#ghost should hire me as their photographer

[terzoluvr]

taps mic hello tumblr!

[oneforthemunny]

pieces of you and me |dad!rockstar!eddie munson x nepo baby!reader|

prompt: your six daughters with eddie are named after the places they're conceived. fluffy little piece I had about nepo baby!reader and rockstar!eddie and their lives as parents, more specifically how they named each of their girls.

contains: mature, sexual themes not graphic but still 18+, minors dni. mom!nepo baby!reader x dad!rockstar!eddie throughout the years.

June 1993 - Corfu Beach, Greece

Your wedding ring dazzled in the Greek sunshine, bright and clear, almost as reflective as the waters in front of you. Corfu Beach was the first stop on your honeymoon trips, after three wedding ceremonies.

The tabloids had gone rabid when you'd announced that your weddings- plural- would be spread out from May to June. Three ceremonies, extravagant but intimate. The first in Palm Springs, an estate near the San Jacinto mountains with just your family. You and Eddie were both only children, the ceremony was sweet and short, an officiant, your parents and grandparents, Wayne and his girlfriend, and the two of you. A silk, slip white dress, custom made by Donatella herself just for you. Eddie wore a tux, the sweetheart, choking back sobs when he read you his vows, promises for your life together. You'd danced under the strung lights, Forever by the Beach Boys, his hand on your back, holding you sweetly. Your private photographer, a family friend, made sure to capture all the intimate sweet moments for you, and it was secluded with no worries of paparazzi.

Then you'd jetted off to Las Vegas, sin city as a couple. Eddie had taken the liberty of renting out Elvis' Little Chapel just for the two of you, hiring the best Elvis and photographer. You'd wore a tiny, leather white dress, garter showing on your thigh. Eddie in an Elvis suit, white just for you. Your friends dressed their part, his band mates, friends from Hawkins, and yours from Beverly Hills and others joined. You didn't remember most of the night, giggling when the Elvis impersonator read you your vows in the mimicking voice. It was a blur, champagne, liquor, and drugs in a penthouse suite at the Palms. You'd woken up a little sick, veil still in your hair and aching between your thighs, ass covered in welts from the night before. Eddie had managed to find a heart shaped paddle on the strip, using it on you when you got back from the 'reception' that was in the other room, where your friends were scattered still.

Lastly, you finished in Paris. Eddie wanted it just to be the two of you, an officiant, and the city of love. He'd gone all out, his vows seemed to triple in size from the first ceremony. Tucked away in a Parisian Chateau that had a stunning view of the Eiffel Tower in the backdrop, Eddie poured his heart out to you, vulnerable and raw. You both sobbed through your vows, heavy with emotion that pored out with each word, kissing each other before the officiant ever gave you the signal.

Now you were here, Greece. The beaches were beautiful, the wine delicious, and the waters stunning. Eddie had rented a small boat for the two of you, drifting off the coast of the secluded resort you were staying at. You were thankful for the intimacy, relaxing in the warm sun, topless, the true European experience.

"I think we should do this more often," Eddie grinned, blocking the sun from your view, standing tall over you.

You shielded your eyes, looking up at him. The sun haloed around his curls, his inked skin a little pinkish from the rays. He looked angelic.

"I think you just like to see me topless." You smirked.

"I think you'd be right." Eddie scoffed, kneeling down between your legs on the towel. "Can you blame me? Look at them." He squeezed your boobs lightly. "My girls. All mine, forever."

You let out a soft laugh, his lips ghosting over yours, fingers rubbing your pebbled nipples between the two of you. He kissed you slow, sweet, taking his time to truly taste you, feel you.

He was between your legs before you knew it, his cock splitting you open, harsh thrusts that left the small boat rocking and shifting with the waves. You'd gotten on top, hips swiveling and rocking with every rise and fall, his hands gripping your hips harsh.

You two spent the day like that, him filling you up raw, pumping his release deep inside of you, leaving you dripping him for the rest of the day on shaky legs.

The thrill of the ceremonies, of the honeymoons, of being hopelessly, completely in love with Eddie had your head spinning. You were still on the high of the first two ceremonies when you'd left for Paris, forgetting your birth control on the counter of the Hills home.

It wasn't until nearly a month later, when you finally returned, still in bliss and the rush of that newly wed feeling, that you realized. Staring at the silver packet that mocked you. You hoped that maybe you'd be lucky, maybe your body was just adjusting from jet lag and the different time zones. You were dehydrated from your time in Europe, maybe that was it.

A month later, you sat in the gynecologist office, the wand pressed over your belly, showing the small blip on the screen, Eddie's ringed hand tight in yours. "Looks like you're about seven weeks along, Mrs. Munson." The doctor said, looking over at you.

Eddie's eyes shined at you, teary and wide. You were both scared, overwhelmed. "Greece." He muttered. "It must've been our honeymoon, shit- well, that makes sense."

Persephone June Munson was born February 17th, 1994.

November 1994 - London, England

"Christ, fuck, it's cold." Eddie grumbled, hands buried deep in his leather jacket, air fogging around him.

You snorted, rolling your eyes. "That's why I told you to bring a jacket." You hummed, Burberry plaid scarf whipping in the harsh winds. You held Persephone closer to your chest, she was bundled up in her hat and scarf under your own heavy jacket, but you still worried she'd still be cold.

At ten months old, she was the spitting image of her daddy. Eddie's twin through and through, shining brown eyes that were so expressive and little chocolate curls that were starting to spiral on the ends of the tufts of downy, baby hair. She was your kryptonite, your little angel, for both of you.

Parenthood fit you both very well, to the surprise of nearly all the media. You and Eddie navigated being parents like you did anything else, head first and a little stubborn. After many sleepless nights, parenting books, and the help of your own parents, you'd finally felt accomplished. Eddie didn't want to miss a second of being a dad, and you couldn't blame him, not when the most precious creation on the Earth was looking back at you.

The tour and Corroded Coffin's album had been pushed, finally releasing in September. Eddie knew he'd have to tour soon, the two of you were still working out if you'd stay or go, but when he'd been asked to play at a concert in Wembley Stadiums, headlining with Metallica and Ozzy and all the legends he'd looked up to, he couldn't turn it down.

Now, the three of you were walking down South Kensington in London, heading towards the Natural History Museum with your baby- oh, how times had changed. Eddie smirked, stepping closer to you, looking down your jacket.

"Can she breathe in there? Is she alright?" Eddie asked, eyes scanning the two of you. All he could see of little Persephone was the little pink poof that sat on top of her hat, bobbing and hitting your chin with every step.

"She's fine, aren't you Sephy?" You cooed down at her, pulling your jacket back. Eddie looked down, melting at the brown eyes that stared back at him, chubby cheeks a little red from the warmth of your jacket. "Say, quit worrying daddy, mama's got me." You mimicked a high pitched baby voice that had her giggling.

Eddie grinned, pulling you close to him, his lips pressing a sloppy, wet kiss to your cheek. The security in front of you and behind you followed closely, one holding the door while you climbed into the room. The guide waited cheerily at the front, excited to take the infamous rockstar on a private tour.

You held Persephone, still in her little hat but your own jacket shedded. Eddie watched you, how you'd coo sweetly at her, pressing kisses into her little cheeks, swaying with her when the guide would explain the areas.

Eddie felt his heart swell, boasting and filling with love and pride, and something else. Something primal and deep and lustful. It was different from before. Usually the type of thrill that came with drugs, performing for thousands, then having groupies throw themselves at his feet. Now, he felt it deep in his chest, the protectiveness he had over you, over Sephy, his little family.

"You think she'd stay down for a nap if we take her back to the hotel?" Eddie growled low in your ear, teeth nipping at your lobe playfully.

You swatted him away, rolling your eyes. "I doubt it." You gave him a pointed look. "She has like a sixth sense for when were about to fuck." You snorted playfully, looking down at your little baby.

Eddie gave a soft smile, taking Persephone from your arms, snuggling her tight in his arms. She giggled, reaching to grab onto his curls. You grinned when she did, yanking them down hard, pulling at the scalp. Eddie hissed, moving his head with her to alleviate some of the pull. "Easy, easy, sweetheart," He muttered, opening her little fists.

You told him a million times to put his hair up around her. She was going through a grabbing stage. Anything and everything. The two of you had to re-baby proof the house when she'd started crawling, her tiny hands grabbing onto anything and everything she could.

"She's got a fucking iron grip." Eddie grunted, pulling his scalp back, tossing his hair over his shoulders. He knitted his brows, looking down at Persephone playfully. "Don't you? You're just a strong lil thing aren't ya?" He cooed, excitedly, bouncing her in his arms.

You smiled at her little giggles, the faintest crease in her chubby cheeks, hinting that she'd inherit dimples like her daddy. You shouldn't be surprised at this point, she was Eddie's twin, but it still made you a little jealous every time a new feature came in and it was a carbon copy of him.

"The next one will look just like ya, babe." Eddie would wink when you'd huff to him about it. "If not, we can just keep trying and trying and trying 'til one looks like ya." He always said it like he was joking, but the way his eyes darkened, you wondered if he truly was.

Persephone had gone down easily for her nap, and you were thankful. You figured she was still exhausted from the flight. You'd flown private with the band, your parents insisted on it, which benefited the two of you more than anyone else. Her little ears hurt from the pressure, whimpering and sobbing in the little bedroom on the back of the plane while you and Eddie tried to soothe her.

Eddie had gone for a soundcheck with the band, leaving you at the hotel with Sephy, unwinding in the cool linens of the hotel. You ran your hand down the bed, gnawing at your bottom lip. The last time you'd been at this hotel in London, it was with Eddie, but very differently. The two of you had just begun... whatever you wanted to call the relationship. You'd flown out on a red eye to London when he started his European tour, letting him fuck you hard and mean, tying you up to the headboard and having his way with you.

Now, you had a baby, you were married, and life was so different.

The door clicked shut, locking gently. Eddie could hear the sound machine, white noise that washed out the busy streets below next to the crib. You held your finger to your lips, nodding towards Persephone, who napped in her little portable crib.

Eddie smiled lovingly, looking over the edge of her crib. He climbed into the bed with you, gently laying down beside you. "She been asleep long?" He whispered.

You shook your head, your nose touching his. "Just a few minutes. I fed her and she was exhausted." You smiled, hands running over his shirt, down his arms. He perked up at the movement. "I think we have some time if you want to..." You bit your lip suggestively.

Eddie's eyes flicked from you back to the crib. "Here?" He whispered, ringed finger pressing into the bed.

You rolled your eyes. "We can go in the bathroom." You nodded to the spacious bathroom on the other side of the room. "Just be quiet."

Eddie grinned wide, letting you pull him by his hand towards the bathroom. "You be quiet," He whispered, pressing the door closed softly. "You're always the one screaming."

You rolled your eyes, wiggling your pants off. "Just hurry up." You huffed, tossing your discarded clothes to the ground, bending over the counter.

Eddie grinned, dropping to his knees. He pulled the lacy little thong off, smirking at your choice of panties. "Let me taste you first," Eddie rasped, ringed hands pulling your cheeks apart, revealing your slick puffy lips. He nearly drooled. "'S been too long, baby, let me have a taste."

You bit down on the back of your hand hard, smacking the faucet on, hoping the steady water stream would muffle your whimpers that escaped while Eddie devoured you over the counter. Miraculously, Sephy stayed asleep while Eddie pounded you hard, hips snapping against yours, holding you up to look at you through the mirror, hand around your neck.

He had more adrenaline after that, seeing his cum drip and spill out of your sopping hole. He pushed it back in with his pointer finger, smirking when you whimpered, collapsed over the vanity, cheek pressed to the marble countertop of the bathroom.

Four weeks later, you were sure you'd caught a virus. Stomach lurching and exhausted beyond belief.

Eight months later, that 'virus' was crowning, pushing out of you while you swore and threatened Eddie.

Kensington Klein Munson was born on August 3rd, 1995.

February 1998 - Milan, Italy

You'd been reluctant to go. You knew getting invited to Fashion Week in Milan was a big deal, especially since your long time friend was showcasing his line there, fresh new styles curated for the runway.

"Button, just go," Your mother sighed. "Daddy and I have it covered. We've raised a baby before, and look at you, you turned out just divine."

Still, you were hesitant to leave. You never left your babies often, hating the feeling- it was one you knew all too well. It was only a few days after Persephone's birthday, it felt too soon. And Kensington was going through a particularly nasty clinging stage with you, wailing and sobbing herself to near hyperventilation when you weren't in her sight.

Eddie had coaxed you sweetly, reminding you it's only be for a few days. He knew you didn't want to travel alone, and he too had been invited, so he offered to come with you, leaving your babies with your mom and dad.

You could hardly sit through the plane ride, guilt and nerves making you tight and irritable the entire time.

Eddie pressed sweet kisses into your skin, muttering that it would be ok. You were tense with every passing second. Tense during the pre-show dinner the night before, tight lipped smile and clutching your cell phone tightly. You'd given your hotel number to your parents, and instructed the concierge to forward it to the restaurant immediately if they called.

Even the wine, your favorite from Tuscany, didn't help soothe your nerves. Pouty the whole night, ignoring Eddie's sweet touches. You'd scurried to the phone when they said there was a call for you, nearly knocking over a waitress in the process.

It was your parents calling with the girls, ready to say goodnight. "Oh, Kensie, I know, sweet girl," You cooed sweetly, and Eddie could see your own heart breaking through the phone. "Mama and Daddy will be back so soon, baby angel, I promise."

Eddie rubbed your back soothingly. He could hear Kensie's wails and blubbering over the phone, through the noise of the restaurant. "You're with sissy, and Glammy," You sucked in a breath, fighting an eye roll at your mother's outrageous name she'd chosen for her grand babies to call her. You pulled the phone away, another heart wrenching wail, making your face crumble.

Eddie wrenched the phone out of your grasp lightly, pressing it to his ear. "Is that my sweet Kensie crying?" He cooed lowly into the phone. You pressed closer to hear. Her cries stuttered, shushing temporarily at her father's voice. "That can't be my sweet Kensie crying, is it?"

"It is, dad." Persephone's grumbled voice came from the background. "She hasn't stopped crying." Even at four, she was all attitude. She might have gotten Eddie's look, but he swore she got all your sass.

Eddie bit back a grin. "Sephy, can you hear me too?" He asked. She confirmed. "I need you to be extra sweet to your sister, ok? Mommy and Daddy will be back soon."

"And we'll bring you gifts back if you're good!" You added, yelling into the phone.

Eddie glared at you lightly, rolling his eyes. Persephone seemed excited at the promise. "Kens, Seph, can you both be good for Glammy and Pop-Pop?" His younger self would be raging at the nicknames.

"We'll be good, Daddy, prowmise." Persephone said sweetly through the phone. Eddie's heart swelled.

"Good." He grinned back. "You have good dreams, ok? Call us in the morning." You reached for the phone, pulling it away from his ear.

"Have sweet dreams, my angel babies." You cooed. "Daddy and Mommy love you so much. We miss you so much."

Your mother took the phone, chatting with you for a moment before you hung up, hesitantly, shoulder's deflating in defeat. You looked tired, dull, so unlike yourself. Eddie frowned, his hand circling your waist, pulling you close.

"C'mon," He nodded, pulling you towards the door. "Let's go back to the hotel."

"But-"

"-Tell them I got sick." Eddie shrugged. "I wanna spend some time with you. It's the first night alone we've had in a while."

You smiled gently, wrapping your arms around his torso. He shielded you from the paparazzi, ringed hand shoving cameras when they crowded outside your hotel, shouting at them all the way to the elevator.

When he got you back into the hotel, his hands on your back, smoothing over the fabric of your dress. "You know what we haven't done in a while?" Eddie grinned lightly. You hummed. "You haven't let me tie you up and have my way with you in a while."

Your thighs twitched, pressing together under the dress. "Ed," You let out a breathy sigh, squealing when he pinched the fat of your ass. "Kinda hard to do that when the kids are around."

"Well, the kids aren't around now." Eddie smirked, squeezing and kneading your cheeks. "No one to bother us all week. C'mon..." He was already moving towards you, lips slotting over yours to capture your lips in a sweet kiss, tongue sliding easily into your mouth.

You melted into the kiss, relaxing for the first time since you stepped off the plane. Eddie pulled you closer, fingers splayed out on the small of your back, pressing you farther into him. His lips pulled apart from yours, soft lips pressing into your cheek gently. "C'mon, baby," He rasped into your ear. "Be my good girl."

You perked, eyes meeting his, dark, hungry eyes shining back down at you. You rolled your lips like you were really thinking it over, but your hand was already reaching for your zipper.

"Fine, but only your hand if you spank me." You warned, pointing at him sternly. "We have to sit like all day tomorrow, and I better be able to sit." You glared at him, letting the slinky dress fall to your ankles.

Eddie's grin widened, eyes lighting up with excitement. You smirked, rolling your eyes, climbing on the bed. He fumbled through his bag, pulling out the leather cuffs. You lifted a brow. "So you were planning this?"

Eddie shrugged. "Maybe. Knew we'd be alone. Figured I might as well take advantage of my opportunity." He grinned.

You snorted, rolling on your stomach and letting him cuff you behind your back. Eddie hauled you into his lap, spanking you until your ass blossomed with red splotches and you were crying out. He fucked you hard into the mattress, skin burning and nails raked down his back and shoulder.

You were limping to the show next week, only sitting through your friend's show before disappearing back to the hotel, judgmental looks be damned. Eddie had his way with you the rest of the trip, the two of you refusing to leave the hotel room, fucking hard and nasty like you used to before; before the kids and before the marriage, before you two even liked each other.

You squirmed the entire plane ride home, finding refuge in Eddie's lap while he let you curl up into his chest. You ached between your legs, ass burning, chest littered in hickies you hoped the girls wouldn't see.

Nine months later, you were back in a familiar position, screaming in pain while you pushed out not one, but two babies; twin girls. Eddie nearly fainted at the ultrasound.

Sicily Giselle and Sienna Noelle Munson were born December 1st, 1998.

June 1999 - Sharm El Sheikh, Egypt

It was an anniversary gift, celebrating your wedding date from Farrah. You loved to travel, you and Eddie both, and since you saw the feature on Egypt, you'd wanted to go.

Farrah offered to watch the kids while you and Eddie had a get away, a romantic trip to the beautiful El Fanar Beach. "Just bring me back something nice, ok?" She winked playfully.

Eddie was in paradise, literally. You, him, and a private resort a haven for just the two of you. He'd taken you shopping to the local vendors, and you knew you had to pick up a bottle of perfume. Everyone raved about the fragrance, how decadent and strong it was- one of a kind. You'd fallen in love with one, dousing yourself in it during the trip.

Eddie seemed to like it too, burying his face in your neck, wrists, chest wherever you sprayed it, nuzzling need and sweet into you, inhaling you deeply like he might lose the scent if he didn't. You giggled when he nipped at your neck, loose, flowing linen dress flying around you in the breeze of the balcony.

The water was a gorgeous turquoise, but you hadn't managed to get in it yet. Every time you changed into your swimsuit, Eddie had you crowded around whatever was nearest, bending you over or pushing you against the surface, fucking you deep and slow.

"Ed, please," You whined, his crotch digging mercilessly into you, lips sucking and nipping at the skin of your neck, still raw from earlier. "Please, I-I wanna go to the beach."

"We'll go," Eddie hummed, lips ghosting down your collarbones. "We'll go after, I promise."

"You said that yesterday." You whined, huffing when he toyed with your clit through your swimsuit. "Ed, please-"

"-You just look too good, baby, fuck." Eddie groaned. "Smell too good. They put crack in that perfume. Made you irresistible." He growled, nipping at your ear.

You giggled, relenting when he dropped to his knees, licking you slowly until you were a puddle, sliding down the wall and further onto his tongue, hands gripping his curls.

Eddie went out and bought every bottle they had of that perfume, packing it back over on the plane, his nose still buried deep in your neck.

You blamed the perfume on why you were ringing in the millennium heavily pregnant, sipping soda water instead of champagne with your friends. That damn perfume, but it had a beautiful name, one you passed on to your daughter a month later, saving the original bottle in your safe just for her one day.

Zahra Wayne Munson was born on January 19th, 2000.

March 2007- Las Vegas, Nevada

You felt a little tipsy, stumbling in your stilettos across the marbled floors backstage. It was easier these days to get drunk. Younger you would never believe that you lose your tolerance when you get older, yet here you were thirty-seven, stumbling through The Colosseum at Caesar's Palace.

Corroded Coffin had been retired for years now, since the twins, really. Eddie had agreed to do a few shows, but hung up his guitar, trading it over to be a family man instead. He still dabbled in projects, produced, and some other things to occupy his time, but he wanted to be present with the girls, with you. It shocked the world that the both of you were as dedicated parents as you were.

Now, your oldest was thirteen, your youngest seven. Your little family complete and perfect. You were still reluctant leaving them, even if they were older, but it was a special event. Corroded Coffin live in concert at Caesar's, Eddie couldn't turn it down. And the two of you would never turn down Vegas, no matter how mature you were.

"Hey there, sexy mama." Eddie slurred, drunk and flirty. You giggled, gripping onto this leather clad arm. The show had ended hours ago, the after party raging on into the early morning.

"What're you doin'?" You giggled, watching him grab at your ass, hand ducking under your dress to squeeze your cheeks harsh.

"You just look so fuckin' good baby, goddam," Eddie grinned, swaying with you in his arms. "You're so pretty. So pretty."

You snorted. "You're horny." You grinned, feeling his half hard dick against you.

Eddie rolled his tongue over his cheek. "You're right. Can you blame me? With how good you look?"

You blushed, arms circling around his neck, pulling him closer to you. "I think-I think you look really pretty too." You smiled, nuzzling your nose against the scruff of his cheeks.

He pulled you in closer at the waist, hands still firm on your ass. You knew you were too old to be acting like this, you were parents and adults, you should behave. But you couldn't get enough of him. A little over fifteen years together, five babies, and you still couldn't get enough; that might be why you had the five babies.

"I think," Eddie whispered into your ear. "I think we should go to the bathroom." His eyes lit up suggestively.

"The bathroom?" You asked, giggling.

He was already waltzing you through the crowd, towards the private restrooms in the back. He'd had you already in the dressing room, you dropped to your knees when he came in, sucking him off until he fucked you hard over the table. Just like when you were younger, when everything was new and exciting.

He was insatiable then and still now, that never changed.

The bathroom door clicked with a lock, spacious and extravagant like the rest of the room was. Eddie hoisted you up on the bathroom counter, hands roaming every square inch of your body, needy and slipping under the fabric of your dress. You giggled, throwing your head back on the mirror, letting his fingers work you open.

He pulled your thong down, black lace with 'CC' crocheted on the front; a true artifact, made in 1992 when you went to your first Corroded Coffin concert. He fucked you back stage, and you surprised him with it. Somehow, your panties made their way into the lyric pages of their next CD.

