#except the mustard one i made money on that one

[that-random-fangirl]

i have consumed things that would make a grown man weep

[marlasbreastlump]

Fight clubbers ranked by me based on how much i like them. very long.

1. Fem narrator - cuter than regular narrator (to me she looks the same except for the obvious). coworkers think shes a “mildly effete teenage boy” (via jacksprostate). she has acne from the copius amounts of foundation needed to cover her fight club bruises. she has a virgin mary complex (fears spontaneous pregnancy despite not having sex). she has a collection of 37831 kitchenwares because she doesn’t make enough money to buy furniture as a hobby, and despite this she eats mustard for dinner. if she ever had a pregnancy scare she would kill herself immediately. her morning routine is weighing herself and riding her exercise bike religiously. she’s sooo afraid of becoming a parent or married or pregnant. she has penetration anxiety. what’s not to love.

2. Fem Tyler - Looks exactly like tyler with crazier sideburns and boobs. doesnt have sex with marlon not because shes lesbian (shes not real idk i dont consider her or tyler to have any specific sexuality) but because narrators fear of pregnancy and penetration is so deep it extends to her. likes narrator more than m tyler likes m narrator but still throughly sick of her shit by the end. To me shes a coyote but she would LARP as a hyena. kind of wants to kill marlon but they’re still besties. worst boyfriend ever. Also shes very hot to me sorry.

3. Regular Narrator - The Guy of all time. truly a fascinating specimen. many many things deeply wrong with him. he took all his issues and made them into one guy. he is inertia personified. i think if he doenst kill himself post canon and survives until 2009 he has a blank grindr account where he scrolls through all the guys in the area without actually messaging any of them. but he probably is dead by then.

4. Regular Marla - I love her so dearly. Her in the book and narrator was so cute… so sad they cut out a lot of their closer moments in the movie. Idk she wants him to shove sleeping pills up his ass girl best friends forever objectively… and her calling narrator in the psych ward.. Her madonna-whore complex towards herself where she can only see herself as a human shitstain when she’s so tender… she lets tyler hurt her and she keeps coming back when narrators an asshole… she asks narrator to check her for cancer and tries to keep him awake and watches him kill a person and shes still there. what can i say it makes me ill. And she’s going to die young… everything about her is so tragic. She wants someone to love her……..

5. Male Marla/Marlon - tfw your best/only friend who semierotically puts out cigarettes on you was actually a split personality. when he’s walking with narrator through the gardens he assumes she got on meds or something because she doenst look like she wants to skin him alive anymore. as project mayhem grows he has to perform increasingly complex maneuvers to get to paper street house and narrator without getting his balls cut off.

6. Regular Tyler - “i could fix him” except “him” was also tyler and he could not, in fact, fix him. tried to get narrator to make impactful decisions and change but narrator imprinted on him like a baby duck and became totally dependent on tyler. like the idea that tyler is alive post canon but pretends to be dead because he’s so sick of narrator’s shit.

7. My fight club OC Brandon Pitchard - never actually joined fight club. tries to hook up with narrator in a gay bar september 9th 2001 and gets punched in the face. Buddhist.

[motsimages]

When I think of Garak, the tailor, and I see the costume design in DS9, what comes to my mind is that fast-fashion is dead.

There are some Bajoran clothes' shops in DS9 but there is also a tailor. What we see of Cardassians is that they care about their tailored clothes, so of course there was a tailor in a Cardassian station, but there is still one now that the Cardassians are gone (and he is Cardassian).

On the one hand, this speaks of Cardassian culture and maybe a Cardassian stereotype regarding clothes. But also, in a broader approach, of how clothing works in this world.

Ferengi also care a lot about their clothing choices, they have layer on layer, it shows how much money and profit they have. It is also tailored. Bajorans and Humans seem to be more careless about the fashion choices and while things are their size, the emphasis is not necessarily on "tailored". Generally speaking, comfort is the main trend (except for Lwaxana).

Generally speaking, most clothes are more or less tailored, but it is interesting that there is an official tailor, not a seamstress, not a dressmaker, although I guess those exist too (especially in societies where money exists as they tend to be cheaper). He speaks of creating new patterns that he takes to the replicator. He also speaks of modifying clothes (that are either bought in shops or replicated, I guess), probably because the replicator works with standards.

But even a replicator is no necessarily instant. It may be for food or drinks, but is it also the case for a dress? For a coat?

We see that they repeat the same clothes often. The first seasons, Jake has a couple of onesies he wears a lot, until he outgrows them. O'Brien has a blue shirt that he wears often. Kira has a red originally knitted cardigan and mustard pants.

This means that clothes are long-lasting, that fashion as a trend is not as important as in other moments in history. Clothes are made to be comfortable and to last, and people who know how to make and mend clothes are valued and necessary. And some things, a replicator could never do anyways.

There are also probably new types of natural fibers discovered in certain planets. I haven't seen Ferenginar yet but I know it rains a lot, so they probably have good waterproof materials (as in treatment of fibers) or even waterproof fibers. I bet this whole look Quark has is waterproof but breathable.

Ferengi women are very likely responsible for making the clothes for their men, they are skillful spinsters, dyers and knitters. The poorest of the Ferengi, those who are unable to make profit, are also probably the ones working in the fields to grow the fibers needed. Sure, many of these tasks could be replicated but why bother when you can use them to show who is in charge?

Bajor must have good breathing fibers similar to cotton or linen (more like linen than cotton as it doesn't seem too stretch generally). And they are particularly skilled at dying lasting colors. They are also creative knitters. Bajoran uniform includes a knitted pattern in their t-shirt.

Cardassians know how to work the fiber to make them stretch or they probably have fibers that naturally stretch like wool (many of their clothes seem to be made of wool-like fabrics). What animals does Cardassia have and how is their stockbreeding?

Klingons, on the other hand, probably prioritise leather-like clothes. So similar question arise: how is their stockbreeding? I gather is a honorable task highly rewarded, as it must be all the leather industry too, especially if it is uniforms for battle. They may also have silk-like fibers, as good silk is difficult to puncture for civilian clothes, along with other animal originated fabrics.

[plasticpony4]

♡ My 2023 retrospective: egl version ♡ PART 9/9

This post continues from the previous one.

These are some of the things that I received from my Secret Santa:

Precocious Lady Cutsew by Angelic Pretty and a taobao shirt that is actually less pale yellow-y and more mustard yellow-y.

We also went to another meet-up, and this is what I wore to it.

JSK: Gather Frill JSK by Alice and the Pirates Blouse, wristcuffs: Bodyline Bag, socks: Tomoyo's Atelier Everything else: Off-brand

This bag was actually part of the gift of my Secret Santa. It's handmade by Tomoyo's Atelier and really big! It can fit a lot, not just by lolita standards, even for a normal non-lolita bag. She made is especially for me because I said I didn't have any lolita bags and I wasn't interested in buying any because they're always too small and you always end up having to use more. Plus it's all white, so it's really versatile. The Marie bag charm was a Christmas present too, from my aunt, who also gave me a Marie wallet when I needed a new wallet. I love them, it's so nice when people actually try to understand your taste and get you something that you'd appreciate.

That day we actually met up later than usual (in the afternoon) and we went to the local Christmas market and a café.

The place was really cute!

I also bought a lot of Larme magazines on Vinted for 20€! It's not strictly lolita, but you know... I love collecting jfashion magazines and books!

These are some of them.

I also bought a white Maxicimam blouse with detachable sleeves and collar, but I haven't received it yet. I'm really looking forward to it as my Baby blouse is getting older and I don't wanna ruin it too fast (I bought it at Btssb Paris in 2008).

Aaaaand that's it! We reached the end of the year.

I started writing this post on December 31 and I added to it little by little during all the month of January. I didn't expect it to take this long! It made me realize that this year I finally went back to actually wearing lolita more consistently. I'm overall happy with how it went. I wore all of my main pieces except for one JSK and one skirt that don't fit me. I am planning on getting them altered so I will be able to use them, because I don't like having them sitting in my wardrobe collecting dust. My goal for 2024 is to buy less and to be smarter with what I have. In fact, I am happy with my small wardrobe, and I think I have enough stuff already. I only wear lolita 1-2 times a month, so it wouldn't make sense to expand in that sense. But I'm thinking of getting one or two new pairs of bloomers, some cutsews and a couple of extremely casual skirts to make wearing lolita for everyday occasions easier. For the last years, my style goal has been to try and have everything fit together. I want to incorporate lolita items in casual outfits, and I also want to be able to wear my lolita pieces with more casual, normie clothes. But it's not easy. I'm still not there at all. But since I won't be spending my money on lolita, I think I will be able to take more steps on that direction this year. Having a lolita seamstress as a friend will certainly help me a lot this year too, both with lolita and non-lolita clothes.

While I was still writing this post, some things happened inside my community and it split. I thought of quitting. A new community was founded. Conflict is something that occurs frequently with groups (ALL groups), and I think it's totally normal and expected. Even right. In the end, I will continue to hang around with all of the 3 local groups of lolitas that I know. They're all okay with it. So in the end, even with this small downside, I think that having a comm was a good thing for me. It gave me something else to look forward to, ideas for new coords, easier access to lolita clothing, it allowed me to meet new people and visit pretty museum and places. I hope that in 2024 we will continue to have fun and get better with our coords. Sadly I already know that I won't be able to attend any international events, since I have to save money for psychotherapy school. I hope it will be a good year for me and for the people that I care about, and that I will be able to work and find my place in the world.

Thank you if you reached the end of this extremely long post, I hope that it wasn't too boring! I'd love to have lolita friends on Tumblr too, so if you want to, you can comment or send me a DM. THANK YOU!!!!

[sjsmith56]

Family - Part 2, From There To Here - Bucky Barnes One Shots

Summary - Told from Winnifred Barnes POV. Recounts friendship between Bucky and Steve. How Sarah Rogers’ death and Bucky being drafted affected all of them. Touches on Bucky’s female admirers.

Length - 4764 words

Warnings - normal parental worries, strain in Steve and Bucky’s friendship, fear of Bucky going to war.

Author notes - no real plot, just a few slice of life glimpses of the Barnes family. There is some subtext but I have deliberately left it ambiguous. It can be what you want to see into it.

<<Part 1

🔹🔹🔹🔹

October, 1936

It was what we all knew would happen. Sarah Rogers had been sick for several months and when she finally went into hospital it was just a matter of time. Just a few weeks from the day she was admitted she was gone and her son, Steve, at just 18 years old, was left alone in the world, except for us. Our son, Bucky, had been Steve's friend from childhood.

Steve was a sickly boy who was small, asthmatic, and seemed to catch every virus going around. His dad, who died from a mustard gas attack in France during World War I never saw his son as Steve was born a few months after he died. Sarah was left to look after him as best she could on the meagre widow's pension she received. In those early days she lived in Hell's Kitchen which is almost as bad as it sounds for a widow with a sickly son. Somehow, through hard work and a strong will, she earned enough to move to Brooklyn. The neighbourhood had its own issues but there was one thing here that Steve didn't have there ... Bucky.

He was our oldest child, born in 1917. Rebecca, our second was born in 1929. Bucky met Steve in 1930, when the smaller boy was 12. He was being beaten up by bullies who wanted his lunch money. If there was one thing Bucky couldn't stand it was bullies. Being a bigger, stronger boy himself he laid into those others who were pummelling Steve and showed them that they couldn't have their way all the time. He brought Steve home with him, his nose bleeding, a black eye forming, and his shirt ripped. I chipped a piece of ice off the ice block in the icebox and wrapped it in a rag, told the boy to hold it to his eye. Bucky put pressure on the bridge of Steve's nose to stop it bleeding. While he was doing that I went up into the attic looking for some of Bucky's shirts that he had outgrown. Surely he had one that Steve could wear so I could launder and mend the one he was wearing. When I came back down Steve was holding Rebecca in his arms as she had started to cry. Bucky just shrugged as he held the bleeding nose back and pressed the cold rag into Steve's eye. Rebecca just cooed at the boy and the smile on his face and Bucky's face was wonderful.

They were friends from that day on. Steve's mother found work as a cleaning lady and I asked if Steve could wait for her at our house, worried about him being alone. She had the same worries and readily agreed, offering to pay for my time.

"No, you don't need to pay us," I said. "The boys can do their homework and watch Rebecca while I get supper on. Bucky likes him and boys need good friends. We're happy to have him for a few hours until you pick him up."

He was with us every week day after school, doing homework, having a snack, playing with Rebecca. Occasionally they went out and canvassed the neighbourhood for soda bottles to cash in, or doing odd jobs. Both boys liked to keep busy. They showed initiative often and I know the money both boys earned made the difference during the Depression. In 1935 Sarah Rogers was able to get work as a nurse in a TB ward. It was better paying than the cleaning jobs and with Steve in high school she didn't worry about him being home alone. Bucky was already graduated and working at the docks but they hung around together on the evenings and weekends.

