#Old creaky granny.

[otiksimr]

I love Jin Dahaad so much.

[murder-of-one]

Jonathan Crane Headconnon (Part: 1)

By, MissPhobia (Murder-Of-One)

“Birthday, yet again.”

The old grandfather clock chimed eleven at night from the dark dusty hall upstairs, ringing low and somber all of eleven times then resuming its loud constant ticking. The smell of fresh baked pumpkin pie wafting down from the kitchen. The night was quiet and cold as it always was this time of year. At least it beat living within Gotham City limits, no guns and car alarms going off anymore since Jonathan took over the old abandoned home last year. 30 minute drive to Arkham- work, and 45 minutes into the heart of the city.

The empty syringes lie in front of him in a neat new box, crisp white in contrast to the dark oak desk beneath it as he worked injecting the precise measurement of toxin into each of the syringes, hands aching at the joins, cold and tired from use. The basement was fitting for him, cold, dark, uninviting as he was. Maybe that was why he always spent his birthdays alone. Then again there never was much cause for celebration. Granny certainly didn’t think so. He could hear her harsh old southern voice still, “Only selfish brats and those who can’t see God’s grace celebrate themselves over the Lord.” She would say with an added loud thwack of her ruler on the top of his head for good measure.

“Another year gone by, still so much work to do.” He spoke to himself, even he was surprised by the scratch of his throat, dry from no use that day other than one cup of coffee that morning and approximately 4 cigarettes, the last still a dull ember in the ashtray next to him.

“Once again on my own, nothing and no one to enjoy the day with. How Granny would be proud.” He mocked, hating the woman even as she rotted in the earth 870 miles away from him.

What couldn’t have felt like a full hour later the old clock once more announced the hour in its somber tone. Midnight, a new day. His birthday. He took a swig from the glass of whiskey he’d made about 20 minutes ago, admiring the finished box of toxin, ready for use. The auburn liquor burned its way down his throat, leaving a sharp taste in his mouth. Setting the glass down with a thick clink he rose from his creaky chair and picked up the remnants of cigarette number five, inhaling one final drag, allowing the cool smoke to choke out the memory of that nasty woman. Another year, another step towards his goals of fear everlasting.

“Happy birthday to me.” He said blowing the smoke back out and tap-tap-tapping the cigarette out into the dirty ashtray. A happy birthday indeed.

[evelhak]

I need to see what you can write for KagaKuro and the number 12 ♡

I had a talk about different points of view in writing with @lylakoi and I mentioned I only tend to use omniscient pov for satire or parody, because that's how I find it natural to create a sassy narrator voice. That made me want to challenge myself to writing something completely serious in that pov. I also tend to write all third person perspectives in past tense, so this time I'm going for present tense. I hope you'll enjoy reading this experiment! Thank you for the prompt. 💙

Mini(?) fic: Ripples Prompt: Things you said when you thought I was asleep Pairing: pansexual!Kagami/bigender!Kuroko Timeframe: Third year of high school Rating: Teen and up

---------Ripples---------

The stairs creak as Kagami finally makes his way upstairs towards Kuroko's little attic room. It has only been about twenty minutes, but that's how it feels to him—like forever. A small eternity he has spent with Kuroko's granny and the jungle of houseplants that have left the living room in a state not far from a mud bath. The granny believes in chaos. It is far too satisfying to let go of control while you're immersed in what's in front of you. You can always clean up later. Kagami likes Granny's thinking. She can turn the simple, boring task of repotting the houseplants into an adventure. It reminds Kagami of childhood, when dirt under your nails was a mark of a successful day. Things like this make him think that Granny seems both younger and older than most people.

Indeed, Operation Save The Jungle, as Kuroko's Granny likes to call it, is not why Kagami feels like too much time has passed, after Granny has sent him to check on Kuroko. He doesn't mind doing things with Granny, hasn't for a long time, not since he realised she wasn't out to get him for daring to date her precious grandson. (It was always the father Kagami should have worried about.) He hurries to Kuroko now, because he always does. Whenever Kuroko shows signs of overexertion, Kagami feels the ghost of last spring, the big slump, and he can't quite sit still.

He can't believe it used to be funny. How everyone, including him, could just tell Kuroko... "Don't die". It was a joke. Kagami knows the exact moment it changed, and he could never joke about that again.

Kuroko is not in danger. He is sleeping on the covers of his bed, curled around two other sleeping creatures—Nigou, and the old black cat Shiro who has valiantly carried Granny's sense of humour for 16 years. Kagami will see them in a moment, but for those few more creaky steps he has left before his hand reaches the door handle, his heart races a little. He has seen Kuroko in danger for twice too often. It will take longer than he understands, for those memories to turn into background noise.

It was in the middle of repotting a spider plant that Kuroko suddenly needed to lie down. He didn't say that his vision was blacking out, but Kagami can guess this much by now. It doesn't happen as often as it did before summer, but Kagami can't tell if it happens more or less than first year of high school. He wasn’t paying enough attention back then. One thing is definitely different, though. The causation from a source of exhaustion towards losing consciousness is not as straightforward to follow as it once was.

Kagami enters the room as quietly as he can do anything. Kuroko's easy, steady breathing calms his mind in a second. His jaw unclenches, his shoulders relax, but these changes are so small that Kagami himself cannot tell they are happening. His focus is on the unlikely sight on the bed. The eager dog and the grumpy cat are getting along. It makes Kagami grin a little, he thinks they would only do that for Kuroko's sake. When they can tell it isn’t the time to fight for his attention.

Kagami sits down on the bed. It creaks too, but like a whisper. A strand of hair on Kuroko's face seems to call him to wipe it away. Kagami doesn't intend to wake Kuroko, but he wonders if his face is paler, or feels colder to the touch than normal. He cannot decide. Kuroko looks peaceful, and a sigh escapes Kagami. His own worry brings the thought of Kuroko’s father back to his mind now. As much as he isn't appreciative of the fact that his place in the man’s good graces could be taken away on a whim, no matter how hard he has worked to earn it... there's also the fact that Kagami understands his worry. It isn't as misplaced as one might think at first. Excessive, maybe, but not untrue.

Kagami hasn’t seen everything that happens under the roof of this house. He doesn’t know about the morning Kuroko was brushing his teeth in the bathroom, and suddenly he wasn’t. His father heard the sound of glass shattering against the floor tiles. He broke the door open. Kuroko wasn’t hurt, but afterwards he was no longer allowed to lock the bathroom door and his toothbrush would always sit in a plastic cup since then. Kagami is still unaware of all the incidents that have piled up over the years, because Kuroko is always a little too true to his life style. You won’t see what is happening behind the scenes, unless you make conscious effort to find out.

And yet, the ultimate point of discovery always comes. It is now demonstrably true that Kuroko’s father was not wrong about the dangers of fainting. Kagami is the last person to argue.

And then, there was always the other thing.

Now, looking at the love of his young life, asleep, unguarded, Kagami thinks that he understands Kuroko’s energy better. It's not that there's nothing coming from him. It's that most of it goes past people. But that doesn't mean there's no mark left, somewhere in their mind. A vague sense of having missed something. Kagami is not articulate enough to put it into words, but he can sense it with more clarity these days, an energy that dissolves itself to accentuate its duality. An energy that hits the point of full overlap. The mistake is easy to make, but it is not a neutral energy, it is not "neither". It is "either", it is both, and that's what confuses people. It doesn't fit into the dual world view despite of encapsulating it. It isn’t about the shoulds and shouldn’ts people assign each other. It isn’t about your role, even if crafting that can be used to communicate what’s deeper than that. The truth resides where the words to describe it end. People can tell on instinct. And you can see it in the underlying patterns of how they treat each other.

It took Kagami a while to see, but Kuroko's father's actions were never simple either. After a while though, they do speak louder than words. It becomes apparent to the one who knows what to look for, that the man isn't just punishing his son for kissing a boy. He is also, no matter how much discrepancy acting on the underlying instinct causes in him, protecting his daughter from said boy. There is no way Kuroko's father understands this, Kagami thinks. Kagami would not have been able to see it for what it is on his own before he had the right context. But that is how Kuroko’s father acts, regardless.

That man is far from the only one expressing a view of Kuroko more inconsistent, more easily shifting, than people on average have of each other. He’s only unique in that he’s the father, and the one most conflicted because of it.

After Kagami was aware of it, he could see it everywhere, in the smallest and the broadest strokes. To Kuroko’s father, the ultimate burden of proof always rested upon Kagami's shoulders. It wasn’t even an undertone. He made it perfectly clear he would accept their relationship, but only as long as Kagami had proved himself good enough. Just like that, the father’s frame of reference shifted from “I cannot let this half foreigner corrupt my son” to “I suppose I can accept this relationship as long as this boy’s affection appears to me as identical to a man’s love for a woman”. Because with someone like Kuroko, the shift in projection happens with an amount of incongruence that is right below the threshold. It’s just mild enough to ignore.

The question is… where do projection and the truth, the push and the pull, meet?

Kagami knows that identity doesn't always coincide with people's perceptions of you. But he is also beginning to see that it more often coincides with people's subconscious, underlying perception than the overt, literal one. He can't explain it, but he feels how it is in the ways people approach and respond to each other when they don’t think about it, in the ways those interactions make you feel, where the direction of pressure, stress, ease and flow are. He understands, on some, subconscious level, that it’s one thing to be viewed as something you “shouldn’t” be when it misses the mark, and another thing when something inside of you resonates with that perception reflected back to you in the eyes of others.

None of this was ever an issue to Kagami. Even the fact that the most reluctant person to accept that the truth resides somewhere in the contradictory ways people perceive him, is Kuroko himself, doesn't bother Kagami to any mentionable extent anymore. No, it's always the same crux in the end. It's because malicious people can pick and choose what they see. How it follows, that residing anywhere in the ambiguous territory makes it harder than average to anticipate what kind of violence you'll be the target for. It’s not necessarily more or less. It’s just less of one kind.

Kagami is not worried because he thinks that Kuroko inherently needs more protection than the average person. He’s worried because he can sense what he can’t explain. In his gut, he knows that a desire to deny the relationships between certain aspects of yourself and the world makes you blind to where exactly the crossroads with the biggest risks for you, are. And Kagami has seen Kuroko do that on multiple areas of his life. It’s not that it’s just Kuroko’s own fault. It’s not that he should know better. How could he know better?

In that sense, Kagami understands Kuroko's father, even if he doesn't agree with the man’s methods of protection. Kagami thinks there’s another kind of misdirection Kuroko can learn. The kind that allows him to control or at least anticipate how people will see him. Maybe then, Kuroko could feel more secure in all of this. Less reserved. Wouldn't have to so carefully put away anything he might wish to express about himself. Not for fear of attracting the wrong kind of attention.

What no one in this house, not even Granny for all her wisdom, understands in this particular instance, is how much comes down to a word. A word Kagami has, a word Kuroko has grudgingly accepted as the only explanation for the way he feels, a word Granny has accepted all too eagerly in Kuroko’s opinion, a word Kuroko’s father doesn’t have. Because a word; all the knowledge and understanding it opens, or the lack of it, translates into action. Kuroko’s father, quite literally, doesn’t know what he’s doing... or does he? Is it possible that he, in turn, has a word Kagami does not have?

Kagami never really felt like he needed words before. He was fine with just instinct. Kuroko confessed as much at one point too. Being with Kagami was like a wordless bubble where he could be fully who he was, no questions asked, because he felt that Kagami saw him and got him right from the beginning. But the rest of the world couldn’t measure up, and you have to live outside of the bubble too.

Kagami leans closer on the bed, caresses Kuroko's nose lightly with his, barely brushes against the sleepy lips with his own. They have agreed a long time ago that it's okay to kiss, even if the other is asleep. But Kagami is too in his head to notice the slight change to Kuroko's breathing, when he lets uncharacteristically quiet words into the air.

– Hey, I know you still... hide so many things. Even from me. Even from you.

Kagami thinks Kuroko is still asleep. He scratches his head.

– It's not like I'm holding my breath, or anything. You don't have to tell me. Even if you never want to share your unfinished thoughts... Even if they’ll just remain unfinished, I don't care. Not really. It's not like I haven't already got everything that matters, you know... with you.

Kagami lets out a dry sigh and looks away.

– I have no clue what the future holds for you. It's not like I spend much time thinking beyond tomorrow anyway... It's just... a feeling, I guess. That I sometimes have. When I look at you. Don’t know what makes me think it. But it's like... there's something left. Something... that has been in your words for so long. Not just words. Everything. Maybe since the beginning. Something you know but you don't know. If your mind doesn't know it, maybe your body knows it or something. I'm not smart enough to put it together for you. I would, if I could, but...

Had Kagami been aware that Kuroko was listening, he would have stopped talking already. For a while Kuroko was so torn over the possibility of any conflict of identity. Like it was literally the last thing he needed in his life. The worst nightmare. Kagami feels ashamed about not understanding how it could be that big of a deal. He barely had any prejudice about who he was attracted to, at any point in his life. He could on some level and contexts be described as a lot more gender-blind than average, although it’s too conceptual for him to put like that himself. That is the reason he didn’t care, regardless. Why it was difficult for him to understand how something that always fit their relationship perfectly as long as it was wordless, unspoken, never pointed at, suddenly made Kuroko insecure, when it had a name. Not just with the rest of the world, but around Kagami too.

Things with names begin to take a clearer shape. To become more visible. Words have the power to affect how we see and what we see.

Kagami is aware of his mistake now. Even after Kuroko admitted to the core of his complicated feelings, the sense of caution didn't leave Kagami. He said too much once.

Kagami is no longer gripped by his own insecurities it sparked, and his circumstances over the summer forced him to understand none of it was caused by anything in Kuroko. After the summer, Kagami no longer questions how letting something to the surface—or being ambushed by it from the depths, could cause a sudden aversion to that which was just going along with the flow before in the undercurrent, away from your immediate consciousness. He understands all too well. About things that can alter your sense of reality and self. About things you cannot control.

– I guess I just wish you knew that I don't care, but that’s like, in a good way, and I'll be there, because I obviously do care, you know. I’ll be there whatever you'll do. And I can't say this to you, because then you'll think that I think you'll do something specific which I’m just not saying out loud. But it's not like that. It's so much vaguer than that, it's... more like there's still a piece of the puzzle missing. The piece that will... tie everything together in some new way. Everything you don’t know what to do with.

Kagami rolls his eyes and leans the bridge of his nose on his knuckles.

– I sound mental...

He turns away from Kuroko and lies down on his back next to the sleepy trio. In truth, Kuroko is now aware of Kagami’s every word and every movement, and something in him illuminates from the inside for the thousandth time, clinging to all of that, not like a lifeline, not like a string of light, but like a microscopic pattern that shouldn’t matter but changes everything anyway.

