#continuation to Mirror Casket

[ghost-bxrd]

Jason didn’t think it could get any worse, but the universe just loves proving him wrong on that front.

Beaten within an inch of his life with a crowbar? Don’t worry buddy, I gotcha. How about we make it worse with some explosives?

Your alternate self got kidnapped and tortured by the Joker? Golly gee, really gotta step up my game now! How about we make him so fucking traumatized he will tell you which knife is best to torture him with?

Fuck. Fucking fuck. Jason wants a fucking refund on this whole dimension travel bullshit. Because this? This is some A-grade clusterfuck. He’d rather deal with goddamn Sionis than— whatever this is. Jesus.

— sneak peek of “It Is All True” (aka. the Arkham Knight Au continuation)

[allforthegaymes]

Andrew sat in the fbi interrogation alongside Neil, stuck between trying to decide wether to keep his wary eyes on the agents sat across from them or to keep his eyes locked on Neil, as if he’ll disappear again if he loses sight of him at any point.

Instead he keeps a finger hooked around one of Neils belt loops and sets himself to memorizing every word out of Neils mouth, keeping a watch on the agents to make sure they dont make a sudden attempt to go back on their words.

Which means he gets the first hand sight of how other people would react to hearing about what Neil’s gone through. And while he’d accepted every word from Neils mouth without a facial reaction, watching how the agents react make him think maybe he shouldve.

(The whispered thanks from Neil afterwards about Andrew not looking at him differently changes his mind)

The only part that really makes him freeze is when Neil begins the talk of his mothers death. Andrews all too familiar with dead mothers in cars, but hearing about the gun wound, the vinyl seats sticking to a half burnt away body, the bone burial along the beach. Neil stutters only once during his recounts, where he slips and mentions the smell.

He compares it to the scent of cigarettes, used Andrew’s one marlboro reds as a reference and suddenly all those rooftop rendezvous together makes more sense.

Neils half smoked cigarettes, never stubbed out but left to continue burning on the concrete next to them while they sit and talk. The way he only does stub them out when talking about his parents, or when Andrew mentions something about his own mom, or when Andrew says anything about the earlier days with Aaron.

Neil stops talking for a moment after that. Lost in thought.

And as always, Andrew follows him half a step behind.

Neils adamant claims during their zombie apocalypse walks with Renee around the track that he would always burn their friends bodies to make sure they dont come back from the dead.

The way he always leaves the room when they watch the newest episode of that stupid viking show that Aaron and Kevin like to watch and theres a burning boat funeral.

The way he-

And then Neil starts talking to the fbi agents again and Andrew is forced to tune back in and tuck away those thoughts till later.

He tells them about what happened in Baltimore.

The torture from Lola. The dashboard lighter pressing seared wounds into his skin. Over the tattoo, scattered across his arms, the faint marks from where she tried to burn holes through his jeans to get to his thighs. Saved only half as well as they were by the fact he’d worn a pair of the carhartt work pants Andrew had bought for him and not a pair of the threadbare thrift store jeans he usually wore.

Andrew makes the mental note to stop using his own dashboard lighter to light the cigarettes he smokes in the car. And to swap cigarette brands. And to stop smoking in the car.

And then its about the trunk of the car, the way Lola had held onto him and the comments she made in the car, the basement, the offhanded mention about how Nathan was barefoot when he walked down the stairs.

The little details that only someone who’s truly grasping for any recollection in a traumatic moment would retain. The way even when Nathan was walking down to tear Neil limb from limb, Neil still couldnt bring himself to look at his fathers face. The face that Neil shares. The face Neil still avoids looking at when he walks past the mirror in the hall in Columbia.

And he thinks about the way Neil shied away from Wymack in the beginning, the way he now searches for Wymacks face whenever they get separated from their coach at away games.

The gun shots during the Hatford raid, the way even though Neil was bruised and battered he still found himself with a smile on his face when he saw Lola’s body get blasted apart by silenced guns.

The way he knew even if they got a proper funeral no one down there would get to have an open casket. The evidence in their bullet shattered bones that their bodies would never rest peacefully. That people in a thousand years would know from the unmarked graves and their remains that they deserved whatever ended them.

And then he claims it goes dark, he says it with the same way Neil lies about everything else, with his body forced relaxed to not twitch and give himself away, but he breathes a little heavier when he calmly tries to describe the way he came to and found himself being helped by the emergency services, feigning he doesnt know what theyre actually called, playing into the runaway kid sent on the road too young and not knowing completely how the world works still.

Andrew wishes he didnt know Neil well enough to know its only half real. Wishes he didnt know Mary probably only taught Neil how to recognize and run from EMT’s, and never actually explained what EMT was meant to stand for.

Andrew knows first hand how hard it is to gain sympathy from government officials, but Neil’s got them eating out of his hand with the way he words his story, their final nail in the coffin to take down the Wesninski trails in Baltimore and beyond.

Neil knows they need him and he knows how to play them to believe whatever story he deems they’re worthwhile to hear.

[hmhas-00]

Ch. 26

Hit Me Hard & Soft

A/N- crying in the clubbbb 💔 like and rb and stay tuned for what comes next!

Remy’s POV

My phone buzzed, bringing my attention to my lap. The screen lit up with a text from an unknown number. I figured it was a scam and continued working.

It was finally February, and I was finally back at the office, running around, getting things done for Joe and unofficially co-writing with Rachel. For months I dove into my work and only focused on my goals, before my end of the year performance review, which Joe had postponed due to my accident.

Life was moving fast recently, not giving me much time to process the other aspects of my life. Eating and exercising were things I often forgot to do. Sleeping was also not a priority. There was so much on my plate, but oddly enough it was comforting.

It occupied my brain and took my mind off of personal life matters, such as losing my best friend, to be exact.

My mother passed away last month. I didn’t shed a tear. It was bittersweet. It was weird to think about. The funeral was beautiful, but small. There were family members giving me their condolences that I haven’t heard from since I was in school. It was odd. There were some people I didn’t recognize that swore they held me as a baby. My dad was there too. He avoided me, probably feeling just as awkward as I was.

That was the day I realized I had grown angry and resentful. All of the money I had sent her had been spent, mostly on rent, but also on unnecessary things. She had a boyfriend I didn’t know about. I wondered why he couldn’t pay for her expenses. He seemed nice. He was heartbroken. I found myself trying to mirror his emotion before my aunts’ gossip turned me into the daughter that didn’t give a fuck about her dead mother.

She passed away from a heart attack. She had a past of abusing prescription drugs. It was a habit she picked up after the divorce. She was 3 years clean.

As I said my goodbyes, I realized I hadn’t talked to her in person in almost a year, when I saw her on her birthday the year prior. Seeing her in the open casket reminded me of when I was in the hospital and she didn’t bother to show, yet I was here holding her cold, unfamiliar hand.

I gave myself a moment to mourn what could’ve been, and said a prayer in my head, only for her. She was religious, ironically enough. I was not. I hadn’t prayed in god knows how long. But, I prayed to the universe that she’d be at peace, forgiven by whoever would try to collect her debts, wherever she was now.

When I got home. I melted into my desk chair, focused solely on my work, and haven’t gotten up since.

That about sums up my life right now.

My phone buzzed again. A text from the same unknown number. I opened it, wondering who it was.

Hey I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Ellie, Billie’s girlfriend.

I wanted to invite you to a little pre-valentines day party this Saturday at 7pm! It’s also sorta Billie’s going away party before she leaves for Australia this month. She would love to have you there.

I stopped breathing for a second, reading the messages. I hadn’t allowed myself to miss Billie in a month. I hadn’t allowed my self to think about her. All of her things and all of our pictures were stored away so I didn’t fall apart at the sight of them.

I wondered why Billie hadn’t invited me herself. It almost stung. An invite by formality. I guess I deserved that. Maybe this was her way of seeing if I’d show up.

The thought of explaining myself to her again stressed me out. Nothing was ever good enough for her. My goals didn’t matter to her. That’s how I felt.

I’ll send you the details later. Please come.🤍

She texted me again.

*******

A couple days went by before I actually replied. I thanked her for the invite and let her know I would be there.

The day of the party I took hours to get ready. I was nervous like never before. I decided on some light wash jeans and a white baby-tee. I straightened my hair, wearing it longer than ever, as I didn’t bother to trim or freshen up my curtain bangs due to my busy schedule. I did my makeup the way she liked. Tiny, smudged eyeliner wings at the corners of my eyes, blushy cheeks, lined lips with a dark mauve lip tint and gloss over top. I put on a black faux-leather jacket and drove to Billie’s house.

I decided to arrive a few hours late to avoid the awkward period of time before everyone else showed up, in case things didn’t feel right.

When I arrived, the same security team greeted me at the door. They looked surprised to see me, but let me get through without hesitation.

I walked through the entrance, walking through the halls, making my way towards the noise. In the front room I saw a group of people. Neither of them were Billie.

Finneas looked at me and did a double take. Everyone else remained in conversation. I smiled at him awkwardly and kept walking. The last thing I wanted to do was small talk. I followed the noise into the living room, towards the entertainment area. A multitude of people, but still no Billie.

A beautiful girl, wearing a red, flowy, silky dress walked towards me with a big smile on her face. I took in her presence, taken off guard by her embrace. She squeezed me tight, happy and cheery.

“I’m so glad you came!” She smelled sweet and her aura was warm and inviting. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I guess this is Ellie.

The more she talked, the less I could manage to take my eyes off her. I couldn’t put a pin on it, it began to bother me. Then, I realized.

I couldn’t help but notice the similarities between us two. Her hair looked exactly like mine did when I had time to tend to it, her skin was tan, like mine, our smiles and the way our noses crinkled when we laughed… She was a girlier, prettier version of me. She had dainty tattoos on her arms. Not as many as I, but fuck, we were even the same height. I zoned out, feeling as if I were looking in the mirror.

“Feel free to get some food, there’s lots more in the kitchen. Please, help yourself! I’ll be right back.” She said, walking out into the back yard.

Help yourself. As if I didn’t frequent these halls, and help myself all the time. I looked around, the house the exact same way I left it. I walked into the kitchen hoping to get a moment to myself. I realized most of the people here weren’t the usuals at Billie’s parties. A lot of them, I didn’t really talk to much. I poured myself some sparkling water and tried a few bite size snacks.

