#cheats Township

[alittlegiraffe]

heyyy lovely,

could u do marshall and reader are broken up and the kids try and get them back together, Marshall is still in-love with reader but she is to obvious (angst & happy ending)

Title: “Still”

You don’t realize how quiet the house has become until you’re standing at the sink, washing the same wine glass for the third time. There’s no music playing. No low laughter from the living room. No voice rising in rhythm from the studio in the basement. Just you, your breath, and the dull hum of the fridge.

It’s been six months.

Six months since you moved out of the house in Clinton Township. Six months since the lawyers got involved. Six months since you and Marshall sat at opposite ends of a table, trying not to look at each other while signing the paperwork that cut your life in half.

It wasn’t messy, not really. No screaming. No cheating scandal. Just a slow erosion—of trust, of time, of each other.

The drugs didn’t help.

The fame definitely didn’t.

But the love... that’s the part that never left. It just started hiding under the surface, buried beneath years of exhaustion and resentment. And fear. Always the fear.

You never stopped loving him.

And you’re pretty sure he never stopped loving you either.

But neither of you said it.

Not when you were packing the last box of books.

Not when he handed you the keys to your new place.

Not when Hailie hugged you both, her voice too steady for her eyes.

Now, the girls—your girls—are on a mission. The three of them are scheming with the focus of a military operation. You caught Alaina whispering to Stevie in the kitchen last week. Hailie’s been unusually persistent about “family dinners.” You wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve got a shared Google Doc labeled Operation Remarshall or something equally embarrassing.

You can’t blame them.

You and Marshall were good together. At least, you looked good together. And maybe that counts for something. But now?

Now, you’re tired.

Now, you’re trying to teach your daughters that it’s okay to let go of something, even if it hurts. Even if you love it.

Which is why, when your best friend calls and says, “I know a guy. Not too weird. Not too charming. Normal,” you say:

“Fine. Set it up.”

And that’s how you end up sitting across from Derek—a perfectly average, politely interesting CPA—at a trendy little restaurant that smells like rosemary and regret.

He’s talking about refinancing.

You’re trying to care.

But your mind drifts—like it always does—back to Marshall.

To the way his laugh used to echo down the hallway.

To the way he’d sit on the edge of your shared bed, head in his hands, saying “I’m trying, babe. I swear I’m trying.”

To the voicemail he left last night—his voice quiet, like he wasn’t sure if he should’ve called.

“I was just thinkin’ about that Christmas in ‘09. When Stevie got stuck in the chimney trying to prove Santa was real? You were right, by the way. We should’ve called the fire department.”

You saved the message.

You always do.

You sip your wine. Smile at Derek. He seems nice. Stable. Grounded.

But he’s not the man who memorized your coffee order down to the number of espresso shots depending on how you slept. He’s not the man who wrote a verse about the way your hands shake when you’re anxious. He’s not the man who fought demons with your name on his lips like a battle cry.

He’s not Marshall.

And you realize, in that moment, that maybe—just maybe—you don’t need to show your daughters you’ve moved on.

Maybe what they need to see is that it’s okay to hold on. Even if it’s complicated. Even if it hurts.

Especially if it’s real.

---

The drive home is quiet.

Derek hums along to the radio, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on the center console—close enough to yours that it feels intentional, but not quite brave enough to make the leap.

You watch the city lights blur past the window, your reflection flickering back at you in the glass. For a moment, you pretend you’re someone else. Someone uncomplicated. Someone who doesn’t carry the weight of a thousand almosts.

He pulls up outside your house. The porch light flickers on, triggered by motion or maybe by fate.

“Tonight was… nice,” Derek says, turning to face you. His voice is hopeful, unsure. Like he’s waiting for a cue that never comes.

“Yeah,” you answer, because it’s polite and safe and doesn’t admit the truth.

You’re already reaching for the door handle when he leans in.

And you let him.

You don’t stop him.

His lips meet yours in a kiss that’s soft, practiced. It doesn’t demand. It doesn’t burn. It doesn’t hurt, even. And maybe that’s the problem.

Because Marshall’s kisses always hurt in the best way.

They were full of fire and apology, full of hunger and hope and please don’t give up on me. He kissed like he was trying to remember you—every time. Like he was afraid he’d forget the shape of your mouth, the taste of your breath.

Marshall kissed you like it was a promise. Like it was the last time, even when it wasn’t.

And this?

This feels like a placeholder.

A desperate attempt to feel something, anything. But all you feel is the echo of what’s missing.

You pull back first.

“Thank you, Derek,” you say softly, and you mean it. He deserves kindness. But not the kind you don’t have to give.

He gives a polite nod, like he understands. Maybe he does.

You step out of the car, the night air biting at your skin, and watch him drive away.

Inside, the house is dark.

You don’t bother turning on the lights. You toe off your shoes, lean back against the door, and close your eyes.

Your heart beats too loud in your chest. Not because of the kiss. But because of the one you want—the one you keep chasing in your sleep. The one that still lingers like smoke in a house long burned down.

You don’t even know how he feels anymore. Not really.

Sure, he leaves voicemails. Sends texts that never quite say what they mean. He shows up early to drop off the girls, lingers too long in the driveway. But that’s not the same as trying again.

You’re scared to hope.

Scared to ask.

Scared that maybe he does feel the same and is just as afraid as you are.

So instead, you sit on the bottom step, phone clutched in your hand. You stare at his name in your contacts.

Your thumb hovers.

You don’t call.

You don’t text.

You just whisper into the dark:

“Goddammit, Marshall. I miss you.”

And somewhere across town, a man sits in a studio surrounded by silence, staring at a blank page—waiting for the right words that might bring you back home.

---

You’d gone out with Derek three more times.

Once to a cozy downtown bar where they served cocktails in mason jars, once to the planetarium where he tried to hold your hand during the stars show, and once to a friend’s housewarming party where someone asked how long you’d been together and you couldn’t answer.

Each date was a test you kept failing.

Each kiss was a shadow of the ones you used to know.

Each laugh was polite.

Each goodbye was quiet.

You were trying. God, you were trying.

But every smile felt like cheating on the grief.

Then Hailie called.

You recognized the excitement in her voice immediately—the breathless kind she only got when she was truly proud of something.

“I got all A’s this semester.”

You couldn’t help the grin that pulled at your mouth. “Of course you did, baby. You’re amazing.”

“I want to celebrate,” she said, and you could already hear the catch in her throat.

“Whatever you want.”

There was a pause.

“I want a family dinner. All of us. You. Dad. The girls.”

You froze, heartbeat thudding in your ears. “Hailie…”

“I’m not asking you to get back together,” she rushed to add. “I just—I want one night where we’re not in different houses and different rooms. Just one night where it feels like home again.”

You sighed, your fingers pressing into the bridge of your nose. You didn’t know how to explain that seeing him hurts in ways Derek’s kisses only sharpen.

Still, you said yes.

Because she never asked for much.

Because she missed the way things were.

Because maybe… you did too.

The night of the dinner, you spend too long choosing what to wear.

Nothing too formal. Nothing that says I’m trying. Nothing that screams I want you to look at me like you used to.

You settle on jeans and a soft sweater. Casual. Safe. Your armor.

The girls are already there when you arrive. Alaina opens the door with a knowing smile, and Stevie gives you a tackle-hug that almost knocks the air out of you.

The smell of garlic bread and pasta sauce fills the house. It smells like comfort. Like Sunday afternoons and movie nights and burnt meatballs because Marshall always got distracted mid-stir.

And then he walks in from the kitchen.

Your breath catches in your throat.

He’s wearing a black tee and grey sweatpants, socks mismatched as always. His beard’s trimmed but a little scruffy, and his eyes—God, those eyes—they still do that thing where they look straight through you.

You haven’t seen him in weeks. Not since the first date with Derek.

“Hey,” he says, voice quiet, careful.

“Hey.”

It’s stupid how the word feels heavier than the whole night.

Dinner is a blur of laughter and stories and teasing. The girls keep the conversation going, deliberately avoiding landmines. Hailie shows off her grades, and you all cheer like she won a Nobel Prize. Marshall’s eyes never leave her.

You don’t miss how he looks at her like she’s his entire world.

You don’t miss how you used to be part of that world, too.

You reach for your wine at the same time he does for the bread, and your hands brush. It’s a jolt.

And it hits you—how your body still remembers him. How his touch, even accidental, still feels like home.

You glance at him.

He’s already looking at you.

There’s a question in his eyes he’s too scared to ask.

You look away.

After dessert, the girls clean up like it was rehearsed. You suspect it was.

You find yourself alone with him on the back porch, the Michigan night air crisp around you. Crickets hum in the silence.

“She asked for this,” you say, arms folded. “I didn’t plan it.”

“I know.”

“I wasn’t trying to send mixed signals.”

“I know that too.”

You glance at him. “I’ve been seeing someone.”

He nods, jaw tight. “Derek.”

