#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.

[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?"

[chiriwritesstuff]

Hometown Glory; Chapter 2 Sneak Peek (Pt. 2)

Series Masterlist │ Read Chapter 1 Here!

Do we want a little flashback? I finally have a chance to sit and write after the chaos that was the last few weeks, I hope you all enjoy this little sneaky peek! Chapter 2 is dropping soon!

Your eyes remain fixed on the glossy surface of Nana's casket, the black reflection staring back at you like a mirror of your own conflicted thoughts and feelings. It's as if you're trying to find solace in the emptiness, to drown out the chaos of emotions swirling inside you with the deafening silence of grief. His voice breaks through the stillness, soft and hesitant, a stark contrast to the storm raging within you. You can hear the awkwardness in his tone, the uncertainty in his words, as if he's treading on fragile ground, unsure of where to step next. "I heard you graduated last fall," he begins, his voice so soft it's almost a whisper. You nod in response to his question, your gaze still fixed on the casket, the weight of his presence beside you almost suffocating in its intensity. You can feel the tension between you, thick and palpable, like a barrier separating you from the rest of the world. "And you started law school," he continues, his voice betraying a hint of eagerness, a flicker of hope. "I heard about it from Pop—" "I'm surprised you're even here," you say before you can fully process how harsh and how bitter you must sound, like someone who bets on losing dogs, like someone who— "Yeah, well, I got on the red-eye from Tampa after I got the call," he replies, and you swear you can feel his heavy gaze trained on the side of your face, his eyes pleading, begging. "Look, Glo, Bel—" But before you can fully process his words, before you can respond to the flood of conflicting emotions threatening to overwhelm you, he reaches out to you, his hand closing around your wrist with a firm but gentle grip. His touch sends a jolt of electricity through you, sparking memories of a time when his touch meant safety, comfort, home. But now, it feels like a betrayal, a reminder of everything that's gone wrong between you, everything that's been left unsaid and unresolved. “I wanted to see you,” he whispers, a slight heave in his chest. “Fuck, Glory, it’s been five fucking years—” And at that moment, you're torn between the desire to push him away, to protect yourself from the pain he represents, and the longing in your heart that yearns for connection, for closure, for something more than this endless cycle of hurt and regret. “Are we really going to do this now?! Right here, in front of—” “Yes, Glo. Right here, right now, right in front of this entire fucking town,” he replies harshly as you strain against his grasp, your strength no match to his. “You wouldn’t see me otherwise, god knows how much I’ve tried… please, Bella—” “Don’t you fucking dare! Don’t you fucking dare call me that, Francisco—” “Oh, so it’s like that, then?" he exclaims, his face a mask of stunned hurt, the weight of his words heavy with disbelief. "You disappear without a word, not even a goodbye, and we’re back to square one? Francisco?! Seriously, Bella?! Thirteen years of friendship—" “Well, that’s your name, right?” You spit, your eyes darting around your surroundings as you try to hide your distress. “I remember a time when you would call me Frankie, but that was before you decided that you were too good for this town and everyone who gave a damn about you!” “Well, that’s something a friend would call you, right?” you retort, your voice laced with venom, your eyes finally meeting his gaze. "What would your girlfriend think, Francisco? Did you bring her along for the ride, to my grandmother's fucking funeral?" A throat clears from behind you, and a light tap on your shoulder makes you turn, only to see a figure you never wanted to face again. "Fiancée, actually," Chelsea corrects, her smirk betraying her satisfaction as she steps closer, pulling you into a hug. "I am so sorry for your loss," she whispers against your ear, her fingernails digging into your skin. "Oh, Glory," she coos, "I missed you."

Series Taglist:

@ashleyfilm / @danaispunk / @imdrinkingpedro / @yxtkiwiyxt / @lilyevanstan1325

@kungfucapslock / @critfailroll / @maried01 / @misstokyo7love / @missladym1981

@angelofsmalldeath-codeine / @brittmb115 / @readingiskeepingmegoing / @darkheartgatita / @jupiter-soups

@anoverwhelmingdin

[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!

[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!

[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.

[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 🫣

[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! 💜💚

[willwood-lyrics]

Tom Sugarman, LCSW.

Ah, yes. Hello, Mr. Crick. How are you today? No, not to worry. It’s perfectly natural to be nervous when doing something like this for the first time. So, uh. Why don’t you take a seat? Get comfortable. Take a second if you need to, all right? Good. Now, uh.. What's- what- what- what- What, uh.. What’s bothering you? Well, why not start from the beginning?