And then, Kagami says one more thing.

– You’re gonna be fine, you know. Because where the world puts an “or” you’ll always find a way to have an “and”.

At the last word, Kuroko’s heart races, and his eyes sting, but none of it is visible from the outside, just like everything else that has been hidden inside him, everything that still never was, and never will be hidden as well as he would like, everything he believes should stay hidden. Kuroko will believe that for some time still. The clock is ticking past midnight. The ocean waves are crashing too hard. The lake seems perfectly still, but sometimes, especially when the boy lying on his back next to Kuroko is close, there are ripples.

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Some appropriate music I listened to:

[lilaccatholic]

Here to bother you. Pls tell me about your sacraments fic? If you want? Or any creative project you’ve got going

Okay I'm going to tell you about it because I'm so so stuck on how to end chapter one, but I have PRACTICALLY ALL OF CHAPTER TWO WRITTEN IN MY HEAD.

I'm going to be alternating povs (to who knows what effect, because while the illustrious Megan Whalen Turner is able to switch easily between third and first-person points of view in A Conspiracy of Kings, I am not her and merely a loyal subject) between Lucy’s first person point of view and the third person limited pov of Father Frank Carmody, a Canadian, and one of the first priests to brave coming over to England since The Problem reduced to nearly nothing. He's pretty much clueless about ghosts, but he has a whole lot of spirit (pun *absolutely* intended) and fire in his heart for the Lord. He's only intending to be in London for a few years, but I have a surprise for him 😈

The fic is going to cover Lockwood's experiences, either for himself or through other people, with each of the seven sacraments, and also last rites because I've got to make you all suffer (no telling WHO died though :) hehe) as seen through the eyes of Lucy and Father Frank, who is definitely going to become his spiritual father.

Other things I will include:

- George the chastity police!

- at least one joke about NFP because I'm nothing if I'm not traumatizing people with talk of cervical mucus

- angst and fluff!

- Holly as wedding planner

- Carlyle sisters!

- so much grief!

- Lockwood being so dad coded

- Easter Vigil!

- statues (insert gif of Sister Michael here)

- godfather!Kipps

-and so much more!

Also, because I've been taking five million years to get this out, here's the (unedited) first few paragraphs (subject to change!!!):

It was a nervous, if excited, trickle of faces that streamed into the parish hall at St. James’s one bright and blustery early October afternoon. Like all parish halls, it smelled faintly of chafing dishes and stale donuts, with a smidgen of whichever bulk cleaner was least expensive at the shops when the annual order was put in as an undercurrent to it all. Coloring pages of St. Francis of Assisi surrounded by animals graced a bulletin board near the entrance, courtesy of the youngest catechism class, with projects by the other classes lining the rest of the wall. The creaky wooden canteen tables which some parishioners swore were as old as the parish itself found themselves pushed to the side in favor of a large circle of folding chairs. Off to the side, a small table with tea, coffee and biscuits sat neatly by itself, ready to be partaken of. This was the scene Father Carmody entered into the day of the first meeting of the couples to be married in the next year at St. James’s.

Two by two, fourteen couples peeked into the room as though they weren't quite certain if they were in the right spot for marriage preparation, or would instead find themselves in the middle of the frowning semicircle of grannies in charge of plotting the advent coat drive and be drafted into their ranks. Relieved smiles bloomed on their faces as they spotted the cheery, sweater-wearing personage of Mrs. Hubbard, the parish secretary, at the attendance table. Once checked in, name tags written askew on, and pinned to shirts, they ambled across the chipped linoleum floors to snatch some refreshments, and mingled together until the newly familiar voice of Father Carmody called them all over to the circle of chairs that a Knight of St. Columba murmured he and his brother knights had a bloody awful time assembling the evening before, and took their seats in curious anticipation.

[salyby26]

The scarlet cloak : a wolf’s redemption

Chapter 1 : Into the enchanted woods

As she carefully donned her crimson cloak, the young girl could hear the loving but somewhat impatient call of her mother echoing through the rustic cottage. "Darling, please hurry up; your grandmother is eagerly awaiting your visit!" Her mother's voice was filled with both affection and a hint of scolding.

The girl, known as Red by all due to her famous red cap, took a moment to make sure her attire was just right. She adjusted the folds of her cloak and checked her small basket, making sure that everything was in order. With a determined sense of purpose, she made her way down the creaky wooden stairs, her heart filled with anticipation.

Her mother, a wise and caring woman, was already standing near the door, a woven basket brimming with carefully selected goods for her grandmother in hand. "Red, here's the basket for your grandmother," her mother said with a warm smile. "But, I must remind you once again to stay on the path. There are stories of an evil creature that lurks within those dark woods, and I don't want you anywhere near them."

The young girl, having heard this warning countless times, couldn't help but roll her eyes playfully. She was about to respond to her mother's familiar words when her older brother, Nathanael, sauntered through the door. Nathan was a strapping 15-year-old, taller than most boys his age, and already showing the early signs of becoming a man. His strong frame came from frequent days spent assisting their father with the demanding work on the family farm.

"Mother, I believe my dear little sister has heard this speech so often that she could recite it to you in her sleep," Nathanael quipped, playfully ruffling his sister's brown hair. Red looked up at her brother, her laughter bubbling forth at his antics, and she continued to neaten her hair.

"You're both right," her mother admitted with a sigh. "But, I can't help but worry for my dear daughter. She's growing up so quickly, and I fear that I won't always be able to protect her."

Nathanael reassured their mother, "She's grown up, Mother; she won't remain a little girl forever. You've raised her well, and she'll be just fine."

With a bittersweet smile, the matriarch relented and let her two children make their way to the door. Red, now ready for her journey, started to move in the direction of her grandmother's house. Her brother, protective as ever, walked by her side, serving as her escort as they ventured toward the winding path.

"Nathan, do you really believe that there's a real monster in the woods?" she asked, her curiosity evident beneath her crimson cloak.

Nathanael chuckled and replied, "No, Red. Adults say such things to frighten children away from the forest, that's all. The woods are actually a shorter way to Granny's house, you know. Perhaps you could even pick her some lovely flowers along the way."

With her brother's comforting presence, Red felt a bit more assured as they headed into the unknown, ready to embark on their journey to visit their beloved grandmother.

As Red continued her journey deeper into the forest, the shadows grew darker, and her sense of unease intensified. The dense canopy of ancient trees above her blocked out the sunlight, creating an eerie and oppressive atmosphere. The silence was only broken by the occasional rustle of leaves, and the oppressive quiet left her feeling on edge.

Her grip on the basket tightened, her fingers clutching the handle as if it were a lifeline. Every step seemed to echo in the stillness of the woods, making her heart race. She scolded herself for taking this path but knew it was the quickest route to her grandmother's house, a journey she had made countless times without incident.

As she ventured deeper into the heart of the forest, the unfamiliar surroundings began to play tricks on her imagination. Every rustle of leaves, the snap of a twig in the distance, made her jump and her breath catch in her throat. The woods felt menacing and unfamiliar, far from the comforting path she had once known.

Red's anxiety and fear grew with each step, and she couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. Then, she heard a low growl, and her heart sank. She turned around slowly, her eyes wide with dread, and saw the monstrous figure of a wolf lurking in the shadows. It was large, its fur a deep and menacing black, and its eyes glinted with an eerie intelligence.

Frozen with terror, Red couldn't move as the wolf approached. She was acutely aware of her vulnerability and the impending danger. The wolf's voice, when it spoke, was a low and chilling growl, as if the very forest itself was speaking. "What brings a little girl like you into my domain?"

Red stammered, her voice trembling, "I-I'm going to see my grandmother. She's very sick, and I have a basket of goods for her."

The wolf circled her, its gaze unrelenting. "Do you know what lurks in these woods, child? The dangers that lie in wait for innocent souls like yours?"

Red, her fear warring with her determination, replied, "I've heard the stories, but I must see my grandmother. She needs me."

The wolf's eyes bore into hers, and for a moment, it felt as though the forest itself were watching and listening. Finally, the wolf spoke again, its voice softer, almost pensive. "Very well, little one. But be cautious and heed my warning. The path ahead is treacherous, and the dangers are very real. You must be strong and wise to reach your grandmother's house."

Red, both frightened and oddly intrigued by the wolf's words, nodded in acknowledgment. She could sense that there was more to this wolf than met the eye, and her journey had taken on an unexpected and perilous turn. With the wolf's caution echoing in her mind, she continued through the dark and foreboding forest, determined to reach her grandmother's house, no matter the challenges that lay ahead.

The young girl finally arrived at her grandmother's house, relieved to be out of the dark and foreboding woods. In one hand, she held the wicker basket filled with carefully gathered goods and the beautiful flowers she had picked earlier. With the other hand, she gently knocked on the door, waiting for her grandmother, Agatha, to answer.

"Enter, my child," came a trembling voice from inside.

The young girl turned the knob and entered the house with a sense of caution, as if she didn't want to make a sound. She approached her grandmother's bed, which was hidden behind a sheer curtain that allowed only the shadow of the old woman to show.

"Are you alright, Granny?" the young girl asked, concern in her voice.

"Yes, my child," her grandmother replied, her voice weak. "I'm just really tired, and I didn't want you to see me in this state, sweetheart."

The young girl moved closer, her eyes adjusting to the dimly lit room. As she drew near her grandmother, she couldn't help but notice the changes in the old woman's appearance. "Oh, my grandmother, what big hands you have," she remarked, her voice filled with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation.

The young girl couldn't help but notice the changes in her grandmother's appearance. "Oh, my grandmother, what big eyes you have," she remarked, her voice filled with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation.

The old woman, now sitting up in bed, smiled warmly at her granddaughter. "All the better to see you with, my dear," she replied, her eyes twinkling with an unusual light.

As the young girl continued to talk with her grandmother, she began to notice other alterations in her grandmother's form. "And what big ears you have, Granny," she observed, her voice tinged with wonder.

"All the better to hear your sweet voice, my love," her grandmother replied, her hearing seemingly as sharp as ever.

The young girl was puzzled by these changes but decided to voice her observations. "And what big teeth you have, Granny!"

Her grandmother's smile widened, revealing a set of sharp, glistening teeth. "All the better to eat you with, my dear."

With that, the elderly woman leaped from the bed, casting off her disguise as her body transformed into the terrifying shape of the wolf she had encountered in the woods. The wolf, now revealed in its true form, lunged toward the young girl, jaws open wide.

The girl, quick on her feet, managed to evade the wolf's attack and reached into her basket. From it, she pulled out a gleaming silver dagger, a family heirloom passed down through generations. With all her courage and determination, she faced the wolf, determined to defend herself.

The wolf, no longer in disguise, snarled and circled, its menacing eyes fixed on the girl. This was the true test of her mettle, and she knew she had to confront the creature that had disguised itself as her beloved grandmother.

As the young girl's desperate cries for help echoed through the house, a strong and ominous boom filled the air. The hunter, who had been on his way to visit Agatha, the girl's grandmother, heard the distressing sounds and rushed to her aid, barging through the door with urgency.

The scene that unfolded before the hunter was nothing short of nightmarish. The wolf, now bloated from having consumed the blood of the two women, lay sprawled on the floor. The room was a tableau of horror, and the hunter knew he had to act swiftly.

Without a moment's hesitation, the hunter took aim and fired a single, precise shot at the wolf, ending the menace that had threatened the lives of both Agatha and her granddaughter. The echo of the gunshot hung in the air, a stark contrast to the previous screams of terror.

The young girl, trembling and still in shock, looked at the hunter with a mix of relief and gratitude. Her grandmother, Agatha, had been saved from the clutches of the deceitful wolf, thanks to the timely arrival of the hunter. The room, once filled with fear and danger, began to regain a sense of calm as they assessed the aftermath of this harrowing encounter.

As Red watched the wolf, tears welled up in her eyes. She couldn't help but weep for the frightening ordeal she had just endured. Little did she know that their fates were indeed entwined in this moment, and the outcome of their encounter would shape her destiny.

The room was filled with an eerie silence as she gazed at the lifeless wolf. It had been a formidable adversary, a creature that had disguised itself as her beloved grandmother to deceive her. Red knew that this encounter would forever change her, and she wondered if she would emerge from it as a triumphant heroine or if she would be counted among the wolf's victims, just another name in a long list of those who had crossed its path.

In that moment, as she wept and contemplated the harrowing experience, Red understood that she had been tested by the forest's mysteries and secrets. The world had revealed its darker side to her, but she had also discovered her own strength and courage. The journey through the woods had not only led her to her grandmother's house but also to a deeper understanding of herself.

[ariweather]

Chapter 3: Concussed Detective (part 3/4)

Granny Hudson and Watson watched in calm horror as Sherlock's bony face contorted with shock and his curly head SMASHED into the bookcase. His vintage designer shoelaces slithered about in the air as if to say "he deserved this." Books exploded off the shelved and hit the floor with the intensity of thunder. Next thing they knew, Sherlock groaned out, "Uuehaghhhhhhhh... I believe I am concussed."

"You were right about the shoes," Mrs. Hudson remarked to John. 

"Yes, perhaps we should buy him a pair of Crocs," John replied, turning to look at his dumbass roommate. "Eh... should we call an ambulance? Sherlock, how do you feel-"

"John, do NOT call the authorities under any circumstances. There are some things in that fridge I'd rather not risk being seen by well-meaning EMTs looking for cold packs. And if Lestrade finds out, that'll just be an annoyance for me. I'll be fine with some home remedies. Just get me some ice, or something. I really must see what cases there are for me to solve-"

Granny Hudson glared at him. "No, Sherlock. You must rest. No more cases for now. You have a concussion, dear! And now you have a lovely flatmate to nurse you back to health! I'll make you a cup of tea, just this once." She departed for the kitchen. Once again, John did not appreciate how Mrs. Hudson seemed to think that he and Sherlock were an item, even though they literally were. 

"Thanks." Sherlock stumbled over the mound of literature and onto the soft pleather couch where he laid down, slender legs propped up over the side. John Watson, A Broken Man, carefully sat down in the homely brown armchair in the corner near the couch. He thought to himself, "mmmmmm sandwich."

John watched the snowy dust float silently in the golden sunlight which shone through the yellowed windows. He inhaled. The flat smelled like violin rosin and old books. It sounded like creaky old wooden floorboards and coffee makers. John *almost* felt as though he'd lived in this place for a decade, except that was broken by the presence of the concussed man on the couch. The concussed... person. What did this guy do for a living again?