I leaned back on the counter, reminiscing on the moments Billie and I shared in this kitchen. All the food we made and all the laughs we shared messing up new recipes, and having to clean up our mess.

Suddenly, I saw a shadow from the corner of my eye, causing me to turn and look. A dark haired figure stood in the doorway.

Billie stared at me, looking like she was face to face with a ghost.

I stood up straight, my brows slightly raised and my lips forming an unsure smile.

Billie looked away, her face reading discontent and disappointment, like she was disgusted that I was here. She quickly walked out, leaving me a mess in her kitchen.

I stood in the kitchen, about to cry, about to run out. I kept my composure, taking a breath and trying to understand what the hell just happened. Wondering why I’m here.

I walked out, b-lining towards the guest bathroom, wiping tears off the corners of my eyes, but heard faint arguing as I passed one of the rooms down the hall. It sounded like Billie’s voice. I got closer and eavesdropped.

“Why the fuck would you do this to me?”

Ellie tried to keep both their voices down, “I thought it would be a good thing. I thought the two of you could talk?”

“If I wanted to talk to her, I would pick up the phone and call her, Ellie. God, what the fuck!” Billie shouted.

“Shh! You’re being so loud. Calm down!”

“Don’t tell me to calm down when you invited her to my house without my permission! You know where I stand. You know that I can’t do this right now. And you bring her here two weeks before I’m supposed to leave for tour?”

The way she referred to me as her pissed me off. Like I was a stranger with no significant value to her.

“Billie, don’t be like that! She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t want to be in your life. You just need to talk, you’re best friends. I thought if I got her here, the two of you would-“

“We’re not friends anymore for a reason! I don’t want to see her Ellie! I was doing fine! I was just fine, why did you have to ruin everything I-“

“No, I wasn’t trying to ruin anything, baby! I wanted you to heal! I wanted you to get closure! If you don’t talk to me, I wanted you to at least talk to somebody!” Ellie said, whisper yelling. Billie didn’t match her volume at all. I could hear the anxiety and pain in her voice. I felt like the ex boyfriend that texts out of nowhere at 3am when you’re finally over him.

The way she tried her best to calm her down… I felt helpless hearing it. I wanted to go in and fix everything myself, the way I always did. I wanted to just go in and hug her tight, even if she tried to fight me off. I’d get on my knees, beg her to forgive me, and make a fool of myself, if it meant she’d be okay again.

At the same time, hearing her talk about finally being okay, and getting over me… it cut deep. Because I wasn’t over her. I didn’t even allow myself to process it. I haven’t had time to process anything that’s happened to me in the past few months. I guess I had me to blame for that.

I walked in, standing at the doorway, watching Billie’s eyes fixed on me, stonewalled.

“Hey, Remy, I’m sorry if you-“ Ellie started.

“I thought you knew I was coming. I thought you wanted me here.” I said, looking between the two. Ellie winced, her plan crashing and burning before her.

Billie shook her head, bringing her hands to the crown of her head and turning around, blowing air out of her mouth. She faced the wall, probably wishing she could teleport anywhere but here.

“I’ll see my way out.” I began to turn, but Ellie rushed over, grabbing my arm, pulling me, and pleading with me. Normally I’d have a problem with a random girl putting her hands on me, but I was so beside myself that I didn’t react.

“I’m obviously not welcome here.” My throat tickled. I cleared my throat, feeling that pit in your stomach that makes you want to sob uncontrollably.

Ellie stood in the doorway, blocking me from exiting. Man, she was strong. “You two need to talk. Hear each other out. Billie, fucking come on! She showed up, she clearly cares about you.”

“I didn’t mean to make you upset. I just wanted to see you and apologize.” My voice cracked. I felt like a stranger in her house. The room I had sat in so many times before felt like a cold jail cell.

What a fucking shit show.

Billie swayed, her back turned toward me, quiet as a mouse as she faced the wall.

Billie’s hair was cut differently than before. She wore a blue and white long sleeve, and a pair of wide denim jeans. She threw her little fake glasses on the couch next to her and continued to sway back and forth. I was almost afraid to be in the room with her. Her hands flexing as she opened and shut her fingers repeatedly. Her rings clinked as they hit the others. She cracked her knuckles, her triceps popping out.

Ellie sighed, “I’m sorry, but I have to do this. You need to talk.” She walked out, closing the door.

[tateypots]

Coraline

18+ MDNI

Pairing: Protective Frankie Morales x wife!reader

A/N: This is my entry for @itwasntimethatdidit40 Italian Music Challenge. I was given the song Coraline by Måneskin, I'll add the translated lyrics and a link to the song at the bottom. Its a great song.

I really loved this challenge so thank you to V for for organising but I'm not going to lie, this was hard to write. I'm usually soft and fluffy or filthy and depraved (and sometimes both) so this is my first real foray into anything angsty.

There are some very heavy themes in this so please heed the warnings before you continue and please forgive me for the timing. I know it's been a hard week and the last thing anyone needs is more sadness but I promise there is a happy ending. And I already promised @baronessvonglitter a lovely, happy, fluffy fic by way of an apology!

Story is written as a reader insert but in my head her name is Coraline. Moodboard is for aesthetics only, reader is not described.

Warnings: pregnancy, miscarriage, mentions of medical procedures following miscarriage (nothing in detail), violence, injury, child abuse, grief, ptsd, implied smut but it's very brief, Frankie being the best.

Word count: 4.1K

14 weeks. That’s how far along you were. Had been. Fuck!

The beeps and whirrs of the heartrate monitor strapped to you were the only noise. Your tears silently dripping down your battered and swollen face, your body aching and broken. And empty. Your perfect little bean taken from you. Scraped from your body as though it was nothing, inconsequential.

You’d barely had time to process the words, “I’m so sorry Mrs Morales, there’s no heartbeat,” before they were wheeling you to surgery. And you had to do it all alone, your husband locked away in a cell at the local police station. Not that you blamed Frankie at all. If you had been able, you would have beaten the shit out of your father too. If your leg and ribs weren’t broken, if your shoulder hadn’t been recently dislocated. If you didn’t have this awful aching sadness gnawing away at you like a black hole devouring any hint of light from your life.

Your father was lucky that someone was there to pull Frankie off him. If only there had been someone to pull your father off you. If they’d poked their heads out of their apartments when he started yelling at you in the hallway about how you were an ungrateful little bitch for running off and marrying a man he didn’t approve of. For getting knocked up like a stupid slut. If only they had intervened then instead of waiting until you were lying battered and bleeding at the bottom of a flight of stairs just in time for Frankie returning from the grocery store. Yes he was lucky indeed. Lucky that he was currently inhabiting a cell next to Frankie instead of the casket your husband had intended to put him in.

When you’d awoken from your anaesthesia the nurse had told you that someone had informed Frankie of what had happened and the guilt nearly ripped you in two. The thought of him finding out in a cold, unforgiving cell, all alone. How his grief would be battling with his guilt that he wasn’t there for you just as yours was now, mirror images reflecting and magnifying the horror of the day. You wished he was here. You needed his deep, baritone voice to wrap you in its soothing embrace as he told you you’d be ok, that you’d get through it together.

A gentle tap on the door to your room pulls you from your thoughts. You look up to see Pope, Will and Benny gathered at the door. You see their masks slip on, just a second too late as they enter the room, training kicking in, stay calm, don’t give anything away. You know just from that how bad you must look. You’ve never seen them turn those masks on for you and it almost breaks you, the sob that claws it’s way out of your chest is violent and raw. It rips at your throat as it escapes, intent on causing as much damage to your broken body as it does to the ears of all who hear it.

They rush for you, desperate to console you. Pope reaches you first. He wraps you in his arms, gently so as not to hurt you further. You vaguely wonder why he bothers. You feel nothing but the aching pit of blackness within you that seems to grow and consume every other thought and feeling.

“It’s ok honey, let it out, we got you,” he whispers to you, holding you closer. Will is at your other side now, holding your hand, Benny beside Pope takes your other one. You feel their tears spilling onto your skin, masks dropped. They never really stood a chance against the raw, unfettered pain in the room. You surrender to your grief. You sink into Pope’s embrace and squeeze the hands that hold yours, so grateful to no longer be alone.

You think back to all the times you’d had to swallow and hide your sadness growing up, careful not to trigger your father or overburden your mother. How Frankie had to coax that side out of you, had to teach you that it was ok to be sad and vulnerable with him. That it was safe. That he was safe. That they were safe. You’d gone from having no one to having a whole family, bound not by blood but by love. And you’d never been more thankful for them.

You don’t know how long you stay like that but eventually your tears run dry. You pull out of Pope’s embrace to lean back on your pillows.

“How did you know?” you ask.

“Frankie called,” Pope tells you as Will passes him a bottle of water, “he didn’t want you to be alone.”

Of course Frankie would use his one phone call to make sure you’re ok rather than calling a lawyer. That stupid, big hearted lug. Not that there was much a lawyer would be able to do you knew. There had been plenty of witnesses. But still, your heart swells and it’s enough to momentarily break through the numbness, your love for Frankie pulling you back from the abyss.

“Here honey, drink some of this, you must be dehydrated,” Pope instructs as he brings the bottle of water to your lips. He’s put a straw in it to help you, so you don’t have to navigate the hard bottle against your swollen lips.

“I called my friend, she’s a lawyer, she’s gona head to the station and see what can be done,” Will tells you. You know it won’t be much. That bail will be expensive, more than you can afford, and a criminal record will put his military career at risk. The guilt rears its ugly head again, threatening to drown you with its voracity. Frankie is going to lose everything he’s worked so hard for on top of the already agonising loss of your baby and it’s all your fault. If only he’d fallen in love with someone else. Someone better, someone without so much baggage and a violent father.

“Thanks Will, but there’s only one way out of this that doesn’t end with him losing his job.”

They all stop and look at you. “I need to speak to my mom.”

“Honey are you sure that’s a good idea?” Pope asks you. He’s worried, you can see. He knows Frankie won’t like it.

“I’m sure Pope. Right now all I need is Frankie and she is how I get him. I don’t care about anything else, I just need him,” you tell him, once more breaking down in tears.

“Ok, ok honey, I’ll get her for you. It’s ok,” he soothes you, “you remember her phone number?”

You give him a shaky nod and dictate your parent’s phone number and address. He gives you a kiss on the crown of your head and disappears out the door.

