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[varunnehra]

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[kquil]

POLY MARAUDERS | HEROES IN TATTOOS PART 3

03 : GROCERIES

SUM. : you have a chance encounter with your heroes in an unlikely setting.

G. : modern au ; muggle au ; tattoo artist sirius ; tattoo artist james ; piercer remus ; innocent reader ; this is all very domestic ; very fluffy ; marauders being sweetheart ; r is clumsy

LENGTH : 1.5k

← PREV. : 02 | THANK YOU

“Is that who I think it is?” Sirius speaks up as Remus inspects the pricing of the brie in his hand. The mousy haired brunette doesn’t look up but James eagerly whips his head around to the direction Sirius points to and immediately smiles. 

“Hey Remus, look!” James nudges their tall friend in the side and quickly escalates to shaking his shoulder for attention. Remus finally looks after putting the brie in their shopping cart and smiles lovingly at the image of you reaching up to get a gallon of milk. You’re the perfect picture of domestic cosiness, dressed in an oversized grey sweater that reaches your mid thigh along with tall white socks and white platform sports trainers. 

“She looks so cute!” James squeals beside him and Remus nods in agreement, admiring your pretty legs and casual hairdo. 

“Let's go say hi lads!” Sirius is already approaching you mid way through his sentence and slings his arm across your shoulders when he finally reaches your side, “Hey Princess,” Sirius grins at your shocked expression which quickly morphs into a bright smile. 

“Sirius!” you beam up at the tattoo artist who affectionately presses a kiss to your forehead. Looking over his shoulder, your smile grows at the sight of James approaching you with Remus close behind, pushing along a shopping trolley, “James, Remus!” you give them an excited wave as you adjust the basket in your other arm, “Hello!”

“I see our angel’s up to some shopping,” James starts with his boyish grin as your cheeks heat up from the nickname, “Do you need help carrying that?” he reaches for your basket but you politely say you’re fine. He doesn’t protest but frowns, looking like a kicked puppy and only wanting to be helpful to you. He is at your disposal and eager to serve. The image of his pitiful eyes pulls at your heartstrings but you stay strong.

“Would you like to shop with us?” Remus asks, stealing your attention as he leans his forearms on the handles of the trolly and smiles sweetly at you, “You can help us choose what to have for tea tonight,” 

“You guys live together?” 

“Oh yeah, want to join the flat?” Sirius teasingly suggests beside you, “We have a spare room,” you laugh but shake your head ‘no’ which the tattoo artist snaps his fingers at and clicks his tongue in a comical ‘damnit’ display, “oh well,”

“So will you help us decide what to have for tea?” James pipes up and returns your attention to Remus’s original suggestion. 

“Why not?” you shrug your shoulders good naturedly, “It could be fun,” the three men cheer, bringing a smile to your lips. Even though they look intimidating from afar with their height, tattoos and piercings, they were all sweethearts deep down. 

The four of you go through each aisle, the boys gathering their household staples while you tick off the few items that were on the list you brought along so as to not forget anything. Remus managed to convince you to put your tray in their trolley so you weren’t weighed down and could move freely without having to burden someone else too much. The brunette was happy to push around the cart as it meant he stayed behind and could keep a better eye on the two men before him as well as yourself. 

Trying to be casual, you speak up as you inspect the prices of the tomatoes before you, “So…what would you guys like for lunch tomorrow?” The three men look at each other with questioning eyes but James quickly deciphers your question and practically hops in place after realising. 

“So, you mean you’ll come and bring us home made lunch tomorrow too?” James asks, the stars in his eyes appearing brighter through the light shining on his glasses. 

“Y-yeah,” you stammer softly, trying not to seem too timid. 

“You truly are an angel,” Sirius chuckles and leans into James’s side, who grins from ear to ear. 

“Are you sure it’s not too troubling for you?” Remus asks, not meaning to sound rude but is sincerely concerned that you’re going too out of the way for them. 

“It’s really no trouble at all. I have the time and I love cooking for other people too so I’m doing it for myself as well,” your answer seems to convince Remus enough and his tense shoulders ease from the assurance. 

“Then you really are an angel,” Remus shares a fond smile with Sirius as James huffs playfully. 

“That’s what I’ve been saying!” the glasses-wearing tattoo artist stresses, knowing that he was the one who gave you that nickname first. 

You giggled and reiterated your earlier question, “So? What would you guys like to have for lunch tomorrow?”

“Pasta,”

“Egg fried rice,”

“Burritos,”

They each answer separately and shoot each other a silent glare for burdening you with different preferences. But you just giggle and bring their attention back to you again, their expressions visibly soften at the sweet sound. 

“And for dessert?” you prompt. 

“Something with chocolate,”

“Treacle tart,”

“Victoria sponge cake,”

Again, they all answered separately and glared at each other, which made you giggle once more. In some ways they were different but in other ways, they were the same. 

Sirius and James had insisted on going down each aisle so that they don’t miss anything from their list and can pick out stuff that they changed their minds on getting. Like the kind person you were, you agreed and followed them through the store as Remus chuckles to himself, already used to their antics. He knows them and knows all their hidden motives. James and Sirius were usually the first to start complaining about being in the store too long but they wanted to spend more time with you. It wasn’t necessary and was probably a waste of your time but, despite usually being the one to keep them from stepping out of line, especially when it comes to other people, Remus turned a blind eye. With this particular scheme, he approves; he wants to be around you for longer as well. He can be quite the greedy and mischievous person himself. 

You had a shopping list that you planned on sticking to faithfully so that you don’t go over your budget for the week. However, that didn’t stop you from freely examining things that caught your eye in passing, especially when the four of you entered the snacks section. The boys have already picked out their favourite snacks and had immediately seen you looking at an assortment of chocolates, a pack of jelly, soft sweets and a box of cereal bars. 

From the silence, you notice that the boys have finished picking out their snacks and smile sheepishly at them. You quickly put back the items that briefly caught your interest and slowly led the way out of the aisle. Behind you, James takes several bags of the jelly and soft candy you picked up and put them in their cart. Sirius, followed along with putting a few boxes of the cereal bars you picked up into their cart too. And Remus nonchalantly put a larger box of the assorted chocolates you eyed up into their trolley. If you weren’t getting it, they were getting it for you and, of course, not just one packet will do. 

It wasn’t until you had finished checking out your items and were waiting for the boys to check out theirs that you noticed an additional bag that they kept separate from the rest of their shopping. 

“What’s that?” you asked as James handed over the bag. 

“Just a little something for our angel,” he grins. When you look in the bag, you gasp and turn to the three men with wide eyes, mouth agape. 

“You didn’t have to you guys,” 

“We wanted to so please accept it,” Remus assures as you smile. 

With a swell of bravery, you move forward to thank them properly with a racing heart and heated cheeks but trip over your undone laces. You yelp and don’t fall too far before James catches you in his arms, steadies you and drops down to a knee where he proceeds to tie your shoelaces up for you. 

“Careful there, love,” Sirius voices, hand on his chest to slow his panicked heart, “you had my heart ready to leap out my chest there,” he laughs good-naturedly at the flustered expression you pull. There was a silence that followed as James finished tying your shoelaces but from the corner of your eye, you witnessed Remus with an endearing smile on his lips, muttering something to himself softly, “What was that Moony?” Sirius asks, catching onto the brunette’s muttering as well. 

James stands back up and affectionately pats your head as you all tune into Remus’s contemplation, “Her little squeal,” Remus voices with a slight chuckle, “it was really cute,” he smirks at you as he rubs at his bottom lip with a finger and heat crawls up your neck. 

Sirius hums in agreement and laughs boisterously, “it was really cute, wasn’t it?” he winks at you and James presses a kiss into your temple. 

“Our cute angel,” he mutters against your skin, smirking at the heat he feels radiating from your cheeks. 

A/N : sorry that this is much shorter than the previous chapter but i thought i'd keep it short and sweet before i open up requests for this au. i also never anticipated that i would turn this into a series so i'm all out of ideas and will be working with your requests on this au from now on

→ NEXT. : 04 | DISAPPEAR

NAVI. | HEROES IN TATTOOS SERIES

TAGLIST : @melinajenkins @astonishment @until-i-found-you @goodoldfashionedluvergirl @tiensmamains @celestcies @lovelydoveval @inlovewithremusjohnlupin @calums-betch @futurecorps3 @hihihi1112 @simpingforthe80s @yrluvjane @susyelectra @fangirlninja67 @pagesfalling @thepunisherfrankcastle @axeofwars @imarimon @justkiyomi @in-love-with-4-marauders @chicken-taco-burrito @valencia-rou @feast0nmeee @lestat-whore @hvmxjjk @twilightlover2007 @ghostgardn @diaryofabiwoman @woohoney @celestialfantasiess @willbedecided @lovelyygirl8

[holylulusworld]

Flowery peace offering

Summary: You are not in the mood for bad jokes.

Pairing: Lloyd Hansen x Pregnant!Reader (girlfriend)

Warnings: a lil angst, pregnant reader, redemption, Lloyd being a horny bastard (implied)

Catch up here: Plant Theft

A/N: Please consider I mostly do not write canon Lloyd.

“Come on, cupcake. You need new clothes,” Lloyd tuts. “I won’t tell you twice. I took a week off to take care of you.”

You’d rather stay at home, snuggled in your favorite blanket. “It’s the least I can expect after you were away for almost a month. I had to go to the latest ultrasound alone.”

Lloyd sighs deeply. You pout and cross your arms over your grown belly, pushing your tits up. His eyes darken, and he cups his crotch.

Since he got to know that you are pregnant, he’s horny all the time. Not that he wasn’t a horny bastard before you got pregnant.

“Cupcake, if you keep on presenting the goods on a silver plate, we will never make it to the boutique. Now, get up and in the car. You’re wearing one of my shirts and sweatpants.”

“But…but…it’s comfortable and I don’t wanna go shopping,” you stick your tongue out. “I only wanna sit here and have a snack. Maybe you are allowed to cuddle me too.”

“Cuddle you, huh?” He grins, as his eyes drop to your cleavage again. Lloyd licks his lips and hums. “Muffin, we will go shopping. No discussion. If you don’t get up, I’ll carry you out of the house.”

You grumble under your breath but push the warm blanket off your body, revealing your baby bump to your boyfriend. He sucks in a breath and curses. “Damn, you look ready to get eaten.”

“Help me up,” you mutter as Lloyd is busy staring at your tits and belly. “Lloyd, help me up. I can’t get up today.”

He snickers at your predicament. The sofa is too comfy, and you don’t have the energy to get up on your own. “Aw, look at my pretty muffin stuffed with a sweet Lloyd filling…”

“No…just no,” you hate looking in the mirror today. You love your baby bump and feeling the new life growing in your belly. But today you don’t feel comfortable trying new clothes on. “It doesn’t fit. It’s too small.”

“The changing cubicle or the pants?” Lloyd jokes.

“What?” You poke your head out of the changing cubicle to glare at Lloyd. “Did you really just say that? How dare you! I didn’t want to come here and try stupid pants on.”

You shove the pants down your thighs, wiggling them down to throw the fabric at Lloyd.

“Muffin, I tried to be funny!” Lloyd raises his hands in surrender while you throw all the clothes you want to try on at him.

“I’m done here,” you grunt. “I won’t try more clothes on. I want to go home right now!”

“Cupcake? Muffin?” He steps toward the changing cubicle. “I didn’t mean it that way. Baby? Y/N?”

“Forget it!” You storm out of the changing cubicle, walking past Lloyd. “I will never talk to you again.”

Lloyd pokes his head inside the bedroom. “Baby muffin? Cupcake?” He sighs deeply. You didn’t talk to him for almost five hours. “You know that my humor is not for everyone. Cupcake, you are beautiful to me. Even more, since you are having my baby.

You pout and refuse to look at Lloyd. “Go away.” You snap at him. “I don’t want you near me tonight.”

“I got something for you, wait…” He opens the bedroom door to push a serving trolley filled with plants into the bedroom.

“What?” You glance at the plants and flowers on the trolley. “You can’t buy my forgiveness with flowers.”

“Plants, muffin,” he corrects. “Look, I know my joke wasn’t funny. I didn’t want to hurt you, baby cakes.” Lloyd turns around to walk back outside only to carry a huge flower hamper inside. “I got more, wait…”

“Lloyd,” your eyes get glassy seeing all the plants and flowers Lloyd carries inside the room. Within a few minutes, the room is filled with plants and flowers. “What did you do? Be honest.” You push the covers off you to kneel on the bed. Looking at all the plants and flowers you frown. “Lloyd, did you rob a flower shop?”

“Muffin, I’m not a criminal,” he tuts. “Maybe I threatened another customer because they wanted to buy one of the plants I wanted. But that’s all.”

“Hmmm…you are not forgiven,” you point your index finger at Lloyd. “But I accept your peace offering. Raise me to food, and you are allowed to share the bed with me.”