Steve had started drawing pictures during the times when he was too sick to go to school. Occasionally he stayed at our house, sitting on the parlour sofa with a blanket wrapped around him, his sketch book open on his lap. He was such a good artist and Bucky learned to draw from him. They would draw cartoons of their teachers and school friends. When Sarah began feeling poorly she was unable to work much. Steve drew some beautiful pictures for her; scenes of the ocean, or flowers on the flower boxes that hung on the railings of fire escapes. He was doing all the housework then, cooking, cleaning and laundry. His devotion to her when she couldn't work at all was touching. Bucky supported him as best he could during that time but there were moments when Steve pushed him away, insisting he could do it himself.

When Sarah became too sick to stay at home Steve took her to the hospital and they confirmed what she already knew in her heart. She had tuberculosis and it was in its final stages. Only Steve was allowed to see her and he had to wear a face mask, and cover up his clothes with a gown. Bucky would wait for him, if he wasn't working, and walk him back to the flat where he and Sarah had lived. There wasn't much talking between the two but Bucky felt it was important to be there for his friend.

On Thursday, October 15, Bucky clocked out of his shift at the docks and came out to Steve waiting for him. As soon as he saw Bucky he began to sob and that's when my son knew that Steve's mother was gone. Now, working on the docks is very physical and manly. Softness isn't something looked kindly on. But at that moment Bucky just held his friend, hugging him hard and rubbing his back. He ignored the looks he got from the men coming off shift and was just there for his friend. Gradually Steve stopped crying and Bucky brought him home. We already knew as Sarah had put us down as next of kin and the hospital phoned. I hugged him. So did Rebecca. Gently I asked him if he had enough to pay for her funeral. He nodded.

"When Ma first got sick she called the American Legion and I guess she asked about helping a widow of a deceased veteran to pay for her own funeral," he said. "They offered her $25. I've been saving ever since. It's not much but it's enough. I'll have to put a headstone on her grave later, when I've saved up some more."

Bucky looked at me then at his friend. "I have some money," he offered. "It's yours."

"No, I can't take your money," said Steve. "I'll find a way."

Bucky insisted but Steve was firm. Then he stood up and thanked us for our sympathy and he began to leave. He wouldn't listen to our pleas to stay with us, said he was a man now and a man took care of his family himself, even when he was the only one left in the family.

A few days later we went to the funeral. It was a closed casket as Steve couldn't afford to pay for the embalming. The casket was little more than a plain box but again it was what the boy could afford. I bought a bouquet of flowers and we laid it on top so that Sarah would have something pretty to go with her to her final resting place. There were a few other mourners there as the Legion had posted a notice and some of Joe Roger's fellow soldiers who had survived the Great War came to pay their respects to his widow. As we took the final walk from the undertakers to the cemetery Bucky stayed beside his friend, worried about him having the strength to walk the mile distance.

At the cemetery the priest, as the Rogers' were Catholic, spoke the words that would consecrate Sarah Roger's soul to her maker. We didn't understand a word of it as it was in Latin but Steve and several of the mourners seemed to know what the responses were and we followed their lead. When the priest said the words "cinis in cinerem, pulvis ad pulvis" Steve picked up a handful of dirt and tossed it on the casket as it was being lowered. We understood he meant the phrase "ashes to ashes, dust to dust" and tossed some dirt on the wooden box. Bucky put his arm around Steve's shoulder, while I held his hand on the other side. The boy never cried but his face was stricken with grief.

I invited several of the mourners to our house for some coffee and sandwiches. It took a while to walk there and they filed in quietly into our parlour as I took my coat off and and put my apron on. Rebecca, even though she was only seven years old came into the kitchen to help, bless her good heart. Steve sat there with a sandwich on a plate in one hand and a coffee in the other, looking lost and completely devastated. Suddenly he stood up, put his food down and looked at me apologetically.

"I'm sorry but I can't stay."

He ran out the door and I told Bucky to follow him. When he came back a few hours later, well after the other mourners had left and I cleaned up after them he was sad and a little perplexed.

"He couldn't even find his door key," said Bucky. "I had to give him the one hidden under the brick."

"Did you ask him to live with us?" I asked. "We can squeeze another bed into your room."

"I told him but he said he could take care of himself. Why does he have to be so stubborn?"

"He's a man now," I replied, stroking Bucky's hair. "Has been ever since he started to look after his mother. It's hard for a man to accept help. Doesn't mean we won't help him."

Bucky looked at me with those blue eyes I loved so much. His thick dark hair was just like his father's had been and he had his strong features. I knew he was already popular with the girls but I also knew he understood how to keep a girl out of trouble. But what Steve was going through had Bucky perplexed that his friend wouldn't accept charity.

"How can we help him, Ma?"

"We offer our help with love, encourage him to believe that it's not weakness to accept it," I said. "You keep treating him the way you have since you became friends. He needs to know that will be the same. He doesn't want pity, but our understanding is another matter. I'll tell him his mother asked me to watch over him and that if he doesn't accept that then he's not honouring his mother."

"You're gonna guilt him," he smiled. "That's sneaky."

"Maybe, but I can't in good conscience let him wallow in misery, can I?" she said. "What if the tables were turned and it was you mourning me. What would you want him to do?"

My son pondered a while and then nodded his head in understanding. "I would want him to treat me the same as he always did. So, I guess I'll still tease him a little, build up his confidence a little, and just be quiet with him when he needs that."

I hugged Bucky quickly then patted him on the back. He always was smart. Together we would get Steve through this time.

Over the years it was hard for Steve and there were times when he felt terrible accepting our help but Bucky was always there to tell him we saw him as family and you have to help family. Through odd jobs, scrounging, and the occasional birthday or Christmas gift that included some folded cash hidden in it we helped Steve continue to live on his own, although he moved into a single room flat from the two bedroom one he had shared with Sarah. There was a standing invitation to Sunday dinner at our house and I always made sure to give him lots of leftovers that could be left in the small icebox he had in his room. Then he could heat it up on the hot plate.

〰️

December 1941 - March 1942

Five years and a couple of months after Steve's mother died the world, which was already in some turmoil with the Nazis taking over Europe and threatening to invade England, was thrown into more chaos when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor in Hawaii. One day Americans were going about their business and the next day we were at war. The Selective Service act had been passed that fall of 1941 and both boys registered for the draft. Bucky got his notice just before Christmas and was ordered to report to the Brooklyn enlistment office in January. Steve got his notice as well just a couple of days later, and the two went together to undergo their physical. Bucky passed, was declared 1A and told to report for basic training at Camp McCoy in Wisconsin in February. Steve, as was expected, was declared 4F and took it hard.

Before he left Bucky tried to help Steve build up some muscle by taking him to the gym and training him the same way he had been trained when he took up boxing. It was a noble gesture but all the years of being sick hadn't allowed Steve the ability to withstand any sort of physical activity. He tried to enlist again just before Bucky left for basic training and once again he was rejected as 4F. George, myself and Bucky tried to encourage him to get involved in the war effort in other ways but he didn't want to hear it. I suspected he was going to other towns and trying to enlist under other names. He wasn't the first one to try as any number of men who wanted to serve their country but were considered unsuitable for combat also tried. Some succeeded, most didn't.

On the day Bucky had to go I made sure his clothes were clean and mended. He had all of his toiletries. We stood on the railway platform, George, Rebecca, Steve, and me, trying to milk out as much time with Bucky as we could before he absolutely had to board. Then his father offered Bucky his hand before pulling him in for a quick hug.

"You'll do alright, son," said my husband. "You have a good head on your shoulders and you're used to hard work. That's all the army needs from you."

Bucky kneeled down to his sister and looked fondly at her. Despite the great difference in their ages he had been a wonderful brother and Rebecca wrapped her arms around his neck then kissed his cheek. She began to cry and he took his handkerchief, wiping the tears away before kissing her forehead. He looked at Steve next and they hugged.

"Don't do anything stupid," he said to Steve.

"How can I when you're taking the stupid with you," replied Steve.

"Punk."

"Jerk."

They gave each other a little push and laughed nervously. Then Bucky turned to me and I had to swallow down the sob that was threatening to envelop me. My son, my only boy, was preparing to go to war. When did he become so tall and so handsome? When did he start shaving and wearing aftershave? My eyes began to fill with tears ... I couldn't help it.

"Ma, don't cry," he whispered as he enclosed me in his muscular arms. "I'll get leaves and come home to see you each time. The rumour is that once we're in it we'll chase Hitler right back to Germany in no time. I'll be careful, I promise."

Once again he pulled his handkerchief out and he dabbed at the tears on my cheek. The conductor called for everyone to get on board and Bucky picked up his valise, kissing me again quickly on the cheek. He showed his ticket to the conductor and got on with a final wave. We watched as he found his seat in the car and placed his valise in the rack above. Then he sat at the window and tried to lower it but it was locked and he shrugged. A whistle sounded and the locomotive gave a great gust of hissing steam as it began to pull the the cars behind it. Rebecca chased after it for a bit until George called her back and the train left the station with Bucky on it, leaving us four, his family, behind.

We didn't hear anything from him that first month. George, being a veteran of the First World War himself, said that was normal as the boys would be learning so much at boot camp. They would have their hair cut that first day, receive their fatigues, boots, underwear, shaving kits; the army supplied everything. Physical training would begin and I had no doubt that Bucky would excel in that. He was used to road training, running, as a boxer, and working at the docks had made him physically strong. George said his boxing skills would come to good use as he learned other methods to disarm a man. There would be marching to get the soldiers used to working as a unit and learning to trust the men they marched with.

"They won't even get into firing their rifles until the drill sergeant is satisfied they're ready to handle it," said George, recalling his own military career which ended when he lost his eye in an accident.

Six weeks after Bucky left we received our first letter and it was as George said, right down to the army giving them their own shaving kits. There was no picture of Bucky but he did ask for a picture of us and he gave permission for us to share the address with anyone who asked. I knew he meant any one of the girls he had dated as several had already asked to write him. We received letters every week from him and on the 12th week he informed us he would be given a week's leave after the following week of training.

The man who stepped off the train that day was not the boy who left. My first thought, and I'm sure George thought the same thing, was that this man was going places. Even though Bucky was confident before, the man we saw stepping off the train was incredibly sure of himself and very aware of the figure he cut. He seemed taller, broader, and noticeably drew the attention of all the women, young and old, waiting at the station for their loved one. His uniform was impeccable, his boots shone, and his smile when he saw us was as bright as the sun. Rebecca grasped his hand and he held it all the way out to the car, then opened the door for her and for me, like a real gentleman.

"Looks like the army agrees with you, son," said George, looking at him in the rear view mirror. "How has it been?"

"Good, I'm actually getting a promotion to Corporal and being sent for special training," he said. "All those times at the shooting galleries at Coney Island and Rockaway Beach are paying off. I'm the best marksman in the unit. When I'm finished in November I'll be made a Sergeant and return to finish out my training with the 107th."

"I'm proud of you son," said George but he gave Bucky a look which he acknowledged. I didn't know what had passed between them but I gathered George wanted to have a talk with him later. "Any one you know in the unit?"

"A couple of guys that I fought against when I was boxing," he replied, "and a few more that I faced in basketball or football. We've banded together whenever we get 24 hour liberty. Brooklyn boys have to stick together." He was quiet for a moment. "How's Steve doing?"

I looked at George. "He's still trying to enlist," I said. "Still getting classified 4F. He's coming for dinner tonight."

"Sure, but I do have a date later," he said nonchalantly. "Met a nurse on the train. She's staying with her sister in the Bronx. We're meeting at a dance hall. Don't wait up for me."

George and I exchanged glances. Bucky already had a date. That wouldn't go over well with about half a dozen girls who had his camp address and had been writing him religiously. Still, you were only young once. By the time we got to the house Steve was waiting on the stoop. He stood up as George parked the car; his eyes widened as he saw Bucky step out.

"How you doing?" asked Bucky, offering his hand to his friend. "Staying out of trouble?"

"I've had a few moments," replied the smaller man. "You look good. Did you grow?"

"Yeah, the army chow is better than they say," replied Bucky. "Not as good as Ma's food but I can have seconds with no problem. I have a date tonight, have one lined up for you if you want."

Steve blushed but said nothing. George unlocked the door and we all went inside so I could start preparing dinner. There was more talk about basic training with George adding some of his own experiences to the conversation. When dinner was finished George got out his pipe and tobacco, intending to go out back for a smoke.

"Okay if I join you, Dad?" asked Bucky, pulling out a pack of cigarettes.

Steve followed them outside and I began cleaning up. Rebecca offered to help but I suggested she get her homework done. I watched the three men through the kitchen window. George sat in an Adirondack chair that he assembled years ago. He was listening intently to something that Bucky was telling him, puffing on his pipe. Bucky held his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, like many working men of the day. Steve just listened, as if he was happy to be there. Eventually they all came in and Bucky put his arm around my shoulders.