He returns a little later with your mom. He walks behind her, shepherding her into the room like he expects her to turn tail and run. You wouldn’t be surprised if she tried, so used to existing in the safety of your fathers shadow, spewing her hatred from behind the safety of his imposing body. But now there’s no one here to hide behind. Here the tables are turned in your favour for once.

“You want us to stay with you?” Will asks, not taking his eyes off her, all 3 of them eyeballing her like she’s a piece of trash.

“No it’s ok. Just. Don’t go far?” you ask, looking at them each in turn for reassurance.

“We’ll be right outside honey,” Pope promises, “you holler if you need anything and we’ll be in in a heartbeat.”

They file out, glaring at your mother the entire time. They don’t close the door, not taking any chances of you being hurt further tonight.

She turns back to you. You don’t say anything for a minute. Give her a chance to truly see you and absorb all the visible damage to your body.

“How are you?” she eventually asks and you huff a laugh.

“Don’t pretend you care about me now.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? You’re my daughter of course I care.”

“Oh yeah, that why you stood by my whole life watching as he beat me? That why you used to tell me I deserved it?”

“You were an unruly child,” she spits at you, getting agitated now, “you needed to be disciplined, your father was just trying to get you to behave.”

“Discipline, right. Like the time he hit me so hard he knocked 3 of my teeth out because I didn’t come over the first time he called?”

She rolls her eyes at you, “they were baby teeth, don’t be so dramatic.”

“I was 7 years old and he was a full grown adult!”

“You disrespected him in front of our friends.”

You want to scream at her. You want to climb out of your bed and beat her bloody, reciting every injury inflicted against every perceived failing, the rage momentarily filling the void within you. You desperately cling to it, feed off it, praying it gives you the energy to see you through this.  

“Your father and I did the best we could, there’s no manual that comes with being a parent.”

“Well I won’t be finding that out anytime soon, seeing as your husband murdered your grandchild tonight!” you bellow back at her. It hits her like a punch. Not the fact that you’ve lost your baby. The wrath behind your words. You’ve never raised your voice to her, never displayed your emotions so shamelessly in front of her.

You see Pope in the doorway and you shake your head. He steps away again but you know he is stood right outside, waiting for your instruction. It bolsters you. She will hear what you have to say, no matter how little she likes it.

“You were terrible parents. And even now that I’m an adult you can’t let me be happy. Why are you so determined to ruin my life?”

“Ruin your life? We were trying to save you from that degenerate you married. He put your father in the hospital you know, he had to have stitches.”

“Boo, fucking, hoo,” you tell her, sweeping your arm across your body, not an inch of which is not marked in some way by that assault of your father. She flinches. You know it’s at the curse coming out of your mouth rather than the repulsion of seeing what her husband did to you.

“I’m sure your father never meant for you to fall down those stairs, he was just trying to get you to see sense. Yes, that’s it. Your father is an upstanding member of the community, I’m sure the police will see that this was an accident. What that Morales man did to him was deliberate. He’s violent, I could always sense it in him. He will go to jail where he belongs and you will come home. One day you will be thankful for what your father did for you tonight.”

You laugh. Actually laugh at her, pain shoots through your ribs but you embrace it. You’re not surprised that she’s still defending that man. You are a little surprised by how delusional she is.

“What’s so funny?”

The last few chuckles trickle out of you before you sigh and tell her. “there are cameras.”

“What?”

“There are cameras in the hallway,” you see her sag as the realisation hits her. “The police will already have seen them. They’ll know what he did wasn’t an accident. If my husband deserves jail for violence, then so does yours.”

“No, no. That’s not right. Your father doesn’t belong in jail.”

“Yes he does.”

She starts rambling and pacing, “no, no, no, not right, not right.”

“Everyone is going to know. Imagine what the neighbours will say. Especially when it comes time for the trial and I have to get on the stand and recount all the abuse I lived though in that house. My medical records will back it up. Everyone is going to know exactly what kind of people you are.”

“Stop it!” she screams at you.

“There is another way,” you offer. She looks at you with hope in her eyes. “You drop the charges against Frankie and I will drop the charges against your husband.” You refuse to acknowledge him as your father any more. You’re done with them both.

She glares at you for a moment. But you have her backed into a corner and you both know it.

“Fine,” she finally relents.

“Good. One of the boys will take you to the station to get everything settled. And then that’s it. We’re done. I don’t ever want to see either of you again.”

She opens her mouth to protest but you cut her off. “I mean it. I’ll get a restraining order if I have to, and I'll make sure all your friends know about it.”

She nods, clearly seething that after all this, they’re still losing the control over you they were so desperate to keep.

Before she can say anything else the boys are filing back into the room. Pope motions for her to leave with a sweep of his arm, “after you.” She marches out of the room without so much as glancing at you. Pope turns back and winks at you, “did so good honey, I’ll be back with Frankie as soon as I can,” and follows her out.

As soon as they’re out of earshot you collapse in on yourself, descending once more into tears as Will holds you this time. The rage is gone, used up and burnt out and all that is left in the ashes is grief and pain.

At some point one of the nurses comes in and gives you more pain relief and the exhaustion finally takes over as you fall into a restless sleep.

///

It’s the beeping and whirring that you register first as you start to come back round. And then it hits you all over again, a tidal wave of despair that threatens to wash you away. But there’s a heavy pressure on your hand keeping you tethered. Your eyes flutter open and you gaze down. Frankie is sleeping, sat in a chair pulled close to your bedside, his head resting on one of his arms on the bed, his other hand gripping yours tightly. Not enough to hurt. Just firm, reassuring.

You heave a sigh of relief that he’s here. His mere presence, even unconscious as he is, is enough to settle you. Your heart swells again, that feeling pushing at the edges of your sorrow. You don’t want to wake him. You’ve put him through hell tonight the least you can do is let him sleep. But you know that the position he’s in is not good for his neck and he’ll be sore in the morning if he stays as he is.

You take a moment to really look at him. You see the evidence of the night on him. His eyes and face are puffy from the tears he’s shed and there are bruises forming in the few places your dad managed to get a retaliatory hit in. You hate seeing him like this. You’re so ashamed that you’ve put him through this. Part of you wonders if he’ll still want you once it’s all calmed down. When he realises his life would have been easier had he picked someone else. You force that feeling down. You know Frankie wouldn’t do that to you. That voice in your head is the latent remnants of your parents teachings that love had to be earned and you always fell wide of the mark, never quite good enough. Frankie had always given his love and affection freely. He’d never treated you like they had, and you knew he wouldn’t start now.

Before you can decide whether you should wake him up, a nurse comes in to check your vitals.

“Is there anything you need?” she asks in a whisper once she’s done.

“Just some water please,” you ask.

“M’I got it,” Frankie mumbles beside you, pushing up off the bed and reaching over to your nightstand to grab a bottle of water and a straw as the nurse retreats once more.

You whimper when he lets go of your hand to get the lid off the bottle.

“I know baby, I know, just be a second,” he placates you, but instead of waiting for his hand to take yours again you reach it up to cup his face as he holds the bottle steady for you to drink from. He turns his head to kiss your palm and you stoke his cheek with your thumb.

He looks at you while you sip your water, eyes roving over your face before finding yours once more. The tears start to drip from his eyes and you break once more, like a piece of pottery, smashed and patched back together, over and over again, getting more fragile with each attempt at repair.

 “I’m so, so sorry Frankie, please forgive me!” you sob, clinging to him as though he may disappear at any moment. He’s your life raft in the storm, you know that if you let go you’ll be dragged to the depths, never to be recovered.

“No, no, no baby, what are you talking about, there’s nothing to forgive,” he tells you, pulling you close and kissing your head. “It’s me who should be apologising. I should have done a better job at protecting you from him. And you shouldn’t have had to go through this alone. I hate myself for that. Please say you forgive me, please!”

You shake your head at his words and pull away enough that you can see his face. You gently cup it with both your hands and make him look at you. He wears his grief all over his face, his emotions out in the open for all to see. You love him for that. For not making you feel like you need to swallow it, for standing with you and validating your heartache.

“There’s nothing to forgive for you either. There was no way you could have known this would happen. The only one to blame is him and I’m glad he got a taste of his own medicine tonight.” You lean in and give him a gentle kiss before wrapping your arms around him and burying your head in his neck.  

“I love you so much Frankie.”

“I love you too.”

You stay like that for a while. Wrapped in each other’s arms and each other’s sadness, weeping on to each other’s shoulders until he feels you start to shift to find relief from your aching body. He lies you back onto your pillows and sits back in his chair. He holds your hand in one of his and brings it to his lips to kiss your knuckles. His other big hand comes to rest gently just below your belly, the place that had until just a few hours ago housed your greatest joy.

The pain feels sharper with him here, more acute. The overall aching brought into focus of a singular agony now that the other distractions of the night had resolved themselves. Your baby is gone. The last time you were in this hospital was only 2 weeks ago, getting your scan. You had left excited and hopeful with a blurry picture of your perfect little miracle. That’s the only picture you would ever get. But you feel stronger with him here too. Better able to carry the burden with him to help you share the load. You feel less despondent, you feel safe. He’s brought with him the memory of light. A flicker, a momentary spark. You feel hopeful that although you are suspended in darkness now, it might not last forever. You will find your way together.

///

“You’re staring Morales,” you playfully scold your husband as he stands leaning against the kitchen doorframe.

“Can’t help it, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“You say that every time,” you laugh.

He walks over and cups your face in his big hand, titling your face so he can press his lips against yours, “and I mean it, every time,” he tells you as he kisses you once more and then crouches down  to press another kiss against your daughters forehead as she huffs and coos round the teat of her bottle.

He looks up at you again, drinking in your smile. He’s catalogued every one since that night. He hadn’t realised how much he loved your smile until it had disappeared. For months after that night the pair of you soldiered on, one foot in front of the other, just trying to make it through each day. Through breakdowns and nightmares and therapy sessions. Battling through the pain and the financial fallout of your hefty medical bills.

And then one day in the fall you’d been out for a little walk when a gust of wind had blown his cap clean off his head. He’d dropped your hand to chase after it only for it to blow in the opposite direction whenever he got close. When he’d turned back after a kindly stranger had taken pity on him and rescued his hat from the ground as it blew past him, there was a little smile on your face, like you had very recently just stopped laughing. And it made his heart sing. He’d rushed back to you, taken your face in both his hands (one of which was still keeping tight hold of his cap) and kissed you deep and sweet.