"Sherlock, who are you? What do you do?"

"What do you think?"

John hesitated for a moment. "I'd say private detective..." He guessed unsurely. 

"But?"

"I dunno... maybe you're a forensic scientist actually. What with all the test tubes and whatnot earlier."

Sherlock looked at John like he was a bit stupid. "I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job." 

"What does that mean?"

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

"The police don't consult amateurs."

Sherlock glared at John, offended that his soulmate would think even for a second that he, the great Sherlock Holmes, was an AMATEUR. He had to show poor, mistaken Watson what a real consulting detective was. "When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' You looked surprised."

"Yes, how did you know?" John's traumatized blue orbs were intently glued to Sherlock. 

"I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. But your conversation as you entered the room..."

"No, hold on Sherlock. No flashbacks right now. I mean, I am curious, but I feel bad making you explain everything to me after you've been concussed."

Mrs. Hudson returned with a mug of british-smelling tea for Sherlock. "Here, darling. Drink up while it's warm!" She smiled, grandmotherly, and handed it to him.

"Thanks mum."

"What."

"Must be the concussion..."

John thought to himself, "mmmmm sandwich." Perhaps his freshly concussed flatmate was hungry. When Watson remembered the sandwich shop they passed on the way in, he offered to Sherlock, "how 'bout I run down to the sandwich shop and pick up some lunch?"

"Ah, thank you. That would be lovely."

"Anything specific you had in mind?"

Sherlock was nicely surprised by his new flatmate's kindness. He was, in fact, hungry, so he gave Watson his go-to sandwich order. "I'll have a black forest ham sandwich, rye bread, topped with tomato slices. If the tomato slices don't have a diameter 6cm, it ruins the whole thing.  Also have them layer some extra thin slices of Winnimere cheese in between the ham. Make sure it's spread out evenly. Texture is important. If they have their pickles in stock, ask them to lightly saturate the innards with the pickle juice. And then have them sprinkle a blend of oregano and beetroot flakes onto all of that. And make sure they toast it until it's almost crispy, but not quite all the way crispy. After it's been toasted, I want them to insert 7 evenly spaced slices of fresh iceberg lettuce into the topmost layer of the sandwich above the ham. These must be very thin and spaced at minimum 3cm apart. Finally, dress the top of the bread with freshly squeezed lemon juice from imported Italian lemons. I will be able to taste if they're from, God forbid, Florida before the sandwich even enters my mouth. Oh, and mayo on the side. No less than 16 of those little individual packets."

Lord. Did the God hate John Watson? What did he do to deserve this? What kind of FUCKING PSYCHO orders that. christ. with each new topping listed, a piece of John's remaining mental stability was chipped away. john wanted to boil alive. fucking hellllllllll

"Sherlock...... what?"

"or just ask them for Sherlock's usual order. They'll know."

And then john watson went off to the sandwich shop.

----

Link to previous chapter (chapter 2) Link to next chapter (chapter 4)

[kimium]

For the AU ask! Fireforce Modern-AU where Joker runs a private investigator company

(From this ask meme HERE)

Oh, thanks for the ask! I so rarely talk about Fire Force, but I love the series with all my heart!

Five head canons for Modern AU Joker runs a private investigator company:

-His company is not well known publicly. Unlike some other investigators, Joker's place is in a building that's hidden. In order to find it you have to walk through alleys and between buildings with pathways so tight, one could wonder if they're not just lost. However, if one is persistent, the place will come to you.

-People find this place by word of mouth. A business card? A company website? You have to be joking. Joker doesn't have those things. Instead, he is in the phone book, a long lost relic of times before modern technology. His number is buried under thousands of thin, yellow pages that are so thin if torn out one could see through it, like the world's worse cellophane. However, regardless of the obscurity he never runs out of jobs. Joker has a reputation on the street for completing 100% of his job requests without fail.

-Joker works mostly alone, though he does have associates he relies on from time to time. The jobs he takes? Anything from a little old granny telling him "Mr. Snuffles (her cat) is lost" to "I think my husband is embezzling and I don't know what to do." Sometimes his jobs are... less than savoury, but that doesn't stop him. In fact, those are the jobs he likes the best. Sometimes in order to see justice one must get a little dirty.

-However, just because Joker works alone and has a crippling addiction to coffee and cigarettes doesn't mean he's a loner. In this AU he's fully adopted by Captain Burns, the celebrated Firefighter and Hero of the city. Joker -is- still expected to show up every Sunday, cleanly shaven, hair washed, proper clothing on, for family dinner. Once, Joker dismissed going in favour of doing his job. Captain Burns found him the next day. Joker never missed a family dinner again.

Speaking of, Captain Burns's neighbours are that couple who canonically took care of Joker for a bit. In this AU they adore him and often pile food into his arms since "You look so skinny. You need more meat on your bones. A strapping young lad like you needs food to keep growing!" - The mother, as she cheerfully piles containers of homemade food into his arms.

-Joker however, lives on his own in a small apartment close to his work place. Burns offered to buy an apartment closer to him/in a better area, but Joker likes his slightly run down loft with a few creaky doors and graffiti along the walls. He has illegally broken into the top of the building, which overlooks the city to smoke. He enjoys watching the smoke from his cigarettes float into the night sky as he counts the thousands of stars lining the inky dark night. Sometimes, Joker brings up a sketchbook and draws. He prefers oil pastels because they're heavy and thick on the paper and leave stains on his hands, hiding some burns from cigarettes and fights he's gotten into over the years.

Also, a bonus head canon since I don't dare post a Joker HC without Licht for you.

-Joker meets Licht because Licht hires him to "investigate some shady business". Joker is surprised but excited when he finds out it's for Haijima Industries. He's disappointed when it turns out to be "colleague work drama". Then, it turns out the case is investigating a conspiracy that spans the entirety of Hajima Industries. This draws him further into the life of Viktor Licht. (Eventually they start dating, but that's a story for another day.)

[dreaminlittlenightmares]

Here's a writing prompt, the Lady is tired with the Thin Man bothering her while she's working. So next time he wants attention, much to the Thin Man's horror, Granny is the one taking care of him.

Anon, listen. You want me to write a short drabble about embarrassing the old man? You've come to the right place!

Title: Only One of Us Needs to be the Chaotic One Word Count: 858 Characters: the Thin Man, the Granny, the Lady

The Thin Man stepped out of the television and into the red living room of the Lady's Quarters. It was deathly quiet and very cold; this was nothing new. It was rare that anyone greeted him, even more so whenever it was one of his surprise visits. He enjoying catching his arch nemesis and closest friend off guard. It made annoying her funner at the expense of her misery. All Thin Man had to do was go find her.

He crept across the creaky wooden floor, careful to keep his steps from giving off his position. A sweet, low humming of a lullaby caught his attention. It was her melody. Thin Man tiptoed quietly towards the song and peeked in to see her back to the door. Oh, this was too easy. Thin Man pushed the door open slowly and leaned against the door frame. When the humming stopped, he announced himself with all the charms of a gentleman.

"Hello, deaaarrr..." The smoothness in his voice crashed when the singer looked his way.

"Good evening, Broadcaster!" The Granny whirled around in her chair. She pulled off the long haired wig from her head and grinned a toothless smile at him. "How lovely to see you again, my boy. Finally! We can speak in a more pleasant environment."

"G-G-Grandmother!" The Thin Man's smiled politely but nervously at the old woman. "W-What are you doing here? I thought you weren't allowed up in the residency?" He took a nervous step back, prepared to bail at the first given chance.

"Ooh, I'm not, lad. But here I am!" The Granny was on him much faster than Thin Man expected. He knew she was fast in water, but didn't know that also applied to on land. "Come, come! We must talk! It's been ages since a strapping lad has entertained me." She hooked her arm around his and dragged him away.

"Uh, Grandmother please!" Thin Man unlinked his arm swiftly. "I'm just...the Lady is expecting me and I'd hate to keep her waiting."

"Oh? But she's downstairs at work, lad. Surely a kind-hearted man, such as yourself, won't dare disturb her at work?" The Granny flashed him a sneaky smile.

"Oh, is she?" Thin Man laughed, "Silly me must have gotten the days mixed up again. Hahaha! Those damned time loops, am I right? Well then, madam, I'll just go now..."

"Go?" the Granny squinted, "So soon? Surely a gentleman, such as yourself, wouldn't leave an elderly lass by herself in this cold, cold apartment?" She batted her wrinkling old eyes at him...and in such a scandalous manner, too.

The Thin Man grimaced. "Grandmother, please. I...the Lady...I enjoy annoying her. It's fun for me. But, I do know the difference between anger and furious. So...n-no."

"Oh, do you now?" the old woman snickered. "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorn. And, you should know that better than anyone how a lady of the Maw handles her fury." The Granny took a step closer to the tall man. She placed her hand around his forearm gently, softly. "What she doesn't know won't hurt her. I won't tell."

"Nope!" Thin Man snatched away his arm and stepped around and away from the Granny. "Nope! Nope! Nope! Nope!" He shuffled quickly away with his arms up in the air, repeating that word over and over again. "Send my regards to that hateful witch! I'm going back home!"

The Granny shuffled after him, just in time to see the Thin Man slinker back into the television. She cackled at his hasty retreat.

"Is he gone?" The tired whispering voice of the Lady called out from the shadows.

The Granny walked to the back of the television and unplugged it. "Yes, he's gone. Poor lad. I almost feel sorry for him." She continued snickering under her breath.

"Do you though?" The Lady came into view, carrying to two large, heavy scrolls in her arms. "You seemed to have enjoyed tormenting him."

The Granny grinned at her successor, like a cat that ate the canary. "My dear girl, that's what I do. You did ask for my help, remember? I was to take care of the Broadcaster while you worked on the magic circle."

"Yes, I know. And I thank you for your help, Grandmother." The Lady sighed tiredly. She could have just told the Thin Man that she was doing research for the next few days, and he would have understood. He was patient and understanding, if anything else besides annoying and childish. "I'm about halfway done with it. I just need to go look up the symbols again." The Lady headed off to her library.

"Why not tell him you're busy?" the Granny asked from behind.

The Lady turned around to answer. "Because this is what he gets for interrupting me every single time I have something to do. He may be the more chaotic one, but he forgets that I can be just as much of a pest as he can." The Lady puffed out her chest and marched off.

The Granny smiled proudly and giggled to herself. "I taught you well, little vixen."

[nellynee]

Harioween 2021 day 01- Mischief

Fill for @blooeyedtroll ‘s Hairoween prompt, crossposted at AO3 here.

Song reference, "Kiss an angel good morning" by Charlie Pride.

Headcanon - My brain can't make sense of where all the really highly processed stuff from really specific environments that aren't reasonably accessible to Trolls comes from so it went full kookoo and decided fantasy logic.

So The mines outside of Lonesome Flats is a spice mine, where they dig out huge hunks of capsaicin in the form of rhinestones from between the quilt like dirt. When it turns winter in the mountains, the river freezes upstream and turns to a trickle, and there's runoff from said mountain, leaving another kind of spice to be panned for. It's pumpkin spice season folks.

Fill under cut

Delta Dawn heaves a deep sigh as she gazes out into her namesake, hour early enough that there’s still a nip of cold set into the porch from the moon’s cool, sleepy gaze. The year has tipped forward again, through near miserable summer into something most folks might call tolerable. In the near dawn, it’s downright chilly, and she sits on her creaky old rocking chair, front hooves tapping lightly against the worn wood of her front porch and time soft shawl across her shoulders, some old thing her great granny had stolen from the mountain folk years ago, color long and lovingly faded into dark navy and a red just a few shades darker than mud. Long shadows stretch between buildings as the sun yawns, and she finds herself fallowing suit.

It’s quiet. But it’s acceptably so. Her fingers itch to pluck at her strings, but the town still sleeps while the cool will let them, and no respectable folk would suffer even her disturbance when the heat hasn't set in yet. Instead, she leans her head back against the rim of her chair and lets the gentle, rhythmic sway lullaby her into contentment.

There’s a beat there, in the downtap of every swing of her chair, in the sway of chimes from the rafters, in the little grumbles and occasional spiting of Miss Daisy Dukes as she clacks her knitting needles across the way on her own porch. Old woman sleeps on her porch, if she sleeps at all, and was never much for respectable otherwise. But there’s something there, and the Mayor chases it with a hum, breaking every now and again to wet her throat with the warm drink steaming gently on the little rough aside table she keeps besides her chair for just this occasion.

It hot and just on the right side of spice. As the cool settles into the desert nights and the cold snow settles into the mountains the river running right along their fair little settlement runs just almost dry, and the little ones spend their days panning for the rhinestone bright crystals they grind into spice. What they dig from the mines is hot and painful in the mouth after years baking in the sun, but the dark muddy nuggets from the river are bitter and musky with clove and cinnamon. Soon, very soon, the Prairie folk will flood the highways, running from the snow, with all sorts of goods and commerce, and Dawn will be able to sweeten her morning milk with a great dollop of baked pumpkin whisked up to a froth, a flavor she’ll tire of quickly, but enjoy the novelty of for the week or so it’s new.

But for now, she’ll enjoy the fruits of her little girl’s labors, the first round of hours of meticulously panning through near mud and tirelessly grinding rock hard spices in her little girl size pestle, a past time Delta Dawn herself partook as a child, and savored the once a year treat all the more for.

Quick as a whip, her hand shoots out and grasps the wrist of the little hand creeping up over the edge of her side table, making not for her drink, but for the still untouched slab of cornbread, frosted liberally with butter, on the little tin plate next to it. No doubt the smell of it baking was what woke the little terror, and Dawn cracks just enough of an eye to stare the child down.

An approximation of dressed, in the very same pair of dirty denim she’d been in before bed, but that was well enough when she’d just dirty a newer pair just as soon. Still in her night cap at least, which was a relief. She was just getting old enough to know better than to go out without her hair properly braided, and the tender headed rug rat had been putting up a fuss lately that her Auntie was in no mood for.

“Not for you.” Dawn puts down in her sternest voice, and the frown she gets in return lets her know it’s gonna be a fightin day. “Now go wash your face for breakfast.”

“Already did.”

“You most certainly did not, I can see the crust of your eyes from here.”

A grumble, a put upon sigh, and she waits one beat, two, before her hand shoots out again.

“Not,” and rather than grabbing, this times it’s punctuated with a swat “For you.”

Old Daisy cackles across the road instead of minding her own business, covering little Clamper’s growl, but get she goes, and Dawn lets herself fall back into the last scant moments of peace she’ll have in the day.