"That was a real good meal, Ma," he said warmly. "Your food is still the best."

"Thank you." I patted him on the cheek. "What time are you leaving for your date?"

"Right away," he said. "We have to get Steve dressed right, then take the subway to the dance hall. You're okay if I bunk at Steve's tonight?"

I smiled and nodded, knowing that meant he expected to stay the night with his date. It was never really spoken of between Bucky and me, but George had told me of having the "talk" with him when he was 17 about boundaries, and being a gentleman. As far as I knew he never got a girl in trouble. If he had there would have been expectations of him to make it right as it would be our grandchild that needed a father.

After he and Steve left George turned the radio on. I finished cleaning up in the kitchen then brought some mending into the parlour so I could keep my hands busy while we listened to the music. Rebecca had finished her homework and was reading a book. Once she went to bed George waited for a while to make sure she was asleep then he gave me that look that indicated he had something important to say. I put my mending down and looked at him with curiosity.

"That special training they're sending Bucky on? It's sniper training. Killing men from a distance."

He put his thumb and forefinger on the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache so I knew it bothered him.

"How do they decide who does that?" I asked. "They did have them in the Great War, didn't they?"

"They did and we hated them," he replied. "Not the ones on our side but the German ones. They seemed to target the best of men and took them out without any chance of them surviving with shots to the head. We thought of them as merciless killers ... and now they want to make my son one of them. I know it's war but a sniper ...." He gave a big sigh. "Bucky wasn't joking that his time on the shooting galleries probably made him a good shot. Those rifles are rigged and he still cleaned up. Right from the moment they began marksmanship he said the drill sergeants were impressed with him."

"Does he know you feel this way?" I asked gently.

He shook his head. "How could I tell my son that? He's a good boy, a good man, who is going to be doing a thankless job but a necessary one." George looked at me with sadness and acceptance in his eyes. "Don't say anything to him. I'm only telling you because I tell you everything and I had to tell someone."

I nodded my agreement not to say anything but it was hard to picture my Bucky hiding somewhere in a battleground or a village, aiming his rifle at people, then pulling the trigger and ending their lives so quickly. When we went to bed I knew it still bothered George as he touched me in the way he did when he wanted me. This time he wanted comfort and I gladly gave it to him, the man I loved since I first laid eyes on him in 1915.

Bucky arrived back home about 11 o'clock the following morning. He looked a little worse for the wear and sheepishly asked if I could wash and press his uniform shirt. While he changed out of his uniform I called up and asked if he could do some yard work for me. He came down with his shirt in his hand and waited for me to tell him what I wanted.

"How was your date?" I asked.

"It was okay, Myrna was a good dancer," he said. "Wasn't happy with her sister Betty. She took one look at Steve and wouldn't go out with him. Said so right to his face. Myrna talked to her and she agreed to sit with us in the hall but after a couple of dances with him she saw friends on the other side and went to sit with them. He stuck it out for a while then left when I was on the dance floor. Didn't even say goodbye. I drank too much after as I was angry and once I got Myrna and Betty back home safely I drank some more. Barely made it back to Steve's but he was awake still and helped me settle down."

I turned to look at my son with concern on my face. He had never admitted to being drunk to me. His eyes met mine and I could see there was something further he wanted to say. Then he swallowed and handed me his shirt.

"What can I do in the yard for you?"

"The frost is gone from the garden bed," I said. "Could you turn the dirt over? There's some manure in the shed that you can work into it."

"Sure, I can do that, Ma," he said, then he smiled and kissed me on the cheek.

He went out every night the rest of that week, with each of the different girls who had been writing him. Steve didn't come around and I wondered if they had a disagreement but Bucky never said anything. When it came time for Bucky to return to camp we took him to the train. His girlfriends were all there and he kissed each one of them on the lips, smiling at them after. Then he turned to us and said goodbye to Rebecca first. His goodbye to his father was next, and it was very masculine and proper between them. Finally, he looked at me and hugged me hard, whispering that he loved me. With tears in my eyes I put my hand on his cheek and smiled, trying to be strong for him. He stepped on the stair into the train and looked past us for a moment, as if he was searching for someone then stepped inside, found his seat and put his valise up on the overhead rack. As the train began to pull away he raised his hand in goodbye. We didn't see him again until Christmas.

Part 3 >>

Series Masterlist

[roman-catholic-mass-readings]

11th November >> Mass Readings (Except USA)

Saint Martin of Tours, Bishop 

on

Monday, Thirty Second Week in Ordinary Time.

Monday, Thirty Second Week in Ordinary Time

(Liturgical Colour: White. Year: B(II))

(Readings for the feria (Monday))

(There is a choice today between the readings for the ferial day (Monday) and those for the memorial. The ferial readings are recommended unless pastoral reasons suggest otherwise)

First Reading Titus 1:1-9 Appoint elders of irreproachable character.

From Paul, servant of God, an apostle of Jesus Christ to bring those whom God has chosen to faith and to the knowledge of the truth that leads to true religion; and to give them the hope of the eternal life that was promised so long ago by God. He does not lie and so, at the appointed time, he revealed his decision, and, by the command of God our saviour, I have been commissioned to proclaim it. To Titus, true child of mine in the faith that we share, wishing you grace and peace from God the Father and from Christ Jesus our saviour. The reason I left you behind in Crete was for you to get everything organised there and appoint elders in every town, in the way that I told you: that is, each of them must be a man of irreproachable character; he must not have been married more than once, and his children must be believers and not uncontrollable or liable to be charged with disorderly conduct. Since, as president, he will be God’s representative, he must be irreproachable: never an arrogant or hot-tempered man, nor a heavy drinker or violent, nor out to make money; but a man who is hospitable and a friend of all that is good; sensible, moral, devout and self-controlled; and he must have a firm grasp of the unchanging message of the tradition, so that he can be counted on for both expounding the sound doctrine and refuting those who argue against it.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 23(24):1-6

R/ Such are the men who seek your face, O Lord.

The Lord’s is the earth and its fullness, the world and all its peoples. It is he who set it on the seas; on the waters he made it firm.

R/ Such are the men who seek your face, O Lord.

Who shall climb the mountain of the Lord? Who shall stand in his holy place? The man with clean hands and pure heart, who desires not worthless things.

R/ Such are the men who seek your face, O Lord.

He shall receive blessings from the Lord and reward from the God who saves him. Such are the men who seek him, seek the face of the God of Jacob.

R/ Such are the men who seek your face, O Lord.

Gospel Acclamation Philippians 2:15-16

Alleluia, alleluia! You will shine in the world like bright stars because you are offering it the word of life. Alleluia!

Gospel Luke 17:1-6 If your brother does wrong, reprove him.

Jesus said to his disciples: ‘Obstacles are sure to come, but alas for the one who provides them! It would be better for him to be thrown into the Sea with a millstone put round his neck than that he should lead astray a single one of these little ones. Watch yourselves! If your brother does something wrong, reprove him and, if he is sorry, forgive him. And if he wrongs you seven times a day and seven times comes back to you and says, “I am sorry,” you must forgive him.’ The apostles said to the Lord, ‘Increase our faith.’ The Lord replied, ‘Were your faith the size of a mustard seed you could say to this mulberry tree, “Be uprooted and planted in the sea,” and it would obey you.’

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

---------------------------------

Saint Martin of Tours, Bishop 

(Liturgical Colour: White. Year: B(II))

(Readings for the memorial)

(There is a choice today between the readings for the ferial day (Monday) and those for the memorial. The ferial readings are recommended unless pastoral reasons suggest otherwise)

First Reading Isaiah 61:1-3 He has sent me to proclaim a year of favour from the Lord.

The spirit of the Lord has been given to me, for the Lord has anointed me. He has sent me to bring good news to the poor, to bind up hearts that are broken;

to proclaim liberty to captives, freedom to those in prison; to proclaim a year of favour from the Lord, a day of vengeance for our God,

to comfort all those who mourn and to give them for ashes a garland; for mourning robe the oil of gladness, for despondency, praise.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 88(89):2-5,21-22,25,27

R/ I will sing for ever of your love, O Lord.

I will sing for ever of your love, O Lord; through all ages my mouth will proclaim your truth. Of this I am sure, that your love lasts for ever, that your truth is firmly established as the heavens.

R/ I will sing for ever of your love, O Lord.

‘I have made a covenant with my chosen one; I have sworn to David my servant: I will establish your dynasty for ever and set up your throne through all ages.

R/ I will sing for ever of your love, O Lord.

‘I have found David my servant and with my holy oil anointed him. My hand shall always be with him and my arm shall make him strong.

R/ I will sing for ever of your love, O Lord.

‘My truth and my love shall be with him; by my name his might shall be exalted. He will say to me: “You are my father, my God, the rock who saves me.”’

R/ I will sing for ever of your love, O Lord.

Gospel Acclamation John 13:34

Alleluia, alleluia! I give you a new commandment: love one another just as I have loved you, says the Lord. Alleluia!

Gospel Matthew 25:31-40 I was naked and you clothed me; sick, and you visited me.

Jesus said to his disciples: ‘When the Son of Man comes in his glory, escorted by all the angels, then he will take his seat on his throne of glory. All the nations will be assembled before him and he will separate men one from another as the shepherd separates sheep from goats. He will place the sheep on his right hand and the goats on his left. ‘Then the King will say to those on his right hand, “Come, you whom my Father has blessed, take for your heritage the kingdom prepared for you since the foundation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me food; I was thirsty and you gave me drink; I was a stranger and you made me welcome; naked and you clothed me, sick and you visited me, in prison and you came to see me.” Then the virtuous will say to him in reply, “Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you; or thirsty and give you drink? When did we see you a stranger and make you welcome; naked and clothe you; sick or in prison and go to see you?” And the King will answer, “I tell you solemnly, in so far as you did this to one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did it to me.”’

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

[taiblogcomics]

Isn't It Bro-Mantic?

Hey there, expired pepperoni sticks. We don't have Saturday morning cartoons anymore, at least not the way I knew them. But perhaps we can still live through them in other ways. Such as a superhero comic book with an embittered cartoon as its protagonist~

Here's the cover:

It's Slapstick vs Bro-Man! Other than letting you get a look at Bro-Man, I dunno if there's much to say about it. If you look at the background, it is kind of a realistic sort of background, which does at least contrast our characters. And if they're not cartoony enough, there's some grawlixes! Good enough? I hope so! Sorry this cover analysis is so short!

Our recap: Steve Harmon, the Awesome Slapstick, is a grouchy early-20s fellow, eager to move out of his parents' house. He's also a bit tired of being a cartoon clown, as he's sadly gotten stuck in his alternate identity. To the first end, he's been saving money by swiping mercenary jobs off Deadpool's account. To the second, he's hired tech-goon Quasimodo to work on solving his cartoony problem. Speaking of cartoony problems, though, while at a college football game, the field is invaded by our cover darling, Bro-Man, here to fight "the Princess' champion".

Bro-Man, Master of the Multiverse, immediately sets the tone for the comic by declaring he does not like to repeat himself, but announces himself again to search for the champion. You know, because it's the first page, and we need to remind the reader of the previous issue's cliffhanger. Slapstick prefers not to get involved, because he's a mercenary, not a superhero. Plus the campus cops showed up to gun down Bro-Man--to no avail. And to show you he's not a bad person, Slapstick decides to get involved after all because the violence is upsetting his young niece and nephew.

Slapstick jumps into the fray, but his mallet does little against Bro-Man's muscles. So he muscles himself up to match his physique with the classic cartoon trick of blowing into his thumb. However, being in melee range, allows Bro-Man the chance to cut off Slapstick's arm. It's a bloodless cut (unlike the policemen earlier), but Slapstick's still freaked out by the fact that he managed to do it at all. Normally he's invulnerable. And this is the second time in 24 hours! If he had a nickel for every time I referenced this meme, he'd probably have way more than two nickels at this point~

Fortunately, he has a spare arm hidden down his pants, which for once is not a lead-in to complain about his lack of "equipment". As he reattaches his arm, he also throws out a ton of other stuff that he has in the interdimensional storage space in his pants, including a bottle of mustard, a Batarang, an original Game Boy, the puzzle box from Hellraiser, and a rubber chicken. Bro-Man gets annoyed with the antics and mustard stains on his loincloth, and charges up his sword with energy. By the power of Greykin, he has the power!

He blasts Slapstick with the energy bolt, sending him through a wall and into the unwashed jockstraps piled around the locker room. This leads to a parody of Amazing Spider-Man #33, the famous one where he thinks about his loved ones and summons the strength to lift a huge pile of machinery off of himself. And it's the same here, except it's a huge pile of jockstraps. Just so you know the humour level of the book. But summon his inner strength and lift the dirty jocks he does! Just in time, too, because Bro-Man has cornered his niece and nephew and his friend Mike.