Eddie laughed, holding them up by the band, eyes widening back at you. You blushed, shrugging gently. "Surprise, baby." You giggled. "I thought you'd see them earlier."

Eddie groaned loudly, tying his hair up with the thong before plunging head first between your legs. You squealed and gasped and writhed on the counter, his hands gripping your waist hard holding you into place.

He fucked you in the bathroom, trapping you against the wall, hips snapping into yours while you grabbed at his ass. There was no need for birth control, condoms, or having him pull out. He'd gotten a vasectomy after Zahra, you were done having babies, giving up on having your boy and accepting having all beautiful girls.

Or so you thought.

You returned to Los Angeles with more than just a hangover. The Las Vegas night was truly one you'd never forget, even if you didn't exactly remember everything, because- to both of your surprises, your urine test came back positive.

Vega Jo Munson was born October 29th, 2007.

[soapyghostie]

Hi! i love reading you little stories about danny ‘jed olsen’ johnson!! I was hoping you could make a post about how he would look, like: many body scars, soft muscular body, or strong and tougher kind of body. Hope you understood what i was asking for, i tried to explain it the best i can! <3

You mean like general headcanons? I did a mixture of both his appearance and his personality if that’s okay. There is a link of a visual of what I think Danny looks like at the very bottom. Hope you enjoy!

The Ghost Face/Danny Johnson

This man has many scars all over his body from his victims trying to defend themselves, but failed. Where he has scars the most is definitely his legs and chest where victims have landed sharp objects deep past his suit, into his skin. I guess his leather suit can’t protect him all the time. He has a giant scar running right through his left eyebrow. Him being the cocky bastard he is, he loves to show it off to his coworkers and make up an insane story for it. The crazy thing is that they actually believe him. 

His gaze can intimidate anyone. He has these stern yellow eyes that will make you shrink into your skin if he glares at you. However, when he gives someone puppy dog eyes, you can’t resist. There’s no way you can say no to those gorgeous yellow eyes. Additionally, I just wanted to say, his eyes make him look cat-like. 😂 

Danny has a very lean body. He has to be strong so he can overpower his victims. However, he isn’t bulky because he also has to be fast and carrying a ton of muscle will slow him down. He definitely works out a lot. I’d say he runs 7-8 miles and hits the gym at least two hours everyday because, let me tell you, he is definitely shredded. (I’m sorry. This headcanon is definitely the runner coming out of me.) 

Danny has short, but fluffy black hair. He makes sure to keep it silky soft so he can easily run his hands through it. Also, to wow the ladies; he knows women love a man with gorgeous, silky hair. Dingus. 

Dude, this man is literally so silent. He can judge which floorboards creak, which doors squeal when opened, what shadows keep him hidden from sight. It’s insane. Literally a god. 

I think we all have gotten a glimpse of how much of an asshole and narcissist he is. He’s extremely mischievous, confident, and thinks he’s the biggest lady-killer. Spoiler alert! He really isn’t no lady-killer: he can’t even get a lady for the life of him. His cheesy pick-up lines and flirting skills are full of crap. He better be glad he has his looks or he’d get himself slapped across the face. 

Danny is a fantastic photographer. He makes sure that any photo he takes is on point. He’s a perfectionist. If he takes a photo, no matter if it’s for work or snapping photos of victims, it has to be perfect or he scratches it out of his camera roll. 

He is a great writer as well. I don’t know why the Roseville Gazette would hire him if he wasn’t. 🤷‍♀️ Anyways, a fucking unit at punctuation. He uses semicolons way too much than he probably should, just like me, and he knows it too. Hey! If it looks good and sounds good then that is all that matters. He’s also a pretty fast typer and always proofreads his writing at least 4 times before turning it in for publishing. He tends to get all his work done before all his coworkers. 

He keeps a journal where he writes important information about his victims: where they live, their daily routines, and stuff like that. He also sketches out what each and every one of his victims looks like next to his notes. 

He’s pretty cold-hearted and has an obsession for fame and recognition. He wants everyone to know who he is and to fear him. He’s addicted to the fear frozen on his victims faces when he calls them and has dozens of pictures of his victims hidden in his nightstand drawer to use for his articles.

Even though he’s a phenomenal journalist, he doesn’t get paid that much so this man literally lives off of ramen. However, he loves himself a nice home cooked meal: anything that takes a long time to cook to be honest. He would cook if he wasn’t so bad at it. 

He loves himself a good bargain; he loves the power they hold over someone. The moment someone breaks their side of the deal, he can break his and they’re over and done with if you know what I mean. 👀

He loves drama. He’ll listen to all the tea and no one will know he’s listening in either. He’ll start spreading it around to all the other coworkers. Now everyone knows the business. That’s why you never whisper shit while Danny is around because he’ll get a hold of that gossip one way or another. 

Danny Johnson visual

Hey you guys! Just a quick note that I’ll get to your requests on Saturday. This was the easiest request in my inbox so I didn’t have to think about what I wanted to write as much as I have to with other requests. I’m just so exhausted from camp, but I wanted to post something new for you guys to read. I hope you enjoyed it.

[shapesdefined]

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Consumers are drawn to attractive imagery before reading any text or caption accompanying it, proving the importance of having eye-catching and quality product images. We’ll answer some questions about professional product photography to help you understand its significance.

How can professional product photography near me help communicate my brand’s value?

Product photography can be an investment that can boost brand and product recall. Professional photographers have the skill and vision to communicate the value, innovation, and creativity of your business to your customers. Professional photos of your products can convince prospects that you care about their needs and wants. Moreover, they encourage loyalty and repeat business.

I can take my own pictures, so why should I hire a professional to do it?

Have you seen a poorly taken photograph of a product with unflattering lighting and an inappropriate background? How did the image make you feel? Did it make you interested in the product and make the business seem credible to you?

Professional product photography can perfectly show the quality of your products while boosting your brand image’s credibility. Images can influence first impressions, as humans are naturally visual-oriented. According to statistics, 93 per cent of consumers consider visual appearance critical to their buying decisions.

Hiring a professional product photographer lets you avoid the guesswork in making your products look great in photos. They have the gear and the know-how to show your goods in the most flattering angles.

Can professional product photography near me increase sales?

Professional product images can entice customers to browse your products and drive their purchasing decisions. Today’s consumers have less patience and would rather look at pictures or watch videos than read product descriptions. That’s why you need impactful product images that instantly capture their attention and encourage them to buy.

How do I choose a photographer that offers professional product photography near me?

Find a local photographer with an inclusive approach to product photography. Look for a professional with packshot photography techniques to provide the best photos of products taken from various angles while proudly showing off your labelling and packaging. Reputable photographers can provide other services, such as macro, vertical or ghost mannequin, flat product, still life, lifestyle shot, and model photography.

About the Author:

This article is written by Allan Rufus, Marketing Manager at Shapes Defined, a fully automated studio in Dubai, which specializes in offering high quality ecommerce product photography services. Their photo solutions and services include from HD photography to 360° rotations and 3D interactive animations to business from fashion and apparel, food, sports, electronics, and more.

[datawyrms]

Misplaced Courage

In his quest to expose Phantom, Wes enlists the help of the mayor. Everyone finds out Wes was right in the worst way possible. Prompts by @idiot-cheesehead-archenemy and @crackedfoutainpen Happy(?) Phic Phight everyone! On Ao3

It was ridiculous how no one could tell Danny Fenton and Danny Phantom were one and the same. He barely tried to hide it, content to be shielded by the fact Phantom was a ghost. After all, who would possibly think some dead kid was also an alive kid?

Honestly, Wes was pretty sure ‘Fenton’ was just a handy disguise for the ghost. It explained all of his little ‘accidents’ with the school glassware, how the black haired boy just happened to go missing whenever a big ghost fight went down. Oh and who could forget Tucker Foley and Sam Manson, who often helped Phantom? They just so happened to be Fenton’s BFFs? It was so obvious!

There were holes in the theory. Yes, both had been seen together at the same time, but both had been acting strangely. It was rare for that to happen. Yet everyone just liked to dismiss it because ‘Fenton’s a weak loser’ or ‘You think Phantom lives with ghost hunters’ and he was sick of all the mockery and wilful blindness to the facts right in front of him.

Which is why he had called Mayor Masters to let him know that he had information on Danny Phantom. If anyone was going to listen, it had to be him. The mayor made his disdain for the ghost boy clear countless times. If even he wouldn’t even try to see the truth, no one would.

The fact the mayor had scheduled a meeting with him the very next day put a flicker of hope back in his heart. Finally someone would take him seriously, someone could see the threat lurking nearby every single day.

Wes made sure his meticulous notes and (stealthily taken) photographs sat securely in the prepared folder and felt a brief bolt of pride whenever he caught a glimpse of it during the too long school day. Soon everyone would know. Soon he wouldn’t be some joke.

“Mr. Weston, was it? Please, take a seat.” Vlad Masters said, gesturing to the seat across from the grand mahogany desk. His smile was friendly, but felt sharp instead of comforting. Of course it was only there to be polite, but Wes couldn’t shake the chill snaking down his spine. “I heard you found out something about our local ghost pest?”

Most of the decorations here felt a little too big, too expensive for a mayor’s office. Though not many mayors were also billionaires. The explanation should have calmed his heart, dislodge the worry. This was stupid, he was going to finally expose Fenton for what he was, and he was getting cold feet because a rich and powerful man was just across the desk. He had to try. Mr. Masters wouldn’t just laugh at the suggestion. He would listen, he had to. He took a breath to steady his nerves and gave a lopsided smile back. “Yes sir. I found out how Danny Phantom manages to hide all the time, so that you never catch him.”

Vlad leaned forward ever so slightly in his chair, eyebrows arching in a clear display of interest. “Did you now? When I’ve had million dollar bounties on that ghost, and no one could get results?”

“Yes! Everyone was overlooking it, maybe the people you hired couldn’t do it because he doesn’t hide out around adults. He hides around other teenagers, like me.” Better to not make it sound like everyone the mayor hired was totally incompetent. Even if they were. 

“Fascinating. Can you elaborate?”

Okay, he looked interested, he was listening. He shouldn’t just brush off the truth like everyone else did. “The ghost boy can pretend to be human. Or is one, I guess since no one else seems to notice. I know who he is.”

“Now that is quite a serious accusation, Mr. Weston. You think a ghost is just hiding among regular people, dodging every ghost repelling measure that’s been taken?”

The doubt. He was losing him. Wes fumbled for the folder, only barely managing to place it on the desk without shaking. “I know it sounds weird, but I have proof! Not like a picture or anything, but if you connect all the dots it’s obvious!”

“Obvious? My boy, are you telling me that you think a human could act with the powers of a ghost?” Vlad leafed through the folder with one hand, but didn’t seem to be giving it his full attention. No. Those pale blue eyes were more fixated on him, for some reason.

“I know he is sir. Danny Fenton IS Danny Phantom. The ghost illness proved people could get powers! I don’t think he’s sick though- I think he’s always like that. Somehow.”

“So you’re suggesting an entire family of ghost hunters that is unaware of a ghost living in their home?”

Why did everyone ask that? “Uh, with no disrespect Mr. Masters, I kind of doubt they’d ever consider it possible- especially if the ghost was their kid.”

“True, true, Jack is almost impressive in his boundless ignorance.” The folder closed with a sudden snap, dropped with no ceremony. “Now my boy, who else have you told about this theory of yours? I wouldn’t want to waste time repeating it to those you’ve already informed.”

He was going to do something? Look into it just like that? Really? The joy he should feel was uncomfortably lodged in his throat, the voice in the back of his mind screaming it was too easy, too sudden. The mayor didn’t even want time to read over everything, he was accepting it just like that? “Well no one at school believes me, so I guess you’re the only one that even thinks this should be taken seriously?”

“So it’s fairly common knowledge that you believe that you know Phantom’s true identity then, even if they fail to understand it, I see.” He steepled his fingers and stared at the wall, pondering. When he unfroze from that position he tapped a key on his phone. “Cancel the rest of my schedule for today, something much more important has come up. Thank you.”

“Really? You’re going to find out what he’s up to right now?” Maybe he could help? Rub it in Fenton’s face a little once everyone knew he wasn’t who he pretended he was.

“Why of course. I couldn’t risk such news not being acted on immediately,” he said as he stood, keeping a close eye on the boy. “Did you have any other folders like this? Evidence and the like? My experts should be fully informed, you understand.”

“O-Of course! I can get you anything that would help.”

“Wonderful. We can take my limo to your abode and sort out what you’ve gathered,” his tone left no room for argument, sweeping out of the room with a presence that practically made Wes want to cower in its wake.

Should success feel like this? The looks, the praise just felt off. A little too perfect and calculated. No, no that was just his paranoia acting up again. He could follow with confidence and pride. Maybe it was just a bit of guilt towards Fenton. Not that he deserved any pity, lurking around and just controlling people, using his powers to screw with him because it was ‘funny’. The creep of a ghost deserved to get hunted down and dealt with. The plush limo seats didn’t ease the tingle, but he just dug his fingernails into his palms and forced himself to ignore it. This is what he wanted.

—

“I’m just saying we might actually win if you don’t use your controller” Tucker pleaded as he elbowed Danny as they walked onto the school yard. “You can react so much faster in person!”

Sam smirked at his antics. “In your dreams, Tuck. Danny knows I have him beat even when he cheats.”

“Hey! It’s not cheating, it’s uh. Creative control schemes.”

“Suuuure it is. You’d think you’d be a better shot by now.”

“I’m not that bad. It just hurts when you sneak up on me!” Danny rubbed the back of his neck, giving Tucker a weak grin. “Seriously though, I get hit enough without needing to feel it when we’re playing Doomed. Sorry.”

“Aw mannnn. She’s gonna thrash us again if we don’t try something new!”

“Try practicing,” was the goth’s suggestion, earning an eye roll from her friend.

Danny opened his mouth to make a retort but froze as the frosty breath of his ghost sense escaped instead of words. Great. “First thing in the morning? I’m going to get marked late again!” He scowled as he shrugged off his backpack and handed it off to Tucker.

“Hey, at least your stuff will be in class on time.”

“Maybe it can take notes for me too. If it’s the Box Ghost I’m gonna kick him into next week for this.”

“You’re sure you don’t want backup?” Sam frowned at the bag, already reaching for her own.

“All of us being late because we’re chasing a ghost would look really bad, so yeah. I’ll be fine. Probably.”

“You got this dude, be confident!” 

Danny couldn’t help but smile a little at the reassurance and nodded before dashing off to find a more secluded corner to transform. All he needed to do was be invisible for a moment, find who was giving him a headache and probably get detention again. Great start to the day.

The difficult bit was the lack of noise. Usually someone would yell when they saw a ghost, or the sound of people running away would tip him off. Yet the halls remained the normal low buzz of activity as he floated above the disorganized mess of teenagers. Maybe one of the still empty classrooms? Or the storage rooms.

Nothing.

Was his ghost sense faulty? The first bell was ringing in his ears, a painful temptation to forget it and go back to class before the second bell sealed his fate.

Maybe it distracted him too well, considering how he got a heavy blow to the back of his head. He only barely managed to throw up a barrier to break his sudden slam into the concrete floor. It still hurt, it always hurt when he hit this hard enough that his bones vibrated under his skin, but he was able to turn and face his assailant quickly. “Seriously? You couldn’t wait until after school, Plasmius?”

“Unfortunately not all of us can pretend problems will solve themselves, Daniel.” He didn't give the boy a chance to retort, seven quick blasts shot and slamming heavily into boxes, chairs and startled hybrid.

“Like that makes any sense. Get lost!” Danny blocked the next volley and launched forward with a glowing green fist, narrowly missing the vampiric ghost’s trailing cape. With a grunt he twisted in midair to fire a blast after such a close miss, but the crackling slam of ectoplasm against shield proved him one step behind again.

Well, if he couldn’t quite keep up he could always distract Vlad. “What, you aren’t going to tell me your evil scheme? Make a gross pass at my mom?”

Vlad bared his teeth at the insult, but only tried to attack again instead of giving the expected answer, or insult back. An attack that was a feint, an opening that just let a duplicate Danny hadn’t been aware of send a painful shock through his body.

At least it was easy enough to grasp his ice powers even as he jerked from the agony, doppelganger banished with a swift retaliation blast. Danny swung blindly instead of aiming, mostly trying to avoid being caught in another trick.

His blind strike hit home, but met no resistance. The first one was a copy too? It was so unfair that he had that power. Wait. If that was a fake, where was the real Vlad? Green eyes darted all over the room, but no more attacks came. Okay, time to find a creep. No big deal.

The ghost shield he slammed into face first at full speed was a bit of a deal. Mostly because he was slumped on the floor clutching his head, cursing Plasmius to every terrible fate he could think of. Of course this was a trap, of course there was some stupid gadget trying to trap him here! “I can walk through these too, Vlad,” the boy muttered to himself as he found his footing and the door, dropping his ghost form as he ran.

There was screaming now. Fear, panic and worry that only made him want to run faster, heart pounding as he dodged between fleeing students. No one would notice him, or care he was going the wrong way. He just knew he had to go now, as quickly as possible. This kind of terror was wrong, he could feel it. A weight on his shoulders that wasn’t right, wasn’t how people normally felt. Maybe it added a little extra get up and go to his feet, but he was going to try and ignore that his ghost powers might get a boost from this awful tension in the air.

Danny didn’t intend to speak or yell out until he was back in his ghost fighting persona, but the blood splatter on the floor threw all his senses out of the window. Was he after Tucker and Sam? Trying to hurt or kill his friends now? His eyes flared green as he spotted the ghost hovering over the bloody display, nose wrinkling as the wet stench of iron crawled down his throat.

Vlad was right there, floating casually. He didn’t have Sam, or Tucker. He did have someone, limp and motionless, too stained with blood dripping down to the tile below to identify them right away. The man shouldn’t look so impassive while clutching a bloodied teenager with one hand, other black glove stained crimson so there was no mistake who had caused the damage.

They were the only three things that existed right now. Him, the devil himself, and the body. The scream ripped out of his throat before he could even consider anything else, already lowering into a battle stance. “Put him down!”

“Hm? Oh my boy, of course. I already have,”

Time froze as the snide words slid into his ears. Already had? Already? A joke. It had to be a joke. He wasn’t too late, that wasn’t a corpse.

Vlad either didn’t notice or didn’t care how the boy was only staring in wide eyed shock. “If you don’t want to keep cleaning up messes, one should be more careful. Especially about what they say.”

He let go of the thing hanging from his hand and Danny moved out of some desperate need to stop whoever it was from taking more pain, suffering even more for no reason. As they weren’t dead, they couldn’t be dead, he refused to believe Vlad actually had the guts to go through with murder when his dad was still alive and well.

Their blood was still warm, awful as the red sunk into his white t-shirt. It was still flowing. Not dead. Not yet. What could he do? He didn’t want to look this closely, didn’t want to feel how weak and limp this person was but he had to. This was his fault.

It wasn’t just shallow lacerations on the chest and arms.

Wes’ half lidded eyes barely twitched as he registered the new face in front of him, an awful bubbling noise that might have been an acknowledgement. His face held the true wound that caused such a mess, missing his lower jaw entirely. No tongue lolling out without anywhere to go, the boy truly silenced in a gruesome display.

“Wes?” Danny asked, half wondering if he would wake up from this. Another twitch before his eyes rolled back, no longer able to keep his feeble grip on consciousness. 

So much blood. He had to stop it. With what? His shirt? That wouldn’t be enough! It had to stop, get held back. Ice. He could do that. He had to, he couldn’t let someone die. Frost hissed at the remaining edge of his face before hardening suddenly, a misshapen chunk of ice binding skin back together, the cuts getting a similar icy scab as he begged for it to be enough, that he could hold on. See, this was better right? He could kid himself that the small white fragments of exposed bone was just a trick of the icy covering.

“What are you-”

Danny didn’t care what that monster was saying, he didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to hear anything. There weren't any words for this.

So he screamed.

He wailed.

Wailed with a power his human body couldn’t be expected to take, shrieked even as his throat burned and mouth bled.

Only after that did he hear the rest of the world again. Worried mutters, screams and footfalls. His legs gave out and he fell, still making sure Wes didn’t hit the ground first, clutching him tightly even as he wanted to pass out.

He heard ambulance sirens coming. Good. Okay. Vlad was gone. The doctors could help. Darkness grabbed at the corners of his vision and he didn’t have the strength to keep pushing it back.

“Wes was right? About all of it?” A hissed mutter was the last thing he could hold on to as he succumbed. If only he could try to warn them not to say too much.

[ashdumpsterpile]

ASH’S TMA HURT/COMFORT/FLUFF REC LIST 

For the gays. (And @damcrows who’s been dead for the past 24 hours. Rest in peace babe. Read some gay fic. Deny the inevitability of canon. <3)

___

the end, but the start (of all things that are left to do)  by @ajkal2

Jon wakes up.

aka. mag200 tore out my heart

(Very smol, very short, very spoiler. Def recommend for anyone who just finished the podcast.)

remind me how to smile by @tamerofdarkstars

Jon is probably fine, just hiding out somewhere while the whole murder thing blows over and that's... fine. Martin is fine with that explanation. Really. He's got plenty to distract himself - like listening through the entire What the Ghost episode library, for example. Or watching Georgie Barker's Instagram livestreams.

(Yea this was in the last rec list, but you don’t understand THE ADMIRAL GIVES CUDDLES)

Chamomile by Dribbledscribbles

Whatever the ex-tea was, if it really had ever been that last bag of chamomile Martin claimed he’d found tucked in the back of the cupboard, it was fast now.

Martin had tried catching it, chasing it, blocking its way with shoebox lids and plates and an upended footstool, but the thing was just too quick. Jon knew as well as Knew that he might have left off the attempts completely if not for the creature’s preferred game.

The game was, See How Many Times I Can Push Martin Towards Cardiac Arrest Before He Comes at Me with The Broom.

(Scottish Honeymoon Era. Adorable and weird. A vampire gets harassed.)

hey stranger by @ennuijpg

It’s a late night Tesco run, how eventful could it be? It’s not like Martin is going to run into his boss who’s wearing something absurdly different from usual and get the most acute form of whiplash possible from seeing him, right?

(Martin runs into Jon at the grocery store and has an existential crisis.)

roses roses, roses. by @judesstfrancis

Rose scented laundry detergent. Running into Jon in the breakroom. Running into Jon on his way back to his desk. Rose scented detergent. Running into Jon. Roses. Jon. Roses, roses, roses. 

(Canon enemies to friends to lovers au-ish. Martin POV. Very pining much sweet.)

go softly by doomcountry

And there is nothing else besides this. 

(More hurt/comfort than fluff. Scottish Honeymoon Era. Mild eye mutilation.)