“How’d you—?”

“Hailie told me. Not on purpose. It slipped.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “She’s not subtle.”

“No,” he agrees, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “She’s not.”

Another long silence.

“I’m trying, Marshall,” you whisper. “To move on.”

“Yeah?” he says softly. “How’s that goin’?”

And that’s the thing. It’s not.

You’re still comparing every kiss to his.

Still sleeping on one side of the bed.

Still catching your breath when you hear old songs you both loved.

Still missing a man you aren’t even sure wants to be yours again.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He nods. Takes a breath like he’s deciding whether to speak or not.

“I’m six months clean,” he says finally. “I did that for the girls. For me. But a big part of it was you. And I’m not askin’ for anything. I just… I never stopped loving you. I just forgot how to say it without breaking everything.”

You stare at him.

Because it’s what you always wanted to hear.

Because it’s what you were afraid of hearing.

Because it might still not be enough.

But your heart?

Your heart starts beating again like maybe it could find a way back.

---

You’re still standing on the porch, arms folded against the chill, his confession hanging between you like smoke—fragile and thick.

“I never stopped loving you.”

Your pulse is loud in your ears. You can’t meet his eyes. You’re afraid if you do, everything will unravel. Or worse—come together.

Then Marshall shifts, like he’s made a decision. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck the way he always does when he’s nervous, but when he speaks, his voice is steady.

“I told my lawyers to stall the divorce.”

Your eyes snap up to his.

“What?”

He meets your gaze without flinching. “I don’t want it finalized. Not yet.”

“You can’t just—Marshall—what does that even mean?”

“It means,” he says, stepping closer, “that I don’t wanna keep pretending this is what we both wanted. It means I’m not ready to let you go. Not if there’s still a chance.”

His eyes are clear, heartbreakingly blue in the porch light, and you remember—so vividly—it floors you.

You remember those eyes looking up at you in the hospital room when Stevie was born.

Those same eyes flooded with tears during fights he didn’t have the words for.

Those eyes staring at you like you were the only thing anchoring him to this world.

And now? Now they’re looking at you like he’s ready to climb his way back out of the wreckage.

“I’ve been sitting in that house, thinking about all the ways I screwed this up,” he says. “All the times I should’ve talked to you instead of shutting down. All the nights I should’ve held you instead of hiding in the studio. I let the fame get in my head. I let the drugs take me away. But I’m here now.”

You stare at him, barely breathing.

“I know I’ve got a hell of a lot to prove. And maybe you’ll decide it’s too late. Maybe Derek ends up being the guy who makes you happy. But if there’s even one part of you that still wonders if we can fix this—”

His voice cracks, and your heart breaks with it.

“I’m gonna fight for you.”

You swallow hard. “You don’t get to say that like it’s simple. Like it doesn’t rip me apart every time I walk into a room and still want you.”

“Then let it,” he says, stepping closer, barely inches from you now. “Let it rip. Let it break. I’ll help put it back together if you’ll let me. I swear to God, I’ll show up different this time. Better.”

You look at him.

This man who’s made every mistake and still carries your name in every lyric that never made it to the studio. This man who ruined things, yes—but who also loved you so hard it sometimes scared you.

You want to trust him.

You want to believe.

But your voice is barely a whisper when you say, “And what if I can’t go through all of it again?”

His fingers graze your hand—just a brush, not a grab, not a demand.

“Then I’ll wait. I’ll wait until you can. But I’m not walking away.”

And there it is.

The first real fight in six months.

Not screaming.

Not pleading.

Just choosing to stay.

Even when it hurts.

Especially when it hurts.

You close your eyes. Let the night settle around you. Let your heart remember what it feels like to be chosen.

And somewhere in the quiet between breaths, you whisper the smallest truth you’ve been carrying:

“…I miss you every day.”

His hand finds yours.

You don’t pull away.

---

Six weeks with Derek.

Three weeks since Marshall looked you in the eyes and said “I’m going to fight for you.”

You haven’t made any declarations. No decisions. No promises.

But you’ve let Marshall call. You’ve answered when he texted “You busy?” at 10 p.m. and ended up talking until midnight about everything except the divorce.

He’s left flowers on your porch. Not store-bought ones—wildflowers, unevenly bundled in string, clearly picked by hand.

He wrote “Thinking of you” in a card and spelled thinking wrong on purpose because he knew it would make you laugh.

And it did.

He’s been over more—helping Hailie put together Ikea shelves, picking Stevie up from art class, standing in your kitchen like he still belongs.

But then there’s Derek.

Kind. Thoughtful. Patient. The safe choice. The fair one.

You’ve kept seeing him—trying to honor the part of you that said you’d try. You owe him that much. You owe yourself that much.

So when it’s your turn to host family dinner again—this time for Stevie’s big art show win—you hesitate for a full hour before you send Derek the text:

“Dinner Friday night. For Stevie. I’d like you to come.”

He replies immediately.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

You set down your phone, your stomach twisting in knots.

Because Marshall will be there.

And for the first time, you’re bringing your boyfriend into a room that still holds the ghost of your marriage.

Friday arrives too fast.

You spend the day cooking too much, trying to overcompensate. Stevie’s collage sculpture gets center stage on the dining room table, and she beams when she sees the place settings you made with little paintbrush name cards.

Derek arrives early.

He brings wine and flowers—lilies this time, wrapped in clean paper. He kisses your cheek and compliments the sauce on the stove. He talks to Stevie like she’s the star of the night and makes her giggle with a goofy art pun.

And you want to want this.

You want to feel like you’re making the right choice.

But then the door opens.

And Marshall walks in.

He’s wearing jeans and that grey hoodie you always used to steal when you were cold. He pauses in the doorway when he sees Derek, then gives you a brief glance—waiting, letting you set the tone.

You force a smile. “Hey.”

He gives a quiet, “Hey,” back, and nods politely to Derek.

Derek holds out a hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Marshall shakes it, his jaw ticking. “Yeah? Same.”

It’s not aggressive, not quite cold—but it’s not warm either.

The girls are quick to fill the silence, pretending not to notice the storm cloud hanging in the middle of the room.

Dinner goes… fine.

Derek fits in better than you expected—he laughs at Stevie’s jokes, listens intently when Hailie talks about her grad program, even offers to help with dishes.

Marshall is quieter tonight. Watchful. Reserved. You can feel the tension rolling off of him in waves.

But he never once makes it about himself.

He compliments Stevie’s art. He asks about Alaina’s new job. He clears plates without being asked. And every time his fingers brush yours, your breath stutters.

After dessert, the girls all migrate to the living room to watch Finding Nemo—one of Stevie’s comfort picks, even now. You start putting dishes in the sink when Marshall lingers in the doorway behind you.

You know he’s there before he speaks.

“You brought him.”

Your hands still on the plate. “He’s my boyfriend.”

“That what we’re calling him now?” he says, voice low but calm. “I just figured, if we’re gonna label things.”

You turn, drying your hands. “You said you were going to fight for me. That doesn’t mean I’m required to stop living my life.”

“I know,” he says, nodding. “I’m not mad.”

“Sure sounds like it.”

“I’m scared,” he admits, and the honesty in it makes your stomach ache.

“I know I don’t have a right to ask,” he says, stepping closer, voice softer, “but when he touches you… does it feel like when I did?”

You close your eyes.

Because no.

It doesn’t.

Not even close.

But you’re still afraid to say it.

“I’m trying to figure out what I want,” you say quietly.

Marshall swallows hard, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I hope it’s me.”

Then he turns and walks away—back into the warmth of your girls and the movie and the soft chatter that fills the house.

And you stand alone in your kitchen, heart caught between what is, what was, and what could be.

---

You walk back into the living room just in time to hear Alaina’s voice cut through the low hum of the television.

“So… you’re dating our mom?”

Derek chuckles politely. “Guess I am.”

You freeze mid-step, eyes flicking toward the couch. Stevie’s curled up with a blanket, focused on the screen, but Hailie and Alaina are perched like sentinels, arms crossed, eyes narrowed—full older-sister mode.

“And you’re okay with the fact that she’s still married to our dad?” Hailie asks, her voice deceptively light, but her jaw tight enough to draw blood.

“Hailie Jade!” you snap, heat flaring up your neck.

She shrugs, unapologetic.

Derek just smiles that calm, affable smile of his, like he’s been through worse. “It’s fine,” he says, soothing, hands raised slightly like he’s defusing a bomb. “They’re separated.”

He turns to Hailie like he’s offering logic. “She’s allowed to move on. They’re not together anymore.”

And that’s when you feel it.

Marshall’s stare. Heavy. Unyielding.

He’s sitting in the armchair by the fireplace, legs spread, forearms resting on his knees, hands clasped like he’s holding himself back from standing up. His eyes are locked on you—blue, bright, and burning with something he’s too tired to hide.

Not anger. Not jealousy.

Just… hurt.