Thinking fast, Slapstick grabs a bar of soap and tosses it homeward, and Bro-Man slips on it when he advances towards Slapstick's loved ones. Slapstick then grabs his sword and cleaves Bro-Man cleanly down the middle. The fact that he just splits in half, no blood or guts, and lies on the floor proves that he's also made of electroplasm, just like Slapstick. And by the time SHIELD shows up to contain the situation, they discover only a ruined locker room and half of Bro-Man's body. Everyone else is long gone.

See, Slapstick brought the other half of Bro-Man with him, taking him to Quasimodo, who is hiding out in Steve's basement bedroom. He figures Quas can analyse the guy and find a way to reverse the Electroplasm transformation. And overnight, they devise a solution: if it was a visit to Dimension X (or Dimension Ecch, as it's been retconned) that transformed him in the first place, then another visit should be what he needs to turn back. They've managed to open a portal, but before they can step through, there's a knock at the door.

It's not his mom bugging him again either, it's SHIELD come a-calling. They have the left half of Bro-Man, and he's been babbling all night about what he's seeing out of his right eye. They finally managed to put it all together, and tracked them down to this spot. See, they're actually a division of SHIELD called ARMOR (not invented for this comic, believe it or not!) that specifically monitor alternate realities and the like. So they've detected the portal and incursion by Bro-Man, and now they're all in ARMOR custody, immediately teleporting them to their base.

Once held, Slapstick has two things on his mind: not telling the feds anything, and hitting on the hot agent that brought him in. Well, at least he has his priorities. When it becomes apparent that they can contain him indefinitely and Agent Teresa Rigotti isn't returning his advances, he turns on the waterworks (by way of a cartoon raincloud overhead) and starts selling out Quasimodo. They note that it was pretty evident Quas was opening a portal, but he's also working for someone else. Which is also true--Slapstick is the one employing him.

While Slapstick is trying to decide whether to sell out Deadpool or "that guy in the spider costume", an alarm goes off. Seems there's another incursion, and they're producing the same signal as Slapstick and Bro-Man, so they're likely just as invulnerable. It's a whole army this time as well: a bunch of brightly coloured centaurs that are equal parts My Little Pony and Smurfs. They're called the Taurs, and when asked if they have anyone who can even stand up against them, Slapstick volunteers. The agents groan, because they realise they don't have any other options~

So this is where the series starts getting really fun. Slapstick's a bit less dour in this one, but he's not complaining about his lack of privates, and he's doing the right thing--even if for wrong and jokey reasons. (He fights Bro-Man because he made his niece and nephew cry, and he can't stand the sound of kids crying. But I think it's an act because he's a grouch who doesn't like superheroes.) But the style and expressions for the blatant He-Man parody are pretty on point, and the comedy starts to shine more in this issue. And with the reveal of the Taurs for next time, you can really start to see where it's going to get absurd~

[cxldblxxded]

❝ it's your birthday today? ❞ it shouldn't really come as a surprise that in the mess of things, sharing birth dates hadn't come up. but warren does sort of wish he'd had some sort of heads up. things weren't as rocky as they'd started a few weeks prior & warren felt like they were at least on the way to being friends — but he'd take that over being the enemy he'd started as any day of the week. ❝ well happy birthday i guess. should we, you know, do something? ❞ he's only half listening for a response, eyes glancing down at his watch. a gift doesn't much make sense but they should still do something to acknowledge it somehow. ❝ there's probably a bakery around here somewhere so we could get a cake-type dessert.... do you even like sweets? ❞ he's not sure he's ever seen k with a food preference ( except perhaps the hot dog-mustard run in the week before ), but if he didn't like sweet things then absolutely spending money on something didn't exactly make sense. ❝ there's probably something else we could grab slash use instead. ❞

so you just gonna bring me a birthday gift on my birthday - // @mystiika

IT’S BEEN QUITE a number of years since he’s properly celebrated a birthday. It used to be a group affair with his siblings - now it’s just him, and nobody’s really bothered since the 19th century to learn when he hatched. It had just sort of slipped out now, and Warren fixates on it, which he wasn’t expecting. He didn’t think Warren was the kind to actively try celebrating it and would’ve just left it at the standard “happy birthday.”

MENTAL NOTE IS made and K considers his question carefully. “We could do something - I am not sure what. I do like sweets, if you do as well.” A pause as his head cocks to the side. “Perhaps a tres leches cake, if we can find one? It has been a while since I have had a good one. Have you had it before?”

[tefibetancourt]

aileen was a very kind woman. tefi was not. she could fake it for her customer service jobs, but just below the surface, she was rotten. she wasn’t evil or anything, but when it came down to it, she was not a good person. she didn’t care about being a good person. she cared about having fun and doing as little as she could to fund her fun. aileen, from what tefi knew, had a gaggle of younger siblings and loving parents. tefi was the youngest and her parents didn’t care about her. they were too obsessed with each other to actually care about their children, growing more neglectful with each child they had in favor of spending almost every minute together, doing whatever they wanted on their own; tefi, being the youngest, got in their way the most. luckily for tefi, she didn’t care for them much either. it worked out for the best… well, as best as it could. she didn’t need anyone to take care of her, anyway. (except for a rich man, she needed them to take care of her, and give her lots of money to spend on whatever she wanted!)

anyway, the point was that tefi didn’t understand what aileen saw in her. yes, she was a damn good time, but there was no warmth to tefi. in her darkest moments, she believed there was no reason to care about her. if her family didn’t give a shit, why would anyone? foster didn’t. foster left her. ralph abandoned her. all she had were seb and cj, and she knew she was on borrowed time with them once her plan came to fruition and phoebe ended up as collateral damage. with aileen, she was on borrowed time. everyone would leave her. they always did.

that meant she had to enjoy it while she could. “girl, you don’t know the half of it. they’re sooo cute but i feel like they’re starting to morph into one person. like they’re sebandcj, not two separate guys. all day i’m saying shit like: i’m staying with sebandcj. i’m bringing home fries for sebandcj. i’m going out with sebandcj tonight.” tefi stopped abruptly, shaking her head and waving her hands in the air in front of her face. “sorry, i’m totally not talking shit about them. i love them. they’re, like, the only reason i’m not dead in a gutter somewhere right now. it just feels like i’m intruding on their little love fest sometimes.” she took a recovering sip of her martini and sighed ruefully. “i mean, they’re married, so… like, i get it.” tefi had been married once before. she was actually still married, but she hadn’t lived with foster as a couple in over a decade, and even when they were together, it wasn’t exactly loving. that fact, however, she was keeping a secret from aileen, lest she told phoebe and ruined tefi’s plan for revenge.

the question about work made her groan. “oh, god. i’m so sick of being yelled at over stupid shit. who cares if i forgot your mustard? just remind me and i’ll get it for you. like, it’s so not a big deal! it’s just getting worse every year, too.” tefi shook off the rant, taking another sip of her martini to wash down the bitterness in her heart. “what about you, miss thang? the parents of your kindergarteners must drive you up the wall from what i see teachers saying on tiktok all the time!”

@aileenmurphy

Aileen wasn't quite sure how she'd let Tefi convince her to come out tonight. She'd felt Mocha's eyes judging her all evening as she got ready, tail swishing in disapproval. By ten pm she would already be curled up in bed with a book, her kitties' purrs the only melody to be found in the night. Instead, she was slipping her single pair of hoops on her ears and putting on a pretty dress. She looked nice, she knew, but the night scene drained so much energy from her. Still, she reminded herself, she wanted to go out for Tefi. As much as the other woman looked like the life of the party all the time, there was something sad lurking in the corner of her eyes, and Aileen didn't like that. She wasn't quite sure what it was, but if a girl's night out is what she needed, then she could endure a night club for a couple of hours.

She stepped into the bar and gave her body a minute to adjust to the loud base before stepping inside to locate her friend. After a quick wave to Nolan, she found Tefi and smiled, stepping into the offered hug gladly. "Hi, good to see you!" she greeted, moving back to sit on the empty stool beside the other woman. She took a peek around, taking in the crowd and the atmosphere. It wasn't that crowded today, which she appreciated, and allowed conversation to actually be doable. As Tefi mentioned Seb and CJ she let out a quiet laugh, nodding in understanding. "Yes I can imagine. From what I hear, their relationship keeps getting more interesting by the minute." she had sat through enough of Phoebe's rants about those two to know, anyway. "How are you, has the week been... bearable?" she could tell Tefi's job wasn't exactly the job of her dreams, so she'd learnt to lower her expectations when asking about how work had gone.

@tefibetancourt

[angry-geese]

Jjk headcanons except it's a retail/grocery store au nobody asked for

Warnings: none! crack. obligatory warning for any spelling errors I didn't edit this too carefully

Much to everyone's protest, Gojo is responsible for training the three new hires: Yuji, Nobara, and Megumi

Nobody knows how Gojo became a manager. They suspect he promoted himself

Gojo practically had to force Megumi to apply for a summer job, Megumi hates working there

Yuji applied because his older brother Choso works there

Nanami ends up responsible for training the new hires after Gojo forgets that you can't mix chemicals when showing them how to clean the bathrooms. Everyone was fine but that doesn't change the fact he made mustard gas in a mop bucket

Nanami has tried to quit at least three different times and each time he somehow is dragged back (usually by Gojo)

Nobody actually knows what Sukuna does but he's basically always at the store and sometimes gets into fights with customers

If Sukuna isn't actively causing issues for customers/his coworkers he's out back smoking

Despite looking like he's in his forties, Ijichi is actually the youngest manager

Ijichi deserves a raise

Choso and Ijichi have a designated crying corner in one of the freezers for when customers yell at them

Gojo is no longer allowed to check because he kept trying to get phone numbers from customers

Geto is banned from the store for unspecified reasons. So is Mahito

Toji and Gojo have gotten into a fistfight in the parking lot

Toji steals from people's lunches in the break room. He also steals toilet paper from the bathrooms and tries to convince his coworkers that they just ran out

Toji owes at least three different people money

Middle aged/older women really like to hit on Choso

Despite having the same last name, nobody knows that Toji and Megumi are related. Not even Megumi

Naoya comes in at least once a week to yell at the deli workers for getting his order wrong. they take turns spitting in his food

[tinybriewrites]

Like A Drama - 6

Summer brought in the doom and gloom of Gotham City for the twins. The two felt conflicted about their newest family members. Their father, with the exception of the one grimace he'd shown them when handing over the Wayne baby socks, always gave a blinding, press-ready beam. Most wouldn't be able to tell, but the twins were smart enough to pick up on its insincerity. Their eldest brother, Dick seemed to be genuinely happy about their arrival in the family, but nevertheless, he'd still abruptly shift the conversation sometimes when one of them walked into a room. Jason is only at the manor for dinner occasionally, and those meals have always been awkward as if everyone was walking on eggshells around them. Tim was nice; he would smile and ask them how they were when he saw them, but he's been busy recently with work, so the two haven't seen much of him since they came a week ago. Damian clicks his tongue at them whenever they cross paths. He's made his disdain plain for everyone to see. Duke is always gone in the mornings. Cass doesn't talk to them much, but Dick assured them that was how she was with everybody. The other pseudo-siblings Barbara and Stephanie seemed nice, but they acted like Dick occasionally too. Alfred aside, the twins didn't feel very welcomed in the manor.

Which was why the two were spending the afternoon in a quiet family diner in the city. The two were jotting down ideas for new upgrades to the ham-bots: Marinette for some subtle miraculous-themed designs on their metal shells and Lewis for a new combination flight mode when three of them join forces. The twins were having a pleasant time. Quiet music was filling the restaurant, their milkshakes had just the right amount of sweetness, and they almost had the whole place to themselves, save the cashier and waitress.

But, of course, Gotham could never allow such a good day to go unruined.

A man in a skin-tight teal suit and a pickle-shaped helmet burst through the doors with condiment bottle-shaped guns in hand. "Well, well, well, I heard the big bad Bat is in a pickle someplace else. I mustard somewhere else to be, so hurry up and ketchup the money, folks!"

The young teen behind the counter opened the register, hands shaking. The waitress slowly put her hands up. Marinette and Lewis were in a corner booth, hidden from where the Condiment King's stood at the entrance.

Marinette threw the glass salt shaker from the table across the room, causing it to break on the floor with a crash, catching the villain's attention. As she did that, she ran to grab a chair and toss it in the Condiment King's face. The dressing-themed villain felt the air from the movement and turned his head just for the chair to hit him square in the nose. He fired his mustard gun at the teen girl, but she dodged at the last moment in a graceful dance-like movement, not a drop of yellow on her pristine white dress. The villain with his bleeding nose aimed fire at the floor, hoping for the small girl to slip and fall from a ketchup puddle. Unfortunately, fate seemed to be favoring the teen, as his aim was always just a little short of its target. Finally within arms reach, the Condiment King planned to whack the approaching girl with his guns, losing faith in his aim. However, Marinette used his momentum against him and threw him over her shoulder and into a pool of ketchup, staining his pants red. While he was disoriented from the heavy fall, the tiny yet mighty girl tied his hands behind him to one of the tables bolted to the floor in a tight knot using a handkerchief her brother handed her. It was five minutes since the Condiment King decided to rob the deserted diner while Batman was held up by an art museum theft, and he just had his ass thoroughly handed to him the entire time by a girl both half his size and age.