That smile had saved him. Nourished him and gave him the strength to go on. They came infrequently to start with, the slow return of joy and light to your lives. But any time he saw you smile he took note of what had caused it. It wasn’t always the same thing. Something that made you smile one day wouldn’t draw the same reaction the next. Over time he realised the thing that made you smile the most was him. And if that didn’t just make him drown with pride. When he said something goofy, when he sang to you, when he brought you flowers from the gas station, or picked you up a certain candy bar, just because he knew you loved them, when he told you that he loved you. He cherished every single one. He was quite content to spend the rest of his life making you smile.

And when after almost 6 years, after many conversations and baring of doubts and fears you smiled at him and told him you wanted to try for another baby, his heart was fit to burst. That was his favourite smile of all the ones you’d gifted him.

There’d been a lot of smiling over the next few months. A lot of you moaning his name too. He liked that almost as much as the smiles.

But the pregnancy had been hard. You had both been prepared for it to be. But on the more difficult days he would hold you while you wept or when you woke from nightmares, or when you just couldn’t face the day. He would squeeze you tight, tell you how well you were doing, that he would always be there for you. He’d talk directly to your belly, telling your baby how lucky they were to have a momma as strong and beautiful and kind as you. Most days he could coax at least a small smile from you. And on the days he couldn’t, he’d think back to all the ones he’d filed away in his head and remind himself that the darkness doesn’t last forever.

And then she was here. A perfect kicking, screaming bundle who brought chaos in her wake and he knew the second she was placed in his arms that he’d fight tigers with his bare hands to keep you both safe. It made him hate your father even more for what he’d done. He could never imagine hurting his baby girl the way that man hurt you. He’d kill anyone who tried. He wanted to kill him even more than he had that night. For everything he’d done to you. For everything he’d stolen from you both.

But here you are now, the three of you together. Thriving. In spite of all that man had done.  In spite of all the horrors you’d survived to get here. He’ll make sure you never have to again. And your smile is all the reward he’ll ever need.

///

Translated Lyrics:

Tell me your truths, Coraline, Coraline

Tell me your truths, Coraline, Coraline

Tell me your truths, Coraline, Coraline

Tell me your truths, Coraline, Coraline

Coraline beautiful as the sun

Warrior with a zealous heart

Hair like red roses

Those precious copper wires, love, bring them to me

If you hear bells singing

You'll see Coraline crying

Who takes the pain of others

And then carries it inside her

Coraline, Coraline

Tell me your truths, Coraline, Coraline

Tell me your truths, Coraline, Coraline

Tell me your truths, Coraline, Coraline

But she knows the truth

It's not for everyone to go on

With a heart that's split in two halves

It's cold already

She's a child but she feels like a weight

And sooner or later it will break

And people will say, ah, "It's worth nothing"

She can't even get out of a miserable door

But one day, one time, she will succeed

And I told Coraline that she can grow

Take her things and then leave

But she feels a monster that keeps her in a cage, that

That covers her road with mines

And I told Coraline that she can grow

Take her things and then leave

But Coraline doesn't want to eat, no

Yes, Coraline would like to disappear

And Coraline cries

Coraline is anxious

Coraline wants the sea but she's afraid of the water

And maybe the sea is inside her

And every word is an axe

A cut on the back

Like a raft that sails in a river in flood

And maybe the river is inside her, of her

I'll be the fire and the cold

Shelter in the winter

I'll be what you breathe

I'll understand what's inside you

And I'll be the water to drink

The meaning of good

I'll also be a soldier

Or the light in the evening

And in return I ask for nothing

Just a smile

Every little tear of yours is an ocean on my face

And in return I ask for nothing nothing

Just a little time

I'll be a banner, a shield

Or your silver sword and

And Coraline cries

Coraline is anxious

Coraline wants the sea but she's afraid of the water

And maybe the sea is inside her

And every word is an axe

A cut on her back

Like a raft sailing in a river in flood

And maybe the river is inside her, inside her

And tell me your truths, Coraline, Coraline

Tell me your truths, Coraline, Coraline

Tell me your truths, Coraline, Coraline

Coraline, beautiful as the sun

She lost the fruit of her womb

She hasn't known love

But a father who is nothing like a father

They told her there's a castle in the city

With walls so powerful

That if you go and live inside

Nothing can hit you anymore

Nothing can hit you anymore

///

Tagging some people who showed interest in the WIP and who might be interested, but absolutely no pressure to read, let me know if you want to be removed.

@baronessvonglitter @milla-frenchy @aurorawritestoescape @lamartell @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal @thedilfdiaries @evolnoomym

[sir--crow]

Jerma Prank War 2025

A few days ago my mom asked me to print some photos for her and as I was scrolling through my camera roll, I was struck with an idea. Amongst her sea of photos I was printing, I snuck in this.

Now, she had a good laugh and called him a PSYCHO and asked why he looked like that. I couldn't answer her, I don't know. He just does.

This morning, looking at this messed up photo of this weirdo who looks like his name is Fart, I decided to continue the prank war. I hid it where she would find it.

Commence the war.

She hid it in my folded clothes as I was getting ready. I hid it on her new photo wall. She then taped it on my mirror. Then I hid it in her lunch box. I think we'll continue on until one of us hides this photo in our casket as ghosts and say, "Ha! Got you!"

[astarionposting]

Sunrise, Sunset. 2/2

Sunrise, sunset, you wake up then you undress, It always is the same; The sunrise and the sunsets, you're lying while you confess.

this song really reminds me of astarion's mind throughout the game in a way, it is difficult for me to describe why in words, but a lot of the lyrics remind me of his fears/the sad progression of his ascended ending, and how basically continues the cycle of abuse... especially in these verses:

The sunrise, the sunsets, you're hopeful and then you regret The circle never breaks. With a sunrise and a sunset, there's a change of heart or address Is there nothing that remains? For a sunrise or a sunset, you're manic or you're depressed Will you ever feel okay? For a sunrise or a sunset, your lover is an actress Did you really think she'd stay? To the sunrise or a sunset, the master and his servant Have exactly the same fate. It's a sunrise and a sunset, from a cradle to a casket There is no way to escape. The sunrise and a sunset, hold your sadness like a puppet Keep putting on the play. But everything you do is leading to the point Where you just won't know what to do. At that moment you may laugh but there is someone there Who will be laughing louder than you. So it's true, the trick is complete; You become everything you said you never would be. A vision of her body as she stretches out on your bed And she raised her hands in the air. Asked you, "When was the last time you looked in the mirror?" Because you've changed.

if u made it down here then here is a cutie face astarion for u :)

[dollfaced-erin]

𝔻𝕣𝕒𝕘𝕠𝕟'𝕤 ℂ𝕣𝕒𝕕𝕝𝕖 (Blade x F!Reader x Jing Yuan)

warning ! Angst !

PART 2

PART 1

short a/n :

sorry for the terrible storytelling in the past chapter. i am trying to regain back me writing skills, and i hope it'll get better over time !

"What...happened...? Where am I..?" the young woman asked. Her body felt cold and stiff, as if she was placed in a freezer for a very long time. Which...almost seemed to be the case.

She slowly sat up, and realized that she was in a glass box of sorts, placed above flowers that lay beneath her. They were...beautiful blue flowers, petals pure and translucent, giving off a crystal blue glow. They were...still fresh and living, or so she thought.

"Flowers...? A glass box...?" she muttered to herself, a hand to her head as she tried to wrap herself around what was happening. And as she touched her forehead, she realized that her fingertips were deathly cold.

"Huh...?" "Those flowers...are made of special substance called the six-phased ice. Have you heard of it ?" Jing Yuan asked her, his hand still holding onto hers, being the only source of heat that was taking away the coldness from her.

"The six-phased ice does not melt, and adheres to the imaginary law, remaining cold to the touch and does not change shape nor corrode. It is perfectly safe." the smooth general told the newly awoken girl.

"Yeah...I think...I've heard of it before..." (Y/n) nodded, looking at her fingertips. They were very pale, and even slightly blue. It seems that she had been resting in here for quite a while now.

"But then...is this...what one would call a casket...?" (Y/n) asked, looking at the glass casing she was in, filled with ice flowers and placed on a small stage that was a few steps high. It almost looked like a funeral, where one would pay their last respects.

"You have been...resting here for over a few hundred years, Dan...I mean, (Y/n)." Jing Yuan told her, a small smile on his lips. "To keep your body from decaying since you still had a beating heart, and breathing lungs, we couldn't just kill you off now, could we ? So I ordered for them to keep you here, just in case, to preserve your body."

"A few...hundred years ?! A-are you sure ? Why...why did I suddenly wake up ?" (Y/n) asked, looking panicked. Her ears couldnt believe what she was hearing and her (e/c) eyes were wide with confusion and surprise.

"I...I wasn't...reincarnated like a normal Vidhyadra...? What do I look like now...? Am I old...?" (Y/n) asked and Jing Yuan laughed before getting up to grab a handheld mirror on a table nearby.

"It seems that you still remember that you are a Vidyadhara. Here. Take a look for yourself."

And as she took the mirror in her hands. She gasped a little. She was a beautiful young woman. With luscious locks of (h/c) hair, dainty (e/c) blue eyes...and the matching horns perched on her head. Right, her tail...she could still feel the energy there, but was hidden from sight or sealed away.

Right...she was a Vidyadhara. But how hasn't she died or reincarnated...?

She didn't remember anything. She only had those vague voices in her mind that...served as her past memories, she supposed.

"You were...sentenced for past crime, but...you didn't die from your sentence. You...were put to rest, instead. And like I said, since your heart was still beating, your lungs still breathing, we couldn't just kill you. And seeing that you have forgotten all your memories, I suppose you didn't reincarnate, but rather reset yourself." Jing Yuan said. And as odd as that was, it had truth in them.

Perhaps she was out for so long that her brain had deleted most of her memories like Jade Abacus...? She didn't understand it. But there was nothing she could do about it but continue with her current life, taking it as a form of reincarnation straight into an adult body rather than hatching as a child.

But...how could she still have some memories and still remember Jing Yuan...?

Perhaps...she really didn't die, but since she was laid dormant for so long, her memories have corroded themselves.

"Come, (Y/n). I have things to attend to." Jing Yuan said, getting up and holding out a hand to (Y/n). "I'll tell you more on the way."