The kind that makes your throat close up.

You look away.

“I’m sorry,” you say to Derek, motioning for him to follow you into the kitchen. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

He nods, rising without protest.

In the kitchen, the soft hum of the dishwasher is the only sound for a few seconds. You lean against the counter, exhaling slowly.

“I didn’t expect them to—”

“It’s okay,” he cuts in gently. “I get it. They’re protective.”

You nod, your arms crossing over your chest. “Still… that wasn’t fair to you.”

Derek watches you for a long moment, then tilts his head. “Can I ask you something?”

You brace yourself. “Yeah.”

“Are you still in love with him?”

Your mouth goes dry.

You want to say no. You want to say of course not, that what you had is gone, that this is your life now and you're building something new.

But the words don’t come.

You just stare at the floor, blinking fast.

Derek sighs, kind and tired. “You don’t have to answer. I think I already know.”

He steps forward and presses a kiss to your forehead, soft and bittersweet.

“You’re a good person,” he says. “But I’m not gonna fight a ghost.”

You lift your eyes to meet his. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” he says, cutting you off gently. “But if you still look at him like that, and he looks at you like he’s waiting to breathe again… then you’re not mine.”

And then he leaves.

Not angrily. Not wounded. Just… done.

You stand there for a long moment, staring at the door he walked through.

Then you feel him behind you.

You don’t turn. You don’t have to.

“Are you okay?” Marshall asks quietly.

You nod. “He left.”

“I heard.”

You finally turn, your eyes finding his. “You didn’t say anything.”

“Wasn’t my place.”

“Would you have said something if I asked you to?”

He steps forward, closes some of the space between you. “I’d do anything if you asked me to.”

It’s too much.

Too honest.

Too late.

Or maybe… just in time.

You don’t move when he reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. You don’t breathe when his fingers linger, when his thumb brushes your cheek like a question he’s too scared to ask out loud.

“I told you,” he says softly. “I’m gonna fight for you.”

And right now, with the room full of the echo of everything unsaid, with the girls pretending not to listen from the hallway, and your heart pounding like it remembers what it’s like to be his—

You believe him.

---

The night winds down slowly.

Stevie drifts off first, curled on the couch with paint smudges still on her sleeves and a soft snore rising from beneath her blanket. Alaina leaves soon after, offering you a long hug and a knowing glance—her way of saying I trust you without needing to say it.

Hailie lingers the longest.

She doesn’t speak. She just clears the last of the dishes, gives you a tight smile, and kisses your cheek on her way out. But as she passes Marshall, she pauses. Looks at him. Then at you. Then keeps walking.

It’s quiet after the door closes.

You’re both still in the kitchen. Him leaning against the counter. You sitting on the edge of the table where Stevie’s sculpture still glimmers under the soft overhead light.

He hasn’t made a move to leave.

You haven’t asked him to.

Instead, there’s just this soft weight in the room—like the air itself knows you’re standing at the edge of something.

He finally breaks the silence.

“I should probably head out.”

You look at him.

And then, without really thinking, you ask the question that’s been sitting on your tongue since the moment he walked through your door tonight.

“…What if I asked you to kiss me?”

Marshall goes still.

His breath catches, chest rising slowly, like your words knocked the wind out of him. He stares at you for a long second, those bright eyes flickering with everything he’s been trying not to say.

“You serious?”

You nod once, your voice quieter this time. “You said you’d do anything if I asked.”

He steps forward, slow, like he’s afraid the moment might shatter if he moves too fast.

“I did say that.”

You swallow. “Did you mean it?”

He’s standing in front of you now. Close enough that you can smell his cologne—something warm and clean and familiar. Close enough that you can feel the heat coming off his body.

“I meant every word.”

You tilt your head up to him, your heart pounding.

“So kiss me.”

For a second, he just looks at you. Like he’s trying to memorize every piece of this. Your face. Your voice. The fact that you’re finally asking.

Then he leans in.

And kisses you.

It’s slow at first—like he’s savoring the permission, like he’s afraid to scare you off. But then your fingers slide into the front of his hoodie, and he groans softly against your lips, and it deepens.

It’s all there.

Everything you tried to forget.

Every promise.

Every failure.

Every night he held you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

And now? Now he kisses you like he’s trying to put every broken piece of your story back together with his mouth.

When he finally pulls back, both of you breathless, his hands still cradling your face, he rests his forehead against yours.

“I missed you,” he whispers.

You close your eyes.

“I never stopped.”

Neither of you says anything for a long time.

Because maybe—for now—this is enough.

Maybe it’s the beginning again.

---

Two months.

Two months of secret smiles, of stolen weekends, of falling back into something that feels more like home than anything has in years.

You and Marshall didn’t mean to keep it from the girls. Not forever. Just… until it felt real. Until you could both say this time, we’re doing it right. Until the divorce was officially off the table and not just paused in the hands of your lawyers.

Until it wasn’t fragile anymore.

You thought you were being subtle. Careful. Quiet.

You thought wrong.

Family dinner is casual this time—just pizza boxes and laughter, Stevie’s sketchpad open on the counter, Alaina scrolling through her phone while Hailie debates whether pineapple belongs on pizza (it doesn’t, in her very loud opinion).

Marshall’s sitting across from you, beer in hand, smirking behind the lip of the bottle every time your phone buzzes and your face lights up before you can help it.

The girls are mid-discussion about movies when Hailie suddenly stops talking and levels you with a look.

“So when were you going to tell us?”

You blink, startled. “Tell you what?”

“That you’re seeing someone.”

You choke on your drink, nearly spluttering soda across the table. “I—I’m sorry, what?”

“Oh, come on, Mom,” Hailie groans, like she’s been waiting weeks for this conversation. “The late nights? That mystery bruise on your neck you swore was from your curling iron?”

You cough harder.

Alaina bursts into laughter. “Told you it wasn’t a burn!”

Stevie glances up from her sketchbook, wide-eyed. “Wait—was it a hickey?!”

You shoot Marshall a do not laugh glare, which he meets with a lazy smirk and a sip of his drink, the picture of smug amusement.

Hailie presses on, relentless. “The way you keep looking at your phone and smiling like a teenager? You’re seeing someone. Don’t lie.”

You set your glass down carefully, straightening your posture like you’re about to give a press conference.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t seeing someone.”

“Oh my god,” Alaina gasps, clutching her chest. “Who is he?”

“Is he hot?” Stevie adds, eyebrows high. “Please tell me he’s hot.”

You lift a hand to try and calm them. “Listen, it’s… new. And I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure. We’re taking it slow.”

Hailie narrows her eyes. “Is this guy going to be around? Is he serious?”

“He’s…” You glance at Marshall without meaning to, and it’s a mistake, because you see it—that softness he only ever wears around you. That quiet reassurance that says I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

You look back at the girls. “He’s important to me. And yes, it’s serious.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Hailie nods slowly. “Okay. As long as he’s good to you.”

“He is,” you say, meaning it more than you ever have.

Marshall’s eyes flicker toward you, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“And for the record,” you add, standing to clear the plates, “that was not a hickey.”

“Mom,” Alaina says dryly. “It totally was.”

You disappear into the kitchen as their laughter follows you, your face flushed and your heart pounding.

Behind you, Marshall rises to help, brushing his hand lightly against yours as he takes a stack of plates.

He leans in close, voice low in your ear. “So… I’m hot, huh?”

You roll your eyes. “You heard Stevie. She hopes you’re hot. She hasn’t confirmed anything.”

He laughs under his breath, presses a soft kiss just below your ear, and whispers, “Guess I’ll just have to prove it.”

You swat him with a dish towel, grinning like a woman who’s definitely not hiding anything anymore.

And for the first time in a long time, hiding doesn’t feel necessary.

---

It starts small.

A casual mention over takeout boxes on your kitchen counter. The kind of harmless conversation that shouldn’t have turned into anything.

But somehow, it does.

“I was thinking…” Marshall says, nudging a container of noodles toward you. “Maybe we tell the girls soon.”

You glance up from your phone, frowning slightly. “Tell them what?”

He raises an eyebrow. “About us.”

You freeze for half a second, then go back to twirling your fork. “I thought we agreed we’d wait until the divorce was officially off the table.”

“Yeah, but…” he shrugs, not meeting your eyes, “I mean, we’re practically living together again.”

You bristle before you even understand why. “We’re not living together, Marshall.”

His jaw twitches slightly. “Right. I just mean—you’re not exactly dating anyone else.”

You put your fork down slowly. “That’s not the point. We said we’d wait.”

He looks at you then, really looks. “You’re scared.”

You blink. “What?”

“You think if we tell them and it doesn’t work out, you’ll be the bad guy again.”

The words land sharp and heavy in your chest.

“That’s not fair.”

He sighs and runs a hand over his face. “I’m not trying to fight with you. I just—I don’t want to hide anymore. Don’t you want to be able to say it, finally?”