Soon, the police followed by Red Robin arrived at the scene. The first thing they saw was the Condiment King's bloodied face on the floor right next to the entrance. Chairs were strewn over the floor, one of them with bloodstains. Splashes of yellow and red dotted the walls and floor of the small diner. The two employees also had some of the condiments staining their clothes. In stark contrast to that, however, were the two teenagers sitting calmly in a booth, not a strand of hair out of place nor a speck of ketchup on their clothing, discussing whether the newest upgrade should focus on form or function. Whatever that meant.

"Just..." Officer Montoya looked at the chaos around her. "What the hell happened here?"

Condiment King spit out, "You girl mustard wait for our next meeting. I'll ketchup to you before you know it! Relish the peace while it lasts."

Another officer brought the Condiment King outside while Renee Montoya approached the two siblings.

"Hi, kids," she smiled at them. "Can you two follow me to the station to get your statements?"

"Okay," the two quickly packed up their sketchbooks and notebooks on the table.

"Are you two minors? Any family I can call?" In the distance, Red Robin stared at the siblings with an indecipherable gaze.

"We're both eighteen, and I already notified someone before you got here."

Hearing this, Red Robin asked the others on the comms if they knew the twins were at the scene, but everyone came up blank.

"Alright, don't worry, we won't hold you for long. Just some routine procedures."

Leaving the police station, Red Robin stood in front of the two teens next to a red motorcycle the two didn't see at the diner.

"Family coming to pick you up?"

"No," the twins shared a look. "We're walking."

"In Gotham? That's hardly safe," the vigilante looked oddly concerned for their safety.

"We can take care of ourselves," Lewis frowned.

"Hop on, I'll give you two a ride home," Red Robin held out two motorcycle helmets.

Lewis' frown deepened, "No thanks, we wouldn't want to impose. Gotham is a busy city, I'm sure you're needed elsewhere." Marinette nodded her agreement. It was very out of character for the vigilante to be this attentive to two random citizens.

"The Waynes asked me to see you home," the vigilante insisted, thinking the mention of their family would get the teens to relent. It didn't. Instead, the two became warier of him.

"We're not Waynes," the siblings said in unison.

"Look here," Red Robin whispered to the two, "The Waynes are a hot target for the rogues; it would be the best for everyone if I escorted you two back."

Marinette held back her brother who wanted to protest further, "Alright."

"Great, put these on," the vigilante tossed the two a helmet. Afterward, he pressed a hidden button on his bike that caused a secret compartment to open. Metal sheets folded together to add a single-seater sidecar to the motorcycle. "Let's go!"

Lewis sat on the sidecar, giving his twin a conspiratorial smirk. Marinette sent him a glare before getting in behind the vigilante. She wrapped her arms around his torso, and she could feel her cheeks begin to flush. Damn brother. She could see her twin holding back his laughter at the side. She sorely regretted telling him that of Gotham's heroes, she thought Red Robin was cute.

The ride home passed by in a blink for Marinette who was too focused on looking unaffected to notice that the ears of the person she was holding on to were also steadily reddening. Unfortunately for her, the same could not be said for Lewis. His smirk widened at this observation, filing the information away for a future time.

Prev  |  Next

@maribat-bdbwm​

[betweenthetimeandsound]

--prompt from @flashfictionfridayofficial

No good deed goes unpunished, he cursed, lighting up a cigar while staring back at the files right in front of him. Filled with photos of mutilated bodies and feathers and dung, the smoke only letting him rest for a moment before analyzing the damage these creatures brought about. I take the place of my brother in jail, but this is a crueler sentence.

Now he's probably taking a flight to Europe, simply because he can. And not just to study.

The words tangled themselves in his mouth, despite not needing to say them to anybody. Subversion is an art form, one which could bring more people to buy his houses, but another in which it could turn the country he remained in on its head. To do so would spill out the river water and lemons which flavored it, along with the miracles which barely held the country together.

Confess to playing these strings like a krar--with the grace to know where the melody went, yet the intensity to know how far it would take--and then he could keep to himself. The only thing he paid with is for semblances of freedom His debt to his conscience would float away, and he could focus back on the money he's earned.

However, with these "witches"--as some call them--emerged from the mountains and tormenting the civilians below, opportunities to grow shrunk until it was the side of a mustard seed. The people blamed their neighbors for the chaos; the war's fallout still planted in the ground like coffee. Reports of his niece reverting back to her childhood ways made his hands tremble; she talked about wanting to become a doctor to help others.

except nobody wants to be helped--and if they did, he pondered again, they would have lied.

Lying was an escape, but if Amanuel never did, then they would live in peace amongst their palm trees and pastel flowers. The demons and witches would remain beyond their walls, haunting those who defiled the nation in nightmares manifest. The man gritted his teeth, writing notes with his blue pen, ink imbuing amongst the rabid scars and face-down corpses.

Confession is good for the soul, and the only way to reunite with the divine, the man thought, his hands going through the cigar. But this is something I shouldn't have mentioned, not with all this tumult.

As his thoughts retreated to a place where his innocence shone, Aster stood in the doorway, blowing away the smoke with her right hand.

Author's note: A krar is an Ethiopian lyre, used in traditional music. This section is supposed to function as a prologue to a story where one man who kills demons is hired to hunt down a particular one to earn a bounty, only to get betrayed and lost in the magic system. I also want to connect to modern Ethiopian politics, though I don't know how.

[redrobin-detective]

the end is where we start from

What we call the beginning is often the end / And to make an end is to make a beginning / The end is where we start from. ~ T.S. Elliot, Little Giddings

Danny was running, he didn’t know where to all he knew was who he was running from. He didn’t know if his parents were even coming after him, guns blazing and mouths sneering but he didn’t dare turn around to look. Maybe they weren’t even going to bother chasing him, maybe they were just happy the ghostly scum was out of their house. 

He saw the entrance to Amity’s deepest woods and he darted for it. It was dark and thick and easy to lose yourself in so people usually thought twice before they entered. But people like Danny had little else to lose. The sting of branches swiping at him before he could turn intangible, giant, gnarling roots tripping him up before he could float over him. But he didn’t dare slow down because that would mean acknowledging what had happened.

Another missed curfew, another argument where he and his parents talked about but around each other. Another ghost showing up just as he got dressed for bed, another transformation to take care of it before he could get some sleep. Only the same old script flipped on itself when Mom opened the door, bringing in some tea as an apology for her harsh words just into time to see her son become a ghost. Her gun was drawn before the cup hit the floor and shattered, along with Danny’s heart.

Deep in the thicket of the woods, his human lungs burned and his living muscles ached but he couldn’t turn into Phantom now. Not when it was the stupid ghost’s fault he wasn’t welcome in his own home anymore.

‘What are you doing with my son, ghost?’

‘Mom, please it’s Danny I can explain, please would you just listen?’

‘You can’t be alive and dead at the same time! It’s impossible!’ Oh god my baby died and I didn’t even notice’

‘Mom, Dad, listen to Danny, he’s telling the truth. This is why he never-’

‘Jasmine, you’ve been deceived that’s what ghosts do! That’s what Phantom in particular is known for!’

“Jazzy, Danno, I want to believe you, but it’s a lot to take in. Let us run some tests to make sure.’

‘Danny! Danny wait! Come back!’

Eventually his human body ran out of steam, adrenaline and desperation can only take a person so far. His speeding gait slowed to a lopping jog before settling into a quiet, miserable walk. He squeezed his eyes shut and dared to look over his shoulder but, of course, no one was there. It was just him, the darkness and his own woes.

“What am I going to do now?” He asked quietly, weakly as he fought back panicked tears. All he could see was his mother’s angry, grieving face. His father’s confusion as he tried to make sense of it all while trying to keep the peace. Jazz’s frustration and futile attempts to shield Danny from the worst of the shouting.

He had nothing on his person, why would he? He’d been about ready to go to bed when his whole world came crashing down. His worn Star Wars t-shirt and sweatpants offered little protection from the gloomy October weather but Danny’s ice core more than protected him from the chill. He welcomed it if anything, it matched the ice growing in his heart. No money to escape with, no phone to call for help, no tools to contain any ghosts he battled. He hadn’t even had dinner last night, too busy fighting ghosts. For the first time, Danny was well and truly on his own. Not even dying had seemed so scary.

“I can handle this,” Danny said with false calm. It was pitch dark around him but a little ectoplasmic light brightened the area up. “I’ll just stay here for the night and then I’ll check in tomorrow. If things are still bad, I’ll grab my gear and go.” Where he’d go was a whole other question but that wasn’t important right now. He was still too raw to think about what he’d do if he actually had to abandon his human life. All he could focus on right now was the hurt pulsing through him.

He wandered around in the dark for a little while longer, looking for a suitable place to set up camp for the night. Eventually, he came upon a set of twisting trees that was perfect for his purposes. Lightening his weight, he climbed up halfway and made a little ice tent in the branches. It was lightweight but thick, covering him up and serving as a shield between him and the rest of the world. In his own little ice palace, no one else could hurt him.

“There we go, home sweet home,” Danny mumbled as he crawled inside with a dull thump. He’d left a little skylight open, so he could look up at the stars. If he didn’t think too hard about it, he could imagine he was out camping with his dad or stargazing with his friends. “No, stop it. You’re only making it worse,” he said quietly to himself as the annoying flush of sadness washed over him. He didn’t like to cry; it made him feel stupid and childish and exhausted. Jazz had lectured him about the cleansing release of neurochemicals and other junk but really he usually felt worse after crying. 

“This is fine, everything is fine,” Danny sniffled, shuddering as he curled in on himself. The only cold that could hurt him was his own. It really wasn’t a great idea to use his that much of his ice in his human form, it chilled his body too much to be healthy. That, combined with his light clothes, the chilly night and that fact that he was laying on a solid block of ice, didn’t help matters. If Sam and Tucker could see him, they’d be shoving him in the shower to warm him up and plying him with food and blankets. Jazz and her dozen kind of herbal teas that help with mood or digestion or whatever would shove one or two into his hands and hover until he drank some. Their nagging was annoying but it was helpful and made him feel so loved. Love he wasn’t feeling out in the woods all by himself in the middle of the night.

“This is fine,” he repeated, more choked up this time and gave into his desire to cry. His chest hurt from the force of his sobs and eyes burned from the salty tears. He was flushed and cold and miserable but eventually, after wiping snot away from his nose and hiccupping quietly, he was ready to sleep. He was so worn out from all the hurting and the crying that he slipped from wakefulness as easy as going ghost.

“Child, what are you doing?” Danny groaned at the vaguely familiar voice. His ghost sense went off, reminding him once more how cold he was. He barely had it in him to shiver right now. “Ghost child, awaken and explain yourself.” Cold metal poked repeatedly into his side until Danny shoved the hand away, sitting up with a miserable glare.

“Go away, I’m not in the mood,” Danny grumbled, turning away from Skulker to try and go back to sleep. “I already feel bad enough, I don’t need you making it worse.”

“That does not explain why you are in a tree in the woods,” Skulker said slowly, still hung on stupid details. “The last I checked, the human Lair you stayed in was still standing. I stopped there to show you my latest weapon but you weren’t there, I traced your signature here.”

“Congrats, pass go and collect $200,” Danny sniped back quietly, not putting any heat into it. He didn’t have much to spare.

“Why are you out here, all alone?” Skulker frowned, “humans are susceptible to the elements, I presume you’re no exception given your current state. Just this once, I will stay the hunt to return you to your human Lair and we shall resume at a later-”

“No, I can’t go back,” Danny gasped fearfully, he curled in deeper on himself. “My parents, they know about me, about my powers. They didn’t take it well, I can’t- I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“But those human children-”

“I’m not getting them involved in this, they’re already in too deep. Tucker’s still grounded from that incident with Desiree and if Sam’s parents caught me in her room at night I’d lose the other half of my miserable life,” Danny grumbled. “Just leave me alone or kill me and take my pelt. Either one, it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“I see,” Skulker hummed, “stay here, Child, I will return.” Skulker said before flying off.

“Great, can’t wait,” Danny murmured as he rearranged himself on his ice block. He still felt unbearably cold but it probably wasn’t enough to actually kill him. Probably. “Stupid ghosts, stupid powers, if I hadn’t walked into that stupid portal, I’d be be safe and warm in bed right now and only have to worry about passing pre-calc.” It felt like he’d barely fallen back asleep when he was forcibly awaken by something soft and heavy dropping on him.