Her swattin hand does not give Clamper’s a third chance to listen when the girl gets her gumption up again for another try. Rather, the goodly Mayor smirks up the ceiling, and then meets that smirk to Old Daisy’s own at the sound of content chewing. Dawn take a slab of cornbread herself, warm from the oven and rich with butter and cinnamon, and hotter than the devil’s sweat with a thick spread of time soured chili paste hidden under the butter. Dawn’s own face immediately flushes with the heat and pungent vinegar, and she sees the very second her unsuspecting child realizes what she’s done to the treat.

Old Daisy joins her in a cackle far to loud for the morning hour as the little girl hops impotently and hollers through her nose, breathing fire and spitting mad for it. When the hollering goes just to the side of whimpers that Dawn knows means the heat is to much, she scoops up the mason jar of spiced Bugfaloo milk she’d hid in the shadow of her chair and pops the top, unbothered when the little one hops onto her front right knee with force set to bruise and lets her have the jar.

“You’d think you’d listen by now.” She coos as she let’s the girl drink and swish away the offensive burn. Delta Dawn waits until Clampers spits out a long stream of milk over the edge of the porch and keeps drinking before she eases off the nightcap and pulls a comb from where it was tucked up in her own massive mane, beginning the meticulous task of splitting the great mess into something resembling locks to braid.

“Wasn’t funny.” Comes the pettish reply.

“Was a little funny.” If only because she knew the little girl couldn’t help herself. Indeed if she’d gone and listened and washed her face, she would have found her own little pan of bread, dirty brown with her hard won spices and half a cup of sugared cream to dress it with, sitting warm on the stove.

Instead, petulant but passive, the little girl whines, but lays her head just above her Auntie’s bosom. The angle is awkward as she tries to wrangle the bright orange bristles her ward calls hair, but a great wave of matronly love washes over her anyways.

“I’ve always got a smiling face.” She starts, letting the little rhythmic something hiding in Old Daisy’s knitting needles bubble up as a tune. It’s just a little snip of a thing, not quite whole, but coming none the less. “Any time and anyplace. And anytime they ask me why, I just smile and say.”

She holds the note, tugs a pigtail as she ties it off until Clampers is looking at her.

“You’ve got to-” And with that, she smacks a kiss onto the part she’d created as she gathers the other half of marginally tamed hair. “Kiss an angel good morning.” There’s more to the tune she’s sure, but it’s all she needed to get a giggle and a spot of forgiveness for her trick.

[harveywritings92]

Father! Connor and Reincarnated! Modern reader! PT. 4

Seems you were right in your prediction however the scenario was vastly different then what happened in the game, Connor wasn't in the basement being shown the rope dart, Achilles had shown him that, the day before, Currently the assassin had you sitting in a highchair trying to feed you this bright orange mush which you suspected to be carrots or yams. 

Either way you weren't to enthusiastic to try it as your dad's cooking skills were.. let's just say you rather eat burnt popcorn... But soon you gave in as he kept doing the puppy dog eyes, with a heavy heart you opened your mouth waited for whatever beetroot and cabbage concoction he'd thought up to for today's menu.

Only to be greeted by a rich creamy sweetness, causing you to squeal with glee and bonce in your chair. "Wabo! ubar!" You babbled excitedly as Connor chuckled at your reaction giving you another spoon full. "You like it, I had I known I would've went through Miss Abigail's recipe book earlier." He hummed catching some of the baby food dribbling down your chin.

*Thank-you granny Abby, you are my angle!" you babbled away, Achilles often talked about his wife to you often stating if she were still here she would've love you like a granddaughter, Connor looked around making sure no one was around before dropping his stone face and unwinding into a giant goofball. 

"O tsi seksa’tí:io " {You are so cute!}

"Na...um" * That I am Daddy-O, that I am... * 

"Can you say kwé kwé?{hello}..." 

"Bwa?" *If I do. can I have some more sweet pump-tato mush?*

Connor kept trying to coax you to talk, not noticing Kanen'tó:kon walking in with Achilles the old man shook head at the assassin's antics while the confused native beside him just stared wide and slacked jaw at what he was witnessing before him. 

"Ratonhnhaké:ton?" Connor let out this not so manly yelp; nearly leaping out of his chair when he heard his best friend's voice behind him, he cleared his throat and straightened himself up and awkwardly turned to greet his friend, who was looking at him strange.

The assassin stood up putting you food down out of your reach, causing you to fuss and make grabby for the bowl "Um...y-Y/n...  Kheién:’a" [My daughter]" Connor stammered out to his friend who was even more confused. "Oh niiawenhátie?? {what is going on??}" Kanen'tó:kon started but shook his head remembering why he was there.

Immediately informed Connor of Jonson's plan much to you dad's shock after all they destroyed all that tea, the natives were discussing what to do and were were almost out the door, You heard Achilles yell at Connor for embedding a tomahawk in one the porch columns, Connor explained it's meaning briefly coming back inside kissed your head and went into mission mode.   

Normally your goodbye was to laugh and clap, but your frustration being denied lunch was finally at it's boiling point, you gathered all your baby might and cried out "Dah-deeee!!" the was tense silence as Achilles and Kanen'tó:kon watched Connor curious of what he'll do, while you repeated Dah-de a few times wondering if he had heard. 

*Hey, Dad I just said my first word... Yay?* You stared at his back expectantly, the assassin didn't say a word he silently pulled his hood up kept walking, leaving you hurt and confused. "That's something you'll have to get used to my dear." Achilles stated somberly as he  finished up feeding you. Suddenly the pumpkin didn't taste as sweet anymore...  

On the way to Jonson hall was quiet one that was until Kanen'tó:kon spoke up. "Are you okay?" he asked observing his friend's body language it was tense and puppet like. "yes I am fine." Connor said curtly as his friend thought back to the expression on his friend's face when that child called him father.

Kanen'tó:kon felt his stomach flop when he realized what was bothering Ratonhnhaké:ton."Was that her first-" he was cut off by the taller man "I don't want to think about that right now." the assassin hissed trying to keep his mind focus on the mission and keep his family life in a place separate.

Two years in the future.

Y/n is three was sitting out on the porch pretending to play. Achilles was in New York; Connor had been arrested you knew he had been, He talked about Hickey before he left, You felt your stomach churn as you placed a green block on...to be honest you had no bloody idea what the fuck you were building!

It started out as copy of the manor, but now it looked like a rainbow colored Eldritch monstrosity, with a frustrated huff your tiny fist took a swing; knocking all the blocks over, your lips formed a pout as you wondered if Connor was alright, then looked over at Godfrey who was napping on the bench, he been asked by his wife to keep an eye on you, while she and Diana tended to their son and Miriam who were both sick with a cold.  

Y/n threw a block at his belly making sure he was really asleep, when he didn’t flinch Y/n cautiously stood up making sure not to step on creaky boards and toddled off the porch, and into the front yard where Connor's dog Fran immediately started whimpering at seeing Y/n walking around and started following. "No Fwanny." you huffed not wanting to play with her right now, the dog suddenly let out persistent bark, it wasn't until a shadow casted over you tiny form did you realize she wasn't barking at you. 

You thought Godfrey had woken up and were in in for it, you swallowed cautiously looked behind you and felt your throat go dry. It was Connor! and damn he looked like hell, you winced seeing the rope marks on his neck and how worn out he looked. Y/n felt sick as she managed to whimper "Dadd-" Before she could finished Connor had swept her up into a tight hug; nearly knocking the wind out of her tiny lungs, Y/n instinctively went to wrap her arms around his neck, but then felt Connor tense up and remembered the bruising she clung to his shoulder instead.

"Daddy sad?" You asked placing a tiny hand on his cheek seeing what looked tears threating to fall, Connor took a breath. "No, I'm not sad Teri, I just missed you." he assured giving you a kissed on the forehead, Just then Godfrey came bounding in the front yard like a bat out of hell. "Y/n lass! where are-" He sighed in relief seeing you in Connor's arms but then noticed your dad's condition. 

"Connor? Good God lad. what hell happened to ya?" He demanded with fatherly concern as he help the native man inside, Achilles filled everyone in with a fake story that Connor was arrested with a gang of counterfeiters simply because he was in the same pub as them and was nearly killed for their crimes until his friends Stephane & Duncan managed to pay his bail and cleared things up.

Speaking of which Y/n curiously glanced over Connor's shoulder to see said men fallowed after Connor both of whom seemed very surprised to find out their mentor was a father, she could hear the two of them whispering amongst themselves.

Something about how all those child rearing questions Connor was asking Zenger made sense now? they stopped when and noticed you staring at them curiously and immediately your face felt hot and tried to hide behind Connor's shoulder. "Sorry, she's cautious around strangers." Connor explained as his recruits waved it off.

"She' beautiful mon ami, But I could've sworn you told us you were unmarried?"

"I'm not married, Y/n is my daughter, but not by blood."

"...then her family is, Oh I see, was it the Templars?” 

"I suspect so...I believe her father may aligned with them. "

Connor said briskly as he placed Y/n her in her room closing a small wooden gate Lance installed so she wouldn't wander off, said toddler tensed when she heard this *Hold up what? my birth father's a Templar?!* you mentally stalled as you tried to process this, before standing and rushing toward the baby gate shaking it trying to get his attention. *Come back! Come back!* you mentally begged but it was all in vain; once Connor goes assassin mode there was no coming back till his job was complete. With that Y/n sighed and went back to playing with her toys.

[Teri is short for Terì:teri, it  means Blue Jay in Mohawk, it's Connor's nickname for you.]

[cemeteryfun]

(I'm playing a lich in dnd and one of the flaws I got is that they need their daily soul juice or they get stiff and creaky.

And so I'm playing this dumb ass lich walking slowly around like an old granny with creaky bones and it sparks joy in me.)

[beetlelands]

okay this is probably the last one i’ll post. it’s from november 2019 and is called “son of a maitland.” bet you can’t guess what it’s about. oh and this one is just kinda chocked full of ocs so thats fun

-

-

At a family reunion Barbara Maitland (neé Anderson) was sat down by her parents after they heard her tell yet another relative that her and Adam weren’t ready for kids yet. They had heard the same thing from their daughter for years, but it’s not like they could blame her. Having kids was a big leap, but they were sick of watching her look so longingly at families.

“Sweetheart, we love you. We always have and always will.” Her mom started.

Barbara laughed awkwardly, “are you breaking up with me?”

Her parents laughed, her dad saying “of course not, sweetie.”

“You and Adam have been dating since your sophomore year of high school and you were friends far before that. You got married about five years ago.” Her mother explained.

“Thanks for reminding me, I almost forgot.” Barbara joked.

“What she’s trying to get to is that when you were little you always said you wanted to be a mother.” Her dad cut in.

Barbara’s face fell, “So that’s what this is about.”

Her mom nodded solemnly. “For years we’ve heard you say that you’re not ready for kids, but when you were five the one thing you were most excited about when it came to being an adult was being a mother. It just hurts my heart to see you look so yearningly at families when we’re out together. Or just yesterday when we when shopping, you stopped and stared at the baby clothes for a bit and didn’t think I noticed.”

“Parenthood is hard, and it’s always going to be. You’re never truly going to be ‘ready’ to be a parent. The world will never be perfect enough for your kid, but you can take the steps to make sure they enjoy the world- even with its faults.” Her dad said, giving her a gentle smile.

Her mom placed a hand on her shoulder, “We can‘t make you have a child, but we can tell you that while any fears you have may be rational, you can’t let them keep you from having a kid.”

“I- okay.” Barbara nodded, hesitation turning into determination. “I’ll talk to Adam.”

-

While Barbara had her parents intervene on the situation, Adam was stuck with his sister calling him out.

Adam Maitland sat down on his sister’s couch. While Barbara was at her family reunion, Adam was helping his younger sister, Jessica, move.

Jess plopped down next to him, kicking her feet up on the boxes that now took up the space where her coffee table once was. “So, how are you and Barbara?” She said in a tone he was all too familiar with. He really thought he’d make it through the day without hearing the question.

“We’re good” he said as he ignored the true meaning of her question. “We actually just started taking some couples recreational classes. She’s surprisingly good at ballroom dancing, says it’s the ex-cheerleader in her.”

“Oh come on, Adam. You know what I meant.” Jess teased her older brother.

“Look, everyone always asks. And the answer is always no. When she is pregnant, it’s not like we’re gonna keep it a secret. We’re just not ready to have a baby yet, so drop it.” He got defensive.

She put her hands up in surrender, “no need to get your panties in a twist.” He glared at her. She put her hands down.

Jessica sighed, her tone going serious. “Why are you so afraid of being a father?”

“Wha- who- I’m? What?” Adam sputtered.

“You’re afraid of parenthood. Why?” She repeated in different terms.

“I’m not afraid to be a father.”

“Then why haven’t you and Barbara had kids.”

“We’re not-“

“Don’t give me that ‘not ready’ bullshit. You’d be amazing parents, but instead you’re wasting your parental potential on restoring old objects and making pottery. Since when did Barb even like pottery?”

“We’re just not in the right place right now. The economy is a wreck, global affairs are fleeting. I don’t want to raise a kid in a crumbling society.”

“Oh my god Adam, do you hear yourself? You sound insane! You’re attached to this ridiculous need for perfection to hide away from your own insecurities.”

“Just because you took one psych class doesn’t mean you’re right.”

“Maybe so, but dude you can’t let such trivial things get to you. The world will never be perfect, that’s human nature. If you keep waiting for perfection, you’ll never have a kid.” Adam went to speak, but Jess cut him off. “If you want a baby, have a baby!”

“Okay okay, you make some good points.” He sighed. “I’ll talk to Barbara when she comes back from her parent’s house tomorrow.”

“Great! Now, let’s finish packing up my apartment. This couch has got to go.” She stood from the couch and offered her brother a hand. “Come on, grandpa.”

“I’m two years older than you!”

“Exactly.”

-

Adam whistled the tune of an old calypso song he couldn’t remember the words to. He was making dinner for Barbara- and himself of course. He was just about to plate the food when the door opened and the familiar sound of keys jingled for a second.

“Honey, I’m home” Barbara sung out with a small laugh. Adam smiled at his wife’s antics.

“Dinner’s ready.” He called out, and instantly he heard her footsteps approach the dining room. He placed the food in the two plates and carried them to the table.

“Welcome back honey” he greeted her, giving her a quick kiss on the lips. “how was the family reunion?” He asked, pulling out her chair for her to sit down.

Barbara sat and Adam pushed the chair back into place. “It was interesting as always. Like a pre-thanksgiving.”

He took a seat, “Was there karaoke again this year? I remember last year when your uncles performed (song) and forced your dad to join in. That was amazing.”

