” are a mated pair, bonded for life. One of his favorite animals to watch are the swans, as they mate for life and the families stick close until the babies are ready to be on their own.

If she does return his affection and accepts his advances, it’s a mix of animalistic, exploratory and gentle. He lets her guide him at first, learning the ropes and absorbing every little detail. He becomes completely enthralled by the reactions he gets from her when he stimulates certain areas. The hidden little appendage under that thin bit of skin between her legs is his favorite, just from how responsive she was when he played with it. It was easy to make sure she was ready for him when all he had to do was lower his mouth on those petal-like folds. He wouldn’t have even thought of doing that had she not shown him.

And when he enters her for the first time, it’s like nothing he’s ever imagined. His hand could never be enough again. Warm, wet, tight, and accompanied by her sounds and squirming underneath him. He watches her face and movements closely, addicted to the sight, sound and feeling of her already.

He’s almost insatiable from then on. Mounting her from behind and taking up a relentless pace, or folding her legs over his shoulders outside in the grass. Images of all the wildlife roaming around the wilderness with their young flash in his mind. The swans he’d seen looking after their cygnets together, wolfpacks and their pups. Maybe even memories of his mother, loving and kind, doing everything she could to protect him and his brother from their father.

His female, his mate, would make a good mother, he thinks. Patient and kind, smart and resourceful, as he’d seen in the months he’d spent with her here at his cabin. Their pups would be well cared for, loved and protected. Simon would never be like his father, would never torment or force his offspring to do things they never wanted to do. They would be taught how to survive, but more importantly, how to live.

And when his mate starts to sport a swollen belly under the hide dress he made for her, he is already starting on making things for the incoming little one. A carrier, to start with, for him and his mate each. A crib, like the one he vaguely remembered his mother once used for his little brother, and other things he thinks they would need as it came to mind.

His mate, Riley and their growing little one, were now part of a family, something he’d been missing for a long time now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Still a work in progress, but I wanted to share it. I’ve seen similar AUs that I adore but not quite like that original prompt.

But if you know of any stories or imagines that are close, I’m a little gremlin for em.

[kenmaspuddinghair]

Honorably discharged disabled Simon part 3

part one part two

this one has a happier ending than the last, but Simon is diagnosed with peripheral neuropathy ( pronunciation) which is a kind of nerve damage. sorry this one took a little long I had to research for this one

exactly 1.0k words :)

Here you are all alone sitting outside a hospital room at almost 3 AM with Simon's “Ghost” mask in your hands while he's in surgery right behind you, Price left a while ago to pick up some food and the other guys in the 141. According to the doctors Simon had peripheral neuropathy from the attack about a month ago, it spiked when he got into the fight with the man back at the butcher shop, for you, he got into a fight that caused this for you. You were trying your hardest not to cry when the doctor walked out “Okay, the surgery was a success, he isn't necessarily cured right now but as long as you take the right precautions and steps, it can get better and may go away over time, it could take months or even years though. He’ll need full-time care and if you're not up for that he’ll need a different nurse. I'll get you a sheet with all the information and potential symptoms” he said, already walking away. As you were going into the room another nurse came out from the room, “Are you his girlfriend, he just woke up and he keeps calling for you, he refuses to let us see his face, but we got what we need done” and before you got a chance to correct her she went off.

“Hey Simon, how are you?” First he removed his hands from over his face then his eyes went over your entire body slowly before he answered “Can’t really feel anythin, can ya put my mask on?” you smiled at him getting closer to pull the mask over his head. “Price will be here with Soap and Gaz, he's bringing some food too” he never answered you, he just kept staring at you with this look in his eyes, you just sat by his side looking over him. You sighed, “Simon listen, I don't know if they told you, but you have peripheral neuropathy, your nerves were damaged during the attack and, when you grabbed that guy it only made things worse” You paused but before you could continue he replied in a voice so soft you didn't know he could make that sound “it’s not your fault y’know, shouldn't attacked him” you smiled but before you could continue Price came in. “I'm assuming she told you about what happened and what's gonna be happening” It was as if something clicked in Simon's mind, he pushed himself up “She can stay right? She'll still be ‘ere to help me? Right? You'll stay to help me won’t ya?” he directed the last part to you, voice breaking and dripping with a mix of worry and horror. You looked him directly in his eyes and replied simply but firmly “Simon, I will stay and take care of you for as long as you let me”

Simon was discharged around 10 AM, the last few hours he spent joking with Soap and Gaz just eating food you knew was not good for them at all, but they had to leave a bit ago so now with the help of Price you got Simon in the car and back home. So far Simon only had a few symptoms, muscle weakness, muscle twitching/shaking, and occasional numbness and/or pain, so far it's stayed confide to Simon’s right under his collarbone, the exact part of his body that was stuck under rubble for hours, according to the doctors this is the best case scenario much worse could have happened to him. The plan was for you to make sure he ate well-rounded meals and didn't over-exert himself and give him a check-up weekly for any worsening symptoms or injuries.

Currently, you were in the kitchen cooking lunch while Simon and Price talked in the living room. “You like her a lot, don't you? And don't try to tell me you don't like her, even the nurse thought she was your girlfriend, you even let her see your face. I didn't even get to see your face for years” Simon just sighed, he couldn't exactly lie it was way too obvious, so he chose the next best thing to do “So what do I do? I don't even know if she's allowed to date me” “Well she's with the military so as long as I, the captain, says it's okay then it's okay, but you know she's not gonna ask you right?” Simon started to panic, was Price confirming his worst fear right now, that you didn't like him at all and wouldn't even give him a chance. “What do ya mean she won't ask me out, like she doesn't like me? Like-” “No no Simon, like she's not going to risk losing her job by asking her patient out, meaning you have to do it. Of course she likes you, are you dense?” 

Not only was Price saying that it was okay for you two to date but also encouraging it, but now he had to work up the nerve to actually do it, it would be simply right? He would just ask you out, that's it. “Lunch is ready.” just then Price stood up, grabbing his hat “I'm gonna head out now, make sure he eats” he directed the last part to you before heading to the door “Will do” you called “Oh also Simon, I forgot to mention but I'll need to stay in your room tonight, peripheral neuropathy can be really bad for some people at night so I should be there for you just in case” Price just chucked and smirked and Simon before closing the door behind him. God, who was Simon kidding, this is the hardest thing he's ever had to do, and that's saying a lot, Simon’s done countless terrifying things that would have the average civilian crying and yet Simon was panicking over asking a girl out, gosh, what were you doing to him. 

part four

tags- @piconico17 @just-lilita @madsdawson @silversfavfics @enfppuff @solazoro @sirbonesly

[luciemggio]

The Girl Who Smiled at Me

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Setting: Brooklyn, Present Day, Post-Endgame

Warnings: soft and non explicit smut

Summary: A quiet girl with a warm smile teaches Bucky Barnes how to love—and stay.

The first time Bucky saw her, she was humming.

Not loudly—just soft, like something private she didn’t mind sharing. A worn-down jazz tune, like it came from somewhere far away and golden. She was standing outside the apartment next to his, juggling her keys, a tote bag, and a paper coffee cup that was too full and already leaking through the lid.

She saw him and beamed.

“Hi! You must be the new neighbor. I’m in 3B.”

He blinked, one hand tightening on the strap of the duffel bag over his shoulder. It was too early. His brain wasn’t online yet, not for this.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “3C.”

She stuck out her hand, the one not holding the coffee. “Well, hello, 3C. I’m Y/N.”

He hesitated. Then, slowly, he shook her hand. Her fingers were warm. And soft. Like kindness in physical form.

“Bucky.”

“Nice to meet you, Bucky. Let me know if you need anything. I’ve lived here a while—I know which laundry machines eat quarters and which ones make your socks smell like weird mint.”

She grinned at him like she’d known him forever.

He stared.

And nodded.

And retreated into his apartment like she was a wildfire.

After that, she made a habit of saying hi every morning.

He’d leave his apartment at 7:30, head down to the park for a run, trying to keep the ghosts quiet with rhythm and sweat. And every morning, like clockwork, she’d be there—getting her mail, locking her door, chatting with a neighbor’s dog.

“Morning, Bucky!”

He grunted the first few times. Then he gave a half-nod. Then a full nod. Then, one cursed morning, he actually said “Morning” back.

She looked like he’d handed her flowers.

He couldn’t stop watching her.

She was… warm. And weird. She laughed a lot—big, belly-deep laughs, even when she was alone. She wore paint-splattered overalls sometimes and sang in the hallway when she thought no one could hear. She helped the old woman on the first floor with her groceries every Wednesday and brought her own Tupperware down to share leftovers.

She made the building feel… safe.

And he hated how much he started waiting for her.

Then came the Tuesday with the muffin.

She knocked on his door. Actually knocked. He was in sweats and a t-shirt, still damp from his post-run shower, hair curling slightly at the ends.

When he opened the door, she was standing there holding a muffin on a tiny plate.

“Banana walnut,” she said, smile hopeful. “Made them last night and immediately thought of you. You look like a banana-walnut guy.”

He blinked at her. “Do I?”

She shrugged. “You have that ‘I don’t eat sugar but secretly love it’ look.”

He stared. Then—God help him—he laughed. Just a low sound from deep in his chest.

She looked a little stunned. “Was that…? Was that a laugh?”

“Maybe.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, delighted. “Well, miracles do happen.”

He took the plate. Their fingers brushed. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, softer now. “Let me know if you want more. I make a mean pumpkin bread.”

He started looking for her after that.

He tried not to. He told himself it was nothing. But his mornings felt… lighter when she waved at him, her hair pulled up, earbuds in, dancing a little at her door. She smelled like cinnamon and rosemary. She made bad puns and good coffee.

And one night, when he came home after a long walk and saw her sitting on the front steps reading a book, he sat down beside her.

Without a word.

Just… sat there.

She blinked in surprise, then offered him half her bag of trail mix without asking.

He took it.

And they sat in comfortable silence for almost an hour, the sounds of the city moving around them like water.

Their first real conversation happened by accident.

She was struggling to carry a box of books up the stairs. He saw her from the second floor and immediately started down.

“You don’t have to—” she started to say, but he took the box from her arms anyway.

“It’s heavy.”

“So am I. Doesn’t mean I’m impossible to carry.”

He snorted before he could help it. “You always talk like this?”

“Only when nervous or around very attractive men who could kill me with one arm.”

He faltered mid-step. She froze.

Then they both burst out laughing.

It felt… good. Real. Like something he’d lost long ago and didn’t know how to find again.

He didn’t ask her out for a long time.

He wanted to. God, he wanted to. But what did he have to offer? A broken past, a hundred pounds of guilt, nights filled with nightmares and silence. What if she saw too much? What if she saw the soldier and not the man?

But she never looked at him like that.

She looked at him like he was here. Now. Human.

And one night, as they stood in the laundry room folding towels and she told him a story about a raccoon that stole her sandwich in Central Park, he finally said—

“There’s this jazz bar. In Brooklyn. Small place. I used to go before… everything.”

She blinked. Then smiled.

“Are you asking me out, Barnes?”

“I’m trying.”

Her grin widened. “Then you’re doing great.”

The jazz bar was low-lit, tucked between two shops that had long since closed for the night. The stage was small. The chairs were mismatched. But the saxophone player was brilliant and the drinks were strong and she looked like heaven in a navy dress with stars on it.

Bucky couldn’t stop looking at her.

“You okay?” she asked after the second song, her voice barely audible over the music.

He nodded. “I just haven’t done this in a long time.”

“Gone on a date?”

“…Yeah.”

She leaned forward, hand resting lightly on his. “Me neither.”

There was a beat of silence. Then she added, “You picked a great place. This feels like something out of a memory.”

He looked at her, and something in his chest tightened. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s what I wanted.”

They sipped their drinks, shared stories. He told her about growing up in Brooklyn, the food carts, the stoop where he kissed a girl for the first time. She told him about her mom’s record collection, the way jazz always felt like home to her.

“I used to dance in the living room,” she said, laughing. “Badly. Still do, actually.”

He smiled. “I’d like to see that.”

“Oh, you will. But not unless you promise to dance too.”

He shook his head, grinning into his drink. “I’m a hundred and six years old, sweetheart. My dancing days are over.”

She leaned closer. “That sounds like a challenge.”

And later, when the music slowed and the lights dimmed, he let her pull him onto the tiny dance floor. His hand settled on her waist. Her fingers laced through his. Their bodies moved, swaying, quiet and close.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Bucky didn’t feel like a man made of pieces.

He felt whole.

Afterward, on the walk home, she slipped her hand into his.

He squeezed it gently. “Thanks for saying yes.”

She smiled. “Thanks for asking.”

Then she turned to him, eyes shimmering under the streetlight, and said, “You don’t have to be perfect, Bucky. Just… let me be near you. That’s all I want.”

He didn’t reply.

He just leaned in.

And kissed her.

Soft. Steady. Like it was the first step toward something he hadn’t dared hope for.

Something warm.

Something human.

Something real.

And then it started with a text.

[7:04 a.m.]

You: Morning, Sarge. Coffee on the roof later?

[7:06 a.m.]

Bucky: Sure. I’ll bring muffins.

[7:07 a.m.]

You: Aren’t YOU the domestic dream.

[7:07 a.m.]

Bucky: Don’t push it.

She laughed at her phone, still curled in bed, the sunlight creeping through her blinds like golden fingers. He was learning how to tease her now. How to loosen the gravel in his voice. She could feel the shift—something unfurling in him. Something fragile and warm and real.

The rooftop of their building was nothing special—concrete floor, a crooked lawn chair someone left in the spring, two old crates posing as a table. But to her, it was peace.

And when Bucky stepped through the creaky door with a small paper bag in one hand and two mismatched mugs in the other, she felt her chest tighten like a secret.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hi.”

He handed her the coffee. Still hot. Just the way she liked it—cream, two sugars. He remembered.

“You really brought muffins?” she asked, leaning against the ledge.

He sat beside her, legs stretched out, boots scuffing the rooftop. “I bribed the guy at the bakery with a story about my grandma.”

She grinned. “Was it true?”

“Not even close. But he liked it.”

She took a bite and made a sound so content that it made Bucky look away, jaw tight.

“God,” she said, mouth still full, “I think I’d marry you for this muffin alone.”

He glanced sideways at her, quiet for a second. “That’s dangerous talk.”

Her smile faded just a little. “Is it?”

“Yeah,” he said, eyes soft now. “I might believe you.”

The air stretched between them like a string pulled tight. She reached for his hand—not the metal one, the other. His fingers twitched, then relaxed into hers.

“I like being around you,” she said quietly.

He looked down at their hands. “You’re the first person who’s made me feel like I can just… be.”

“With me, you don’t have to pretend,” she said, brushing her thumb along his knuckle. “Not ever.”

Their second date happened four days later.

He knocked on her door with a cautious smile and a bouquet of wildflowers that looked like they came from the corner market—imperfect and cheerful.

“You brought me flowers?” she asked, genuinely surprised.

“I thought that’s what people do,” he said, awkwardly holding them out. “I haven’t exactly done this in—well. Ever.”

She took them, brushing her fingers along the stems. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” A beat. “You look… wow.”

She laughed. “That’s not a full sentence, Barnes.”

He stared, earnest. “It’s the only one I’ve got.”

He took her to a quiet Italian place tucked between a bookstore and a tattoo shop. The lights were low, candles flickering on the tables, and a pianist in the corner played songs older than both of them.

Halfway through dinner, as she twirled her pasta, she looked up and asked, “Can I ask you something kind of serious?”

He paused, setting his fork down. “Yeah.”

“What scares you the most?”

Bucky went still.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “That was too much.”

“No,” he said softly. “No, it’s not.”

He stared at the candle between them for a moment. “I’m scared that if someone really knows me—the real me, all the darkness, all the history—they’ll walk away. Or worse… they’ll stay and regret it.”

Her eyes didn’t waver. “Do you regret sitting here with me?”

He looked at her then—really looked. “No. Not even for a second.”

“Then trust me when I say this,” she said gently, leaning closer. “You don’t scare me. Not even a little.”

Later, walking her back to her apartment, he was quiet. Reflective.

They stopped outside her door, and she looked up at him with soft eyes.

“Would you… want to come in for a while?” she asked, unsure.

He hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to. But because the offer felt like more than just a casual invitation—it felt like trust. And he didn’t want to ruin it.

“Not tonight,” he said quietly. “But soon.”

She nodded, understanding. “Okay.”

He reached out then, brushing his knuckles along her cheek. “Can I kiss you?”

She smiled. “You never have to ask.”

He kissed her gently. Slowly. One hand on her waist, the other in her hair. Like he was afraid she’d disappear if he held too tightly. But she didn’t. She kissed him back, hands gripping the front of his jacket, grounding him.

And when he pulled away, resting his forehead against hers, he whispered, “You make me feel like I’m allowed to want things again.”

She closed her eyes and whispered, “Then want me.”

That night, he didn’t sleep.

Not from nightmares this time—but from hope.

A slow, quiet hope that crept in through the cracks she’d made in his walls.

It had been two weeks since their second date.

Two weeks since she’d kissed him in her doorway, breathless and trembling, whispering “Then want me.”