Not Alone by @backofthebookshelf

After the coffin, Daisy and Jon are both fragile. They hold each other up. 

(Post-buried Jon&Daisy starter pack. Very hurt/comfort.)

trust my love by antlsepticeye

“you… you’re real, aren’t you?” jon whispers, the fog slowly dissipating from his mind. “it is not a trick?”

“i’m here,” martin says softly, reaching up to grab jon’s hand that was resting on his cheek, intertwining his fingers with jon’s and squeezing. he moves jon’s hand to martin’s chest, resting it over his heart. “you’re alright. i’m alright. take your time, love. let’s just take some deep breaths, okay?”

(TOUCHSTARVED JON HAS ENTERED THE CHAT.)

reaching out by Athina_Blaine

By the time things settled, when Martin had finally managed to crack through his cold shell, feel some of his old self returning to him in bits and pieces, they had found their little routine.

One that had the two of them sleeping in the same bed, making breakfast, going to the mart. Where Jon reached for his wrist while they slept, and Martin luxuriated in the gentle warmth of his fingers.  

But not one where Martin reached back. One that had Martin kissing Jon awake or taking his hand over the breakfast table, because ... Martin never had the courage to try. And then it never became a part of the routine.

And Martin desperately wanted it to be.

-

Martin and Jon have an important conversation.

(More Scottish Honeymoon Era for the soul. Hurt/comfort/fluff.)

Belabor by @janekfan​

Jon's given the position of Archivist and is falling apart at the seams. Tim and Sasha are upset and playing games. Elias is overbearing and manipulative.

And poor Martin is stuck cleaning up the mess.

(THEE first fic I ever read for tma. Season 1, hurt/comfort/fluff, and hints of Jmartin. janekfan is the absolute master of seasons 1-3 hurt/comfort. This is my favorite, but pls check out the rest of their fics.)

tea, blankets, and a damnable stubborn attitude by ivelostmyspectacles

“Are you really gonna stay here and pester Jon all evening?”

“I’m not pestering him,” Martin retorted, sounding vehement if not busy going through the cupboards. “I’m heating up soup.”

“Oh, you might as well make him another cup of tea while you’re at it.”

“Oh, good idea.”

Jon shot Tim a withering look.

(The one where Jon is ill, Martin makes tea and they watch doctor who together. Fluff 1000%.)

A Kind Hand by @voiceless-terror

Jonathan Sims was adjusting just fine, thank you very much.

In which a minor workplace spill causes Jon to realize that he might have friends.

(Ah yes, the other master of seasons 1-3 fic aka voiceless-terror being my other fav author in the fandom. This one is also season 1 hurt/comfort/fluff.)

A Weather In The Flesh by @cuttoothed

"There is a span of years where Jon doesn’t touch anyone other than the occasional hand shake. It’s not so bad. He’s never been someone who’s needed physical affection."

*

Jon has never been any good at making people want to stick around.

(More touched starved Jon! Much hurt/comfort!)

Something Old, Something New by @cirrus-grey

Months have passed, and everyone is doing better than they were. Daisy and Basira are getting married, Melanie is feeling her old self, Georgie is as much herself as she has ever been, and even Jon has stabilized on his wild fall away from humanity. Everyone is doing better.

Well. Almost everyone.

(Daisy/Barsira wedding! Melanie is a bitch and we love her! Jmartin dance! Post-canon (almost) everyone lives!)

The Weight of Love by @voiceless-terror

Jon is a restless sleeper. Martin attempts to adjust. 

(The fic where Jon is literally me and Martin attempts to sleep for 1k words.)

The Art of Conversation by @voiceless-terror

"Do you ever stop talking?"

Jon has a complicated relationship with words. Difficulties come and go.

(Jon has adhd and Martin is in love.)

Novelty by @backofthebookshelf

Jon experiences A Sexual Attraction; Martin has A Concern. They figure it out.

(Any fic that explores the ace spectrum is a 10/10. We stan all ace interpretations of jon on this blog.)

Half a Hug by Dathen

I know you weren’t going to hurt me, I trust you, he said again and again. And then a different kind of fear shone through, hollow and echoing: “Please don’t stop touching me."

-

Or: Life is hard when you're touch-starved but have trauma related to your closest friend.  Spoilers through TMA 132.

(Honestly bless every author who saw jon&daisy and was like. They’re siblings. No I will not elaborate.)

the loneliness never left me (but i can put it down in the pleasure of your company) by Athina_Blaine

It was about Martin making Jon feel safe, treasured, and loved. And it had been so, so long since anyone made him feel that way.

And, in the face of it all, Jon was starting to flounder.

(At this point I just need to make separate rec list for Scottish Honeymoon Era.)

you can watch me corrode by scarletfish

"So, how long have you been pulling this shit then?"

"I… excuse me?" Jon’s indignant, certain she can’t mean what he thinks she means.

"When was the last time you ate?"

(Georgie decides Jon and Melanie need a normal day off. Jon learns that he and Melanie have more in common than he thought.)

(Look, Melanie isn’t my favorite person in tma, but she and Jon are like THE SAME PERSON and I adore fics that elaborate on their relationship.)

Out of the Wind, In From the Cold by @ostentenacity

There are two bedrooms in the safehouse, and two beds.

For a moment, Jon considers asking to share, but decides against it with a wince. “I really loved you,” Martin had told him. Loved. Past tense. And Martin doesn’t exactly have a lot of choices right now in terms of company; it would be cruel to demand he play at feelings he no longer has just to make Jon happy.

(For a moment, Martin considers asking to share. But he dismisses the idea with a shake of his head. Jon has already done so much for him. Martin isn’t about to ask for more, especially not when it’s something he doesn’t really need. He has his right mind back, and he has Jon’s friendship. That should be enough for him. It’ll have to be.)

---

Jon thinks that Martin doesn’t love him. Martin thinks that Jon doesn’t love him. They do not, of course, discuss this. Unrequited love is already awkward enough, right? No need to dwell on it.

(THEE SCOTTISH HONEYMOON ERA FIC. IT’S ABOUT THE PINING, BEING MUTUALLY OBLIVIOUS AND FALLING IN LOVE. 10000/10.) 

I Do by @voiceless-terror

“I, um- this was supposed to be a lot more romantic, I swear.” Martin looks down at the dirty bar floor. “I had it all planned out, I-I was going to take you somewhere nice, and then we’d go for a walk in the square- I’ll still do it!” He hurries to explain, as if that’s the most pressing part of this situation. “It’ll be really nice, I’ve already hired a photographer-”

In a fit of protectiveness, Martin proposes to Jon.

(Everyone lives, Martin accidentally proposes and Jon is crying in public.) 

________

[starlightsearches]

Can we get 3 with hux from the flower AU prompts?

Hello friend! Thanks for the prompt, I hope you like it!! 🌹🌸💐🌼🌺🌷🌻

Requests are open ✨

Florist! Armitage Hux x Model! Reader (f)

Warnings: Not really, a little yearning, some slutty narration, it's kind of silly and maybe ooc, but I think that's it.

I've been feeling pretty shitty about myself and my writing over the past few days, and I figured the best way to break myself out of that funk was to write something, even if it was stupid. Sometimes when your brain is telling you that you can't do something, you gotta do it anyway. Let me know what you think, besties!

3. Flowers are often used for photo shoots and Person A gets hired to arrange the flowers for one, but they can’t help getting nervous around the model, Person B from the Flower Shop AU Prompts

Armitage is out of his element.

He's plenty comfortable working with his assistant in the back of the shop, or helping customers as they dither over the size of the arrangements and the available flowers at the counter. But this is madness.

The backstage of the set is absolutely teeming with people, and every single one of them runs past without a glance in his direction, shouting into headsets or flipping through stacks of pages attached to clipboards.

He ventures further, past a few darkened hallways until he finds an occupied room. There's a vanity mirror against the far wall, and a woman sitting in front of it, resting her head on one hand, the other holding a book.

"Excuse me," Armitage knocks gently against the door frame before stepping inside.

You set the book down, greeting him with a smile.

"Hello, are you here for makeup?"

For a moment, Armitage is speechless.

He hadn't noticed your strange apparel when he first caught sight of you, but now he can't seem to look away from the dress you're wearing, a less-than-faithful recreation recreation of a Victorian gown that hangs low on your shoulders and tight around breasts, leaving very little to the imagination.

Is he hallucinating? He's never believed in ghosts before but you do seem like a rather lovely, and strangely familiar, apparition.

Your brows furrow in confusion before you glance down at yourself, eyes going wide like you've forgotten what you were wearing.

"Oh," you exclaim, throwing your head back with a laugh, "it's a period piece were doing today."

"I'm sorry?"

"You laugh again, finding his idiocy endearing instead of annoying, "you're not the makeup artist, are you?"

"The florist."

"I see. We're doing a shoot today, a romance novel cover. Do you read romance novels?"

So that's where he recognized you from. He's seen your face before, many times over. How to Wed a Rascal, Devil's Daughter, Three's a Crowd, and his favorite: Kingdom of Thirst.

He's spent too much of his time—bleary eyed, reading into the late hours of the night—imagining your face, your eyes, the sound of your moans as he devoured book after book, story after story.

But he's not about to tell you that.

"Uh, no, not really," he lies, and you shrug off the answer, turning the seat so that you can face him.

"I've only read a few, and they're alright. The jobs pay well, at least, and they're more fun than most shoots."

He nods, leaning against the door frame in an attempt to appear casual, hoping you'll say more. He likes hearing you talk.

You don't look like yourself in pictures. It's not just the makeup and the editing, although he's sure that has something to do with it. You're much more earnest in person, and surprisingly easy to be around. It's magnetic, your personality, to the point he can’t take his eyes off you. It must be what makes you so great at your job.

"You were looking for a place to put your flowers, right? I can help with that," you say, standing from the chair and moving into the hallway, calling into the empty space, "Hey Stacy!"

The sound of harried footsteps echoes down the corridor, and soon you're greeted by a serious looking woman, dressed in all black with her hair swept up into a ponytail.

"What do you need, babes?" she asks without looking up from her cell phone, "Jack said he'd be here half an hour ago but traffic's got him running late, of course. Shouldn't matter since we're ahead of schedule so far and going for a pretty minimal look this time but I told him to haul ass anyways, traffic laws be damned. Who is this?"

Every word pours out of her mouth without a breath in between, and it's not until she looks up, meeting his eyes that he realizes she's talking about him.

"This is . . ." you turn to look at him expectantly, raising your brows.

"Armitage," he provides, and you nod.

"Right, Armitage," you smile, turning back to Stacy, "and he's got the flower delivery for the shoot today waiting in his car."

Stacy nods, mumbling into her headset. "That's great. I'll have Phil unload them."

Armitage nods, wondering if he should offer to stay and arrange them. It's not something he'd typically do . . . but he's not exactly in a hurry to leave.

Another set of footsteps meets the three of you from the end of the hallway, this time provided by another harried-looking woman, almost in a sprint.

"Bad news, Stacy," she pants when she arrives, out of breath, "Ronan's called in sick. He's got food poisoning."

Stacy groans, and you roll your eyes. "Typical. Did you call somebody else?"

"They're all busy: Theo and Jacob are out of town shooting swim, and Will's best man at a wedding."

"We'll have to call off the shoot, then, won't we?"

You shake your head, defeated. Armitage can't help but feel for you; it's obvious how much work goes into these productions, so much time wasted. Not to mention the six dozen flowers currently dying in the back of his van.

"Not so fast," Stacy holds her hand up, silencing the group. Her eyes land on him, and she chews on the inside of her cheek, thinking.

"It's Armitage, right?" she asks, tapping her finger against her lips, "have you ever . . . modeled before?"

He feels his face grow hot, heart racing, "What? No. Absolutely not."

The other woman catches on, sizing him up herself. "Wait a second, you're right Stacy. He's totally got the look. Those god damn cheekbones could slice through steel. He’s about the same size as Will, too, so costuming wouldn't be a problem. How tall are you? Six foot? Six foot two?"

"No," he steps back, "I won't do it."

You put your hand on his shoulder, begging him with your eyes.

"Please, Armitage. It would really help."

He twists his face into a frown, already feeling his resolve crumbling under your eager gaze.

"Well . . . alright."

The three of you erupt in to cheers. He's absolutely going to regret this.

An hour later—hair done, costumed, and feeling ridiculous—Armitage walks out onto the set.

God, no.

It's a surprisingly faithful recreation—he assumes—sumptuously decorated and absolutely bursting with flowers. That's not the problem.

It's a bedroom, most of the space taken up by a large, dark four-poster, rose petals strewn across its surface. He knows what that means.

Bile rises in his throat, a wave of nausea rolling his stomach. He couldn't do this. There was a reason he read so many romance novels: he liked to imagine he could be someone different, someone charming, passionate, wicked.

Being that person is not in his nature.

Vivian, the costumer, approaches him from behind, startling him.

"You ready?" she asks, gesturing him towards the stage, but he hesitates.

"There's no need to be nervous, hon. Your partner for today? She's a god damn angel, the best of the best. You'll be in good hands . . . or I guess she'll be in your hands."

She laughs at her own joke and pats him gently, wandering away.

He's going to throw up. Or pass out. Or drop dead. He can't handle this.

Then he sees you, gliding in through the doorway. You're sparkling with your makeup and hair done to perfection, your eyes warm and bright, and you're smiling at him. Just for him.

Somebody ushers him towards the set, and you join him, arranging yourself on the bed.

"Nervous?" you ask him, laying down on your elbows, a little too at ease. He doesn't have to answer, he knows you can see it on his face.

You hold out your hand to him, and he takes it, adjusting to the feel of your skin against his. "You don't need to be, it's easy."

You pull without warning, and he falls forward, knees hitting the mattress. His other hand land besides your head, close enough to your face that he could reach out and stroke it, if he wanted to.

"Ready up there?" the photographer yells from across the room, and you give him the thumbs up before slipping in to your proper pose. You place his hand at your waist, tilting up his chin.

"Now furrow your brow a little," you whisper, "and part your lips."

He does as he's told, and soon enough the camera flash sparks in his periphery.

It's not as horrible as he thought it would be, although you are doing most of the work. You shift periodically, sometimes staring deep into his eyes, or looking down demurely with your hand just barely grazing your forehead.

"Alright, that's great, that's perfect," the photographer monologues, never taking his eye from the viewfinder, "why don't we get a couple with your lips at her neck?'

He trembles, his breathing shallow, but you look up at him with the slightest nod, arching your back just a little farther, leaving your skin exposed and inviting.

He bends closer, examining the graceful lines of your body. If this were real, where would he kiss you? If he had you to himself—without all these people watching—in his own bed, no pretense, no costumes . . .

He brushes his lips tenderly against the junction between your neck and your shoulder, and he swears that he can hear you sigh in response, your spine curving against his fingers, your chest pressed tighter against his own.

"That's perfect," the photographer shouts, but Armitage isn't listening, entirely preoccupied with the feeling of your pulse against his mouth, his lips traveling up over your jaw, stopping just below your ear.

You turn to face him, slowly, until nose brushes his, staring into his eyes. If he tilted his chin just half an inch, he'd be kissing you.

"That's great, everybody! I think we're done for today."

The set erupts with applause at the photographer's words, but you still don't pull away from him, smiling gently, whispering against his lips.

"Like I said, you're a natural."

His face grows flush, and he shifts back onto his feet, clearing his throat with a cough.

You stand beside him, brushing your hands nervously over the bodice of your gown.

"Thanks again for doing this, we all really appreciate it."

"Of course, it was . . . fun."

"No really, it was a huge favor. I'd like to do something for you, in return—we could get dinner, maybe? My treat."

You place your hand on his arm again, stroking your thumb down over his elbow. Despite how much he's touched you over the last hour, this contact feels different. Because you're not playing a part this time. Because it's him you're reaching for.

"We can change first, of course," you say, the words rushed as you read his dewy-eyed imaginings for hesitation.

He smiles, placing his hand over yours in reassurance, "I'd like that."

Hux Tag List: @theredwolfisalesbian, @thembohux, @writingletterstothefire, @catboykenobii, @missmadwoman, @evarinaandlat, @sitherin-mxschief, @imafatassmess, @toasterking, @rosevon7975, @pradahux, @armitages-galaxy, @dark-lord-of-the-simps, @daughterofaries, @mad-girl-without-a-box, @aramanna, @theold-ultraviolence, @mrs-ghuleh, @lemongingerart, @isthisheaven5, @trash-queen-af, @generalthirst, @tobealostwanderer, @huxxoxo, @theoriginalannoyingbird, @liceforlunch, @g3n3ralhux

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[kaylorfails]

Yes, Karlies Kloss is married.

I normally don’t do debunks but the outright lies being spread and about about Karlie Kloss’s marraige to Josh Kushner are annoying, so here we go.

On July 24 2018, People announces that Karlie and Josh got engaged X . This wasn’t a surprise to those of us not kaylors, it was quite obvious, but before the announcement all was well in kaylorland on July 23rd:

This surprised and angered a lot of kaylors whose reactions went from “they’re stigmatising lesbianism” (X), “this is horrible news” (X), “she’s going to jail” (X), “they’ll never get married” (X) (X). “it’s part of the fucking story” (X), “giving you the truth is not my call to make” (X), to “publicity stunt” (X) 

While kaylors were bemoaning her lack of ring, Karlie showed it off (X), posted insta stories about her friends and family reacting to the news just to rub it in further (X). Congrats from the sisters-in-law (X) (X), parents-in-law (X), Toni Garrn (X).

That was just the antipasto, now onto the main dish. I’ll be using “you” in this. This is a debunk directed at kaylors, so never mind that.

On Otcober 18 2018, Karlie Kloss got married to Josh Kushner and prior to that, she made a spotify playlist with her wedding date.

“She isn’t Jewish and didn’t converted” She is and she did. Apart from the fact that a British Vogue video in 2015 showed “meeting a Rabbi” in her notebook, shes’s spoken about it in Vogue in 2018, on WWHL, and recently with Naomi Campbell. Her conversion has also been discussed on various Jewish publications (X) (X). Any further insistence she didn’t convert is antisemitic. There’s only so much ignorance can excuse.

“A thursday wedding is weird” It would be if they were WASP or Catholic. Even then, I’d still call it unusual at best. But they’re Orthodox Jews. Shabbat, a weekly 25-hour observance from just before sundown each Friday through the completion of nightfall on Saturday, would make the usual saturday wedding not possible. For a Jewish couple, thursday is a good day to get married. I could understand thinking thursday is a weird day if you’re not Jewish, but insisting it is after being informed about it, is offensive.

For your information, ttb, a blog run a white, straight, definitely not Jewish woman and followed by many non jewish kaylors, is telling you about Judaism.

I don’t get the “photoshoot” argument. The kaylor fandom is literally build on a Vogue photoshoot actually used for promo (X). It was also a blatant ripoff of Poppy Delevigne and Alexa Chung’s bestfriend shoot (X) (X).

“The wedding was a photoshoot” You know those beautiful wedding pictures you might have seen on facebook or instagram? They were taken by professional photographers. Not by a ghost or potatoes, professional photographers. Yes, you can gasp.

And they are hired to do their job and do it beautifully. I don’t know what kaylors real life wedding experiences are, but there’s this thing called pre-wedding shoots people like doing at their weddings. Yes, it’s a weird world we live in. These pictures end up in a strange thing called wedding book, which will be shown to friends and family, future babies and grandbabies, and unsuspecting guests. Or burned if the marriage ends in a divorce.

Professional videographers are also hired to film the whole thing. From the bride waking up, to her getting her makeup done, her friends being silly, to her leaving her wedding reception. The world is wild.

On the wedding day, the pictures were posted on Hongbo Li’s instagram:

A friend of hers demanded it to be taken down (Karlie follows this friend on IG):

Who is HongBo Li? A comment on a ttb post gave us the answer:

And he’s also mentioned in this Vogue writeup about haute couture. As you can see, he isn’t some random kaylor voraciously living through strangers. he’s actually worked on various celebrities wedding dresses. Karlie didn’t put on a local store wedding dress, she actually had one Dior designed for her. That lucky bitch! I mean oppressed lucky bitch!

Onto the photographer. Her wedding pictures were taken by Heather Hazzan, A NY based photographer and very good and successful at her job:

Again, Karlie didn’t get a random photographer for her wedding, she got the best.The only thing this is proving is that being rich and famous gets you access. And not ony is she rich, she also married an obscenely rich man. The picture of the oppressed.

“There was nothing showing a wedding was going on” Now, that’s a lie. Should Karlie have released a full movie showing every detail? For why? You’d still call her wedding fake:

JK robes and hotdog stands (The guy is Kristine’s boyfriend):

More (X) Go through this tag you lazy bags! I’m tired.

Karlie getting prepared for her wedding (X) (X) (X). An expression you might have while your sister is being forced to fake a wedding:

“None of her friends were there” While I’m sure there’ve been many guestless weddings and they’re just as valid as the populated ones, this doesn’t seem to be one of those.

A childhood friend who didn’t get the memo about this being a stunt:

Toni Garrn, a kaylors appointed ex gf, posted this a whole year after the wedding:

David Geffen showing you’ve been sold a bridge about this being fake:

Ashley Graham speaking about being a guest at the wedding.

“She doesn’t look happy” Uhm, if you say so. Here’s Karlie being an unhappy and miserable being on her wedding day and here she looks devastedly sad looking at her wedding dress.

“There was no wedding reception” As Katy Perry would: “Time, the ultimate truth teller” Here’s the video Karlie posted on her 2nd anniversary showing there was indeed a wedding reception.

A pre-wedded Karlie with Josh and his parents.

Everything pointed to this being a real wedding and not a woods photoshoot you’ve been told it is. I’ve yet to see the magazine spread this shoot was supposedly made for and It’s been 2 years already.

So yeah, Karlie Kloss is married. She’s married and pregnant. Move the fuck on.

If you’re sure of your stuff, come to me with something that isn’t a version of this:

If you’re a kaylor trying to get out of the cult, go through this Joshlie timeline to purify your soul.

But if you’re a firm believer that Karlie is pregnant with Austin Swift’s sperm and she’ll raise the baby with Taylor Swift, there’s no hope for you and you’re disgusting.

That’s it for the October wedding!

[solitaria-fantasma]

Um for the Super Ghost AU I am just imagining that The Question managed to figure out basically everything about Gawain and the Mystery Skulls, but instead of it being his paranoia getting to him it's because he accidentally learned Gawain was a ghost, wanted to learn why he's a ghost and then he was going down the rabbit hole and by the time he climbed out of it he's just wondering what is Gawain's life, unlife, whatever and the life of his brother. Just, this came to me and refused to leave.

((*cracks knuckles*))

Question hadn't seen sunlight for nearly six days, and it had finally paid off.