You stand and start clearing the table, even though there’s food still on your plate. “Of course I want to say it. I want to scream it. But I want to be smart about this. We just started over. We don’t get infinite resets.”

“And you don’t trust me not to screw it up,” he says, voice low.

You whip around, hurt flaring fast. “That’s not what I said.”

“You didn’t have to.”

The silence between you stretches long and tight.

You hate this. You hate this.

The tension, the sharpness in his tone, the way his eyes look dimmer now. It’s your first fight since getting back together, and already your lungs feel too tight, like you’re slipping underwater and can’t find the surface.

“I’m not trying to protect me,” you say finally, voice softer now. “I’m trying to protect them. They’ve already been through enough. I just want to make sure it’s real this time before we bring them into it.”

Marshall nods slowly. Too slowly.

“Okay,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like okay. It sounds like we’re not okay.

You stare at each other in the kitchen, just a few feet of tile between you and a canyon full of doubt.

He turns and grabs his keys from the counter. “I’m gonna head out. Give us both some space.”

“Marshall—”

He pauses in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder.

“I meant it when I said I was fighting for you,” he says. “Just tell me when it’s safe to stop fighting and start living again.”

And then he’s gone.

You stand there, hands clenched around a dish towel, trying not to let panic win.

Because this was supposed to be different.

Because you love him.

Because this time, you don’t want to lose him.

You don’t even hesitate.

The second the door closes, you throw the dish towel on the counter and follow him. Barefoot, heart pounding, nerves buzzing in your chest like they’ve been waiting for this moment.

He’s halfway down the driveway by the time you reach the porch, keys jingling in his hand as he stalks toward his car, jaw tight.

“Marshall,” you call out, breath catching.

He doesn’t stop.

So you try again, louder. “Marshall.”

This time, he turns.

And when he does, his face nearly undoes you.

He looks… tired. Not angry. Not cold. Just tired—in that way that comes from loving someone too much and not knowing if it’ll be enough.

You take a step off the porch, gravel cold against your feet.

“I didn’t mean to push you away.”

He doesn’t say anything, just watches you.

You keep going. “I panicked. You know how many times I’ve let myself believe in this? In us? And it fell apart anyway?”

He swallows hard, keys still dangling loosely in his hand.

“I want to tell them,” you say, voice thick. “I do. I want to tell the whole goddamn world. I just needed to know you weren’t gonna leave.”

“I’m not,” he says instantly, voice rough. “I’m not going anywhere. But I’m not gonna pretend like this doesn’t hurt. I get why you’re scared—but you’re not the only one taking a risk here. I put everything on the table for you. Again.”

You move closer, slowly, until you’re standing right in front of him beneath the soft wash of the porch light.

“I know,” you whisper. “I know you did. And I’m sorry I made you feel like it wasn’t enough.”

His eyes flicker, and for a second, you see all of it—his love for you, his fear, the ache of the years you spent apart.

You reach out and take his hand, lacing your fingers through his. “Don’t go. Don’t get in that car. Let’s fight about it inside like emotionally dysfunctional adults, not in the driveway where the neighbors can eavesdrop.”

A slow smile tugs at his mouth, despite himself. “You’re ridiculous.”

You squeeze his hand. “Yeah. But I’m your ridiculous, remember?”

He exhales a soft laugh, finally stepping closer, resting his forehead against yours.

“I just want to be able to hold your hand in front of our girls again. Kiss you without feeling like we’re sneaking around.”

“I know. And we will. Soon.”

Marshall brushes a thumb over your cheek. “You sure?”

You nod. “I'm not sure of much, but I'm sure of you. That’s a start, right?”

He kisses you then—soft, slow, like an apology and a promise all in one.

And when he pulls back, you whisper, “Come back inside. Stay.”

He nods.

And you walk back in together.

Maybe not perfectly. Maybe not easily.

But together.

---

It was supposed to be a quiet night.

The girls were all busy—Alaina at dinner with friends, Hailie working late, Stevie staying over with a classmate for a project. That’s what you told yourselves when you ended up at Marshall’s place—your old home—again, curled up in the living room like no time had passed.

But everything had changed.

You’re on the couch, knees on either side of his hips, your hands in his hair as his mouth moves against yours like he’s starved for you. Like the months apart meant nothing compared to the way he still knows how to kiss you so good you forget your own name.

His hands are under your shirt, calloused palms warm and reverent as they rest on your back. Your bodies move in sync, like a rhythm only you two know.

And then—

The front door slams open.

“Oh my god—”

You both jolt like you’ve been shot, and you’re suddenly scrambling to climb off his lap as Hailie, Alaina, and Stevie all stand frozen in the doorway, eyes wide, jaws hanging open.

You fumble for your shirt hem and yank it down, face burning. Marshall’s trying—and failing—to look casual as he runs a hand over his face and leans back on the couch, like yep, this is happening.

“What the hell?!” Hailie shrieks, still rooted to the floor.

Alaina just blinks. “Is that what I think it is?”

Stevie, bless her heart, looks more fascinated than horrified. “Oh my god, were you guys making out?”

You want to die.

You want the floor to open and swallow you whole.

Marshall clears his throat. “Hey, girls.”

“Hey?” Hailie repeats, voice cracking. “That’s all you’ve got?! Hey?!”

“I can explain,” you blurt, cheeks blazing, heart racing.

“No, no, you don’t get to explain yet,” Hailie says, stalking into the room like a prosecutor in heels. “You lied to us. You said you were seeing someone new!”

“I wasn’t lying,” you try to defend, holding up a hand. “I just… I wasn’t ready to say it was him yet.”

Marshall grins faintly. “Gee, thanks.”

You shoot him a glare and he lifts his hands like my bad.

“Wait,” Stevie says slowly. “So the mystery guy? The hickey? The smiling-at-your-phone texts? That was Dad?”

“Gross,” Alaina mutters, but there’s laughter in her voice now.

You run a hand through your hair and sit down properly, trying not to look like you were just straddling your ex-husband on a piece of furniture his kids still use. “Look, we didn’t mean for you to find out this way. We were trying to wait until we were sure.”

Hailie folds her arms. “So… are you?”

You blink. “Are we what?”

“Sure.”

Marshall reaches over and takes your hand, lacing your fingers together. When you glance at him, he’s already looking at you like the answer is simple.

“We’re sure,” he says softly. “I’m all in.”

Your chest aches in the best way.

You nod, voice quieter. “Yeah. We’re sure.”

There’s a long, dramatic pause.

Then Stevie flops on the armchair and shrugs. “Well, good. ‘Cause this has been like watching a rom-com in real life and I hate unresolved tension.”

Alaina snorts. “You two better not make out in the kitchen, though. I’m putting a boundary on that right now.”

Hailie still looks shell-shocked, but her expression softens. “You really love each other?”

Marshall squeezes your hand.

“Always did.”

Your eyes meet Hailie’s, and something quiet passes between you—understanding, maybe. Hope.

“Okay,” she says finally. “Okay. I’m not gonna pretend this isn’t going to take a minute, but… I’m glad it’s him.”

You exhale in relief, your heart finally beginning to slow.

Then Stevie adds, “Just… maybe next time? Lock the front door.”

And Marshall groans, dropping his head back with a laugh while you bury your face in your hands.

Because apparently, there will be a next time.

And this time, it won’t be in secret.

---

The conference room is quiet.

Too quiet.

You sit in the same stiff-backed chair you sat in six months ago when the papers were first drawn up. The same table where you’d signed your name over and over again like you were peeling your marriage apart line by line.

Only this time, your fingers are laced with Marshall’s beneath the table.

Your lawyer glances between the two of you, clearly confused. “So… just to confirm… you’re not moving forward with the divorce?”

Marshall nods. “Yeah. We’re calling it off.”

You add quickly, “We’re staying married. We’ve reconciled.”

Your lawyer doesn’t react at first. Then she lifts her pen, scribbles something down, and says, “Well, I have to say… I don’t get a lot of those.”

Across the table, Marshall’s lawyer raises an eyebrow. “You sure this isn’t going to be another on-again, off-again situation?”

You don’t even flinch.

You just turn to Marshall—and he’s already looking at you, already steady.

“We’re sure,” you say together.

You leave the office hand in hand, the old nerves buzzing under your skin—but this time, they feel different. They feel like possibility. Like the deep breath right before something beautiful.

[handeaux]

Is There A Cincinnati Neighborhood That Has Never Claimed A Haunted House?

As the Eve of All Hallows looms, let us ponder an assortment of Cincinnati’s classic haunted houses of yore. This list could easily be doubled or tripled in length.