Two weeks of quiet rooftop coffees, warm glances across the hallway, hands brushing in elevators, dinner in sweatpants, long walks in silence, and hearts learning how to breathe again.

She didn’t push.

And he… showed up. More and more.

In small ways—like remembering how she took her tea, texting her when the moon was full because he knew she loved it, walking her dog when she had a bad day.

But also in the way he’d look at her now—like she was a lighthouse and he was tired of drowning.

Tonight, she was curled up on the couch, her apartment dimly lit by string lights and a sleepy jazz record playing in the background. She wore one of his sweatshirts—he’d left it there a few days ago “by accident”—and it smelled like him. Like cedarwood and old leather and something deeper.

There was a knock at the door.

When she opened it, Bucky stood there, hands in his jacket pockets, wind-flushed cheeks, hair damp from the misting rain.

“Hey,” he said softly.

She blinked in surprise. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I know,” he said, glancing down. “Can I come in?”

She stepped aside, heart already thudding. “Of course.”

He paced a little in the entryway, wet boots leaving small prints on the rug. She waited, giving him space. He didn’t need questions—he needed stillness.

Finally, he turned toward her, eyes darker than usual.

“I was gonna walk past,” he said. “I told myself I’d just walk by, clear my head. But my feet stopped at your door.”

Her brows knit gently. “What were you thinking about?”

He hesitated. Then: “You.”

She waited.

“I can’t stop thinking about how you looked that night,” he said. “The jazz bar. That stupid little smile you gave me when you took my hand across the table. The way you kissed me like I was something worth loving.”

His voice caught.

She moved closer. “Bucky…”

He looked up at her with a kind of desperation. “I don’t want to go home tonight.”

Her breath hitched.

“Not because I want to rush this,” he added quickly. “But because when I’m not near you, I feel like I’m somewhere wrong.”

Her heart cracked open like a sun through clouds.

“Then stay,” she said gently. “Please.”

He kissed her like he’d been holding his breath for years.

There was no rush—only heat, and longing, and deep, reverent need. The kind of kiss that said thank you for waiting. The kind of kiss that left her toes curled and her fingers trembling in his hair.

She pulled back just enough to whisper, “Are you sure?”

He touched her cheek, nodding. “Only if you are.”

“I’ve been sure,” she breathed. “Since the first time you smiled at me. Even if it took you a month to do it.”

He laughed—just a quiet breath—but it was full of something sacred.

In her bedroom, he was slow. Gentle. As if every inch of her was something to discover, not conquer. He took his time—removing her clothes like unwrapping a gift, kissing her shoulder, her collarbone, her stomach.

“Tell me if I go too fast,” he whispered.

“You’re not,” she said, pulling him down to her. “You’re perfect.”

She touched every scar. Every inch of metal and skin. Not with pity—but with love.

When he was finally inside her, it wasn’t frantic. It was full. It was everything.

Their hands tangled. Mouths found each other again and again. His metal fingers dug into the pillow beside her head while his other hand clung to her hip, grounding him.

“You feel like home,” he whispered into her skin, breath shuddering.

Her eyes welled. “Then stay with me. Just stay.”

He kissed her, and when they came undone, it was together—quiet, trembling, like prayer.

Later, he lay beside her, head on her bare chest, arm wrapped tight around her waist.

“I’ve never made love like that before,” he murmured.

She smiled against his hair. “That’s because you never let someone love you first.”

He looked up, blue eyes soft and open.

“Is that what this is?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yeah, Bucky. That’s exactly what this is.”

He pressed his forehead to her collarbone, letting out a long breath.

“I’m not used to being wanted like this.”

“Well,” she whispered, kissing his temple, “get used to it. I’m not going anywhere.”

He didn’t sleep much that night—not because of nightmares, but because she held him, warm and naked and real, and for the first time in forever, he felt safe enough to stay.

And he did.

The room was still.

Early morning light filtered through the sheer curtains, casting soft gold across the floor and the sheets tangled at the foot of the bed. The air smelled like skin and sleep, the ghost of last night still lingering in the quiet.

Bucky stirred first.

He didn’t open his eyes right away. He just… felt.

Warmth.

A soft weight against his chest — her. Legs tangled with his. Her hand resting just above his heart. Her cheek pressed over it like she was listening.

And then he remembered.

Every second. Every breath.

Her hands on him, steady and kind. Her body underneath his, welcoming, trusting. Her voice whispering his name like it meant something.

It did. To her, it did.

And that terrified him more than anything.

Because for the first time in years, he had no instinct to run.

Her fingers twitched against his chest, and he realized she was waking.

[girl-of-many-fandoms]

Marked By Shadows

Pairing: Simon Riley x Reader

Summary: Y/n unknowingly walks into danger, a masked stranger steps in to save her changing her world in a single act of violence and protection.

MASTERLIST

Warnings: stalking/surveillance, violence, threat of SA (it does not occur)

🗡️ 🖤🗡️ 🖤🗡️ 🖤🗡️ 🖤🗡️ 🖤🗡️

He’d been watching her for weeks.

Not out of obsession—at least, that’s what he told himself—but caution. She lived near the flat he’s temporarily stuck in between assignments. A quiet area, nothing special. That’s why she stood out.

She didn’t belong to this world—the one soaked in blood and secrets. She had soft routines. Mornings filled with coffee runs and tote bags, music spilling from her headphones. Evenings walking home with a half-eaten pastry and her phone pressed to her ear, laughter in her voice like a song he didn’t deserve to hear.

He kept his distance. Always. Because he didn’t do connections. Not anymore. Not since Manchester. Not since Roba. Not since—

Well, never mind that.

But tonight, something shifted.

From the rooftop opposite the bookstore she worked at, Ghost watched her step into the cool night air, phone in hand, a smile tugging at her lips. Oblivious. She was talking about something mundane—cherries at the market?—and utterly unaware of the three shadows peeling away from the alley across the street.

His eyes narrowed behind the balaclava.

They weren’t locals. Their movements were off. Hunted, but stupid. One of them had a switchblade tucked at his back waistband. Ghost’s mouth twisted.

Wrong fucking night, lads.

She turned the corner toward the quieter end of the block, still chatting, oblivious to the way the trio quickened their pace behind her, low and quiet. A predator’s walk.

Ghost was already moving.

Down the fire escape. Boots silent. A whisper in the dark. By the time his feet hit the pavement, the men were closing in. Too close.

She was laughing.

That goddamn laugh.

And then she paused, something—maybe instinct—prickling at her neck. Her steps faltered. Phone lowered. Head turning slightly. But before she could fully stop—

“Oi, sweetheart.”

One of them reached to grab her coat.

Ghost struck.

The first man didn’t see him coming. One hand slammed into the back of his neck, the other wrenching the knife free with surgical ease. The second man spun, too slow, and caught a boot to the ribs that sent him crashing into a trash bin with a groan. The third froze, wide-eyed, reaching for something under his coat.

Simon didn’t give him the chance.

A single, vicious punch—knuckles cracking—and the man hit the wall, slumped. Out cold.

She stood a few feet away, stunned. Breath frozen. Phone dangling from her fingers. His eyes flicked to her, just long enough to see the dawning horror.

Shit.

Not at the men. At him.

He was still in the shadows. Mask on. A dark figure—no context, no name. Just violence.

Her voice was small. “W-What…?”

“They were following you,” he said, voice low, calm, graveled like smoke and gravel. “You alright?”

She blinked. He watched her take him in—tactical gear, skull mask, the sharp cut of brutal efficiency in every movement. She didn’t run.

She should have.

Instead, she stepped closer. Carefully. Her voice steadier than he expected. “You followed me too.”

He didn’t answer, not right away “Yeah.”

Something passed between them in the silence.

The sirens were still far off, but approaching. He couldn’t be seen. Not with what he’d just done. Not with who he was.

He turned to leave.

But her voice stopped him again. “Wait. Who are you?”

He paused.

Everything in him screamed to disappear. To ghost out like he always did. But… he turned back, just enough for the glow of a nearby streetlight to catch the lower half of his face.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said quietly. “Just… be more careful. Don’t walk alone.”

And with that, he vanished into the dark, leaving her standing under the streetlight—still staring into the place where he’d been.

⸻

But that night, she left her curtains open.

And he found himself back on the rooftop. Watching.

Still distant.

But no longer a stranger.

And no longer just observing.

[ninii-winchester]

Timeless Love

Pairing : Dean Winchester X Reader

Word count : 3.7k

Warnings : angst, s12 ep 6 (spoilers), canon violence, mentions of demons, slight mention of john winchester, mentions of amara (slight spoiler), taylor swift reference (?), fluff. Not proofread.

Part 2 to Fleeting Love.

A/n: I don’t remember what exactly happened in that episode i just winged it.

I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION TO COPY MY WORK, TRANSLATE IT OR POST IT TO ANY OTHER PLATFORM. REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED.

Leaving was the hardest thing Dean had to do other than breaking Y/n's heart. He cried himself to sleep every night after seeing her looking like a shell of herself at school. He missed her smile and he missed being the reason of her smile. How could he let himself fall for someone, when he knew he could never have that kind of life. Loving her was the best and the worst decision of his life. Best because he got to know what love actually feels like and worst because he knows he'd never find anything like that ever again. He wouldn't allow himself to love anyone else in this lifetime. She was his first and last love.

Dean had left town, and Y/n was still picking up the pieces of a shattered heart. Days turned into weeks, but the ache never dulled. Every time she walked by the places they'd shared—her favorite diner, the lakeside road where they'd stargazed—the memories rushed in like a flood. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't outrun the ghost of him.

As much as she wanted to hate him, part of her would always him. He was her first love, her first kiss and her first time. Deep down she knew it had everything to do with his father but his betrayal was still fresh in her mind. She knew her Dean wouldn't do that her but she wished he'd stood against his father. She wished he would've fought for their love. If only she knew the reason he couldn't do it.

Fifteen years had come and gone, and Y/n had built a life—one filled with new memories, a different kind of happiness. But despite the time and distance, her heart remained anchored to a love she never truly let go of. It wasn't that she was stuck in the past; she had moved on in every way that mattered. Yet, in the quiet moments, when the world fell still, it was Dean's face she saw, his voice she heard, as if time had never touched the feelings she carried for him.

Y/n let out a sigh as she waited for her flight to be announced. She was going to Canada for a wake of the man who saved her life. She vividly remembered six years ago, she was coming back from work and a huge dog like creature attacked her. She wouldn't have believed had she not seen it with her own eyes. It was a werewolf.

She dug into the supernatural, surprised by the sheer amount of lore tied to what was already known. Myths, legends, and creatures she once thought were just stories had entire histories woven into the fabric of the world she knew.

Asa Fox was the one that killed the thing and rescued her. Now he was no more. She owed it him to atleast pay her final respects to him.

Hours later she landed in Canada and made her way towards Asa's mother's house. It was late at night when she arrived. She stepped inside and noticed a small crowd gathered in the living room, while others lingered in the kitchen and a few more were out in the backyard. They were all lost in conversation, sharing memories and stories of the brave hunter they had come together to mourn. The air was heavy with both grief and respect as they honored the life he'd lived.

She'd found Asa's mother and paid her condolences to her, recounting how her son had saved her life and how she looked up to him. The older woman nodded and Y/n took it as her cue to leave her alone. She walked the hallway and bumped into someone, she quickly apologised and looked up to them and all the air seemed to leave her lungs.

"You.." she choked on her words and the other person looked at her in mild confusion and threw her an anticipatory glance. "Mary Winchester." Y/n finally spoke. The older woman tried to rack her brain if she knew the woman infront of her but her mind remained blank.

Y/n had seen photos of Dean's mother in his room also in his wallet and she adored how much he loved his mother. Her mind went haywire thinking back to when he told her his mother died in a house fire. Did he lie? Why would he though? Thousands of thoughts ran into her mind as she thought back to her relationship with the Winchester. Even after fifteen years he's still vivid in her head. Did everything he tell her was a lie? Was Dean even his real name.

Y/n could feel herself hyperventilate and she immediately wanted to put space between the supposedly dead woman and herself. She went to the kitchen to grab herself some water. There were only two people in the kitchen, a woman with a pixie cut and a man taller than anyone she had ever seen. She grabbed a water bottle chugging it down and calming her heartbeat. She took a deep breath before speaking,

"Uhm sorry to intrude but, is a Mary Winchester out there?" She questioned the couple gesturing towards the hallway she came from. The man looked at her with a unreadable look in his eyes.

"Yeah." The woman responded.

Y/n sighed, — atleast I'm not going crazy. She thought to herself. But if that's Dean's mom, what on earth is she doing here?

"You're Y/n." The man said. It wasn't a question. He knew her. She craned her neck to look up at his face and she furrowed her brows.

"I'm sorry have we met before?" She questioned taking a step forward. A sad smile appeared on his face. The woman beside him looked at him expectantly waiting for his reply.

"You seriously don't remember me?" He chuckled and she shook her head.

"I'm sorry, but I'd remember if I had met someone as big as you." She replied leaning on the counter behind her.

"I wasn't this big when we met Y/n/n." Sam spoke and the nickname made her eyes flash with recognition but it was quickly overtaken by the hurt that came with those memories.

"Sammy." It just slipped out. She didn't mean to call him by that name, but when he called her y/n/n, it came out subconsciously. Her heart started beating loudly at the thought of his brother being here. She had never thought she'd ever meet Dean Winchester ever again and she was not ready.

Sam knew whatever happened between her and his brother hurt her more than anything and he wouldn't blame her if she up and left without a word, but he'd missed her. And he missed the man his brother was when he was with Y/n. After her, he was just a shell of a man, running on his father's commands like a soldier. Someone who seemed to let go off every emotion and just waiting for his father's next order.

Sam introduced Y/n to the woman beside him as sherrif Jody Mills and she was good friend.

"How're you Y/n?" Sam asked and she looked at him remembering the small kid she used help with homework.

"Been good. How about you?" Sam scoffed at her question. If only she knew how he's been. And how his brother's been. Coming back from the dead, hell, purgatory. She'd probably throw a chair at him for making up all this bullshit.

"Good yeah." Sam nodded. Y/n could hear footsteps approaching and prayed it wasn't who she thought it was. God knew she didn't want to see him. Maybe she hadn't been a good person, and this was her punishment, because Dean Winchester walked into the kitchen, her breath caught in her lungs.

"Sammy where the he-" Dean words got caught in his mouth as his gaze landed on her.

Y/n looked at the man she had loved and hoped that after all these years, she'd have fallen out of love with him. But one look and her heart started thudding against her ribcage. He had aged, but somehow, he was even more handsome. He was muscular now, his arms toned beneath his layers, and she could see it all. She could feel her eyes water and she didn't want to create a scene at someone's wake, she pushed past Sam and left the space with a word.

Dean stood frozen, he couldn't believe he'd run into her here of all places. The sight of her brought back a flood of memories and feelings he thought he had buried long ago. Despite the years and the changes, she was just as beautiful as he remembered. But then he wondered why was she here? Is she a relative? Does she know about the supernatural? Or worse is she a hunter?

He didn't know the answer to his questions but he knew one thing, that them meeting again after fifteen years was fate. And he'd be damned if he let go off her ever again. He'd do anything in his power to win her back because God knows he's been miserable since the minute he broke up with her. Without wasting another second Dean went behind her. He could see her going to the backyard and taking in deep breaths.

"Y/n." He said approaching her.

"Go away Dean.”

“Just hear me out once.” He pleaded.

“I don't want to hear any more of your lies." Her voice cracked as she spoke and Dean knew she was on the verge of crying.

"Lies? What lies?" He asked holding her arm and turning her to look at him. She shrugged her arm out of his grip and pulled away harshly.

"Maybe you have a bad memory Dean, fifteen years isn't that long of a time to forget about it." She snapped glaring at him. "Need I remind you of your lies? My mom died when I was four! She's inside I've seen her with my own eyes." She yelled. "I love you Y/n! And the very next day after breaking up with me I see you making out with some cheerleader. You don't do that to someone you love." She cried pushing at his chest. "You're a goddamn liar so leave me the fuck alone like you did that night at the park."

Each and every word pierced through him like a needle. It was worse than spending forty years in Hell. He knew he'd hurt her and deserved everything she threw his way, but hearing her think that he didn't love her—it just broke his heart. He never lied about his love for her.

"Y/n, baby please let me explain. I swear I'll tell you everything." He said holding her hand and she pushed him again.

"Don't touch me. And I don't need your explanations." She wiped her tears. "I'm not here for you I'm here for Asa." Dean felt a pang of jealousy at the late hunter's name and he wondered if they'd had something before he died. Is that why she's here. He completely forgot it's been fifteen years and there might be a possibility that she'd moved on. 

"How do you even know him?" He couldn't but ask. His jealousy getting the better of him.

"That is none of your concern." She retorted sharply.

"Sweetheart please hear me out." Dean begged and she moved to go back inside but the doors were locked.

"What the hell?" She tried turning the doorknob but it didn't budge. The two of them were locked out. Dean tried pushing the door but to no avail.

"Hello Dean." Dean turned to see Billie standing there and she was smirking almost evilly.