Lloyd grins. He gives you a wink before jumping on the bed. “Does this include letting me eat your sweet muffin?”

“We will see…”

[ltash]

Make a wish

You celebrated your birthday with Ghost and TaskForce and you wished for nothing but him.

"To love is nothing. To be loved is something. But to love and be loved, that’s everything."

After Captain Price and his team finished breakfast, you settled in the living room. You brought the tea trolley over and made them tea, handing a cup and saucer to everyone.

"Thank you, kid," Captain Price said as you served him.

You gave tea to Soap and Gaz too. "Ghost, you want tea?" you asked.

"Sure," he replied.

You handed him a cup as well. "Yer hoose is braw, and it's right lavish an aw." Soap admired.

"English Mctavish." Ghost facepalmed.

"I said your house is lavish and its nice." Soap explained.

"Thank you. My father built it. I'll give you a home tour once you guys finish your tea," you offered.

"She is a master in archery aye. She has horses too. She can shoot an arrow right at the aim while riding a horse," Ghost added.

"That is impressive, Nora," Gaz admired.

"Thanks. I will show you how I do it," you promised.

"Oh, I forgot," you said, suddenly remembering. "I did some shopping and the bags are still in the car. Let me fetch them."

As you made your way to your car, Ghost followed you. "The guns you bought, let me take them inside," he offered.

You opened the car doors and took out the bags while Ghost grabbed the gun cases. Together, you walked back inside.

You handed over the bags to each one of them. "Soap, this is for you. Kyle, that's one for you. This one's for Simon and Captain Price," you said, distributing the gifts.

"Thank you so much, lass," Soap said rummaging through the bag.

"Are ye pullin' ma leg? how much did ye spend on thae things?" He asked.

"Well! That is none of your business. Gifts don't come with a price tag." You folded your arms on your chest.

"Thanks, Nora, but you didn't have to put in so much effort," Kyle added, looking genuinely touched.

"Thanks, kid," Captain Price mentioned, nodding appreciatively.

"Don't mention it. I went shopping and thought, why not grab something for you guys?"

Ghost placed the gun cases down on the table. "She bought these too," he added.

Ghost opened the gun and sniper cases in front of everyone, revealing the impressive weapons inside.

"Whoa! A sniper! Are you kiddin' me?" Soap exclaimed, eyes wide with excitement. "Whit will ye dae wi' a sniper?"

"I like snipers, plus Ghost is here. He’ll teach me before he goes back. He taught me a couple of days ago," you explained with a grin.

"Wow! This is one o' the best snipers in the world," Soap said, admiring the sleek design. "Thank ye so much."

"Yeah, Ghost recommended it to me, so I got it," you said, glancing at Ghost.

Soap looked over at Ghost in disbelief. "Weel, LT himself disnae hae a sniper like this. It's much better than the ones he's got."

You smiled. "Well, now he has it."

Ghost shook his head. "No, I don't. And I don't want it anyway," he said quietly.

Soap chuckled. "Yer loss, LT. This is a beauty."

Ghost simply shrugged, the rare softness in his eyes replaced by his usual stoic expression.

"Why? It's a gift from me to you," you said, looking at Ghost.

"If you had mentioned it when you were buying it, I would have never let you get it in the first place," Ghost replied. "It's too expensive."

You shook your head. "Gifts don't come with a price tag. Captain Price, please make him understand."

"Take it, Ghost," Captain Price said, nodding.

"I can't, Price," Ghost insisted, shaking his head in disapproval.

"Okay, then throw it in the garbage, will you?" You snapped, shutting the sniper case with a bang. Your lower lip started quivering, and tears welled up in your eyes as you ran upstairs.

"You broke her heart, LT," Soap said, his voice filled with disappointment.

You closed the door and fell face-first onto the pillow, tears streaming down your face. It was so embarrassing and disappointing at the same time. Your sobs filled the room, muffled by the pillow.

A soft knock on the door interrupted your crying. "Open the door, love," Ghost said in a gentle tone.

For a moment, you hesitated, your emotions swirling inside you, but then you slowly got up and walked to the door.

You opened the door, still feeling annoyed and hurt. "What do you want?" You said, your voice tinged with frustration.

Ghost came inside and closed the door behind him. He walked over to your bed and sat down, he pat his thigh and opened his arms for you gesturing for you to come sit on his lap.

For a moment, you stood there, conflicted, but then you slowly walked over and allowed yourself to be enveloped in his comforting arms.

"You cryin', love?" Ghost asked softly.

You wiped your tears hastily. "No," you replied, trying to regain your composure.

"Hmm, I see," he said, his gaze understanding.

"Why did you embarrass me in front of your team?" You asked, your voice tinged with hurt.

"You got it for yourself, love. That's why," he replied simply.

"I can get another one for myself," You insisted.

"Okay, I'll take it, but only on one condition," he said.

"What condition exactly?" You asked, curious.

"You'll have to take mine. I'll teach you how to use it. It's smooth in my hands," he explained.

"Okay, deal!" You agreed, offering your hand to shake, but he surprised you by kissing your knuckles.

"Come, let's go downstairs," he said, taking your hand gently.

"Ghost!" You called out as he turned to leave.

He looked back at you. "Yes?"

"Do you still have your navy blue uniform, the one you wore when I saw you for the first time?" You asked, still holding his hand.

"Yes, but why do you ask?" he inquired.

"Will you wear it for me on my birthday? You look so good in that. I'll unwrap you as my gift," you said, giggling at the thought.

"Yeah, sure, but get ready to explain why I'm wearing it to my team, especially Price," he chuckled.

"Leave it to me. No worries," you assured him, and you made your way downstairs.

"Did you change your mind, LT?" Soap asked as you entered the room.

"Yes," Ghost replied, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Good," Soap said, nodding in approval.

Meanwhile, you glanced into Captain Price's eyes, seeing a mixture of curiosity and intrigue reflecting back at you.

You led them to the back of the house where your horses were stabled.

"Meet Arther and Elfie," You introduced Soap to your beloved companions.

"Such bonnie horses," Soap remarked, admiring their beauty.

Next, you demonstrated your archery skills, drawing back the bowstring with precision and releasing it with practiced ease. Captain Price watched intently, a glint of admiration in his eyes.

"Remarkable," he exclaimed, genuinely impressed by your proficiency.

Ghost retrieved his sniper rifle and handed it to you. "Try it," he encouraged.

You hesitated, feeling the weight of the weapon in your hands. With his guidance, you took aim, your finger hovering over the trigger. The rifle trembled slightly as you pulled, but you managed to hit the target, albeit not as accurately as you had hoped.

"It's not easy," you admitted, feeling a twinge of disappointment.

"But you did well, considering," Ghost reassured you, his tone encouraging.

You smiled gratefully, grateful for his support.

As the evening descended, the cake was delivered, marking the beginning of your birthday celebration. Your house help had meticulously arranged all the decorations and table settings before bidding you farewell for the night.

Meanwhile, Captain Price took the opportunity to discuss their upcoming mission with his team, their voices low and serious as they strategized.

Feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness, you retreated to your room to change into your birthday dress. The corset that came with it proved to be a challenge as you struggled to zip it up on your own. Frustrated, you knocked on Ghost's door, hoping for assistance.

He opened the door, and your jaw dropped at the sight before you. He had changed into the navy blue uniform, looking incredibly attractive in it.

"What happened?" he asked, noticing your expression.

You entered his room and closed the door behind you. "Simon, can you please help me zip my dress? I can't reach it," you requested, feeling a rush of embarrassment.

Standing in front of the mirror, you were almost ready, the dress clinging to your figure. He stepped behind you, his presence towering over yours. The corset accentuated your petite frame, making you feel even smaller in comparison.

His gloved hand brushed against the bare skin of your back as he took hold of the zipper, and you sucked in a breath at the unexpected sensation. Your heart raced as you felt the warmth of his touch, his closeness sending shivers down your spine.

He zipped up your dress smoothly, his voice breaking the silence. "You're good now," he said softly, his words lingering in the air between you.

"Thank you," you murmured gratefully as you turned around. He put his index finger beneath your chin and tilted your head up meeting his gaze.

"Ready to be be my good girl tonight. Will ya?" His masked lips touched your cheek.

You blushed and ran towards the door. Standing at the doorway you peaked a last glance at him. You exited Ghost's room and returned to your own.

As Ghost stepped out of his room, he encountered Soap making his way upstairs.

"Going on a mission, LT?" Soap teased, noting Ghost's uniform.

"Yes, birthday mission," Ghost quipped in response.

"Seriously! Why are you wearing your uniform?" Soap inquired, his curiosity piqued.

"Because she asked me to wear it," Ghost explained simply.

"Hmm, I see. She likes you in it," Soap remarked before continuing downstairs, leaving Ghost to ponder his words.

They all waited for you downstairs, their anticipation palpable in the air. With a final glance in the mirror, you made sure everything was perfect before slipping on your heels and descending the staircase.

As you reached the bottom step, you were greeted by their warm smiles.

"Here she is," Captain Price announced, his voice carrying a note of pride.

"Wow! Lass, you're looking so beautiful," Soap complimented, his eyes twinkling with admiration.

"Thank you," you replied, feeling a blush creeping up your cheeks at his kind words.

You couldn't help but notice Ghost's gaze fixed on you, practically staring. His intense scrutiny made you feel vulnerable, as if he was seeing right through you. Yet, amidst the intensity, there was a glimmer of admiration in his stare, a silent acknowledgment that spoke volumes.

"Make a wish, lass," Soap chuckled, gesturing towards the candles on the cake.

Closing your eyes, you made a silent wish. A wish for Simon to be yours forever, for his safety, and for him to return to you unscathed from every mission.

With a deep breath, you blew out the candles, the room erupting into cheers and the chorus of "Happy Birthday."

As you opened your eyes, you felt a rush of warmth and gratitude wash over you. It truly was the best day of your life after your father's death.

Captain Price stepped forward, presenting you with a small box. You opened it eagerly to reveal a beautiful, delicate metallic quartz watch nestled inside.

"Thank you! It's so precious," you exclaimed, touched by the thoughtful gift.

As you all enjoyed the cake and then indulged in dinner, Captain Price suddenly cleared his throat, directing his attention to Ghost. "Simon, why are you wearing your uniform?" His question caught Ghost off guard, but before he could respond, you jumped in to explain.

"Actually, I asked him to wear that for my birthday. I was curious to see him in uniform," you said, offering Ghost a reassuring smile. His eyes crinkled from behind the balaclava he was wearing, a silent acknowledgment of his amusement.

"Alright, gentlemen, want something to drink? Please, help yourselves," you announced, rising from your seat and making your way to the bar. You took out the glasses, giving them a moment to process the exchange.

Soap and Ghost then took the dishes to the kitchen while the rest of you settled in the garden, enjoying the pleasant evening. Soap, with his characteristic sense of humor, regaled you all with his silly jokes, eliciting laughter from all of you.

"Hey LT, what has five toes and is not your foot?" Soap said.

"What?" Ghost asked.

"My foot!." Soap said and burst out laughing.

You couldn't control your laughter too. Soap was so funny.

"Your turn LT". Soap pointed towards Ghost.

"What do we call the fish who wears a bow tie?" Ghost asked.

You looked at each other's faces.

"Sofishticated." Ghost said.

Nobody laughed.

"What? Wasn't it funny?" Ghost said.

He was met with silence.

As the night grew late, you found myself sitting beside Ghost. His hand resting on the small of your back while everybody was busy talking.

He turned to look at you. Your blue eyes met with his caramel ones.

You stood up and went to stand at the door, feeling a wave of exhaustion wash over you.

"Aye! Come join us," Ghost called out, noticing your presence.

"No, you enjoy yourself. I'm going to bed now," you replied, turning around to head upstairs.

But before you could take another step, Ghost approached you and grabbed your wrist. "Hi, Lieutenant," you teased, your voice soft and playful.

You placed your hands on his chest, tilting your chin up to look at him. "Hell, if you put a bullet through my heart, I will spare you my life," you retorted, a smile playing on your lips.

You took the whiskey glass from his hand and placed your lips at the same spot he drank from and chug it at once.

You turned to go upstairs, but Ghost surprised you by grabbing you around the waist, causing you to squeak in surprise.

"Is everything alright there?" Captain Price's voice rang out from the garden.

"Yes, everything is fine, Price," Ghost replied calmly, his gaze locked on yours.

With a swift motion, Ghost lifted you into his arms and carried you upstairs, his strength both surprising and comforting.

"Your room or mine?" he asked with a playful smirk, his eyes dancing with mischief.

Pic credit:

IG: Vehenan Virabelasan

[autophage]

The slow but incessant rain of anvils began in 1942.

George Macomber was walking from the trolley stop to his home in Great Falls (a name which many newspapers took advantage of in their lede selection) when a two-ton Bavarian fell out of the sky, landing squarely on top of poor George. He was Flattened instantly.

And, seconds later, he slid out from beneath the anvil, with a new height of one and a half millimeters. He had become, in an instant, the densest human being on the planet.