“Oh of course there was karaoke, have you met the Andersons?” She joked. “Granny made us all sing (song). And mom had me and dad sing (song) with her. It was wonderful.”

“I wish I could’ve gone, but I had already told Jess I’d help her move.”

“It’s no problem, babe. But they did miss having you around. You’re everyone’s favorite in-law, whether they admit it or not.”

Adam beamed, “Well I can't wait to see them at actual Thanksgiving.” They were going to do Thanksgiving at the Anderson’s this year and Christmas at the Maitland’s.

The two began eating the spaghetti Adam had prepared. They fell into a comfortable silence.

“Oh I forgot to ask how Jess was.” Barbara spoke up, totally not avoiding a topic.

“She’s doing well. I think she plans on proposing soon, which isn’t that much of a surprise considering her and Abigail are moving in together.”

“Aw that’s sweet.” She smiled, definitely reflecting on when Adam proposed to her.

“Jess actually brought something up yesterday.”

“Oh? What was it?”

“Well she asked the question as usual, but this time she was adamant about my answer.”

“Oh” she said quietly.

“She asked why I was scared to be a parent and when I answered, she told me that I was insane.”

“Well what was your answer?”

“I told her that I wasn’t afraid, I just didn’t want to raise a kid in a crumbling society. And she brought up a good point.” He sighed, placing his fork down, his spaghetti long forgotten. “Barbara, if we keep waiting for the world to be perfect, we’ll never have a kid.”

“Wow okay, my parents brought up a surprisingly similar point.”

“Do you think they conspired against us?” Adam asked, glancing around the room as if they were being watched, earning a small giggle from his wife.

“Dad said that things will never be easy and that there’s no true way to be ready for parenthood. But what really stuck with me was when he said ‘The world will never be perfect enough for your kid, but you can take the steps to make sure they enjoy the world even with its faults.’”

The couple fell silent for a few beats.

“Barbara?” She answered with a hum. “Do you want to have a child with me?”

“I- yes!” She grinned.

“But like not right now, right?”

“We should finish dinner first.”

“Oh okay wow, we’re just jumping right into it.” He awkwardly cleared his throat.

“We don’t have to do anything tonight, honey.”

“I just- this time it’s for real. It should be special right?”

“What’s more special than a home cooked meal?” She asked somewhat jokingly.

“I love you so much” he smiled squeezing her hand from across the table.

“I love you too so much.”

-

The couple ended up not trying that night, but they were sure to try time and time again in the following month(s). One day she took a pregnancy test and boom that shit was finally positive.

At the start of her second trimester, they told their immediate family about Barbara’s pregnancy. At the (?) week mark, they threw a baby shower. It was wonderful. And on March 7 of (year), Connor Maitland was born!!

-

The boy was almost 15 and in his last semester of freshman year. While he was at school, Barbara and Adam were cleaning the house. They weren’t necessarily expecting guests, but the place was due for a good cleaning. Music played on the radio that was placed on the stairs to better filter the music throughout the house. The Maitlands sang and danced along to the music. Adam stepped on a creaky floorboard and called out to Barbara to put fixing it on their to do list. He continued on with his cleaning, sweeping. Barbara entered the living room, a slower song now playing on the radio. She giggled at the sight of Adam slow dancing with the broom.

“Mind if I cut in?” She asked, looking from the broom to her husband. Adam gave a cheeky smile, placing the broom against the wall. And so the couple danced, Adam taking the lead. As the song came to an end, Adam dipped Barbara. When he brought her back up, she kissed him. The two would have continued kissing if the next song didn’t start playing. It was an upbeat song, and just so happened to be a song that Adam had put on a mixtape for Barbara way back in the day. She claimed it was one of her favorite songs because it reminded her of him. They danced again, this time Barbara leading. She spun Adam out and the two danced separately for a bit. Adam shook invisible maracas to the music, making Barbara laugh. The two had the same idea, jumping towards each other to continue their dance. But alas the place they landed was where the creaky floorboards were, they sunk through the floor crashing into the basement.

-

The door creaked open, causing Connor to wince at the sound. He closed the door upon entry, allowing himself to focus on the loud music playing from the old record player. The track skipped a few beats, almost as if mimicking the young boy’s heart beats.

“Mom? Dad?” He called out, putting his book bag down by the door. He slipped off his shoes before walking away from the door, heading towards the kitchen.

He noticed the large hole in the ground, and his pulse quickened. He approached the hole, peeking down to see what his below their house.

The record stopped playing as the boy looked. Connor’s eyes grew wide, and the sudden lack of noise left him drowning in his own thoughts. He scrambled back from the gaping hole, hands over his mouth. The tears forming in his eyes burned. He shook his head, sputtering the word “no.”

With a shaking hand, he pulled out his phone. He called the police, detailing the situation. His clammy hands fidgeted with the hem of his shirt as he spoke, trying to find some sense of grounding.

Once he was done talking to the police, he called his aunt Jess. Technically his mom’s cousin Jane lives closer to them, but Jess was just a city out and he favored her over Jane. He held back his sobs as he spoke with her, but as soon as she said she was on her way, he hung up and allowed himself to mourn.

The boy sat down on the couch, curled into the fetal position. His sobs visibly shook his body. He had so many questions- namely how did this happen and why did it have to be his parents? His head pounded a sickening beat.

Connor didn’t watch when his parents’ bodies were taken away. He was barely responsive when the police asked him questions. His aunt Jess arrived and he felt like he finally found some sense of grounding. Her familiar voice was comforting. The police left because I make the rules. Jess sat down next to the crying boy, asking softly if she could touch him. Connor nodded and she wrapped her arm around him, a sideways hug of sorts considering his fetal position on the couch. He fell into her arms and she held him closely. The aunt and her nephew sat there for what felt like hours before the woman spoke up.

“Do you want to stay here?” She asked softly. Connor hesitantly shook his head no. Sure, he didn’t want to leave his home, but would it really be a home without his parents?

“Do you want to stay with me?” He nodded yes, unsure of where else he’d go. Sure, he could go live with either set of grandparents but he didn’t really want to leave his school district. He had already lost his parents, he didn’t need to lose his friends too.

“Are you ready to go now?” Connor didn’t respond. He felt like he’d never be ready. But he needed to get out of his house, the air felt heavy and contaminated by the happy memories he had of his parents. Jess didn’t rush him to answer, just softly rubbed circles into his back. Connor eventually nodded and she tapped his back twice, signaling to him that she was getting up, before retracting herself from him and standing up. Jess offered him her hand and pulled him up onto his feet.

The aunt guided her nephew out of the house, grabbing his book bag by the door. And with that they left, Jess telling him that she would handle getting all of his stuff from the house so he didn’t have to go back unless he wanted to. He didn’t want to.

-

Grieving is hard. Attending his parents’ funeral was like finding their dead bodies in the basement all over again.

Connor hated the funeral. Hated how people he never knew pitied him. Hated how their condolences were rehearsed and repetitive. They didn’t care- not like he did. The only people there that truly cared about his loss were his grandparents and aunt. But that’s because the death of Adam and Barbara was the loss of their children and her brother.

The funeral was over soon enough, and Connor was able to continue on with his life. Well it wasn’t that easy. The boy drowned himself in tasks to distract from his pain. He picked up several hobbies, not quite enjoying any of them but forcing himself to continue doing them. After six months, Connor had pushed his emotions to the side so often that he almost felt numb when someone mentioned his parents.

-

Lydia Deetz’s mother died six months ago. Now here she was, having left the Big Apple for some small town in Connecticut. But the good thing about the new house was that it was haunted! Sure, the ghosts were very vanilla but they were sweet and still ghosts nonetheless. When she had gotten to know the ghosts, Adam and Barbara Maitland, they mentioned their son Connor. Adam asked Lydia when she would be enrolling into school, and meekly asked her if she would look for their son. Just to check on him, because they haven’t had any contact with him since they died. Lydia sympathized with Connor and was quick to agree to the Maitland’s task.

But before Lydia could even start to think about said task, a certain demon came into her life. That’s right. Lawrence Betelgeuse “Beetlejuice” Shoggoth. The bio-exorcist himself, the ghost with the most.

We all know how that story goes. Lydia summons Beej, all hell breaks loose, dance break, yada yada, knock knock knock, uwu family, another dance break, Beej goes back to the netherworld, shake shake shake Senora.

It had been a month since the Beetlejuice situation had been dealt with and it was time for Lydia to go to school. She was bummed to have to return to normalcy, or as close to normal as Lydia could achieve.

Lydia left out for school, reminding herself of her promise to the Maitlands. She was to find Connor and tell him of his parents’... situation. She would have to explain the whole being dead thing. Despite having come to terms with Emily’s death, a part of Lydia was jealous to know that he would get his parents back and she couldn’t get her mom back. She knew it was wrong to feel that way, but she was only human after all.

-

Lydia looked down at the picture in her hand one last time before pocketing it. It was a picture of Adam, Barbara, and Connor. It had a note on the back that the Maitlands wrote for their son. Lydia had studied the boy’s face all weekend, having looked at several pictures with Adam and Barbara.

She walked through the hallway, looking around. The school wasn’t too big, so she shouldn’t have too much of a problem. But there were still quite a bit of people. She continued toward her locker, listening in on conversations in hope of hearing his name.

It had reached the end of the day and Lydia still hadn’t seen Connor. She had given up hope for the day, deciding she should try again tomorrow because he may be sick or something. She walked down the hallway, disappointed that she couldn’t talk to him that day.

Lydia was walking on the sidewalk, passing the school. That’s when she turned a corner and bumped straight into the person she had been looking for. She had nearly fallen down from the impact but the boy caught her.

“I’m so sorry” they said in unison, laughing a little at their synchronization.

“I should’ve been paying attention.” He said, rubbing the back of his neck. The action reminded her of Adam.

“I think we both could’ve been paying more attention than we were. But at least no one was injured.” She shrugged.

He nodded in agreement, smiling. He went to continue walking, but she cleared her throat. “You’re Connor Maitland, right?” She asked meekly.

“I- yeah? How do you- why?” He sputtered, understandably confused.

“I know your parents.”

“I think you mean ‘knew’” He mumbled, looking down.

“No, I know what I said.”

His head jerked up. “What- you- huh?” He subconsciously pushed up his glasses.

“We have a lot to discuss, Connor.” She stuck her hand out towards him and he hesitantly grabbed it. They shook hands. “I’m Lydia Deetz.”

“We, uh, we can go somewhere to talk?” He hesitantly suggested. “There’s a bench not far from here.” He nodded in the direction of the bench.

“Lead the way” she smiled, motioning for him to go.

They sat down on the bench. Connor wrung his hands together, mind racing as he waited for Lydia to speak. Another one of Adam’s mannerisms, she noted.

“Long, medium, or short version of the story?”

“Uh, medium I guess” he shrugged.

“Good choice.” She nodded before jumping right into the story. “I moved into your old house with my dad and Delia, just a week ago or so. We’re from New York, but that’s not important right now.” She cleared her throat, deciding not to talk about Emily. “Your parents are ghosts.” She said bluntly.

“What?” Connor muttered, furrowing his brows.

“They tried to scare my family out of the house. But it really didn’t work. I tried to help them scare my dad so we could go back to New York. But he couldn’t see Adam and Barbara, and he didn’t believe me. Adam, Barbara, and I decided to come up with a plan to scare my dad and Delia. They were planning a dinner party, so we decided to cut in on that. It was great. Adam and Barbara were able to possess the guests and had everyone sing Day-O. It wasn’t exactly scary, but it was just up their alley. But that didn’t work. It just made dad want to stay more. He wanted to profit off the house. Some stuff went down, like a lot of convoluted stuff that I’ll tell you later. I don’t want to overwhelm you.” Too late. “Point is, now we all live like one big family. Adam, Barbara, Delia, Dad, and me.” She smiled. “Anyway, your parents asked me to try to find you, to let you know they were still around. They miss you, a lot. This weekend we went through scrapbooks and they told me a lot of stories about you. Oh! Speaking of..” she trailed off, reaching into her book bag. She pulled out the picture of Adam and Barbara with Connor. She handed it to him. “There’s a note for you.”

Connor read the note, and began tearing up. Lydia wondered what the note said, having previously decided to not snoop despite her curiosity.

“I don’t know what to say” he said quietly, taking off his glasses to rub away the tears falling from his eyes.

“You don’t have to say anything- not until you’re ready.” She shrugged.

Connor closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He sniffled as his tears slowed to a stop. He placed his glasses back on his face.

He slipped the note into his jacket pocket, sighing. “Thank you- for bringing me the note, for talking to me, for giving me time to process everything. Just. Thank you, Lydia.”

“It’s no problem, Connor. I’m just glad you actually took time to listen to me and didn’t just write me off as some crazy person.” She said with a small laugh and he smiled.

“Can I give you a letter to bring to them tomorrow? And can you tell them that I love them.”

“You could always come over” she suggested. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Or if you need more time-“

“No no, I would like to see them”

“Then you should be able to see them.” She shrugged.

“Okay nice. Just ask your dad if I can come over tomorrow, and we can walk together after school. I know Aunt Jess will let me go, as long as I don’t give her all the details of course. She’ll just be glad I’m finally hanging out with someone outside of marching band practice.”

She smiled, “That’s fair.”

He looked down at the watch on his wrist. “Oh I gotta go. Again, thank you.” He stood up, pulling his book bag onto his shoulders. “Bye, Lydia!” He said before running off.

“Bye, Connor!” She called after him. He gave her a backward wave before turning the corner.

Lydia pumped her fist in success. She grabbed her book bag and headed home.

-

She placed her book bag by the door, taking off her shoes. “Adam! Barbara!” She yelled up the stairs. “I’m home!” She would’ve been quieter, but her dad was at work and Delia was out shopping so she didn’t have to worry about them complaining about her shouting.

The ghosts flew down the stairs, tumbling to a stop in front of the teenager. Lydia laughed, “why don’t you just go through the floor and ceiling?”

“Feels weird” Adam shrugged. “But that’s not what’s important.” He started.

“Did you talk to him?” Barbara asked, clearly excited for the answer.

“Yeah!” Lydia smiled.

“How’d it go?” Adam asked nervously.

“He didn’t freak out when I explained the situation to him. He cried at the note you wrote him and said he wanted to write a letter back to you. But I invited him to come to the house tomorrow- if that’s okay with you guys.”

“Of course it’s okay!” Barbara celebrated with Adam.

“Wait, we should ask your dad- or Delia.” Adam said, earning bids from his wife and Lydia.

“Dad will definitely say yes to Connor coming over. Ever since we went to the Netherworld, he’s been all soft when it comes to family things. But don’t tell him I told you that.”