"Billie what are you doing here?" He asked the reaper. And she told him she's here to do what she does. She's here to take everyone who's inside. Dean asked her what's happening inside and she tells him a demon's got them locked inside and something about vengeance. He had to save Sam, his mom and Jody. Dean tells her to open the door for him and let him go inside, she makes him a deal to never interfere in the natural order of things and he agrees as long as she lets him inside.

"Dean what the hell is going on?" Y/n was now scared. Although she was well aware of supernatural theoretically but she was in no way prepared to fight. And demons? She didn't know those were real too.

"I'll explain later." Dean replied as calmly as possible. "Billie, I need you to keep her safe, please." Dean requested and the reaper raised her brow.

"Dean, I can either keep her safe or let you inside. I'm getting one thing out of this deal, and you're getting only one too." His jaw clenched at her words and he was internally cursing her for being a bitch.

"Fine. Get us in." He begrudgingly told the reaper and she created an opening in the door. Dean turned to Y/n and cupped her face in his large hands. "We're going in, but you gotta trust me, sweetheart. Stay by my side and I'll protect you." Y/n thought he was completely out his wits asking her to go inside a place where there's a demon.

"Time's of essence Dean." Billie commented and he glared at her. He held Y/n's hand and before she knew the two of them were inside. He let out a sigh of relief when he saw Sam, Jody and his mom alive, and even the others. Sam filled him in how the demon had cut off the water supply and locked all the doors. Y/n was terrified of being locked in a house with a demon but Dean held her close to him. His hand gripping hers tightly.

They all gathered in the living room to make a devils trap to trap whoever the demon was possesing and to keep themselves safe, being inside it.

"Dean who was that outside?" Y/n questioned her voice a quiet whisper.

"That was Billie she's a reaper." Dean replied moving her into the devils trap. She looked at him wide eyed.

"A reaper? The one that takes souls?" She questioned and he nodded. "You're acquainted with a reaper? What the fuck?" Before either of them could say any further Jody accused Mary of being possessed since her was last one to come into the room.

Sam and Dean tensed at her accusation of their mom being possessed but then Mary stepped into the devil's trap and moved out proving she's not it. Then Jody started cackling evilly, saying that was clever of Mary. With a flick of her hand she wooshed the trap, then she started attacking everyone one by one taunting them. She threw the twins across the wall and then slammed Mary in the door. She moved her hand towards Y/n but Dean pushed her behind him and the demon made him fly in the wall. Y/n was left unguarded and demon closed in on her. Sam neared them but possessed Jody threw him in the cabinet.

Y/n screamed as the demon neared her she inched backwards, her body trembling with fear. Dean watched as Jody wrapped her hand around Y/n's neck, he got up on his feet and pushed Jody away from her, not too harshly to not hurt his friend's body. He wrapped his body over her, shielding her body with his' and Sam started chanting the incantation to exorcise the demon out of Jody. The twins joined them and then Mary finished it off sending the demon back to hell.

The lights flickered back on and everyone was relieved at last. Y/n clutched Dean's shirt in her hands and hid her face in his chest. "You're fine..it's gone." He rubbed her back soothingly. "Hey sweetheart, look at me." Dean made her pull away slightly and placed his fingers underneath her chin making her look at him. "You okay?" She shook her head, no.

An hour later, Y/n was wrapped up in Dean's jacket, his mind drifting off to the first time he'd lend her his jacket and how it was their new beginning. He wondered if it was a sign of their another new beginning together. She sat on the hood of the Impala and the boys stood in front of her.

"What. The. Hell. Was. That?" She looked at Sam and Dean, while Mary and Jody watched their interaction for afar. "I mean I know werewolves and Vampires but demons? Reapers?" Dean grabbed her hand and brushed his thumb over the back of her hand.

"How'd you know about Werewolves and Vampires?" Dean asked softly and she told him how she was attacked by a werewolf and Asa saved her. And she researched a bit about the supernatural and Dean nodded in understanding. He shot Sam a glance and younger understood and left them alone.

"Sweetheart, I'll explain everything and I'll tell you why I left. You see I'm a hunter, my parents were too. I've grown up in this life. My mom did die when I was four. A demon killed her. My dad wanted us to find that demon and kill him. When I met you, I forgot all about it. I wanted to be a normal boy, I did love you with everything I had." She looked up at his eyes and they were sincere, different from when he broke her heart. It wasn't like he was holding back, or hiding something. "My dad, he didn't want you to get involved or me to lose focus. He told me that I should break your heart so you can move on with you life." Dean explained.

"I did move on with my life Dean." He shut his eyes not wanting to see the look on her face when she tells him she found someone else. "But I couldn't love anyone else. You made me question my worth, because, fuck it I was in love. And fuck you Dean for I couldn't have us."

"I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to make you question your worth, hell I wanted to show you how much you mean to me, I just wanted to keep you safe, away from this life. You aren't even back in my life for less two hours and look at this mess. I don't even want to think of what harm I would've caused you if you'd been with me all those years." He looked apologetic. "As for my mom, God's sister brought her back."

"Who THE FUCK?" She looked dumbfounded.

"It's long story." Dean chuckled. "All I'm saying is I've loved you this whole time and I only broke up with you because I didn't want you be in danger and because my dad said it was for the best." He rubbed the back of his head, half ashamed.

"Where's your dad?" She asked after few minutes of silence.

"He died, a few years ago." Dean replied gloomily.

"I'm sorry." Even if the man was the reason for her heartbreak she didn't feel good about him being dead. After all he was Dean's father. Dean nodded. "What now?"

"We could try again, that is if you want to. I'm tired of not being with you. I feel meeting you again after all these years, it's fate." Dean said softly. "And I still love you so fucking much." He rested his forehead against her.

"I still love you too, Dean." She whispered. The tension between them hangs in the air, heavy and charged. Without another word, Dean cups Y/N's face, his thumb gently brushing their cheek. There's a moment of hesitation, a breath, and then he leans in, capturing their lips in a passionate kiss.

The kiss is deep, intense, filled with all the unspoken emotions they've both been holding back. Dean pulls Y/N closer, as if trying to convey everything he couldn't say in words. For that moment, it's just the two of them, lost in the heat of the kiss. When they finally pull back, both breathless, Dean's forehead rests against Y/N's, his eyes still closed.

"Being away from you was worse than going to hell."

"As if you'd know what hell’s like." She replied rolling her eyes. Dean pulled away, his eyes filled with mischief.

"Oh I do, I went to hell, i was there for forty years."

"You're lying." She gave him a look and he shook his head.

"I'm not. I went to hell and then Castiel the angel pulled me out. Who by the way is now my best friend."

"SAMMY? HE'S LYING ISN'T HE??" She yelled to the younger Winchester and Dean barked out a laugh at her reaction. Sam didn't know what she was on about so he laughed too.

"You've got a lot of catching up to do, sweetheart." Dean said while helping her down off the hood. He threw an arm over her shoulder and dragged her towards his mom. "Mom this is Y/n. My highschool sweetheart." He said pecking her temple.

“Nice to meet you Mrs. Winchester.” Y/n said extending her hand for her to shake but Mary pulled her into a hug.

“Call me Mary. And welcome to the family.” She smiled. Dean grinned, watching the exchange with a sense of pride. Mary’s embrace made Y/n feel instantly at ease. Mary pulled back slightly, her eyes twinkling with warmth. “I’ve heard so much about you, it’s wonderful to finally put a face to the name.”

“You have?” She questioned looking at Dean who looked away shyly.

“Yeah, I’m sorry I wasn’t around the first time.” Mary joked and Y/n let out an awkward laugh.

Dean stood by, his arm still around Y/n, feeling a deep sense of contentment as his worlds finally came together. He knew they still had a lot to talk about but he also knew that they were meant to be. It’s destiny. Now that he’s got her, he’s never letting her go matter what life throws at him. He’s finally home.

Tags:

@spnfamily-j2 @galway-girlatwork @deangirl96 @queensilber

@s0urw00lf @monkey-d-hoshizora98 @deans-baby-momma @fullbelieverheart

@riah1606 @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @hobby27

@starkleila @suckitands33 @m3ntally-unstable @kanekilovelove-blog @candy-coated-misery0731

@blackcherrywhiskey @ladysparkles78 @goest-and-fuckest-thyself-blog @graywrites5567

@thelittlelightinthedarkness @enamoredwithbella @winchesterwild78 @myuhh8

[unadulteratedsoulsweets]

A DC X DP #18

You want a taste of my brain? Okay, it's yours anyway.

Imagine dis…

This time I get inspiration from an A03 fic, and some of its parts just stuck with me and now I’m writing about it, if some of you want to read it go for it. If you are asking for the name don’t ask, I am not going to sell my soul to the devil to find it in my ever-growing history. If you do manage to find it, kudos to them.

TELL ME I AM GETTING DESPERATE OVER HERE

Credits to them as well. Also, as you’ve noticed I decided to post less, now it is due to a good old lack of inspiration. So, don’t go getting your hopes up on this one.

…

Ever since Danny Phantom had become the Ghost King he repeatedly entered the reincarnation cycle willingly to retain his morals when he was human. He still retained his ability to stay in the middle of life and death. But when he as the High King of the Infinite Realms gained immortality he found himself losing his ideals and values, he began forgetting. With Clockwork’s insistence, every few hundred years he would become human to experience a lifetime. Sometimes he would go another round in the same dimension, but only when he needed to finish an unfinished business.

Sometimes he is lucky sometimes he is not.

Sometimes he would be born into a loving family with either as the only child or him having siblings. He has experienced the life of royalty as the heir prince. He experienced the life of a knight who was known for his skills with the sword. He was born into a normal family which made him second guesses his every choice due to his lack of normality in his life. He was also born into some wild dimensions that of which could look like it came from a book. From wizards and sci-fi worlds, he never had the time to sit and be an extra.

But there were also times he was born far too unlucky. 

He was born in a salve ridden society, a parent who were core members of a rebellion so when his current parents died, he was expected to be like his parents. Born in a society where the rich trample the poor and he was forced into early child labor as expected in society to work at a very young age. Born where he and the people around him had never seen peace in a war-consumed country, a war that separated his family from each other not knowing whether one is alive or not, leaving only him and his siblings to stay alive. Being abandoned by a pair of druggies for his parents left alone inside a dumpster and died in the middle of the night, looking through the dimension he saw that some homeless people found his body and reported it to the authorities leaving his parents in jail while some prisoners seem to leave them at the near bottom of the hierarchy in prison.

…

It seems this time he was born in an assassin cult this time he wasn’t alone. A twin, an older sibling that was with him in the womb and both came into the world together. The moment he laid his eyes on his grandfather he can already tell that he is a major fruit loop from the way he both look at both of them. 

His name is too formal for his liking, Dylan Al Ghul, he already convinced Damian to call him Danny when it was just the two of them. Danny tries to downplay his abilities both ghost and human seeing that his grandfather is too power-hungry to the point of misusing ectoplasm that is corrupted but still ectoplasm to achieve some sort of immortality, he tried to give Damian a childhood in the form of showing him the stars whenever he could sneak him outside. He saw the absolute worship and awe Damian would give to their mother and their grandfather whenever they visit or supervised their training, Danny didn’t care for their approval nor their presence but seeing his brother seem to at awe and do anything to please the two made his heart shatter, his older brother never needed to prove anyone something.

Danny has repeatedly shown his disdain for the two most powerful people in the organization yet it is a miracle he still lives. It is because he is a spare, a spare yes not the heir but a useful spare one, twins one who specialized in stealth and espionage a twin who is a perfect copy of Damian aside from his eyes mirroring their supposed father. Both Talia and Ra seem to make it their life mission to drill his only purpose in his head, it may have never worked due to his adult mind but he pretended it would be as to not raise any suspicion.

…

The day Deathstroke attacked not only he dared to kill the demon head but also choose to kill the chosen heir, by removing an eye and some of his organs as a form of slow torture but also killing him as he made the organs unable to go back to their owner’s body.

Danny couldn’t look away from his bloodied brother, Talia slowly approached him from behind and put her hands on his shoulder, and whispered some honeyed words on how his role as the spare will be fulfilled at a much earlier date and promptly injected with a sleeping drug.

…

Danny was already awake when he noticed the cold metal bed behind him the lack of clothes as well the number of doctors seemingly in a rush to prepare for a last-minute surgery. He saw the unconscious form of Damian on the other side and suddenly heard the loud ticking noise of a grandfather’s clock. 

It seems that it was meant to be, Danny thought as an image of Clockwork flashed in his mind. 

He fell back asleep knowing that Damian lost an eye, kidney, a lung, some ribs as well an ungodly amount of blood, possibly more. Danny knew that this vessel of his wouldn’t survive at the sheer need and he already felt that he would not leave the room alive. So, he took one last peek at the sleeping Damian and promptly closed his eyes, the moment he opened his eyes once again he was back in his chambers in the Infinite Realms clutching his left eye in his face whilst looking at the mirror as he felt his eye be the first one to be removed.

It seems this time he died months before he and his brother celebrated their 10th birthday.

…

Damian woke up with a pounding headache being the assassin he is he immediately looked around seeing that his last memory is being tortured by Deathstroke.

He immediately took notice of his loose clothing and tried to walk towards the door but his knees immediately gave out. As he tries to gain his bearings, he noticed a scar right in the middle of his chest, it couldn’t be from the time when he was captured by Deathstroke as he noticed that this scar is too clean, too sterilized as if someone had just come out of a surgery type of scar. As he tries to loosen his shirt to take a better look at his scar when he noticed a mirror facing his way and noticed his eyes, instead of his usual pair of emerald eyes he was greeted with an emerald eye of his own and his brother’s icy blue eye in his left eye.

Damian remembered that Deathstroke took out his eye, as according to him it reminded him of the Demon head, and decided to promptly pull it out with his bare hands. 

Dread began to fill his very being and tried to go and look for his brother but deep down he already knew what happened to him after all, he is the heir while his brother his beloved younger brother is just a spare.

…

When Damian had met his father’s wards most of them commented on his heterochromia eyes and promptly greeted back with his sword in their faces.

The rest grumbled that Damian couldn’t take a tease or two, but immediately chased the demon brat as he chases each and one of them with the intent to kill.

Damian couldn’t tell them; another son was hidden from Bruce. Another son he had failed, another son who died before they could even meet him.

From the first few interactions he had with his father when he first met him, he knew where his brother’s bleeding heart came from.

Sometimes he could still see him, Dyl- no Danny, every time he looks in the mirror. The constant reminder that his brother was seen by the league as nothing but a spare. Whatever love he had for his mother disappeared the moment he laid his sight at his brother’s eye embedded in his supposed empty eye socket. 

The constant reminder that shows every time he looks at the mirror and the scar in the middle of his chest, Danny’s organs that were used on him to ensure his survival while Danny was left behind.

…

He was 14 years old when he went wide-eyed at the stranger across him and his brothers in a heavily populated area.

A teen looks exactly like him with a medical eyepatch on his left eye as he sits in a wheelchair chatting idly with an older man.

Damian heavily thought of a clone, did Talia, not mother never mother, make another clone after him after weeks of silence?

Damian still remembered the first time he encountered a clone with blue eyes, his running theory is that due to his new organs have bonded with him thus creating a batch of clones with blue eyes. Timothy had spoken up that since babies have a 50/50 chance of inheriting the colored eyes of either parent made a new branch of clones. 

Damian was already planning on disposing of the supposed clone when the said clone suddenly laughed exposing his neck that have a feign white line across indicating a scar. But that scar made Damian double guess, all clones he encountered are scarred free thus leaving him to have no trouble disposing of each and one of them but the existence of the scar he barely caught is something both brothers swore secrecy to it.

The laugh oh god, his laugh, only his brother laughs like that, Damian thought mournfully.

As he tries to look the other way, he suddenly faced the same doctor who was the assistant doctor that foresees his surgery years ago. He may have distanced himself from the League after he had fulfilled his debt but it was no mistaking that it was the same doctor that operated him that time.

A chemist they said, an insufficient man who is more cowardly than any other man yet his talent in poisons made him quite a gem in the League.

A clone who had broke out of their collective mind control? Possible, but why this clone? What made this look alike so special that this man dared to leave the League?

…

Robin began to follow the two, the other bats thought that he had a new case on his lap that requires recon. They didn’t question Robin’s new behavior as they have seen him do the same actions when he landed himself a case or when he was following a lead. Yet they couldn’t shake the feeling that something is not right, whether it is the fact that Robin refused any assistance or just the fact they have no idea what kind of case Robin is working on.

They should have listened to their guts then maybe they wouldn’t be surprised at the bat screen, showing a maternal and paternal match to a picture of a blue-eyed black-haired kid with a medical eyepatch on his left eye looking like Damian in a good day.

…

Danny was doing some paperwork when a flying thought passed by him about his last reincarnation. All memories from his adventures when he got reincarnated are usually put behind the back of his hand yet worries about the well-being of his brother made him distracted, and kept close a special one-way mirror to monitor his baby brother.