George Macomber happened to look up just before impact. This saved his life: because he was the first to ever be Flattened, the extremely-high-density intravenous fluid setup had not yet been invented, and no hospital could have kept him hydrated if his mouth were not accessible on his topside. (Iris Colelman invented the extremely-high-density intravenous setup in 1947, after hundreds had perished due to dehydration mere days after their Flattening.)

In another twist of good fortune, George Macomber had served as a signal officer in the Navy during the Great War and knew Morse code. While his vocal chords were capable only of producing an awful gurgling, he could still communicate by blinking - a trick that the doctors recognized quickly. And so he was able, painstakingly, to describe the characteristic sound of the anvil's descent: a terrifying descending whistle, like the slide-flute sound used for falling bombs in animated reels.

His story is not all a happy one, though. Some who are Flattened eventually pop back up to their former stature, but poor Mr. Macomber never did. While his medical condition remained stable, his wife divorced him and he had trouble finding employment. Seven years after his Flattening, he stopped eating or drinking. His final words, blinked to his nurse, are lost to history; she felt that she owed him her silence, even as she was fired and eventually prosecuted for letting him pass in this manner. The court asserted that she should have immobilized him and given him a high-density drip.

Only twenty-three days after George's Flattening, Irma Childress was returning from the bakery when a six-ton farrier's anvil hurtled down and Flattened her. She, too, was lucky enough that her mouth remained accessible. Her story is happier than George's - she was also the first person to pop back up to her normal height. It took her six months, and those must have been worse than George's, as she did not know Morse code - though she learned it and was proficient by her third Flattened month.

Even after regaining her former height, Irma remained wary of doors, stairs, and any place with high foot traffic. She sold her house in Los Angeles and moved out to an almond farm. She spoke to the press repeatedly and respectfully, and to this day is remembered as an early and passionate advocate for keeping the Flattened comfortable and helping them maintain their dignity.

Nobody has discovered where the anvils come from. They fall primarily in North America, most often in the southwest and midwest. Some suspect that they are flung by tornados, or some sort of awful prank, or military test flights. They are always of recent manufacture, indicated by a date stamp, but never a maker's mark.

The rate of Flattenings increased until the late 50's, at a peak of a bit over 100,000 in 1958. Today, the rain has slowed: there are usually between one and two thousand Flattenings a year. This incident rate has held steady since the early 1980's. This is unusual, since far fewer anvils are manufactured or used today than were in the 1940's. Of those Flattened, about half pop back to their previous height, usually between two months and a year after their initial Flattening.

It was difficult for the Flattened to connect with each other before modern video conferencing - those who were lucky enough to look up before their Flattening can see above themselves, but cannot see in front of themselves, and it is generally difficult for the Flattened to orient themselves otherwise. The Flattened of today generally stay on a table with a tablet above them, modified to use eye tracking for navigation. (Of course, this only really works with Flattened whose eyes are on their top- or bottom-sides; those with eyes facing forward, or whose faces were crushed into their bellies, can usually hear, but have a very hard time making themselves understood.) Regardless of orientation they are helped by dedicated care nurses who changes their IV fluids. These nurses are provided by Flattening insurance, offered by all major insurance providers; they often also take over some of the responsibilities the Flattened previously held, such as taking care of their children.

Sadly, the provisions surrounding Flattening insurance have changed in the last twenty years. Most nurses make less than 20% above minimum wage, and are afforded very little flexibility by the job, which requires them to attend the Flattened's household around the clock. They become very close with those they care for - in many cases they develop shorthands to make communication easier, such as diacritic modifications to the blinked Morse code.

While the Irma Childress Foundation is the leading voice for Flattening insurance reform, some long-term Flattened feel that their concerns are often not heard. They contend that the Foundation often bargains away provisions that could help some edge cases - especially those with limited communication capabilities.

Some of the Flattened have started pooling resources to buy land and build a city suited to their own needs, to wean themselves off of the marginal succor offered by the insurance system. We who stand tall must support them. We must afford them not only the dignity of doing our best not to step on them, but to self-determination. We must acknowledge that their lives are all unique and different. We must refuse, if you will pardon the pun, to flatten their experiences into one single narrative.

[beemynumberone]

Grayson notices first. Because, of course he does.

He sees the way you make the effort to stand on your tiptoes as you help a granny pick a loaf of bread off the top shelf.

He watches you load the shopping trolley, the granny’s smile mirroring your contagious beam.

And he wonders, how could a person like you be so giving and yet so restrained.

He knows the routine - find a meaningful aspect worth a story, take a snap shot, frame and repeat. Maybe find a place on one of the many Hawthorne foundation walls to hang it.

And in the couple of days he’s been trailing you, he can’t find a singular aspect in which you don’t shine in.

You’ve been anything but ordinary. And that’s saying a lot for a guy who’s visited thrice the number of countries the average person could dream of by the age of seventeen.

Everything you’ve done has been generous, charitable, benevolent. For others.

What about yourself? He wonders. Do you care for yourself with half the effort you spend on others? Do you, perhaps, take the time to rest your darkened under-eyes?

He can’t fault you. He should know best. A workaholic, obsessed with using the privilege bestowed upon him to serve as many people as he could.

How thin could one spread themselves for the good of others?

——————————————————————————————————

It’s raining now. The regular patter of raindrops on the concrete soothing to the ears.

You turn to him, eyes crinkling in superficial jolly. He sees the way your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes. He’s been around false pretences far too long to stay ignorant.

“Let me.” He speaks gently but firmly, gesturing to the bags in your hands.

It’s a command, more than a query.

You can’t find it in yourself to say no. The straining plastic handles seem to be trying their best to cut the circulation on your fingers.

In true gentleman fashion, you suppose, the blonde transfers the bags he’d been holding into one hand, extending the other for yours. The moving is done with seemingly with no effort.

You stretch out your aching palms and blink away the fatigue the best you can.

You lead Grayson to the van, loading the booth with a capacious number of groceries. It’s preparation for Christmas week in the food bank - one you’ve started with a couple of friends in the neighbourhood.

You slam the booth shut, ready to head to the driver’s side. Grayson strides ahead of you. “I’ll drive. You get some rest.”

You stare him down in the rain, pale gray eyes against yours.

“It’s perfectly fine, I can drive. Besides, you’re here as a photographer right? Can’t have you too tired to take pictures later.”

“I’ll be in perfect condition. Don’t worry about it.” He calmly stands his ground, words flowing out his mouth like honey. You don’t want to admit it, but his words soothe your drained self.

So annoying, you sigh, feeling indebted to him.

And as if he hadn’t done enough already, he extends a handkerchief to you. It’s gray (who knew?), embroidered with caca lilies at the hem. Petals with a clean, no-frills silhouette. Much like its owner, you chuckle to yourself.

Grayson catches a glance of you drying yourself off with his handkerchief, a small grin on the corner of your lips. He can’t help but smile too, amused that you found the piece of cloth entertaining.

——————————————————————————————————

It’s been 20 minutes into the drive home.

You yawn loudly, and stretch the best you can while confined by the seatbelt, ignoring the dignified presence beside you. You side eye the guy, just in case he got too displeased with such unseemly manner.

And get slight whiplash when he locks eyes with you.

Grayson is surprisingly, slouching in the leather chair, hair slightly tousled. His slacks crinkle at the perfect spots, shirt still slightly damp from the rain. His eyes bore right through you and the red light illuminating his figure does nothing to soften his gaze.

You fidget with your hands. You feel out of place in the passenger seat, with nothing to grip onto for comfort, for control. To feel like you owed no one.

“Need help urm, drying the shirt?”

And again, Grayson goes against your expectations, dropping his arm for you to have an easier access to his chest.

You hold your arm steady as you dab the cloth on the darkened spots.

The red light turns green and you retract your hand.

“Thanks. Consider it payment for the driving.”

Your cheeks burn. He knew.

You don’t notice the way the tips of Grayson’s ears tinge pink.

Picture from Pinterest.

[mariacallous]

With the Olympic torch extinguished in Paris, all eyes are turning to Los Angeles for the 2028 Olympics.

The host city has promised that the next Summer Games will be “car-free.”

For people who know Los Angeles, this seems overly optimistic. The car remains king in LA, despite growing public transit options.

When LA hosted the Games in 1932, it had an extensive public transportation system, with buses and an extensive network of electric streetcars. Today, the trolleys are long gone; riders say city buses don’t come on schedule, and bus stops are dirty. What happened?

This question fascinates me because I am a business professor who studies why society abandons and then sometimes returns to certain technologies, such as vinyl records, landline phones, and metal coins. The demise of electric streetcars in Los Angeles and attempts to bring them back today vividly demonstrate the costs and challenges of such revivals.

Riding the Red and Yellow Cars

Transportation is a critical priority in any city, but especially so in Los Angeles, which has been a sprawling metropolis from the start.

In the early 1900s, railroad magnate Henry Huntington, who owned vast tracts of land around LA, started subdividing his holdings into small plots and building homes. In order to attract buyers, he also built a trolley system that whisked residents from outlying areas to jobs and shopping downtown.

By the 1930s, Los Angeles had a vibrant public transportation network, with over 1,000 miles of electric streetcar routes, operated by two companies: Pacific Electric Railway, with its “Red Cars,” and Los Angeles Railway, with its “Yellow Cars.”

The system wasn’t perfect by any means. Many people felt that streetcars were inconvenient and also unhealthy when they were jammed with riders. Moreover, streetcars were slow because they had to share the road with automobiles. As auto usage climbed and roads became congested, travel times increased.

Nonetheless, many Angelenos rode the streetcars—especially during World War II, when gasoline was rationed and automobile plants shifted to producing military vehicles.

Demise of Public Transit

The end of the war marked the end of the line for streetcars. The war effort had transformed oil, tire, and car companies into behemoths, and these industries needed new buyers for goods from the massive factories they had built for military production. Civilians and returning soldiers were tired of rationing and war privations, and they wanted to spend money on goods such as cars.

After years of heavy usage during the war, Los Angeles’ streetcar system needed an expensive capital upgrade. But in the mid-1940s, most of the system was sold to a company called National City Lines, which was partly owned by the carmaker General Motors, the oil companies Standard Oil of California and Phillips Petroleum, and the Firestone tire company.

These powerful forces had no incentive to maintain or improve the old electric streetcar system. National City ripped up tracks and replaced the streetcars with buses that were built by General Motors, used Firestone tires, and ran on gasoline.

There is a long-running academic debate over whether self-serving corporate interests purposely killed LA’s streetcar system. Some researchers argue that the system would have died on its own, like many other streetcar networks around the world.

The controversy even spilled over into pop culture in the 1988 movie Who Framed Roger Rabbit, which came down firmly on the conspiracy side.

What’s undisputed is that, starting in the mid-1940s, powerful social forces transformed Los Angeles so that commuters had only two choices: drive or take a public bus. As a result, LA became so choked with traffic that it often took hours to cross the city.

In 1990, the Los Angeles Times reported that people were putting refrigerators, desks, and televisions in their cars to cope with getting stuck in horrendous traffic. A swath of movies, from Falling Down to Clueless to La La Land, have featured the next-level challenge of driving in LA.

Traffic was also a concern when LA hosted the 1984 Summer Games, but the Games went off smoothly. Organizers convinced over 1 million people to ride buses, and they got many trucks to drive during off-peak hours. The 2028 games, however, will have roughly 50 percent more athletes competing, which means thousands more coaches, family, friends, and spectators. So simply dusting off plans from 40 years ago won’t work.

Olympic Transportation Plans

Today, Los Angeles is slowly rebuilding a more robust public transportation system. In addition to buses, it now has four light-rail lines—the new name for electric streetcars—and two subways. Many follow the same routes that electric trolleys once traveled. Rebuilding this network is costing the public billions, since the old system was completely dismantled.

Three key improvements are planned for the Olympics. First, LA’s airport terminals will be connected to the rail system. Second, the Los Angeles organizing committee is planning heavily on using buses to move people. It will do this by reassigning some lanes away from cars and making them available for 3,000 more buses, which will be borrowed from other locales.

Finally, there are plans to permanently increase bicycle lanes around the city. However, one major initiative, a bike path along the Los Angeles River, is still under an environmental review that may not be completed by 2028.

Car-Free for 17 Days

I expect that organizers will pull off a car-free Olympics, simply by making driving and parking conditions so awful during the Games that people are forced to take public transportation to sports venues around the city. After the Games end, however, most of LA is likely to quickly revert to its car-centric ways.

As Casey Wasserman, chair of the LA 2028 organizing committee, recently put it: “The unique thing about Olympic Games is for 17 days you can fix a lot of problems when you can set the rules—for traffic, for fans, for commerce—than you do on a normal day in Los Angeles.”

[imaginmatrix]

zutara au where katara is an up and coming model/actress and zuko is the closed off guy who serves her tea at the shop next to her apartment.