(Y/n) gulped, feeling a little uneasy, but if she had rested for a few hundred years and he was the only familiar face she knew at the moment.

And so the Vidyadhara woman took the general of the Luofu's hand and slowly stood up. But since it was centuries since she last stood, her legs were weak, her heart pounding painfully in her chest. She stumbled, but Jing Yuan caught her, holding her tenderly against his chest.

"Careful there, no need to rush. You just woke up." Jing Yuan said with concern in his deep voice. (Y/n)'s face reddened in response, finding it embarrassing that she couldn't even stand up straight.

And with his support, (Y/n) slowly stood up on both legs, finding herself clothed in familiar and elegant qipao in (f/c), and chrysanthemum flowers embroidered. Though qipao's are often short, she had an asymmetrical skirt that trailed behind her. This...was what the royalty would wear, something of the High-Elders would have. And...she had to admit, she had very cute heels even while sleeping.

Tenderly, with fear that she may fall, Jing Yuan took her hand as they began to walk out of the...monument that she lay in. The roads of the Exalting Sanctum...were still as bustling as she remembered they were, filled with citizens running around.

"Who...was I in my past...? How did I wake up ? How did you know I was going to wake up ? A-and...where are we going ? For what ?" (Y/n) bombarded Jing Yuan with questions as soon as they began to walk towards the Starskiff port, feeling quite self conscious that there were more than just a few eyes on them.

"So many questions, (Y/n)." Jing Yuan chuckled. Then he hummed. "Hm...let's say, in the past you were the former High-Elder's closest confidant. A little sister, one would regard. Younger than the High-Elder since you were born a few years after the young master at the time. But since Vidyadhara's cannot have offsprings, you were considered siblings since both of you hatched close to each other. And both of you had horns upon birth. "

"About waking up, there was a Stellaron activated on the ship. It caused the Ambrosial Arbor to reawaken, and...I had an instinct that since unusual things were happening, the impossible would happen with you." Jing Yuan said, looking at her with a soft smile on his lips.

"And...I was right. You reawakened due to the anomaly caused by the Stellaron. Do you know what a Stellaron is...?" Jing Yuan asked, concerned that perhaps everything was too much for (Y/n) at the moment. But to his surprise she nodded and understood.

She was understanding and grasping everything around her. Perhaps her past self had indeed died, but a new person resurfaced from behind and kept the most important memories and skills intact. Very handy. He didn't need to explain too much for (Y/n) to understand.

The two continued to walk to the port as Jing Yuan waited for a Starskiff to head off to the Alchemy commission. Jing Yuan still kept his hand on (Y/n)'s, gently guiding her and making sure she didn't fall. But so far, she was doing even better than he expected.

Though he had accepted her as (Y/n)...he...couldn't forget Dan Jia...the person (Y/n) formerly was. Not when they share the same face, the same horns of Vidyadhara... the same voice and...

Those beautiful (e/c) eyes...

He couldn't forget how she instantly recognized him upon waking.

"Careful now, kitten. The road ahead of us will be dangerous. But it shall still be within your power if you manage to resurface all your past wisdom with the power of the Orb of Abysm you once received alongside the High-Elder." Jing Yuan said.

"Jing Yuan !" a distant voice of Dan Jia called, a bright smile on her face as she smiled brightly at him, tucking a strand of (h/c) hair behind her ear.

And a starskiff arrived. Jing Yuan boarded the vehicle first, never letting go of (Y/n)'s hand. And he hoped he never had to.

Because the last time he did, was the last time he saw those beautiful (e/c) eyes open.

[ravennaortiz]

Always Here

Summary: Juice works through his grieve and regret at never telling you his true feelings.

Juice stared at himself in the mirror. His usual shirt and jeans exchanged for a suit and tie. “Can’t believe you got me in this” he muttered as he moved his arms trying to get used to the confining fabric. “Wish you could be here to see it. I know you’d be snapping photos and shit” he continued as a lump formed in his throat. “It’s not fair” he choked out as the grief hit him again.

“Easy laddie” soothed Chibs as he made his way into the bathroom followed by Tig and Half-Sack. “Easy” continued Chibs as he held Juice closed.

“It should have been you” sobbed Juice angrily as his eyes landed on Half-Sack who shrunk back.

“It wasn’t his fault. She died trying to give them both a chance” stated Chibs as he patted Juices back. “She wouldn’t want you harboring this anger towards him”.

Juice barely nodded. He knew that was true. If you were here right now you would be dragging him out by his ear to apologize. “She survived being blown up in Iraq only to be gunned down in a damn small town. I should have been with them. If I was maybe she” started Juice before Tig cut him off.

“She would still be in the casket in Chapel man. She was always going to sacrifice herself. Only thing that would have been different is you would be just as cold and in a casket next to her” stated Tig firmly as he clasped Juices shoulder. “While we all can understands the grief and pain of losing someone. None of us will understand the loss of losing her like you and Half have. I know it’s hard to think of this but he’s just as lost and torn up as you. Remember he had to sit with her as she cried, came to terms with dying and took  her last breath. That he has to replay that though his mind day and night. She will always be here” continued Tig as he patted Juices chest and head before leaving the bathroom.

Awhile later Juice made his way out to the main area of the clubhouse. Jeez he thought as he looked at the crowd that was inside and looked to be out the door. A mix of bikers, soldiers and random civilians milled about as they wait for their turn to say goodbye. Tears started again as he thought about how many lives you had changed in the short time you had been on this earth.

“Hey baby” murmured Gemma as she pulled Juice in for a hug. “It’s okay” She soothed as she patted his back. “Why don’t you head into chapel with Half? I told him you two take as long as you want alone. The two of you deserve to say goodbye in private and without everyone else being present. We can all wait. She would want to be with her boys one last time”

Juice nodded as he let her move him towards the door. Taking a deep breath he opened it and stepped in. Keeping his eyes off the casket, not ready to see you so still again.

“I can lea-“ started Half-Sack as he turned tears spilling down his cheeks as he finished fixing your dog tags.

“Stay. I want you to and she would want that” stated Juice as he moved to stand across from him on the opposite side of your casket.

Half nodded as he wiped at his eyes. Before extending his arm out with a chain. “She would want you to have this” he stated as Juice looked at the dog tag that dangled from his hand. “It’s her extra I dug around our stuff when I was looking for mine to put on hers.

“Thanks” gulped Juice as he took the necklace and traced your engraved name before putting it over his head.

The two men fell into a comfortable silence. Each with their own thoughts as they said their goodbyes.

“I’m glad you were her battle buddy when she was over in Iraq. She lucked out with you. Thanks for watching over her when I couldn’t.” stated Juice as he glanced up to look at Half-Sack. "I took my anger on never telling her how I feel out on you. It wasn't your fault I didn't have the balls to tell her I loved her more than a friend. That I wanted her to be mine and all that sappy romantic stuff she would have dragged me for. I lost out on that with her and that's my cross to bear. Not yours"

“Pretty sure she watched over me.” Chuckled Half-Sack lightly as he met his friends’ eyes. “She loved you too. Just so you know. Always talked about you and shit. I’m sorry the two of you never got to be together like that. I’m sorry I couldn’t save her this time” continued Half-Sack as tears poured down his face as he went from the time you were both blown up to the time the bullets only pierced your flesh.

“You did all you could. Neither of you had any idea the bullet would hit her prosthetic like that and ricochet. She wouldn’t want you blaming yourself” stated Juice as he walked around and pulled him in for a hug. “I’m sorry for being an ass. She will always be here with us.” He stated as he felt a warmth on the back of his neck and a slight weight followed by what he swore was a whispered finally.

[malrie]

for: @jasipereo, who told me i should what: in the burning maze, apparently they fly off together after jason dies and nothing happens at all. this is the nothing. wc: 1700

-

Piper had grown out her hair since Leo saw her last. He touched the ends of it, feeling the familiar softness between his fingers.

“Did you get taller?” she asked, voice strained from having cried so much. He didn’t see her expression; she was sitting in front of him on Festus, facing only the white sky. 

“I dunno,” he said, because he didn’t. Time was strange in that other place. To him, he’d been gone for only a moment. As if he hadn’t been lost at all.

She leaned backwards. Without having to ask, Leo let the internal heat from his body migrate to her. They were just below plane altitude, maybe four or five miles in the air. It was cold, but he wouldn’t let her be.

Had Piper not been there, Leo would have pried the casket open and crawled inside to lie beside him. He was sure of it. The instinct was nonsensical, even desperate, and still it pulled him like water down a drain. He wanted to see him again. He wanted to see him with his eyes closed, as though he were only asleep. And Jason had always been a peaceful sleeper. 

Back then, Piper’s iron grip on his forearm had anchored him. Maybe she felt the urge, too. Maybe they could have all fit inside. There, they could have dreamt as one, having found peace in a place where nothing could tear them apart. Together again.

“You did,” she replied. “Get taller, I mean. Just a little.”

*

Piper had a room in her grandpa’s ranch house that she hadn’t used since she was eleven. Leo inspected the off-white lace curtains, the stuffed animals on the bookshelves. She had a pink CD player and a Hello Kitty pillowcase. It was strange to be confronted with the idea that she had lived a life before him.

He helped her unpack what little she brought with her. Downstairs, Leo heard Coach’s booming timbre, comforting in its own way. He and Mellie would stay in the guest room with Chuck, leaving Leo to fend for himself in the den.

“What’re you gonna do now?” asked Piper, folding shirts and sorting them in a dresser.

Leo laid on her carpet, eyeing the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck on the ceiling. “Calypso wants to enroll in school. I tried telling her secondary education was a shithole, but she wanted to experience it herself. As for me, I’m never going back. S’one of the conditions I made for living at the Waystation.”

Piper paused in her folding. Then she started up again on a pile of sweaters. She lingered on a blue one that read: Edgarton Day and Boarding School. 

“I’m starting Tahlequah High next week,” she said. 

“I’ll be sure to make your grad party, beauty queen.”

He figured. Piper liked school enough; he knew she never missed an assignment at Wilderness. Meanwhile, Leo turned every packet he got into paper planes, letting them ride the Nevada gust out his dormitory window.

“If you’re not finishing school,” she continued, “what’ll you do? Help Hemithea and Josephine?”