Steele Subdivision Poor Fred Limke met a dreadful end in 1916. A plasterer by trade, Mr. Limke lived on Witler Street in Cumminsville. He had been employed by a contractor working in the Steele Subdivision of Springfield Township on the border of College Hill. Mr. Limke’s body was found in the “vault” or privy pit, half-buried in “debris.” (Let’s stick to euphemisms, shall we?) He had not been seen for some time and the delay in locating his earthy and earthly remains was the result of this “vault” being located on the grounds of a haunted house. Vacant by then for many years, the house in question, according to the Cincinnati Enquirer [11 November 1916] had formerly been occupied by a restaurant and poolroom. Neighbors for some years had reported unnatural sights and sounds in the vicinity of the house.

“So firm are they in their belief the house is inhabited by a spirit that police could not persuade them to approach the vault in which the body was found.”

Perhaps. Perhaps it was the emanations from that debris which kept them away.

Dublin Street Down near the bottom of Eggleston Avenue, where the bloody Deer Creek once vomited into the Ohio River, there once was a quite destitute Irish neighborhood named Dublin Street. In 1903, the denizens of Dublin Street cowered in their houses after dark, afraid to venture forth because “Ginger” Ryan had returned. Ginger had been a giant of a man with a decidedly short temper. He drove an express wagon, drank whiskey by the quart and battered any poor soul who looked at him sideways. When Ginger died, there was great relief in Dublin Street and now, here he was, back again, his temper intact. The Enquirer [20 October 1903] reported that the ghost rose up one night from a manhole located near the spot where his old livery stable stood, bathed in a “ghastly glow” and fully recognizable by those who knew Ginger all too well.

“The spirit, they claim, wandered around the open mouth of the manhole. It went through the actions of ‘Ginger’ when he hitched up his horse and wagon when alive. It was in view five minutes and then disappeared into the manhole. The story spread with great rapidity that the ghost has appeared at a certain hour every night since. Many declare they have seen it, and all swear there is no fake about it. The ghost is the real thing, but nobody up there cares to shake the shade of ‘Ginger’ by the hand and bid it welcome.”

East End It’s all demolished now, but there once was a small riverfront community a stone’s throw upriver from Dublin Street, where a long-gone byway named Collord Street intersected Front Street. A Mrs. McDonald kept a small house there and rented an even smaller house behind it to a Mrs. Loescher. One night this tenant was awakened by a shower of stones and wooden paving blocks plopping onto her roof and porch. So loud were the impacts of these projectiles that a small crowd gathered to watch and determine the source of the onslaught. Rumors spread that it was the ghost of a Mrs. Ormston who was behind it all. Older residents claimed the McDonald family had cheated Mrs. Ormston out of $500 and that she had gone to her grave cursing that family. Others pointed to a spiritualist who had held seances in his house on the neighboring Kittall Alley, while another group hypothesized that it was all the doing of a Mrs. Walsh who lived on the nearby slopes of Mount Adams. After her death some years back, residents of Collord Street said they saw Mrs. Walsh floating through the air clad in white or appearing at their windows. Whatever the cause, Mrs. Loescher’s yard and porch were soon littered with bricks, branches and debris of all sorts. The police suggested that a gang of teenage girls were the real culprits, but they were never charged.

West End The rather tony neighborhood that once graced the far western reaches of Eighth Street, out between Cutter and Linn, disappeared under the interstate highway ages ago. The Cincinnati Tribune [31 August 1895] described the agitation of the occupants of a high-class boarding house on that block. Not only the residents, but the landlady herself, were awakened night after night by mysterious rapping sounds apparently emanating from the headboards of their beds. First in one room, then another, on this floor then that floor, the rhythmic knocking awakened all the sleepers in the house.

In addition to the violent rat-tat-tat, residents noticed that a door at the end of a long first-floor hallway would not stay shut. No matter how often they closed the door and ensured that it snapped shut, it would inevitably be found ajar just minutes later. That door led into the cellar, utterly unused for years. The floor of the cellar was clay and was covered by a layer of sand about a foot and a half deep. As it happened, some workmen were engaged in repairing a brick wall along the rear of the property and were using this sand in their mortar. As one of the masons jabbed his shovel into the cellar floor, he struck something that was neither clay nor sand. It was a human skeleton.

Investigation revealed that the building, now divided into multiple rooms, had once been the residence and office of Doctor Thaddeus A. Reamy, a distinguished professor at the University of Cincinnati College of Medicine. Although the Tribune suggested that Doctor Reamy may have had something to do with the skeleton in the cellar, he was never questioned about the situation and the peculiar manifestations continued unabated.

Newport The Cincinnati Tribune [9 March 1894] carried the news of an unruly mob gathered in front of a house on Lindsey Street in Newport. The house had gained a terrible reputation a few years earlier when a little girl residing there died from choking on a toy balloon. The evening gathering had witnessed an apparition that seemed to have nothing to do with the tragic toddler. More than one hundred people crowded onto Lindsey Street to witness a ghastly sight in the front windows. It was a spectral hand, holding a flaming torch, passing from window to window, occasionally stopping to wave the torch in a threatening manner. Some observers claimed that the fingers of the ghostly extremity were covered in diamonds. A couple local men (it was not clear whether or not they had been visiting the nearby saloon) volunteered to investigate and barged into the house. They emerged to report they had seen nothing unusual. The crowd, incredulous, hung around for the next appearance.

Evanston The Cincinnati Post [28 July 1897] announced that a vacant house on Gilpin Avenue in Evanston was undoubtedly haunted by the ghosts of a poor peddler who, along with his infant child, were murdered some years before at that address. Each evening, the ghost of the peddler, carrying his baby’s ghost, wandered through the decrepit old building, accompanied by the requisite moaning and shrieking. The very next day, the Post published, well, not a retraction, actually – more of an explanation. The ghost story had been dreamed up by neighborhood parents, concerned about their children playing in the run-down dump. The stratagem worked. The children stayed away from the house and ran past it in fright.

[no-more-tales-tavern]

Twisted Tales Tavern Special:

On the Road Again~

Unless you're getting shot out of a cannon every time you and your party sets off on a new quest, the journey to your destination can be a long one. Townships are often days— sometimes over a week—of hard travel apart from each other, and between random encounters and general boredom, there's a million different ways to fill the time between point A and B. Just try not to lose yourself so much in the journey that you forget your destination entirely~

Canon Muses: Keyleth of the Air Ashari (Half-Elf Moon Druid), Vex'ahlia Vessar/DeRolo (Half-Elf Beastmaster Ranger), Jester Lavorre (Tiefling Trickster Cleric), Nott the Thicc (Goblin Arcane Trickster Rogue), Yasha Nydoorin (Aasimar Zealot Barbarian), Fearne Calloway (Satyr Wildfire Druid), Deanna Leimert (Gnome Life Cleric)

Ruby Rose (Human Ranger/Rogue), Weiss Schnee (Half-Elf Lore Bard), Blake Belladonna (Tabaxi Assassin Rogue), Yang Xiao-Long (Human Barbarian/Monk), Pyrrha Nikos (Human Champion Fighter)

Ochako Uraraka (Human Graviturgy Wizard), Momo Yaoyorozu (Human Monk/Rogue), Mina Ashido (Tiefling Spores Druid), Nejire Hado (Air Genasi Long Death Monk), Rumi Usagiyama (Lagomore Barbarian/Monk)

Test Muses: Anko Mitarashi (Half-Elf Assassin Rogue), Naruko Uzumaki (Half-Elf Beast Barbarian), Rukia Kuchiki (Halfling Bladesinger Wizard), Rangiku Matsumoto (Half-Elf Glamour Bard), Neliel Tu Odelschwanck (Satyr Ancients Paladin), Lucy Heartfilia (Aasimar Celestial Soul Sorcerer), Erza Scarlet (Human Battlemaster Fighter)

OC Muses: Jaerik Aldraeyds, Yora Vor’ziira, Esper Willowwind, Jade Ren, Terra Verdell

Kinks: Outdoors, Monster-Fucking, Hiding, Cheating, Mind-Break

Memes: Some Like it Rough v1, Overwhelmed, The Great Outdoors

[gaykarstaagforever]

(This is a work jacket and you people don't need to stalk me)

This tiny town doesn't have voting booths, it has a metal table in a banquet hall with u-shaped plastic dividers set on them. You sit in a folding chair behind one and fill out bubbles with a black pen on paper, then openly carry your ballot to what looks like a modified copier and put it in a green slot until it dings.

I mean, fine. Assuming the modified copier is scanning the bubbles correctly. The walking across the room thing in front of everyone is kind of odd, because you could totally stand there and glimpse who everyone voted for when they carry the paper up. But if this stupid country isn't going to pay so that everyone can use the same secure digital booths (and it never will, because then Republicans wouldn't have weird technicalities to sue over), this is as good as it's going to get.

The tech is sound. I just wish there was a receipt so I could verify. Some states do that; I guess PA doesn't mandate it.

We have to have faith in the process, because no process possible would eliminate every avenue for bad actors to infiltrate and cheat. It's always a best-we-can-manage situation.