“Our lips are sealed” Adam joked. In unison, him and Barbara pretended to zip their lips. However, Adam’s lips became actual zippers.

Lydia and Barbara laughed. The visual joke reminded Lydia of Beetlejuice but she wouldn’t say so. The man reverted his lips back to normal.

“Honey, that was terrible.” Barbara said, shaking her head.

“You loved it” He teased, poking at her side.

She swatted his hand away, giggling. “Maybe I did.” She shrugged, regaining composure.

Lydia smiled at the couple’s soft antics, despite the teenager daughter in her telling her to pretend to be disgusted. “I can’t believe you’ve figured out advanced dad jokes.”

“Can’t wait to annoy Conn with them.” He beamed. Barbara smiled softly at the sentiment, rubbing his arm endearingly.

“He’ll love them” she said quietly.

Lydia didn’t want to encroach on their moment which was clearly personal, but wasn’t sure if she should leave or not.

“I now have two children to bother with my dad jokes!” Adam pumped a fist into the air, clearing any of Lydia’s doubts on her presence in the room.

“Oh no” Lydia deadpanned, pretending to be upset by the notion.

“Oh yes. The dad jokes- or should I say rad jokes- are just getting started.”

“No, no, you should not say” Lydia shook her head, but was unable to prevent herself from laughing a little.

-

Lydia and Connor walked side by side on the sidewalk after school. Charles had, unsurprisingly, said yes to Connor coming over and Delia declared that she would make cookies for the boy (and Lydia of course). They walked in a comfortable silence- at least it was comfortable for Lydia. Connor was having a little breakdown over seeing his parents again. They were almost to the house when he finally spoke.

“Okay so how does this all work?” He asked suddenly, looking over to her.

“What?”

“My parents are ghosts” he said simply.

“Oh yeah, I suppose I didn’t really explain the whole being dead thing. I don’t know how all of it works, considering I’m not dead, but I can try to explain from our side of things.” She shrugged and he nodded for her to continue. “It’s really all just about the willingness to acknowledge the strange and unusual. Almost everyone just turns a blind eye when something odd happens, they move on. To put it simply: they don’t look, so they can’t see. I discovered Adam and Barbara in the house because I was raised to like the strange and unusual. Hell, I myself am strange and unusual. So, I was able to see them as ghosts.”

“All I have to do is want to see them? To believe they’re there?”

“I mean yeah basically.”

“And can I touch them?”

“Yeah they've been learning how to interact more with the living realm. Ghost time works different than our time, so while it’s only been a few days since they’ve been ghosts they’ve had plenty of time to practice being corporeal.”

“Have you met any other ghosts?”

“I met a demon, but I haven’t really been around the town enough to really try to find ghosts. Then again, there might not be any as all ghosts are to proceed directly to the Netherworld. Adam and Barbara just didn’t get the memo, and when they did, they didn’t want to leave.” She shrugged.

“I’m glad they didn’t.” Connor smiled.

They made it to the Deetz-Maitland house and Lydia opened the door for Connor to enter. She came in after him, closing the door.

Lydia walked passed him, cupping her hands over her mouth as she shouted up the stairs. “Adam, Barbara! We’re here!” From the kitchen Delia called for her to stop yelling. Lydia rolled her eyes.

The ghosts ran down the stairs, not wanting to overwhelm Connor by flying. The boy stared at his parents and they stared back, wondering if he could see them. Lydia gave Connor a thumbs up from over his ghost-parents’ shoulders.

Connor took a deep breath to calm his nerves but his breath was shaky. His eyes were starting to water. They looked the same as they had that morning when he left for school. They looked the same as they did when he saw their dead bodies in the basement- albeit cleaner.

“Hey kiddo” Adam said cautiously. His voice made tears fall from Connor’s eyes.

“We missed you” Barbara said softly, voice wavering as she wept.

“I mi-ssed you t-oo” his words broke as he cried.

The parents hugged their son, and they stayed like that for a while. Lydia left them alone, going to bother Delia in the kitchen.

They pulled from the hug, and Barbara held her son’s face in her hands. Tears stained the ghost’s cheeks. Her cold hand grazed his cheek.

“You’ve gotten so big.” Her smile was soft, almost sad.

Adam ruffled his hair, “You’ve got to stop growing kiddo, you can’t be taller than me.”

They laughed, but Connor didn’t push his dad’s hand away like he used. He relished in their presence.

-

-

and again that’s it. that’s all i wrote xx

[sometimesrosy]

Happy BFSN. I’ve had some issues. Namely my computer is about to explode (the battery is inflating) so I can’t use it. I’ve switched back to my old computer (I call her Granny Smith, since she’s an old apple,) which is creaky and the keyboard is dead and the hard drive is totally full... but I can’t access my icloud or files right now. SO I thought I’d find an old photo I took almost three years ago when I still had long hair (it’s now just below my ears) and I’d died it blue for our spacekids finally back on earth (that’s right this pic was during s5.)  I don’t think I’ve ever shared this crazy hair pic so enjoy. 

I’m also now homeschooling my kids and it’s A LOT more exhausting than I thought. On top of that, I’ve got another ghostwriting gig so I’m going to be writing about four hours a day. I may be slower than normal with getting asks answered because of this, but we’ve got a break coming up, so I’m guessing I will have time to make it up. If something dramatic happens on the show, don’t think I’m silent on tumblr because of that. It’s simply that I’ve got a shitton of work to do. And I must rest sometimes or I collapse and can’t get out of bed. 

[writingwitheli]

GrandMech

Most mechs were hard to function, even with experienced pilots.

They didn't move like people do, the mechanics don't really allow for that. You have to know the engineering intimately to clearly envision how the thing was going to react to your direction. Most pilots spend months learning their piece before going into the field. There were simulators, and for a while the board argued for mechs to be built in a uniform manner for faster learning.

But technology went a bit too fast for that. And the things were way too expensive to mass produce.

Grandma Katersfield knew this well. It was her life's work.

I mean she wasn't my grandma. But she kinda was. She was everyone's grandma, in a way. Most mechs these days still have her work in them, even if there were scraps rebuild around it. Some people called it practical. Pilots called it good luck. The engineers called it "Finally someone who knows what they're fucking doing."

When she passed away, in her garage (had she ever existed anywhere else?), the military held a funeral. Most of the planets held a funeral. The board, somewhere in their core-planet bunkers, held a meeting.

The war wasn't over, and we weren't winning. And we'd just lost our best engineer. It was a big fucking hit for morale. There were losses everywhere.

Presumably after sending a swarm of government drones through the property, the board very quickly touted "Katersfield's Final Work", and "The culmination of everything she's ever done". Some people pointed out the public images that showed how the thing was half-done. But enough people wanted hope that everyone gradually bought into the idea.

The board appointed Katersfield's daughter to lead the finalization of the thing. Ann wasn't exactly an engineer, but they knew how the public would read it. They gave her a team of their best to work with.

When construction was nearly done, the board officially announced that Katersfield's son-in-law would be piloting it. Everyone expected it; he was the only striped pilot in the family. But it hit the top of everyone's news anyways.

The public test run was expected to be simple, and broadcasted live as far as the outer-space colonies.

It… didn't go so well.

Okay, it went very badly.

I mean.

Bad.

What followed was a lot of media confusion. The board hastily tried to put the blame on over-eagerness. People were fired. We lost four moons while our squadrons re-evaluated their lives.

Mark and his husband, Will Katersfield, had a very public divorce. Some people argue it was the media pressure. Some people suspect that the board forced them apart. I think it was a long time coming.

For a while the board pushed forward other candidates. They ran competitions for new mech designers and engineers and electricians. Offered an absurd amount of money and resources. A lot of cool stuff came out of it, but nothing really compares to Katersfield's work.

It was three years after that when media went into a frenzy over a low-grade video of the mech doing cartwheels over the family farm. Fucking cartwheels, man. I can't even do those in my own body most days.

Every news ship went down there as quick as they could. A bunch of civilians, too. Granny says a board member actually showed up in person.

Everyone was immediately on Ann about it. She was the only one that really stayed on the farm. She knew the machinery well enough. And maybe she'd inherited the pilot skills of one of Katersfield's late spouses.

To the dismay of the board, Ann insisted that the pilot was Thoma, one of Will's children. The media went ballistic. Kids weren't even supposed to be piloting mechs in the first place.

Thoma gave an interview to their school teacher and described the sensation of piloting upside down as "even better than going all the way around the bar on a swing and then having Grandma's cookies with two scoops of ice cream!" Their wide grin with missing teeth was eventually made into metal-cards for soldiers to attach under their breast plates and remind them of home.

At some point, Ann made the mistake of admitting that she'd taken it out for a test-run while she was tuning up some joints (she hadn't been an engineer when this started. But things change).

The board came down hard. They publicly announced that Ann was the cartwheeling pilot, and further that she'd accepted a high raking military title with absurd honors and enough pay to buy a moon. They posted a date with a public countdown clock for her departure to the front lines.

Now the way Granny tells it; Ann didn't know about any of this until her neighbor came by with the milk and a congratulations. Granny would probably piss on the board if she still could. Don't let her try it.

Ann did go. She didn't have many options, really. Her bio-logs phrase the situation as "the board made a decision. I complied."

We pushed back the front by two whole planets. Ann wasn't much of a pilot; she spent too much time thinking, but the war pushed around her. Most of the time it only took a three second clip of her unnaturally smooth landing and quick gravity adjustment to a new planet. My old mech would take two minutes to land and readjust. A lot can happen in two minutes.

The official report says Ann died on Mitas 9. The board will probably censor this whole damn thing if I try to explain what happened, but just remember that official reports are. Well. Official.

The mech was commandeered immediately. They cleaned it up, threw on a new coat of paint, and put their highest ranking pilot in the hotseat.

Everyone was in a hurry to get back to it and have a plan ready before Ann's death was publicly announced. Yeru knew the schematics by heart and spent one month living with the mech every hour of every day to make up for lost time. The board went as far as making them legally exempt from standard reports. Yeru's bios were never made public, but you can pull them from the military archives in Section B. They clearly knew their way around a mech, and honestly seemed to be a good person as far as I can tell.

The board had seemingly learned from prior incidents. The Generals hosted a secluded military showing of the first test-run. Those archives are probably deleted, but all you really need to know is that Yeru never made it off the ground.

For a few months, the military looked into sabotage. Yeru's bio-post about the joints being "just plain creaky no matter how much I oil the thing" convinced a bunch of higher-ups that the mech had been swapped out or something.

I know. Creating a whole fake mech to replace it with? Somehow managing to swap the thing out with as much board, military, and media surveillance as it has? Absurd.

Also I'm sure you're well aware that plenty of good mechs have creaky joints. I hear you ran Sacrifice 2 for a while there. Lt. Jen complained about how loud that thing was for months after he shared a hangar with it near Osylus. Not sure if that was your time or not. I'm going to tell him it was, so he'll have something to complain to you about. When he does, ask him about the wardrobe cloning incident. I'm sure he'll know what you're talking about.

Anyways.

The news about Ann went public, and the board pushed it down the feeds with reports about a new Stealth Carrier that would move faster than a pilot-ship. It did. Everyone loved it. I'm sure it's shit compared to the last carrier you were on.

Thoma, meanwhile, had grown up and gotten their way through military school. It might seem strange to you now, but Thoma actually didn't touch a mech the first decade of their service. They had a few friends and plenty worshipers, but still hadn't officially earned enough stripes to be a pilot. The Generals wanted to make sure Thoma was knocked down enough to keep from getting big-headed about it. But Thoma didn't really care.

Thoma fought hard and studied harder. They proved themselves again and again. You can look up the public records of their medal-acceptance speeches. Every damn time they would say "This is a great honor. Can I trade it in for a mech?"

Pissed a lot of people off, but it was fucking hilarious if you ask me.

Eventually Thoma led a fairly large squadron and took a half a continent in a week. When I asked them about it, they said they had sent a text message to the Generals saying "I could've gotten all of it, if I had my own mech :,(". I know them well enough to know they probably actually sent a frowny-face emoji to the Generals. Don't do that. It's hilarious. But, Don't.

Probably.

For now, anyways.

The board reluctantly let Thoma break the mech out of some museum somewhere as a reward for their service. They weren't intending for Thoma to actually run as a pilot since Thoma had already gotten to be in charge of things. It would be a media mess, at best, a military loss at worst.

Thoma did a fucking backflip over live media.

Anyways the board and the Generals argued about it for a week, but eventually did the only thing they could do. They made Thoma a pilot. There were lots of assurances that Thoma would still be holding their responsibilities as Planetary Sergeant. No one cared. Thoma had done a fucking backflip; the Katersfields were at it again.

I'm told that week of debate consisted of at least fifteen other pilots trying the mech out and reporting up failures of various kinds. Don't worry about that, you'll do fine.

I'm sure you know most of the story from there. Thoma took Belet 5 through Belet 11, and some other smaller planets along the way. Majestic. War hero. Idol. Etc etc.

The board immediately pushed Thoma’s son, Madene, into the military and straight into pilot's school. They make a lot of dumb decisions, but even the board could see the pattern here.

You might not have read this about me, but I used to be an electrician. I worked on Thoma's team for a while. The Generals gave Madene special permission to visit us sometimes so he could learn the mech hands-on. He'd always wanted to be an artist or a planetary refurbisher. That was clear from the first day we met.

I'll tell you this now, it's not part of public record: Madene ran the mech just fine when it was just us around. Thoma would give some long drawn-out speech about minding your manners and being careful with her. It was their Grandmother's soul in that machine, after all. Madene didn't really listen, but the mech ran just fine anyways.

When Madene was nearing graduation, the Generals sent their scouts around to see how things were going. The mech ran straight into their drones and fell convulsing onto the ground.

It was a hard time for a while, Thoma was upset with Madene and Madene was embarrassed. There were lots of arguments, and the Generals tried to pretend Madene just didn't have enough experience as a pilot. The idea that Madene did it on purpose didn't get recorded, but it's what a lot of people assumed. I don't think that's what happened, anyways.

Madene tried really hard after that. He pushed himself in school, and as a result they let him try out a bunch of other mechs. He proved he could handle it just as well as some of our better pilots. He took Entrapment marching around the school-system planet four times.

Thoma tore their knee in a pretty brutal fight, and since they were nearing retirement anyways the board arranged for a public hand-off of the mech.

I used to talk to her when I worked. My old pilot - the one I worked electricity for before Thoma - had always been superstitious about this sort've thing. She used to spend a good half-hour reassuring it before she's let me do any work on it. I guess I'd picked up the habit. You might want to pick it up, too, if you haven't already.