Okay. Look. Listen. Against all odds, despite them filling all my favorite tropes, I do not actually… ship Zutara. I don’t read fics of them, I’ve never written them— which is wild, right? Wacky? Crazy? Doesn’t make sense. I know. I agree. Idk.

So I wrote this anyway and I have no clue what the fandom is like or how they characterize these characters but HERE WE GO DIVING IN HEADFIRST ANYWAY LETS GO

Katara already knew her and her brother had wildly different priorities— but moving into her new apartment proved that Sokka existed on an entirely different plane of reality.

“My sister has the cash to live anywhere she wants, but she picks a place next to the weirdest building in the city.” He had grumbled the day of the move, which kind of pissed Katara off.

Not because he called the building weird, but because that was his issue with it.

He should have been far more upset with the fact that the skyscraper belong to Ember Corp.

Katara pointed this out to him, to which Sokka only shrugged in reply, “I figured you didn’t care about that seeing as you moved in next door anyway.”

And then she had to stomp away in a huff to stop herself from snapping at him, because that would be hypocritical and ridiculous; but it wasn’t like she moved in next to the corporation that demolished their family’s home and community for parking lots because she didn’t care!

She did care! A lot! Maybe too much!

But then that was why she chose this apartment; the skyscraper next door wasn’t just a skyscraper.

Like Sokka said, it was…

Weird.

Good weird.

To be fair, Ba Sing Se as a whole was a little weird— a hodgepodge of shiny, towering buildings and ancient temples and Spiritbucks and cobblestones and sky trolleys.

No structure could compare to this one.

From a distance, it looked like a regular skyscraper; the architecture was more creative than most, but it didn’t stand out.

Then one’s gaze would travel down, and there, at the base…

A tea shop.

An old tea shop.

It wasn’t even all that fancy, though there were pieces that hinted at a rich history— the small, painted wood pillars on either side of the door, the round windows with various designs etched into them, and the roof— oh the roof! A beautiful hip-and-gable one with the edges flared up and rust red shingles that complimented the muted green of the shop itself.

Katara loved it.

And the fact that a skyscraper had been built atop was so ludicrous it made her dizzy.

She’d once asked Toph why it was like that, and in turn Toph explained that the rumor was that the old guy who owned the shop had been offered a ton of money from Ember Corp for the location. He refused to sell, but reportedly told them he’d be willing to sell the air above his shop for the same price, and a promise that his shop would stay— he wasn’t selling the land, after all.

So they reinforced the shop and foundation to be able to bear the weight, and just like that, a new skyscraper had risen above the city.

Katara only went to the tea shop.

She wasn’t sure what about it was so enticing. Maybe it was how peaceful it was; even when the giant sliding doors were left open in the summer, the noise of the city never seemed to penetrate the shop fully. The smell of tea soothed her. It was soft, and sweet, and earthy, and strangely reminded her of home.

Which was wildly different in culture, but… she felt safe here. Like she had at home. Before it was taken.

That could be the reason she came— she liked seeing something old and ancient stand up to an entity like Ember Corp. It filled her with satisfaction to see something refuse to give in to intimidation, to be immovable in the face of “innovation.”

It was almost sacred in a way.

So she found herself stopping by every morning on the way to work— be it a photoshoot or commercial or audition— for some matcha to perk her up. And every evening, if the shop was still open, she’d grab a Jasmine brew on the way home.

The owner was so kind, a round, elderly man with a gravely voice filled with mirth. He insisted on being referred to as “Uncle Iroh,” which Katara didn’t mind. Sokka was her only family in the city, as their Gran and Father and what remained of their community migrated to the southern towns after their neighborhood was sold out from under them.

She could use an Uncle these days.

On one particular morning she was running late. She whirled into the shop, juggling various items while she searched her purse— sunglasses, phone, the audition packet, chapstick, planner, book for the trolley— ah! Wallet!

But when Katara turned to the counter, it wasn’t Uncle Iroh who she saw; a grumpy looking guy stood there, shaggy hair falling in gold eyes. Those eyes were what she noticed first, bright and intense and filled with an emotion she couldn’t quite place— anger? Contempt? For… her?

The scar, she noticed second. Which upon reflection was a little ridiculous, considering that the angry deep red color and mottled flesh took up nearly half of his face. Not that it should have been what people saw first when they looked at him, she was certain he probably hated it being pointed out, but it was hard to miss.

They stared at each other a moment.

“…Hi?” Katara ventured, less confused by the new employee than the fact that he apparently had no customer service skills. No “Welcome to the Jasmine Dragon!” or “Can I take your order?” or even a rude “What do you want?”

The boy’s brow just furrowed deeper, which seemed almost impossible, yet there he was— basically one big furrow at this point.

“…Um…” When it became clear the grumpy employee had no intention of being friendly, Katara ventured, “Can I have a hot matcha to go?”

She waited anxiously as he punched the order in, finally speaking, “That’ll be six yuans.”

It was Katara’s turn to be the furrower. “Six? It’s usually three, isn’t it?��

This was met with an eye roll and a breathy huff, “My Uncle is… let’s just say he gives discounts more often than he should.”

Katara lamented that the new price would likely mean she’d only have one tea stop a day rather than two, but didn’t argue as she zipped open her wallet, uninterested in prolonging this weird interaction that made her more and more late by the second. She passed the rectangular coins over, and the boy dropped them into the register before turning on his heel to prepare the tea.

That was weird.

But so was a tea shop with a skyscraper balanced atop.

She crossed her arms, checking her phone for the time over and over again. Why was this taking so long?

Katara leaned over the counter to see what the boy was doing, and blinked. The kettle was—

“Are you… are you boiling water?!”

He frowned back at her— though it was likely just a regular look, if frowning was his default state as it appeared to be. “…I don’t know how you make hot tea, but here we boil it.”

“Yes but—“ Katara cut herself off, biting her tongue so that she could calm the ever growing frustration bubbling within. Sokka said she was hot headed, ironic considering where their ancestors came from. Finally, she managed to speak with an even, calm tone; “You have a boiling water tap.”

“…A what?”

Dear Spirits, this guy...

“The owner, he only uses the kettle at night when it’s less busy, for a more authentic experience. In the mornings, he uses the tap— or an electric kettle.”

The guy glanced around. “Because the mornings are so busy?”

To be fair, the shop was empty at the moment. Katara wondered if it was due to the upcoming holiday.

“Yes.” Katara ground out through gritted teeth.

He shrugged in response. “There’s no rush now, so it’s not a big deal.”

“It is!” She finally burst out, “It is a big deal! I’m late for work!”

The boy seemed taken aback for a moment, blinking at her. Then his face hardened. “It’s not my problem if you didn’t leave early enough.”

“But it is your problem that you don’t know how to do your job correctly!” Katara snapped back.

This seemed to rile up the guy even more, his nostrils flaring, “I didn’t even want—“

He was interrupted by the scream of the kettle, and he turned his back on her to remove it from the heat. Katara rubbed the bridge of her nose, feeling a headache encroach on the edges of her consciousness.

It only grew when she looked up to see him dropping a teabag into the cup of water.

“What are you doing?!” She demanded, aghast.

He glanced up, confusion mingling with his frustration this time. “Making tea?”

“I asked for matcha!” Her voice was shrill now, but she couldn’t help it— who hired this guy?!

“…Is this not matcha…?”

“That’s green tea!” And in a bag rather than an infuser, no less!

“Matcha is green tea though.”

“It’s prepared differently!” Katara leaned further over the counter, her braid hanging over the opposite edge as she craned her neck, “Look, Uncle Iroh keeps the materials right there under—“

“Hey, don’t lean over here like that!”

“Or what?” She retorted as the guy stalked towards her, “Mad that I know this place better than you do?”

With the way his eyes narrowed, he was indeed mad about that. “No, I’m not— the money is over here!” He waved his hands at her in a shooing motion. At least he had the intelligence to know not to put his hands on her.

Katara snorted. “Do I look like a robber?”

“You look like a pain in the—“

“Nephew? I heard the kettle…” A sleepy voice interrupted them, and Katara quickly straightened from being sprawled over the counter as a bleary-eyed Uncle Iroh parted the curtains to stare at them.

“Uncle, this girl—“ he pointed, “should be banned from the shop.”

Uncle Iroh yawned, turning his gaze to Katara. Then he brightened. “Ah, Miss Katara, a pleasure to see you— picking up your usual, I take it?”

“Well, yes, but…” she hesitated. A moment ago she had been ready to go ballistic, but Iroh had called the guy ‘Nephew’… so he was his literal uncle? Tattling to family felt a bit childish. “It’s fine.”

“Is it now? Well, I see you’ve met my nephew, Katara, this is—“

“Lee.” The boy interrupted immediately, his hand flying up to cover the name tag pinned to his apron, “My name is Lee.” He looked meaningfully at his Uncle, who merely shrugged.

“He will be working here from now on, so I hope that…” Iroh’s voice trailed off as his gaze wandered to the cup of tea. He blanched. “Z— Lee, did Katara ask for green tea?”

It was Lee’s turn to go pale. “Well, she asked for matcha, and that’s basically—“

Uncle Iroh groaned as he hurried to the tea, nose wrinkling in disgust, “And a bag, too! Where did you even find— no, no bags! We use these!” He waved around an infuser wildly, and Lee grew more indignant.

“Well how was I supposed to know that?! Why do you have teabags if we don’t—“

“Never mind that!” Uncle Iroh bustled around, scooping the matcha into the chawan to whisk, “Clearly you are far worse off than I thought— what has your father been teaching you?”

“Business! And finances, and—“ a furtive glance was shot towards Katara, “and things way more important than making tea!”

“Bah!” Iroh finished whisking and began to prepare the drink, “Very few things in life are more worth knowing than this.” He snapped the lid onto the cup and passed it over the counter with a cheery smile, “There you are my dear, I hope it’s to your liking.”

Katara was already speeding for the door with a wave, “I’m sure it’ll be perfect as always— see you tonight?”

“We’ll be open— and I’ll make sure my Nephew knows how to at least brew jasmine by then.”

“Uncle.”

Katara jogged to the sky trolley stop, her mind racing a bit. Uncle Iroh said Lee would be working there from then on… and if today was anything to go by, her once peaceful escape was about to become a whole lot more stressful.

Unfortunately, slinking into the agency thirty minutes after she was supposed to did not go unnoticed. But the lecture about professionalism and punctuality in the industry was brief, and the day passed in a blur. Lee was nowhere to be found during her evening stop, though Uncle Iroh was appalled to discover that he had charged Katara full price for the matcha. He insisted on giving her the evening mug of piping hot jasmine at no cost, and she took up her usual place on the patio to sit and read and relax before tromping up to her apartment.

The weeks passed fast, and to Katara’s dismay, Lee was now there every time she stopped in.

Figures. Her luck had always gone overboard to balance out— placed first in the third grade spelling bee? Broke her arm on the way home. High school valedictorian? Congratulations, your childhood home is being bulldozed! Career picking up? An annoying man now works at your favorite place in the world.

…Maybe one of those things wasn’t like the others, but it still irked her.

But Lee didn’t speak to her again beyond the curt welcome he gave everyone, the exchanging of funds (he gave her the Uncle Iroh discount now,) and the call of her name when the tea was at the counter.

Katara didn’t like hearing her name on his lips. It was wrong. It made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle, made her body tighten and squirm in an uncomfortable way.

A fight or flight response, she reasoned.

And then one evening, he didn’t call it.

She was curled in the plush chair that Iroh always let her drag to the patio in the evenings. Days were getting longer again, so the sun hadn’t quite set yet, casting a golden glow between buildings.

The day had been exhausting; three auditions and two photoshoots. Katara had been up since 3am for the first shoot, but despite her yawns and heavy lids, she couldn’t resist the allure of Iroh’s tea.

Katara was reading. Well, she thought she was reading; but when the sound of a clearing throat made her eyes flutter open, the sky was much darker and the streets bathed in blue rather than gold.

Her head felt cotton-y in the way it did when one took an impromptu nap, and she yawned, looking up from her curled up position on the chair to see Lee standing next to her.

“Ah— sorry, is it closing time…?” She began to straighten out, reaching for her bag, but Lee shook his head.

“No, uh… no. I just… here.” He held out the teacup. “Free refill.”

Katara blinked, “Oh.”

Lee shifted uncomfortably, and it took a moment for Katara to realize what she was seeing; he was nervous. “If you don’t want it, I can—“

“No, no I do!” She nodded to the side table, placing the book that had become wedged between her and the cushions on it as well. “Tell your Uncle thank you.”

“Uncle’s not here.” Lee said. Then he hesitated. “I… I can tell him when he gets back.”

Katara reached for the cup. It smelled amazing, and she sipped at the rich, floral drink. It was different than usual, but good different.

So she took a deeper sip, licking her lips as droplets clung to them.

Her face lifted to Lee, who was shifting his weight back and forth anxiously. Anticipating.

And then it hit her.