He phased out of the tangle only to find a bunch of blankets and heavy winter coat that looked 2 sizes too big for him. “What the-”

“Wow you weren’t kidding, babe, he looks like a trainwreck,” he heard Ember’s gruff voice say. “Hey dummy, put on the stupid coat. I ain’t had nerve endings in a while but I’m getting cold just looking atcha.”

“You bring your girlfriend to harass me in the middle of the night with,” Danny eyed the pile with price tags still on them, “stolen merchandise.”

“Shut up, we’re crashing your pathetic little pity party so you don’t die before I can off you myself,” the rock star huffed. “If that coat isn’t on you in five seconds, I’m manhandling your skinny arms into it.”

“Jeez you’re worse than my sister,” Danny grumbled even as he pulled the coat on. It was big but fluffy, the extra layer instantly made him feel a bit better. “Happy?”

“Getting there. Techy, you brought the food or what?” Danny yelped as a large amount of food dropped in through his skylight. It was an interesting mix, a jumbo bag of peanuts, dijon mustard, a jar of pickled eggs, a couple bags of chips and a box of uncooked macaroni noodles. “Here, eat some human food.”

“What?” Danny questioned as Technus poked his head into the icy tree house. 

“Oh nice place you got here child but it needs more lights and a flat screen and, oh, I can set you up with a killer stereo system over eek!” the technology ghost yelped as he was pulled back and Poindexter replaced him. 

“Hey Danny, heard you were in a bit of a bind. Thanks to you, my Lair’s school is a better place now, bully free. You can cool your jets with me if you need to fly the coop.” Danny didn’t answer and instead opened one of the bags of chips, barbeque and ranch sweet. 

“You can also stay on my island for however long you need to recover,” Skulker grumbled, like it pained him to say. “It’s no fun to hunt you when you’re so weak. I want to defeat you at your prime not at your lowest.”

“No, no, come to my lair! Everything is beeping and flashing all the time and I have a Minecraft room!” Technus interjected.

“I guess you could come to mine if you have to,” Ember huffed. “But aren’t you also buddy buddy with the Yetis bein’ an ice core and all? Or Queen Dora? Pretty much anyone will open their lairs to you with your stupid, beaten puppy dog eyes.”

“You guys, I don’t know what to say,” Danny said softly, taken aback by the show of kindness. He took in the blankets, the coat, the food, their offers. They didn’t understand, not really, but they were trying. It meant a lot, coming from his enemies. “Thank you.”

“Well, yeah, us nerds got to stick together,” Poindexter grinned.

“You’re human and an annoyance but your existence has given my afterlife quite a thrill. I’m not ready for the hunt to end quite yet,” Skulker announced.

“You’re our favorite nemesis,” Technus exclaimed, trying to squeeze his face back through the packed skylight. “We fight, we banter but we also support each other when we’re down! Whenever I’m feeling down, I come into the human world and our battles have me back up and running in no time!”

“Huh,” Danny said, looking down with a small smile. If his enemies could put aside their grudges and help him when he needed it then maybe... “Thanks again really but uh, I think I should go home, check in with my folks. Probably shouldn’t have run off like that but um, if it goes bad...”

“You’re part ghost,” Skulker said with a sharp nod. “The Zone is as much your home as it is ours. Really should get around to making a Lair one of these days. Only weak ghosts and parasites leech off of others.”

“You know the way back from here?” Ember asked. “Need an entourage?” 

“Yeah I got it,” Danny answered, triggering his transformation. Poindexter squealed with delight as he phased out of his sad little ice cave. It looked cold and lonely which wasn’t what he needed right now. “And I’ll- it’ll be fine. I don’t think bringing a bunch of ghosts home with me will help my case.”

“Farewell, Child. May your spirits be higher on our next meeting. Having the support of ghost hunters will certainly add to the challenge of the hunt,” Skulker grinned. “I look forward to it.” He flew off and the others followed. Danny smiled, watching them go for a moment before flying in the opposite direction towards his house.

He was halfway home when the Fenton Assault Vehicle careened around a corner at an unsafe speed. Danny jumped as it went past, startled out of invisibility. He made eye contact with his parents before the RV skidded to a screeching halt and then hastily backed up. The window rolled down and he met the wide, teary eyes of his mom and dad.

“Uh funny running into you in a place like this,” he said shyly, looking down.

“Oh thank heavens, Danny where have you been? We’ve been worried sick!” His mother cried, jumping out of the RV and pulling him down into her arms. His father was on the phone, he heard Jazz’s name being mentioned, along with Sam and Tucker. “Baby, you’re freezing! Is this,” she paused, pulling back and delicately touching his wisp like hair. “Is that normal?”

“Sort of,” he said, leaning back into her touch. “It’s all kind of a long story. I shouldn’t have run off like that, I’m sorry.”

“No, you shouldn’t have but I don’t blame you,” Dad said, stepping out of the car and wrapping them both in a hug. “But Fenton men always make up for their goof ups. You were headed back home, right?”

“Yeah, home,” Danny sighed.

“Danny, I still don’t understand but I, we, love you and I’m sorry if we made you doubt that. We’ll work it out, sweetie, I promise. That’s what family does,” Mom said before ushering him and Dad into the car. “Now in you get, it’s too cold and too late for this and I do not want the neighbors complaining to the HOA again.”

Danny changed back in front of his parents for the second time that evening, this time intentionally. Their curiosity and happiness at seeing him overrode their earlier fear and confusion. He settled more comfortably into the backseat, warm and happy for the first time all evening.

“Danno, where’s you get the jacket?” Dad asked.

“My other family, don’t worry, I’ll explain it all tomorrow.”

[brattyfics]

— until we meet again, preciosa

PAIRING || bishop losa x black!ofc, miguel galindo x black!ofc (mentioned)

SUMMARY || She’s not his, and she won’t ever be, so he leaves her with words whispered like a promise. “Until we meet again, preciosa.”

TAGS || angst, unresolved feelings, not a hea, mentions of toxic relationships, sex (referenced).

WORD COUNT || 1.6k

Shadowy clouds hang overhead, blocking out the warming glow of the Sun. Raindrops pelt the roof above, drumming a beat of their own before pooling down to the concrete paved streets below. Isis watches stray droplets gather on the tall windows for several moments before stepping out onto the covered balcony. It felt colder than usual inside the three-story, Spanish-style shophouse, but outside it’s the opposite-- balmy, earthy. The air is heavy with humidity, so she has to take deep breaths, but she doesn’t enjoy it any less. Invigoration comes with the rain, brings hope for new beginnings, renews faith for the hopeless.

Down below, people dart between vendors to continue their shopping as the rain lightens. Colorful rays spring from puddles up towards the sky. A pair of young siblings splash each other while their mother sells delicious smelling tamales wrapped in banana leaves. Another young woman peddles gold necklaces, praying candles, and other little knick-knacks to the tourists of Sonora. Everybody has to make a living, including Isis.

She spends her days stroking the strings of a guitar or the keys of her piano, helping patrons of the music shop in between. The ground floor of the shophouse boasts string instruments and an extensive collection of vinyl records. After hours, she makes money hosting private piano lessons. She performs at the Discoteca down the street on weekends, fueling her passion for music almost 24/7 except when Preciosa is closed for ‘maintenance’.

Overstock merchandise and whatever else the Mayans’ Motorcycle Clubs needs to store clutters the second floor. Don’t ask, don’t tell is her motto, so whenever they come to the shop, she simply flips the sign to closed. There’s no point in fighting it. Besides, El Presidente always makes it a bearable, if not pleasant, experience. Bishop had called ahead to warn her that he was bringing Hank, Angel, and the new prospect, Angel’s baby brother, along. She could hear them bumping around, a noisy reminder that her shop only thrived because of the illegal deals happening in the back.

“Why don’t you put all that time and energy into something that’ll get you somewhere?” Being a musician wasn’t an acceptable career in her mother’s eyes, so the woman took every chance she could to crush her daughter’s dreams. “Nobody wants to hear all that noise!” Staring out into the street, she can’t help but wonder where she would’ve ended up if her mother had been supportive. Maybe she could have been a star rising to the top of Billboard charts or someone who worked behind the scenes, writing songs, singing demos. She had the skill set. Yes, her path would have been much different.

Isis had stood front and center, crooning out an old school blues song at a hole-in-the-wall spot when Miguel Galindo first laid eyes on her. It was a chance meeting, one that felt like fate at the time because dive bars weren’t his scene. The owner was a business associate who decided to try his hand at being a restaurateur; Miguel had been kind enough to come out and support. When he caught sight of her shapely frame in a slinky, satin number, he insisted on being introduced.

Miguel stood out in a crowd, wearing a tailored button-down, dark dress pants, and an expensive pair of Italian leather shoes. His salt and pepper beard groomed to perfection, hair gelled so that no strand was out of place. The moment she’d looked into his eyes, she was caught in his web. His masculine scent drew her in like honey to a bee. His charisma held her attention. Miguel sweet-talked her all night, insisting Isis sit next to him, eat h’orderves, and drink overpriced champagne. She obliged. Who could say no to that face? He used their close proximity to reel her in like a fish on a hook, leaning down to whisper in her ear. You’re beautiful. He told her. You have such a smooth, seductive tone. You should be performing for bigger crowds. Have you ever thought about branching out? He told her everything her mother never had, so she was a lamb to the slaughter.

For months, Miguel had treated her like his very own LifeSize doll to play with. He took her on shopping sprees, kept her draped in silk and lace. Isis didn’t think of herself as materialistic, but she couldn’t deny being showered in gifts felt splendid. He was always so tender, handling her delicately as his newest prized possession. As time went on, she became more like an ornament. Something for him to marvel at when he felt like it and then hide away the rest of the time. But nothing was worse than him leaving her to harden after he was finished molding her like clay. She asked for more—time, commitment, only for him to do the opposite.

Thus, Preciosa was born. A way for him to placate her and later make it easier for the M.C. to make him money.

“Just a few more minutes, and we’ll be out your way.” Isis jumped at the sound, turning away from the street to see Bishop. She hadn’t heard him come outside; didn’t expect him to venture up into her personal space.

Isis’ smile rarely reached her eyes, Bishop noticed. He stepped forward, holding a velvet box that felt heavier than it was. Her fingertips tickled him as he passed it over. Diamonds surrounded in white gold gleamed as the clouds cleared away for the Sun. Even Bishop could admit the set was gorgeous, but she didn’t look impressed. He hated being Galindo’s delivery boy, watching the way her face fell when the gifts she received became increasingly impersonal with each week. Not long ago, he’d also been tasked with passing along handwritten love notes or antique music sheets that she caressed like she would a lover’s skin.

“Thank you.”

She couldn’t hide her disappointment from him. Not for lack of trying-- Miguel always reminded her, appearances were everything. Smile. Don’t make me look bad. But Bishop watched her closely, knew her tells. Despite every nerve in his brain urging him to walk away, he steps forward to stand next to her. His calloused hands rest on the balcony’s edge next to her delicate pair, brown in varying tones of sepia and mahogany contrasting against the white paint.

Bishop feels the heat of her eyes on his frame, but he doesn’t let himself respond. Sharing this moment, a quick breath of fresh air will have to be enough. But she’s all around him, smelling of florals and sweet spices. He can’t think. He fumbles with his pockets in search of a cigarette. “You mind?” She shakes her head but is otherwise silent. Still watching him as he smokes; the way he takes long, steady pulls, cradling the stick between his full lips and then between his strong, veined fingers. She would bet her last dollar that he was an expert at other things involving his fingers and mouth.

When his hand drops again, she links her pinky with his, hesitant but exploratory.

Bishop looks at her, really looks at her like he sees her. It’s nice to be seen, especially when you’re the princess locked up far, far away from everyone you’ve ever known. She’s a black girl from Texas living in Sonora for goodness’ sake. This is no life, and she knows it. Several moments pass where neither can look away, both weighing their desires with the potential consequences.

With a deep breath in, she musters up the courage to ask Bishop what she’s been wanting to for months.

“Stay?”

Her heart feels like it might just explode while she waits for a response.

Bishop drops his head to his chest, cursing under his breath. “Fuck.” If Miguel ever found out… But he already knew what his answer would be. He’d been waiting for the invitation. The heated looks they exchanged, the way her fingers lingered on his when he passed her something. That damned pout she wore when Miguel forgot to send a flower arrangement-- she had no idea Bishop had been the one buying the flowers for some time now. No matter what mood she was in, fresh flowers always brightened her day. He loved watching that lonely look transform into something more lively, curious as she marveled over his choice for the week. He went for variety, slowly learning what she loved and what she just liked; her favorite color, favorite scent.

The subtle tension between them, he wasn’t even certain she noticed. The cash and the bling could’ve blinded her to all other men. But it didn’t.