Growing up, how was your relationship with the fundamentals of conscious existence? Did you have xenon or continue spilling down the Outer center of your blooming escher/mandelbrot head? And how about claustrophillic tendrils clapping caskets closed on seven knuckle thumbs? Did you get along well with the gideon bugle Or pineal glands your projector casting sci-fi Your STR’d strands?

Interesting. Tell me about your nerve to steal nerves of steel from under Bacchus' bloody nose Did Namibian Himbas tie-dye you, your ears pierced with a Phineas Gage flagpole Did you die before your day? Well, Thursday traction and then Tuesday titration. No- My hope is to assess through my objective report of Your subjective conjecture Whether or not this proprietary blend of expertise and seasoning works as well as this Trans-orbital ice pick

Holistic Ballistics. What, you got a better idea? Oh, it’s about the best we come up with. What, you think ideas spread because they’re good? No! They spread because people like them.

So, once again here we are. Okay- Yeah, yeah, yeah, One more time. Holding a mirror As it were A mirror Up to your Mirror.

I guess it’s just something people do.

[turanga4]

For @hinnymicrofic Prompt 18: Stop WARNING IT IS SAD

Read here (but it's long-ish) or on Ao3.

It’s quiet behind him, but loud in his head. Harry remembers a time when he could slip away unnoticed, when the Burrow’s kitchen table rang with arguments and laughter. The voices now are low and tired—their exchanges, dull routines.

He needs to deal with a different set of words. Again and again they come to him, disembodied echoes, high and cold as they were that night, but heard now just by him.

You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself.

He shakes his head. It doesn’t help. The leaves have been fading on the trees in the distance, spring moving towards summer. More heat in the air. A bird is singing somewhere; the voice drowns it out.

You have permitted you have permitted

Harry blinks a few times quickly and looks around again. The Burrow’s mostly been restored, its wobbly gate set back on its hinges. Some things, though, were too broken to fix. There are other, smaller things where no one has bothered.  One window hangs cracked above the couch in the living room, with thin spidery lines like ice on a lake.

He should go back in: Mrs. Weasley might worry. He aches each time he thinks of her, because the watch that she gave him becomes the clock in his nightmares, and Fred’s hand is spinning as it tears into the ground. He’d stay outside forever if that would help, but it wouldn’t. Rather than face me yourself.

Harry’s fist clenches, still wrapped against his wand. “For fuck’s sake. I did face you. I killed you. You’re done.” 

The voice echoing inside of him laughs at him and shifts.

your friends

your friends

your friends to die

Hermione, glassy-eyed, staring at the kitchen floor when he crept downstairs in the hours before dawn. “It’s lunch time in Australia,” she whispered, turning away. Ron’s been looking constantly from face to face to face. George, cutting his hair and breaking two mirrors.

Then Colin’s mother, thanking him. Her warm ungloved hands, and how she let go of him mid sentence to dab at her eyes.  The casket, obscenely, was the same size as Remus's. But Remus, at least, had been a full-grown man. 

You have permitted you have permitted

He answers again then, just one word. He’s almost crying.

STOP.  

Harry isn’t sure if he said it out loud.  If it was a command, or a plea, or if it can even happen. The tree in front of him has just dropped three branches; he sees that before noticing that he’s not alone.

Ginny approaches and he realizes that it must have been out loud after all. “You hear him still, don’t you?”

Harry jerks his head back. She continues to step forward. 

“Even though he’s not speaking? Even though he’s dead? You hear him still, don’t you? You shouldn’t, but you do.”

She’s looking at him carefully. Not afraid, but something else.

“How do you know?”

Ginny draws herself up to her full height. Her eyes make his breath catch as her gaze locks with his. She raises one hand and ghosts it over his forehead.

Then seems to fall into herself, shrinking down. Her voice not her own, her eyes fixed on the dirt. They stand, facing each other, and there’s a promise of a future in the echoes of the past. He wants to hug her, to kiss her, to marry her, to heal with her. (They will do all of those things, some day. But not yet.)

Ginny’s picking at her thumbnail as he leans in to listen. 

“Funny the damage a silly little book can do, especially in the hands of a silly little girl.”