“You made this?” She asked— since that first meeting, Lee had only made one of her orders when his Uncle had stepped out. It had been rather disappointing.

“Uh… yeah.”

“It’s really good.” To her surprise, Lee almost smiled, the corners of his lips tugging up as his body relaxed.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She confirmed. “Did you add something different…?”

“A few things— Uncle thinks that jasmine is best on its own but…” He shrugged. “I don’t know. I… got bored.”

“Well maybe you should be bored more often if this is the result.”

The furrow that lived between Lee’s brow and where another brow once grew smoothed in surprise— no, that wasn’t a strong enough word for it— shock? The emotion was fleeting, gone in an instant, though his face managed to retain its new relaxed state. “That’s the second compliment you’ve given me. Maybe I should buy a lottery ticket.”

Katara surprised herself by laughing. “You gave me a free drink, so maybe I should buy one too.”

Lee ran a hand through his hair, revealing how his scar stretched up to his forehead; “Well, uh, I should—“

“Do you want to sit for a second?”

Lee immediately, wordlessly dragged one of the patio chairs up next to her in response, flopping into it.

They sat in silence for a minute, watching the occasional car pass by.

Then Katara couldn’t help herself; “Why did you start working here? You didn’t seem like you liked tea all that much.”

Lee sighed, his hand mussing up his hair again; he did that a lot, as if he wasn’t used to having so little of it. “I… messed up big time back home.” His head tilted back to gaze up at the skyscraper that towered above the shop behind them. “So my father sent me here to… I don’t know. Punish me, I guess. Cut me off, told me I couldn’t come back until…” he trailed off. “…you know, I was lucky my Uncle even agreed to let me stay here. If he hadn’t… I don’t know what I would have done.”

Katara couldn’t imagine it— what sort of father would abandon his kid like that?

Sure, she felt abandoned by her own dad half the time, but… at least when he left, he did it knowing her and Sokka were safe and cared for. And at least she didn’t doubt that he loved her, as angry as she was at him for his choices.

She cleared her throat, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pried—“

“No, it’s okay.” Lee’s voice had a rasp to it, the sound of someone trying to hold emotion at bay. “It… it was probably time I told someone about it. I haven’t exactly made a ton of friends here.”

Katara spoke before she even realized she’d decided to; “You can come out with me and my friends sometime.”

Lee tilted his head to her, a puzzled expression on his features, “…Me?”

“Do you see anyone else here?”

And then a real smile played across his lips, “Are all your friends hot shot movie stars too?”

It was once more Katara’s turn to be surprised. “You— that— I’m not even close to a ‘hot shot movie star!’” She laughed and tugged on her braid nervously, suddenly feeling shy. “You know who I am?”

“Yeah.”

“Since the beginning?”

“…Yeah.” His voice was softer, more reserved, as if the question had stirred something in him. Guilt?

Katara pressed on, not wanting to ruin the new atmosphere they’d built for themselves. “So you’ve seen me in… what, shampoo commercials?”

Lee shook his head, “Nah, my fa— someone my mom used to be friends with, uh… helped fund that one movie; Glacier Soul?”

“You… you remember me from that?” She laughed again, both delighted and aghast, “It wasn’t even a big role, I wasn’t a lead or anything— and I wasn’t great in it—“

“No.” Lee‘s voice was firm, no room for disagreement. If he didn’t sound so earnest, Katara may have assumed he was just being nice. “You were perfect.”

Katara shifted, warmth spreading on her cheeks. The prickle on her neck, the tightness in her body, those both were present now too; but it wasn’t fight or flight this time, was it? Had it ever been? “Well I… I’m glad you liked me. I mean, me in it. It was my first dramatic film and… and I’m just… glad.”

They both fell silent, Katara downing the rest of her tea to keep from saying more dumb things.

“So…” Lee was hesitating again. “When… when are you and your friends next…?”

“Oh!” Katara reached for her bag, rummaging for a pen, “Here, one sec—“ she grabbed her napkin and jotted down her number. “Text me when I leave, I’ll let you know next time we have plans.”

Lee seemed completely out of his element as he stared at the napkin she’d shoved at him; as if he couldn’t believe it was actually there. Finally, he nodded, “Right, yeah, that sounds— yeah. Good. Great.”

“Yeah?” Katara asked teasingly.

There was another hint of a smile when he replied with, “Yeah.”

Her body was heavy again, so Katara started to gather her things. “Well, good to know you’re not so bad when you’re not extorting people or serving them poisoned tea.”

Lee sputtered, “I… I haven’t done either of those things!”

“Mm, that green tea you tried to give me looked pretty deadly.” He seemed troubled despite the tease, and Katara nudged him as she stood. “Tonight though? That jasmine tea was ridiculously good.”

Lee relaxed again, understanding the jests now and looking quite pleased with himself, “I practiced.”

“I can tell.” Katara yawned and stretched, her body complaining after being curled up for so long, “Well, Lee, I’m glad I got to know you a little better.”

He was running a hand through his dark locks again, looking as if he were going through some sort of inner turmoil despite the small smile on his lips, “Y-yeah, me too, listen, uh…” he took a breath. Then another. “I’m… I…” and then he deflated, “I’m glad too.”

Katara said goodnight, made him promise to text her as soon as she walked out the door, and as she strolled to the next building over, she realized she felt light. Bubbly. Happy.

So their first meeting had been rocky; she couldn’t blame the guy for having a bad day, especially since it sounded like he’d been through the wringer shortly before that.

Why should a bad first impression affect this one?

Katara’s phone buzzed with a text, and when she pulled it out she saw a little fire emoji.

And then she texted back something that normally she’d never in a million years say.

‘Is this your way of saying I’m hot?’

Sokka would laugh in the face of anyone who implied his uptight little sister had flirted.

Lee’s reply was immediate.

‘What?! No! What???? It’s just my favorite!’

‘…wait, don’t take that the wrong way, I mean, I’m not saying you aren’t’

‘Uh’

‘I mean’

‘Can you just ignore all of that? Please?’

‘…Please?’

Katara laughed. Normally she might over analyze his panicked denial, worry she overstepped, but… something felt different about Lee. He was so serious, serious in a way that made her loosen up.

Her brother often told her she was a stick in the mud. And maybe she was, maybe she was austere and boring and too much a stickler for rules… But Lee made her feel like she was fun, too.

‘Ignore what?’

‘I didn’t see anything :)’

‘….thank you.’

She hummed to herself as she savored the taste of jasmine still on her tongue.

Maybe Lee wasn’t so bad.

And maybe… maybe now she had more than one reason to look forward to her morning matcha.

[jack-kellys]

so i am gonna talk abt the delanceys. and i don’t want that to make you scroll away at the speed of light. i want to talk about them in a broader sense, view them in a broader sense, in the way that we talk about jack and his existential need to leave where he is for the west- and, further, going into analysis, like how “the west” in america in the 1890s is a capitalist venture that is sold to jack as this idea of a new home, a better way to live, something that he needs, when the real home is new york with his chosen family and where no one needs to call him “son”.

i think what matters most in the world of the delanceys, and what puts them into a nuanced political stance as well as a personal one, is their father, the striking trolley worker.

i think it’s fair to assume that as a striking worker demanding better wages, as a union member, he deserves those wages. it’s good that he’s striking, that he’s demanding what he’s owed and doing so with his fellow workers. strikers are the right people to support especially based on the historical context of the trolley strike.

but this guy is… an asshole. he dumped these two children into the refuge and left them there to rot, presumably. there’s a possibility he didn’t know about how abusive snyder is, sure, but he knew it was a detention center and that’s not… where u put ur kids when u care abt them lmao.

so this man is a striking trolley worker who doesn’t give a shit about his own children. he’s an underpaid union member who deserves his dues but also lets his two sons suffer for years alone in a children’s jail. he fights the system to his benefit while submitting his two kids into a different one. the dichotomy is important here- it’s essential to the foil the delanceys are for the newsies.

the delanceys are strike breakers. strike breakers are, obviously, paid under the table to disperse union-led strikes and protests to uphold a system that benefits the rich- who of course will always benefit from underpaid work. the delanceys take money from this upheld system when they get the opportunity and beat strikers bloody who don't get to benefit from this system like they do. because they do benefit from that elitist system, since they are choosing to make money off of it outside of their usual job. right.

but within those strikers is their father. the father who left them to rot, who let wiesel scrape them out of that jail and enlist them at a dead-end newspaper gig. so the brothers hate this father, this striker, this piece of family. and this father is making all this noise with these other people- these people who support their father as his coworkers and fellow union members, and the delancey brothers' leave that strike with their fists red with more blood than solely their father's, since they're angry and good at it and the money is hefty.

and their childhood is semi-revenged, but at what ethical cost? they've served broken bones to plenty of workers just trying to fight for their fair pay- something that the delanceys can relate to, by the way, since it isn't like their wages are too stellar for how many hours they're forced to put in. but they put down these people--innocent sans their father--because they have the opportunity. opportunity for them is bringing others down, and when they have the choice, they take it. gladly. "it's honest work" is shrugged off and believed. "i take care of the guy who takes care of me" is snide. uk costuming has them wearing nicer work coats over their newsie-like attire, concealing their similarities and choosing to align themselves more with the elite, since that's...the only protection they can turn to besides each other. the elite gets them extra pay, and keeps them one rung above the newsies to sneer down at them from. they fight via using the system, since systems are all they've ever been apart of, and when they see one that might benefit them for once, they latch onto it.

and, of course, they're strike breaking again, with adult men and their uncle at their side, against their personal foils- the newsies.

the newsies either don't have family like the delanceys, or frequently have to be apart from theirs. lots of them don't have a sibling they can return to daily, or any at all. most don't have parents or family members. or homes to go back to after work. the system they are stuck in is one that does not work for them unless they make it work, making their own numbers and cash by gambling how many papers they can sell in a day to earn every cent back and then some. creating a system within a system--whereas the delanceys mold themselves into one that exists, again, to the elite's benefit--to survive.

and then, the newsies and their chosen family of brothers choose to revolt against their system in an attempt to dismantle it, or at the very least negotiate it.

and the delanceys' reaction to this, to another strike, to a group of kids going against their system (of which would benefit oscar and morris to join, tbh, unless they don't classify as "working kids" of the city, perhaps putting them at around 18 years old...)?

disdain and more snide comments! "not that i'm complaining, my skull busting arm could use a day of rest" "you working, or trespassing?/what's your pleasure?" and putting pressure on scabs to keep with the system- specifically more with uksies, oscar and morris are sort of dusting tommy boy off and whispering to him. trying to split apart the family the newsies have made with each other. and then ofc they beat the actual shit out of the newsies and in uk they have bats they are full on swinging, whole shoulder into it. you did not uphold this system, and it will destroy you for it.

and it nearly does, because then jack scabs, right? and oscar and morris are in pulitzer's office as the man talks jack through the deal, through the cash. as he must've to oscar and morris earlier that week about strike breaking the newsies. and all three of them all have these nearly matching bruises and cuts on their faces.

and then all three of them go to the cellar, the lowest floor of the elite. together the three of them are in this location with this context. two strikebreakers and a scab. taking the elite's money for their benefit, be it in a moment of fear, resignation, or greed. all the oldest kids in the play, the three who've seen the scars and rips and tears in this world more than any of the others. and for like twenty seconds of stage time jack oscar and morris are the same brand. until of course oscar and morris punch into jack's gut--since they're only "given discretion to handle him as they see fit" if he misbehaves, which jack hasn't, so they punch where people won't see/check--and remind him that he's still below them (literally shoving him to the floor ofc), that they're still closer to the elite.

and yeah, they are, because later, jack again refuses the system, and tosses the money back on the table after rebelling against his terms. in true foil fashion, once jack recognizes that his actions align that which he needs to destroy, he renounces them, while the delanceys remain on the other side of the coin they share with jack.

the delanceys, as a storytelling device, right, are meant to represent what the newsies could fall to, seen with the three initial scabs and then jack in act ii. they are this constant threat of sort of equal size to the newsies through the whole show, always kinda lurking. always being a possibility to become if the newsies ever forget what they fight for and against.

also, jack is....kind of.... like their dad, in their perspective. he's parental with the newsies, he leads them, guides them, and protects them, as well as constantly getting the better of the delanceys. why should someone like a father get to fight the system again? not on their fucking watch.

i think it's pretty clear that oscar and morris are meant to represent corruption on the small scale, thematically, while pulitzer is corruption at the top- since it all trickles down. and i think it's really important that this motif is consistently upheld within the brothers, since it sort of alters the message of the show to at least drastically change that abt them. they are the nearest branch of corruption to the newsies guys. that is so fucking cool

[siremasterlawrence]

Daddy’s R US #1 - 2

Part 1

Daddy’s R US is the hottest new store to hit the market in the last couple of weeks since it has been launched but today is the last week for premier purchases of official Daddy camp lover merchandise.The store is fully packed with people crossing everywhere on wall to wall in the entirety of the space is filling up with young people blocking all of the areas to my building and I spot two dads or so. One man in particular is sitting on the couch in the living room, I have been able to use a tablet in behind the area scanning him from afar and downloading a copy of him onto the system.A few situations on my tablet go off speeds up the time as the clocks handles spinning on and on time fades in to the very background and nothing else matters to him because his eyes grow dull. He is now empty totally devoid of any and all emotion, personality or free will he lacks all except a news to be owned and he sitting there mindlessly waiting for his one and only permanent owner. I knew it is time for me to do the deed grabbing a trolley from the new main office back room and struggle to place him on the cart strapping him and my men do all the work.The back room lights blur on in the distance as they turn on swirling throughout the area as the door shut closed locks them in place and as they roll in shifting the body on to the medical slat. I can hear supremely dramatic sighs loud coming from him as I sat in the space talking to customers in between it all managing to rebuild him as I rewrite his reprogramming.