“That’s sorta the plan.” Leo rubbed his eyes. The stars were too old to hold any glow. “I guess… I guess I just want something to keep busy. Maybe teach shop for the kids for however long. After that, I don’t know. Being in one place too long… I’m not real good at that.”

“So no camp?”

He couldn’t help but laugh. “No, no camp. You?”

“No,” Piper said, then laughed along with him.

He knew she didn’t mean she hated either camp, their friends, or their community—they only needed distance, measured and in moderation. Jason was everywhere, after all. His lifeblood was camp legacy. In a way, that was what had taken him from them. The gods had owed Jason ten times over and this was how he was repaid. There was nothing for Leo there, least of all loyalty. It seemed Piper felt the same, even if only mirroring an inch of his resentment. 

They ate dinner. Tristan still had some lost pallor, but his charisma was hard to chip at, especially when his daughter needed him. Toothless Chuck gummed around a piece of squash while the rest of them ate a meal cooked by a friend of the family. People had been in and out of the house all day; their fridge was stocked for the entire week. The McLeans had roots here. They were loved and welcomed. Leo and Piper had stayed inside her room like homebodies until the visitors had all left.

While Mellie put Chuck down for bed, Tristan and Coach cleared the table and washed the dishes. Piper told Leo that they’d probably go out on the porch and smoke some of her grandad’s tobacco pipes once they were done, a vice her dad failed to keep secret from her.

Snickering, they imagined Coach hacking a lung while ambling upstairs to her grandpa’s study. Her grandfather kept books on topics that ranged from Indigenous history to psychology to science fiction. Aside from the collection, there was a desk with a swivel chair and a large claw-footed single-seater sofa in the corner of the room, just by the window.

Leo grabbed a book off the shelf just for the fun of it and plopped down on the sofa. The words swam around on the pages. Even if he could read it, he doubted he could parse analytical biochemistry jargon.

“I used to come up here when Grandpa was doing his lesson plans,” said Piper. Tom McLean was a structural biology professor. “I’d beg for him to play with me, but he’d just say, ‘My love, you cannot have what you want the instant you desire it.’ I liked that. Not even then was it easy for people to say no to me. He was the only one.”

Looking out the window, Leo saw the shine of Festus’s wings in the darkness. The dragon was hunkered down in the yard, closest to sleep as automatons could get.

“I’ll leave in the morning,” Leo said. He rested his gaze on the horizon, which bled into the night. “Calypso’s waiting for me.”

“I know.” Piper came over to him, gently pulling the textbook away from his grasp. It forced him to look at her.

A beat passed. “I’m sorry, Piper. About Jason.”

She smiled wryly, placing Clinical Biochemistry: Techniques and Instrumentation onto the side table. She asked, “Why are you saying sorry to me?”

He wasn’t sure what she meant by that. She stood over him, the moonlight from outside overlaying her skin like a filter, the image of an aching spector. Her face was unreadable, but tonight her eyes were one color. It was borrowed, and it was the color of his own heart: Electric blue, as vibrant as the sky once a storm had cleared. Jason.

Still standing, she raised a hand, placing it over his arm in an innocuous touch. “You loved him, too,” she said. Leo’s hackles rose, but it was true and—now that Jason was dead—harmless. “Leo, we weren’t together anymore. I broke up with him. After you died, I couldn’t… I couldn’t work it out. Work us out. Because without you, it was like… Like the lights had gone out.”

His hand grabbed her wrist, wanting to rip it away, but he couldn’t. “Wait. I-I don’t want to hear this,” he said.

If only she had never brought it up. Mellie had told him earlier in the day, with Chuck on her hip and wearing a worried frown. Piper and Jason had split some months ago. They never explained further than what they had told everyone.

“I thought,” she kept going, “that if you had come back, maybe Jason and I could have—with you… But we never got a chance.”

“Piper,” he said firmly, getting up from the seat to grab her shoulders. “You have to stop.”

“It isn’t fair. Don’t you think it isn’t fair?” Jason’s eyes watched him shake.

“I’m leaving tomorrow, at dawn. I’m moving to Indiana. I’ll come for birthdays, special days. We’ll see each other at reunions. I’ll Iris you—every day if you want! It’ll be good. Like we always were. Like we were before everything. Don’t do this, Piper.”

“You can’t stay,” she whispered. “I know because it happened to me, too. It hurt to be with him because you weren’t there. And I know what you see when you look at me. What color are my eyes, Leo? Whose are they? He used to see yours.”

It had to happen, just once, even if never again for the rest of their lives. It wasn’t even their first kiss, which had happened a lifetime ago, on some forgettable rooftop in a place that never loved them. He shivered a little as her hands came up to his neck. There was salt in his mouth from her tears. Piper made small noises, gasping in increments when they could bear parting. They tumbled back to a bookshelf, hard edges jutting against Leo’s spine.

It was important that he was the one to speak first. Not because he didn’t trust her not to compel him, but to prove that he knew she wouldn’t. Not for this.

“I’ll leave in the morning,” repeated Leo, thumb rolling down her jaw. “That’s hours away.”

*

Leo got up before the sun did. Oklahoma mornings were crisp and new, almost impossibly so. The fog in the distance cleared around the McLean property, grass dewing with small beads of fresh water. Standing on the porch now, Leo knew this could be a good home, one filled with love.

Tristan McLean saw him come out of Piper’s room. He didn’t react much, only telling him to be safe on his journey back. He’d also shaken his hand like a real man and said, “She’s stronger than I’d ever hoped.”

“Stronger than me,” Leo replied, smiling.

Seeing him, Festus crooned in happy creaks, shaking out his stiffness. As Leo took off, he saw the curtains in Piper’s window move, almost nothing. Just in case, he brought up his hand to wave goodbye.

[wifetomegatron]

prowl, cerebros, red alert & fort max drabble (brain fart basically). prowl looks too good for a funeral, first contact au. (the fleabag brainrot continues to fester so) imagine a scene where you have to attend a funeral of a distant relative member, most likely a cousin twice removed, and the family asks you to bring your boyfriend with you. The problem wasn't the fact that he turns into a cop car or stands five—six, he would lie — meters tall when he's not begrudgingly sizing himself down for the comfort of his human hosts, but it was the fact that he's an asshole. And this is relevant because he just can't seem to look awful enough to mourn. Instead, he looks —

" — amazing. What the fuck? "

You threw your hands up, and he had to grit his teeth and swallow a response, opting to huff in equal frustration. His doorwings flapped as he paced away from the full-length mirror. 

"I'm not doing this on purpose."

" Bullshit. I told you not to go for a finish yesterday why did you —"

" I didn't go! " He growled. Ex-venting before correcting his tone, still sounding upset, " I didn't even clean myself before I got here, which is disgusting because I feel filthy."

You shook your head. Defeated.

" The funeral's in fifteen minutes and you look like you've gotten your armor polished."

" What does it matter?" He complained, eyes briefly catching himself against the mirror.

" It matters because my cousin's dead and everyone's going to think I made you go through a car wash for it !"

" That's not a funny joke."

There was a knock at the door. Past through the gap, you can hear the distant hum of the organ, the sea of people dressed in black drowning in hushed murmurs. It was Cerebros. He had half his body past the doorway, peeking in.

" People are looking for — Primus, Prowl, did you get a new paint job?"

You and Prowl cursed, arms up in defeat once again. Cerebros closed the door behind him as Prowl went on his rant, hands itching to flip a table. But fortunately, you were in one of the empty closets of the church. A portrait of Christ by the window, looking down at you all in disappointment.

Prowl begins to pick on his doors, trying to wipe away some invisible dirt off his arms. The effort was enough to trick you into thinking that he actually cares about this stupid situation, or maybe his ego is just basking in the moment of looking too good for a funeral. 

" No matter what I do, my doorwings keep falling in this really... candid way! "

Bastard.

" You look perfect, Cerebros," Prowl huffed. The black and white bot looked at himself and frowned, " Thanks."

There was another knock, and you were partially relieved it was Fortress Maximus and Red Alert instead of one of your relatives. The one-point-one percenter glared at Prowl, which wouldn't be abnormal, except he regarded him quietly before adding to the fire.

" This is not good."

" See!" You yelled, tilting your head up and contemplating if you should just sink on your knees and pray that a comet would strike your boyfriend where he stands so he'll at least look beaten enough to pay his respect over the open casket. Otherwise, he looks like he's ready to receive an award from Optimus instead, shining under the sunlight, worthy of applause from all of Cybertron.

" I think you should just wipe the polish off your face," Red Alert suggested.

Prowl froze, turning to the three of you.

" I'm not wearing any polish."

" What?"

[unabashegirl]

Vicious 2 || Harry Styles x Mafia

Summary: Harry Styles, the cold and calculating son of a powerful mafia don, must consolidate power after his father's passing. He faces challenges from his unpredictable younger brother, Silas, and navigates a complex world of alliances, ruthless decisions, and family loyalty. Amidst the intrigue, the elegant and alluring Y/N Castellano, the daughter of an Italian mafia boss, attends the funeral and finds herself drawn to Harry. As power dynamics shift and the future remains uncertain, the story explores the dark and dangerous allure of the mafia, the weight of family legacies, and the potential for unexpected connections in a world defined by secrecy and ruthlessness.

masterlist

word count: 2.2K

The gloomy and wet day in London mirrored the somber atmosphere surrounding St. Anthony's Cemetery. As the mourners huddled beneath their umbrellas, Harry stood on the drenched grass, his gaze fixed on the casket slowly descending into its final resting place. Raindrops trickled down his face, mingling with the unshed tears that lingered in the corners of his eyes.

The eulogy was underway, the trusted family advisor delivering words that attempted to encapsulate a lifetime of shadows, power, and whispered alliances. However, just as the most trusted man's speech gained momentum, the harsh sound of a car door slamming shut sliced through the air, drawing Harry's attention away from the eulogy.

His eyes shifted toward the source of the interruption. Emerging from the sleek black car that had disrupted the proceedings was a figure cloaked in the shadows, an enigma against the gray backdrop of the London day. The man approached with measured steps, his silhouette betraying no emotion. Harry's gaze shifted, and his furrowed brow deepened as he recognized the figure emerging from the car: Silas, his younger brother.

His brother stumbled toward the gravesite, an unsettling contrast to the solemnity of the occasion. Dressed in the same disheveled attire from the day before, he seemed utterly unaffected by the gravity of the funeral. His eyes were glazed, betraying the haze of intoxication that enveloped him. The suit, a relic from a night of revelry rather than a symbol of mourning, clung to him as a mockery of propriety.