[quizzyisdone]

It Will Come Back Part III | Fem! Reader x Ghost

Chapter Title: Spillways Word Count: 3.5k Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem! Reader Synopsis: After Ghost left you in the dead of night feeling torn and hurt, Soap comes to check up on you on the orders of the man you least expect. However, it comes to the Captain's attention that Ghost had taken the fall for you and he begins to suspect something even more has taken place. Warnings: Mentions of Ghost's past (see link), strong language, mentions of physical assault to the reader, canon-typical violence, Ghost is mean sometimes

[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three]

Masterlist

** Title inspired by Spillways by Ghost

You keep a casket buried deep within You try to mask it, but fall back in sin You want to shake it off, but you are stuck inside

When stripped of rags of skin and spine Human decay, Corpus dei Terminally dispelled

Thirty minutes had passed as you sat on the floor in complete shock, the impact from when Ghost pushed you aching even worse than the wound he had so gently tended just a little while ago. The sudden transition from that heated passion to complete rage left you confused, hurt, and most of all, ashamed. Ashamed that you were so inappropriate with your superior, that you would even consider the possibility of something more intimate with him. But most of all, he'd most likely never speak to you again after this.

Sobs racked from your body as you shook on the floor and without any regard that someone might hear you, you practically wailed, for what felt like hours but was probably only a few minutes. After everything that had happened tonight, screwing up the mission, Ghost taking the fall for you, bringing you close for but a moment and then him leaving you on the floor like this.

You were hardly an emotional person, but everything hit you at once. Failure, disgust, fear, and a sort of righteous anger boiled within you as you tried to get yourself off the bathroom floor. You were shaking, the events happening so quickly you’d felt as though you’d been left with whiplash.  

Looking in the mirror, your eyes were red, puffy, looking absolutely pathetic as you sniffled. Wiping your face of tears, you stripped, opting to go to bed naked, too tired to change into anything else or to even shower. Modesty in case of emergency was hardly something you were concerned about at the moment.

Climbing into bed, even though you were no longer sobbing or shaking, tears still continued to stream down. You tucked the blanket up to your chin, wondering why he’d do such a thing as exhaustion began to overcome you and you succumbed to sleep.

__

Sunlight gleamed through the small slot they called a window, irritatingly casting a bright glow onto just your eyes as you grumbled. The captain was right, you did have one hell of a headache. You turned over in hopes of catching more sleep. You didn’t want to face today. No. Not after last night.

Your hopes were crushed in one fell swoop as a soft knock could be heard on the door.

“Y/N, you in there?” A low, but soft Scottish accent said from behind the door. Soap.

“Go away, MacTavish.” You groaned, but he ignored your request, quietly opening and closing the door, a far cry from what Ghost’s slamming and screaming last night. He found you with half your face buried into the blanket, your eyes puffy and your cheeks still red. Pity that agitated you creeped onto his face. He knew you cried yourself to sleep.

Embarrassing.

“Hey.” He gave a weak smile. “What’s wrong?”

“Go away, I’m naked.” You rasped, the veil of sleep still ingrained in your voice. He chuckled as a slight blush rose onto his cheeks and he averted his eyes almost immediately. 

“Put a fuckin’ shirt on then, dude.” Soap giggled, like a little schoolboy as he tossed you a random shirt he found on the floor to you. “I won’t look.”

You grumbled in acknowledgement as he turned away and you haphazardly sat up and put the t-shirt on for modesty’s sake. 

“You’re good.”

He turned to face you again, and the blush had gone away but that pity from earlier still lingered, frustratingly so. 

“So, we’ll try this again.” Soap sighed. “What's wrong?”

“Don’t wanna talk ‘bout it. Just a rough op.”  You grumbled, almost incoherently, and he chuckled as he sat on the edge of the bed, giving you a friendly squeeze on your knee from under the covers.

“I heard, but ye don’t have to talk ‘bout it.” Soap knew better than to push and you were thankful for that, knowing that Price or Gaz would’ve kept badgering at you until you finally told them. But something in his eyes clued you into the fact that he knew it was something far more than a failed mission. “You alright?”

“Yeah.” You replied dismissively, hoping to end this conversation as soon as possible. He accepted your answer, although the shake of his head indicated that he knew you were not alright. But anyone with half a brain could see that.

“Mkay. Ghost wanted me to check on you. He heard you last night.” He said so nonchalantly as you did a double take.

“W-Wh-” You stuttered. “Why would he want to check on me?” Hostility entered your tone as you glared at Soap, absolute venom dripping from your voice in reference to Ghost. “And why wouldn’t he do it himself?”

“Yer part of his team?” He raised an eyebrow, knowing better than to reciprocate the sudden shift in energy that you gave him. “ ‘Course he would. But these things aren’t really his strong suit, you know that.”