He leaned over his hands on the edge of the desk, staring at the pin board before him. It was crisscrossed with color coded strands of yarn, and little push pins that held up photographs, newspaper and magazine clippings, and printed Internet screenshots. It wasn't the most complicated web he'd ever built, but it tied up neatly, and that was enough. Not every mystery had a a million twists to unwind.

The trail started in London, England, and stretched all the way across the Atlantic to a tiny town in Texas, USA, barely large enough to be a speck on a map. He had birth records, school enrollment records, science fair awards, promotions, Visa applications, mortgages, home appliance purchases, swing dance trophies, company picnic photos, a missing person's report, and an obituary, all leading to a giant question mark scribbled over a photo of a young blond man, with the word 'whereabouts?' written beneath it.

This photo connected to the next item in the chain with a quick arrow of blue, and another long, arching arrow connected a birth record from earlier in this leg to the same thing - a newspaper article from that small Texas town, talking about the mysterious case of a young boy with amnesia being found on the steps of a local restaurant. There was an article about the boy's adoption just a few months later, and then another article congratulating three local kids and their dog for solving a small time mystery.

The chain ran through several articles like this one, and the kids grew older as their mysteries evolved from misplaced mail and lost pets to package theft, poltergeist activity, and cryptid sightings. More and more, the articles talked about ghosts, creatures of urban legend, and even sightings of demons and occult activity. Around 2008, the newspaper articles became printed blog posts, and seemed to be written by the kids themselves.

Question laughed quietly to himself. Kids after his own paranoid heart, all three.

The articles came to an abrupt halt in 2014, with a missing persons report for the amnesiac boy (now an adult), and a series of articles about a groundbreaking prosthetic limb, developed by a genius young man who tested his prototype on himself after tragically loosing his own arm. There were a few more articles about the prosthetic, and a few photos to go along with them that showed the blond man from previous articles, and then there were a few clippings of local tabloids from a truck driver who swore he'd been carjacked by 'a flaming skeleton with great fashion sense'.

There was silence for a month or two, and then concurrent newspaper articles and blog posts about the miraculous return of one Lewis Pepper, thought to be dead from the same tragic caving accident that cost his best friend his arm. The blog posts about the supernatural returned, and the prosthesis research seemed to slow down. Coincidentally, a young man named 'Merlin Knight' with an eerily familiar face was hired at the local auto shop.

Question wondered if the entire town was playing dumb, or just stupid. The only real change was the clothing, and that long blond hair being braided.

This employment record connected all the way back to the obituary from the first leg of the chain, and proceeded on to connect with screenshots from a social media account of a robotic body, and the building of what would be, within a few month's time, the town's own local hero.

Question breathed out through his nose. A local hero who would go on to help save the world, and found the Justice League itself. Had that been part of the plan?

The web wrapped itself up quickly from there. Supernatural skills and abilities not possible by modern science, knowledge of other realms and creatures only known to mythology, and the tiny little clues he'd been hoarding and observing for a full year all pointed to the same conclusion. It wasn't as fantastical as it sounded, in all honesty, though Green Arrow had looked at him stranger than usual when he'd first said his conclusion out loud.

There were legitimate aliens, sorcerers, and demons in this reality - why not ghosts, too?

There was one final piece missing from the web, however, and he was out of clues to tie in. There was a near twenty year gap between the last known sighting of Gawain Kingsmen, and the appearance of 'Merlin Knight'. What had the man been doing for all that time? There had been no sightings of anyone even remotely matching the appearance of Gawain or 'Merlin' anywhere in that time, and without even the slightest whisper of a rumor on an Internet forum or library archive, there wasn't much more he could do to find out.

Question straightened up from the desk, and rolled his shoulders to try and stretch them out. There was no way around it.

He was going to have to get more...direct from here on out.

.......

"What does a dead man do for twenty years?" Gawain froze with a potato wedge half-raised to his shoulder at the question, and Bran - unwilling to wait for her snack - leaned her head down to snatch it up anyway. Gawain turned his yellow LED eyes over to Question, who had planted himself in the chair across the table without so much of a 'hello', and tilted his head.

"...I'm sorry," He apologized. "But I'm not sure I know what you mean."

"I know you do." Question leaned one elbow on the table. Bran nudged Gawain's still-raised hand, hoping for more potatoes, and the hero absently picked up another wedge to feed to her. "I know most people believe the 'advanced AI' cover story, but I'm not most people. I know you're a ghost possessing an armored suit like that old anime." The potato wedge vanished, and Question wondered if the little ghost was actually eating it, or just storing it for later.

That was a mystery for another time, regardless.

Gawain had turned to face him fully, now, and his two other ghostly companions were now peeking out of hiding from behind his shoulders. They weren't hostile, but their stares were, nonetheless, intense, and Question smiled behind his mask. He knew he had their full attention, now.

"How did you find out?" Gawain asked, keeping his voice low.

"I saw you from the ground in that fight with Mr. Sorcerer Superior, Magnus Creed." Question replied. "You ran into that warding slip like a bird into a clean window. A robot wouldn't have been stopped by mere paper and superstition." Gawain tilted his head slightly to one side.

"Some superstitions hurt." He argued, just the slightest bit defensive. "...what was your question, again?"

"What does a dead man do for twenty years?" Question asked. "There's a two decade gap between your presumed death and your reappearance. You could stand to work on that secret identity, by the way." He advised. "Someone's going to notice your resemblance to a dead guy from twenty years ago, if you ever let down your hair." Gawain's LED eyes narrowed, and one of the spirits - Chopper, the one with the upright spines - hissed in response.

Vixen walked by with John Stewart at her side, and both Chopper and Gawain made a visible effort to drop any outward signs of irritation. Question remained where he was. People were used to seeing him tense and suspicious, by now. It wouldn't raise a single eyebrow.

"...I was lost." Gawain spoke up quietly once Vixen and John had passed out of earshot. "I woke up in the middle of an unfamiliar forest, and I just couldn't get out. Not for a while."

"You were lost in a forest for twenty years?" Even Question sounded skeptical. "I've seen what you're capable of. You should have been able to handle a little thing like being lost."

"It was ten years," Gawain retorted sharply. Bran raided his plate for the remaining potato wedges. "And I wasn't just...born being able to do that stuff. I had to grow into it. I had to learn." A strange gust of air blew past the table, scattering someone's forgotten paper plate and napkin to the floor, before Gawain unclenched his fists, and visibly calmed down. Question still didn't move.

"Death...does things to you." Gawain lowered his voice again. "To your mind. You can't think straight for...a long time - and that's if you're lucky." He lowered his hands to the table, and Bran automatically wound herself around one arm with a pleased sound. "I found my way out of the forest after ten yes, and then I went...home. To Tempo."

"Your parents had moved away by then." Question knew. He knew how the story of the living family had played out, from there. "Your brother was living with your uncle, and your friends were off at college." Gawain's shoulders drooped, and the third spirit - Griflet, if he remembered right - patted at the side of his helmet sympathetically. Chopper was still glaring at him.

"They had." Gawain made no effort to hide the disappointment in his voice. "I guess I couldn't fault them for not wanting to stay in town after all they went through, but back then, I didn't know it had been ten years. It only felt like a few days, to me."

"That must have been difficult." Question said, and he meant it. Sympathy wasn't really his thing, but Gawain was being cooperative, so it was the least he could do. "And the other ten?"

"I was hiding." Gawain laughed humorlessly. "I somehow convinced myself that my family-...that my brother, and my uncle, would be afraid of me, if they saw me like that, and I just...never came forward." He shrugged. "I just sort of watched, and listened, and followed them for another ten years, and I thought that was pretty good, you know?

"I couldn't interact with them, sure, but at least I could still see them. It was...better than nothing." The hero fell silent, for a few moments, and then looked Question in the eye. Or...as close as he could get. The featureless mask tended to throw off people's frame of reference for facial features. "What are you going to do now?"

"Absolutely nothing." Question casually leaned back in his own chair. "I've already put the pieces together. This was just the last piece I needed to finish the story." He stood up, and pushed the chair in under the table. "This time, I just wanted to satisfy my own curiosity." Gawain seemed surprised, and remained sitting as Question walked out of the cafeteria.

He could feel four pairs of eyes burning into his back, but for once, being watched didn't bother him. Curiosity killed the cat, they said, but satisfaction brought it back, and Question was very much satisfied with this answer.

Now, he could focus on more important matters...like the long-ignored connection between Girl Scout cookie sales and the appearance of crop circles in Midwest America.

[bookandcranny]

Little Angels

One]

It is dark inside a wolf’s belly, but up here the air is clear and bright. Atop the tower of Paradiso, above the city of mist and gray. The roof is all caved in and shattered, scattering brilliant prisms through the fragmented skylight and across the floor. A man stands alone in the wreckage, inside the skeletal remains of this holy animal. He sifts through the books that were left behind until he finds one with a red cover and no title, but the letters A-D embossed along its spine. He flips to a certain chapter, and begins to read.

It was in another kind of tower that it happened. The Detective entered into the penthouse apartment of the Deeds family, a couple from the upper crust who were in a state of panic over their missing teenage daughter. From that first frantic phone call with the grief-ridden Gloria Deeds, Sacha knew the shape of this case inside out, backwards, and upside down. It was a classic. 

Teenage girl from a wealthy family, sheltered her whole life, the type who could do no wrong in the eyes of her doting, overbearing parents. One night she leaves without warning, to chase some guy or some band or some misplaced sense of adventure. The reasons didn’t matter as much as what they were willing to pay for the reassurance that their precious little angel would be home safe and sound.

There were just a couple of details he hadn’t counted on.

Sacha sat idling on the side of the road, looking down at the photo the Deeds’ had given him. It was a little roughed up at the edges and faded at the crease where he’d folded it. He’d forgotten how fragile these old-fashioned print photographs were. Despite the damage, the face of thirteen year old Renee Deeds still looked up at him with those same gentle brown eyes and private smile. 

The girl in the photo, however accurate it was to real life, had her hair pulled back in a crowd of twin braids that crested over thick dark curls. She wore what Sacha presumed to be church clothes-- tidy blouse and long skirt, an heirloom brooch-- and a pair of crutches braced to her forearms. Her ankles were crossed and tucked limply to one side, away from the camera’s focus.

The girl’s disability put a complication in the narrative he’d been concocting. According to the Deedses, Renee could only go so far on foot without intense pain and she disliked using her chair. It remained in the hall closet, untouched since her disappearance. Mr Deeds worked from home most days so rather than send her off to school, she was homeschooled by a well-vetted private tutor under her father’s occasional supervision. She had few friends, being a reserved child, they said. Sacha thought it probably had more to do with the gilded cage she lived in, lined with bubblewrap and goose down lest she ever bruise her precious knees. But it wasn’t his place to say.

Regardless, this left him with a very limited pool of suspects. And suspects they were indeed, since the Deeds were certain Renee had been kidnapped. Such a good girl would never have just wandered off on her own. 

If that was indeed the case, the culprit had done a remarkable job of covering their tracks. Renee was last seen by her mother who had put her to bed at 9 'o'clock on the dot. The security system had been armed all night and there were no signs of tampering. Besides which, the only way out of the penthouse that didn’t involve a several story drop to a very unhappy ending was through the front lobby and the cameras in and outside it didn’t detect anyone unusual, coming or going. 

The parents’ first move, naturally, was to call the police. The cops questioned the other residents and scanned the security tapes but turned up empty handed and after a few weeks of daily calls the officers on the case all but told Mr and Mrs Deeds that their hands were tied. For once, even money and social standing couldn’t hasten the hand of justice. That was when they had called on private investigator Sacha Ferro to get the job done.

All these facts laid out before him, Sacha found himself no closer to the answer than he had been at the start. The difference between then and now was not information but desperation, the heights of which had brought him here. Orphan’s Hollow.

The last few years had hit this city hard, same as it did all of them. It wasn’t a single sudden thing, but rather a combination of natural disasters, a virulent epidemic, and the consequential economic collapse that left entire districts barren, now inhabited only by clustered communities of the homeless. The handful of city blocks now known as Orphan’s Hollow was one such district, named so because it was, if stories were to be believed, populated entirely by children. Hollowed out department stores and office buildings and, most notably, the abandoned fairgrounds of Fun Town West became a tragic Neverland for runaways and other parentless youth in hiding from the overburdened childcare system.

Recently, there had been an epidemic of another kind in many of the nearby boroughs. Kids were going missing, just like Renee Deeds had, except most families weren’t fortunate enough to be able to hire someone to track them down. From what Sacha could pick up, most of them-- those that were reported-- were girls between the ages of six and sixteen. Other than that, the demographics were all over the map: black, white, rich, poor, healthy, sick. Missing posters spawned and spread like mold across the billboards and telephone poles, while the local government processed statistics with dead eyes and shrugging shoulders.

The unspoken truth seemed to be that if they were anywhere, if they were alive, the missing girls were somewhere in here. But the kids of Orphan’s Hollow were protective of their own and wouldn’t likely allow any cops to sift through their ranks even if they did trust their motives. It became one of those open secrets that everyone knew about but no one wanted to touch. 

On top of that, not every orphan was some scrawny Dickens novel side character; there were rumors of gang activity and even some sort of cult that made the teenagers who ended up in this part of town vicious towards outsiders. Orphan’s Row was a name with more than one meaning, they said, because if you took those kids lightly they’d turn yours into orphans as well. None of that mattered to Sacha though. At this point, he had little left to lose.

There was a gun in the glovebox of the Detective’s hatchback, unloaded, and he hoped it would stay that way. The idea of turning any weapon on a kid, no matter their alleged viciousness, turned his stomach. He would bring it with him to be used, in only the most absolutely dire circumstances, as a threat. Leverage. If it came down to it, he could rationalize that.

As he turned down another vacant street into the ghost town, the weather began to turn as well. It had been drizzling steadily since the evening prior, making the humidity all the more unbearable, but now the rain relented and in its place a clotted mist settled low over the city, like ink diffusing in water. Sacha kept his lights low and foot barely pressing on the gas pedal. Though it was irrational he felt uneasy at the idea of making himself any more noticeable than he was already.

When the car jolted it was like being shaken awake from a dream. At first he thought it was another pothole-- the roads were a wreck after so long untended-- but then there was an audible crunch and a lurch as his front-left tire burst. Without bothering to pull over he got out and found the problem right away. Deep in the tire, lodged between the wheel and its socket, was a doll. Or at least, something that was trying to be a doll.

The body was made out of metal; scraps from perhaps an aluminum can worked together with screws and painted to give it the look of a hoop-skirted dress. Its head was a christmas ornament. He recognized the pink painted cherub cheeks and curling synthetic hair. Some broken edge of the makeshift toy had punctured the tire, and of course Sacha didn’t have a spare on hand, even if he could figure out how to rip the damn thing out of the wheel well. 

He muttered a curse to himself. He’d have to leave it here and keep going on foot. At least there wasn’t anything in the car worth stealing, and he didn’t exactly have to worry about getting a ticket.

A sudden shriek made Sacha jump, hand going blindly to the holster under his shirt.

“My doll!” the child cried again. “You killed Jessika! My dolly!”

Sacha turned around and saw a young girl, barefoot and wearing what looked like an old halloween costume, standing across the street from him like a specter out of the fog. Appropriate, since she was so keen on howling like a banshee.

“Hey, I’m so sorry about your dolly,” he gentled, crossing to meet her. 

The girl seemed to be considering running away from the strange man, as would well be her right, but stood her ground instead as her face grew redder.

“You killed her,” she said again. “She was a person and you killed her.”

Sacha dropped to one knee. “ I’m sorry about your Jessica--” 

“Jessika!”

He chewed the inside of his cheek. “I am sorry, but it was an accident, really. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

She sniffled. “I’m Princess Ladybird,” she said, as though it should have been obvious. She gestured at her costume, a pink sparkly dress studded with plastic gems around the collar. “Who are you? You’re not supposed to be here.”

“My name is Sacha. I’m a private investigator-- a detective,” he corrected, seeing her confused expression. “I’m looking for someone. They’re not in any trouble, I just need to make sure they’re safe. Do you think you could help me, your highness?”

He kept his voice low and comforting. Dealing with kids wasn’t exactly his specialty, but he knew what he was doing well enough.

“No! No!” the girl cried, more agitated than ever. “No grownups allowed! You’ll just hurt them, just like Jessika!”

“I’m not here to hurt anyone,” he insisted, growing frustrated. “And I told you didn’t mean to break your doll. I could buy you a new doll? A nicer doll.”

She shook her head adamantly. “The store dolls aren’t alive. I only play with alive dolls.”

Play along, Sacha. “Okay, where can I get you a new ‘alive’ doll?”

“You can’t make an alive doll, you’re too old,” she huffed. 

Sacha was not going to let himself be offended by a six year old. He wasn’t. “If your dolls are so precious, maybe you shouldn’t leave them in the street!”

“Maybe you should look where you’re going!” With that, she stomped on his foot and ran away. Sacha barely felt it through his shoes, but that was a small consolation. In a blink the princess was gone again.

He sighed. It was no less than he expected, but it still didn’t feel good. With the world they’d been living in, it wasn’t any surprise that the kids here were a bit strange. At least this one had seemed healthy enough, certainly energetic. That meant there was probably someone making sure she was kept fed. 

He reminded himself that there was nothing he could do for these kids. Better to focus on what he was here for.

Two]

Sacha walked along the sidewalk without any real sense of where he was going. He occasionally saw clusters of children playing games or jumping in puddles in the street, but most were inside keeping out of the weather. When he looked up he sometimes saw tiny faces peering down at him from high windows or crouched on fire escapes. The ones on the ground didn’t spare him a look except in fleeting disgust. There was a girl reading fortunes for her friends from a dented pack of playing cards who went abruptly silent when he passed by, and Sacha came to realize that they were deliberately ignoring him, hoping to shun him into leaving the way he came. 

When he tried to approach a pair of tweens doing some sort of craft project in a sheltered doorway, they quickly picked up their things and scampered away, leaving only a trail of paint droplets behind them. They didn’t look too terribly hard-off; their clothes were sometimes dirty but they were all in one piece and their eyes were bright and lively. It was sort of amazing, Sacha thought, how they’d really managed to build something of a community here, away from adults. Part of him almost envied them.

“Excuse me,” he tried again with a girl who was a bit older than the last. Her age didn’t make her look any more mature really, only sharper, as if she were growing but growing into the wrong shape. “I’m looking for--”

“Everyone knows what you’re looking for,” the young woman said. “You’re loud enough about it.”

This one wasn’t exactly friendly but at least she hadn’t run away yet. Sacha went to pull out a photo. 

“Put that away, man,” she hissed. “You’re not going to find any girls who look like that here, and the wrong fledgling might just eat you alive for having it.”

“For having a photograph?” He didn’t bother to ask what a “fledgling” was supposed to be. Some sort of weird slang he was too dated to recognize, he guessed.

“For keeping another girl’s face! All you need is a face and a real-name and you can make that person do and say whatever you want.”

“Is this some kind of game you kids play? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It’s not a game,” she said gravely. “You don’t understand anything. Walking into this world when you don’t know the rules is as good digging your own grave.”

“Help me catch up, then. Level with me,” Sacha pressed. “I can make it worth your while.”

He didn’t have much money on hand, but he had medicine credits set aside for emergencies and that should be worth its bytes in gold in a place like this. Or if not, she could pawn it and buy some earrings or animal crackers or whatever kids liked.

“Save it, I don’t have an account. Legally, most of the kids here don’t even exist. You’ll have to trade for what you want the old fashioned way, outsider.”

Exasperated, Sacha rooted around in his pockets and came up with a protein bar and a keychain that doubled as a bottle opener. The girl didn’t look impressed.

“Okay look, hand over the picture and the rest of it and I’ll tell you where you need to go, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Outsiders don’t survive long here.”

Sacha wasn’t convinced this wasn’t all some intimidation game, but he folded up the photo of Renee and handed it to her anyway. If he really needed the visuals he had pictures on his phone. He’d turned it off shortly after setting out, when the calls and texts from his sister started pouring in, but couldn’t quite bring himself to leave it behind in the car. He could just picture Maria pacing around the house scowling at his number as another message failed to go through. 

I’ll make it up to you, he promised her silently.

“There’s a spot two blocks that way,” She pointed. “Left, left, right, down some steps, and you’ll see a sign for The Love Nest. It’s hard to miss.”

Something about the name said through her lips made him want to recoil. The girl scoffed at his unease.

“Relax, it’s just the name left from the old owners. It belongs to the brood now. It’s a good place, a sacred place.” She sighed, looking up and around as if projecting to an imaginary audience. “Not that someone like you would get any of that, I guess. A lot of fledglings hang around there. If your girl can be found, you’ll find her there. If not, she’s already gone.”

“What do you mean ‘gone’?” he demanded.

“I mean gone.” she held up the photograph, still folded. “Gone like this.”

She tore the square neatly in two and let the halves flutter to the ground.

“I’m not even supposed to tell you this much, so if you missed your window don’t even think about hanging around here trying to dig out more information. You’re pushing your luck as it is.”

What an angry kid, Sacha thought to himself as he departed. He wasn’t too different when he was that age, but outright threatening someone who was only trying to do good seemed a bit extreme, especially when that someone had a good head of height on you as well. Was it the conditions they lived in that made them so temperamental here? Or just adolescent angst? Hopefully he wouldn’t be staying long enough to find out.

And just how was he planning to leave, even if he was successful, he wondered. He’d have to drive them out on three tires. Ruining his car would be well worth it though if it meant ending this.

Angry girl’s directions turned out to be sound and soon enough Sacha found himself at the door of a closed down club that proudly announced itself as “The Love Nest” in faded pink letters above the door. The windows were boarded up but there were still some old posters for the upcoming live entertainment pinned to the plywood. It appeared the place had been at least marginally more legitimate than Sacha had guessed by the name, while it had been in operation.

Pushing through the double doors the Detective found himself in a gloomy ballroom, styled vaguely like a vintage cabaret club or perhaps someone’s romanticized idea of a 1920s speakeasy. There were a few tables-- standing only by virtue of the bolts that held them to the hardwood-- a bar, and a large circular stage in the middle of it all. Sacha toed aside what he’d thought was a trash bag only to hear a grumbled complaint and find another of the hollow’s orphans crawling out of a sleeping bag on the floor.

“What are you doing here?” the kid asked, with such pointed accusation you’d think he’d personally wronged them. They were wearing an oversized “Fun Town” t-shirt and flannel bottoms with a paw print pattern.

Roused by the noise, some other children began emerging from their own napping spots to investigate.

“Are you a cop?” one asked.

“No, I’m more of a detective,” he replied.

“Sounds like a cop to me. And you look like a cop.”

Sacha frowned. “How so?”

“You’re old,” the kid said. “And you have blood on you.”