I'm just glad this town is small enough that there wasn't any bullshit at the fire hall. No protesters or poll watchers or idiots with brochures. My old polling place was a circus all the time because it served a township of like 80,000 people. This town has a population of 400, and 98% of them are white retirees. Everyone assumes the GOP has us locked up.

...Including the state rep who ran unopposed.

I might could maybe have to do something about that next time, you jokers.

[hlfmoonshine]

📼— the drive in (movies) 📻— the playlist (music) 📺— the tv guide (tv shows) 📖— the lore keeper (muse information) 👐🏽— gimme gimme gimme (wanted) ✍🏽— open starters (open starters) 📘— closed starters (closed starters) 📌— keats updates (updates) 🥡— meme me up (starter memes) 🕹️— the cheats menu (video games) 🪞— i've just seen a face (wanted faces) 🏜️— the golden ranch (golden muses) 🧟— sanguine township (zombie rpg) 🖥️— dash games dash prizes (dash games) 🫀👀— muse heart eyes (opp fc) 📱— mobile natterings (offline musings) 🩷🫧🪩— keats original! no reblogs please! (original plots) 📝— the open starter department (open starter collection) 🐇🧠✏️— bunnies in my head (plot bunnies) full name. fc. age. job. mental health. sexuality. pronouns. history.

[toobwaysider]

THE POOTICUCK ATLAS PART VIII

More verbiage from Canterville, but this time, we’re focusing on Pooticuck County, Canterville’s main ally in the Flatlands, as well as all the towns and villages which make up that micro-nation.

Hoo boy! These are getting lengthy!  But I've never organized my thoughts on these before.  

This will be the eighth entry….

BLEFUSCO – I imagine most people who think of an island of tiny people in “Gulliver’s Travels” – if they even know the story in the first place (I don’t have much faith in the education of the masses) – they probably think of Lilliput.  Those people might be surprised that there was another such island, whose people were the sworn enemies of the Lilliputians – Blefuscu.

At some time after “Gulliver’s Travels” was published, Astiph whisked away the island of Blefuscu to the Flatlands.  It had been his custom to add new islands to the archipelago in the Sundering Sea, but he must have foreseen that Blefusco would never survive among those other far larger islands.  And so he stitched Lilliput’s former rival into Lake Angioth in the Southwest of Pooticuck County.

TWO MOUSE ISLAND - The Thimble Islands are an archipelago of just over 365 islands in Long Island Sound, off the coast of Branford, Connecticut.  For many of those land masses, the classification of “island” is being generous; some are only rocky outcroppings upon which a biped couldn’t even stand, be it human, Firbolg, or those blue-tinted aliens who called themselves “Terruhns”.

There are colorful names for many of those islands – Pot Island, Hen Island, Potato Island, Ghost Island, Mother-In-Law Island (which sounds spookier than Ghost Island), East Stooping Bush Island, and Cut In Two Island (East and West)….

But the island of interest for Pooticuck County, even though that micro-nation is in a different dimension from Earth, would be Two Mouse Island.  It once could be found at the outermost strand of the Thimble Islands archipelago, as far as possible from Branford.  And the reason why it has a connection to Pooticuck County is because it can now be found in Pooticuck County, the micro-nation in the Flatlands which controls the vortices connecting that pocket dimension to the Connecticut Notch.  The island sits in the middle of Ryserrig Lake, which borders Longriver Township, Hobbimock, and the Riftwood.

“Two Mouse Island” loses something in translation from the original Narragansett.  (It might even have been misinterpreted from the Narragansett for “Two Squirrel Island”.)  Basically, it was to give the impression that the island was so small that two mice could not live side by side on it. But it proved to be enough room for a selkie named Marghael to live there with her two lovers – Adaidh mac Gilliebeadh, a member of the original Scottish Fògarraich (refugees) who settled in the Connecticut Notch region, and Zeger (last name unknown), one of the Dutch sailors who brought those refugees to their new home in northmost Connecticut.  They even raised a family on the island, with children sired by both men.  (But I can find no information that any of their descendants were selkies like Marghael.

In September of 1938, a great hurricane slammed the coastline of Connecticut, wreaking havoc for hours until it reached Canada.  About six hundred people throughout New England were killed, which included Loren Spencer Simcooth.  (Simcooth had cheated the descendants of Marghael and her “husbands” out of that property and had been living on Two Mouse Island at the time.  So, as far as most of the Notchfolk back in Canterville were concerned, there was no significant loss of life.)  The cottage was completely destroyed in the first storm surge and the island was lost forever beneath the surface of Long Island Sound.

At least that’s what the rest of the world believed.  No one today remembers Two Mouse Island; in fact, records of its existence are no longer on file.  Most of those back in Connecticut who would have been in charge of such archives have no clue what you’re talking about if you ask about Two Mouse Island.  Nevertheless, it experienced vanishment during that hurricane and can now be found in Ryserrig Lake in Northwest Pooticuck County.

BARROW – Barrow is the third location in Pooticuck County to begin with “BAR” which is also bordering the massive cattle ranch, serving as the inspiration for its name of “Three-Bar Ranch.”

Even for those who are Stay-at-Homes, everyone in that Connecticut-inspired micro-nation eventually arrives in Barrow.  It is the great cemetery which serves all of Pooticuck County.  Because the Flatlands is indeed that – flat – no one is quite sure of the depth to the strata upon which the whole of the Flatlands society rests.  So at least as far as Pooticuck County is concerned, it is a requirement which has become a traditional ritual that everyone who is interred in Barrow is cremated.  It can be quite the ceremony, even for the lowliest citizen, as in that micro-nation, Death makes everyone equal.

DARBICAIN ISLAND – Despite the power of names, Integrity Darbicain never lived up to the potential of his given name.  Growing up as a wharf rat in Leódgeard, Ὰnweald’s capital city of Leódgeard in the Albiyun Empire, “Tig” Darbicain stowed away as a child on a ship rumored to be a freebooter.  He gained favor quickly with the captain and rose through the ranks easily as he grew older.  And when at last he seized command of the vessel by plunging a knife into his mentor’s back, the captain congratulated him, for it was exactly what he would have done.

When his life of piracy became more than Flatlandish Society could tolerate, Captain Darbicain faked his drowning and made his way inland to Pooticuck County in the Northwest.  Backed by a couple of skoogs, he took control of an “island” (now no more than a sandbar) on the Amphisbane River which had a warren of caves on the riverbank to serve as refuge.  Those river pirates would waylay barges from the wolfhaven of Banaug and brazenly kill their crews for the cargo on the far bank which was the sparsely populated farmland of Barnstable.  The lucky dead were set adrift down the river; others were dragged back to the caves to be stock in the soup.

The people of Pooticuck County had enough and they called upon their protector at that time, the white wizard known as Wiyoticuck, moyikao of the Wampaug, to rid them of Tig Darbicain.  Wiyoticuck called upon dark spirits using Gnarzh-speak and Darbicain’s whole enterprise, including his skoogs, vanished from the Flatlands.  Legends claim that they suddenly appeared on the summit of Mt. Everest where they promptly fell to their deaths.  As this happened back in the 1700s, it’s likely they are the oldest corpses up there, buried beneath many layers of snow and ice.

[irishfederalreconnaissance]

Foes of the Charleboises, and Friends of the O'Neills

Enemies of the Chilton Macedonians (Attleboro Charleboises):

Jesus: Jesus's father, Joseph, was a retired soldier, that joined a protection racket on cemeteries.  Jesus was trying to get married, despite never practicing law, police, military, espionage, or criminal ventures.  We killed him, personally, with "The Bible".  He was the first priest, crucified, and sodomized, publicly, by Israel's new friend, Rome; the Diaspora, our concoction. 

Hitler: Adolf's family, stole a cricket term, for a play called due to the monarch of England's sporting bet calling a foul; a player cheated, to please Britain.  Hitler was trying to be an artist, on public spectacle of produce, instead of private sales within firm, with a spouse as advisor, heterosexual, or date, or a prostitute or dominatrix or close platonic business colleague.  We fired him, for wanting a widening gala of review, and having sex with female coworkers.  We had MI-6 plant a fake Jewish culture book, we ordered him to burn after inspecting the water mark.  It was in the Reichstag.  It sent all the cooks to prison, for snitching on Jews, the Wehrmacht; Lutherans.

Bundy: Ted Bundy, was raised as a CIA agent, by the children's program, but figured out he could make more money, working for France.  He got into a relationship with a lesbian, that got really fat, because he insemenated on her hymen, to break her virginity, instead of using a dildo.  He didn't like the lie, of virginity, a "popped cherry", being a masculine virtue, and instead committed rape, unaware that the woman was a poor mother, for having improper understanding of sex, and instead trying to "pick up" men; a pedophile's mother, a sperm thief of an orphan.  We changed Ted Bundy's last name, Charlebois, to Bundy, and gave kindergarteners copies of "Batman" comics, and ruined his advertising career, with children's books about him as Bruce Wayne.