Danny felt nostalgic at the family drama and chaos that he can’t help but cackle at each interaction Damian has with their father’s adopted children and wards. He found himself majorly of his time watching for hours and hours, he can’t help but wish he was there. As if he was summoned Clockwork appeared in front of him and told him to go back, which confuses Danny since it was Clockwork who implemented that he cannot go back to the same dimension/ world if his body is too far gone to be revived by him, yet Clockwork told him to give someone named Alfred his regards and vanished. Looking bewildered at his mentor/ grandfather he tried to sense his vessel with little to no hope seeing that the League has his body, but surprises himself when he felt his own body submerged in a portion of the Lazarus pit. 

…

Going back, he was greeted by an assistant doctor that used to be in the League due to his ancestor’s debt. He explained that he cannot in good conscience do what he was instructed to after the operation, stole his body, and submerged it in an undiscovered pit due to its small size, enough to dump a child not enough for a grown adult. 

After an initial check-up, both he and the doctor discovered that the mini Lazarus pit regenerated all of his organs except his eye seeing that it was his entire body submerged excluding his head. The assistant doc theorized that those organs of his may be weaker since they were generated from nothing, Danny in all his eldritch glory as well as being the most powerful being across the Infinite Realms played his part perfectly of a now disabled child.

After all who would accuse this disabled child putting the daughter of the Demon Head in an endless nightmare by his command to Fright Knight? Who would accuse that innocent blue eye of his that he had killed any assassin in their tail ever since he and his now temporary guardian began exploring the world? Who would accuse an adorable child that he was the one who had put the Joker in a definite MIA? Who would accuse this child who smiles like the sun despite his setbacks be the one who tortured Deathstroke to the brink of insanity? Danny is pretty sure his temporary guardian knew of his secret endeavors but remained quiet due to his habit when he was in the League or just to prevent any grayer hairs from growing in. 

…

Now if only his brother stopped moping around the building across their apartment complex and just come inside, he made his infamous fudge to share with his brother. His brother didn’t have to drag the rest of the bat brigade in watching him across the building, he even made extra fudge, if only they could just go through the front door instead of rescuing him first in every rogue attack and pretend, they don’t him. Well, if they are playing a game then count him in to win. But for some reason all of them made a face of being constipated whenever they talk to him, Danny is so sure he used clean ingredients to make his fudge…

God dammit just enter the front door like a normal person, better yet tell Batman to stop looking at him as if he died! Those windows are not paying to fix themselves each time one of them decided to stop dropping and roll every other night!

…

PS: If someone out there wanted to continue or make a fic about this you are free to do so, don’t forget to tag me though.

[centipede-rain]

Ring the bells that still can ring

Lux Imperator | Mr. Ring-A-Ding x Reginald Pye

Words: 1129

Warnings: none

Summary: It’s not so bad, existing like this. Ever since Helen died, Reginald Pye has been stuck in a limbo anyway. How could he possibly continue on, after the person that had given everything meaning is gone? And even if he could, why would he? What for?

No, he’s fine here, in the dark cinema, alone with his reels and flickering images, following the demands of that strange creature.

I wrote this for @thirteens-pocket-watch who has all the best Reggie Pye opinions and ideas :3

Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66581398

Days blur together, with no one but him- it as company.

Of course there’s also the replica of his dead wife - light taking shape, simulating life - but that, too, is him in some way. Reginald pretends it isn’t so, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know.

Night after night he puts on movies for the thing pretending to be a little cartoon man, come to life.

It’s not so bad, existing like this. Ever since Helen died, he’s been stuck in a limbo anyway. How could he possibly continue on, after the person that had given everything meaning is gone? And even if he could, why would he? What for?

No, he’s fine here, in the dark cinema, alone with his reels and flickering images, following the demands of that strange creature.

Not that the monster demands horrible things, really. No blood offerings, no leading victims into its den. It has killed though – he has witnessed it. Innocent cinema goers, vanished forever, trapped on film. Their terrified little faces staring up at him from the cellulose.

He has met the grieving families, has been questioned by the police about his own role in the matter. They think it was him, that much is obvious. He can’t blame them. A whole cinema full of people, all of them vanished without trace, with him as the sole survivor. How ironic, that the man who wants to die is the only that remains.

The police can’t prove anything, can’t find the bodies. That’s why they’re forced to leave him alone eventually, driven even deeper into social isolation than he already was, free to return to his den of loneliness.

Well, he might be lonely, but he isn’t alone.

Mr. Ring-A-Ding, as the creature insists on calling himself, is always there with him. Telling corny lines, dancing along to jingles that are eerily familiar. Dredging up memories from years and years of watching silly cartoons since his early childhood.

That’s the worst of it, how familiar he is. How, despite the danger Reginald knows him to be, he feels almost… safe.

Reginald is still terrified of him. He’s always terrified, of everything.

Those feelings coexist inside him, a confusing and nauseating turmoil that keeps him awake at night.

Not that he could sleep very well before that. No, sleeping has always been difficult.

Perhaps he even sleeps better now, on a little cot in the cinema, than he ever did at home, with her gone.

The home that they shared, too haunted by ghosts to ever truly find peace in. The memory of her smiling face, lurking behind every corner.

How strange that he sleeps better here, where she is real in a way. Smiling and taking his hands, twirling him around in a dance, like they used to do.

But it’s not her. It’s even less her than the echoes of her memories, reverberating through the halls they used to live in. Her skin a touch too gray, her smile a touch too sweet, lacking mischief. Her skin (well, “skin”, because it’s not, not really) abuzz in strange ways, making his hands go numb where they’re linked.

And all the while, he sees the cartoon man that had given this gift to him, watching. Lifeless pie cut eyes, a wide grin, cartoonish little hearts popping up above his head. Half approval, half mockery.

And Reginald knows. He knows that he’s most likely only watching to puppeteer his mirage the proper way, keep the illusion alive for him. He knows that in truth, he is dancing with that thing and not his beloved Helen. But that doesn’t mean he is strong enough to let go.

It’s strange. Mr. Ring-A-Ding hadn’t needed to bribe him, in order to make him stay. He had already spared his life, and inadvertently burnt down all the other bridges left in Reginald’s life. With everyone thinking him a murderer, he had nowhere else to go but this strange dark room with its terrifying otherworldly inhabitant.

And yet, the cartoon had decided to chain itself to him not (only) through threat but through promise.

And it works, in a way. Despite everything, Reginald keeps coming back. Keeps playing movies for him, entertaining him, feeding him.

Perhaps the most surprising aspect of all is how social he creature is. Starting up conversations, listening intently, pretending to care. About his thoughts, emotions, experiences. Pretending so very well. But it doesn’t, not really - does it? Can it?

Oh but why does it keep doing it, despite having nothing left to gain from him. Why does it ruffle his hair, laughing jovially when he flinches. Boneless limbs, detached from any real life logic, moving too fluidly. A two dimensional body, somehow existing in a three dimensional space. Wonky dimensions, his size waxing and waning like the moon, mostly depending on his mood.

When Reginald sleeps, he no longer sleeps alone.

Mr. Ring-A-Ding, or whatever has stepped out of the big screen that day, is there with him.

Sometimes it’s terrifying, the cartoon all warped and twisted, its grotesquely stretched form easily dwarfing him. It insists on lying on his little cot with him, holding him close like some kind of toy. Too many arms, wrapped around him. The prickle of tv static on his skin, the soft blue glow illuminating the dark room, reminding him of sleepless nights spent in front of his tv, watching those very same cartoons of Mr. Ring-A-Ding.

It’s a strange dreamlike mix of terrifying, oddly nostalgic, and surprisingly gentle. Because the monster holds him so very carefully, whispering sweet things, petting his hair when he cries. And it shouldn’t feel comforting, not in any way. But he’s been so alone since Helen died, and now he isn’t. Now someone is holding him close, and he’s just been so terribly touch starved. And it’s not like he could get away anyway, even if he were brave enough to resist or complain.

Other nights, Mr. Ring-A-Ding is small, curling up with him like a cat. It’s almost cute, almost wholesome. It’s harder to tell himself that he’s not here because he wants to be, then. Harder to pretend he’s being held hostage, and not pathetically clinging to whatever scrap of positive attention he can get.

Sometimes he reaches out, petting the cartoon like it so often does to him. He had been so very hesitant, the first time he had done it. Afraid of the reaction, afraid of repercussions, afraid of making Mr. Ring-A-Ding angry. But he had only widened his eerie cartoon grin, snuggling closer. Eyes aglow like lanterns, strange energy buzzing softly under his hand, more subdued when he is content.

Reginald isn’t happy. He never will be again, without Helen.

But perhaps he, too, can be content.

[aris-ink]

OMGGGGGGG I NEED PT 2 PLS 🙏🏼 ID DO ANYTHING TO SEE WHAT HAPPENS AFTER THE PARENTS GO TO DINNER RESERVATIONS 😏 ily 💜

ily more 😚

pairing: jungkook x reader

genre: forbidden romance, step!siblings au

warnings: mentions of manipulation, pseudo incest, mentions of ridiculous porn tropes 🤷‍♀️, jk is nasty I'm sorry 💀, daddy kink, degradation, praise, dirty talk, creampie

This wasn't exactly how Jungkook had planned to spend the evening, but why waste such a precious opportunity thrown his way? The moment the lock turned, he made his way to the living room; ready to grab you, throw you over his shoulder and take you to bed. However, he found himself frozen in the doorway, throat dry and heart skipping a beat.

His footsteps were slow, quiet enough not to catch your attention. He knelt down on the carpet right behind you, the heat of his hands on your waist making you jump.

"Jungkook!" you breathed, voice coming out muffled. "Don't do that."

He hummed, rubbing your sides softly in an attempt to apologize.

"Sorry, baby. Did you lose something?"

He could hear you sigh, his eyes tracing the curve of your spine.

"My-" a hitch of breath interrupted your reply.

Like a cute, little kitten, you stiffened up, hairs rising on your arms when you felt his hand sneak under your skirt. Waiting. Assessing the threat. Jungkook smirked, spreading his fingers over your asscheek to grope it lewdly.

"-earrings," you moaned, "Jungkook-"

His dick, already hard and twitching in his jeans, pressed into your panty clad core.

"Yes, baby?" He rubbed your ass, the smooth, familiar motions both soothing and electrifying. "You're not stuck there, are you?"

You could feel a flush spreading through your neck, eyes darting around the dark space. It was impossible to push yourself up and get out from under the couch as long as he was blocking your way, his hips firm as a wall against you.

"No," you swallowed, "if you just move and let me-"

Riiip.

You gasped, cold air immediately hitting your exposed heat. You didn't need to look; you felt his eyes on you, the weight of his gaze touching vulnerable places it never should have seen. Your heart raced beneath your ribs. You knew you were alone in the house, but this was...

Your train of thought disappeared, nothing but a ghost ship in the brief fog of common sense. It was a dark, clear night again, stars floating all around you when you felt his fingertips come into direct contact with your hole to spread it open. He could see the way the muscles clenched around nothing, desperate to be stuffed.

"Jungkook... " You managed nervously, a flicker of sails in the wind.

"Come on," he murmured, entranced by the pretty sight, the slick flowing out, making your cunt glisten. The hand on your asscheek tightened its grip on it, massaging the flesh. "I've always wanted to try this. Please, baby, please?"

You whined, half in stubborn disbelief, half lost in the burning heat already building up in your abdomen, consuming you from the inside like fire.

"You're such a pervert."

Jungkook didn't dare take his eyes off you, watching your cunt contract, releasing more slick, wetting the tips of his fingers.

"Yeah?" He asked raspily, running his tongue along his piercing. "I don't see your pussy complaining."

You said nothing, inhaling shakily. Words just wouldn't come. Jungkook's hand slid off your ass, palming the erection straining against his zipper, though it brought him little relief. He started unzipping his fly instead, and you wondered if he was really going to do this; reenact some ridiculous porn he watched while he fantasized about you, way before any of this began. After yesterday, it shouldn't really be surprising. But your nerves were still frayed, the position unfamiliar, leaving you more vulnerable, making your cunt throb harder. It seemed like the moment Jungkook finally got you, all he wanted was to spend the rest of his life reminding you that you were his, body and soul.

He let out a deep sigh the moment his cock finally sprang free from its confines.

"What's it gonna be, baby?" He asked, leaning over you. He pressed a kiss into your back, and the leaking tip of his shaft into your cunt. "Do you want me to fuck you or not?"

You felt a shiver run down your spine, despite of the heat of his chest against it. Your body spoke his language, even if your mouth couldn't, soaking his fat cock more at the first bump against your clit. You couldn't hold back the moan that slipped past your lips, leaving them open. A shaky exhale fled Jungkook in return, warming your spine and your tummy further.

"I need words, sweetheart."

You tried to focus, fingers digging into the soft carpet.

"Please," you whispered.

Jungkook shut his eyes, aiming the head of his stiff cock at your small hole. He pressed into it slowly, feeling and hearing it stretch as he pushed forward, pulsing around him.

"Please what?"

He rocked in and out of you, sinking in deeper with each thrust forward, biting into his lip to stay quiet. You whined from under the couch, eyes already rolling back.

"Please, daddy."

Jungkook bottomed out with a shudder, hands grasping your hips and back straightening so he could start thrusting into you steadily. He tried to stifle a groan, eyes fighting to stay open, like he was drunk. Drunk on the way you felt, on the way you moaned from underneath the couch. On how dirty it was, how he couldn't even see your face, like he was using a fleshlight rather than fucking you. The thrill that it sent through him was even dirtier.

"Good girl," he praised breathily, slowing for a moment.

He pulled almost all the way out, then, carefully, proceeded to hump you with just the drooling tip of his dick. You whimpered, hips jerking when he suddenly pressed a finger into your clit, rubbing it in lazy circles.

"That's it, baby," he whispered, "cream my cock. I know how much you like it."

He felt your pussy tighten, felt it drip around him. Usually, Jungkook didn't have as much freedom as he wanted to be with you, to touch you. To see how many times you could come, in how many ways; to make you cry. And what was stopping him tonight?

He frowned, tongue poking out in concentration, a drop of sweat rolling down his temple. His balls clenched, and so did his jaw, a low moan flowing out.

"Fucck. Such a good, pretty slut, all fucking mine. Yeah."

Of course he knew you were going to come; he could tell, and of course he's been waiting, holding back, all for this moment. Just to dig his fingers into your hips, shove the rest of his cock into your poor, unsuspecting cunt and blow his load, groaning and bringing new galaxies to life behind your eyes. He remained still, twitching as you spasmed around him, sweet, little sounds leaving your mouth.

One hand grabbing onto the couch, he collapsed forward, feeling his own cum trickling down from where you were connected, like your little hole couldn't hold all of it, even with his cock still buried deep inside you.

His other hand slid down your thigh.

"Are you okay?"

Your mewl made him chuckle, urged him to gently disconnect himself from you and help you out from under the couch. He kissed and rubbed your knees and elbows, sore from being pressed into the floor, for once no longer a slave to the incessant ticking of the clock. No one else was going to be home tonight. At all. Your parents were unfortunately stuck dealing with a flat tire, somewhere in the middle of nowhere.

They just didn't know it yet, and neither did you. But life was just so unpredictable, wasn't it?

💌 taglist: @baalsgurl1913 @kooktrash @era-genius @sweetempathprunetree @bucketofhiros @iceprincessviviane @silv3rswirls @httpsbts @osakis-gf @chimmisbae

[str8rat]

What if IN STARS AND TIME was like FEAR AND HUNGER?

So i've spent the last hour frantically researching phobias for this shit lmao, don't expect any of the phobias i've picked to be canon for Fear and Hunger. Anyways this is a whole ass au and i'm planning to make an entire world setting from this fever mix. Esentially it's gonna be In stars and time kind of plot, with the party going through the house to defeat the king, but the Universe is not as kind to them. if it was ever kind in the canon. all of the characters will be devastated and traumatized or fucked up in different ways, and i'm planning to explain it all below- well, explain Siffrin for now. Even though I have everyone else already scribbled down, i still need to draw their fucked up sprites :> LETS GO

~ ~ ~

Siffrin; Autophobia ( fear of being abandoned, alone, ignored )

Effects; Half-blind ( left eye )

Info;

TW; SELF HARM, SUICIDE [ Canon-typical ]

Traveler from the Island North of Vaugarde. Lost his left eye protecting Bonnie, a child the party came across on their way to Dormont. Siffrin is a short, forgetful person, which has been travelling for the entirety of his life. He met the party by chance, saving Isabeau from a Sadness, as the man parted with the rest of the party briefly in order to gather firewood.

After reaching Dormont, Siffrin makes a wish to the Favor Tree, and quickly finds out the consequences of his actions. He gets stuck in a time loop, forced to re-live the gruesome, painful deaths and horrifying experiences he and his party go through as they venture up the floors of the House. His sanity quickly deteriorates, though it remains more intact than that of Loop, a self-proclaimed star whom he encounters under the Favor Tree after his first death—being crushed by a giant boulder.

Due to him not having his right eye, his depth perception is fucked, and he often bumps into things. After getting imprisoned in the loops, he becomes more anxious, desperate to escape the loop cycle, even going as far as slitting his own throat in order to save time. He also doesn't shy away from self harm, adorning his wrists in "stars", as he calls them- prickling his skin with his own dagger.