He looked down at his hands, his clothes. He saw brown khakis, dusty black loafers, pale patterned button-up shirt. No tie; he’d spilled coffee on it on the drive, hands already shaky from the ill-advised extra caffeine. To his embarrassment, he noticed a faint dampness where the weather and his own nerves had painted sweat across his collar, but no blood.

“It’s okay,” said the first child, yawning. “Snowy sees blood on everyone.”

“I don’t see it, I smell it,” challenged Snowy. She took a deep breath through her nose. “And you stink of it. Dirty blood, blood that wasn’t ready to be shed. Have you ever killed anybody, Mr Detective?”

Sacha fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Have you been talking to a girl in a princess dress?”

“You mean Princess Ladybird?”

“Never mind,” he said quickly, as if simply mentioning that ridiculous name might conjure up her horrible wailing. “I’m looking for someone. Two someones actually.”

He considered taking out his phone but, remembering how Angry Girl had reacted to the photo, decided to try a different approach. 

“I was told I might find them here. One is named Renee Deeds and the other is Ana Ferro-Silver, eighteen and fifteen years old. Anything you can tell me about either of them would be a huge help. I’m sort of hoping one will lead me to the other.” He forced a smile. 

Kid in the pajamas frowned. “There’s no one with names like that here. You woke us up over something as dumb as that?”

“I don’t think it’s dumb to want to find two girls who might be in a lot of trouble,” he said tersely. “And why were you asleep anyway? It’s three in the afternoon.”

“Growing makes us tired,” Pajamas shot back. They rolled their shoulders. “And sore.”

“And hungry!” added a third child. “Did you bring us any food?”

“Why would I have any food?”

“I heard the gargoyles say you gave Singing Finch a candy bar.”

“It was a protein bar,” he said before he could think to deny it. “What kind of name is ‘Singing Finch’ anyway?”

“It would’ve been Evening Finch, but she tattled so now she’s Singing Finch,” they explained patiently. “She tattled on us and then she tattled on you to the gargoyles and the kestrels. She can’t help it though. She’s a songbird, it’s what they do.”

“So you don’t have any candy?” the other cut in. Sacha put out his empty hands so she could verify and she bit him.

Pajamas laughed as he pulled away with a curse and a cry. “You are dumb. There aren’t any girls in trouble here. You’re the only one in trouble, but that’s because you’re an outsider and a cop, so you probably deserve it.”

Sacha felt a muscle in his jaw tense. He was beginning to think this had all been a huge waste of time. These kids operated on their own kind of logic, their own language, one which was foreign to him. 

“Please,” he said. “Please. I know a lot of you are without families, but these girls still have people who care for them, who are looking for them. I have to bring them home.”

The children looked at him, and then a few of them looked at each other, huddling together in hushed conference. The one called Snowy, who was sitting on top of the bar, glared at him, tilting her head as if she were trying to read something written on the side of his head in very small print. He caught himself raising a hand to touch his neck and let it drop self-consciously back to his side.

“If you keep going like this, you might die,” she told him innocently. “Did you know that?”

The presence of the gun against his stomach, empty though it was, made his skin tingle. “I considered the possibility,” he said, and it was the honest truth. 

“When you die, will you go to paradise?”

“You’re too young to be thinking this much about blood and death.”

“I’ve seen death.” Her voice was without intonation, no defensiveness or accusation anywhere in her tone. She couldn’t have been any older than ten. “My mom died in front of me. She had a fever, but I stayed cold. That’s why they call me Snowy.” She paused, shrugged one shoulder. “Also because I can eat a whole mouse in one bite, like a snowy owl.”

“Oh,” Sacha said lamely. “I’m- I’m so sorry.”

She gave another shrug. “S’okay, I’m with the brood now and they take care of me just as good as mom would. I’m just saying, you don’t really seem like a guy who’s ready to die for anyone.”

Amongst all the riddles and nonsense, this at least was something he could understand. 

“I promise you, I am.”

Pajamas tugged at his sleeve. “Hey, hey Detective, have you ever been to Fun Town?”

He blinked, reeling from the non sequitur. “Excuse me?”

They pointed at the garish logo on their shirt. “‘Fun Town: It’s the funnest place on earth!’ Maybe your friends are there.”

“You’re not going to tell me I should just turn back now? That I’m dumb and the kids I’m looking for are gone forever?” he couldn’t help but snark.

“Don’t listen to Finch, she’s a liar. Nobody’s gone. Different, but not gone.”

Fun Town was an amusement park franchise with a handful of locations all over North America. Had been, that is. They’d had to shut down all their locations more than ten years ago, due in part to the outbreak at the time as well as some unsettling information about the eccentric late founder that came out after his death. Something about swaying elections and pouring company funds into an illicit genetic engineering project. Another day, another megalomaniac billionaire exposé. It had been big news at the time but now it was just another piece of pop culture trivia.

The Fun Town West fairgrounds were now little more than a fancy animatronics graveyard. The rides-- what of them hadn’t been torn down and picked clean by opportunistic scavengers-- were sparkling rusted monuments. Any sense of childhood wonder that remained had long since been siphoned off and sold. The kids didn’t seem to mind though, for how they’d congregated around the place. Maybe Pajamas had a point. It was a big, bright landmark, impossible to miss, and as good a place to search as any.

Three]

The Detective left Snowy and Pajamas and the other strange flock of The Love Nest behind, feeling a grim sense of determination The puckered bite mark on his hand throbbed; the little creep had managed to break skin! 

As he navigated his way to the outskirts of the district, Sacha mulled over the interactions he’d had so far. Reluctantly he pulled out his phone to take some notes, ignoring the voicemail notifications cluttering the screen.

The kids call themselves “brood”-- some sort of gang name? The younger ones and/or newcomers to their group seem to be called fledglings. Everyone has a nickname; real names and pictures of faces have some sort of negative significance. And what of the “songbirds”, “kestrels”, etc? Songbirds: spread information. Kestrels: Unknown.

He huffed. None of this was bringing him anywhere closer to the truth about the missing girls. None of it was helping him find Ana.

By the time he power-walked to the long neglected fairgrounds, the hazy sky was becoming downright dour. The clouds had turned the color of smoke. Combine that with the stench of burnt plastic wafting from some of the attractions, it made for an unpleasant effect. He felt that a storm was brewing, and hoped that whatever came he’d be able to find shelter before the sky opened up around him.

He’d been here only twice while it was still in operation; once just him and his parents and once with Maria. By the second visit he’d already lost his sense of wonderment when it came to a day at the fair. The weather was hot and the crowds were annoying and all the games were rigged. Yet there was still a part of him that felt deeply sad to see what Fun Town had become. This was the sort of place that should’ve been beautiful forever, even as the children grew up and out of their love for it.

As he wove through the rows of darkened kiosks, the fairgrounds suddenly erupted into light. Sacha startled and shielded his eyes. The tired bulbs cracked and fizzled and when he looked up again the desiccated corpse of Fun Town had been revived in a great pulse of electricity. Against the backdrop of perpetual gloom the friendly colors were all the more headache-inducing, and somewhere a tinny recording of calliope music began to play. It all made Sacha’s skin crawl.

Against his every instinct, he let the music lead him to a shack next to the arcade with a mounted loudspeaker, the door marked with a firm “employees only”. To his surprise, the door was unlocked. Inside, another brood girl in coveralls was fiddling with a fuse box and leaning her hip against a desk with an old CCTV. The security system was so antiquated that it didn’t look like it should turn on at all, yet there upon the pixelated screen Sacha could still make out the shape of himself entering the park on a loop. 

The girl turned around, flipping a frizzy head of hair over her shoulder. Although, it turned out she wasn’t so much a girl as a young woman, pushing against the line between teenage and adulthood. His gut reaction was relief. This might be the closest thing to a rational adult he would find around here. Hopefully she’d be of more help than the others.

Come to think of it, he realized, he’d never considered what happened to the Orphan’s Hollow kids once they grew up. Surely there must be some adults here, somewhere. But then, everyone who’d met him so far had treated him as a foreign invader. Were all adults so unwelcome, as he’d assumed, or was there something about him in particular? 

The most rational assumption was that the homeless kids simply became homeless adults. No need for any additional fanfare. They would graduate from the Hollows and go on to squat in other parts of the city. There was certainly no shortage of slums these days, he thought glumly.

Did any ex-runaways ever try to go home, those that still had them? Did that Renee ever think about home? 

“What ho, outsider!” the teen greeted. Sacha felt himself relax despite himself, so glad to be met with at least one friendly face.

“‘What ho’?” he parroted lamely.

“It’s theatre-speak for ‘wassup’. As in, what the hell are you doing in brood territory?”

She moved quickly. He didn’t notice the knife until it was tucked under his chin, pointed at his throat. 

Sacha’s back hit the wall and he put up his hands in surrender. “Hold on, I’m not looking for a fight.”

“Oh yeah?” she giggled. She wrenched up the front of his shirt. “What’s this then? A prop? If I shoot it, will a little flag come out that says ‘bang’?”

She un-holstered the pistol and pointed it at his forehead.

“That’s not a toy,” he said slowly. “Just a little insurance. Like your knife there, I’m sure. I don’t think either of us wants anybody to get hurt.”

“This?” She tossed it in the air and caught it. “Nah, this is part of the act. Tonight, I’m a knife thrower. I’ve never been a knife thrower before. I hope it goes well.”

Sacha tried to speak, but the girl pressed the cold flat of the blade to his lips.

“The older girls put on shows for the fledglings. Sometimes here in Fun Town, sometimes over in the Nest, or up on the rooftops when the weather is nice. I’d invite you, but I don’t think you’d be welcome.” She adjusted her grip again so that the knife was touching the tip of his nose. “All day there’ve been whispers about some kind of detective guy putting his nose in our business.”

“I don’t care about you brood kids do here.”

“Liar.”

“I swear, I don’t. I’m just trying to find someone. I’m not even a real detective anymore,” he confessed. “I wouldn’t tell anyone what you’re doing here. Even if I did, no one would believe me. I’m nobody.”

The knife thrower gave a big, hearty laugh, and Sacha’s throat tightened with fear. He didn’t consider himself a violent person, but over his career he’d come to blows with enough unruly targets and bitter clients alike that he knew when someone was posturing, and when someone was really out for blood. Normally there was a clear indicator of one kind or another; a tightening of the jaw, a certain nervous tick, a look in their eyes. 

But this girl he couldn’t get a read on at all. He hoped that meant she was still on the fence about the subject.

Struggling to keep his voice level he said, “You don’t have to do this. Something like this will haunt you your whole life, you know, and you’ve got so much life left. You’re still just a kid--”

She reared her hand back and struck at his head with the butt of the pistol. Sacha dodged. It slammed into the fuse box she’d been working on instead and the lights went out. Taking advantage of the darkness, he shoved past her and in a stroke of blind fortune found the door. There was a sound then, like the rush of wind in his ears. Then a sharp flash of pain as a flying knife split the cartilage of one ear.

He stumbled and hit the pavement. When Sacha turned around, hand clutched to his head, he saw the young woman’s silhouette bracketed by two iridescent black wings. Again that sound, ferocious wingbeats stirring the air. All he saw were two but it sounded like hundreds, a massive flock taking off in perfect synchronicity. 

“It’s really frustrating when people don’t take me seriously,” said the winged creature as she approached him. Maybe it was an effect of the many colored lights, but her skin appeared to have a glossy sheen to it, like an oil painting in motion. “But you look like you’re starting to get it now.”

“What the hell are you?” Sacha asked with a mix of horror and feverish reverence.

“What do you think I am?”

The thought came to him unbidden. It was an insane thought, one he didn’t even truly believe in, yet this was an insane situation. “The angel of death.”

That gave her pause. “You’re not right, but you’re not really wrong either I guess. Truth be told, I’m heaven on earth. Maybe I’ll cut you some slack if you worship me”

A wing brushed over his skin, however faintly, and it felt warm and real as the blood cooling on his skin. Not ethereal or dreamlike as he might’ve expected but so real, and all the more hideous for it. He shuddered and said nothing.

The false angel, this predatory animal, took a step back. She spun the pistol around one long finger until it slipped and fell to the ground. She looked at it for a moment, as if surprised.

“Huh. It was lighter than I expected,” she said. Then she kicked it aside. “You win this one I guess. I’ll let you go.”

He stared at her, mouth agape, sure it was some trick.

“What? You don’t believe me. I put it in fate’s hand, and for some reason it looks like fate wants to keep you alive a little longer. It’s not how I saw this going, but I can roll with some improv.” She put up her hands. “Don’t bother groveling. I won’t kill you even if you beg. I know guys like you love punishment. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“Here… in Fun Town? Or, are you asking why I’m alive?”

She laughed. She so loved laughing. “Morbid! You’re morbid, man. I mean, why are you here among the brood? At… what do the outsiders call it? The Orphan Hole?” she snickered. “You kind of stick out like a sore thumb.”

“I’m trying to find someone,” Sacha repeated quietly. He’d said the line so many times he felt it was starting to lose its meaning. “And to make up for something I did.”

“Well you should’ve said so in the first place! If you’re looking to atone you need to meet with the broodmother. If you hurry, you might still be able to catch her. Tonight’s going to be kind of a crazy night once it kicks off, but if you plead your case I’m sure she’ll hear you out. 

“I have to keep setting up here. You go on ahead.” She pointed out in the direction he’d come from. “It’s a straight shot to Paradiso. You can tell her the angel of death sent you.”

She spared him one last smirk and then shot up into the air like an arrow loosed from a taut bowstring.

Or a bullet from a gun, even. Sacha considered the discarded pistol for a moment. It seemed so useless now, just a hunk of metal and plastic, just a prop. He walked away without it, pain pulsing dully from his ear. His journey was nearly over.

Time dragged on as he walked, but not enough for him to find the space to contend with what he’d seen. That girl, that creature. She was no angel, that much he was certain of. Angels didn’t attack strangers with a knife, he didn’t think. 

What he wasn’t certain of was… just about everything else. Was he meant to understand that all these girls, these brood, were some kind of bird-beasts taking human shape? Was everyone he’d met an imposter masquerading in the form of a child? Or did they start out as ordinary children and then transform somehow?

He half hated himself for even entertaining such wild ideas, but he had little other choice. “When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth” wasn’t that so? In any case, speculation did him little good at this point. He could only hope that this paradise and “broodmother” the girl had spoken of could give him some answers.

Four]

Just when Sacha was beginning to wonder if the knife throwing angel imposter was fully fucking with him, he found his destination: The Paradiso Hotel, although the damaged neon sign now read only PRDIO. 

The building was tall and narrow, so wedged between its neighbors that it looked like any moment it might be crushed. The brickwork was crumbling as it was. Creeping plant life climbed the sides and snuck in through broken windows. The ominous, weathered shape of gargoyles watched from above, jutting strangely out of high corners. This place must have been in dire straits long before it had been taken over by the brood. At the same time, looking at it Sacha got the impression that it had been something glorious in its heyday. 

There was something almost inviting about the faint glow that came from the topmost windows, filtering pink light through heavy red curtains, and yet Sacha was terrified. His hands trembled on the railing as he climbed the winding stairway. 

The higher he went, the more his surroundings began to change. The carpet beneath his feet grew soft, damp, dipping slightly with his weight, and when he looked down he found it thick with patchy moss. Mushrooms sprouted from the junction where the floor met the wall. Sacha tore his foot from a tangle of roots he’d caught himself in and wondered, when was the last time he’d seen so much wild living plantlife in person? 

Finally he reached the top of the tower and opened the door not onto identical hallways and bland hotel decor, but onto a sprawling private library.

The detective could hardly see the walls for the shelves, lined top to bottom with books upon books upon books. There was a desk against the far wall piled high with precarious stacks of paper. They overflowed and spilled onto the loamy floor, whispering under his every step.

Beyond a towering skylight, storm clouds billowed, but that wasn’t of any concern to the flock of brood congregated in their wake. The scene looked like something rendered from stained glass, at least a dozen girls with wings of all colors stretched out and fluttering idly behind them as they sat around some sort of shrub or young sapling that was, quite impossibly, growing out of the floor. Its tender boughs bore tiny fruit, several perfectly round red orbs plump and shiny with juice.

The room smelled like a greenhouse, like heat and green growth, flowers and fruit. Intrigue drew Sacha nearer and he detected an undercurrent of something metallic as well. He rounded the desk and his stomach plummeted. The tree was not growing out of the floor. It was growing out of a human corpse nested in a bed of soil.

The Detective choked on a gasp and the brood children looked up. Their hands and knees were dark from their work. A flash of gore passed before Sacha’s eyes and he flinched, expecting to be struck down where he stood. When no killing blow came, morbid desire took hold of him and he took a second look. The tree was still there, and the body, but the body was not as he’d thought. It looked dry, mummified, more root than rot. Still staring, one of the brood girls plucked a berry and crushed it between her teeth. The smell intensified, iron and something sweet, heady as any wine.

One of the girl-beasts stood, and she seemed older than the rest somehow, not just in body but in her eyes, gray as the growing storm and so clear that Sacha feared if he looked too long he would fall through them. Her face was smooth and free of wrinkles or worry, but the long hair that fell about her shoulders was white as bone. She wore something like a shawl that hung lazily off her shoulders and down past her knees. Unlike the others, she had no wings.

“So you’re the one all my girls have been making such a fuss about,” she said, and her voice was a choir, her words an indictment.

Sacha felt a strange spike of anger at this creature that looked like a woman and talked like a mystic and was neither. “And you’re the broodmother, whatever that means! Your girls make you out to some kind of god. But you’re not a god, and you’re not their mother. I don’t know what you are and I don’t care. I just want to know why you’re doing this.”

“What am I doing?”

“You’re- you’re taking them!” he stammered furiously. The pieces were coming together, albeit in a hectic jumble. “All the missing girls! You abduct them, or call them to you, or something! It changes them!” He flung his hand out towards the body. “You’re a killer! You're some kind of crazy death cultist and you turn these kids into killers!”

The broodmother quirked her head to the side, not quite smiling. “You talk with a lot of confidence for a man with only half the story.”

“Then explain it to me,” he demanded. “Make it make sense. Because I’ve been running around this madhouse all day and so far, nothing does.”

She hummed to herself, considering. “If you’re so eager for a tale, let’s start with yours.”

One of the other little brood leapt up and wrapped her arms around her waist. “Is it time for a story, Nightingale?”

“Yes, I think so. Do you know which book to get?”

“D for Detective!” she cheered.

“Very good.” 

The girl scampered off and returned with a big book bound in red. Nightingale took it and ran her thumb over the pages, flipping it open with a calm certainty that boiled Sacha’s blood.

“Let’s see… Detective Sacha Ferro. You were born in this very city, had a fairly normal childhood until,” She traced the tip of her finger along the page and Sacha noticed for the first time how it curled, a ghastly hook-like talon. “Oh, that’s right. There was an accident. Your parents… Tragic. Just terrible.”

Astonishingly, she sounded as though she meant it.

“You were in high school at the time. But your sister, Maria, she was still just a kid. You always struggled to relate to her as a brother, with her being so much younger than you, but after that day you had to become like a parent too. You really stepped up, it looks like. That didn’t change the fact that you were still a kid yourself. You made mistakes, and the two of you grew apart.”

Shame curdled in Sacha’s gut. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. The most he was capable of was curling his hands into white-knuckled fists at his sides.

“Get out of my head.”

“I’m not in it. Frankly, I’m not that interested in your editorializing. This is the truth. Now, where was I?

“You’d always dreamed of being a police detective, like the ones on TV,” she continued. “But became disillusioned with the idea once you grew older. So you became a private eye, but that too got old. You were tired of acquiring blackmail material for shady characters and helping angry wives catch their cheating husbands and so on. Meanwhile little Maria had grown up and moved on and the neighborhood you’d lived in all your life was going more and more downhill by the year. You wanted out.

“Then you got a call from a Mrs Gloria Deeds.” Her eyes widened dramatically. “She wanted you to track down her poor missing daughter. The Deedses were wealthy, desperate, and just perfect. You requested an advance payment, a big one, big enough for a down payment on a new life and the gas to get you there. They didn’t even blink as they pulled out the checkbook. It was all so easy.

“You took the Deedses money and you ran away. Forget the kid, chances were she’d turn up on her own in a week or two after getting whatever rebellious phase out of her system. That’s not what happened though, is it? More and more girls started disappearing. Renee wasn’t the first though, or was she? Could she have been the catalyst for all this? You’d never know for certain. The wondering ate you up inside, but not enough to make you turn back.

“You got yourself a new apartment and a regular nine-to-five job. You quit smoking. You adopted a dog. You started letting people in. You even called up Maria begging to be a part of her life again and shockingly, she agreed! You started spending weekends with her and her wife Kara and their sweet little girl Ana. Your mother’s name, wasn’t it? Well, anyway.

“Everything was all going so terribly well until just a few days ago. Nearly five years on the dot since you took the Deeds case and Maria calls you in tears, tells you that Ana has gone missing. You drop the phone, your blood running cold. She’s fifteen. Just a year or two and she’d be out of the target demographic. Neither you or your sister has set foot in this city in years. What are the odds she got taken? But you can’t let it go until you know for sure.

“Feeling frantic, you pull up the stuff from the Deeds case for the first time in what feels like an eternity. You do some digging. Renee Deeds was never found, nor were any of the others who vanished after her. The cops are still as apathetic and incompetent as you left them. They’re blaming it all on an epidemic of gang activity stemming from somewhere the locals have started calling ‘Orphan’s Hollow’. It didn’t used to be called that though, did it? Do you remember? How gutted you were when you found out? No way you could tell Maria where you were going. Back home, back to where it all started.”

“Stop.” Sacha found his voice at last, though to what end?

Nightingale looked up at him, feigning shock. “But don’t you want to know how it ends? Whatever does happen to the guilt-ridden detective trying to right a wrong? Hoping against hope that if he can fulfill the promise he broke that all of this will be set to rights, and little Ana will return home with him safe and sound.”

“Please, please, stop.” He covered his ears and felt the cut throb against his fingers.

“You’re not really in any position to be making demands, Detective. You came to me. You followed my song. It doesn’t usually work on grown-ups, you know, but you were always sort of a special case I think. I’m glad I kept an eye on you. This has turned out more interesting than I thought.” 

She crossed the room to stand before him, cupping his hands with her own. “You never really stopped being that kid, did you Sacha? You run and run and just keep him right there, locked away in your chest. Look at me Sacha. Look at me. You need to be a grown-up now. I don’t have her, Sacha. I don’t have Ana.”

Slowly Sacha’s hands dropped to his sides, his eyes wide and wet. “What?”

“That’s right,” the broodmother said cheerily. “Ana isn’t here. In fact, she’s at home with her moms right now. Maria’s been trying to call you for days now. You were too ashamed to pick up, couldn’t tell her how this was all your fault. It’s not actually, by the way. You were a self-serving bastard, but not enough to bring down that kind of karmic wrath.