Friends of the Boston O'Neills (Boston Fire Department):

Judas: Judas was Cicero of Rome's kin, through Pontius Pilate with an Arab beggar.  He was placed, as an undercover cop, to bust the Jews, a new cult in Israel, from Rome; the actor's trade, that had caused the War with Carthage, over homosexuality and bestiality and child molestation, being offensive; spread through art, depicting children's morals, instead of military theater, demonstrating how to fight others, through playwright's economic mercantile tactics.  Money, the root of all evil, Judas's cause, and Rome's, to prevent queer; morality, the common poverty of a dictator, a rapist of family.  When Judas figured out they were all humping and fucking after boxing matches and prize fights in spectacle, and gambling on wine debt rigs with cops calling matches through badges, "baal", he delivered a book to Paul, the Bible.  Jesus claimed the credit for the book, the first court room lawsuit.  Then he spent three years, wandering around, screaming about his son being a vagina, the Lord of Heaven.

Stalin: Stalin, was a military and political cadet, thousands around the Old World, raised out of literature programs of 19th century German intellectualism.  He was pranked into Seminary, by Germans, through local newsletters responding to the candidates from other countries, as potential diplomatic marriages to models and pornography actresses, a Russian idea that Stalin was enthusiastic for.  Stalin, rose to power, as a brilliant criminal and rebel and drunk and prison survivor and outcast, journeying through higher Arctic villages and around townships and cities and palaces and revolutions.  He placed himself in charge of organizing the minutes, for meetings, meaning he'd take and keep track of numbers, of the political council, in charge of giving out assignments, from winners of awards for academic excellence, to organizational bureau.  He stomped the school and class project assignment to position and award, forever, meaning that anyone with a lawsuit for fair play, ruined their firm or government post.  Now, Russia is the best forever, because they put something in TV, that the other guy does, in the enemy country, that one of theirs did due to a lawsuit assignment.  However, they save the footage, on leader and mention the military struggle.

Richard Ramirez: A psychic Mexican, Richard Ramirez's father, had insulted a historian on a college campus, despite being a construction management major himself.  The entire family was marked historians on records - counter espionage professionals - and Richard Ramirez was placed as an altar boy, a martial arts trained student by Nuns, and priests showing them how to handle firearms and military warfare implements.  However, he was not on record, as armed and dangerous, through his family.  He was brought in to advise on dozens upon dozens of cases, as an independent vigilante, without pay, living off of what work he could find in the margin community, the people he helped.  He did hard drugs, and fought the "Little Mermaid" trend of the 1960s and 1970s, out of the Viet Zen community, the use of German texts and improper disability driven religious origin study stories.  He was a savage man, eventually being arrested for a string of murders, after locating the problem to the comic book, "X-Men", and fighting Omega Red's follows; called, "The Russians", to this day.  

[britesparc]

Weekend Top Ten #633

Top Ten Fictional Cities

If there’s one thing I like in my fiction, it’s a good sense of place. You want to be immersed in an alternative world; so it’s nice to know where you actually are. Of course, tons of fiction is set in real places: whether that’s an historical drama like The Crown necessarily inhabiting the palaces Queen Elizabeth did actually occupy; or a film such as The Full Monty being specifically set in contemporary Sheffield; or even the bulk of the MCU taking place in what’s supposed to be a believable version of New York. Plenty of films and shows and books and everything else revel in their location; how many times have we heard “the city is a character”, usually when describing urban crime dramas (or, frankly, Batman films)? But it’s true; a great location can ground a story, or it can transport you. There can be a realness even to the most fantastical of fictional locales.

And I really do love a fictional locale. Whether it’s the unrecognisable cityscapes of the likes of Blade Runner or The Fifth Element – ostensibly set in real-world cities such as Los Angeles and New York many years hence (“many years” in Blade Runner’s case being, er, 2019) – or places that are made up entirely, it’s great to see the wildness, weirdness, and even the realism that these made-up metropoli deliver. Think about it: how many of your favourite fictions take place in not-real location? Of course you can look at total fantasies like Lord of the Rings, or sci-fi stories that exist on other planets; but whether it’s as crazy a place as Roger Rabbit’s Toontown, the sprawling cities of games like Cyberpunk 2077 or Crackdown, or even the fictionalised township of Derry, Maine in several Stephen King stories, across the gamut of genre, medium, and audience, we have places that aren’t real giving us stories that feel real.

Because, again, the best settings reinforce the fiction they envelop. I don’t want to pre-empt the list itself, but look at how Gotham and Metropolis reflect the heroes that live there. This can be both sublime and ridiculous: the way the fictionalised cities of Grand Theft Auto serve not only to reinforce the themes of the games they inhabit, but also work as subtle (and not so subtle) parodies of American life; but also the way you’d get a place like Duckburg in Duck Tales, or even Far, Far Away in the Shrek movies, that really don’t have much purpose other than giving fantastical cartoon characters a home and allowing for some wince-inducing puns when it comes to the names of shops and stuff.

Blimey, I’ve wanged on a bit this week.

Anyway, I love a made-up city, that’s what I’m saying. And that’s what this list is, if you hadn’t guessed. Now, as usual, I’ve given myself rules; one is that these are supposed to be cities. There’s one that I’m not certain of (I’ll come to it) – it might be a town, technically, but I’ve allowed it on the basis of its iconicness (is that a word?). Also, they have to be fictional; so the likes of Marvel’s New York or Blade Runner’s LA are out. As are, frankly, the in-all-but-name cities of GTA; I don’t really think Liberty City is any more fictional than the New York inhabited by the Avengers, it’s just got a made-up name to go along with its made up buildings and locations. This has also stretched to Neo-Tokyo from Akira, which is really just Tokyo with a hole in the middle. However, I am allowing Mega-City One.

I think that’s it. Let’s go on a city break!

Gotham and Metropolis (Batman and Superman comics, from 1938): yes, once again I cheat at the start. Two cities! But often they’re thought of as twin cities, so, y��know. Whatever. Anyway: they are always a yin and a yang, the light and the dark, reflections of their principal heroes. Metropolis, shining city on the hill, beacon of the future; Gotham, dark and brooding gothic vision, its windswept alleys awash with rain. They’ve been called New York in the day and New York in the night, and as representations of the beauty, optimism, darkness, and danger of cities – of American cities; of America – they’re perfect. So perfect they’re almost certainly the first fictional cities you thought of too. So perfect they can be high-tech futurescapes, twisted neon-drenched, fume-belching furnaces, or just broadly realistic interpretations of real places (in Donner’s Superman, Metropolis is literally New York, Statue of Liberty and all). No fake place is as redolent. They are the ur-cities. And, of course, they have the best superheroes.

Coruscant (Star Wars stories, officially from 1997): the retro-futuristic art deco stylings of its skyline is one thing – the hovering platforms in the clouds, the vast curving domes of the buildings – but the fact that the entire planet is one big city is its big talking point. Taking the concept of sprawling metropolis (small “m”) to its most ridiculous degree, it’s a crazy sci-fi concept in a film series built on crazy sci-fi concepts.

Autobot City (The Transformers: The Movie, 1986): the notion of the Autobots – long trapped in their crashed spaceship – building a permanent city on Earth was cool enough. But the fact that it can transform into a bristling battle-station is even better. And its design is cool; a sci-fi version of a medieval fortress, moat and all. Gets extra points because, depending on who you believe, it may turn into an actual Transformer, or just have one sleeping beneath it. Fun fact: in the original script it was even referred to as “Fortress Maximus”!

Springfield (The Simpsons, from 1987): it’s a hell of a town; the schoolyard’s up and the shopping mall’s down. This is the minor controversy, because I don’t know if Springfield is a city or a town; but to hell with it, chances are if you didn’t think of Gotham or Metropolis, you thought of this place. Over thirty-odd years of the series, Springfield has developed into a believable, if exaggerated, township; we know some of these locations like the back of our hand. Moe’s, the Power Plant, the burning tyre yard, Springfield Elementary, yada yada yada. It’s a perfectly realised unreal place.

Minas Tirith, the White City of Gondor (The Lord of the Rings, 1954): technically, I believe that “Gondor” is the realm and the huge walled city. Its seven walled levels climb upwards, providing multiple rings of defence, and looking somewhat like a giant swirl on top of a colossal cupcake. The promontory rock jutting out the front, and the beautiful citadel on its topmost level, make for an incredibly striking and unique design, as well as offering functionality. It’s an amazing, fantastical, incredible location.

Mega-City One (Judge Dredd, 1977): whilst this city does contain New York, it also stretches across pretty much the entire eastern seaboard of the US, so it’s, y’know, big. Possibly the poster child for sprawling post-apocalyptic metropolis, it’s a vast, corrupt, horrible place overseen by a fascist police force. Pick your depressing sci-fi trope, it’s here. Interesting to ponder what it says about the British view of America, really.