When the Sun had gone down several hours later, and the guys were gone, Bishop redressed. Belt buckling with a clink, leather sliding over his shoulders easily. He let himself take one last look at her wrapped up in a poofy comforter set. The mustard-yellow velvet complimented her skin in the best way, bringing out a gold undertone. Her eyes seem to have brightened as well. He couldn’t resist leaning over to stroke her sweaty skin. Dark coils stuck to her beautiful face, frizzy in some parts from when she rode him, sweat escaping from her pores, flat in the others from when he laid her on her back and hooked her legs over her shoulders.

He wants to stay, to prop himself up against the intricately carved wood headboard and hold her in his lap while they whisper sweet nothing to each other, but he can’t.

She’s not his, and she won’t ever be, so he leaves her with words whispered like a promise. “Until we meet again, preciosa.”

NOTES || This fic and the collage above was inspired by @isisafrofairy’s gorgeous moodboard! Also, the wonderful “Until we meet again, preciosa” line is hers as well. This is my thank you for the moodboard you made for me. I really leaned on the pictures you used for inspiration and I think I managed to capture/include each element. It was so hard not to ruin the surprise, but I was able to shut tf up for once 😂 I’m really proud of how this turned out, and hopefully you enjoy it just as much! Also, I realize the moodboard had nothing to do with Miguel but he lives in my head rent-free apparently 🥴

GENERAL TAGLIST || @woahitslucyylu @briannab1234 @sheeshgivemeabreak @breakingnewsin-no-oneasked @angelreyesgirl @blessedboo @glimmerglittergirl @apantherinmypastlife @brownsugarcoffy @marvelmaree @starrynite7114 @scuzmunkie @thewarriorprincessxo @sadeyesgf @pearlkitten33 @imanerdychubbyqueen @literaturefeen @ourlittlesecretsoveragain @everyhowlmarksthedead @yourwonkywriter @trulysuccubus @sparklemichele @luckyharley1903 @thesandbeneathmytoes​ @amorestevens​

MAYANS M.C. TAGLIST || @cant-decide-at-this-moment

[paper-n-ashes]

The Late Shift

Characters: Paul Sevier x Female Reader

Words: 2k

Warnings/Tags: There’s actually none (I hope). I know. I’m surprised too.

Authors Note: This is so dumb. I’m aware. Look, I’ve been dealing with a horrendous writers block and shattered confidence and I made Paul Sevier gifs to ease my pain. It turned into this. I just wanted to try something a little cute and fluffy to get back into the swing of things. So... here it is.

*

It was going to be a long night.

Stuck on the Wednesday evening shift for the third time this month, you mindlessly fiddled with the pen in your hand. Twirling it between your fingers, your mind drifted away from the present moment, wondering why your boss seemed to dislike you so much to keep you here past 6pm in the middle of the week. He’d always been adamant this was prime selling time for this boutique suit store, with corporate clients needing to do their shopping outside of normal business hours.

You, however, knew keeping this place open was senseless, barely seeing more than a few unenthusiastic customers in these agonizingly slow stretches. Working on commission also made you all the more bitter about being paid minimum wage to stand behind a counter and doodle sketches of imaginary clients dressed in the outfits you personally tailored. This isn’t where you thought a Bachelor of Arts in Fashion Design would take you, that’s for sure.

“H-hello,” you heard a deep voice quietly greet you, startling you into focus. “Are you busy? I… think I need a little help.”

Eyes flickering up from the notepad, you were sure your pupils blew wide at the sight of the man in front of you. Standing at an imposingly large height, his hair a severely murky shade of black, with honeyed irises shining brightly behind delicate spectacles.

A human personification of tall, dark and handsome. Well, except for the clothes.

The stranger wore the layered combination of a grey tweed jacket and argyle patterned sweater, arranged over a particularly heinous, mustard-coloured button up. While the ensemble made you internally cringe, it gave him an air of intelligence, like the kind that hangs around stuffy, old college professors who have more academic accolades than you have fingers and toes.

“Me?” you coughed out, knowing full well you were the only other person in this tiny little shop. “Uh, yeah. I mean- No, no I’m not busy. What is it you need help with?” Even when you stood, the man towered above you, making you silently begin to calculate the high-numbered measurements you’d need to fit him in something.

“I have an important meeting scheduled for Friday. You know, the type you need to wear a suit to?” Evidently the thought of it made him nervous, as you noticed his cheek twitch slightly, his eyes scanning momentarily at the garments filling the space. “I’m… uh… not so great with clothes.”

Clearly, you chuckled inside your head, holding the word from your tongue. “You want me to pick out something for you?”

He took a defeated breath, his mouth twisting into an awkward yet wonderfully endearing smile. “Would you mind? Only if it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble!” you burst, maybe a little too excitedly. “It’s my job!” Bounding out from behind the counter you’d been imprisoned by, you moved directly to the section of classic navy business suits. Slim line. Something to accentuate his well-built frame, rather than hide it away. You had to pause, swivelling back around to the dumbfounded man. “Is price an issue… uh…?”

“Paul,” he answered for you, slowly moving to where you stood. “And… I suppose not. Probably should spend the money on something that will last. If you think it’s a good idea.”

Oh thank god, you mused without showing the relief on your face. He’s not some rich asshole trying to flash his cash. “A good suit can last you five years, if you treat it right.” Your hand reached over to graze one of the deepened blue sleeves of a jacket at your left. “And a classic colour will never go out of style.”

Paul let out an embarrassed chuckle. “I think you’ve already noticed how lacking in style I am…” He glanced to your nametag, murmuring your name with a goofy smirk curling his lips. You’d never seen a grown man, especially not one of this stature, appear so adorable. It was horribly distracting.

“I’m sure you have expertise in other areas,” you stumbled, realizing only when the words came out how offensive they might seem. Yet Paul conceded to your comment, his rumbling laugh making your chest feel tight.

“Debatable,” he shrugged. “I’m just glad I found some qualified personnel to help me in this instance.”

Oh boy. Humble and charming? You were in so much trouble. Surely someone as sweet as this had another waiting for them at home. “I’m sure your partner could help you pick out something nice too.”

“Not an option in my case.”

Shit. Single too. You were truly fucked.

You turned, trying to calm your erratic heartbeat by focusing on finding an outfit that would contain his longer limbs. Plucking out a matching jacket and trouser set, with an ivory, collared button-up, you offered them to Paul, his features having melted into a sweetened look of intrigue. “Go and try these on. There’s a changeroom just behind the counter. See how they feel, and we can go from there.”

He nodded, taking the pieces with both of his large hands and shuffling away to where you’d pointed to. No sooner than the latch had locked were you dashing to where your phone was sitting at the register, flitting out a rushed text message to your favourite co-worker.

There was rustling you heard emanating from the changeroom stall, doing your best to ignore the urge of picturing Paul, a man you’d met only minutes ago, gradually slipping off his clothes to reveal the toned muscles underneath. You grimaced at yourself, shaking your head to banish the imaginations. God this was unprofessional.

Finally, a response lit up on your phone screen.

You laughed softly through your nose, about to type a reply when you heard the lock click open again. The breath in your lungs was stuck as Paul made his way out, the expensive textiles draping over his burly frame in a way that made your whole body tense.

He rustled a hand through his hair, looking up to you while fidgeting with the starchy material stretched over his chest. “Does it look okay?”

After all these years working this job, the enticing novelty of attractive men in well-fitted suits had slowly worn off, especially when most of them treated you with about as much respect as the used gum they spit out onto the sidewalk. Suddenly, all those preconceived notions were gone. On Paul, this ensemble instantly became the most captivating thing in the entire universe.

The inside of your mouth flooded with saliva, having to swallow hard before speaking again. “Great… it looks… great.” You did your best to conceal a settling exhale. “What do you think? How does it feel?”

Paul shifted to look at his reflection in the mirror, pupils trailing up and down, flexing his limbs in an attempt to get a proper impression of the new apparel. “It feels really good. Makes me look… sophisticated.” He turned to you, his expression unsure. “Right?”

Your smile was sparkling, nodding to his question. There was a small amount of work to do, noting how in your effort to make sure everything complemented his physique, you’d oversized him. The waistline of the jacket needed to be taken in, the shoulder lines sitting slightly off, and the trouser length needing to be taken up slightly. “A couple of adjustments and it’ll be perfect.”

“You mean taking it to be tailored?”

“No need.” You pulled out the wheel of berry pins from your pocket, kneeling down on the floor next to Paul’s feet. “All our tailoring is included in the price. Done completely in house.” You began to fold the bottom edge of his pants, pinning it to an adequate length. “I can have it ready for you tomorrow, all ready for your Friday meeting.”

“You do all the tailoring yourself?” Paul asked as you slinked another pin through the fabric.

“Sure do,” you chirped, moving onto the other leg. “3 years at a design school taught me a few things about cutting and sewing.” With the hemlines in place, you straightened in front of him, plucking out a roll of measuring tape from your other pocket. “I just… need to take a few measurements to properly alter the jacket.”

His cheek twitched, the line of his jaw seeming somewhat strained. “Sure. F-fine. Do what you gotta do."

You went with determining his arm length first, feeling out the boney point of his shoulder and striping the lined tape all the way down to his wrist. Then, after taking a deep inhale, you curled your arms around his hips, focusing hard on the little black numbers to ignore the fact Paul’s breath had started to skate over your skin with this close proximity. It was when you were lining up the thickened stripes indicating his chest circumference that you made the mistake of peering up, finding his alluring stare fully concentrated on you.

There was a moment. A spark to waiting kindling. Where impulse could have led you to do a dangerous thing. You’d never been the hasty type, never acted without considerable thought. Usually so shy and composed, never making the first move. Although right now, you could scarcely hold yourself back, desperate to know the sensation of Paul’s lips, how they’d move over yours, what they tasted like.

No. This was so inappropriate.

The compulsion was about to wither away when you felt a hand skim up your waist, the lightened touch shooting a thrill over your skin.

“Excuse me,” a gruff voice called from your side. “How much are these dress socks?”

You immediately stepped back, smacked into reality again. “$12.99. Exactly what it says on the box.”

The older gentlemen scrutinized the packaging, lids narrowed until he finally saw the numbers plastered at the border. “Oh, right. Eh, a little expensive for my taste. Thanks anyway.”

Flustered, you began to coil the measuring tape into its resting spiral, forcefully glaring at the floor. “I’m all done. You can get dressed into your own clothes now.”

In your periphery you saw Paul regarding you with a gentle nod, walking back into the changeroom without another word. Every part of you wanted to sink beneath the wooden floorboards, so horrendously embarrassed you could feel a smoldering heat prickle at your cheeks. Only to relieve some of the nervous energy, you ran to your phone.

Again, Paul was exiting out of the stall just as you were going to submit your reply, placing the neatly arranged garments over the counter. It was difficult to look directly at him, having to summon all remaining shards of your courage to drift your eyes up to his face. “Was there anything else you needed?”

His mouth parted, only to quickly snap shut, scratching at his hairline in the seconds it took for him to give you a response. “No. Nothing else. Unless there’s something more you think I need.”

You shook your head, wishing you could give another answer just to keep him here. “You’re all set.” The full price of his items flashed on the monitor in front of you, spouting it to him as your fingers flicked across the keyboard to finalize the purchase, with a personal discount that wouldn’t show on the receipt.

“When should I come by to pick it up?” he queried, passing you his credit card. “Oh, but there’s no pressure. Whenever you have the time is just fine.”

An idea flared. “If you give me your number, I can text you when it’s ready.”

“That works for me.”

Erasing all evidence of the conversation you’d been having, you brought up the number pad, handing your phone over. Paul swiftly typed in his details before placing it back in your palm. ‘Paul the Suit Guy’ the contact read, unable to stifle your laugh.  

“So I’ll see you tomorrow?” His eager expression made your heart quiver through a beat.

“Y-yeah,” you stammered. “I’ll see you then.”

Paul waved his hand in an awkward flourish to signal his goodbye, eventually moving far enough from your vision for you to finally take a full, relaxed breath. In a dazed hurry, you keyed in your returning message to your co-worker.

It was the precise moment your thumb had pressed into the ‘Send’ button that you realised your recipient wasn’t the one you’d intended.

You’d sent this message straight to Paul.

Fuck. Oh fuck. This was bad.

While you were scrambling to formulate a believable excuse, a new message popped up onto the screen.

Tags for my lovelies who might tolerate this nonsense: @tlcwrites @roanniom @princessxkenobi @hopeamarsu @blowthatpieceofjunk @mariesackler @leatherboundriot @foxilayde @modernpaw @cornmousequeen @direnightshade @safarigirlsp @blackberries45 @mylifeisactuallyamess @caillea @jynzandtonic @beskarbabs​

[shirophantomvox]

Hold My Hand- Illumi x Reader

OMG thank you! My first international fan! Thank you for this wonderful prompt! This was requested by @illucilfer .