“Although I’d’ve been happy to have her, Ana already has two loving mothers, and an uncle that… has his moments.” She patted him on the shoulder. “The children who follow my song aren’t like that. They come willingly, and they change because change is what they need. I won’t pretend it’s not a messy process. Sometimes blood needs to be spilled to create a paradise. But ‘be not afraid’, Detective. I would never let my little angels get hurt.”

“I still don’t understand,” he all but wept. “What about Renee Deeds?”

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?” Nightingale groaned. “‘What are you? What are you? Where’s the girl? Pow! Blam! I’m a big scary action hero and I’m here to save you or kill you trying!’” 

She shook her head. “You’re not the hero of this story, Detective. The girl you knew as Renee doesn’t exist anymore, but she’s alive, not because of your intervention, or lack thereof. Not even in spite of it. What am I? What is she? And what are we when we’re together? A thing that lives without your permission. You need to understand for it to be true.”

She looked at him then with all the sympathy of a mother comforting a crying child. She handed off the storybook to one of her young attendants, and as she turned around she swept aside the cover of her shawl to reveal her bare back. Her skin was twisted with badly healed scars, the flesh raised in the shape of two jagged cuts curving around the shape of her scapula.

“Here’s another story for you. Once upon a time,” she said. “A ship of men was cast from its course and lost at sea. Just when it seemed all hope was lost, they found themselves on the shores of a mysterious island full of the tallest, greenest trees they’d ever seen. The people there had wings like a bird, and they were so beautiful and kind that the men decided they must be angels, and this was paradise.

“The angels let them stay there a while and lick their wounds, but warned them that they couldn't remain forever. At first they accepted this, but as the time to leave for home grew nearer they became obsessed with the wonders of the island and couldn’t bear to go without taking a piece with them. 

“So enamoured by the beauty of the angels, yet fearing their heavenly wrath, they lured away the smallest one and imprisoned her in the lower decks of the ship. When she realized what had happened, she tried to escape, so they broke her wings until just moving them caused her horrible pain. She did get free in the end, but only once the ship returned to port and by then she was far, far from home and knew not how to find her way back. 

“She knew she wasn’t safe among the wingless people, so she hid herself away until nightfall, singing her song by the light of the moon in hopes that one day someone would return her call. When someone finally did, it wasn’t at all who she expected. It was a young human girl, a daughter of man, who recognized her song of pain and loneliness because these were things she knew well herself. When the angel and the girl finally found each other, the angel bid her to cut her useless wings and drink her blood, and together they escaped on new wings.”

As she spoke, the storm outside grew stronger until the wind rattled the very walls, knocking books loose from their shelves. The brood, with their many colored wings and many sweet voices, began to sing in wordless harmony, a hymn from such unfathomable depths and dizzying heights that Sacha’s legs nearly gave out beneath him. 

“Don’t be sad, my mourning dove. This is a happy story. The Nightingale fell in love with the Swiftlet, the song and the storm, and they carried each other to a place where they could make a new paradise, a garden of their own.”

That was when the ceiling began to cave in. Sacha fell to his knees and covered his head with his hands, blinded by what he was sure was a bolt of lightning. When he looks back on it later, he won’t be so sure.

Again came that sound, the torrent of wind and a hundred wings beating within it. Sacha forced himself to raise his head, squinting against the light, and there he saw dancing in the open air above the wreckage-- for dancing was the only way he could think to describe it-- a girl he once knew. Though they were less than strangers, especially now, he recognized her kind dark eyes, her secretive smile. 

Her hair was loose, a halo of electrified black curls, and her wings a dusky brown with the sharp, precise plumage of a swift. Her legs still didn’t move so freely as the rest of her, but she wasn’t bothered. She didn’t need them.

Nightingale ran and leapt and took her in her arms with a lover’s embrace. Off a ways behind them, their brood took flight as well, swooping and shrieking their delight as if they were a single entity, metamorphosing into something new, something so nearly divine.

Sacha did weep then. His vision blurred with the shape of his grief, then his longing, a child and a man and a hair’s width away from paradise. Eventually the storm subsided, but he didn’t see the angel and her love again after that. He thought perhaps that was for the better.

The sky cleared. The sun came out. Elsewhere, young girls planted gardens and played games and put on shows. The world went on, however changed.

This is where past and present collide. In the aftermath of a mystery, a man named Sacha Ferro picks up a book from in amidst the rubble and holds it up to the light. He flips to D for Detective and begins to read, anxious to find out what happens next.

Epilogue]

“Everyone settle down. Places! Starling, for the last time, ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ doesn’t call for a knife thrower.”

“And why not?” She wiggles the blade in her direction. “This show’s so boring. Everyone already knows how it goes. Let me spice it up a bit.”

Finch rolls her eyes. “Whatever. Just, don’t jump ahead of your cue this time. And stop making up extra lines. You almost blew it last time.”

Starling sticks her tongue out but she has a skip in her step when she returns backstage. On the other side of the curtain, the audience is starting to take their seats. There aren’t enough chairs-- and most of the “chairs” are actually old boxes and things to begin with-- so some of them have to stand. An older brood allows Pajamas to climb up onto her shoulders, reminding her to be mindful of her wings, which are still fairly fresh and tender where they join with her back.

“Greetings, Princess,” says the fortune teller Resplendent, dressed in her good theatre clothes, as she sits down beside her. “Who’s this?”

Princess Ladybird holds up the dented ornament head. “This is Jessika. The doctors managed to save her but she needs an emergency body transplant, stat! I’m going to find her a new one after the show.”

She nods. “Greetings, Lady Jessika. I hope you have a speedy recovery.”

Ladybird holds the doll head up to her ear and hums as if in response to something.

“Can I hear too?”

She obliges, and Resplendent listens. There’s a quiet buzzing from inside the hollow tin skull and it echoes hauntingly in the emptiness.

She whispers, “There’s a bug inside of Jessika’s brain keeping her alive. That’s why she can still talk without a body. If Jessika dies, the bug will get out. Ick!”

The other girl chuckles. “Your name is a kind of bug, you know.”

“No! It’s a bird! Lady-bird!”

She bites back another laugh and points towards the stage. “Shh, the show’s starting.”

Sure enough, the songbird choir starts up, bidding the chattering spectators to quiet down and listen up. A girl comes out on stage wearing a corner of the curtain as a makeshift hood. She says,

“It is dark inside a wolf’s belly.”

[sonicgetsrawed]

Put it on Repeat, Don’t Let it Stop

Basically a fic with the boys as exes in a ghost hunter au!!! Warning for blood, violence, temporary character death, emotional angst, actual death but in the past it’s a ghost hunter au someone had to be deaded!!!! There is a happy ending though!!! Enjoy!!!!

It had been six months, two weeks, and three days since Varian left. Five months, one week, and four days since Yong returned to school. Four months on the dot since Nuru accepted an internship at some tech company and quit. Three months and five days since his last case. And back to six months, two weeks, and three days since it all fell apart.

Hugo dragged his feet across the floor as he poured himself another cup of coffee before promptly sitting back down at his desk. The sunlight barely shining through the blinds on the windows of the dingy studio apartment. It was a temporary arrangement he kept telling himself, just until he could get back on his feet, but that temporary arrangement somehow quickly turned to half a year. Hugo sighed as he propped his feet up on the desk, scrolling through job searches as he sipped at his coffee, still hoping his work phone would ring, the outdated phone sitting on the corner of the desk, the screen covered in a thin layer of dust. His lips curled in disgust as he scrolled past yet another add for a dog walker, just how many dogs were there in this god forsaken city? He reluctantly clicked on it, he was almost out of money and he was fairly certain Donella wouldn’t excuse his rent again. He was halfway through the application when he heard his work phone ring.

“Fuck.” Hugo cursed under his breath, jumping at the sound, some of his coffee spilling from the mug and onto his shirt. He eagerly reached for the phone that had remained dormant for the past three months, his breath hitching when a familiar name and picture flashed across the screen. Babe, with hearts on both sides of the name, Varian’s freckled face and buck tooth smile staring back at him, his blue eyes captivating even in the picture. Hugo’s heart stopped, his finger hovering over the answer button, he hadn’t heard from Varian since they broke up. He’d pretty much erased all existence of the boy from his life, burned photographs, deleted pictures off his phone, he’d even gone as far as to delete his contact information, the only thing he didn’t have the heart to toss out was that stupid plush raccoon Varian had somehow left behind, which now was stuffed into a box and shoved underneath his bed. He thought he’d purged Varian from all places except his head, heart. Obviously the only thing he missed was clearing out his work phone. But this had to be a work call or else Varian would’ve just called his personal number. He wasn’t petty enough to scream at him through his work phone, and as much as Varian could hold a grudge it wasn’t likely he was calling to argue after six months. With only another moment of hesitation Hugo accepted the call, shakily bringing the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” He could hear the sharp intake of breath on the other side of the line. It made his heart stop, all the memories he had since locked away of their two years together came rushing back, the nights they spent together, the arguments they had, the tears they shed. Even the small moments they shared, Varian starting his day with a cup of hot chocolate instead of coffee, the way he’d pack Hugo’s lunch with two apples because he always seemed to skip breakfast, and the random kisses to his cheeks whenever Varian got particularly excited about something. He almost missed it, but it was all tainted with the memory of their breakup. The hurtful things Varian said, the things he said in return, when Varian packed his things and left with nothing more than a slam of the door. How he spent day after day waiting for a call, a text, anything that might hint at there still being a chance at salvaging their relationship, but nothing ever came, and as many times as he typed out his own apology, his finger hovered over the call button, he never had the guts to actually go through with it, so the best thing to do, the only thing to do was to move on.

“Hi.” Varian answered, his voice soft, hesitant, shaking slightly from what had to be nerves. Hugo bit his tongue fighting back the urge to both comfort him and yell at him for the things he said. Varian spoke again before Hugo could calm himself enough to address the call rationally. “I, uh, I need your help.”

This time Hugo’s breath hitched. They had worked together once upon a time, Varian knew just as much about this kind of stuff as he did, if he was asking for his help it must be pretty serious. “What did you do?” Hugo asked, not caring that his annoyance slipped into his words. Varian always seemed to push the boundaries further than he should, it was only a matter of time before it bit him in the ass, and now Hugo had to help clean up the mess.

The silence on the other side stretched out longer than it should’ve, Hugo’s patience wearing thin. He was about two seconds from just hanging up the phone when Varian spoke again, something odd in his voice, was it fear? “It’s probably best if I show you.”

Hugo pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a sigh. He didn’t really want to see Varian in person, but he had to if he wanted this case, if he wanted to get paid. “Okay.”

*******************

Two hours and a lot of cleaning later, not that there was a lot of cleaning to be done, it was mostly surface cleaning and trying to hide the peeling paint, the hole in the floor that he’d thrown a rug over, although there was nothing he could do about the terribly outdated appliances. He was just trying to make it look like his life hadn’t fallen apart the moment Varian walked out of it. A soft knock rang out through the apartment. Hugo mentally cursed himself for not changing out of his pajama bottoms and coffee stained tank top. Reluctantly he swung the door open, the creak of its hinges almost deafening, the cold air biting his exposed skin.

He felt sick, it was almost like he was looking at a ghost, ironic given his line of business, but Varian looked the same as the day he walked out. Those infuriatingly adorable front teeth sticking out from his slightly parted lips, the splash of freckles along his nose and cheeks, his dark hair sprinkled with white from the snow, that odd blue streak sticking out amongst the dark locks, and his eyes, his eyes, the same beautiful blue that he could easily get lost in, even though they had lost some of their sparkle, their wonder.

“Can I come in?” Varian asked, his voice sending shivers down Hugo’s spine. It was so different seeing him in person, hearing his voice loud and clear without the static of the phone line. The younger shaking slightly as he pulled his too big coat tighter around his frame, the patchwork on it making Hugo think it had to be a hand me down from Eugene.

“Yeah.” Hugo answered, his throat feeling unusually dry all of a sudden as he stepped out of the doorway to let Varian in. Hugo quickly shut the door before anymore warm air could escape, taking a moment to examine his ex a little more closely. He looked thinner than he already was when they were together, his ribs poking out slightly against the fabric of his shirt, he looked paler too, his dark hair only making it more evident, and then there were the dark circles underneath his eyes, it looked like he hadn’t gotten a good night's sleep in six months. The more bitter part of him was happy that Varian seemed to be doing as poorly as he was, but the more compassionate side wanted to see Varian thriving, doing better without him, to come back stronger.

“Nice place.” Varian said, startling Hugo out of his thoughts, his eyes narrowing at the comment. Although he wasn’t entirely sure if it was a jab or not, Varian’s tone even and neutral.

“Thanks.” Hugo replied flatly. His eyes momentarily locked with Varian’s, something flashing across Varian’s face before he shook his head, settling in the seat across from Hugo’s. Hugo frowned, taking his seat and pulling out a notebook to write on. “So, why does the great Varian need my help?”

“Can we please not do this?” Varian said with a roll of his eyes. He was hunched in on himself, defensive, nervous, spooked even, Hugo refused to believe it was solely from having to come to him.

But ever the asshole he was Hugo feigned innocence, curious as to how far he could push Varian’s buttons. How much did he actually need his help? “Do what?”

“Thi- never mind.” Varian sighed in defeat, slumping back in his chair, eyes closing for a brief second. He looked downright exhausted, guilt welling in Hugo’s chest at trying to push him. “You know the castle my dad was hired to renovate?”

“No shit. I’ve been trying to get in there for years.” Hugo said. He remembered Varian showing him the blueprints he sketched just a few weeks before their breakup, he was surprised they hadn’t started renovating yet. The castle was a major tourist attraction, and it was rumored to have supernatural activity through the roof. Hugo had never gotten to see it though, the castle had been closed to the public for the past five years, which just so happened to be when he moved to New Saporia. There had been a tragic accident at the castle, the public was told, someone died and it needed to be shut down. However it seemed that time was coming to an end. He knew the tourist industry had taken quite the hit when the castle shut down even though the main island was still open, the castle had been the main attraction.

“Well, today’s your lucky day. A few of the workers complained about some odd activity and my dad asked me if I could check it out and, well-“ Hugo raised an eyebrow at Varian’s unexpected pause, the younger rolling up the sleeve of his jacket and presenting his arm.

“Shit.” Hugo mumbled underneath his breath, his fingers ghosting over the angry red mark on Varian’s forearm, a crudely drawn Coronan sun etched into his skin by what he assumed to be a nail. It was strangely warm to the touch, almost as if he were sticking his fingers close to a flame. There was only one way he could’ve gotten that mark, only one spirit that was known for using the last symbol of the Coronan reign. “Varian, what did you do?”

“I summoned the Princess.”

Hugo’s breath caught in his throat, his heart beating rapidly in his chest. It was no wonder Varian needed his help, this was way out of his league, hell it was way out of Hugo’s league. There were books, a shit ton of books, on the history, the legends, of the last princess of Corona. On how her life ended unexpectedly and it led to the fall of Corona, and more importantly how she never seemed able to move on from the castle, left wandering the halls waiting for her loved ones to return for all eternity. Which is why he moved here in the first place, to catch a glimpse of the Princess, if he could prove her existence he’d finally be taken seriously for once. It was a dangerous task, the few people that had supposedly gone looking for her turned up dead, all sporting the mark that Varian now had on his arm. And apparently his stupid ass ex-boyfriend had decided it was a good fucking idea to do the same.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Hugo ground out, his jaw clenched in anger, frustration, definitely not concern.

“I thought I could handle it. I thought I could help her.” Varian shot back, pulling his arm out of Hugo’s grasp.

“Help? You can’t help her! She’s a fucking ghost! This is why I always have to clean up your messes! This is why you can’t handle it!” Hugo shouted, slamming his hands down on the desk. He hadn’t even realized when he stood, but he was damn well aware of when Varian did. The chair he had been sitting in clattering to the floor, the shorter’s lips pursed, eyebrows furrowed, the small twitch of his nose that happened only when he was particularly worked up over something. They were nose to nose, so close he could feel the soft puffs of Varian’s breath. It was enough to send him spiraling, forcing him to take a step back, his expression softening when he realized Varian was more than scared, he was terrified.

“Fuck off! I was just- forget it. I don’t have to explain myself to you!” Varian huffed, turning on his heel, a determined look on his face as he marched towards the door.

“Varian, wait!” Hugo protested, grabbing Varian’s arm before he could get any further. He released him immediately, a burning sensation shooting up and down his arm as soon as he came into contact with Varian’s skin. Varian pulled away as well, tugging his sleeve down, his eyes wild in fear. Hugo looked down at his hand, the tips of his fingers an angry red as if he’d touched a hot stove, but the rest of his hand fine due to the gloves he wore. He frowned at it, it was an odd effect but they could figure it out. If the Princess really had been the mythical Sundrop he supposed it made sense for her mark to burn.

“Hugo, I’m-“ Varian started, stopping himself before he could say that word, the word they both had trouble saying, because if he said it now, here, why couldn’t he say it then? When he needed to hear it.

Hugo swallowed thickly, placing a fake smile on his face as he waved his hand through the air. “Don’t sweat it, Goggles.” Hugo froze, Varian stiffening at the nickname. He hadn’t meant to say it, it was a stupid slip of the tongue, but he’d said it nonetheless. It could’ve been worse he could’ve used an actual pet name. At least Goggles he could work with. Still, it didn’t help the already awkward situation, Varian seemed more on edge, his ears tinted pink from embarrassment, anger, annoyance? He wasn’t sure which, but none of them would do him any favors. And they needed to be able to somewhat work together to figure this out.

“This was a bad idea.” Varian said finally, an odd look crossing his face as he took a step back, looking ready to run. Hugo’s stomach flipped as he was hit with the overwhelming feeling of deja vu, it was so much like that night, so much like it. Every part of his mind was screaming at him not to let Varian go again, he couldn’t lose him again, he wouldn’t let him slip through his fingers, he couldn’t, he couldn’t.

Hugo took a deep breath, it wasn’t the same, it wasn’t like that night, this was strictly business. He had to push aside personal feelings and do his fucking job. “Varian.” The name felt odd on his tongue now, bitter almost, but Varian seemed to take more kindly to it than nicknames, relaxing just the smallest amount. “I’m- let me help you. This isn’t something you can do on your own, obviously.”

He expected an argument, something to hint at that attitude that he used to love so much, but Varian simply nodded, and maybe that was the scariest of all. “Okay. I- thank you.”

*******************

Varian’s car was exactly as he remembered it. The beat up leather seats peeling, the scratch on the left side from that particularly bad accident Varian had been in last year still had yet to be patched up, the car still taking three turns of the key to actually turn on, even the passenger's seat was adjusted just the way Hugo liked it, so if he had to guess Varian hadn’t had anyone in the passenger’s seat since their breakup, or at least anyone that cared to adjust it. Hugo scrolled through the radio stations, looking for something to fill the suffocatingly awkward silence, it was an hour drive and he really didn’t want it to be miserable. Hugo froze, an eyebrow raising as he realized all the preset stations were still to the ones he liked, and he knew for a fact Varian did not like them. They always had vastly different music tastes, usually sticking to instrumental music when they were working on projects together.

“I haven’t had time to change them.” Varian said, casting a sideways glance at Hugo, his shoulders tense.

“Naturally.” Hugo said, settling on a station and sitting back in his seat, eyes focused on the passing buildings.

“I’ve been busy.” Varian explained, his grip tight on the steering wheel.

“I believe you.” He didn’t.

**********************

“We’re here.” Came Varian’s soft voice, Hugo jolting awake.

“Fuck.” Hugo mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. A lot of good that coffee did. Hugo unbuckled his seatbelt, scrambling out of the car, Varian already out and unlocking the gate that surrounded the island.

“We’ll have to walk to the castle.” Varian said, pushing the gate open. Hugo nodded, grabbing his equipment from the backseat. “I don’t think you’ll need that.”

Hugo frowned at that, pulling his bag closer, the chill of the night air sending shivers down his spine, or perhaps it was something else. “I’d like to be on the safe side.”

“Suit yourself.” Varian shrugged, gesturing for Hugo to follow him to the other side of the gate, locking it behind them, a strange feeling washing over Hugo. For better or for worse things were going to be drastically different once they left.

The walk to the castle was just as quiet as the car ride, perhaps more so. There was something bone chilling about the empty streets at night, just the two of them, the echoing of their shoes on the cobblestone, and the white puffs of air in front of them. It stopped when they got to the castle. Usually spirits gave off a colder aura, but it was strangely warm the closer they got to the castle, Hugo even shedding his winter coat by the time they reached it.

“Why is it so fucking hot?” Hugo groaned, trailing behind Varian as he led them into the castle, their flashlights their only guide.

“You’ll see.” Varian said, his eyes darkening. He had opted to keep his jacket on, shivering even in the overbearing warmth of the castle. Hugo placed his jacket around Varian’s shoulders, averting his eyes as soon as it was on. Varian didn’t say anything but he could tell he was grateful by the way he pulled the jacket closer.

Something was very wrong and it was affecting Varian.

Hugo moved his flashlight around, looking at all the various paintings that lined the wall. He recognized a few from history classes, stopping briefly at the portrait of King Andrew the first ruler of New Saporia. His rule hadn’t lasted long, the man dying an untimely death somewhere in his first year of rule. There was something disturbing about the man, much of the history before the rise of New Saporia had been erased, no one but the man in the picture knowing the truth. He wondered what secrets he kept, what the truth actually was about this place. Why had Corona actually fallen?

“This way.” Varian called, Hugo tearing his eyes away from the portrait and following the sound of Varian’s voice. Varian was half sticking out of the wall, a large tapestry covering the hole in it.

“Of course there’s a secret passage.” Hugo huffed, quickly making his way inside the dark tunnel. Somehow it got hotter still. Hugo could feel the sweat starting to form on his brow, Varian shivering more intensely. He was really starting to get worried. As much as he’d claim that he hated the younger for breaking his heart he didn’t want anything bad to happen to him, he didn’t want him to die.

“This is it.” Varian said, stopping in the middle of a circular room, various items lining the walls as if they had been put down here for storage. One item in particular caught Hugo’s eye, another portrait but this time of the last Princess of Corona. She sat in a chair, her parents on either side, one side torn, the other faded to time, only the Princess really recognizable. Her smile was bright and kind, her green eyes welcoming, her long blonde hair done up in an intricate braid. There was nothing that screamed wrong about her, and yet she was the source of all their current problems.

“Hello!” A female voice called, the painting suddenly lighting up as a golden transparent figure came out of it. Hugo let out a yelp, dropping his flashlight as he scrambled back, not that he needed it anymore, the whole room lighting up at the Princess’s arrival. “Oh, I see you brought a friend!”