He realizes that even after he loops, the scars of his horrible deaths remain on his body, and eventually, his arms and thighs are all covered in "stars", those particular scars being of his own making. Counting the loops, one star for one loop. May become manic when in distress, or have panic attacks. Is incredibly touch starved and desperate for physical affection, but never got around to revealing that fact to his party on his own, leaving him feeling floaty and unreal. Like a ghost of his former self.

Those are just a couple of the effects of the loops. In the end, Siffrin just doesn't want to part with his companions, his friends, his family- wanting them with him so much, to the point of him unknowingly trapping himself in a time loop.

~ ~ ~

Sooo overall Siffrin's backstory/info isn't that different from canon, because he was already going through some tough shit as it was ._. so I just kind of added more mental implications to it, as well as that fun little headcanon of his body keeping scars of his past deaths/injuries. So that's fun. also i mostly focused on the other members of the party as well, since they don't exactly have a lot of angst or trauma ( not as much as siffrin at least ), so in this au all of them are traumatized or psychologically damaged!!!! YAY!!!

ANYWAYS! Who's gonna be next?? i don't fucking know, but i'll probably upload them tomorrow alongside a description explaining just how fucked they are :>

[haveawish]

Miller's Girl Review/Recap

Spoilers for the full movie!!!

No seriously...I spoil the full movie, so if you've not seen it, turn back!!

Cairo is 18 years old bibliophile and inspiring author, who is extremely intelligent, lonely and bored of her life in Tennessee, Cairo's rich lawyer parents completely abandon her, leaving her to dwell in their mansion like a ghost left behind. Cairo seems convinced they don't care about her. That dynamic isn't explored any further sadly.

 Cairo is striving to escape to Yale but struggling with her entry essay. To write about her greatest accomplishment. Cairo realizes she has none, as she’s been insulated in the bubble of her privilege or as best friend Winnie calls her “just another run-of-the-mill generationally wealthy gal living in a haunted ancestral mansion,” 

 The college essay is actually the catalyst for the movie. Cairo needing inspiration and along comes failed writer Jonathan Miller. 

Miller is stuck in his mundane life as a literature teacher, his writing career amounting in a poorly received book and a wife who is more focused on her own career and any available alcohol than placating her husband.It’s unsurprising that Jonathan becomes drawn to Cairo — though his wife exudes sexuality, a good portion of the movie she's in her lingerie, it seems to be no match for Cairos charms.

Cairo is like a breath of fresh air to Jonathan, a young attractive girl who intellectually seems to be on the same wavelength as him and appreciates his opinion and wisdom. He thinks he finds in her a willing protégé into whom he can pour his own unrealized ambitions as a novelist.

Jonathan lets himself be seduced by Cairo’s Intelligence in literacy and flattery. Her being complimentary of  his own book strokes his ego, not to mention her receptiveness to his attention.

Somewhere along the line Miller forgets himself and his boundaries as an educator, treating Cairo not as a student under his care but as a peer and fellow writer.

The movie throws in moments of  mutual attraction and showcases Miller's descent into crossing the line of appropriately, keeping on pushing his own choice of college on her even after she said she was dead set on yale, sharing a cigarette multiple times, inviting the girl to an event after school filled with Miller's friends, looking like a first date as they squeeze next to one another during the reading.

With midterms looming, Jonathan gives Cairo a special assignment: write an essay in the style of an author she admires. An assignment that will soon prove fatal to his career and possibly his freedom.

A mix-up in the classroom lands Cairo’s cell phone in his possession and he breaks another unspoken boundary, he drives to his student house who he is aware lives alone to return it to her.  

What follows is completely up to interpretation of the audience whether or not the two of them confront their mutual attraction. Whether the pair actually shared a forbidden kiss or if they even went further is up for debate. Something may have actually  happened between them at her house. I wouldn’t be surprised if his ‘fantasy’ is actually him recalling their night together when he reads her story.

Cairo delivers her midterm essay inspired by Henry Miller, sent with the note ‘love, Cairo’.

Feeling underappreciated by his wife as usual Jonathan lurks to his man cave where he proceeds to read and masterbate to Cairo’s essay, whether Jonathan is recalling the night or imagining this would've happened between the two is never stated.

The story  in which she thinly disguises Jonathan and herself as her subject and proceeds to write a smutty story almost fanfiction-like of a liaison between the two protagonists. 

 This finally shakes out  Jonathan of his lust filled head to put a stop to things, but unfortunately  for him he's  already gone too far. He's toyed with Cairos growing feelings  much less (potentially) with her body. As the two of them try to navigate the repercussions of their inappropriate intimacy. 

Jonathan tells Cairo to scrap the essay and write a new one; the complete turn around shocks Cairo.  

One day he was this cool teacher who's her friend and potentially her lover, he gives her attention and flirts with her and then next day he threatens her of failing the class. threatening to fail Cairo over the story is the worst thing he could have done in Cairos mind. If he had done it, she would've not been able to go to the college of her choice, Something extremely important to her, which he's well aware of, maybe restricting her to go to any college  at all. Leaving her stranded in Tennessee would have been her worst nightmare.

What follows is the complete ruin of any type of relationship the pair had, Cairo is angry and vengeful. Jonathan's betrayal blindsighted her and as the intelligent girl she is feels that blow to her pride and her feelings. Cairo let's rip at Miller, all his insecurities laid bare, Miller eventually calls Cairo a child and she calls him a coward. 

Him acknowledging her as a child is sickening now that the viewer has seen his actions throughout the movie. To him she's a femme fatale, a fantasy when he wants her to be but when things get real and serious, she's just a naive child and he knows better.

Cairo for all her scheming is still a teenage girl who for the first time has her heartbroken, and that heartbreak turns to cold rage and to get her revenge not even her best friend Winnie is safe from her plans.

Winnie is an interesting character throughout the movie that doesn't get the screen time and depth she deserves.

Winnie is a known lesbian according to Cairo, though Winnie playfully disagrees, claiming to like both as she tells Cairo of her flirtations with high school coach and Jonathan's friend Boris. Although Winnie claims to be interested in Boris, it is obvious to both the viewer and Cairo that Winnie has unrequited love or lust for Cairo.

Cairo offers to make out with Winnie and send a picture to Boris to try to get the coach jealous, perhaps getting her revenge at that moment at the coach rather than her desired revenge against Jonathan. Cairo manages to manipulate Winnie's obvious feelings for her, kissing surprisingly lustfully and hard since it was a supposed ruse, however that moment soon breaks and Cairo dismisses Winnie coldly.

Boris is shown to be a complete hypocrite. His boundaries with students are just as bad as Jonathan despite his denial. The first meeting we see of him and Jonathan is Boris stealing Cairo's erotic novel she had left behind and reading it aloud, completely ignoring any decency of Cairo's privacy. His relationship to our knowledge doesn't go as far as Cairo's and Miller's. However texting a student's personal cell at night is a violation in itself. At  the end of the movie  he tells Jonathan that he “never crossed the line”  in complete denial of how close he could have been in the same boat as Jonathan if Winnie didn't protect him from Cairo's threats. Winnie and  Cairo's friendship becomes a casualty as Cairo blackmails her silence by threatening to out Winnies situation with Boris.

His ‘survival’ for Jonathan's public fall from Grace.

The telling thing is that Cairo didn't lie when talking to the Dean. 

The fact that Cairo told the total truth to the dean leads me to believe that the kiss we saw wasn't real, she was all set to ruin his life and mentioning the kiss would've been the sure way to do that, however she didn't mention it once.

I believe Cairo is many things..but I don't believe she is a liar.

Honestly kiss or no kiss, it doesn't really matter.

Even more confirmation that Miller is not the victim of this story. The dean was asking all the right questions to find out if he did anything inappropriate. The fact that every answer she gave was the truth and the dean looked disgusted is proof in itself. She had a meeting with Cairo first, and Jonathan confirmed everything that Cairo said but was trying to excuse his actions the entire time. The dean thankfully didn't buy into his excuses.

Jonathan Miller is the Villain of this story, his choices were what lead him on this path, he could have done what any respectable teacher would have done and shut Cairo's flirtations down, but his ego and attraction won over his common sense.

Cairo’s actions do not cancel out her victimhood.

The Ending however was a bit too ambiguous for my taste. Through it all, Jenna Ortega is captivating enough to keep me watching. Freeman is completely overshadowed by not only Ortega’s performance, but most of the supporting cast. “like imitation crab in gas station sushi” is a very accurate description to his portrayal of the very one note character.

Cairo Sweet may be the character I will defend absolutely. A morally grey protagonist who deserved better.

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Platonic Stobin Mind-Reading AU Part 2

Part 1

The house is quiet when Steve slips in. It always is, now.

He toes his shoes off, unable to bend over enough to untie the laces. His ribs protest the slight hunch of his shoulders, stomach roiling in queasy warning to not curl in further.

The house is quiet, but Steve can almost feel the warmth of an arm around his shoulders. And he doesn’t feel alone. He looks around the foyer, almost waiting for his parents, or hell, the ghost of Hopper to appear. Nothing does.

He’s leaving smatterings of blood and mud with every step, speckling the white carpet in signs of life as he flicks on every lightswitch on his way toward the stairs. He pauses at the bottom, staring up at the insurmountable obstacle to his bed. With a sigh, he turns his back on the climb and stumbles his way toward the couch in the living room, collapsing down into it. Blood is already smearing into the velvety green of its cushions. He ignores the little voice in his head that sounds alarmingly like his Mother, berating him for leaving so many signs of life in her pristine house for lifeless dolls.

Steve falls asleep, alone in his empty house. The comforting weight is still around his shoulders.

It’s still dark when he wakes up, gasping around a nightmare he doesn’t remember having. His stomach roils with fear, like he’s still down in the Russian bunker, begging to keep his fingernails attached to his body. There’s no more comforting weight across his shoulders. He still doesn’t feel alone.

Steve leans across the couch and vomits. There’s very little left in him, popcorn dissolved into green stomach acid. The carpet’s beginning to look like Christmas come early. If she comes back, his Mother will not be pleased.

He doesn’t get up to clean it, exhaustion hitting hard even as the fear persists. He falls back asleep, wakes up mid-nightmare to a pounding at the door.

He stares at the ceiling, stuck still half in nightmare with the pounding of demodog feet echoing through the bunker where Robin and Steve are still tied back to back, her head pressed to the back of his own, Dustin’s screams filling the air as Steve writhes desperately to free himself and protect the kid.

Someone is still pounding at his door. He stumbles off the couch, ribs screaming, head spinning, ears buzzing, eyes half closed against the light as he opens the door, unable to even see who’s in front of him.

“Dingus, where have you been?” they say. Steve forces his eyes open wider past the light and pulsing of his head, willing his swollen eyes to make out Robin’s face. “I’ve been knocking for like five minutes! I was starting to think you were dead! And I was getting so scared that you’d gone off in the woods to die. Cats do that, you know.”

Steve blinks at her, struggling to keep up with her tirade. “Huh?”

Robin rolls her eyes. She steps into the house, making to shove past him where he’s blocking her entry. “Oh just let me in, it’s so hot out–”

She stops talking when her elbow hits his forearm. Stops moving too. Steve stares past her into the empty driveway, wisps of her hair tickling his cheek.

There’s relief coursing through him, thoughts running through his mind that can’t be his own–Thank god he’s alright, I thought he died, what would I have done? Thank god–can’t believe I care about Steve the hair Harrington enough to show up at his house uninvited, what kind of bizarro world are we living in, this is weirder than that flesh monster I swear to god–

Steve stumbles back, spine connecting painfully with the doorknob as the door swings back loudly into the wall with the force of his weight. Robin’s looking at him, eyes wide. There’s a bruise blooming on her cheekbone. Even past the confusion, he’s overwhelmed with the relief that she’s here, standing in front of him, whole and alive.

She reaches her hand out slowly, like he’s a stray cat that could be spooked at any moment. Her fingers latch onto his forearm, curling around it tight enough that her fingers dig into his flesh.

–that supposed to be what a demodog looks like? Dustin was really underselling it, I think I’d take Russian’s any day, aww Dingus was worried about me, wait wait wait, how do I know that he, did he sleep in that stupid outfit? where are his parents? why can I see–

Steve wrenches his arm free, ignoring the stinging of Robin’s fingernails scraping across his flesh. They stare at each other. Steve can feel himself breathing too fast. Wisps of Robin’s hair are sticking to her forehead with sweat. The door is still open.

“Dingus?”

“Good thing you’ve gotta breathe or I don’t think I’d ever get a word in,” Steve says without thought.

Robin brings her hand up to her mouth, eyes widening impossibly further. “Were you thinking about the demodogs?”

“Were you thinking that us being friends is weirder than the mind flayer?”

Robin drops her hand and smiles. “We’re friends?” she asks, voice chipper. “Wait, no! What is going on!”

They stare at each other some more. Robin looks manic, like she’s trying to pop her eyes out of her skull with the force of her stare. Steve, without looking away, reaches behind himself for the knob still pressed into his spin and slowly closes the door.

“Did you have a nightmare last night and throw up?” Robin nods. “Did your Dad have his arm around your shoulders?” Nod. “Well, shit.”

He finally turns away, stumbling back to the couch and gently settling down, leaving enough room for Robin beside him.

They settle like two, hunched quotations, knees settled together, hair brushing with how closely they’re eying each other.

“Anything?” Robin asks.

Steve hums, squinting his eyes with the focus of his concentration. Her eyes are blue, unlined but all but the barest remnants of smudges from her usual make-up. She looks a wreck. He’s pretty sure he loves her.

Are you excited right now?” he asks because he feels it bubbling up his throat, like someone’s just barely holding back a deluge of words, and it’s not him.

She scoffs, rolling her eyes up toward her head. “How are you not?” she demands, pulling her hands away from her knees to gesticulate in the scant air separating their bodies. “This is like superpower territory, Steve! We can read minds!”

Steve swallows around the excitement, feels his own warmth curl up in his chest at her joy. “So far only each others.”

Robin jolts, hands coming to clutch at the fabric across her chest, fist tight. “Oh,” she breathes. “Is that what you’re feeling?”

There’s something else clogging up his throat now. Not words. Tears, maybe. Steve looks down at his own bloody hands, trying to make words where only feelings exist, then remembers he doesn’t have to. He reaches out, snatches her hand, and lets himself feel.

“Why are you picturing us making Thanksgiving dinner together?” she asks, laughing even as tears bubble out of her eyes. Always a sympathetic crier, his own begin to well.

“We’re like, stuck together now, right?” He lets go of her hand, gets rid of the distracting feedback loop of two minds thinking around each other. “That like makes us–family?”

Robin sobs and launches herself into his arms. Unfortunately, the pressure on his ribs is violent enough to almost make him vomit again. Maybe he makes a noise of pain, or maybe she gets some sense of the way his vision is whiting out from pain through his thoughts, but she scrabbles backwards instantly, hands shuffling her further and further away until her back hits the armrest at the other side of the couch.

“Sorry! I’m sorry! I just got caught up in the moment, and forgot you’re totally fucked, and dingus! Shouldn’t you be in the hospital? Because all I saw there was a white light, and that doesn’t mean you’re dying, does it? Did I kill you?”

Steve laughs but it comes out more as a cough as agony falls back into the bearable threshold of pain. “I’m fine, Robin,” he says, eyes squeezed closed as he eases himself back into a fully seated position. “I got checked out in the ambulance, same as you.”

Robin, uncharacteristically, doesn’t respond. When Steve opens his eyes, all signs of tears are gone from her face, replaced with a look that clearly shows how done with his bullshit he feels. “And they told you that you were fine?” she demands.

“This all just needs to heal on its own,” he says, gesturing from his face down his torso.

Robin scoots back over to poke his cheek with her finger. He can hear her thinking about the likelihood of him being full of shit, the pros and cons of kidnapping him via her Dad’s SUV. Steve slaps her finger away, but whatever she must’ve gleaned from his own mind satisfied her enough that she doesn’t make a move toward the door or the phone.

She eyes him up and down, gaze traveling down his bloody form, to the splotches he’s left on the couch, and the slowly-developing stains on the carpet, grimacing in disgust.

“Okay, Dingus,” she says, clapping her hands sharply enough to make his ears ring. “Game plan time. You need a shower and a change of clothes pronto. Then–have you eaten?”

“I’ll be in trouble if I don’t clean this up.” He’s too worn out to even bother gesturing at the carnage surrounding them, much less bending around his ribs to scrub.

A furrow forms between Robin’s eyebrows as she contemplates him, mouth pursed like she’s trying to solve complex algebra. Or no, she’smart enough for that to be a breeze. So more like she’s trying to figure out how to scoop his brain out and blow on it until it works better.

“Where are your cleaning supplies?” she asks.

“Robin–”

“No. You’re hurt, and I’m fine. Go take a shower.” Like she can sense him looking, her hand jumps up to cover the singular bruise on her cheekbone. “It’s not the same. Where are the cleaning supplies?”

Her words are so harsh, that he speaks before thinking: “down the hallway in the closet.”

She jumps up, walking with her usual frenetic energy as Steve tries and fails to will himself to get up and stop her. It’s only a few moments after he hears the closet door click open that she shouts, “go shower!”