He said it so matter-of-factly that it irked you, as if it was obvious that Ghost cared about anyone or even himself for that matter. 

Seeing the disbelief on your face, he reassured you. “Man’s not a sociopath.”

“Contrary to popular belief.” You chuckled cruelly to yourself. Immediately, however, you felt regret at such a harsh statement. It was, even in your heightened emotional state, an unfair, unworthy, and dishonest assessment of Ghost. 

“Let me put it this way,” Soap rolled his eyes, glaring at you like you were full of shit, clearly annoyed at your harsh characterization of the lieutenant.  “LT cares ‘bout you enough to save yer arse.”

“So? Price ordered him to rescue me at the safehouse.” 

“He would’ve saved you no matter what Price said.” His tone was serious and curt, a far cry from the loud, wise-cracking soldier he was. The kindness from before was gone. “ But Price didn’t order him to take the blame for your fuck up.”

“How the-?” You started, but he quickly cut you off. His patience had quickly waned at your impudence towards his friend, but he remained calm.

“I’ve known him personally for a good bit of time,” He started, sighing as he rubbed his forehead. “And by reputation far, far longer than you have. I don’t know exactly what happened, but it’s not like Ghost to violently murder a VIP out of anger. He’s not that emotional, especially not on your behalf. But it is like you to do that.”

You stayed silent, chewing on your bottom lip, too stunned to really say anything else. You hadn’t pegged Soap to be such an astute observer of character, but it was scary how accurate he was. He was right, it was not at all like Ghost to do that. He was always professional with a mission first mindset, whereas you were highly emotional, sometimes to the detriment of the mission. 

“I don’t know what happened, but just pull it together, mkay?” Soap pursed his lips, his lost patience from before had returned as he saw your contemplative, pained expression. His resolve to be angry at you dissipated when he saw the hurt in your eyes. He knew it was something deeper.

“Analysts used the map to find a lead, so it doesn’t matter what happened anyway. So maybe you didn’t cock it up that bad.” He teased as he punched your arm, and you gave him a sheepish smile, skirting around the actual issue. He stood up, taking a deep breath as he walked to your door. “Price wants us for a debrief in a few hours so put yer pants on and get something to eat with us.”

“Can’t wait to fuck this one up too.” You chuckled dry as Soap shook his head, smiling as he rolled his eyes.

“You won’t.” He said reassuringly, his head peeped around from the corner, before he disappeared. He had shut your door much more gently than Ghost had the night prior.

When Soap had left, you managed to get yourself out of bed. As you trudged your body to the sink, your thoughts wandered back to last night as you felt a sharp pain in your lower back. Looking backwards in the mirror, you stripped the shirt from earlier, only to find a large, black and purple bruise formed on the site of impact where Ghost had thrown you like a ragdoll.  

“Fuckin’ Christ.” You muttered as your hand gingerly grazed over the affected area. Your head was throbbing with every sharp breath you took.

__

Getting ready was a surreal, mundane blur. One of you hardly cared to remember.

As you made your way into the mess hall, you became acutely aware of the stares of fellow 141 members passing by you in the cramped hallway, glancing their heads toward you in either confusion or sympathy and quickly turning away to go about their business. A blush rose to your cheeks as you avoided their stares. 

Everyone heard you crying last night.

__

You made your way to your normal spot with Gaz, Soap, and unfortunately, the man himself, Ghost, already seated at the table. As per usual, the masked man was sat tucked in between the corner at the far reaches of the room, with Gaz sat across from him and Soap one seat down from him.

He caught your lingering gaze while you were walking towards the table, but unusually yet unsurprisingly, he immediately stared down towards his tray, which was only occupied with a mere dry yeast roll, a bottle of water, and a cup of fruit. Normally, Ghost’s plate would be filled to the brim to sustain his large, imposing figure. 

You sat at the table, nodding and muttering a small hello to only Soap and Gaz.

“You need to eat, sergeant. Go get something.” Ghost muttered after some time of awkward silence, rather hypocritically too -- as if his own plate wasn’t meager in terms of sustenance. 

“Not hungry.” You mumbled and you could almost feel his eyes rolling. Why the fuck does he care anyway?

“Hey.” Gaz smiled softly towards you, lightly jabbing your shoulder. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just some bad dreams last night.” You lied while Ghost stole a judgemental glance that you almost didn’t catch. “Kept me up.”

“That bad, huh?” Gaz chuckled.