“Master Lawrence he is prepped.”

“Excellent! I have the motivation to consume him.”

“Move out of the way”

“Leave the room”

“Yes Sir”

“Begin mixture “

“Erasing consciousness”

“1…2…3”

“Replacing with new programming Ben”

“Erasing Subconscious “

“Shall I implement Ben 2.0”

“Commence”

“Id automatically syncing “

“Updated”

“Completed…functioning”

“Processing”

“Complete “

“Reboot now “

“Mmmmmmmmm”

“Mmmmffffnnnnnhhhhhh”

“Oh My Stars! Hey babe”

“Babe?”

“You are my Master”

Part 2

Jon Hamm is the most definitely next guy who pops up in to the store in sexy blue dress shirt, in a nice grey suit pants walking in to the garden area with a living room set amongst them because the minute he steps in and sat down.

“You seem to feel very comfortable”

“Do you enjoy the space?”

“Imagine this with one of my daddy’s “

“Tall and sexy”

“Staying in the light “

“Shining bright “

“Your eyes hit it”

“The eyes shift in color”

“Something in your changes “

“Nnnnoooo!”

“YES!”

“Body frozen “

“In time you will believe me”

“You are tired and don’t want to go home”

“You need to rest”

“Lay down”

“A yawn over takes you “

“Your eyes close”

“The room is dark”

“You settle “

“Your eyes open “

“The reprogramming commences “

“Wait….i….i”

“You…you…what?”

“I love you “

“I am your world “

“Yes Master”

“How may I serve you?

“Follow me in to the back”

“Drop your pants and I will fuck you”

The end

[pinkfey]

how you see yourself ｡*.♡

i was tagged by the beloved @rosenfey to do this cute lil meme; tysm ambie!! mwah!! i’m self conscious right now so i’m just going to tag anyone and everyone who sees this!! do it RIGHT NEOW >:3

character ➳ this is well known, but i've felt a profound connection to padmé since i was a child. it's not out of relatability, though, it’s from a deep understanding. (LET THE RECORD SHOW I JUST DELETED A BIG ASS RANT RATTLING OFF THE THINGS I LOVE ABT HER CHARACTER BC IT GOT SO LONG I WOULD’VE NEEDED A READ MORE 😭). i just.. i love her!! i love her. i love her and i’m the only one who gets her.

style ➳ no one is a monolith, but i do gravitate towards softer, more feminine looks. many dresses and skirts in my wardrobe :3 though it is ofc not limited to just that

object ➳ so, earrings are perhaps an odd choice here, but i wanted something to represent my clutter bug!! i love collecting little bits of miscellany, earrings included (and these are very my style; i adore pearls and cute “busy” looking items), because i’m a purveyor of all things meant to make my heart glow a little softer <3

place ➳ i'm a cali baby until i die. i struggled to pick one sole place, so i chose the whole state because it truly is so important to me. it's not just sf and the bay area (my home), but the redwood forests to the east and the beach towns down south and wine country to the north. california's pre and post-colonial history is rich and vast and bits of its geographical beauty have survived in incredible ways. and, despite all of the flaws of this godforsaken state, the cultures here have worth. there are merits and there are good people, you just have to care, and because of that, i don’t think i’ll ever want leave. i don't jump ship because work is simply hard; i want california to be what i know it can be.

animal ➳ otters are my favorite animal, we know this, but too many people have affirmed me as a cocker spaniel/cavalier spaniel over the years, so i had to include it. i think it's the hair texture and general air of prancing about?? i am simply a little lady idk what to tell u!!

song ➳ i chose i'm your man by mitski,,,, 👀👀 i'm in the song, just not as singer’s the point of view, if you catch my meaning. men ruined my life but whatever.

job ➳ though office and archival work is my calling (i was born to organize and file and push trolleys of books and boxes and sit on the computer and be a little secretary), part of me will always feel that being a childcare worker is integral to who i am. i mean, i did it for so many years i loved teaching, i loved nannying, i loved early childhood education studies. i loved being miss jasmine :]

food ➳ burritos are my favorite food ever, but i chose the petit fours because, well, it's me!! it feels like me!! little cakes served on dainty platters accompanied by a sweet drink?? bite sized flavors of rose or chocolate or matcha or vanilla or lavender or raspberry and and and???? exactly. teensy and sweet and delicate and perfect.

color ➳ pink, forever and always. the pink i used for this edit is more vibrant than my favorite shade of pink (blush), but pink is pink so i'm okay with it <33

[random-thot-generator]

Love Thy Frenemy + Interlude

Dinner & a Movie

ONE SHOT/INTERLUDE

SIMON RILEY x FRENEMY FEM READER

Summary: Simon helps you prepare dinner before settling in to watch an old movie that has a surprising impact on the stoic soldier.

Warnings/Tags: Profanity, lots of fluff and warm fuzzy feelings, no use of Y/N

(Notes: I was going to gloss over this part in the next chapter, but a reader expressed their excitement over Simon and Doll/reader having a date night, and I would hate to disappoint, so... date night it is. The film mentioned in the story is real, one which I highly recommend. It's one of my favorite comfort films.)

Word Count: 2531

Interlude

-

“I knew already that the best meal in the world, the perfect meal, is very rarely the most sophisticated or expensive one.... Context and memory play powerful roles in all the truly great meals in one's life.” ― Anthony Bourdain, A Cook's Tour: Global Adventures in Extreme Cuisines

-

You don't know why you were so nervous, but Riley was, too apparently.

Neither of you spoke as you left the pub after your shift, the air between you awkward and tense. For some reason, this felt different than the other times he had taken you home. Was it because he was coming up to your flat with you? Was he nervous for a similar reason or was it because he had agreed to have dinner with you? He should know he didn't need to worry about that. You would make allowances for him, just like you did last night. Then another thought sprang up in your mind.

Maybe you were nervous because this felt suspiciously like a date.

Don't go there, Dee, you chided yourself. This was nothing more than two friends hanging out and sharing a meal together. Thinking thoughts like that didn't serve any purpose and only made you nervous when you had no reason to be. Strengthening your resolve, you climbed into the truck as he did the same.

"Do you mind stopping by the market?" you asked, trying to push your worries aside as you buckled your seatbelt. "I need to grab a few things for dinner."

Riley shot you a quick look and nodded, fastening his own seatbelt. "Sure, doll. Whatever ya need." He gave you another quick glance, then added, "What're ya goin' t'make, anyway?"

"Roast chicken and vegetables― unless you'd prefer something else?"

He gave a quick shake of the head. "No. Tha's fine." He seemed to be debating his next words, then forced them out. "Ya don't got t'cook if yer tired, ya know? Ain't no big deal. Ya worked all day, so you should relax. I can grab us some takeaway or― "

You laughed lowly. "Ohhh, no you don't. You're not talking me out of this. I'd be cooking whether you were with me or not, so it's not like I'm going out of my way or something. Besides, you eat too much takeaway and fast food, as it is." You giggled when he sniffed and attempted to look offended. Giving him a playful nudge, you tried to reassure him. "Seriously, Ri. It's no big deal. There's not much work involved in what I'm making. It's mostly prep work, then the oven does the rest."

He hummed but didn't say anything else. He drove you to Ploughman's Market, the local grocery, parking in the small car park nearby and shut off the motor. You expected him to stay in the truck while you shopped, knowing how much he despised shopping, so you were surprised when he got out with you and trailed behind you into the store.

Grabbing a shopping cart, you led the way down the first aisle, pausing to pull your grocery list from your back pocket. Riley was shifting back and forth from one foot to the other, looking impatient and nervous as he uncrossed then recrossed his arms over his chest. He was clearly uncomfortable, which in turn put you on edge. He needed something to distract his mind, but didn't know what to do with himself, so you made the decision for him. Lowering your list, you peered up at him. "Mind pushing the trolley for me?"

He gave a quick nod, seemingly relieved to have something to do. Taking hold of the cart, he dutifully followed along behind you, his dark eyes studying each item you placed in the cart. There were vegetables and butter and bread. A carton of milk and a can of broth. A whole chicken was added then a small container of spice― paprika, according to the label.

"Ya gonna use all this jus' t'make dinner?" he asked, curious.

"Mm-hm. Oh, almost forgot to ask. What would you like for dessert?"

The question caught him off guard. He wasn't expecting to have to offer his own input into the meal plan. He shrugged, not sure what to say. "Dunno. Whatever ya want is fine with me."

"Okaaay... How 'bout an apple crumble? With ice cream. Sound good?"

He frowned. "Ya don't need to go to s'much trouble, doll. Ya ain't got t'make dessert. The chicken will be plenty."

You rolled your eyes. "Ri, you love sweets, and I like making them, so just accept that this happening and move past it." When he began grumbling under his breath, you took his arm and walked beside him for a few steps, looking up at him with a little smirk. "It's not a big deal, okay? But if it'll make you feel better, I'll let you help out. You can chop the vegetables and peel the apples, hm?"

"Fine," he mumbled. He hated for you to put yourself out more than you already were. You should be at home with your feet up, not standing over a hot stove cooking him dinner. If he knew how to make more than tea, he would cook, but knew he'd just make a mess and probably set something on fire. His culinary skills ended at the box directions on his microwave dinners.

You led him back to the produce section to pick out the apples you would need, then went back to the spice aisle for cinnamon and nutmeg. The last thing you placed in the cart was a container of vanilla bean ice cream, the one that he had once mentioned was his favorite brand. You'd remembered, and it made him feel weird, pleased and a little self-conscious, knowing you paid attention to even the off-hand things he said.

The co-owner of the store, Mrs. Gilly was at the register when you went to check out. She smiled at you both as you began placing your items on the conveyor. "How ya doin' today, lovie?" she asked, then glanced up at Simon. "And I hope yer doin' well, too, Mr. Riley."

Simon jammed his hands in his pockets and gave a quick nod. "Doin' fine, mum," he said.

"Ri, will you hand me my bag, please?" you asked, then turned your attention to the older woman. "How've you and Mr. Gilly been? Got that new freezer in, I saw. Bet you're pleased 'bout that, yeah?"

Mrs. Gilly huffed a laugh as she began scanning your groceries. "Aye and thank the saints fer it, Told Graham if I had to mop up after that leaky old unit one more time, I was takin' the mop to his head next."

You laughed as you made your way down to the end, pulling a bundle of folded shopping totes from your messenger bag. The two of you chatted away while you bagged up your groceries, leaving Simon to look on with mild amusement. When the total was rung up and you reached for your wallet, however, he spoke up at last.

"I'll pay fer this," he said, handing over his card to Mrs. Gilly. When you opened your mouth to protest, he gave you a sharp look. "Shut it, Dee. If yer cookin', then I'm payin' fer the food."

You scoffed and crossed your arms over your chest. "But it was my idea. I offered to cook."

"An' I'm takin' ya up on the offer," he agreed, then added, "but I'm still payin' for it."

Mrs. Gilly chuckled, taking his card. "Ya heard the man, love. He's tryin' to play fair with ya. Ain't tha' right, Mr. Riley?"

Simon gave you a smug look. "Yes, mum. 'S a fair play. I buy the food an' Dee cooks it. Seems like a fair deal to me."

You smirked and shook your head. "Fine. You win." You reached for the totes, only to have them snatched away before you could get a grip on them. "Ugh! Ri, I can carry some of this."

"No." Simon gathered the bags in his big hands, refusing to let you carry anything.

"I'm not a weakling, ya know?"

"No, you're a bloody brat, is what ya are. Now, c'mon."

Mrs. Gilly chuckled, watching the two of you bicker as you followed Simon out of the store. She noticed the way he slowed his steps so you wouldn't have to walk fast, his head tilting down to look at you as you looked up at him, chattering away at the usually quiet man. From the looks of it, he was giving as good as he got.

Mrs. Giily gave you both a considering look. He was different around you, and you him. You both seemed to come alive in each other's presence. It warmed her heart to witness it. She couldn't help but think that the two of you made a lovely couple.

After the groceries were carried up to your flat, you set about preparing the meal. Simon sat at the counter and watched, listening to you chatter on about some new fantasy show you'd been watching, feeling all the tension he'd been carrying drain away.