He goes.

Steve has to peel his uniform off. Mud and puke and blood have dried and merged to his skin. Scabs open where he pulls until he can leave the whole thing crumpled into the smallest ball he can manage in the trash can, salvaging only his nametag as a keepsake, wondering idly if Robin will switch him.

The shower hurts, but he feels divinely clean as he bends over just enough to shuffle into clean sweatpants and an old Hawkins swim team shirt from sophomore year, washed and worn enough to be soft against his skin. He doesn’t put products in his hair, doesn’t even brush it, all remaining energy used in stumbling down the stairs to stop Robin from overworking herself needlessly.

The air smells like a janitor’s closet, enough concoctions mixed together on his Mother’s carpet to wage chemical warfare. Robin’s on her hands and knees, scrubbing ferociously with a scrub brush at the grout between tiles at the entryway. Steve steps around the couch, peering down at the carpet, off-color with cleaner instead of his various bodily fluids. The couch is similarly immaculate, velvety cushions rubbed roughly against the grain from Robin’s ruthless cleaning.

“I threw away your shoes,” Robin calls as she gathers up the cleaning supplies surrounding her and stumbles her way back toward the closet. “There was a concerning amount of blood pooled in the soles, Dingus. Ain’t no way that was all coming out.”

Steve looks around at his clean living room again. All this work, and all he can feel from Robin is pleased satisfaction. Steve feels like he’s going to cry.

“I threw away my uniform.”

Robin laughs. “It’s not like we’re gonna need them anymore.”

Steve pulls the nametag out of his pocket. The stupid anchor is flecked with blood but otherwise it’s pristine. He holds it out to Robin when she troops back into the room.

“You can be me,” he says.

Her eyes light up as she takes it and immediately affixes it onto the front of her shirt. She shuffles back to the side of the couch where she’d tucked her backpack and riffles through it, murmuring quietly enough that he can’t quite make it out. She gives a cute little Ah-ha! When she finds whatever she’s looking for before skipping back over to him, grin crooked it’s so big.

“We can trade.” And there, tucked in her palm is her own, slightly charred name tag. She pins it to his shirt, pricking him with the pointy end before finally settling it in place. “You can be Robin, and I can be Steve!”

It settles easy around his shoulders, like he really can take a step back. Be someone else. Breathe. “I’m Robin,” he murmurs.

She smacks his chest over the nametag, gentle enough to barely hurt.

“Well Robin, what’s for lunch?”

They eat sandwiches in front of the TV. Robin complains about his movie collection, even as she jumps up and down excitedly and puts in Grease. It’s comfortable, easy to forget who’s dead, and who’s injured, and how fucked up their brains are now. It’s between The Breakfast Club and Fast Times that Robin gasps, sitting bolt upright and slapping his thigh.

“Truth serum, Steve! It was truth serum!”

“What was?”

“They wanted to open our minds!”

Steve, up until this point, had thought that was obvious, didn’t realize that for once she was trailing just a bit behind him in the obvious revelations category. “Yeah, and they did.” Robin’s nodding like she can’t stop. He puts his palm flat on her head and holds it still. “Opened them so wide we swallowed each others.”

Steve can’t tell who’s thinking it, but suddenly he's picturing two brains in horrible sailor outfits and terrible mouths that hit a little too close to the demogorgon. One’s mouth is open wide enough to eat the other whole. Then they’re laughing, uproariously, like they’re watching the same funny little show, like the television hasn’t turned to static in front of them.

“Now we can’t keep any of the truths from each other,” Robin says at the same time she’s thinking about that embarrassing crush she’d had on her seventh grade teacher.

In a bid to even the playing field, Steve thinks about little Sally Perkins who he’d liked so much in fourth grade that he’d smashed a grasshopper into her hair and had to miss out on the rest of recess. She’d never talked to him again.

Robin laughs but still shuffles away so his fingers aren’t touching her scalp anymore. Her thoughts flit away, but her hazy contentment lingers.

Steve gets up to switch out the movies, brain buzzing away. “Okay so I feel what you feel, right?” he asks, not waiting for a response. “And I can hear what you’re thinking when we touch.”

“You can hear it?”

Steve starts up the movie and sits back in his place on the couch. Robin looks horrified by this. “You can’t?”

“No!” she shouts, forgetting herself enough to smack her hand into his shoulder, jostling his numerous injuries. Robin grimaces, “Sorry, it’s just, you can just hear what I’m thinking? You can’t like, see anything?”

“You can see things?” Steven demands.

“Holy shit!” Robin bounces up on her knees and just keeps doing it, like a kid excited to open presents on Christmas. “Do you know what this means?”

Steve looks over at her, eyebrow furrowed. “That you’re a–girl?”

“No!” Robin stops bouncing. “I mean, yeah. But no, Steve. What the fuck?”

“I just mean that’s like the only difference between us, right? What else could it be?”

He can feel amusement bubbling up in her stomach, but Robin just stares at him, like she’s too stunned to laugh. “I just meant that some smarty pants scientist should like study us. Because like, we’re proof that some people think differently right? Me all in words and you all in these fancy schmancy pictures! That has nothing to do with our genders, Harrington. That shit’s made up!”

Steve doesn’t know how he feels about being studied by scientists. He’d heard about mini Byers time with those Upside Down quacks and wasn’t sure he was interested in his own stay. It would be nice to have someone who knew what they were doing to help them navigate whatever minefield they’d found themselves in but not at the cost of Robin’s safety. But if they just need a smarty pants who think they know everything then–”Henderson’s smart.”

“You want to call your children?” Robin asks, laughing.

“Think about it!” he replies, slapping the couch. “The lab people are all sketchy, and I don’t know about you, but I’m not ready to be locked up without sunlight for the next hundred years.”

“Okay, yeah but–”

“Your parents aren’t in the know, and I’m practically an orphan. Hopper died.” Steve cuts out, choked up over the thought just like he had been in the mall parking lot when he’d first been told. Robin squeezes his calf. “That takes Joyce out of the running since she's grieving and shit. That just leaves the kids!”

“What about Nan–”

“Things are still kind of weird with Nancy and Jonathan, Rob!” he says, running his fingers through his hair and pulling sharp enough to burn. “If we have to, sure, call her, but I don’t know if this counts as the kind of life or death scenario I would do that in.”

Robin sighs, folding over until her head’s on his thigh, stomach pressed into his calves. “Can we call him tomorrow?” she asks, voice muffled by the cotton of his sweatpants. “My head’s killing me and that kid is so shrill.”

Steve runs his fingers through her hair, coming it back from her face. His fingers come in contact with her forehead long enough to get a quick burst of–feels nice, I wonder if this is why all the girls liked him, or if it was all those rumors I heard about his mouth, eww eww gross don’t think about–before her thoughts cut out. “Tomorrow,” he agrees.

They settle in to keep vegetating, Steve slumping further into the arm rest, Robin turning her head and wrapping her arms around his calf. The quiet lasts for ten more minutes before Steve just has to ask, “What do you mean gender is made up?”

Robin cackles.

[ghcstao3]

ok more of this already because i’m so normal. anyway disregarding canon for the 66th hunger games because that’s where i’m putting ghost

(also only bullet points because i might write a whole thing)

cw for usual hunger games things

anyway some hcs/details mostly about ghost’s games (this is long so strap in):

- by this point, it isn’t unheard of for tributes to act unthreatening during the days leading to the games, to maybe have a chance at surprise attacks—which is a strategy simon takes. what is unheard of in recent years, however, is something like simon’s insistence on having no allies. on being a lone wolf. he does it because he always has been alone, in some sense, and he doesn’t trust these other tributes in any capacity to not turn on him.

- his mentor isn’t any help. vernon is nothing but a bitter old man who, in simon’s opinion, didn’t earn his victory. he knows that’s something horrible to say, but it’s true. not with the way he treats simon, and presumably the other previous tributes, too. simon may as well be going in blind.

- the shy, awkward boy act isn’t at all an act. simon’s never been a people person, his outfits all itch, and the feeling of eyes on him has him nervous. paranoid. the upside is that the capitol somehow finds it endearing, which means sponsors. the downside is that, because of the lack of insight into him as a person as a cause of his quiet nature, it leaves too much room for speculation. it’s part of the reason he becomes sought out after winning—the capitol sees a nice face, assumes things that aren’t true, and suddenly he’s stuck as nothing more than a trophy to be passed around.

- he only scores an 8 after evaluation—this is done with intent.

- his arena is a jungle (not unlike the comics.. hint), foliage too thick to navigate with decent speed, and full of muttation insects, reptiles, and amphibians. the trees are too thin to climb or use to hide, and nor are there any caves—essentially, staying on the ground is anyone’s only option. the cornucopia is a large grove, and after the first day, it rains for days straight, until the ninth day.

- simon runs for the cornucopia. he knows it’s stupid, but he also knows how to dodge blows courtesy of his father, so he’s able to grab supplies and get out alive, granted with a few mostly superficial cuts. he knew he needed knives from the start—his most familiar weapon.

- it takes two days before he makes his first kill. it’s too easy, when it’s a girl paralysed and slowly dying from a poison spreading through her, turning her veins an inky black and rotting her skin. simon’s first kill is mercy.

- his second is a career, the boy from 4. the career pack is together when he comes across them, but he finds them first. when the opportunity presents itself and the boy is just separated enough, simon silently appears and slits his throat before disappearing back into the foliage. the rest of the pack only notices they’re missing someone because the cannon fires. none of them ever find out simon had done it.

- stealth ends up his strategy, and it’s what gets him the nickname ghost. he acts like an apparition and is done his work before anyone is the wiser of his actions. he ends up killing 8 of 24 tributes.

- he doesn’t sleep almost the entirety of the games. haunted by his actions, because part of him knows all of it wasn’t necessary. some kills, sure, were to protect himself—but not all of them. some were just to get ahead of the game, and it plants a gnawing guilt in the pit of his stomach.

- simon almost dies when the girl from 7 tries to kill him in the rare time he’s drifted off. he wakes up to an unbearable heat around him, sweat beading off his skin and light behind his eyes and when he’s finally up, he’s burning. she’d lit a fire around himin the hopes it would kill him because she didn’t want the guilt of having actually done the action. he lives—escapes—but suffers burns on part of his face and body that all just contribute more to the nickname. he’d come back from the dead, they all say, but really, he just woke up in the nick of time. but because the capitol still wants him desirable after he wins, to use him, extensive measures and surgery are taken to visibly reverse the damage once the games are over.

- simon wins on the twelfth day using, fittingly, a butcher’s cleaver. he had picked it up around day six off another tribute, and uses it to kill the one other tribute—the boy from 5—after a fight that comes much closer to killing them both than anyone would’ve liked. eventually, though, simon turns out victor.

- his father barely acknowledges him when he comes back. simon returns to work for a bit, despite the insistence that he doesn’t have to, but he needs something to occupy his mind. but then killing cattle and other livestock rears up too much trauma, and he ends up quitting and isolating himself for a while afterwards—but only until president snow had decided to fix him up and sell him to the capitol.

- seven years after his game is when he’s introduced to johnny. immediately, he’s struck by the man as someone he could maybe, maybe eventually trust. johnny isn’t like the man that had made the current transaction for him, or anyone simon had been put with previously, so it’s… nice. for once, he isn’t used. not for his body, anyway.

- when simon thinks he’s seen the last of johnny after that visit, the man puts in another bid for him, one that’d last longer. only to talk, he says, and that this is really the only way he can get him to the capitol. it happens again and again and the most they ever do is kiss during their last visit before simon has to mentor another tribute for the 73rd games, because better him than vernon.

- the visits continue following—they also spend quite a bit of time together during simon’s mentoring, and johnny even helps with getting sponsors—and they fall into something of a relationship, though it’s kept a very well-hidden secret.

- their routine continues until the second rebellion starts up, but that’s another post (or a fic itself) >:)

[atinylittlepain]

Chapter Eight

no-outbreak!Joel Miller x f!oc

series masterlist

series playlist

warnings: 18+ heavy angst, references to past injury related to DV, very brief and very vague smut

a/n: we've reached the end of this story. i love these two, very much. thank you for reading.

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

Maybe there's a God above But, all I've ever learned from love Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you? And it's not a cry, that you hear at night It's not somebody, who's seen the light It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah as performed by Jeff Buckley

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

The car is real. It is parked outside the house now. Sneering a chrome smile at him, taunting him. The sound of its engine in the mornings when she goes to the diner whispers the same thing everytime. Soon. 

One day after the perfect mess he made, he dropped her off at the diner and she informed him with all the warmth of a business associate that he need not come back to pick her up, because Sal would be giving her the keys to the car that is now parked outside the house, the car that is now hers. The car that is going to take her far away from him, any day now. 

They move around each other like ghosts. How fast fission breeds new rhythms and routines, never in the kitchen at the same time, nor the fields, fleeting passings in the evenings. He has taken on more night shifts to keep himself out of the house, to keep himself from doing something stupid, like knocking on her bedroom door and getting down on his knees. Only a few days, though it feels like a yawning beast of time has already blinked by.

She will tell him, won’t she? At least that. Actually, he’s not sure if she will. If he will come home one morning and the sheep will be calling a grievous sound into the thin air because their favorite has left, stuck with him once again. Warning, notice, if not for him, then at least for her flock. 

How quickly things soured, all their jagged pieces tearing and teething at each other. His mean, her mean, and the desolate monster it has made between them. He will let her leave, he must. Care has turned into a cage, and he must leave the door open, must let her step through to something else, something better. Because clearly, whatever this is, plainly no good. 

The mind is a cruel machine. The worst part of all of this, he has been dreaming of her. Scraps of visions, what he can remember. The perfect line of her clavicle, and how breath made the pools of shadows swell and bend against her skin. The way his hand curled around her thigh, the hinge of it. He wakes up wanting, warm and wretched, alone in the night. But the patrol shifts help with that, something about sleeping with the sun trying to pry through the blinds staving off the darkest of his thoughts. 

Sarah called the other day, asked how Dove was doing. Oh, you know, he said. Because he could not lie to his daughter, but he could not offer the truth either. The truth, neither of them are doing very well. Partial, parallel unraveling. The kitchen remains dormant. There are no trips to the grocery, to the library. Only what is needed for another day to pull over into another night and over again. He looks miserable because he is miserable. Glances he has stolen of her, peering out his bedroom window to watch her get into her car in the mornings, he sees that she has turned sharp again, drawn down and in around the edges. This pain, this sickness, is shared. 

He runs through all the ways it could never work while he sits in the slumbering cruiser on the side of the highway. That lull between spring and summer has arrived, all living things bracing and bending beneath inevitable change, quiet in their submission. Life raises its hackles and curls down low to the ground, silent sulk, waiting for new prey, new time. And in the silence, his thoughts grow and gristle.

No, it could not work. He thought that he could, but clearly he couldn’t. Couldn’t be careful enough around all the big and small hurts that trail after her. Because that’s what that was, that night of no, a hurting thing. A wounded, rejected thing. Easier to call it anger. And so was his, the next day, the car, the turn of her shoulder away from him so he could not see the first line of tears fall. 

And now it’s just a meanness, isn’t it? Anger that festers and flumes into something bitter and blistering. Easier to be mean about it. Sorry is so very difficult to swallow, after all. This silence, this sharp shuttering out, mean, the both of them digging their thumbs into the places it hurts the most and pretending to enjoy it with grimacing grins. Good for you, good for me, so there. Good for us.

Always, at some point in his shift, somewhere in the middle of the thick night, his thoughts turn small and young. We are born wanting, and we will always return to wanting. And he does, now, lets himself want all of it. Even the pain she caused him, he would take it happily, standing up and smiling. Something poetic could be said, something beautiful, but there is no need for the fuss or frill of it. Simply, he wants her. Urgently, he wants her to stay. 

Like all things, the wanting passes just as the night does. Eventually, his grip on the steering wheel unfurls and unfists. Eventually, the light begins to spread a pale blue out across all the ink of the plains. Morning starting to suggest itself, mercy. 

He blinks, bleary, a small protest from the engine when he inches the car back onto the road, time to return to the station, want still clearing from the fuzzy periphery of his mind. 

It does not scare or startle him, but it does give him pause. Coyotes, fur dunned and dull, matted tufts sticking up over their slinking bodies. They cross the road with no concern for the car, slow languorous placement of paws, the largest of them turning its jaded eyes into the headlights, perhaps a disillusioned sigh, before it continues on its path. Pups trail and trundle behind, nipping at mother’s tail, new energy, new life, and how dangerous, daunting, daring it can be. 

He does not go back to the station. He goes home. 

Still early, still sleeping, maybe. He does the thing he has been telling himself he shouldn’t. But shouldn’t is what got him here in the first place. Enough of needless shouldn’t. 

She is awake. Her hair still damp from a shower, darkening the blue shoulders of her uniform when she opens the door to her room. Her room, the guest room, whatever it is. Confusion is clear in her frown, the pull of her brow. She keeps the door halfway closed, a quiet understanding of distance needed.

“Are you leaving soon?” Shit, stupid, wrong words that got ahead of what he meant to say. And he just made this so much worse, her whole face pinching tight before slackening into something smaller, something sad. 