“Yeah, we do some fucked up things. You’re telling me that shit doesn’t haunt you?” You raised your eyebrows, ardently avoiding the gaze of Ghost as silence ensued. The tension was thick, and with Ghost seemingly about to lose it any moment, either man was too afraid to answer truthfully, and Soap too uneasy to comment on what he knew. “Well?”

“It shouldn’t.” Ghost said harshly, staring at nothing in particular. “You’re a soldier. You get the job done right and you don’t think too hard about it.”

Surprised at his interjection, you finally mustered the courage to look him in the eyes. His gaze was set harshly towards you, his brows furrowed and as he gripped his pathetic yeast roll for dear life. 

“Fuck off.” You spat. Ghost thought for a moment, before slamming his fists down onto the table, looking at you with that same pitiless, inhumane stare and using strength not unlike the type he used to shove you into a wall last night as you flinched.

“Bloody hell, you need to get it together.” He shook his head and his voice was low but nonetheless imperious as was so typical of the man. “Keep it professional.”

“You first.” You did not lower your voice as he did, instead raising it. You cocked one eyebrow as you stared back defiantly. If Ghost was shocked at your brash statement which implicated both of your indiscretions from the night prior, he didn’t show it. Instead, with a grunt, he abruptly rose from the table, the force of it pushing it backwards and into both you and Gaz.

Soap and Gaz remained stunned for a moment, with Soap’s mouth slightly agape and you feigned disinterest at the encounter. Looking over next to you, you noticed what would’ve been a comical expression on Soap’s were it not for the present situation.

You huffed in annoyance. “Close your mouth, MacTavish. You’ll attract bugs.” While you played cool with your demeanour, your shaky tone gave away your rising anger and annoyance.  

“What the fuck happened between you two?” Gaz asked, the look of bewilderment almost equal to that of Soap’s.

“N-nothing.” You stuttered. “Leave it at that.”

“Obviously it was something if you’re screaming and he’s pushing tables.” He argued. “We’re a fucking team and you two can’t be acting like this. So what the fuck happened?” His bewilderment had turned into exasperation that bordered on outright indignation.

“Stop acting like you’re the boss, Garrick. You don’t need to know-”

“Gaz isn’t.” An authoritative, deep cockney accent interrupted you. You turned around, knowing already who it was behind you as you felt your stomach drop. Price. “But I am. So you best tell me what the hell is going on between the two of you.”

You went quiet for a moment, and as you opened your mouth to speak, he interrupted you again.

“The truth, sergeant. Don’t lie to me.” 

You sighed. “I killed the VIP. Not Ghost.”

Price closed his eyes, attempting to compose himself and mask the disappointment that was already oh so obvious to you. 

“And he took the blame for you.” You felt your stomach churn as you could practically see the cogs turning in his head as Price carefully chose his next words. “So he’s bitter.”

“Are you angry or disappointed?” You mumbled, taking great care to avoid looking at him.

“Both.” He said curtly, you almost wish he would’ve said just disappointed. That you could handle, but not his ire. 

“That makes two of us.” That same feeling of shame began to rear its ugly head. You know you fucked up, and now so does your commander, the man who you looked up to.  

“I punished your teammate for something you did.” He said lowly, careful to keep his voice composed. “It should.”

Price let an awkward, tense silence fill the air. You glanced around the room, luckily the outburst didn’t seem to attract any attention, but the embarrassment from being reprimanded from the captain in front of Gaz and Soap was a feeling that would never leave you.

“You’re lucky I don’t throw you off this op or take you off the taskforce for breach of conduct.” Price crossed his arms, rubbing his forehead.

“Why don’t you?”

“We still need you. But you’re on thin fucking ice, sergeant. You understand?” His brow furrowed, almost as if he was hurt by your actions. You nodded. “Debrief in two hours and mission’s in three. I don’t want to see your face until then.”

“Yes, sir.” You rose from the table, heading back to your quarters.

“One more thing, sergeant.” 

“Yes, sir?” You turned around to face Price, ignoring the stares of Soap and Gaz whose cheeks were flushed with secondhand embarrassment.

“Anything else you need to tell me?” His critical eyes burned into you as you thought of fessing up to both you and Ghost’s indiscretions of the night previous, the true reason for the sudden shift in the dynamic between the two of you.

“No, sir.” You answered, electing to not to be dishonourably discharged for fraternization today.

His normally warm, kind blue eyes turned into an icy stare, as if he knew there was something more. Price opted not to push any further, however, much to your relief.