I'd asked her to help Madene out. He'd worked so hard and I could tell Thoma was slowing down.

You might have seen the media of that. Afterward Madene was particularly… verbal. Even if you didn't see that, I'm sure you heard about what happened to him after. Don't be too harsh on him, it's really not his fault. We were all too hard on him.

All the media says the Generals did a lot of research and realized I was better suited as a pilot and they shifted me over. How that actually happened was… well. A little boring.

One of their scouts had caught me helping her move over so I could get a better angle at the spinal wiring.

Blah blah blah. I'm sure you know the highlights from there.

So here's where we get to the advice that was the whole point of this message:

I admit the public eye is a little difficult to get used to. Honestly I recommend you just ignore it. They'll say shit no matter what you do.

Don't call her by the name the board gave her. I know that's what you learned in school and in training. Don't do it.

Don't piss her off.

Be patient - her memory isn't what it used to be.

Don't tell her what to do. I read your file, you have a lot of experience. I know this will be the hard part.

If the mediacom switches to one of those awful family gameshows. Just. Let it happen. No, they do not get less annoying to listen to. Yes, she knows they're all the same.

The internal heating will be On when you're on any below-regulation temperature planet. I know you're from the outer colonies. I know that will be too warm for you. Get over it and try not to dress down too much; she's easier to maneuver when you're in layers.

The one exception to the above is her tune-ups and maintenance. She doesn't like it. She never does. We have four crews to make it easier and I still do it myself sometimes to help her get over it. You're going to have to get good at negotiating.

If you leave a battle with a sudden craving in your neurons for hot and hearty soup, go get some hot and hearty soup. She'll get stubborn with you next time if you don't.

Granny will take care of you from there.

-Captain Layfar

[wistfulcynic]

Self-Promo Sunday: As Soon Kindle Fire With Snow

I am terrible at self-promotion. I hate it. But I have recently begun making art for my fics, something I never used to do, so I thought I might re-post some of the older ones, with the art, so here we are. 

As Soon Kindle Fire With Snow is my contribution to last year’s CS Cocktoberfest, and I’m not gonna lie, it is smutty. That was pretty much the point. But it’s also the first time I experimented with writing the sort of modern-day magic that I hope will be the focus of my writing in the future. If you like my CSSNS fic The Very Witching Time and you don’t mind explicit smut, you might like this one. I wasn’t around for CSSNS last year and so this is kinda-sorta what I might have written for it if I had been. Only, you know, filthy AF. 

There’s also writer!Killian and a pretty egregious use of the snowed in trope, for people who enjoy those sorts of things. 

Rated very much E

Summary: Emma Swan lives alone and likes it that way. Still, she has needs. Needs that since she moved to the small town of Storybrooke have decidedly not been met. Then one snowy afternoon Killian Jones appears at her door, and Emma realises that he can give her everything she needs… and more.

Part 1:

When Emma moved in to the old blue house on the beach, the locals warned her that there was more to the place than met the eye. It was a big, creaky pile of a house, with the original weathered clapboard and the original oak floorboards and what Emma had been informed was the original cat.

“That house is almost 200 years old,” she’d protested to the adamant fishermen in the local diner. “It cannot possibly be the same cat.”

“Always been a cat in that house,” said one, and seeing Emma’s expression hastened to add, “Always been a black cat with a white tip on the tail. You can’t tell me that marking’s so common that it ain’t the same cat.”

“But how—” Emma had begun, then seeing their stubborn faces decided just to concede. Let them think what they liked. It hardly mattered to her.

The house suited her, though it was far too big for one person. It was proud and lonesome, much like herself, standing just at the tip of the cape, far enough from the village to afford the solitude she craved but not so far that she couldn’t get takeout from the diner and have it still be warm when she got home.

“That house likes you,” declared Granny of the eponymous Granny’s Diner. “Good thing too, it ain’t kind to those it don’t like.”

“I like it too,” said Emma. She normally avoided small talk but something about Granny’s no-nonsense, straightforward approach to communication appealed to her, and she found herself chatting more freely to the old woman than she had to anyone in years.

“Been a long time since anyone lived there longer than a month or two,” continued Granny. “House didn’t care for ‘em, sent ‘em packing. Can already see you’ll be different. Guess I should welcome you to Storybrooke, Miss Swan.”

Emma felt oddly touched. “Thanks,” she said, offering Granny a rare smile. “But please call me Emma, especially since I’m apparently going to stay. ‘Miss Swan’ makes me feel like I’m in trouble.”

Granny snorted a laugh. “You’ll fit right in round here, Emma,” she said. “Just be sure to take care o’ that house, and it’ll take care o’ you.”

Emma was more than happy to take care of the old house, sweeping the cobwebs from its corners, refreshing its faded and peeling paint, polishing its old wood until it shone. She enjoyed the work, backbreaking and mindless and soothing. Not only that, but —and she would have felt ridiculous trying to explain it— but she could swear she felt the house’s gratitude for her efforts, and its affection for her.

She even liked the cat. If she’d been asked, Emma would have called herself a dog person, appreciating the canine loyalty and devotion and wishing those qualities were more common in humans, but there was something endearing about this cat, with her little pointed black face, green-gold eyes, and expressive tail tipped with a star of bright white. She called the cat Hester. She had no idea where the old-fashioned name had come from, it had popped into her head one afternoon and seemed appropriate for a black cat in an old New England house. Hester was generous with her purrs, rubbed her sweet face on Emma’s hand when she wanted petting, supervised the renovations on the house and the cooking of meals along with most of Emma’s other activities, and could often be found curled up to snooze on a sunny windowsill or atop a woollen blanket in Emma’s lap on long winter nights.

Hester was also, Emma soon learned, a fine judge of character.

Continue reading on AO3... On Tumblr: Part One | Part Two

[lovemesomerafael]

Cinderella of Chicago Chapter 4  Part 2  The House

Chapter 1   Chapter 2  Chapter 3    Chapter 4 Part 1    Read it on AO3

Mrs. Forscher, you need to let Brian out of that room.”  Meg decided to try reasoning with the hideous old woman.  “This is a serious crime you’re committing here, and it’s only a matter of time before Brian’s roommates miss him and send help.  They know where we went.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, Meg dear. Remember, my address isn’t in the Craigslist ad.  And remember, too, even with my address and directions, you two had a terrible time finding my house.”  The woman’s voice was thin and cracked, and her attempt at a kind smile looked more like a threat, given the horrible state of her teeth.

“How could you possibly know that?”  Meg shouted, becoming more frustrated by the moment.

“Is it important?  I just seem to know things.  Now, shall we get this blood drawn so we can begin our work? I’d like to get a baseline level.”

“A baseline level of what?”

“Of the potion Brian is testing for me.”

“What!”  Brian shrieked.  “I’m not going to take any drug.  Forget it!”

“But you’ve already taken it, Brian, my dear.  In your tea.”

Both Brian and Meg let out horrified gasps.

“You drugged me?” He cried.  “What did you give me?”

“Why, that’s the best part,” the hag answered calmly and proudly.  “It’s my own formula.  It will make me young and beautiful again.  It’s finally ready.  I’m about to be free from this grotesque form!”  Her eyes glowed maniacally.  

“That’s…  That’s so many kinds of wrong…  You can’t test a drug on a prisoner in your house!  You can’t test a drug on a human without a metric crapton of informed consent!  And… And… Brian is already young and beautiful!”  Meg was pacing and waving her arms in her agitation.  “How would you even be able to tell if it’s working?”

“That’s not exactly how it works, dearie.  The boy is given the lebkuchen and we wait for it to achieve the right level in his blood.”

“What’s libkoo-  whatever you said?”

“Lebkuchen.  It’s what I’ve named my potion.”

“Well, how, exactly, does the potion make you young and beautiful if he’s the one who took it?”

“Is it important?  That’s just how it works.  Now, if you’re done proving to yourself that you don’t have a choice, shall we begin?”

Brian’s voice was low, almost a growl.  ”If the drug is in my blood, how does it get into you?”

The huge, ugly woman sighed. “You won’t like it.”

“I already fucking hate all of this, lady!  What are you planning to do?”  He shouted.

“My boy, I’m afraid I’ll have to have a transfusion of your blood once it’s achieved the right level of the potion.”

“Oh, hell no!”  Meg shrieked.  “No.  If you think I’m going to help you with any of this…”

“Oh, I know you will, dear Meg. But you’ll be all right.  Once the project is finished, you can go on your way.”

“I can go on my way? What about Brian?”

“Well…  I suppose I could let you take him with you.  He’ll be heavy, of course, but you can probably manage.”

“Listen to me, Mrs. Forscher-“

“Granny, please.”

“Mrs. Forscher, I demand that you explain what you mean by that.  Why won’t Brian be able to walk out of here?  Just how much blood do you need for this project of yours?”

“Why, all of it, of course.” The evil old hag’s creaky, cracked voice was perfectly nonchalant as she announced her intention to kill Brian.

Brian had to sit down.  He held his head and groaned.  “This can’t be happening.”

Meg had heard enough.  With a wordless cry, she ran down the hall, through the parlor, past the front door and began to search for a kitchen.  She was going to have to take her chances with a knife, or whatever other weapons she could find.  This insane old crone was planning to murder Brian!  

The kitchen was as spotless as the rest of the house.  As the old woman had said, there were knives there, and Meg chose the largest one she could find.  She found a rolling pin as she frantically searched the drawers, and took that with her, as well, as she tore back through the house to the hallway where Brian was imprisoned.  

Meg held the knife up, ready to stab down into the horrible hag’s chest.  “Don’t make me do this.  I don’t want to hurt you.  But I won’t let you hurt Brian, and I certainly won’t let you kill him.”

“I understand, my dear,” the old woman wheezed calmly.  “Do what you must.”

Meg took a deep breath and screamed as she brought the knife down as hard as she could into the woman’s chest.  Except it didn’t go in.  It was as though Meg was stabbing stone.  The knife made a bit of a hole in the ratty sweater she wore, and a tiny tear in the shapeless dress beneath, but simply stopped there.  Again, trying to hurt the woman had hurt Meg’s arm, but the woman did not react at all.  

“What the hell are you?”

“I am as you see me, Meg dear. Now, I’m afraid I really must insist that we get the first blood draw done.”

The woman who called herself Granny held out the small metal tray to Meg.  “Shall we?”

Meg was so shaken by what had happened that she simply dropped the knife to the floor and took the tray from her.  “I won’t hurt Brian,” she whispered weakly.

“Of course not, dearie. It’s just a simple blood draw.”

Brian, still sitting on the floor behind the grate, his head in his hands, asked, “What if we refuse? What if we just won’t do it?”

“That would prolong your stay, of course, but eventually you will help me with my project.  It’s why you’re here, dear.”

“Why would we help you, especially if it means you’re going to kill me?”  Incredulous, Brian rattled the grate in his frustration.

“You must eat, of course. And drink.”

“And you’ll just put more of this shit in my food or drink, right?”

“Of course, dear boy.” The harridan’s thin, cracked voice only made the hellish things she said more terrifying.

Brian looked down again, clutching handfuls of his hair.  

“Don’t even think about it, Brian.  We’ll figure something out.  I’m not helping this bitch kill you.  It’s not happening.”  

“Just… for now… maybe we should go along.”

“No!”

“Meg, it’s not like I haven’t had blood drawn before.  It’s no big deal.  There’s not a chance in hell we’re doing any fatal transfusions, but let’s just go along for now.  C’mon.”

He held his arm out through the grate.  For a long time, Meg just stood, holding the little metal tray, but didn’t move.

“Just do it, Meg.  It’s OK,” he said tenderly.  

They looked into one another’s eyes as she knelt in front of him, setting the tray on the floor.  “I’m not going to hurt you,” Meg said shakily.

“I know.  We’ll figure it out.”  Brian tried to smile reassuringly as Meg expertly tied the rubber tourniquet around his forearm.  

“At least you have great veins,” she sighed.

“You say that to all the guys.”

It took Meg less than a minute to fill the small vial on the tray with Brian’s blood.  She put the small bandage on where she’d punctured his skin and kissed it.  As she did, a tear fell from her eye onto his arm.  

“Don’t cry, sweetie.  We’ll be OK.  Promise.”  Brian smiled as best he could and squeezed Meg’s hand.  

“We will.”  It was a vow.

Meg stood and handed the tray, with the now-full vial, to the crone and snarled, “Now what?”  

“Now we take this to the laboratory.  Follow me.”

The woman shuffled down the hall and Meg followed, sending a backward look to Brian just before going into the parlor.  He blew her a kiss, but his eyes were troubled.

The laboratory was, naturally, in the cellar of the dark, creepy house.  The worn, splintered stairs emitted a chorus of squeaks and pops as the old woman and Meg descended, and after the dim gloom of the house, Meg was stunned to see that the cellar was brightly lit with fluorescent fixtures hung from the ceiling.  There was a long, L-shaped counter with shelves underneath, and modern electronic equipment for doing all sorts of blood analysis lined the surface.  Where had she gotten all this?  What did she do down here?  Beside a centrifuge was an assortment of beakers, flasks, and other glassware, with frames for supporting it over one of the several Bunsen burners.  The laboratory was clearly the source of the slight chemical smell in the house.  This was insane.

As strange and surprising as its presence was, the laboratory equipment wasn’t the most troubling item in the cellar.  That was the medical exam table, complete with several sets of leather straps, just beyond the counter full of equipment.  Meg felt a wave of nausea.  The table was as clean as everything else in the creepy house, but there were a few nicks in the shiny black padding, and more than one deep crease in the leather straps - clear marks of having been used.  

Meg tried to listen as the woman showed her how to use the centrifuge, and then to prepare the plasma for analysis. There was a small, odd-looking machine that appeared to have been taken apart and re-assembled slightly differently than originally intended, or perhaps made by combining two or more other machines.  Once a small amount of the plasma was placed in a tube and inserted in the machine, it was a simple matter of pushing a button and waiting until a number appeared in green LED on the readout panel.  

“Hmmm.  Forty-three,” Granny said, seemingly to herself.  “Interesting.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It’s simply a baseline.  Now we wait.  We’ll re-check in one hour.  Would you like some more tea?”

“You gotta be kidding.”

“No, dear.  I enjoy tea.  I think I’ll have a cup.  You’re welcome to explore down here if you like, or go sit with Brian.  Whatever you’d like.  I’ll be in the parlor.”  The old woman smiled her ugly smile and turned, making her way slowly back up the stairs.  