“I am. I’m sorry that I haven’t yet.” Sorry that she hasn’t left yet. Sorry that she didn’t get out sooner. And here he is, rubbing all that sorry in her face. 

“No.” All he can think, to quickly slip up his throat to, at the very least, keep her here with half of a closed door between them. Better than the alternative anyways.

“What?” 

“That’s not what I want, not at all.” It is selfish to make this about him, but it is all he can think to say, the only truth that seems to be offering itself up. Dove just looks tired, weary and worn, waiting for the catch. What she said, all those months ago. Always a catch, always waiting for it.

“Joel.” A sigh, but still smarting sweet because he hasn’t heard it from her in too long. 

“This isn’t working.” Going about this all wrong, he has finally realized. While he has been so afraid of no, of unwanted, he has failed to remember that she was taught a long time ago that wanting was not allowed, and that being wanted was an even worse impossibility. Both of them, lashing out against the same thing, though it’s each other that they leave bleeding.

“No, it’s not.”

“I’m going to try to speak plainly.” What he’s going to do is make her late for her shift if he doesn’t kick whatever courage there is whining in his chest up into his throat. But she shows no sign of rush, wide eyes and the smallest frown. 

“Okay.” Okay opens the door fully, though she doesn’t move in invitation, staying separated by the threshold. 

“I don’t want you to leave.” 

“Ever.” Added in the afterthought of silence, because he needs to make himself very clear. Soon, after all. 

“I’m not what you want, Joel.” Said with a scoff, a jerky wave of her hand like no, not even going to entertain it. But it’s enough for something soft to snap in him, hands reaching, but not touching, suspended want as he murmurs, or prays maybe, to her you are, you are, you are, Dove.  

“But I can’t keep you here. Not if you don’t want it.” Me, he meant to say me. But he thinks that she understands all the same, something slipping behind her eyes. 

“I shouldn’t.” Shouldn’t stay, shouldn’t want. A shameful confession that is said to the tips of her shoes more than it is to him. 

“I don’t fucking care.”

“You should.” 

“Just, please, tell me.” 

“I do, okay? Probably more than you do.” 

“That’s not true.”

“How can you just say that?”

“Because I know how much I do. And it’s everything.” And that’s it, he wants to say, that’s all that matters and nothing else and you do and I do. Case closed, finally fixed this thing, this lame, limping thing between them. If only it were that simple. 

“Do you really?” A leap, or more like a lurch, but pure relief when she lets him, two stuttering steps closer and one palm finding the space between her shoulder blades, the other the hilt of her spine, pulling her into him. His and hers, finding the other’s rhythm. Beat like this, body and blood like this. His mouth settles at the crown of her skull. Here, and nowhere else, not ever again, please. 

“Sometimes it makes me sick.” The truth, because there can be nothing else now. Yes, he is sick with it. Sick for her. 

“I want to be normal for you.” Muffled into the fabric of his shirt, and the unsaid after of it. I don’t think I can. Like sorry, like penance, her hands curling closer around his shoulders as she starts to shake. But what he can offer her, something still, something sure, his palms drawing her in even more, him breathing her breathing him.

“I’m not asking you for that, Dove.” No, asking for something much bigger, much more terrifying. Asking for all of it. 

…

Dove is only a little late to her shift. Joel drops her off, waits a few minutes to make sure there is no grief from Sal about it, not that he was expecting there to be. Replays to himself her explanation, what she told him on the way there.

“I didn’t get the car to leave, not really.”

“You didn’t?” 

“Before, I thought it would make things easier.” For him, he realizes, something she had thought of for him. Make things easier for him, not having to pick her up and drop her off and look bored at the library while she browsed. And no, he’s never going to forgive himself for this one. 

He doesn’t go back to the diner for lunch, but it’s not for spite or scorn. Agreed-upon space for both of them to think, offering an out for each other, one last opportunity to decide that this is actually a terrible idea. 

The sheep accept his presence and it feels like he finally got something right, even a laugh when Judy offers her head to him for a brisk rub beneath her chin. 

“She’s coming home, I think. I know you wouldn’t forgive me if she didn’t.” No response, she is a lamb, after all. But he’d like to think that her two hard blinks commend him, already plucking away through the grass toward her mother. 

When he does pick her up after her shift, her lips purse trying to pull back a smile as she walks around the front of the car. Hope lifts, winged and real in his chest. 

The day steals from the night this time of year. It won’t be dark out until much later. For now, the light is starting to bleed a little, orange syrup and haze filling and flooding the cab of the truck. Nothing is said, but staying is understood when she takes his hand in both of hers, and keeps it for herself, tucked in her lap the whole ride home. 

So much of their time together has been spent like this, driving toward and away from town, sometimes silent and sometimes not. A selfish part of him wishes she hadn’t gotten the car, wanting to keep her needing him in this way. But no, he reasons, there will be plenty of other time besides this. No need to be greedy about it. 

There is not much food in the kitchen, but there are always eggs. Two for him and two for her. They eat standing up, propped against the counter. And when he moves to wash the dishes in the sink, she catches his wrist. The dishes can wait until the morning.

The thing about Dove is she has always had a curious way of touching him. Literally curious, like she is surprised she is allowed to trace the pads of his fingertips with her own, spirals fitting together. Like she is testing the boundaries of him, finding all the soft places with her palms, spanning his sides and up along his chest, fingers flirting beneath the collar of his shirt, shivering down with it. But before this continues, he must make sure, must ward off that ghost for good. He takes her face in his hands, thumbs settling along the soft curve beneath her eyes, tracing some constant constellation, her cheeks rounding with it.

“I need to know that this is what you want.” 

“It is.” 

“I need you here. With me.”

“I am, Joel. I am.” This isn’t want, after all. Want isn’t big enough for whatever this is. Something deeper, something threaded in with all the sinew and stretch of bone, ligament, and beating tissue. This is need. Vital and visceral, and so very precarious. 

His need makes a foolish fumble out of the buttons of her dress, a laugh dancing beneath the brush of his knuckles, catching somewhere under her sternum when his eyes flicker up to hers. She rolls her lips back into her mouth, trying to tamp down any mirth or mocking, but a huff still slips out, smile threatening at the edges. How easy, how lovely, fitting the curve of his own against hers. That laugh turns into a sigh that he swallows. 

And it was never about letting or allowing, never about being big or strong enough to scare off all her specters. What has changed, he isn’t sure. But waiting, he has found, is often a solution in itself. Maybe just the mercy of enough time, enough space shared and understood. Brains finally catching up to bodies, deciding yes, now is good. 

Need makes animals stupid. A caught thing, captured and crumpled thing, will gnaw off its own limb in need of escape. A hungry, hungered thing will turn so desperate, so singular and silly in its need. It will take whatever sate it can get. Hands and skin and teeth and tongues. And in the kitchen no less, still hungry, still needing. Jawing up each other, and humming at the taste. Feast and fire and flood all in one. 

Her mouth settles sharp along the tendons in his neck, humming there as he curls over her to shrug her dress down and down into a pool around her feet. A little snarl, a little curl of her lip, preening when his palms squeeze her hips, coaxing her closer into his chest. She is far more schooled in the work she makes of his shirt, and then, missed this. Missed skin against skin and heart straining to press against heart. Missed the run of his fingers down her ribs, the quick catch at her waist. He only got it once before, a blink compared to this, but he has been missing it ever since, a sigh now that he has it again. Has her again. And Dove, still learning how she gets to have him.

“Can I?” A kiss to her brow, a smear of words whatever you want, Dove. Tentative at first, she presses her mouth to the hollow where his throat slips into clavicle, letting her nose run a line out to the edge of bone, to shoulder, enough sense to turn her a little bolder, fingers curling into the waist of his jeans, tugging. And it is not graceful, silly, stupid, needing bodies curling and caving into each other. His legs splay out long as he settles back against the cabinets below the sink, Dove furling into his lap, the perfect spread of her thighs at his hips. 

A lesson in the anatomy of need. Here is how. How a body can give and take everything it needs from another body. So simple, really. Open mouths and muscles slackening sweet and syrupy to make space for more, more, more. She keens when he turns his face into the curve of her breast, fingers curling in his hair, holding him there in the cradle of her heartbeat, his ears rushing with it. 

It is not pretty, it is not about making it perfect, or even right. It is a desperate seeking, it is relief from this need in the way they just manage to shrug his jeans and boxers down over his thighs, in the way she slips the faded cotton of her underwear to the side. Wet for him, wanting for him, he will have to sate the want to see some other time. For now, feeling, all sense and singe, spreading her open until her hips settle down against his. A broken, murmuring sound in the back of her throat, eyes scrunched shut. He brings his hand to her jaw, thumb stroking along the hinge as he calls to her, let me see, Dovey, please. Hello, lashes flutter first, and the slow slip open. Hello, looking at him, her forehead against his, her mouth resting open and panting against his. 

They move ugly, muscles jumping and jolting, sharp breaths that break and swell in their chests. Skin starts to stick, he holds her closer and chases down their pleasure, shared and searing. 

In the kitchen, she crashes with a cry of his name, her face hidden in the curve of his neck, mouth to pulse. 

In the kitchen, she whispers and wills him right over his own edge, her name, more sob than sound. 

In the kitchen, he would feed her his heart if he could. It’s hers anyways. 

…

Want is a child. But need is an animal. Need is base, bruising, battering. There is no escaping need. There is no lying about need. There is only offering it up, and hoping that someone will see it and decide yes, animal, come here, let me do something about your need, and you can do something about mine. 

Later, after they pick their clothes up off the kitchen floor, kind hands setting things back into place for each other, they slink outside to care for the flock, the sun starting to flirt back behind the mountains with a fierce blush. It’s then, surrounded by the low murmurings of sheep, that she whispers her own need to him, tucked into his side, her cheek pressed against his chest. 

He nods, says yes, okay. He can do that for her. And she will do the same for him. 

For now, all that matters is staying. Ghosts yet to be greeted and goaded out of their house. But for now, spring is rolling over to expose its soft, slumbering belly. Soon, summer will sink in, snarling and bright, a new list of chores and duties with every season. They will do it together. 

For now, the lambs are still lambs. Stumbling still around the edges, seeking out their mother even amidst her seeming exasperation, tired of their clinging, their closeness. Time yet to be had, getting older and bigger every day. But for now, they are young and soft, and nipping after each other in the field. 

For now, the feeling of her ribs expanding and contracting against his side is all the goodness he could want, or even need. Pain yet to be understood in all the places that her breath catches. But for now, she is looking at him and smiling, and saying something about the sheep that makes him laugh.

For now, it is enough. 

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

taglist: @casssiopeia @eleganthottubfun @anoverwhelmingdin @sscorpiiio @joeldjarin @casa-boiardi @suzmagine @syakhairi @spookyxsam @northernbluess @hier--soir @joelsgreys @wannab-urs @tieronecrush @trulybetty @softlyspector @noisynightmarepoetry @csarab615 @ratoonstown @harriedandharassed @survivingandenduring @lizzie-cakes @beskarandblasters @motherofagony

[cure-orchid]

So I know the show recently ended, but I ended up binging through TGAMM and loved it! The Ghost Friends are all mood and the Mollie ship is adorable. Then I learned about the Chairman Ollie arc for the scrapped third season and IT WOULD HAVE BEEN SO COOL TO SEE!

I ended up writing down how I would imagine the story arc going down, and I headcanon that several of the planned season 3 eps (minus the ones that would clash with the finale) happened between JVTHM and The End (Ollie knowing about the wraith memory loss and how he says it could have hinted that it already occurred.)

My Chairman Ollie plotline: It starts with what was outlined in the already written scripts, and Ollie keeps spending more and more time in the Ghost World rather than on Earth. He’s becoming a little more forgetful as the episodes pass and has noticeable headaches. Things like his parents having a Root Beer Bar or the plot of the latest Country Pumpkin movie seem to surprise him when he should already know about them.

He’s missed a few dates with Molly and slipping on schoolwork so she takes an episode trying to talk to him at school but he keeps getting pulled away to fix something as the Chairman. The episode would really drive in how his human memories are failing even when he reconnects with his body and there’s a whole musical number on how Molly feels he’s growing distant. She finally catches up to him in the end and he looks partway between normal and being an empty shell(his hair is even losing the swoop!). She asks him out for ice cream but then we get a wham line “Sure, but… who are you?” Molly’s heart literally breaks as she discovers Ollie has lost all memory of her. He excuses himself and leaves Molly crying with Scratch and Libby coming to console her.

Next episode the remaining Ghost Friends are trying to figure out what’s wrong with him when June comes to Molly’s house trying not to panic. Ollie’s shell came home yesterday but not his wraith and he’s still not back. Molly, Libby and Darryl go to the Chen’s while Scratch goes to the Ghost World to see what’s keeping him. He finds Ollie still obsessively trying to engoodify the Ghost World and his orange glow is much more faded. Worse, when Scratch calls him by his name he asks who Ollie is. Libby manages to discover a page in her pop-up book that was stuck to another and reveals wraiths can lose their memories the longer they spend away from their body and without the will to live they cannot fully rejoin the two halves. Scratch arrives and with all they know they make a plan. Molly, Scratch and the Chen’s go to the Ghost World while Darryl and Libby keep an eye on their bodies. They get to Ollie and he doesn’t recognize anyone but Scratch, but has no emotional attachment to him. Big musical number as they all try to help Ollie remember but it doesn’t work. Everyone is devastated and it seems like Ollie might be gone forever.

Molly doesn’t give up, she pulls down his hood and cups his face, (this is where the drawing is) telling Ollie that she loves him and gives him their first kiss. Her yellow sparks course through him and his orange glow regains it’s color… and he regains his memories. When they pull away, Olly says her name and he’s pulled into a group hug as he says everyone’s names. He leaves the robe and hurries back into his body. A few hours later it’s just him, Molly and Scratch when the ghost council arrives. I haven’t come up with what happens to the robe but Ollie does relinquish his title as chairman and Scratch pulls the council away. Now alone, Ollie didn’t get to say it back in the ghost world, but he loves Molly too. They have another kiss and lean their foreheads together afterwards… and then Scratch comes back complaining that they already sucked faces once today already.

Update 5/27: Yep, I’m turning this into a fanfic. I said I wouldn’t but I got the inspiration on how to do it! It’s called ‘Record of an Engoodifier’

Also bonus doodles:

[or13m]

Waking Dream (fnaf) Chapter 008

Well, this sucked...

You were stuck inside of Sun and Moon's room while Jessi was down in the daycare. It was her first day today and Sun was still worried that she might be able to see you. Foxy had tried to talk some sense into him for your benefit, but neither Sun nor Moon were willing to risk the possibility.

"Just deal with it fer one day, Laddie," had been the pirate animatronic's advice. He'd promised to come by later that night to try again, complaining to you that it wasn't a normal thing to see spirits so he didn't understand why the boys were being so stubborn.

You sighed, resting your chin in your palm while you stared down into the play area. You were laying on your stomach on Sun's balcony. Only the top of your head would be visible if someone happened to glance up so you'd have plenty of time to duck out of sight. Your solar animatronic friend had already done so on several occasions in the past hour alone so you'd gotten pretty good at it. He'd catch you every now and then, of course, possessing much faster reflexes than you, but had only sent you a few worried frowns and some finger wags. Babysitting that new coworker of his prevented him from reprimanding you any further than that. It didn't stop him from muttering under his breath, though.

You snickered when you watched Sun's mouth moving the second Jessi's back was turned and his eyes snapped up to you. You didn't even bother to evade his gaze while the blonde pranced over to some boxes in the corner that had arrived earlier that morning. What you didn't expect was for his cable to come down and latch onto him. You scrambled out of the way as he sped up to the balcony, barely making it through the drapes before he touched down on the platform. Guess you had pushed your luck a tad too far.

"Cocoa!" he seethed, his normally loud and cheery voice now hushed and shaking with nerves. "We told you to stay in our room! It's too dangerous for you." His fingers picked at the ribbons on his wrists, the bells jingling softly. You watched him pace back and forth in front of the curtain, wondering why he didn't just come in and scold you face-to-face but then saw him glance down at where Jessi was unpacking plushies and putting them on the shelves near naptime corner. That coil of jealousy in your gut tightened, but you kept your mouth shut. This was no time to act like a child. In fact, there was NEVER a good time to act like one! You were an adult, for goodness sake! And Sun and Moon were not your toys that you didn't want to share!

"But why?" you asked, poking your head out so you could look up at him. He startled, but was quick to right himself and face you. "We could just say that I'm another worker or something if she sees me. I don't understand why you guys have to hide me. Even from the others. I'm a ghost, right? No one can hurt me?" You couldn't keep the questioning tone out of your voice at the last sentence. You were dead. You knew that. This nonsense from Sun and Moon about "staying in denial" was silly! Sure, it had been a shock when Moon had just blatantly stated that you had lost your life--which you STILL didn't know how that had happened--but it was weeks later and you were still here. Clearly, you weren't dreaming and living people don't just go around flying and phasing through walls.