“Fine. Dismissed.”

__

When you finally made it back to your quarters, you slumped onto your bed, fighting the urge to scream, cry, or do anything that was otherwise emotional. You had to get a reign in on your feelings. 

You laughed a little to yourself, wondering how the hell you even ended up in this situation in the first place, how in the ever living fuck could Ghost, after months of barely acknowledging your existence and you returning the favor, could end up with this histrionic shift in dynamic over the course of just a few days.

You shook the thought from your mind, attempting to clear your head to prepare yourself for the briefing. It’d no doubt be awkward, but you trusted your team not to make any scene of it. Mostly everyone, at least. You took off your shirt, leaving you clad in nothing but a bra and some pants, going to turn on the shower. 

As soon as you turned on the shower, you heard a knock on the door. You grumbled, no one could leave you the fuck alone anymore. You strided to the door, your footsteps loud and unmistakably frustrated with the constant interruption of your precious alone time. You cracked open the door and poked your head through, finding yourself facing straight at a large figure donned in tactical gear. You looked up to find Ghost’s signature skull masks and dead eyes staring at you.

“What?” In spite of yourself, you were mindful to watch your tone and keep a straight face -- anything to betray how you truly felt, if only for the sake of tracking down Makarov. 

Ghost didn’t answer, instead barging his way through the room and shutting the door harshly behind him. You almost lost your composure again at such a simple, callous disregard for privacy.

“LT what the fuck?” You said, covering your midriff, if to preserve some sense of the propriety between the two of you.

“Calm down, it’s not like I’ve never seen that part of you before.” He said so nonchalantly, ignoring your half naked form. 

“Before or after you threw me into a fucking bathroom sink?” You spat back. You turned your back to him while he went to sit down on the bed opposite of yours. You rummaged through the multitude of clothes scattered on the floor in hopes of finding a clean shirt. “What the hell do you want, Ghost?” You asked, irritation creeping into your tone.

“To make things better between us.” He said simply. “For the mission.” 

“You screamed, pushed me, screamed at me again this morning and then shoved a table. Now you want to apologize?” You scoffed. “Jesus Christ, your mood swings are giving me whiplash.”

“Fuck me,” He muttered, just loud enough so you could hear it. “I’m sorry, is that what you want me to say?” He said, this time louder, a tone just below yelling. You didn’t say anything in response, your back still turned to him.

“The bruise on your back.” Ghost said simply, his voice lowering. He shifted to lean forward, glaring at the grotesque, hideous purplish black markings he could only assume that he was responsible for inflicting. His gloved hand ghosted over the bruises, and the acute awareness of his palm overcame you. “Did I do that?”

You turned around, backing away from his touch and preparing yourself for yet another argument with the lieutenant, but you were caught off guard when you saw the look in his eyes had softened into that of what could be mistaken for pity or even remorse. 

You pursed your lips. “Yeah.”

“Fuckin’ hell.” He mumbled. For once he seemed at a loss for words. “I didn’t mean to hurt ya.”

“Well, you did. Hurt like a motherfucker.” You sat on the bed, his figure directly across from yours. The anger and hurt had almost dissipated in the moment. An unusual feeling of calm came into the room and you almost relaxed, as if you weren’t bearing the marks of his ire on your back. “Why’d you do that to me?” You sighed, pouting like a child.

Ghost thought for a moment. “Remember when you lost your shit last night? You did it because he hurt you, made you feel helpless, yeah?”

Gingerly, you nodded.

“That’s why I did that.” He took a keen interest in his hands, fiddling with the material on his gloves, almost nervously. Now it appeared that instead of Ghost or LT, he was simply Simon, at least in the moment. The mystique that had built his reputation faded and left behind just a simple man, not some paranormal super soldier who seemed capable of the impossible. 

“But I didn’t hurt you or make you feel-” You began to ramble, but Ghost was sure to put a quick stop to it.

“No. You didn’t. But someone else did. A long time ago.”

“I’m sor-”

“Don’t apologize for things that aren’t your fault, sergeant.” He said gruffly, his authoritative tone returning. The man Simon was gone, and thus returned the persona of Ghost. “It was a long time ago. I don’t like talking about it. It goes without saying that this stays between us, yeah?” 

“Yeah.” You smiled weakly. “I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“I mean it.” His eyes burnt once more into you. You swallowed, nodding in understanding at the implications of what he just said. 

He hurt you because someone had irrevocably and violently assaulted him before.