Summary: Today’s story takes place in a 1950s diner by a frequently used Interstate; Interstate 95. We know this dinner for its delicious hamburgers, hot dogs, milkshakes, and jukebox records, but every night one Patreon never returns home. A few men who were angry about your recent arrest have shot you both. As you both stare at each other exchanging mental signals, everyone around you tries to help you to the hospital. Y/N is narrating the story. I seem to have fewer grammar errors that way. FYI, Bold and italicized font will reference a thought or flashback.

Story Navigation

Let’s get started!

The leaves have turned bright yellow and orange, fluttering every second to the ground. I could hear little children a while away laughing and playing in the community park; throwing up the leaves, jumping into piles, and throwing them at each other. The smell of freshly baked donuts brightened everyone’s mood. All you had to do was take one bite and your face would brighten and crack a smile. Dining at Cupid’s Kitchen will always have your heart and interest.

Interstate 95 was always heavy with traffic during this time of year. The folks of Dallas celebrated mulch annually. The “Mulch Fest” was a street fair that stretched 1.5 miles to the east that contained music, drinks, farmer panels, homemaker Q&A, and other activities that southerners enjoy. Illumi and I are only here because of an unfinished assignment. We have worked night and day for countless days trying to catch Jack “Da Hamor” Gilberton, but he was nowhere to be found. Eventually, I allowed my anger to get the best of me and made the executive decision to take a day off. I barred Illumi from searching, tracking, or any form of hunting for our target. The life of a bounty hunter and an assassin can thrill, but it can drive you insane if you allow it.

Ironically, Illumi and I both enjoy fall. It is perfect for cuddling (although he acts as if he’s too good to cuddle), wearing creative hoodies, going to pumpkin patches, and attending apple orchids. I tend to “lose my cool” when we have dates there. When I was a child, my family did not go on trips like these because they were over an hour away from our home and I had 5 siblings. But once I made money for myself, I made it my mission to go to one at least 5 times out of the year. Illumi enjoys the different fudge, hot cider, and candy apples. He almost broke a tooth on one!

“Say cheese snag-a’-tooth!”

“Stop it. It’s not funny!”

“It is! Could you imagine if you lost your two front teeth? You’d look almost adorable as you did in the 1st grade!”

“How did you know about that?”

“Duh! It happens to everyone, but your mother showed me the pictures, of course.”

“Curses!”

Illumi’s sweet tooth is just like Killua’s; both have a weakness for chocolate. Except, Killua will admit defeat while his older brother keeps denying it.

Cupid’s Dinner has been in Dallas for over 55 years. A black woman established it in 1945 by the name of Mary-Lou Benson. Since then, Mary’s family has been running the shop, making sure all of her customers are happy with the service. During the turn of each season, Cupid’s Dinner gives its customer's food options based on the season. The fall options include donuts, candy apples, different flavored cider, fudge, and hot coffee specials. As much as everything looked appetizing, I could not order it all. Our server, Little Ben, placed our drinks in front of us and handed us the menu. I could tell he was happy with his line of work, just as I was to be with Illumi.

“You all take your time. I’ll be back in five.”

Ilumi glanced on both sides of the room, scanning for Jack Gilberton, already forgetting the agreement we established.

“Illumi, what are you doing?”

“Huh?”

“You keep looking around like you’ve seen Da Hamor. Eat your donut and relax, sweetheart.”

“I cannot relax. I must stay on alert.”

“If I can relax, so can you. It’s not that hard.”

“Fine. If I die, it’s on your head… literally.”

The jingling bell rang almost every second when a customer walked in. It was a joy to everyone's ears; the spirit of Mary Lou-Benson was alive and well. An overwhelming feeling of love seemed to have overtaken the diner. After examining the bistro for quite some time now, each customer had been using their cellphones at the table instead of chatting with their families. Many traditional families hated that about this generation but they should be open to new traditions forming. Illumi dislikes using cell phones or tablets at the table unless we use them for missions. He has emphasized how rude it is to be surfing the web about utter nonsense while someone is speaking. This is a pet peeve of his, something I’ll never step on his toe about. Although I think that is overdoing it, I respect it.

Little Ben served our table quickly, leaving us with two dishes of a classic chicken sandwich, kettle chips, one chocolate, and vanilla milkshake. Milkshakes were my weakness; I nearly foam at the mouth when I see one. When I found out that Illumi had NEVER had a milkshake, I almost fainted.

“No. I’ve never had a milkshake.”

“Huh? You’re missing out, pal.”

“What’s the big deal? Isn’t it frozen milk?”

“Not just frozen milk. You can add many flavors, toppings, and whip cream!”

“Well, then. You’ll have to show me sometime.”

We thanked Little Ben for his service as he clocked out for the day.

“I have to admit these sandwiches look very appetizing.”

“You can say that again!”

Before I nibbled on my sandwich, I wanted to take a moment and adore the man before me; Illumi Zoldyck. A man full of mysteries, professionalism, skill, and talent. His enormous eyes were immersed in the large pieces of chicken in between the sourdough bread. He licked his index finger vigorously; allowing the homemade honey mustard to drip enough from the bread to the plate in between licks. Just the sight of him actually relaxing for once has blown me away. For once, Illumi Zoldyck could be himself and I had the privilege to witness it.

“Um… why are you staring at me? Do I have food on my face,” he asked; violently wiping his mouth off with a provided cloth napkin.

“Oh! Ha, ha; no reason. I wanted to see your reaction after drinking your milkshake. That’s all.”

“Why? It’s just a drink.”

“Whatever you say, babe.”

“Babe? What happened to LuLu or Illumi-Lu?”

I gasped and pretended to be surprised… although I was a little.

“I did not know that you liked those pet names. I assumed it mortified you.”

“Who told you that? That never rolled off my tongue. “What I said was” — He bent closer to the table and to me; glancing both to the right and left to ensure no wandering ears were around — “I prefer Illumi-Lu to be said in the bedroom and LuLu when we’re alone, like how we are right now.”

“Aww…. ok,” I yelled in excitement.

“Don’t blow it out of proportion, alright?”

“Yes, sir.”

As we ate, Illumi hummed along to the tune that played a few times on the restaurant's jukebox. Illumi and I were born in the mid-90s, but listening to 50s music was a part of his aesthetic. I was told that he had an “old soul” which sounds romantic at first until you realize how men were during that era. His raging temper was a noticeable toxic trait, but it has drastically improved. Nonchalantly sipping on his milkshake and then eating more of his chips, he grazed the soft part of his left hand over mine as he continued to hum.

“What’s the name of this song? You seem to know it rather well.”

“Put your head on my shoulder, a famous song from the 60s. I heard my parents sing it once and since then, they have addicted me to it. Do you like it?”

“Yes, in fact, I love it. All of this is—”

“A surprise to you? Well, enjoy it while it lasts because once I find Jack Gilberton, this side of me will hide for a while.”

“Understood.”

Damn! I was just feeling connected to him again!

The music swelled; everyone seemed to be happy. Not an evil spirit insight to disrupt this beautiful moment. For once in my life, my raven-haired beauty actually held my hand tight, stole a few of my barbecue kettle chips, and gazed into my eyes harmlessly. His lips brushed against both of my hands, ever so lightly placing kisses on both sides of them. Illumi’s gentle smile warmed my heart as my lingering thoughts of hope stayed intact.

The welcoming bell jingled again. Two men in black leather jackets, stone-washed blue jeans, and tattooed all over their arms came into the diner. The men seemed to be bikers who had just left their own “spot” but one thing struck me as they continued to walk towards the staff. They both wore sunglasses when the sunset for the day. Not to mention that the lights were not dim in the diner and the moon was as bright as ever. The second man had his eyes glued in my direction. My heart beat faster as I wondered if Jack Gilberton had found us. Could you imagine?

Put your head on my shoulder

Hold me in your arms, baby

Squeeze me oh-so-tight

Show me you love me too

I am used to coming in contact with enemies on my hit list, but given Jack’s criminal history; I felt like I may not survive his attacks. Illumi will survive, but just barely. Both men approached the checkout, crowing over Little Ben’s sister. She was a short woman but full of might, and I could tell by the shakiness in her voice she was frightened. I wanted to step in so badly, but I didn't want to blow my cover just in case it was, in fact, Jack Gilberton. After I assume, ordering food, both men stood by the entrance, blocking it from others from entering and leaving. The sound of their old, beat up-lighters crackled as one lit a joint and the other lit a cigarette. This horrid smell ruined the atmosphere because they were not in a designated area and it drowned out the lovely aroma of the food being served.

“If you gentlemen would like to smoke, you need to go outside. There is no smoking in here.”

“What? You think you’re better than me because you don’t smoke?”

“Huh? I never said that, sir. I asked for you to go outside. Not all of our customers can deal with it.”

They did not move a muscle. The sound of their mucous laughter made everyone’s stomach turn. They laughed at the young girl and called her many slurs. Little Ben’s sister didn’t flinch, nor did she cry; she remained still, staring at the men. I had just enough of their obnoxious behavior.

“If you do not leave, I will call the police.”

“The hell you won’t.”

Put your lips next to mine, dear

Won't you kiss me once, baby?

He drew a gun from his left side. He aimed it at Little Ben’s sister and demanded that she emptied the drawer. She refused. Her stone, iron will reminded me of Illumi; no matter the circumstance, they remained intact, determined to fight until the end. Bravery is always encouraged, but too much will cause your life to be taken away. Little Ben’s sister grabbed a fake till that they kept under the real one and threw it at both men. Fake money fluttered everywhere in the small diner, mimicking confetti. Gunshots rang in all directions as the imbeciles recklessly shot, aiming for Little Ben’s sister. Everyone threw themselves on the ground to avoid being shot, but luck cannot spread itself throughout an entire room of people. A young child, an older man, and another worker were shot in their lower leg. Blood reflected from the ground as it continued to seep. Ignoring injured civilians is a jackass move and continuing to deny the fact would prove that the oath I pledge to meant nothing. Sure, bounty hunters must remain hidden, but if someone is injured, I must help them.

The child was lying lifeless on the polished marble floor. He would not respond to my shaking or my silent whispers. When I rolled him over, my heart broke into a million pieces. This child had no chance of survival; a few bullets struck his chest, one just inches away from his heart. A tear rolled down my cheek.

“Why must the good die young,” I whispered to myself.

“... Because snitches get stitches.”

Before I could gain sight of who stated this utterly corny response, I felt an overwhelming amount of pain in my lower back. It felt like a million tiny needles were jabbed so far through my skin that they entered my intestine. I could still hear, but my body would not move. I tried and tried, but my brain would not signal my legs.

Move! Move, damn it!

It’s odd; I could hear myself talk, but my body would not move at all. The sound of another thudding body made my mind jump. My heart had already been pounding enough to try to resuscitate my organs to move, but a familiar semi-blurring sight of none other than Mr. Illumi Zoldyck cleared my sight. My brain went wild. I didn’t know if Illumi died or if he became paralyzed, but one thing is for sure. We finally made eye contact that felt special; something I hadn’t felt since the day I met him. Our contact felt like magnets; an unbreakable bond. Suddenly, my icy hand felt warmth around my palm and fingers. Illumi simultaneously fell in a way that connected our hands. Our unbreakable bond, the warmth of his fingers laying on top of mine, and the gaze we shared somehow made me feel like it was just the two of us alone. I could hear his thoughts loud and clear; thoughts that came from the heart.

“Please help me. Before it’s too late, LuLu,” I cried, thinking I was going insane. “I don’t want to leave if it means leaving you behind.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Not without you.”

“Please! I want to live a life. Life as a bounty hunter, build a support system to our children, and a good lover is all I want to be.”

“You are a warrior and so am I. We have been through worse. This is nothing.”

Mere eye contact is all we need to exchange wandering conversations. The bond that we’ve created is something so strong that I haven’t realized it until now. The warmth emitted from his loose grasp seems to lose its effectiveness. It blurred my vision beyond recognition, leaving Illumi as a near figment of my imagination.

“Oh no. I guess this is it.”

My vision darkened. Illumi was slipping away as my lingering thoughts almost made my heart give out from exhaustion. I was ready to accept my fate, but it seemed like fate had other plans. My vision was still darkening by the second, but my sense of touch remained there. Smooth fingers outline my arms, torso, and chest. I heard muffled voices yelling and screaming about calling for assistance, but I didn’t care if they came or not. I made peace with my life’s end. Bit by bit, my breathing slowed down, but my sense of touch remained heightened. I felt a rubber glove touch my face and neck, examining it for any damage.

The jukebox continued to play Illumi’s favorite song, Put Your Head on my Shoulder. I remembered the day I laid my head on his shoulder; boy, what an endearing moment that was. It was something I took for granted, something I should have savored, for I never knew that this moment would have happened. The song grew muffled by the second verse. That verse repeated every time I tried to force myself to take what felt like my last gaze at my raven-haired beauty.

Just a kiss goodnight, maybe

You and I will fall in love (you and I will fall in love)

-FIN.

A/N: Since you’ve made it to the end, I’ll say something. The reader did not die in the end. They were later revived at the hospital.