As promised, you put him to work, giving him a cutting board and a couple of knives― one for paring, one for chopping. He was mildly impressed with how sharp you kept them, the blades slicing through the raw vegetables with ease. When he wasn't sure how to cut something, you took the knife and quickly sliced and cubed a potato into the size chunks you wanted, then handed him the knife back without even pausing in your story, not making a big deal of his inexperience.

As he peeled and sliced and chopped, he watched you prepare the chicken, blending the butter together with fresh herbs you collected from some of your little potted plants in the kitchen window. You smeared the concoction over the entire bird before adding a few more sprigs of herbs to the hollowed-out cavity inside it. You then placed the chicken inside a heavy Dutch oven pot and layered the vegetables he'd chopped around it, sprinkling a bit more salt, pepper and paprika over everything. Calling it good, you set the lid on it with a clang and slid the pot into the oven.

"Hand me the apples an' I'll peel 'em," Simon said, pointing at them with his paring knife.

You gave him a little smirk. "Have you ever used an apple peeler?"

"A wot?"

You pulled out a gadget that reminded Simon of the pencil sharpeners from primary school, but with the shavings barrel removed. You showed him how to use it, sticking one of the apples on the device then had him crank the little handle. The peel began to curl off the fruit, making him huff out a laugh. He had no idea such a thing even existed, but enjoyed himself more than he would like to admit.

As he peeled, you cut the apples and sliced them into thin pieces, layering them in the bottom of fancy deep-dish plate you called a tort dish. He was fascinated by the way your deft little hands worked over the food, turning a bunch of random items into an actual meal.

Just like when you tended bar, there was no hesitation in anything you did, the actions second nature for you to perform. The whole process seemed to relax you, all the tension of your day slipping away. You were in your element when in your little kitchen, confident and at ease. Seeing you this way relaxed him as well. He realized he liked doing this with you. A lot.

After the crumble was put together and set aside, you made tea and led him into your little sitting area, encouraging him to peruse the books and movies while you sat back on the couch and enjoyed your cuppa. One of the movies caught his eye, the word 'ghost' drawing his attention. It was an old black and white film called 'The Ghost and Mrs. Muir'.

He pulled the case from the shelf and flipped it over to read the back, brows scrunching together. "Tha' doesn't even make any sense," he muttered. "A ghost fallin' in love." He sniffed in derision and shook his head, ready to put it back on the shelf.

You hummed, tilting your head to look up at him as you sipped your tea. "It makes sense once you see the movie. It's a great film, one of my favorites."

He eyed you for a moment and then handed you the case. "Put it on, then. I can withhold judgement until I see it, I s'pose," he said, but his tone was dubious.

At first, Simon watched with an already biased opinion, but as the film went on, he was a little shocked at how invested he had become in the movie, barely even acknowledging the timer on the oven when it went off and you left to take out the chicken. His brows lifted in mild surprise when you returned a few minutes later, handing him a plate full of food and some cutlery.

"Thanks, doll."

You nodded, then tossed a thumb over your shoulder. "I'll sit at the counter, so you can eat and watch the movie," you offered, but he shook his head.

"'S fine. You don't gotta do that. Come back an' finish the movie wif me."

You hesitated for only a second and then nodded. "Okay. Just need to put the crumble in and I'll be right back."

Simon pulled his mask up to his nose without a second thought, balancing the plate on his knees as he took his first bite. His eyes slid shut. Bloody fuckin' hell! How did you make everything taste so good? He shook his head, thinking to himself he'd gladly pay you to cook like this for him every day.

The two of you sat at opposite ends of the couch and ate while finishing the film. You paused it once to get the crumble out of the oven, bringing him a bowl full of crumble and melting ice cream. Simon savored every bite, right up until the end of the movie, the last scene making it a little hard for him to swallow the food in his mouth. Watching the two characters wander into the misty hereafter arm and arm made his chest feel warm and tight. When he glanced over at you, there was a soft expression on your face, sweet and little wistful.

"See?" you murmured to him. "A ghost can fall in love. Does it make sense to you, now?"

Simon swallowed past the lump that had formed in his throat, that warm feeling in his chest growing as he gazed at you. He felt so full, full to bursting, and what's more, he felt an overwhelming sense of contentment. He felt... happy. A smile curled up a corner of his mouth as he gave you a begrudging nod.

"Yeah, doll. I guess it does."

-

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[soniabigcheese]

Hubby update

We decided to go shopping yesterday and I showed him a shortcut to get to the supermarket. Where he decided to walk around a few times whilst pushing the trolley.

He managed to do that a few times before taking breaks.

Since we only live about a 10 minute walk away, he said we should be able to walk back home with 3 fairly heavy bags.

I complained and said it wasn't possible but he was very persistent.

We did manage it as far as possible before he decided that he could walk the rest of the way - from the top of our street!

Checking his stump this morning, he has managed to skin a small area so he has some medicated cream on that spot and taking it much easier today.

But wow! I've never seen anyone switch from a couch potato into someone with such motivation in a few months!

In addition, he doesn't need his shrinker sock, as it has served its purpose by successfully shrinking his stump right down to a manageable size!

[brienneoftarth1989]

Yes Captain part 8

Captain Phasma x fem reader

Previous / next / series

Summary: when you were finally allowed to leave the infirmary Phasma told you that you would be staying with her for the foreseeable future.

Warnings: hospital recovery, fluff

Requests open

———————————

You have been in hospital for the last 8 months and the whole experience was torturous. Learning how to walk again has been a frustrating experience in itself. First you had to gain strength in your legs by doing these exercises. The pain caused in the first few weeks was horrible. One leg was in pain because you had been stabbed in it and the other leg was in pain because it was completely mangled when you crashed.

Then came the standing exercises. You had to stand for a certain period of time before being allowed to sit down. At first you obviously needed support from others and the surrounding area but as time went on you relied less and less on everyone and everything. When you were finally able to stand on your own you felt like you had overcome this huge mountain.

That was when it dawned on you, learning to stand was one thing, you still needed to learn to walk and this battle was nowhere near over. Even though you had overcome this huge challenge you felt like it still wasn’t enough and that you would never get around to walking.

Throughout this time Phasma still hadn’t left your side. She stayed with you each day and night and was there through the whole process of you trying to walk. Unfortunately she normally got the receiving end of your anger and frustration of learning to walk however she never showed that it was bothering her.

You were grateful that Phasma had decided to stick around because deep down you knew that without her you wouldn’t be where you were now. You would most likely still be in your hospital bed telling yourself you couldn’t do it. Thankfully with Phasma’s motivation you were finally able to walk again.

Aside from learning to walk you also had to get back physical strength elsewhere in your body as well as trying to gain some control over your memory loss. There are still some areas that are a bit patchy but you were lucky to have gained back most of your memory.

The doctors said you were lucky that this was the only type of brain injury that occurred because considering you died twice on the table the impact that it had should have been a lot worse. You were just a lucky person.

Today was the day that you would go home, finally getting to leave the hospital. You were scared but also excited. You were scared because you obviously didn’t know how well you were going to cope on your own. You had spent the last months with someone constantly by your side whether that was Phasma or the nurses.

You didn’t know how well you were going to cope but unfortunately was going to be something that you had to overcome. Although the anxiety was there you were definitely excited to be finally leaving this place. You loved everyone that cared for you but you really were looking forward to being able to live your own life again.

You were currently sitting in your room on your own, enjoying your own company. One of your favourite members of staff had just entered your room to bring you your breakfast. “So are you excited to be going home today?” they asked you as they placed your food in front of you. “I definitely am. I am sick of this hospital food” you laughed which caused them to laugh.

“Yh I don’t really blame you there. The food isn’t the best and I’m the one that serves it” they laughed which caused you to let out a little giggle. “Well I better be getting back to work. These people definitely won’t be feeding themselves” they laughed as they made their way back to their trolley before heading down the corridor.

You happily ate your sad breakfast. You couldn’t wait to have a proper breakfast. You looked around your room and seeing it bare and back to normal made you feel a number of things. Phasma had packed your bags that she had brought in when you first arrived at the hospital. They were all piled in a corner ready to go back to your room. Well most of them were. Phasma had already started taking them back to your room as she knew you wouldn’t be able to carry any of them.

You waited around in your room for most of the morning before one of the doctors finally came round to see you so they could discharge you. While you were waiting Phasma had managed to make a number of trips before finally leaving about 10 minutes ago with the last couple of bags and she just so happened to arrive at the same time the doctor had shown up to talk to you about going home.

Phasma sat down next to you to await to see what the doctor had to say about you going home. “Ok, so upon reviewing everything you are now in a suitable position to be going home. We are going to issue you a wheelchair as well as a walking stick. This is just so if you have days where it is getting too much you have the options to use them if need be. You will need to go to physiotherapy once a week to continue to build strength in your legs as well as weekly counselling to deal with any trauma” they said as they handed over the paper for you to sign.

You quickly had a read over the paperwork that had been handed to you before signing your name at the bottom to confirm you were being discharged. With the doctor happy with everything he turned to you one final time to ask you one last question. “So, who will you be staying with for the next few months?”

You gave him a look of confusion before answering. “What do you mean? I thought I would be going to be living in my quarters” you said to the doctor. The doctor looked at you before looking at Phasma. “I did mention it to her but she must have forgotten” Phasma said to the doctor. “Tell me what!” you shouted starting to get frustrated.

“Calm down, it’s alright. Basically you are going to be staying with me for a little while. It’s just so I can make sure you are safe and with your memory the way it is at the moment at least I will be able to keep an eye on you and I know you will be safe” she said as she crouched down so she was eye level with you.

You looked at Phasma before anger took over you. “Taking care of? I’m a grown adult! I don’t need to be babied. I just need to get on with my life. I want to be able to take care of myself!” you shouted before you started crying. “I know, I know, as soon as you are able to remember things without forgetting and your physio has finished then you can go back to living in your quarters. Trust me y/n I won’t be babying you. I will just be there if you need a hand” Phasma said as she caressed your hand.

Phasma was right as much as you hated to admit it. You needed help even if it was temporary. Phasma could see you were thinking. “Look y/n, as soon as you are in a position to look after yourself without being a danger to yourself then you can go back to living by yourself in your own quarters” she said looking at you trying to read your face.

You took a deep breath before sighing. “Fine. I will stay with you Phasma but as soon as I can look after myself properly I am going back to living by myself” you said quite quickly. “That is absolutely fine y/n but just know that you will always be welcome at my place” Phasma said with a little smile on their face. You couldn’t help but smile at her, she was too cute.

“Ok, I’m ready to go then” you sighed. Phasma helped you out of bed before helping you sit down in the wheelchair. “It’s a long way to walk with your walking stick so I’m going to wheel you back to my room. From there we will work on walking further and further with your stick as time goes forward” she said smiling at you once you were sitting in your chair.

“That’s fine. I’m pretty tired anyway. I don’t feel like walking that kind of distance just yet” you said as you relaxed back in your chair as Phasma pushed you out of the hospital room. You made your way down the corridors before finally leaving the hospital behind. All you had to do now was get to Phasma’s quarters. The good thing about having the hospital on the flagship meant that you didn’t have to travel too far.

As Phasma was pushing you down the hallway to her quarters she could tell you were feeling a bit depressed. “Hold on” she said as she started running down the hallways of the flagship. You gripped the side of the wheelchair as Phasma ran quicker and quicker. You couldn’t help but laugh as she ran down the halls. Maybe staying with Phasma for a little while might not be the end of the world. Deep down you were looking forward to what these next few months may bring you.

[loosesodamarble]

Lemonade on a Hot Day

Summary: Solara is served a drink that's special to House Vermillion on a sunny afternoon. Genre: general Word count: ~1000 A/N: This is the first of a few oneshots I wrote as a gift for @thoughtfullyrainynightmare! Happy birthday, Laura!

..........

Summer was in full swing in Clover Kingdom. The Sun burned brighter in skies that were cleared of spring rainstorms.

One person who was enjoying the sunny days was Solara. She had gone out to the garden of House Vermillion and sat herself down at a table, shaded by a wide umbrella. Lush leaves of green and vibrantly colored blooms decorated her surroundings. Solara leaned back in her chair a bit and had an elbow rested on the table top as she propped up a book in her hands.

Solara turned the page and greedily took in the words that presented themselves. It was a peculiar genre of story where at certain points in the book, the characters would be divided between two choices and the reader could read the result of either choice by flipping to a specified page. There were branching paths and dozens of endings, making the book dense. And Solara was fascinated by it. She’d read four endings already and was impressed by the consistency of the character personalities despite the varied paths.

In her periphery, she noticed one of the palace staff approaching her with a serving trolley. Solara turned her head to get a better look. Laid out on the top shelf of the trolley was a glass pitcher filled with a pale yellow drink, a metal box that likely carried ice inside, some stacked cups, and coasters for those cups.

“Afternoon,” Solara greeted with a smile. “I don’t think I asked for anything to be brought to me.”