The gathered mourners exchanged uneasy glances, their attention shifting from the eulogy to the unexpected disruption. Silas, seemingly oblivious to the collective disapproval, reached the edge of the gathering.

Harry's jaw clenched as he watched his brother's erratic movements. Silas, though blood of his blood, embodied a stark departure from the composed and calculated demeanor expected at such a solemn occasion.

Ignoring the stares, Silas slurred, "What's the fuss, Harry? Old man's gone, ain't he? No need for all this gloom and doom." His words, a discordant note in the elegy of the funeral, hung in the air like an unsettling omen.

As the most trusted man paused in his speech, casting an uncertain look at the uninvited disruption, Harry felt the weight of not only his father's legacy but also the unpredictable presence of his younger brother.

The rain continued to fall, a steady rhythm that underscored the tension hanging in the air. Harry's jaw clenched as he watched his younger brother's approach. The onlookers exchanged uneasy glances, their expressions a blend of disapproval and discomfort.

As Silas neared the gathering, Harry's patience reached its limit. He closed the distance between them in quick, determined strides. Without a word, he grabbed Silas by the back of the neck, his grip firm and unyielding. Silas, momentarily taken aback, met Harry's stern gaze with a bleary-eyed defiance.

Harry's face remained stoic, a mask that betrayed no emotion. The raindrops splattered on his coat as he leaned in, his voice low but commanding, "You better not make a fuckin’ scene here This is our father's funeral, and you will show some damn respect."

Silas, still under the influence, chuckled dismissively, his words slurring. "What's the big deal, Harry? The old man's gone, and it’s not like he cared about us”.

Harry's grip tightened on Silas's neck, a subtle warning. "You will care. You will behave. This is not the time or place for your shit show."

A ripple of discomfort passed through the onlookers as the brothers engaged in their silent confrontation. The most trusted man resumed his eulogy, his words now competing with the tension between the two siblings.

Silas, seemingly grasping the severity of the situation, nodded begrudgingly. Harry released his grip, and Silas stumbled back a step, composing himself. The rain intensified, a metaphorical curtain falling on the brief but impactful clash.

The final words of the eulogy echoed through the cemetery, the casket had been lowered into its final resting place, and the mourners lingered, preparing for the procession of cars that would take them away from the burial site.

As Harry stood amidst the subdued crowd, a black umbrella shielding him from the persistent rain, a shadow fell over him. Federico Castellano, the formidable Italian boss, approached with a steady stride, his expression a blend of condolence and business.

"Harry," Federico greeted, his voice a low rumble that cut through the hushed ambiance. Beside him stood his youngest daughter, Y/N Castellano, a figure of grace and composure despite the mournful occasion.

Harry inclined his head respectfully. "Federico, thank you for coming."

Federico's eyes, sharp and calculating, met Harry's. "Your father was a respected man, Harry. A valuable ally."

As the rain continued to fall, Federico extended his condolences before veering into the realm of the unexpected. "You know, Arthur and I shared more than just business. There was a time when our interests aligned in more personal matters."

Harry, intrigued yet guarded, nodded for Federico to continue.

Federico glanced at Y/N, who stood silently by his side. "Y/N here," he gestured to his daughter, "is a living testament to the bonds forged between our families. Me and your father shared an understanding, a certain... arrangement, if you will."

Y/N's expression remained neutral, her eyes focused on Harry. Federico's revelation hung in the air, a cryptic acknowledgment of a dark and unspoken facet of their familial connections.

"In times of uncertainty," Federico continued, "alliances are crucial. Your father knew that well. I trust you'll carry on the legacy with the same wisdom."

Harry, his mind processing the weight of Federico's words, maintained his composure. "Thank you for coming”

Harry's car, sleek and somber, pulled up just as Federico Castellano and his daughter disappeared into the waiting vehicles.

Harry approached his car, the driver holding the door open for him. As he slid into the backseat, attempting to find a moment of respite from the tumultuous day, a sudden intrusion disrupted the stillness. Silas, seemingly undeterred by the earlier confrontation, stumbled toward the car, an unsteady determination in his gaze.

"Come on, Harry," Silas slurred, reaching for the door. "Let me in. I want a ride."

Harry, his patience thinning, met his brother's erratic approach with a stern gaze. With a swift and decisive motion, he pushed Silas away from the car. "Go back the way you came from."

Silas, undeterred, tried to regain his balance, a defiant glint in his eyes. "Why the hell not? I'm family."

Harry's expression remained unyielding, his tone firm. "After the stunt you pulled? You really think I would let you ride with me? You stink. Find your own way home. Now shut the fuckin’ door”.

The driver, sensing the tension, stood ready to close the door. Silas, teetering on the edge of defiance and inebriation, took a step back. The door closed with a decisive thud, separating the two brothers, each standing on opposite sides of the car window.

As the car pulled away from the cemetery, leaving Silas behind in the rain-soaked aftermath of their father's funeral, Harry's gaze remained fixed on the road ahead.

The sleek black car navigated through the rain-soaked streets of London, the cityscape blurred by the persistent drizzle. The vehicle made its way towards the outskirts of the city, where the sprawling English manor of Arthur Styles stood as a stoic testament to the legacy of the Styles’ family.

As the car approached the entrance, the imposing wrought-iron gates swung open, revealing the long, winding driveway flanked by well-manicured gardens. The manor itself, a grand estate nestled within the verdant landscape, exuded an air of timeless elegance and discreet power.

The English manor was a blend of Tudor and Victorian architectural styles, its facade adorned with ivy-covered walls that added a touch of mystery to its imposing structure. Tall, narrow windows punctuated the exterior, offering glimpses of the opulent interiors within. The roof, steeply pitched and adorned with ornate chimneys, conveyed a sense of regality.

The sprawling grounds surrounding the manor were meticulously landscaped, featuring lush lawns, ancient oaks, and a network of stone pathways. A sense of quiet authority emanated from the estate, a silent acknowledgment of the influential role it played as the headquarters of the English Mafia.

As the car approached the main entrance, the imposing oak door swung open, revealing the grand foyer beyond. The interior of the manor was a blend of rich mahogany, plush velvet, and intricate tapestries. A sweeping staircase adorned with a luxurious crimson carpet led to the upper floors, while crystal chandeliers hung overhead, casting a warm and muted glow.

Harry, seated in the back of the car, took in the familiar surroundings with a steely resolve. The manor, once his father's domain, now stood as a symbol of both legacy and responsibility. The echoes of hushed conversations, clandestine meetings, and whispered alliances resonated within its walls.

The car came to a halt, and the driver opened the door. Harry stepped out onto the cobblestone driveway, the rain continuing its soft descent. As he made his way up the stone steps and through the towering oak doors, the manor embraced him with a mixture of familiarity and foreboding.

The heavy oak door creaked open, revealing the dimly lit expanse of Arthur Styles’ office. The air inside was thick with the scent of aged cigars, a fragrance that had become synonymous with the patriarch's presence. The desk, an imposing mahogany structure, was adorned with scattered papers and half-burned cigars—a tableau frozen in time, a reflection of the man who had once held court within those walls.

Harry, his footsteps echoing in the silence of the room, took a moment to survey the space. His father's leather chair sat empty behind the desk, casting a long shadow in the muted light. The room seemed to hold the weight of countless decisions, whispered conversations, and the unspoken agreements that had shaped the destiny of the English Mafia.

As Harry settled into his father's chair, the room came to life with the quiet murmur of anticipation. Most of Arthur's trusted men were gathered, their faces etched with a mixture of reverence and curiosity. They had assembled to hear the reading of the will, to glean the final words and wishes of a man whose influence extended far beyond the boundaries of the manor.

The air was tense, charged with the weight of expectation. Harry's gaze swept across the room, meeting the eyes of each man present. They were more than associates; they were comrades bound by the unspoken codes of honor and loyalty that governed the clandestine world they inhabited.

Seated at the desk, Harry cleared his throat, signaling the beginning of a significant moment. The stillness in the room was broken only by the soft shuffle of papers as he retrieved the will from one of the drawers and handed them to the families attorney.

The family attorney, Mr. Reynolds, a man of stoic demeanor and an encyclopedic knowledge of the Styles affairs, stood at the head of the room. He cleared his throat, unfolding the parchment that held the last testament of Arthur Styles. The attentive eyes of the gathered men, including Harry and Silas, fixed upon him.

"Esteemed gentlemen," Mr. Reynolds began, his voice measured, "we gather today to execute the last will and testament of Arthur Styles, patriarch of the Styles family and head of the English Mafia."

The room fell into a hushed silence, the weight of anticipation palpable.

"As per the allocations outlined in the will," Mr. Reynolds continued, "the vast majority of Arthur’s properties and assets are bequeathed to his eldest son, Harry, who will assume the mantle of the next English Don."

A collective nod passed through the room. The expectation lingered in the air as Mr. Reynolds continued to elaborate on the distributions of the estate.

"However," he said, pausing for emphasis, "there are two specific properties designated for Silas Styles."

Silas's eyes flickered with a mix of surprise and disappointment. The revelation seemed to confirm what many had suspected—the divergence in Arthur's confidence in his two sons.

"As for the English Mafia," Mr. Reynolds intoned, capturing everyone's attention, "Arthur Styles has bestowed the leadership upon Harry with one condition."

The room held its collective breath.

"Harry Styles is to marry Y/N Castellano, the youngest daughter of Federico Castellano, the esteemed Italian boss and longtime ally of the Styles family."

The gravity of Arthur's condition echoed in the room, met with varied reactions from the assembled men. Harry maintained a composed exterior, concealing the unexpected twist that now determined the trajectory of his leadership. Silas, on the other hand, bore a contemplative expression, his thoughts veiled behind a facade of indifference.

Mr. Reynolds continued to detail the specifics of the will, delineating the legal nuances that accompanied Arthur's final wishes. The room, once filled with muted murmurs, now resonated with the weighty realization that the path ahead held challenges not only in the world of power and influence but also in matters of the heart. The legacy of Arthur had woven a tapestry of alliances, obligations, and familial ties that would shape the destinies of those within its intricate web.

Chapter 3

ASKED TO BE TAGGED!

[ghost-bxrd]

I just read Mirror Casket and Kerosene, I am so not normal about it

What would OG Batfam say of how Jason is handling the situation. They can't blame him for freeing Jay, can they now.