Ankh-Morpork (Discworld stories, from 1983): possibly lower down the list than some would have it, because (whispers) I’ve not read much Discworld. But as a place, it’s incredibly well-realised, a brilliant multifaceted fantasy location that feels incredibly real and dynamic and lived-in, and (typical for Pratchett) reflects our own world so perfectly.

Rapture (BioShock, 2007): it’s part-city, part underwater laboratory, yeah? But the notion of a man-made utopia going to pot is a common sci-fi go-to. Here, the distinct areas of the city, and how they reflect the various obsessions and perversions of the pseudo-fascist nutters who ran the place, are beautiful to behold and terrifying to ponder. Plus, as an emergent and interactive bit of design, the location is tremendous to wander around, the retro art design great to behold, the distressed and decaying façade of gaudy old-timey whimsey disturbing but also quaintly amusing.

Zootopia (Zootopia, 2016): cities in talking-animal movies usually just look like real cities but there’ll be dreadful puns, like a burger place called “McDognald’s” or something. Zootopia tries to imagine how all these different animals would co-exist, with fascinating results, including different temperate zones, vast tubes connecting different areas, and buildings of varying sizes that result in our relatively-diminutive leads towering kaiju-like over the proceedings.

San Angeles (Demolition Man, 1993): I was worried this was a bit of a cheat too, as it’s an amalgam of two real cities, but this new metropolis emerged from the ashes of a devastating earthquake so – like Mega-City One – it counts. And for once we have more of a culture than a design that stands out; true, the three seashells and sexy curvy cars are a highlight, but it’s the way this city imposes its morality, the way the future erased 20th century vices, and the way – frankly – everyone speaks that sets this out as a fascinating little town of tomorrow. Be well, San Angeles. Be well.

[twentythreemillionstories]

Tuesday 27th February 2024, Beijing, 6.38pm.

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The Ultimate Cheat Sheet On Real Estate in Lucknow

Introduction To Lucknow's Real Estate Market Located in the northern part of India, Lucknow is a city known for its rich history, cultural heritage, and architectural marvels. Over the years, it has emerged as a prominent destination for real estate investment. Lucknow's real estate market offers a plethora of opportunities for both investors and homebuyers. The city boasts a diverse range of properties, including residential apartments, villas, townships, and commercial spaces.     "Lucknow is the capital city of the northern Indian state of Uttar Pradesh and is known for its rich cultural heritage and history."     "With an investment in real estate, you are tying up your equity for the long term."     "The property market in Lucknow offers a wealth of options for investors to capitalise on its high return and growth potential."     "The city provides a wide range of property opportunities, including residential, business, and land ventures." With its well-developed infrastructure and connectivity to major cities like Delhi and Kanpur, Lucknow has become an attractive hub for business establishments. Lucknow also offers affordable housing options coupled with modern amenities in emerging areas. The government's focus on developing infrastructure projects like the Metro Rail network has further boosted the real estate market in the city.     "Well-developed infrastructure, good educational institutes, and state-of-the-art shopping complexes and malls work favouring the city."     "Aliganj: This residential area is known for its affordable housing options, including low-price flats and apartments in Lucknow."     "Infrastructural Development: In recent years, Lucknow has seen tremendous infrastructure development, which has contributed to the rise of its real estate market." Key Factors To Consider When Investing In Lucknow's Real Estate When considering investing in real estate in Lucknow, it is crucial to assess several key factors to ensure a wise and profitable investment. Firstly, evaluating the location is paramount. Look for areas with good connectivity, proximity to schools, hospitals, shopping centers, and other essential amenities. Additionally, research the future development plans of the neighborhood as this can significantly impact property value over time.     "Given the complexity of real estate investments, it is crucial to keep a detailed timeline of your entire investment process."     "Date (recent) Price(highest first) Price(lowest first) On page."     "This area is favoured by families, as it is close to many good schools and hospitals."     "Conduct thorough market research to understand current trends, property values, and neighborhood dynamics." Furthermore, it is vital to analyze the reputation and track record of the builder or developer. A reliable and experienced builder ensures timely completion of projects with high-quality construction standards. Another factor to consider is the potential for capital appreciation in the area. Assess past trends and future growth prospects to make an informed decision that aligns with your investment goals.     "When buying a 4 BHK villa, it is crucial to assess the reputation and track record of the builder and development."     "Look for builders with a history of delivering high-quality projects and meeting their commitments."     "The most important factor to consider while making a decision is the budget."     "It makes perfect sense to invest in a property here as the prices are expected to rise in the future." Lastly, be mindful of legal aspects such as clear title deeds and necessary approvals from local authorities. Engaging a trusted legal advisor can help navigate these complexities.     "Ensure that the project adheres to legal and regulatory requirements, such as necessary approvals and clearances from local authorities."     "A side hustle is a great way to earn extra cash and can help you save money." Top Neighborhoods For Real Estate Investments In Lucknow When it comes to real estate investments in Lucknow, there are several neighborhoods that stand out as top choices. Gomti Nagar, known for its well-planned infrastructure and wide roads, tops the list. This area is highly sought after due to its proximity to educational institutions, shopping centers, and entertainment hubs. Another promising neighborhood is Hazratganj, which offers a mix of residential and commercial properties.     "However, investments in the stock market come with an inherent risk of losses that are much higher than real estate."     "Butler Colony is known for its top-notch social infrastructure."     "Areas like Gomti Nagar, Hazratganj, and Aliganj are popular choices due to their proximity to IT hubs and commercial centers."     "Commercial real estate offers much better returns than residential real estate." With its vibrant atmosphere and historical charm, Hazratganj attracts both locals and tourists alike. Alambagh is also worth considering for real estate investments, as it is a rapidly developing area with excellent connectivity to other parts of the city. Other notable neighborhoods include Indira Nagar, Jankipuram, and Mahanagar, each with their own unique features that make them attractive options for investors looking to enter the Lucknow real estate market.     "The Rumi Darwaza is an important symbol of Lucknows Mughal-era heritage, and it is a famous tourist attraction."     "These infrastructure developments not only improved the citys connection and accessibility, but they also increased demand for real estate, creating several chances for property investment."     "Furthermore, compared to other Indian metropolitan areas, Lucknows real estate market has a lower entrance cost, making it more accessible to a broader variety of investors." Essential Tips For Buying Or Selling Property In Lucknow 1. Research the Market: Before buying or selling property in Lucknow, it is crucial to conduct thorough market research. Understand the current trends, prices, and demand for properties in different areas of the city. 2. Engage a Reputable Real Estate Agent: To navigate the complex real estate landscape in Lucknow, it is advisable to hire an experienced and trustworthy real estate agent.     "Ultimately, success in the real estate market is an exercise in honing your skills, researching the market, and making wise investment decisions."     "Prices of residential properties here start from Rs3,500 per square foot."     "Consult with your real estate agent to determine a fair offer price based on market value and the condition of the property." They can provide valuable insights, negotiate deals, and handle legal paperwork. 3. Verify Legal Documents: Ensure that all legal documents related to the property are verified by a professional lawyer. This includes ownership papers, title deeds, tax receipts, and necessary permits to avoid any potential legal complications. 4. Inspect the Property: Whether you are buying or selling a property in Lucknow, conducting a thorough inspection is essential. Read the full article

[brekkesblog]

Richard Lustig Ramapo NY

  Your Lottery Winning Streak Starts Here - Learn How Now!

  This Guy Didn't Win Once ... But 7 Times. The UNREAL Story

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As you'll find out in this brief video, he is not the only one.

All throughout the country, in every state, there is a select group of people who have actually cracked the lotto code to win 5, 10 and even as many as 35 different lottery game draws!

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[khinblog]

Winning Lottery Numbers Ramap

  Discover the Winning Lottery Formula That Could Change Your Life!

  This Guy Didn't Win Once ... But 7 Times. The UNREAL Story

When Richard Lustig won his very first prize, people thought it was a fluke ... however then he won 2, 3, and 4 more times.

Still people were skeptical. saying it was just blind luck and he was "lucky".

But after wins # 5, # 6, and # 7 lotto commissions and people all over the USA began to investigate and actually listen to this man. Even Rachael Ray's program and Ripley's Believe it Or Not came to visit him to see what he was doing to regularly win.

He in fact invites the general public to follow his same technique he has used for years to win. Why?

Due to the fact that his lottery game number picking technique only needed one easy mathematics formula.

The general public was convinced that he must have been cheating and it's difficult to blame them.

when most of us are dying to win the prize just once in our life time.

Seriously, how did this man manage to win 7 times when most can't even win once?

As you'll learn in this brief video, he is not the only one.

All across the nation, in every state, there is a select group of people who have cracked the lotto code to win 5, 10 or perhaps as many as 35 separate lottery game draws!

What makes them so lucky? Well, it's not luck at all ... It's easy mathematics.

The only thing these repeat lottery game winners share is the formula they utilize to choose their winning numbers.

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