“No, you didn’t make any requests,” the maid replied with a grin of her own. “But the kitchen just finished preparing a large batch of lemonade and we thought that everyone should get a taste of it.” She plucked ice chunks from the icebox then poured the lemonade into the cup for Solara. “Have a taste, m’lady.”

“Why thank you.” Solara bookmarked her place in her book and accepted the lemonade.

The cup already had condensation on it from the cold drink inside and the warm summer air outside. The little droplets against Solara’s fingers felt nice, making Solara realize just how hot it was that day.

Solara sipped the lemonade and immediately let out a surprised hum. It tasted different from lemonade she’d had before. Something about it was more refreshing. The acidity from the main ingredient was there but it tasted like it’d been mellowed out, though not from sugar.

Are Cloverian lemons not as acidic as ones grown in Thea? Solara wondered while taking another gulp. She picked up a crispness that was familiar but not enough for her to place what the flavor was. Is it the sweetener? Is it not sugar?

“Is the drink to your liking?” the maid spoke up, tilting her head to the side as she inquired. “You look a little perplexed…”

“I do like it. It’s welcome after having spent a while out here. I’m merely curious about the flavor of the lemonade,” Solara readily admitted. She drank more of the lemonade to be sure that her taste buds weren’t lying to her. Focusing more, there was a faint melon-like flavor to it. Like the taste equivalent of a whisper. “It’s different from lemonade I’ve had before. Is there anything special about the preparation?”

“Why yes there is,” answered the maid. Her smile stretched across her face. She seemed quite pleased, even eager, to hear Solara’s question. “The head chef for House Vermillion uses cucumber water as the base of her lemonade. She uses lemon zest to flavor the water too, making the lemonade even lemon-y-er!”

“Ah, that explains the flavor.” Solara glanced at her cup which was already half empty.

“I should also mention that the cucumbers come from the chef’s own home garden, watered by her own magic,” the maid went on. Her eyes sparkled as she talked and Solara watched with endeared rapture. “The residents of House Vermillion have been enjoying the recipe for well over sixty years. And even if other people used cucumber water in their lemonade, it’ll never be as refreshing as what we serve here at House Vermillion!” The maid was gushing at that point.

“I didn’t think lemonade would be a point of pride for a royal house,” Solara giggled. She took another gulp of the lemonade and let the sweet-sour lemon and delicate cucumber flavors dance across her palate. “But I’m glad that it’s the case here.”

Pink flooded the maid’s face, now aware of her rambling. “A-ah… Sor— I didn’t mean to—”

“No need to apologize,” Solara assured. “I’m not a chef myself so what you told me was fascinating actually. It’s amazing how culinary experts can come up with such lovely flavors. Give my compliments to the chef for her recipe.”

“Of course!”

“Oh, and…” Solara downed the rest of her cup then held it out to the maid. “Could I get a refill, please?”

“How about I leave the rest of this pitcher for you?” offered the maid.

“That’s not necessary. Don’t you need to bring the lemonade to oth—”

“I can just get a new pitcher from the kitchen.” The maid set a cloth mat on the garden table, placed the lemonade pitcher on the mat, and finally handed one of the coasters to Solara for her cup. “Do enjoy yourself, Lady Solara.”

“Thank you. And I hope you can take some time for yourself as well,” replied Solara.

The maid left, humming a melody Solara didn’t recognize as she did. Once the other woman was out of sight, Solara refilled her cup then opened her book back up.

A cold drink on a warm day with an engaging read to while away the time. It was nothing special but Solara would certainly enjoy herself that way.

[numberonesnarkfan]

This is the story of a being named The Narrator.

Many religions and spiritualities have invented concepts and nomenclature that closely describes the type of being The Narrator is. For a western listener to understand best, the closest definition would be that it is a type of ‘spirit’.

The Narrator, as you know it, is a spirit not bound by laws of physics as you are, but bound by laws that govern a realm invisible to humans. One of these laws that applies to The Narrator specifically, is that it cannot refer to itself with a name or pronoun that is not given to it by man. The Narrator never referred to itself at all for much of its life. Even ‘it’ is a new pronoun to it. It knew the pronouns ‘ham’ and ‘den’ from the ancient Vikings, ‘to’ and ‘afton’ from the even more ancient Greeks. ‘The Narrator’, too, is a new name, given to it only in the 1600s. 

The last cult who discovered and committed themselves to it called it him, and named him Mikonaxas. The last cult of Mikonaxas was only formed ten years after the turn of the millennium. They operated for three years, dutifully serving the spirit. Mikonaxas told his cult that he embodied story. In ancient times, he would speak to bards and philosophers and tell them things that would change the course of history, if only they would appease him. In this age, Mikonaxas grew bored of his role as a spirit existing only to aid man and instead desired to join them in their feasting and revelry, and in their glory and toil. He wanted to feel firsthand the emotions and desires that he had studied closely, that could only be felt by one in a corporeal body.

“What type of body do you desire, Mikonaxas, my lord?” a member asked, bowing his head to the spirit, its form only visible as a dark cloud. Jim held his breath. He hoped truly that the being would not want for a body that matched his own. He dreaded what the spirit might do to him.

“I’m thinking…” Mikonaxas mused, “tall and fat, a symbol of my power and prestige. I want to appear old and wise, yet a youthful spark in my eyes, yes… Do you know of the appearance of the ancient daemon, Pan? Something like that. But I don’t want my body to be only human, heavens no. I must embody divinity, I must exist beyond the limitations of man. Perhaps endowed somehow with your new ‘recording’ technology, so that my stories can live forever. Can you do that for me? I’d love that.”

Jim released his breath. While he was getting old, his previous lifestyle had rendered him quite particularly gangly. He didn’t fit the bill. He glanced nervously around the near-empty ‘church’, which was in fact built in the basement of an abandoned house. There was one man who he knew fit Mikonaxas’ request.

This is the story of a man named Angelo.

Jim had known Angelo for a number of years. In fact, he had once had a relationship with him, before he had become Angelo when he transitioned to identifying as a man. He had cut ties with his family, who did not accept him anymore, and named himself after his great-great grandfather, who had also faced persecution for his identity. Angelo lived in a small suburban home, with no company other than his two cats. Angelo remained friends with Jim after their amicable break-up, when Jim admitted that, in respect of Angelo’s transition, he was no longer attracted to him. Angelo, rather than being angry, felt grateful to Jim for treating him truly as a man. Now, Angelo was a friend of the cult through Jim.

Jim felt a pit in his stomach. Among gods, or beings who were worshipped as gods, Mikonaxas could sometimes be cruel. He had an explosive temper. If Jim failed to deliver him his desires, Jim didn’t know what he might do to him, or to the cult at large. Jim bowed to Mikonaxas and turned to return to his quarters.

In the days following, Jim found himself faced with a ‘trolley problem’, of sorts. One potential loss of life, or the potential loss of the lives of the entire cult? In truth, Jim didn’t know what would happen to Angelo’s body if he were given to Mikonaxas. But if he had to augment it somehow to make it ‘exist beyond the limitations of man’, that couldn’t be good for Angelo’s general health.

That night, Jim made up his mind. He called the cult to a meeting and described to them Mikonaxas’ request. Stefan, a nurse, piped up that he may be able to help, as did Lucy, who was part of a team who built robots for work and fun. Over months, they devised a plan and built a prototype. They presented it to Mikonaxas, who liked it, but proposed a few changes. After more months, they had a final version.

They would harvest parts from a computer and a professional microphone to implant into Angelo’s body. Some of his organs would need to be removed or replaced. The replacements and the parts were ready, now only one part of the plan remained: Angelo himself.

Jim was dispatched to Angelo’s home a few nights later. They had agreed to have dinner there, simply as friends. Angelo had prepared a beautiful meal and Jim had supplied the wine, along with a certain secret ingredient.

Angelo greeted Jim and allowed him in, motioning for him to sit down at the table. Angelo was on the older and heavier side, with long silvery hair that was often tied in a bun, as it was tonight. He had thick black eyebrows, the only visible hair on him that hadn’t been turned grey by the test of time. He had a square jaw and pale skin, his fingers now rapping on the edge of the table. Jim sat across from him and smiled.

For an hour, they talked. Angelo asked about the cult and Mikonaxas and Jim assured him that everything was going fine. He felt a pang of guilt in his chest. Partway through their meeting, Angelo excused himself to the bathroom and Jim dropped his ‘secret ingredient’ into Angelo’s wine: a powerful sedative.

Angelo returned from the bathroom and took a sip of his wine, none the wiser. It didn’t take long for the drug to take effect. Angelo didn’t want to be rude to his guest, so he fought to keep his eyes open. Around half an hour later, though, he told Jim that he was awfully sorry, but something must be wrong. Jim responded that he could take Angelo to the hospital if he wanted, but Angelo insisted he would just sleep it off. When he could barely get up from his chair, however, Jim insisted and took him out to his car. Angelo didn’t fight as Jim strapped him into the passenger seat and got in the driver’s seat. Jim started the car and watched as Angelo started to fall asleep.

Angelo didn’t wake up even when he was dragged out of the car and into the basement of the cult’s house, or when he was hoisted onto the table, or when he was tied down, stripped and duct tape gagged. Only when Stefan started to cut, did he wake up. He surely would have fought to escape, had he not been thoroughly tied down. Jim felt his heart sink as Angelo’s wide and teary eyes landed on him.

Stefan, though he was a nurse, was not at all qualified for a surgery of this type. Mikonaxas lended some aid through some kind of mysterious magic, allowing wires and parts to be laid in Angelo’s body, along with a vessel for himself, a small jar in Angelo’s midsection. Even still, when his eyes stopped moving, Jim knew that Angelo was dead. Mikonaxas instructed them to continue, though, and so they did. The final touch was the large microphone stand that protruded from his back, arching up over his head to dangle a recording mic in front of his face.

Finally, Angelo was reclothed and laid down, rigor mortis beginning to set in. Jim held his breath as Mikonaxas lowered himself into Angelo’s now vacant body. He watched as the last slivers of his dark, smoky form disappeared through the skin. All was silent for a moment, before Jim heard a sound like a computer whirring to life. Angelo’s eyes shot open, his irises now bright yellow, split by a slit pupil. 

With Mikonaxas’ deep, bassy voice, he spoke;

“N-no. This isn’t right.”

Blood began to dribble from his mouth as he got up from the table on shaky legs. He stumbled, then turned to face the cult.

“This isn’t–” Angelo - or rather, both of them, doubled over in pain as Mikonaxas rammed at the walls of his vessel, trying to get out. Wounds began to reopen, blood quickly seeping through his bandages and reddening his clothes. 

Wind started to whip and howl at the house, threatening its structure. Jim heard wood creaking before the sudden smash of a window upstairs. The cult members began to panic, but Jim’s eyes stayed on Angelo. 

Jim watched in horror as a black cloud exploded out of Angelo. It filled the room quickly. It felt like burning and freezing at the same time. It felt like falling and rising, like being turned to dust.

This is the story of two beings, known together as The Narrator.

The Narrator felt the dark explosion trickle back inside of him. He slowly stood up straight and looked around the room. The walls and floor were blackened and everything that had been in the room - the table, the altar, and the humans, had been reduced to dust, or perhaps soot. He felt the life draining from him again. Something inside him roused; a deep-set human instinct. For the first time in his life, he feared death. He refused to die.

The Narrator forced himself to move, stumbling through the room and up the stairs. The wind still whipped at the house, the support beams creaking. He limped out of the door, now ripped off of its hinges by the storm. He stepped out into the wind and rain and headed slowly for the closest building. It was a large office complex. The moon was nearly full, the office was the only building with its lights on in an immediate radius.

It felt like hours he was forcing himself to walk. His strength was waning as he pulled himself through the door. The receptionist didn’t appear to be present, so he stumbled through the building, tracking blood all over the carpet. He stopped occasionally to lean on a wall and throw up blood as he searched for signs of human life. The implants in his skin were starting to threaten to fall back out. His vision was blurring.

Finally, he came across an office with the sound of typing coming from inside. He pushed the door open. A man turned to face him as he entered, his face whitening in fear and shock. He was tall and lanky, with brown hair and arched eyebrows, with matching brown eyes. He appeared frozen to his chair in shock as The Narrator approached him.

The Narrator grabbed Stanley by the shoulders. He didn’t say anything, there was too much blood in his mouth for that, which at this moment was dripping onto Stanley’s legs. A horrible crack and a spark came from him before all of the lights in the complex went out. 

Stanley opened his mouth to yell.

The Narrator screamed over him as a black cloud exploded out of him. 

Then, the cloud began to whirl and implode. The wind picked up hard enough for trees to be pulled over outside. It was like a black hole. It was a black hole. Stanley was sucked in first, before it grew, taking more and more of the offices with it, then the entire building, before, in a flash of light, it suddenly vanished. 

…

.

..

.

The Narrator cleared his throat,

“This is the story of a man named Stanley.”