Her laugh filled the room, bouncing off the walls in a tone that was far too high to be human. In fact she looked almost nothing like her portrait. She glowed a golden yellow from her chest, the color fading the further it moved away from the center, her hair was loose, the strands moving through the air as if she was under water, her feet not even visible, not that she needed them she hovered in the air, dangerously close to Hugo’s face. He couldn’t help but stare into those soulless golden orbs she had for eyes, her smile stretching her face too wide, her lips too thin, just the edges of her sharp teeth visible in her smile. And she was warm, so terribly warm.

“He’s not a friend.” Varian said, sounding weak. Hugo would’ve turned to look at him but he was terrified to let the Princess out of his sight.

She frowned as she tapped her nails together, her too long nails, almost as long as her fingers themselves. In fact it didn’t even look like there was a separation from her fingers and her nails. “Oh, dear.” She said, a pout forming on her face as she gave Hugo a once over, clicking her tongue in distaste before she flew over him and to Varian. “Did he hurt you?”

She floated upside down, watching Varian with a sick sort of amusement in her eyes. The gold aura pulsing in time with the mark on Varian’s arm, which was now glowing. Hugo cursed under his breath, so that was how she was killing them. She was draining their energy until they dropped dead, for what he didn’t know, but he didn’t really care to find out. Hugo swung his bag around fully intending to pull out the ghost banishing plasma gun they had developed early on in their ghost hunting careers, but a small shake of Varian’s head stopped him. Hugo froze, listening for now. He could watch wait for a better moment to blast the bitch to hell.

The Princess’s head snapped towards Hugo, the rest of her body not even moving with it, a questioning look on her face before turning back to Varian. And then she laughed, it was a different laugh than before, while it previously had an almost playful tone to it, this one only spoke of ill intent, almost like nails on a chalkboard. Every inch of his body screamed to run to leave Varian to the fate he chose, but he stayed, this time he stayed.

“He did hurt you, didn’t he?” She asked, her nails dragging along Varian’s face, his complexion getting paler still. He looked like he might drop at any second, the only thing keeping him upright being her clawed hand and her golden locks cocooning him. He watched entranced as her eyes glowed brighter, Varian’s taking on the golden hue for just a second, a gasp escaping his lips, a tear rolling down his cheek. What the fuck was happening? What the fuck was she doing? “I won’t tolerate people hurting my friends.”

In an instant it felt all the warmth was sucked from the room, leaving nothing but the biting cold air as her hair started to change from golden to pitch black. She let go of Varian and he dropped like a stone, his knees hitting the cold floor with a thunk, blood dripping from the newly acquired cuts on his face from the Princess’s sharp nails.

“Varian!” Hugo called, running towards the younger, the mark on his arm glowing a bright blue, the middle of the Princess’s chest matching. Hugo threw caution to the wind as he pulled out the gun, fully intending to put himself between the ghost and boyfri- ex, he meant ex. He didn’t get the chance, the Princess intercepting him before he could reach Varian, her soulless black eyes staring into his terrified green ones.

“Wither and decay.” Her words rolled off her tongue, her hair filling the entirety of the room, blocking Varian from his line of sight, the air draining from the room. He couldn’t breathe, as much as he tried he couldn’t get any air into his lungs, the steady drip of blood coming from his nose, it felt like his insides were being torn apart and rearranged. And if this is what he was going through he couldn’t imagine what Varian was.

“You’re the one that’s hurting him, you bitch!” Hugo shouted, pointing the gun in her direction, his finger on the trigger. He didn’t pull it faster enough, the Princess surging forward her claws digging into the flesh of his arm, the gun clattering to the floor, Hugo slamming into the nearest wall. Ice spread through his veins, his chest throbbing with the effort to breathe, to get any intake of air into his lungs. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t fucking breathe. She smiled that wide toothy smile, all her sharp teeth on full display, her hand raised poised to strike his heart. Hugo squeezed his eyes shut as her hand soared through the air, he didn’t want to see it, he knew the pain would be unbearable, he just hoped it would be quick and Varian got out alive.

“Stop! Princess, please, stop this!” Varian shouted, and to Hugo’s surprise she had stopped, her claws just centimeters from his chest, but stopped nonetheless. She screamed, ear shattering, blood curdling, more shrill than anything he’d heard before.

“No!” She shouted, trying to move her claws closer, but she couldn’t, some invisible force holding her back. Her hair dropped to the ground, gravity affecting it in a way it hadn’t before, clearing the way enough for Hugo to see Varian standing behind her, his arm with the mark outstretched like hers was, the other holding it back, blood coating his hand as the mark freely bleed. Hugo gasped as he was suddenly able to breathe again, greedily gulping in air as the Princess put all her effort into fighting against Varian’s hold on her. “Let me go! Let me help you!”

“This isn’t helping! This isn’t his fault, I walked out, I broke his heart, I was selfish, I was stubborn, I refused to apologize. This is my fault, all my fault. So, please let him go. Please, Rapunzel.” Varian cried, tears mixing with blood as they rolled down his cheeks. Despite the situation Hugo’s heart soared, Varian still cared about him, enough to admit that he was wrong. It was almost as if a switch flipped, all the pent up rage and anger melting away into relief, happiness, at the fact that after this was over they had a chance to properly fix things.

“You called me Rapunzel.” The Princess said, her hair flickering back to gold for a second as she turned to face Varian.  

“Yeah, yeah I did.” Varian said, his voice rushed, desperate, his eyes darting between Hugo and the Princess. Hugo taking the opportunity to inch closer to the gun.

“So you remember?” Her voice was low, dangerous, deadly. Varian’s mouth opened slightly as he fumbled for words, only able to provide a shake of his head. “You remember how you tried to tear my family apart? How you tried to kill my mother? How you tried to kill me and anyone who stood in your way?! I apologized to you and still you threw my apology back in my face! Do you remember that?!”

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Varian stuttered, stepping back as the Princess moved closer, her hair swirling around her again. Hugo’s fingers brushed the gun, trying desperately to get a hold of it with his slick blood coated fingers.

“Of course you don’t! But I won’t let you hurt anyone else, you don’t deserve my friendship, you don’t deserve forgiveness! Why did I have to die when someone like you got to live?!” She screeched, lunging towards Varian just as Hugo grabbed the gun and fired a shot.

He was a second too late, an inch off his mark, her claws digging deep into Varian’s chest, a strangled gasp escaping from his lips. The Princess removed her bloody claws, as Hugo forced himself to move. And for the second time that night, Varian dropped. Hugo discarded the gun, skidding on his knees to catch Varian before he hit the ground, blood already bubbling from between his lips. Hugo shook as he cradled Varian close to his chest, tears blurring his vision.

“‘M sorry.” Varian forced out, his eyes glassy, unfocused, his hand clinging tightly onto Hugo’s as his body jerked in pain.

“No, no, no. You have nothing to be sorry about.” Hugo said, smoothing back Varian’s bangs. His own voice shook with tears. “I should’ve called, I should’ve gone after you, but I was scared you didn’t want me to, I was scared you didn’t love me anymore.”

“I wanted you to.” Varian said, looking like he wanted to say more but a bloody cough wracked his body. “I-I-“

“Don’t strain yourself. You need to save your strength. I’m going to get you out of here, we’re going to get out of here.” Hugo reassured, placing a shaky kiss to Varian’s knuckles. He glanced around the room looking for something to help, he wasn’t sure if he could carry Varian with his torn up arm, hell he wasn’t even sure if the Princess was still here.

“Hugh.” Hugo turned his attention back to Varian, the younger’s voice softer than he’d ever heard it before. There was something strangely peaceful in his eyes, a soft lopsided smile on his lips. “‘S okay. I love you too.”

And with one more jerk of his body Varian’s eyes went dull.

“Varian? Please, I need you. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I- I can’t lose you, please don’t leave me. I love you, I love you so much.” Hugo pulled Varian’s body closer, sobbing into his shoulder. “Come back, please, come back.”

“You really did love him. Why?” The Princess asked, her feet padding against the cold stone floor for a second before she dropped to sit across from Hugo.

“Why?! You- you want to know why?” Hugo snarled, pulling Varian’s body as far away from her as possible, nothing but hurt and sadness in his green eyes. “I loved him because no matter how shitty life got, no matter how shitty people were, he always saw the bright side of things. Sure he was stubborn as hell about it, but he never let people down. He was selfless, kind, he had such a wild imagination, and his dreams, damn they were impossible, but he made you feel like anything was possible.”

“Dreams?” She repeated, testing out the word as if it were something completely foreign, something long forgotten.

“Yeah, dreams. Haven’t you ever had a dream before? ‘Cause Varian he was mine.” Hugo said, wiping a few stray tears away, not caring about the blood he smeared on his face.

“I didn’t know. I guess I spent so long here, alone, I forgot all about my dreams. Thank you, for reminding me.” The Princess said, her face softening as she stood, her teeth becoming less pointy, her smile more natural, her claws shrinking into normal fingers, her gold eyes turning a bright green, she became so much more human.

“Where are you going?” Hugo asked, watching her as she smiled at the ceiling.

“To find my new dream. I’m sure he’s out there waiting for me.” Rapunzel said, her hands clasped over her heart, her golden hair separating from her choppy brown hair. “Tell Varian I’m sorry.”

Hugo’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, the gold swirling around the two of them. “I don’t understand.”

Rapunzel simply smiled, a single tear rolling down her cheek as she started to fade into the golden light. “Flower gleam and glow.”

************************

“Hugo? Hugh, are you okay?”

Hugo forced his eyes open, Varian’s blurry face coming into focus. “Hey, Sweet Cheeks.” Hugo drawled, a lopsided smile on his face.

Varian laughed, a few relieved tears rolling down his cheeks as he wrapped Hugo in a tight hug. “I was so worried about you.” He mumbled into the crook of Hugo’s neck.

“I was worried about you. You’re the one that died.” Hugo said, holding Varian as tightly as possible, for once not questioning the logic of how Varian was alive, just grateful that he was.

“What happened?” Varian asked.

“I don’t know, but I think she’s in a better place now.” Hugo answered, placing a soft kiss to the top of Varian’s head. “And I think we are too.”

“Yeah. Hugo?” Varian lifted his head, his eyes searching Hugo’s, a thoughtful look on his face. “Did you mean what you said? When you thought- when I-“

“Every damn word.” Hugo interrupted, smiling widely as he cupped Varian’s face, pressing their foreheads together.

“I’d like to give us another try.” Varian said, his smile matching Hugo’s.

“It’s going to be a hell of a lot of work. I’m not that easy to get along with.” Hugo said, stroking Varian’s cheeks, trying not to question how every injury he had acquired was now gone.

“I know.” Varian responded with a small laugh.

“Then me too.” Hugo closed the distance between them, capturing Varian’s lips in a passionate kiss. It wasn’t going to be an easy road to repair their relationship, but this time he was going to fight for it.

[awrldalone]

27th April 2021, 3.26pm

Today was special. It started off upsettingly, because usually I wake up very early - between six and twenty past six - but today my alarm did not go off, or I ignored it. And no one woke me up until one hour later.

I wonder how they did not realise. Usually I’m leaving when they wake all up, yet today they did not notice anything different. It made me feel ghostly. My father felt bad about it, and offered to give me a lift to Venice. In the car, which smelled like leather, like always, I asked him why he did not wake me up - and he said it was because he thought I was doing online school.

How he thought that is a mystery to me, after all I assumed we all lived in the same house. Again, I felt like a ghost.

And like a ghost I walked to school. I stopped to get a cappuccino. The man over the counter recognised me from yesterday, he was with who I assume was his wife.

I still got to school early. First two periods I had Italian Literature, but from 9 to 12 I was excused from classes because I was taking the yearbook photos.

It’s not common here to put together a yearbook, but two years ago the student council had the idea. Last year, because of Covid, we did not do it, but this year the student representatives - two of which are in my class - keenly brought up the idea. We could not hire a photographer, so today I acted like one.

Yesterday night I was scared. Imposter syndrome has the best of me because I’m not that good at taking photos, and I’m always scared people will be disappointed.

I brought two lenses, but ultimately I only used the portrait one. I took a portrait of each person, then a group photo with the whole class, then various photos of various subgroups. It was fun, but exhausting.

It made me think that, after all, I care incredibly about my appearance. While I was telling every person I photographed that they looked great, that they are photogenic, or that the photo turned out perfect, I was thinking about how I was seeing at least half of the school.

They know my name. They know who I am. It’s scary. The idea of me living in people’s heads - it probably will disappear like an aspirin, fizzle out quickly, but what if it sticks, and grows outside of my control, in their psyche? It’s scary.

I hope they thought my clothes were cool, because I really liked my clothes. I bought a used leather blazer/coat, and I think it looks more than cool.

At 12, B. and I returned to class. French class, two periods, test. It was an analysis on Mémoires d'outre-tombe, by François-René de Chateaubriand. I think it went well, content-wise. I’m a little less sure about the language. When i reread my first answer I noticed that, embarrassingly, I had used the third person plural for every singular subject.

Perhaps I should study more. I really should. Yesterday I completely and utterly fucked up my History average because I left blank one full question. I had forgotten to study that specific topic. I had written down a note in the text book that I did not have to study the Sister Republics, and she asked exactly that. I should have studied everything. I hope I’ll get a chance to do better, because I probably failed this test.

Now I’m in the bus. I hate the smell of people, the warmth of oppressing breaths, tired from work. I left school early because I need to finish a group assignment. Honestly, I like group assignments only when I’m not in a group with strong minded people.

I was paired up with E. and D. They both are very strong-willed, they like having everything in their hands. E. is a professional fencer, we are probably going to Paris together this summer. She’s very competitive. D. is very precise, inquisitive, controlling. But I like having control, telling people what to do. In a team, I have learnt how to lead. It’s the easiest task, and the most rewarding. The type of tiredness that comes after a lot of work is satisfactory.

-c.

[wordsfromthesol]

The Private Eye

Author: @wordsfromthesol Taglist: @ghost-brocolli Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader Summary: AU where the batfam are detectives/cops, except Jason who is always the rebel, and is a private investigator. You are a vigilante and keep running into a certain P.I., a P.I. that’s a childhood friend. Warnings:  Language, violence, injuries, ya’know all my faves Word Count: 2.6k A/N: This one got a bit long…whoops. Anyways, this was an AU requested by an anon! Enjoyyy. P.S. Y/H/N = your hero name

You had just finished tying up the last of the arms dealers when you heard someone outside. Grappling up, you watched and waited in the shadows. A familiar face crept through the door, you chuckled to yourself once you realized it was Jason Todd, and not another arms dealer. Swinging over to an adjacent window you whistled at the unsuspecting private investigator. You watched as his head jerked in the direction of the noise. As your eyes met, you gave him a wink and slipped out the window. It was interesting to see the Wayne ward in anything except a suit, since the only place you really saw him were the various banquets and galas his father made him attend.

**

Jason’s eyes went to the ground below where he saw eight men tied together. He let out an exasperated sigh before dialing his brother.

“Dick, they did it again” he blurted out before his brother had a chance to answer the phone.

“That vigilante?”

“No, the ice cream man.”

“…Unnecessary Jay, how many?”

“2…4…6…8. Eight and a mountain of guns.”

“Alright, I’ll get Tim and head over. He needs to get out from in front of that computer anyways. Send me your location…and don’t touch anything!” Dick didn’t know why he bothered with the forewarning, he knew his brother would likely touch everything.

Jason’s eyes darted around the warehouse, he knew he would only have a few minutes to look around before his brothers came stumbling in and taking all the evidence with them. He noticed a door and made his way towards it. Picking the lock was child’s play. Jason sifted through the various papers and file cabinets, snapping pictures of anything he thought was important. He silently cheered as it seemed that he interrupted you before your search of the warehouse had begun. Though his celebration was cut short when he heard a car engine cut off. Jason frantically threw the papers back in the cabinets and rushed out the door just in time to greet his brothers.

“Dick, Tim. Lovely day we’re having, isn’t it?”

“Right, because that doesn’t make you sound suspicious at all…” Tim rolled his eyes as he proceeded to head in the direction Jason ran from.

“Well you boys got it from here…have fun!” Jason shouted out behind him as he darted for the front door.

“Ja –” Dick’s words were cut off with the slam of the door.

**

You watched and waited on a nearby rooftop, you never really trusted the cops. You were almost ready to call the police yourself, when finally, a patrol car pulled up to the warehouse and two young detectives got out. Satisfied that they could handle it from here, you turned to leave…but movement caught the corner of your eye. The P.I. was in an awful hurry to get out of there, so you decided to follow him. You watched through his window as he sifted eagerly through photographs, it was almost endearing how excited he was. Hours passed and he still sat on the floor gazing at the various pictures.

Alright, this is getting me nowhere. I’ll come back later to try and catch a glimpse at those photos.

You headed home and tried to get some rest. Something kept gnawing at the back of your mind, and around 3 am you decided to check in on Jason. Maybe he was asleep and you could see what was so enthralling about those photographs. After slipping on your costume you made your way back to the apartment. The entire building was dark, so you slipped in through the window. After a quick sweep, you found the apartment empty. Where on earth would he have gone so late at night. That’s when you noticed the notes scrawled out beside the photos. Another warehouse? Reality hit you, you had missed one. This idiot went out to try and stop another supply of weapons. You dashed out the window, sprinting towards the location. I hope he fucking called his brothers.

You were relieved to arrive at the warehouse and hear silence. Either he hasn’t been caught or he’s already dead. You circled around the building, scanning for the best possible entrance, when you noticed a shadowed figure on the roof. What the fuck is he thinking. You joined him on the roof and clasped your hand around his mouth.

“What to enlighten me on your genius plan here buddy?” You whisper screamed at the man.

With annoyance in his eyes, he pried your hand from his face. “Unlike you, I’m strictly on information gathering…not that I wouldn’t enjoy bashing in some of their faces…”

You glared at him, not believing his excuse for a second.

“Alright judgey, you are ruining my recon here. I was hired to do a job, and I intend to do it. If you would ever get out of my damn way.”

“Me? In your way?! Are you kidding me?” A bullet whorled passed you and you realized your voice had gotten way above a whisper. “Shit. Just stay down, okay?” You reached for your grapple gun and secured it on the roof. Just as you were about to jump Jason latched himself to your side and the two of you tumbled down into the center of the warehouse.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” You screamed as you pushed him towards the wall, attempting to block him from the oncoming slaughter.

“You’re on something if you thought I was just going to sit on the roof.”

“Just do me a favor, and don’t die.” You called after him, as you sprinted towards the nearest thug.

**

You were pleasantly surprised at how well Jason could hold his own, not that he could ever know you felt that way. And he did get a nice bullet to the shoulder as a reminder to not follow you into the battlefield. You waltzed over to him, slumped to the floor grasping at his shoulder.

“See this?” You pointed dramatically to his shoulder. “This is what happens when you don’t follow my instructions.

“Well how do you know that bullet wouldn’t have hit you if I wasn’t there?”

You shrugged. “I’ve had worse.” Bending down, you took out your knife and cut off the bottom of his shirt. Before Jason could react, you tied the fabric around the wound. “You may want to go to the hospital so they can take that bullet out.”

“Yeah lemme roll up to the hospital in a now crop top.”

“Eh, it works…you call your brothers yet, or should I?”

Jason rolled his eyes and pulled out his phone. “Hey Dick…”

“What did you do?”

Jason’s voice went up several octaves as he proceeded to respond, “What…why would you assume that I did something?”

“Jason…”

“Alright, there’s another warehouse…the vigilante may or may not have been involved. Some people may or may not have been shot…I may or may not be one of those people.”

“What the fuck, Jay.” Jason quickly hung up the phone before his older brother could berate his recklessness. After sending the coordinates to his brother, Jason looked up at you. “Alright, get me out of here before Dick shows up. I do not need to see his reaction to all this.”

You rolled your eyes but motioned for him to follow.

**

It had been days since your last encounter with Jason, but you hit a wall with the ring of arms dealers and something in the back of your mind was telling you he knew more than he let on. You crept through the streets, making your way to his building. You couldn’t decide if it was a good thing or not when you approached the building and noticed the living room illuminated. Peering through the window, you didn’t see any evidence of life. Maybe he accidentally left it on? After a few minutes, you carefully pried open the window and made your way inside. Pictures and notes were scattered about, just as before. Your mind got lost processing all the information, both new and old, and you didn’t hear the front door open.

“Are you kidding me…” A voice echoed behind you. You swung around to see Jason holding a bag of food.

“Heyyy Jayyy…”

“Jay?” His brow furrowed with confusion as his eyes darted towards the evidence he had compiled on the arms dealers. “Are you seriously trying to sabotage my case?”

“What?! No! I swear!” You made your way to him.

“Get the fuck out. Now.”

“Jason, I just –”

“NOW”

You scrambled out the door before he further lost his temper. Thankfully, you took enough pictures of his notes to determine the gangs next move on your own. After sprawling out the information in a similar fashion, you combed over the data until the puzzle pieces began to fit together.

“HA!” You exclaimed…to absolutely no one at all, as a pattern in their shipments seemed to develop. Two days. The next one is in two days and I bet this idiot is trying to go there by himself.

You spent the next two days scoping out the warehouse and avoiding Jason, who seemed to be doing the same thing. Delivery day had finally arrived. You sat perched on a nearby rooftop. Though you were watching the trucks pulled into the warehouse, your eyes kept drifting to Jason’s hiding spot. You didn’t want to impede whatever he was doing, but at the same time the thugs needed to be stopped and he needed to not get hurt in the process.

Moments later, it seemed you jinxed the unsuspecting P.I., as two dealers were moving quickly in his direction. Fuck. You leapt down from your hiding spot and ran to his side.

As you came into his line of vision he harshly mouthed, “Seriously?!”

Ignoring his frustration, you shoved him further into the bushes and stood up, making yourself even more visible to approaching men.

“Y/H/N IS HERE!” You heard one of them shout as you raced towards them, giving them no time to take aim. Once the two men were down you shot a glare in Jason’s general direction, a warning to stay hidden…one he did not heed.

Making your way into the warehouse, you counted 10 more bodies, all of which were armed and waiting for you.

“Boys, boys. Can’t we settle this like adults?” You were just trying to buy yourself time to think of a plan. A plan that preferably didn’t involve 10 guns pointed in your direction. As the scenarios played in your mind and nonsensical sarcasm flowed from your mouth. It was interrupted by an explosion on the other side of the warehouse. This distraction allowed you to take out the nearby thugs and race to cover.

Scanning the room, you created a plan, a plan that was almost instantly destroyed as you watch Jason Todd vault over a case of guns and punch one of the remaining arms dealers square in the face. Fuck. You took out two more as you sprinted towards Jason.

“What the fuck were you thinking?!”

“That you would’ve been dead without me.”

You glared at him, he was clearly blissfully unaware that he was about to be shot moments ago.

“Likewise Jaybird.”