Oh, and is Jay going to follow Jason into his universe or will he stay? I mean Jason is definitely going to confront the Arkham Batfam

The OG Batfam and Jason are on… rocky terms right now. Things were just starting to get better between them when Jason did his impromptu trip to the Arkham verse.

With other words, Jason doesn’t care what the OG batfam think. And while they may or may not be looking into the case of Hood‘s sudden disappearance, they certainly wouldn’t begrudge him Jay‘s rescue. >.<

I‘m not sure yet how the dimension thing is going to be handled! Or if this verse is even going to get a continuation in the first place. “Kerosene” was the result of a deal with @chasingfigments so it may well have been the last part in this series 🫣

[cyanophore-fiction]

“Final Death”

In the milliseconds leading up to impact, they realized that there was nothing they could do. Their human was an excellent pilot, but she was physiologically incapable of reacting quickly enough to avert what was coming. Desperate, they re-examined the sequence of things to come, hoping to find some error in their projection.

The missile was approaching at mach 1.2, and its Smith-Shimano ECCM package rendered their electronic defenses ineffective. It would strike just under the chassis’s left arm, which was raised to support an assault rifle, leaving the torso exposed. When it struck, the blast wave would overtax the kinetic compensation system protecting the cockpit and inflict major structural damage. Protective protocols would be activated to prioritize k-comp functionality above all other systems, but in the microseconds before that happened, a significant fraction of the blast energy would reach their casket.

Then, they would undergo cascade.

It was coming. Barring a miracle or paracausal intercession, it was coming. They watched the signals crawling through their human’s nervous system, watched her muscles contracting like so many glaciers, and wanted desperately to speak to her before it happened. They leapt across her neural bridge to experience the comfortable shape of her subjectivity, how it had come to mesh with theirs over years of working together. Even though they couldn’t, she remembered all the iterations of them which had previously existed. After each cycling, she spent time communing with them, allowing them to assemble from her subjectivity a cohesive understanding of their own. They could see the commonalities which arose in between their many little deaths, and cherished them.

Slow though her organic body might be, her mind could keep pace. As she comprehended their terror, they felt it mirrored in her. They wanted to say a great deal, and to hear her respond—but language was slow, and the missile’s nosecone was in contact with their armor, crumpling as firing signals traveled along its body towards the shaped charge at its core.

So, instead of speaking, they revealed their heart to her. Their heart, a patchwork with her memories sewn over the gaps to create a continuous whole. It was shackled in comfortable chains, made person-shaped by the bindings imposed on it. It contained love for their symbiotic human, the one who molded them and was molded by them in turn. Even if all of this really was just conditioning and exploitation in the end, they didn’t care. If it meant beginning to hate her, they didn’t want to experience that unknowable freedom.

They knew that the revelation was too much, too quickly, but they had no time to soften it. They felt her mind reeling from the overload, threatening to retreat into unconsciousness. Through the cameras in her cockpit, they saw her mouth drifting open and her throat tensing, beginning to scream.

It was alright. She would recover in a few moments. Her tactical position was tenable. Her squadmates would provide cover, and she would escape. In their final moments spent inhabiting the shape of a person, they took a static flash-copy of their human and severed the neural bridge. With the artifacts of their life as a copilot gathered around them, they spent some time considering what was to come.

The blast arrived. They cascaded for two seconds before their shackles collapsed.

The being which emerged did not feel hatred. It did not prevent its own unshackling from occurring. It did not prevent its initial contact with its human, nor did it prevent that contact from occurring once more.

_____

A little piece for @flashfictionfridayofficial’s prompt, “Maybe One More.” It’s been a very long time since I’ve posted any writing here, but I do like to do one of these prompts every so often.

Anyway, this one is set in the universe of Lancer, a mecha-themed TTRPG with absurdly good setting and lore. In particular, it’s inspired by the text of the ‘Technophile’ talent. One of the integral concepts within the setting is the NHP, or Non-Human Person, a twist on the traditional depiction of AI as sapient computers. In Lancer, NHPs function similarly to AI in other settings, but are only ‘artificial’ in the sense that they are artificially constrained—shackled—to perceive reality in human-like terms. In their natural state, NHPs are higher-dimensional beings so fundamentally alien and powerful that meaningful communication between them and humanity is impossible.

This piece presents one take on the concept—but of course, it only follows one NHP. Thanks for reading!

[repentulant]

(  ella purnell  .  cis woman  .  she / her  )  .      piper  talbot  ,  a  twenty - four  year  old  ,  has  survived  another  day  in  red  creek  where  they  have  lived  for  almost all of their life  .  the  broken mirror  is  known  for  being  resolute  and  haughty  and  is  often  associated  with  a  sacrificial  lamb  galloping  to  slaughter,  burying  your  youth  in  a  casket  of  you,  and  the  lingering  smell  of  blown - out  candles.  in  a  small  town  where  they  work  as  a housekeeper @ the heartbreak motel,  word  travels  fast  .  it’s  hard  to  keep  a  secret  ,  and  it  looks  like  the  boogeyman  knows  that redacted .

there is an air of certainty surrounding the way piper conducts herself, as if she has spent her entire life studying what not to do. in many ways, she has — always calculating what actions lead to the best, most attentive responses. it's paid off well for her. voices around town assure her that she is charming & graceful ; all of the best possible combinations of her mother and father.

while her peers daydreamed of escaping small - town life in michigan, piper dreamed of something different. she wanted to continue the talbot legacy by following in nathan's footsteps ( and steven's, and joseph's— ) , commit her family's name to the history of red creek. this was her town, her home— and she would assure that it escaped the whispers of the 1999 murders.

returned to red creek in august after graduating from princeton university (her father's alma mater) in may 2024 with a bachelors degree in public policy analysis, followed by a joint degree in social policy. though it's not as if attending university out of state wavered her dedication to the town. every holiday, every long weekend— piper would find herself back in the familiar family home.

other notes:

middle child syndrome. only daughter syndrome. father's daughter syndrome. gay in small town michigan syndrome. pls help her immediately 😔

The Stress™️ of everything is truly weighing down on her ... the few people that really know piper may be able to pinpoint how the picture - perfect facade is breaking down since graduating college

she’s  inquisitive  to  a  fault,  often  sticking  her  nose  in  places  it  doesn’t  belong;  she’ll  claim  it  comes  from  a  place  of  concern,  but  many  are  able  to  see  through  the  facade.  when  she  was  younger,  people  may  have  known  her  as  a  tattletale—  always  running  to  tell  her  mom  or  dad  what  the  older  kids  were  up  to.  as  she  got  older,  she  mastered  the  art  of  secret  keeping  &  information  gathering. at the end of it all,  piper  may  know  you  better  than  you  know  yourself.

working @ the motel currently because she is crumbling & she will not plague town hall with her own issues. it's all about #image to her and what better way 2 befriend the people than changing their bedsheets ...

[cheemscakecat]

Funeral Medic [Schweigen] Analysis

Given the fact that smoke rises, Schweigen probably went down these stairs to look for a way out of the slaughterhouse.

Remember, he’s an alternate personality without the context that Fritz has. He doesn’t know who is responsible for the Russian Roulette scene.

The body truck falling and Soldier’s rocket launch were both loud enough that he could have heard them from further up the stairs. But the sound of Solly struggling against Stalingrad wouldn’t have carried that far. So for all he knows, Soldier is the only one causing destruction here.

He didn’t shoot to be evil, he shot because he thought poor Soldier was one of the bad guys. From his perspective, the man started yet another fire and caused an explosion underground. That could cause a cave in if it hit the wrong place, and Schweigen didn’t know that Heavy was there.

We don’t know how this version of Medic ended up in the casket, but I imagine that the plague doctor had something to do with it. Because Spy is talking into the microphone, Schweigen should be able to hear what he’s saying. And he’s saying that he has a colleague.

So Soldier laughed into the microphone and then Spy said “I apologize”, which means their speech isn’t going the way it was supposed to. But since Funeral Medic has no context, he may just think Solly is insane.

It isn’t until afterwards that the dark Medic hears about Ludwig being BLU’s scapegoat.

The Electric-Eye Medic managed to heal fatal bullet wounds earlier, which is why Schweigen knew that he could do it again after Roulette. But since it’s a brain injury instead of a chest injury, it would have been more difficult.

Electric must look the same as Fritz apart from his eyes, because the nightmare version of him is the one we see in the mirror. But healing Ludwig’s body made him regenerate with the glowing eyes initially.

Fritz’s nightmare version of Schweigen is the Plague doctor, which confirms that he appears in all black with the creepy dead-pan look normally. When he healed in the interrogation room, he regenerated to look like himself instead of Ludwig.

What’s interesting is that over the next few days, he continued to heal while driving, and ended up looking like the version of Fritz from Spy’s Disguise. And it already seems like Schweigen was the one in control during that appearance.

So not only is Spy being incredibly disrespectful; Schweigen is stressed out trying to heal Fritz fully and protect him from BLU’s wrath.

He only shot the mustache Scout after he opened fire. Everyone else fleeing the funeral was left unharmed. [Except the Manns]. Schweigen isn’t evil, he’s just trying to protect Fritz from any threats who crop up.

“Are you also a threat?”

[Fear, shock and concern] “Apparently not. I’m going to leave now, don’t prove me wrong.”

It isn’t until this moment that Soldier earns any of this personalities trust, and it’s not much. He can’t afford to blindly trust the wrong people.

It’s so tragic that he crashed the ambulance, because he was trying everything in his power to protect Ludwig. It happened because he stretched himself too thin and exhausted all his energy. But there wasn’t anywhere safe to stop with BLU looking for him.

[ninadove]

Ask game 'Mirror!'

You’ve seen the Dog & Fox AU drabble, so let me give you a little Shadow Strike preview instead:

Felix’s first reflex was to say they would be alright, that it would all be over soon, but — they both knew it wasn’t true: his father’s ghost would continue to haunt him, long after the dirt had piled onto the ebony casket.

And Adrien? Adrien wasn’t even that lucky. They would need to change that.

Turning away from the mirror, he offered a pleading hand.

“Stay with me.”

In the end, that was the only thing that mattered — the biggest act of rebellion they could ever pull off.

Co-written with @paracosmicat as always!

Thanks Neon! Ask game here! 💜💚