Meg looked over the counter and on all of the shelves, into a metal cabinet against a wall, and in every drawer of a short storage unit next to the cabinet.  There was an abundance of blood-drawing equipment: needles of various sizes, vials, alcohol wipes, rubber tourniquets, tubing, and collection bags like those used in blood banks.  Meg shivered with disgust.  But she also got an idea.  Grateful that she was wearing a sweatshirt, she hastily zipped it halfway and stuffed some vials and other items inside.  

Brian paced the room, looking out the oddly thick windows and trying to think of a way out of this. His cell phone had no reception anywhere in the room, no matter what he tried.  He heard the soft click of china in the parlor, but no voices.  He knew Granny was in there, because he’d heard her heavy tread and the grunts of effort she made as she sat.  He wondered what Meg was doing.

The evil hag grinned horribly as Meg entered the parlor.  “Have you decided to have some tea with me, Meg dear?”

“No, thank you, Granny,” Meg said, sitting on the overstuffed couch again.  “But I did want to talk to you.  To ask you to please reconsider.  This is not right.  Brian is young, and he’s a firefighter.  He helps people, Granny.  He’s a good man.  And he has a family who loves him.  Please don’t hurt him.  Please.”

“That’s very sweet of you. It’s nice that he has such a good friend to care for him.”

“Will you please reconsider?”

“I’m afraid not, dearie. Scone?”

Meg sighed and fought the tears of fear and frustration that threatened.  “No, thank you.  I think I’d like to go sit with Brian.  May I go into the room with him?”

“I’m sorry.  But you can talk just fine through the bars.”  Her creaky voice sounded as though she was speaking of nothing more than using regular plates rather than the good china.  “Go see him.  That’ll be nice for him.”  Again the hideous smile.

Meg stood carefully, holding her arms close to her body, then left the parlor.  She found Brian carefully examining the grate keeping him captive in the room.  “Anything?”

“These bars are solid. Who the hell installs something like this?”  He angrily shook the grate.  

“She may have done it herself. She’s got a full-on lab in the cellar. At this point, I wouldn’t put anything past her.  Who is she?  What is she?”

“No idea,” Brian shrugged, sitting on the floor on the other side of the grate from Meg had settled.  

She looked back toward the parlor and, seeing and hearing no sign of Granny, quickly unzipped her sweatshirt and shoved the blood draw supplies through the grate.  “Quick, hide these somewhere, but somewhere close,” she whispered.

Brian took the supplies and tucked them behind the open door, where they were out of sight but handy.

“What are we gonna do?”  He whispered.

Meg had kept one set of equipment, and positioned the items so that they were hidden unless the old woman stood right next to her.  “Give me your arm.  I need to draw another vial.  I have a plan.”

Brian stuck his arm through the grate without hesitation, and Meg drew a vial of blood as quickly as she could, stuffing it into a pocket of her sweatshirt.  

“OK, get rid of this stuff,” she said, pushing the used items through the grate.  Brian stuffed them behind a row of books in the nearby bookshelf.  

For the next hour, Brian and Meg sat on the floor together, quietly talking.  Meg whispered her plan to him, and when Granny didn’t appear right away, they drew another vial of his blood before the hour was up.  Brian hid the vial with the rest of their secret supplies behind the door.  For the rest of the time, they tried to keep each other’s spirits up as best they could, making feeble jokes and talking about pleasant things.  With a confidence they didn’t really feel, they made a date to go to the next Adler After Dark event at the planetarium.  They didn’t even care what the program would be; they knew it was always their kind of event and they’d have fun no matter what, because they’d be together.

“And afterwards,” Meg said, squeezing Brian’s hand, “we can go to my apartment and have RumChata and make out.”

“I’d like that,” he replied, giving her the best smolder he could under the circumstances.  “And maybe if I let you win at BattleGround Jupiter, I’ll get lucky with the ruler of Jupiter and all its moons.”

“I think that’s a distinct probability,” Meg told him, looking into his eyes.  

“That does it.  We’re getting out of here.”

At exactly the one-hour mark, the crone shuffled into the hall, making a short trip into the other room to retrieve the little metal tray before bringing it, complete with fresh supplies, to Meg.  She stood, saying nothing, as Meg drew another vial of blood from Brian.  Again Meg kissed the bandage when she was done, feeling terrible about being any part of this horror.  Brian gave her an encouraging grin and actually found the courage to wink.  “It’s OK, sweetie.”

Meg smiled sadly and stood up. “Should I put this in that room?” She asked, holding up the little tray.

“Oh, thank you, dearie.  That would be lovely.”  

Meg put the tray on a small dresser in the room that was covered with boxes of supplies, including a container for used needles, into which she dropped the needle.  Then she re-entered the hall, blood vial in hand, to follow the hideous old woman back down into the cellar.  Behind the hag, she pocketed the fresh blood and replaced it in her hand with one of the vials she’d secretly drawn earlier.

“Forty-four?”  The hag frowned grotesquely as the machine in the lab lit up with the result of this sample.  “That’s not good.”

“It isn’t?  What’s wrong?”  

“I was hoping the level would be at least sixty by now.  At this rate… I don’t know.  We’ll have to see.”

“Granny, this potion, is it dangerous?  I mean, will it hurt Brian?”

“Oh, no dear.  Of course, it’s all a bit academic, really, since I’ll have to sacrifice him in order to get the full transfusion.  But the potion wouldn’t hurt him.  Make him age a bit more slowly, be handsomer, I suppose. But it wouldn’t harm him.  It’s unfortunate, really.”

“Yes.  Unfortunate.”  If Meg hadn’t known it would be useless, she would have whacked the miserable old witch with the biggest flask on the counter.  

It was full dark now. There were old-fashioned lamps with glass shades on many tables throughout the house but, even with them lit, the house was still gloomy and spooky.  Brian and Meg continued to sit together on either side of the grate.  Granny had said that the next blood draw was two hours from the last one, so Meg and Brian had time to draw another two secret vials of blood for Brian to hide in the room where he was being kept.  

Each vial was small, so the total amount of blood she’d drawn from Brian was much smaller than would be taken, for example, when a person donates a unit of blood, but Meg was concerned about the vile old woman seeing too many puncture marks on Brian’s arms. Fortunately, he was wearing a long-sleeved flannel shirt.  Since the hag allowed her to explore the laboratory all she wanted, Meg had drawn a vial of her own blood, no easy task, and tried it in the machine, thinking that might be a way to fool the crone into thinking her potion hadn’t worked. But the ugly old woman’s adjusting and fiddling with buttons and dials on the machine when she first showed it to Meg must have been to calibrate it somehow to Brian’s blood.  When Meg put her own in it, the screen showed an error message. So much for that idea.

Three more times through the night, the hideous hag made Meg draw Brian’s blood, and Meg went through the same steps to substitute an earlier vial for the fresh one.  The crone was becoming very concerned and agitated.

“It’s not working as well as I’d hoped.  The level just isn’t rising as I planned.  This is very disappointing.”

“Maybe Brian’s just not a good… subject, or whatever.  Maybe you should let us go and you can try again.”

“No, I won’t be able to do that,” she said in a wheezy tone of regret, but didn’t explain why.  Meg didn’t bother to ask.  It had been a longshot, anyway.

The hag tried to get Brian to lie on the daybed in his prison and sleep, and offered Meg a bedroom upstairs, but both refused.  “We’re staying together,” Brian said with finality.

The old woman shrugged and went back down the hall, apparently to her own bed, reappearing at intervals for new blood samples.  Meg and Brian leaned against one another, the grate between them, holding hands and giving each other what comfort they could through the seemingly endless night.  Neither slept, although they may have dozed from time to time.  

The next morning, the horrible old woman made Meg draw another blood sample.  Meg again switched the fresh one for an older vial.  They could keep the ruse up indefinitely, because Meg would give Brian the fresh sample whenever she could return to him after testing. It would give them more time, but eventually the drug, whatever it was, would reach the blood level the evil hag wanted.  Meg soon learned that wasn’t how it was going to go.

When Meg tested the morning’s sample, the crone scowled in frustration at the low result, but said, “Well, it can’t be helped.  The time is up.  It will have to be enough.”

“Wait, what?  I thought you needed a certain blood level!”

“Yes, dear, I would have liked a much better result.  But there is a window of effectiveness for the lebkuchen, you see, and it’s about to close.  It’s time.”

“NO!”  Meg cried, grabbing the woman’s arms.  “Please!  You can’t hurt Brian!  I won’t let you!”

“I know, dearie, this is all terribly upsetting,” the old harridan creakily said, patting Meg with a gnarled hand.   “Now.  Let me show you how these straps work.  Brian is a nice boy, but we can’t expect him to help with this part of the project, now, can we?”

Meg began to cry.  “I won’t help you kill him.  I won’t.”

“Of course not, Meg dear. You’ll just help me with the straps and then you can go.”

“No!  I won’t!  This is where it ends, you witch!  You can’t do it without me, and I won’t help.”

“I would prefer not to do it without you, it’s true.  And Brian would prefer that.  I will if I must.  That would be unfortunate, however.”  Her thin, wavery voice actually sounded almost sad.  

“What do you mean, Brian would prefer it?  He’d prefer not to die, lady.”

“Of course he would.  But if he must, he’d prefer to do it gently, rather than taking a more difficult route.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Meg was crying and shrieking in her anguish.

“I am very strong for my age, as you know.  So I can help Brian down to the laboratory and onto the table, but you see, dearie, I can’t both keep him there and attach the straps if he’s fighting me.”

“Well, that sucks for you, but I’m sure the hell not going to help you murder him!”

“So if I must do it all myself, Brian will need to be unable to fight me.”

Suddenly, Meg understood the threat.  “So you’re saying…  you’ll kill him first and then drain all his blood?”

“I’m afraid that’s my only alternative.  Which would be much more difficult for him than to simply fall asleep during the transfusion.”

“Pass out from blood loss, you mean, and then die!”

“Yes, dear.  Which is much nicer for him than the alternative.”

“Which is?”

“Is it important?  Just know that what I would have to do would be… unpleasant for him.”

In that moment, Meg knew what she must do.  She couldn’t stop the tears that flowed down her cheeks, or the occasional sob of terror. But she tried to calm herself as best she could.  “All right, tell me about the fucking straps, you evil bitch!”

Meg struggled and fumbled with the many straps on the exam table. Try as she might, she kept repeating that she could not figure out how to work them.

“Well, it doesn’t work the same when there’s nothing inside!  These work with pressure.  I can’t…” She purposely inserted the end of the strap incorrectly into the buckle again.  

It took quite a while, but eventually Meg was able to wear through the terrible old hag’s infuriating, oily patience.  The old crone began to be short with Meg, showing her for what seemed like the hundredth time how to fasten the straps.  Meg continued to do it wrong, and to express confusion about how they worked.

This was not in the plan. First the potion didn’t work as it should have, which meant that the result was not going to be what she’d hoped and she would probably have to concoct the potion all over again, and then find a new boy and girl to help her.  It was all very vexing.  And now this girl was proving completely useless at fastening the restraints.

“I can’t understand it – I can’t do it – without something inside!”  Meg wailed. “It just doesn’t make sense to me! I don’t see how the limb would go in…”

Finally, the terrible old harridan reached her limit with Meg’s incompetence.  Her wheezy, creaky voice rose to a thin howl as she snapped, “Oh, you stupid, stupid girl! Here!  I will lie on the table and I will tell you how to do each step as you go. Now, help me up.”

Meg, still crying, did the best she could to assist the very large woman to awkwardly, with much grunting and groaning, climb onto the exam table and lie down.  Then, the ugly witch talked Meg through fastening each restraint, one by one.  She was happy to see that the ridiculous girl was finally catching on.  With careful instruction, strap by strap, she was at last seeing Meg begin to understand as she worked the buckles.  With a sigh, the horrible old woman talked Meg through the last restraint.  

And realized, too late, that she’d been tricked.  

Meg tore the chain from around the crone’s neck, palmed the key, and ran up the stairs, having no idea whether the old woman would remain strapped down.  She threw the cellar door closed, having seen earlier that it was made of thick, shiny metal, with a wide bolt on the outside.  Meg assumed it was meant to imprison the witch’s victims in the cellar when necessary.  She hoped it would imprison the witch, at least long enough for her and Brian to escape.

She slammed the bolt home and rushed through the dim rooms of the house to the hallway, and used the key to unlock the grate, freeing Brian.  

“I hope the key opens the front doors,” Brian cried as they ran pell-mell down the hall, through the parlor, and to the door.

They key worked. Brian and Meg ran as fast as they could to his car, locking the doors as soon as they were inside.  As Brian sped down the driveway, Meg looked back at the house to see the hideous old woman emerge through the front doors, shaking a fist in the air and screaming in rage.  

Fear and desperation drove them to try everything they could to find their way out of the neighborhood. They didn’t know whether, at any moment, the horrible woman would come careening around a corner in the vintage Batmobile to recapture them.  

“I’m trying Siri,” Meg announced, taking Brian’s phone from the dash.  “Maybe we’ll catch a break.”  

They did.  For whatever reason, Siri guided them, straight and true, out of the lush neighborhood of estates and mansions and back to the real world.  Their first stop was District 21 headquarters, where they reported what happened to a room full of wildly skeptical detectives. Sergeant Voight laughed out loud.  The detectives looked their disbelief at one another.  But Sergeant Platt, who had escorted them up to the bullpen and then stayed to hear the incredible story, wasn’t so sure.

“Hank, I don’t think they’re making it up.”

“We’re not!”  Brian cried, holding up his phone with the Craigslist ad on the screen.  “I showed you the texts.  You see the needle marks.”

“All right, all right,” Voight said, holding up a hand.  “We’ll check it out.”

“Don’t go alone.  Take the whole team.  And big guns.  This woman…  she’s unbelievably strong, and she’s… there’s…  I wonder if bullets will even work on her,” Meg said, addressing this last comment to Brian.

“Come on, Otis, that’s-“

Brian cut Adam Ruzek off. “You weren’t there.  You’ll believe us when you see her.”

Having filled out at least a hundred forms and given formal statements, Brian and Meg headed home.  The witch was the Intelligence Unit’s problem now. They were both exhausted.  When they reached Brian’s car, they decided to prioritize the plan they’d made when they were imprisoned in the witch’s creepy house.  Although they hadn’t yet gone on their planetarium date, they would go to Meg’s apartment, have RumChata and make out.

Brian had offered to let Meg win at BattleGround Jupiter, but she was having none of it.  “We’ll play for real.  And this time, we’ll up the stakes even more than last time.”

“What’s better than kissing the ruler of Jupiter and all its moons?”  Brian raised an eyebrow, with a very intrigued grin.

“I’m glad you asked, young Paduan,” Meg laughed.  “Getting lucky.  Getting lucky with the ruler of Jupiter and all its moons.”