'They haven't even grieved yet!' Moon growled in their head, making Sun flinch outwardly. 'They think they're fine, but that pretty image they built in their head is going to fall apart when reality slaps them in the face!' The lunar AI was distraught. They both were. Out of all the bots here, they were the two that were the most familiar with the concept of "I'm okay" but inside were a disaster waiting to happen. The others, at least, had been in a fog of either mind control or possessed by angry spirits, leaving them with only a partial awareness of what had been happening. The virus had taken its time with Moon, leaving him with excruciating clear-cut details for a good chunk of his period as a puppet for that nasty rabbit! Sun, meanwhile, had been stuck without any virus or spirit imprisoning him, but dealing with the aftermath of Moon's and the others' actions. He'd tried to protect the children, pretending that nothing was wrong, all the way up until the fire…

"It's not--you're not," Sun stammered, his servos heating up the longer you stared at him. 'Moony!' he cried out for help in their thoughts, but was, thankfully, saved by another.

"Sooo what do you do for fun, Sunbun?" the young woman asked from across the room, pulling the bot's attention back to her. Her voice easily carried up to where you were on the balcony. Whispers and soft-spoken voices may be difficult--if not impossible--to hear from so far away, but both Jessi and Sun happened to be the perfect level of "loud" to reach you.

"Please stay here, Sunshine," he begged before allowing the wire to yank him off the ledge and to naptime corner where Jessi was.

"Sunbun?" you repeated what Jessi had called him, disregarding Sun's warnings and inching back to the platform. Even from this distance, you could see how red Sun's faceplate had gotten. "What's next? Moonpie?" you huffed as you settled to your stomach, taking care to keep your frustrations in check so that you wouldn't pass through the solid mass below you and into view. The sound of steam escaping snapped your attention back to the pair conversing below. A small puff of white dissipated into the air around the solar animatronic's head, much to his embarrassment. Just what had you missed? Did Jessi say something else to cause that? You decided to push your own thoughts to the side for now, intent on keeping a watchful eye over your best friends just in case the newcomer tried something.

'Moony…' Sun whimpered.

'I heard…' Moon verified, mentally slapping himself for his temporary loss of control.

"So? Anything?" Jessi's voice brought the two of them out of their thoughts. She was looking up at them expectantly, tilting her head in what she must have assumed was a cute manner. All it did was remind Sunny of how you had done the same thing when you'd asked him why you couldn't meet the others. He started to grow hot again while Moon badgered at him to stop getting carried away and humiliating them any further.

Noticing that Sunny wasn't paying much attention to her, Jessi's smile slipped a bit. Instead of waiting for an answer, she decided to push the conversation forward on her own. "I'll go first then!" she piped up, startling her robotic coworker. She continued to talk while putting the remaining stuffed Glamrocks and daycare attendants onto the shelves. "I like to dance and sing karaoke. It's a lot of fun! I'm pretty good at it, too! Got the flexibility to pull off a lot of different positions and excellent control over my breathing."

"Um, that's nice?" Sunny responded when Jessi glanced up at him from over her shoulder, confused by how her voice had dipped at the last two points. Why would they care how she danced or if she could…breathe? Was that an accomplishment for humans? He perked up when it became his turn to share what he liked to do. "Oh! I like arts and crafts! It's a lot of fun to make things! Moony likes to make new songs for the kids!" He added the "for the kids" part since his counterpart didn't want others to know that he also created music for an older audience--more adult than child. Monty was the same. The two butted heads a lot over that, considering each other rivals because of it. He couldn't say that what they both liked the most was bouncing their ideas off of you. Despite your faulty memory, you were extremely creative and helped come up with solutions or new things for them to try whenever they hit a dead end.

You were grumbling to yourself from your perch on the celestial bots' balcony. Sundrop was lost in La La Land if his vacant expression was anything to go by and Jessi looked quite pleased with herself. You hadn't missed that little insinuation of hers about positions and breathing, something pulling in your memory of a similar expression pertaining to…adult activities. Frustration sparked through you when you saw the woman get to her feet and stand on her tiptoes in front of Sunny. The bot was still lost in the sauce from whatever his imagination had decided to cook up and didn't back away like he normally would. That spark started to bubble when you saw how close she got and how her lips quirked up into a smirk. She leaned in closer and was about to put a hand on his chest when--

All of the plushies flew off the shelves.

Jessi squealed in surprise, dropping to the ground in a crouch to cover her head despite being in no danger from the fluff-filled toys. Sun, meanwhile, just seemed confused, glancing around as a stuffed Moon bounced off his chest plate before realization struck and he swiveled his head around to look up at you. You had already escaped behind the curtains into their room, knowing that you were about to get the lecture of your life from the caretaker the second Jessi left. The burning in your chest had quadrupled and your mind was filled with poisonous thoughts. It had come out of nowhere, blindsiding you. You were upset with everything--from Jessi being able to touch things without even trying to Sunny not realizing what "flexible positions" had meant! It was infuriating, senseless, and…draining…

You had to go clear your head before you said something stupid to the only friends you had in this life after death. The wall at the back of their room gave easily to your ghostly form as you passed through. Coming out into the main lobby of the megamall, you drifted up high into the rafters to avoid being seen before darting off down the halls to a side of the building that Moon didn't seem to visit much. Maybe that would give you some time to yourself before he came looking for you? You did your best to ignore the rushing in your ears, simulating deep breaths in order to trick your emotions into calming down. Through it all, a faint beeping seemed to follow you as you dove deeper into the darker parts of the plex…

Moon, meanwhile, was watching the scene unfold from behind Sun's eyes. He would have laughed had he not been so worried about you. He caught on quicker than his counterpart, well-aware that this was a poltergeist-level of activity and you were the only one in the building. Concern weighed heavily on both of their minds when they no longer saw you on the balcony while they dealt with the mess of stuffed depictions of themselves and the other animatronics. The human woman who was sniffling in the middle of the pile was fast wearing his patience thin. Fortunately for her, it was the ever-empathetic Sundrop that was out and not him so she was coddled and babied into ceasing her tears before being ushered out of the daycare for an early clock-out. He was just glad that she was only going to be there for half-days until they officially opened. He couldn't fathom withstanding her childish behavior and pathetic flirting for a full eight hours. Sunny may be oblivious, but he certainly wasn't.

"What do you think upset Sunshine, Moony?" the bot in question spoke aloud now that they were alone. He didn't waste any time dilly dallying with the clutter like he usually would, calling their hook to reach their room so they could check on you.

Moon often wished they had separate bodies, usually for a whole variety of reasons. Right now, his incentive was to slap some common sense into his twin. 'Other than the newbie making a move on you? Maybe keeping them cooped up in our room all day wasn't the best idea, Sunny?'

"Make a move? Miss Newman was just asking about our hobbies, Moony," he waved off the accusation--a silly one if he had any say in it--moving past the covered entrance and into their darkened room. There were enough nightlights and string lights to keep the solar bot out if he wanted to, but he switched with the naptime attendant since Moon had decided that he wanted to talk to you first. 'I thought we both agreed to keep Sunshine safe?'

Moon ignored him, glancing around their little safe haven. With your help, it had become a nice and cozy getaway for the three of you. It was filled with string lights, fluffy blankets, overstuffed pillows, and bits of furniture here and there that you had promised them you could make work. You'd kept your promise, painting the pieces to match their tastes and even collecting books and knickknacks you'd thought they'd like on your security runs with Moondrop. You'd even added the collection of plushies from the shipment downstairs in a corner--each of the animatronics, themselves included, all piled together on a furry rug.

"Sundrop," Moon addressed, his gravelly voice dropping into a low rumble as his optics--built for the dark--peered into every shadowy corner of the room.

'Yeah?' Sun answered, his voice softer than normal, recognizing the dangerous tone Moon had taken.

"Starlight's not here."

[luna-andra]

The Shadows Return | Simon 'Ghost' Riley x OC | Retired AU | Is It Really You?*

Summary: A little 🍃 Andra stargazing with Ghost

Word Count: ~1.8k

If you're new to this story, you can read Chapter 1 here. Filler chapters are marked with an * sign.

Content: accidental high (hehe), fluff, wee little lore drop

Author's note: This one is a itty bitty filler chapter that the little writing goblin in my brain told me to create at like 2a 🥴 enjoy and stay tuned cuz next chapter is gonna be beefy!

ALSO I made a little playlist of the songs they were listening to if anyone cares 😂

https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLsvQwF6FNtSzXEjTpFX6zxpH2nsdbuN0G&si=cfNPy4NgRSjRIx9T

“It’s in my glove box!” Johnny hollered from under the kitchen sink as Andra stomped through the living room.

“I heard you!” she yelled back, earning her some disgruntled Scottish noises. She was in a sour mood from Johnny helping himself to her last sparkling water. Usually, it wouldn’t be a big deal, she’s told the boys to take anything they want all the time, but she specifically told Johnny ‘not the Bubbly.’

He took the Bubbly.

Karma made its way back to him when he decided to tag along with Ghost to come help with her clogged sink. He was stuck with having to do the job considering Ghost’s wide shoulders kept him from being able to fit underneath the tight space. Drink the one thing off limits? Enjoy the clogged sink.

Receipts and an empty protein shaker fell out as soon as she opened the passenger door to his truck. “Pinche basura…” Andra picked up the shaker and chucked it back in and shoved the receipts in her pocket to toss when she went back inside. The glove box wasn’t any better, but she managed to find the adjustable wrench he needed.

A plastic bag with an array of colorful gummy bears sat in the cupholder of the center console, and it caught her eye. She fisted a handful of the candy with a snicker before closing his truck up with the wrench in hand. Johnny won’t miss a few gummies, she thought.

She popped a few in her mouth as she strolled in, her nose and mouth scrunched at the taste. Sugar free, gross. “Here,” she kicked his boot to catch his attention.

Johnny reached a hand out and took it from her without breaking focus.

Her other hand reached into the receipt-full pocket and threw them in the bin. “You gotta clean out your truck, an avalanche of trash fell out when I opened the door.”

“You offerin’?” Johnny scoffed. “I’m a wee bit busy fixin’ yer sink.”

Andra snorted. “If Ghost can keep his truck clean, so can you.”

“Pissin’ blight, the two of you…” Johnny growled as he struggled to loosen up the pipe.

She continued chewing on another gummy, regretting that she took so many. “I know, it’s a pain in the neck sharing parental responsibilities with Ghost at your grown age.” Her face grimaced at the taste of the gummies once more. “These gummies are ass.”

Johnny grunted as metal clinked on metal, followed by the sound of water hitting the bottom of a bucket. “Which ones?”

Andra swallowed the last bitter gummy she had. “I got them from your truck.”

“You what – agh, shite!” He cursed as he bumped his head while trying to pull himself up from under the sink. “How many did you have?”

Her shoulders shrugged. “Five or six, maybe?”

“Ghost is gonna skin me.”

-----

Ghost couldn’t leave Johnny alone to handle a clogged sink for more than an hour without getting a message talking about ‘It’s not my fault’. Luckily, he was already on his way back with takeaway and a fresh new six pack of that water Andra likes.

He was relieved to see the house wasn’t flooded, but found the front door open with just the mesh, screen frame keeping the bugs out. His hands were full with the bags, so he used his index finger to pull the screen door open and found Andra laying on the couch, staring up at the ceiling with an open bag of crisps laying on her stomach.

Ghost set down the plastic bags on the coffee table and stepped up to the edge of the couch. “You alright, doll?”

A wide smile spread across her face. “I can’t feel my face, and I see Gilbert Gottfried on the ceiling.”

Johnny rushed to the living room, a guilty look in his sapphire eyes. “Before you wallop me –”

“What happened?” Ghost demanded.

“Andra mistook my edibles for normal gummy bears and helped herself.” He slowly flinched away with every word he said.

A giggle came from the woman that barely took up the length of the couch. “Had to collect the Andra tax for stealin’ my water.” Her southern lilt came out for a moment.

“Christ alive, Johnny.” Ghost oughta grab him by the collar of his shirt and kick him in the ass, leaving him out on the front porch. He was more concerned with Andra to follow up on his promise. Ghost helped her sit upright, taking one hand and supporting her back with the other and set the crisps on the table behind him. “Look at me, sweetheart.” His mitt-sized hands cradled her face between one another.

Her pupils were blown out dilated, the honey brown eclipsed by the void. She giggled once more, her lids barely staying open. “Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.”

Ghost scrunched his eyebrows in confusion. “What’s that about?”

“My heart beating faster when you hold me like that.” He couldn’t help himself from grinning at that, and he pulled his hands away from her. “I can feel my nose throbbing.”

“I thought you said you can’t feel your face.” He retorted.

Her smile dropped as her cheeks turned pink. “Then it’s not my nose throbbing.”

“Screamin’ Jesus.” Johnny groaned. “I’ll go unpack the takeaway –”

Ghost shot him a daggered glare when Johnny reached for the plastic bag holding the food. “Keep your recreational substances out of sight next time.”

Johnny disappeared to the kitchen, mumbling something under his breath about how she shouldn’t be taking things that aren’t hers.

Rich coming from him.

“I’ll crack you open one of those waters and bring you your food.” Ghost pushed himself up onto his feet. “You feel like eating?”

Andra slumped against the couch, her lower lip tutted out for a pout. “Can we eat here? I don’t want to get up.”

“Of course.”

-----

With Andra still high as a kite after a few hours, Ghost made sure to check her pulse every now and then to make sure it wasn’t too elevated. He smacked Johnny upside the head when he told Ghost what dose of THC was in each candy.

Andra didn’t seem like the kind of person to eat edibles every now and then, or even ever. He was impressed with how she handled the effects. He expected her to panic at some point in the evening, but the worst she ever did was separate the ingredients in her shrimp fried rice and ate them all separate.

“Why are you even taking edibles, Johnny?” Ghost asked as he grabbed a water bottle from the fridge.

Johnny answered as he continued to wipe up the kitchen floor. “Helps me sleep, and sometimes I just wannae enjoy the high.”

It wasn’t Ghost’s thing, alcohol was hardly a substance he would have once in a blue moon. That was a different story a couple of years ago, but he decided to call the weekend drinks quits after getting into yelling matches with Johnny a few too many times. And then stopped drinking by himself at home after Price’s detox treatment.

“Where’s the Spotify app?” Andra said out loud in the living room. Ghost found her scrolling through the apps on the large screen in her hand.

Ghost leaned against the doorway. “That’s my phone, doll.”

“Thaaat makes sense.” She made no effort to give back the phone that didn’t belong to her. He could see her downloading Spotify and logging in with her own credentials, and he had no reservations about her being on his device.

Andra stood up from the couch and made her way out the front door. “Come look at the sky with me, I wanna see the stars.”

Ghost stuffed his water bottle in one of the pockets on his cargo pants and went to retrieve a blanket from the hallway closet. He met Andra outside where she was already laying supine on the bed of his truck, leaving the rear gate hung open.

“Let me put this down.” He offered.

Andra sat up and scooted herself to the edge of the trunk while Ghost wrung out the king size blanket and laid it over the hard bed of the truck. She returned to her spot and Ghost followed in suit, lying beside her with his arms behind his head. The temps were dropping, but Andra was unbothered by the chilly air. Ghost enjoyed this kind of weather, cold without a trace of humidity.

“I’m gonna head out now.” Johnny announced as he opened the door to his truck. “The sink is good to go.”

“Thank youuu.” Andra beamed. “Drive safe.”

Johnny’s tires crunched on gravel until it was out of earshot, leaving Andra and Ghost laying beneath the evening sky.

Music was playing at a tolerable volume from his phone on top of the metal toolbox above their heads, coexisting with the sound of chirping insects off in the distance. The sky blushed pink and orange hues off on the horizon; it wouldn’t be long before the sky went dark.

“When I first moved out here,” Andra started, “I would come out here and lay under the stars. Out here, I can see so much more than when I was in the city. I’ve traveled out of the city every now and then when I lived in the states, but it was never like this.”

Ghost hummed in agreement. He’s spent countless nights sleeping under the stars, nights where he could see even more than now. It felt like he was looking at galaxies, so vibrant it was as if he could reach out to caress the constellation’s translucent veils.

Andra turned her head to Ghost, and he glanced in her direction. “Tell me a story.”

He rolled his lips as he thought of one. “When I was out in Urzikstan in 2019, I had gotten lost with my squad in the sand dunes one night. One of the locals a few days prior to this told us not to follow the north star if we ever got lost, the desert played tricks on its victims and send them in circles until dehydration or the steep temperature drop would take them.

“The local told us ‘Follow the Andromeda constellation, she won’t betray you’. She didn’t, and we found our way back with the rest of our company.”

Ghost was about to point up to the sky when Andra beat him to it, aiming directly to where the formation of stars that comprised the Andromeda. “That’s the constellation I was named after,” she giggled to herself, “That’s so wild.”

Ghost lifted his head and looked at her.

“My dad named me Andromeda, and my youngest brother Orion. He was kind of into space stuff if you couldn’t tell.”

Ghost chuffed. “You don’t say." The warmth of her hand was electrifying, but he didn’t pull away. She just let her hand rest over his, each digit laying over his. Ghost returned his gaze to the twinkling stars of Andromeda. His fingers interlaced with hers, holding a piece of his own constellation that brought him here in this moment.

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