His face recoiled at the nickname, “Seriously, do I know you?”

You shrugged and bounded towards the last of the men. As they fell to the floor you turned back to Jason and gave a dramatic bow. Just as you ascended your world went black and the vague sound of a gunshot echoed in the background.

**

Jason chuckled to himself as you took your well-deserved bow. Maybe they aren’t as bad as I thought. A blurred figure appeared in the corner of his vision, headed directly for you. As he pulled the gun from his waistband, he began to shout “Y/H/N!” Too little too late, you were on the floor in an instant. Before the man could take another step, Jason shot. He raced to your side, elevating your head in his lap.

“Y/H/N?” He waited for a response. Nothing. “Fuck this.” He tore off your helmet-esque mask so he could further evaluate the damage. “Y/N?” No no no…Jason ripped his phone from his pocket and dialed Dick.

“Dick. It’s Y/N. Y/H/N is Y/N. She’s hurt bad.” Jason rattled off his location and hung up the phone without waiting on a response.

“Y/N…why?”

Your eyes fluttered as your mind faded in and out of consciousness. Was your mask gone? How did Jay know? “Couldn’t…hurt…my little Jaybird…”

**

You woke up in an unfamiliar and secluded room. Where the fuck… You slowly rose and took in your surroundings. They didn’t seem threatening. Just as you were attempting to stand, that ever-familiar face walked in the room. Jason leapt towards you and put a firm hand on your knee, preventing you from moving.

“Not uh. Doctor said no standing.”

“Doctor?” You memory was still a bit hazy. “Why…what happened?”

“Y/N/N, you were hurt…there was one you didn’t see.”

Your eyes widened as the memories came flooding back. You were here, in a hospital gown…“How many know?”

“That’s what you’re worried about, seriously?!” Jason threw up his hands in exasperation. “God, I know we haven’t been as close lately, but how could you not tell me?”

“Jason, how many?”

Jason let out a sigh, “Just me and Dick.”

A breath of relief left your chest, “I couldn’t put you in danger. And I don’t think you would have approved.”

“I could’ve helped.” Jason seemed disappointed that you hadn’t entrusted him with this secret.

“Jay, the only time we talk anymore is when someone decides to throw some fundraiser that we both are obligated to attend. When did you even expect me to tell you? Look at the shoes on that one, oh by the way I’m Y/H/N?”

Jason shied away, remembering why he distanced himself from you. “I love you” he mumbled into the wall. You were sure you’d heard him incorrectly.

“I’m pretty sure I’m still concussed, so you are going to have to speak up.”

His head whipped around and he marched towards you, taking your hands. “I fucking love you. And when I pulled that mask off and saw you lifeless in my arms I lost it.”

“I –” You began but were genuinely lost for words. You stared at him trying to confirm that you were indeed awake and this wasn’t some comatose dream. Jason, however, searched your eyes for a response. “You stopped talking to me though…” You finally managed.

“I didn’t think you would want me.”

Your face contorted with confusion as you rapidly blinked in his direction. “Seriously, Jay?” He looked down and fiddled with your fingers. You pulled one of your hands from his grasp and laid it on his face. “You’re an idiot.” Drawing his face towards your own you pressed a kiss to his lips before resting your head on his shoulder. As you began to drift back into a medicated sleep you mumbled out, “My little Jaybird.”

Jason turned and stared at your now sleeping form on his shoulder. He left a gentle kiss on your forehead and gently placed you back on the bed. 

[lezliefaithwade]

A Christmas Story

A few Christmases ago, when in Paris, I happened to become friends with a homeless gentleman who frequented the corner at the end of my street. He sat upon a shocking pink suitcase with his little dog, Lucky, curled up at his feet and wished everyone who passed by a heartfelt “bonne journée.” 

He never asked for money. Not once. He never scorned those who scoffed or worse judged. He simply smiled and greeted every passerby with a sincere greeting of goodwill.  I’d been warned repeatedly about beggars in Paris. “Charlatans,” people said, “they’ll take everything you own if you let them.” So, when I first encountered Nichola, I hurried by shunning eye contact and willing myself NOT to look at the dog.  I can turn a blind eye like the rest of us to things too uncomfortable to deal with and reasoned that since this was my first visit to Europe, I deserved a break from routine considerations. But no matter how much I wished I could ignore them, they were always there, as constant as the Eiffel Tower. After a few days, it became impossible, and frankly tiresome, avoiding him. I began to observe how kind he seemed. Children, in particular, loved Lucky and were always feeding him from the small market at the corner. On the fourth night of my stay, I happened to be returning from a concert at the Chapel in Versailles. Intoxicated by the music of Faure, I was in a particularly good mood when I noticed Nichola and Lucky asleep on the street. It was cold that night and a light wet snow had fallen so they were huddled on a grate for warmth upon the wet pavement. My heart cracked. I made my way to the apartment I was staying in around the corner on Duvivier and laying on my bed, stared at the ceiling unable to sleep. I had no idea how I could help or what comfort I could offer, but pretending they didn’t exist was now impossible.

If you learn one thing in Paris it’s about man’s inhumanity to man. Art galleries, of which there are a plethora, boast painting after painting of retribution, judgment, mercy, benevolence, and grace. Who knows more about these things than artists? The lesson from nearly every painting is how downtrodden the poor are, how much God loves the unfortunate, and the cautionary tale of revolt. No matter where I went, or what I saw, it was always Nichola and the dog. Van Gogh stared at me from his self-portrait and whispered, “What are you going to do about Nichola and the dog?” The Raft of Medusa by Théodore Géricault became a depiction of the homeless people piled on a barge with nowhere to go.  Gustave Courbet’s self-portrait with a dog was none other than Nichola himself with Lucky tucked into his side. And no, it wasn’t lost on me that Nichola (namesake of Christmas) was sleeping on St. Dominque street. Dominique - the patron saint of astronomers; a man who selected the worst accommodations and the meanest clothes, and never allowed himself the luxury of a bed. What was the universe trying to tell me?

The following morning, I had breakfast with Nichola and Lucky. I brought croissants, dog food, and coffee, and for an hour I sat cross-legged on the sidewalk as we made our first attempt to converse. My French is, très mauvais, which didn’t matter as I soon discovered that Nichola's native tongue was Romani. With the help of a translation app, I learned that Romania and Bulgaria, where the majority of Roma originate, became full members of the European Union in 2007. But “transitional arrangements” in their accession to the EU mean that citizens of these former communist bloc states did not enjoy complete freedom of employment in France until December 31, 2013. Even now only certain Roma are able to be hired for certain work.  He showed me a photograph of his daughter in Czechoslovakia and he gleaned that I was in theatre visiting Paris on a bursary I’d won from the Stratford Festival. Breakfast over, I waved goodbye and headed to D’Orsay or Versailles, or the Louvre, but I always came back to Nichola and Lucky for dinner between 5:30 – 6:00. On nights when the weather was bad, I gave him money for a shelter or would return home to find that he’d already earned enough for a bed somewhere. Those nights I slept better than others. Nights when I knew he wasn’t on the street, I imagined (probably somewhat naively) that he and the dog were at least safe.

It occurred to me that it was possible I was being bamboozled. It’s conceivable that my friend had a stash of money somewhere, coaxed from emotional tourists like me. Truth be told, nothing would have pleased me more than to find out that Nichola had a fine apartment in a good arrondissement and dined well with Lucky curled up on Egyptian cotton sheets. If I was being fleeced then so be it. Anyone who begs deserves money, as far as I’m concerned. It’s not a noble profession. It’s not gratifying. It’s demoralizing, tedious, work brought to light even more so during the holiday season.

What is it about Christmas that always brings us back to the issue of money? We spend so much on the creature comforts of the season, investing in commercialism and forgetting that the whole Christmas story revolves around a couple about to give birth with no roof over their head. And how often do we watch A Christmas Carol forever reminded that Ebenezer Scrooge’s relationship with money makes him as hollow as the apartments he keeps: void of life and colour. The first time I saw A Christmas Carol I was terrified. (I’m referring in particular to the black and white Alistair Sim version) Marley’s ghost in particular haunted, not only Scrooge but me for days afterward. I half expected to see the shimmering outline of some long lost relative at the end of my bed reprimanding me for stealing cookies or stepping on flowers. In my childlike brain, Marley and Santa Claus merged into some kind of specter sent to judge whether I’d been good, or not. I was forever trying to figure out how good was good? How bad was bad? If found wanting, would I be sentenced to walk the earth with the chains I’d forged? Even as a child I imagined the cord was extensive. I marveled at Charles Dicken's imagination. I didn’t believe Ebenezer Scrooge was real. No one, I reasoned, was that stingy or that greedy; but over time I’ve met a lot of Scrooges and I’ll bet you have too. We use money to ascertain a person’s value and to hold sway over others. It’s the most mysterious entity because it’s only valuable if we think it is. I learned this lesson long ago when studying in New York. I happened to hand a Canadian quarter to a subway attendant who shoved it back at me saying, “I can’t take your funny money.” Perfectly good in one place and absolutely worthless somewhere else.

It’s embarrassing asking for money when you need it and difficult for people being asked. I know a lot about this awkward relationship with money. My father, for a time, was a bank manager and finances were something we simply did not discuss. Not ever. To borrow, even a few hundred dollars was unheard of. Worse, in my family, you were shamed for asking. And if anyone took pity on you with a few bucks here or there, it was always accompanied with the directive, “…don’t tell your mother, or brother, or step-mother.” It was even worse being in the arts, a profession that carried with it the stigma of irresponsibility.  The only exception I knew of was my Nana on my Mother’s side who loved nothing more than to give people things. I inherited this one trait from her. Money has never been something I hoarded (probably to my demise). Instead, I’ve seen it as simply an opportunity to help. In Paris, I became the newly converted Ebenezer Scrooge. Instead of eating at the most expensive restaurant, I ate at moderately fine establishments and saved the difference for Nichola. I bought day-old croissants and gave the difference I saved to Nichola. And when my departure date drew near I bought him a care package of food, blankets, socks, dog food, and treats.

My last night in Paris, I met a friend for a quick coffee and found myself getting emotional as I talked about the street beggars. Could it be that in getting to know Nichola, I realized that so much of my life was about luck? I live in a town where it’s not unheard of for people to have more than one home, and there was a perfectly nice person living on the streets. Our lives are so vastly different, our circumstances so varied simply for the fact of our birth. There but for the grace of God…

When my friend and I parted I made my way in the dark to Notre Dame and listened to a Christmas concert in an overflowing cathedral filled to the brim with parents and children all there to sing Sante Maria and Joy to the World. How fortunate for me that I was able to experience Notre Dame before the fire. Even an atheist would be hard-pressed to admit that there wasn’t something spiritual about that cathedral. And sitting there amongst the Parisians I felt a kind of peace. “What will happen to Nichola?” I asked the rafters and what came back was the sound of children singing:

Angels we have heard on high

Sweetly singing o'er the plains

And the mountains in reply

Echoing their joyous strains

Gloria, in Excelsis Deo

Gloria, in excelsis Deo

As I was walked home after the concert I happened by the famous bookstore: Shakespeare & Co. and was stopped in my tracks by the store’s motto, "Be Not Inhospitable to Strangers Lest They Be Angels in Disguise."

That night I wrote a letter to Nichola and left him enough money for him and his dog to return to his daughter. I sealed the envelope and, in the morning, before I left for the airport, I gave it to him.

I mention this, dear reader, not to draw any attention on me whatsoever. It’s our job to help our fellow man…at least Charles Dickens thought so when he penned,

“At this festive time of the year… it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at present. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts.”

Three months later, I received a letter from Czechoslovakia. Enclosed was a thank you and photos of Lucky, Nichola, and his daughter in the backyard of a home set against the hills.

If I can help someone, then so can you.

[photodesignexpert]

E-Commerce Image Service

Image Editing (Ecommerce image editing)

Product Image editing is the most necessary for E-Commerce. The business of E-Commerce cannot be considered without product image editing. You may have not enough skilled manpower or editing equipment or any editing environment. I have a high quantity of products different from each other's size. Color, and design. In these cases, product photo editing needs to present a different way for different marketplaces. You can use the eCommerce image editing services to benefit. The effect of this type of plan increases business widely.

Image editing allows you to pull clients. In fact, It creates depth in your photo. Which will help your product stand above others. In an e-commerce business, people buy whatever they see. They first see the product's image; if it does not ring a bell in the head, it is no use. They will not order the product.

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We will fulfil a transparent background, white background, shadow or any other editing requirement according to your instruction within deadline and budget.

Background removes for E-commerce image

Aesthetic pictures have a great effect on a photo background. A good pic could lose attraction thanks to her improper background. We provide a standard search to remove unwanted objects from this picture and to attract your clients.

Caption: White Background

Background removal is a common term in E-commerce business. Though Uploading a product photo without a proper background may look dull. The first impression of the customer is essential for this type of business. Background removal is a standard service of product image editing service. We take great care of the photo and work very precisely.

Clipping path for E-commerce image

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Caption: Change it

We try our level best to keep the standard exposure after removing the background. Likely, The clipping path allows us to see the object's shadows and maintain a good product ratio. It usually highlights the product, making it look good in the eyes of the client or customer. It is a regular service included in ecommerce image editing.

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Caption: Manipulation

This is greatly helpful for E-Commerce and garment product images; Ghost Mannequin's result reduces the importance of displaying human figure products. Clipping Path Photo Design Expert provides you quality ghost mannequin result at a reasonable value.

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Caption: Shadow Creation

Our image editing service provides a depth process of giving a shadow effect on a product. Naturally, It helps the product have an aesthetic attire. Shadow effect is a graphical process that needs a lot of experience in product image editing services.

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Color correction image editing helps your product achieve the actual color of your product. If we take a photograph of a product. The color shade change due to light reflection. Through color correction, you can quickly fix that problem. You have a big lineup of your products that look the same but different colors. You can fix the issue with color correction.

Masking for E-commerce image

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Caption: Image Masking

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Caption: Image Retouching

Optimization process for E-commerce image

There are many kinds of optimization way with image editing. We use some way that helps to suitable for E-Commerce products.

Quality first: In the world, shoppers are too much increase in the online market day by day that you can't imagine. You should not compromise the quality of your product image. The Images of your product are must be realistic and high quality. Most of the online consumers want a white background image of his products and some are other background or color background.

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File size: The owner of E-Commerce shows their product photo on the website. The buyer is accessing their website to see product images. Here webpage load is the key to accessing. Lengthy process can displease your customer. Image size is an important issue of the load. You need an edited photo that shoppers could show images quickly.

To optimize your product photos

1. To increase customer need high-quality photo editing. 2. To resize images to access a website. 3. When you will sell more than the marketplace. Like Alibaba, Amazon, etc. 4. Product image that according to the customers chose the background.

E-commerce photo editing at Photo Design Expert

Our professionally skilled designers have years of experience in providing high quality and all types of Ecommerce product image editing services. You will get an ardent exposure photo editor or team of editors who can fulfill your order by hand, operating to attain the foremost optimized photos for where you sell online.

We've optimized product photos for online stores designed on platforms like Shopify, Magento, WooCommerce and a lot of. Plus, we always look after the latest demand for marketplaces like Amazon, eBay, Etsy, social media and more.

When it involves E-commerce. Consistent, high-quality product photos can assist you to convert a lot of customers. If you are sure that your product images of the online/website are not appropriate, we will share it with you to fulfil your goals. Because quality image editing is the thing. We give emphasis.

At Photo Design Expert, There are 50+ skilled professional designers apply their latest tools and techniques for providing the best services. We give training to our image editors for more skilled. We always think about the benefit. How can we increase his business? And the price is very affordable. We give a special facility for bulky image and also sometimes. We offer a price discount for 2/3 months in every year. If any client wants to test our work, 2 images will serve without price. We are very sincere about time management. You are tension free about turnaround time. Our services open 24/7 in a year.

You can take up our Ecommerce photo editing service.

Caption: Neck Joint

Image Editing service. Is it for me?

Imagine editing is a professional service that you can do yourself. For an e-commerce business. You publish a product or give it for sales. You can not provide an image without proper touch. It is a matter of fact that, You must go through an image editing service.

Here at photo design expert, we care about your business. We provide the best quality service for you and your business. You can stay relaxed by giving us the project. There are different services we offer that you can choose from.

Image editing services are excellent for all kinds of businesses. Usually, big organizations have their own graphics department working under the marketing department. They provide their product photos. For a startup business or an eCommerce business. It will be hard for you to make a separate department for your own.

Benefits of hiring a professional

If you hire a professional, you will get various extra services alongside your primary service. First of all, image editing. Then different other image processing services.

You can compare various organizations for their services. One thing for sure you will get an excellent deal for the service from us. We give the utmost care to our work.

Some notes:

• We give better working hours than an individual freelancer. • We provide a better deal for our service. • You will get your project very fast. • Less tension for troubleshooting

Is image editing worth it?

You think of what to do with your products. Indeed, You want them to look different from others. You are searching for a better organization to give your project. You hire a professional and provide your photos for image editing service.

The quality of your product's image depends on the image editor how he works. You can choose a different product image editing service depending on your criteria. Ecommerce business depends on product images. Image editing will not go in vain. You will find your products more attractive. Here are some popular image editing services for Ecommerce:

• Color correction • Background changing • Shadow creation • Ghost Mannequin Effect

These are the most popular services of all. Sometimes there are few other services available. You can choose them depending on your project.

Conclusion

Image Editing is a service that must for any eCommerce business. The online sales initially depends on marketing and photos. An image editing service is essential. You will need your buyers' attention. Create a product look different from others is the most crucial factor. It will not matter what others are doing. An excellent quality photo will make an impact on your buyer.

The service we provide here is at the very best. We will try to provide a good deal with a package of service. You can choose any specific service, or if you want, you can choose any. We have all kinds of product image editing services currently available. Our picture editors are the very best in the market.

You may be thinking of what to do. You may end up trying to learn Adobe Photoshop and start editing images on your own. It will be a tremendous waste of your time. Learning photoshop skills is not a waste of time. Can give this time to develop the product. And use a good editing service. Image editing will work significantly.

[headoverhiddles]

Killing Strangers - Marilyn Manson x Reader AU [Smut]

Synopsis: Your boyfriend is a dangerous man, with secretive toys, a secretive past, and skeletons in his closet. But what will you do when he’s not around to protect you? 

P1/? I may continue this on ao3.

Notes: Undercover Agent/Assassin Manson AU!! I couldn’t get this plot bunny out of my head, so here you go. This is me procrastinating on all my other planned MM fics. Enjoy! (Kill4Me, Killing Strangers, and Gangster by Kehlani are great songs to cycle while reading this)

It’s midnight in Stuttgart, Germany.

You spread out on the chaise lounge, your dress riding up to your knee as you rest your head in your arms and watch the lights of the city blink. It’s beautiful here.

Your boyfriend is an assassin working for a non-government branch, and has got three different places, in different spots. The first one is a penthouse in New York City, upper Manhattan. The second is, as he likes to call it, ‘homebase’, in Los Angeles, a hilltop mansion with bulletproof gates. He’s been spending the most time here in the German penthouse lately, having left behind much of his work in LA.

You rise from the chaise, dress brushing the floor as you walk over to the bookcase. He’s got a single photograph connecting him to anything he’s done in the past, and it’s a photo of him ten years ago, and five other men, all dressed in black suits. 

That had been the dream team: The Antichrist Syndicate. It had started with his partner Jeordie, codename Twiggy, who used to run with Manson in the early days of the business. Then Kenneth, codename Ginger, John, codename 5, Stephen, codename Pogo, Skold, codename Arctic Wolf, and finally, your boyfriend: Brian Warner, codename Manson, the Pale Emperor. They had all worked for an international organization for undercover peacekeeping, called Interscope, under a philanthropist named Trent. They did good, keeping secrets, taking out high profile people. Trent ran a tight business, no loose ends. Then after Mission Grotesque, a particularly bloody affair in Berlin, they parted ways.

5 left first, then Pogo, then Skold, and finally Ginger decided it was time to leave as well. Ginger and 5 had teamed up again in some kind of partnership somewhere across the world in Romania, Pogo had left the life for good (and had probably gotten killed for it by now), nobody really knew what happened to Twiggy, and Skold had gone rogue, become a ghost, a gun for hire.

Manson would have done the same, if becoming a lone wolf wasn’t so unreliable. He liked the benefits he got from working under contract, which meant he could provide for you, keep you safe, keep you under protection when he wasn’t around to look after you. The Loma Vista organization under Bates paid him good, and made it clear that you and he would both be untraceable.

You adjust the framed photograph, dusting it off with your fingertips. Manson played it like he didn’t give a shit about anything or any of those ‘backstabbing assholes’, but you could read him well enough to know he missed those days sometimes.

You walk over to the bar in the penthouse, pouring yourself another cosmo. You had been a bartender before Manson had picked you up in that club three years ago, so you knew how to mix a good one. You run your fingers down your neck to your diamond dagger-shaped necklace, smiling. It felt good knowing how much he cared for you. The danger of his job was all worth it—you would kill for him, and he would do the same.

You walk back over to the window, and sigh. The cars passing below look like small fairy lights, dancing in the blur of the night, and your eyes in the glass reflection mirror the stars.

Suddenly, all the lights go out. You swish your drink, letting the lit up city illuminate its path up to your lips.

"There's an intruder in the house," you remark dryly, "Whatever will I do?"

"Beg for mercy," Manson's voice growls behind you, and fingers wrap around the back of your neck. You take another sip of your pink drink, blinking your eyelashes.

"You gonna choke me, daddy?"

He hums, vibrations rumbling against your back. "I've gotten too used to having you around. I’d probably go crazy without you." Instead of choking you as some lethal assailant in the night may have, he begins massaging you instead. "You haven't been relaxing. You're stiff, sweetheart." You reach back, hand finding his crotch.

"And you're not." You turn around, looking up at him teasingly. "That's a problem." He turns the lights back on, smirking as the shoulders of your dress fall down your back.

"We won’t have to worry about that for long." He walks over to fix himself a drink, undoing his top two buttons to reveal the tattoos on his chest. "What’d you do today, babygirl?"

"Made sure nobody broke in and killed me," you smile sweetly, sauntering by him. You hum, and look at his gun cabinet as you pass it. "That gets me wondering..."

"Mm," he mumbles, half listening as he downs his glass of vodka and pours himself another. You watch him, biting your lip. His black shards of hair are in his eyes, and his cuff links have the slightest trace of dried blood on them. It makes you wet imagining how it got there.

Turning to the cabinet your curiosity had brought you to, you unlatch it, and take a small gun out. You make sure to attach the silencer, as you’d seen Manson do a million times, and close the cabinet door softly. Walking back over to the living room, you stand across from the west wall.  

Looking around, you aim at a plate on the shelf across the room, and pull the trigger. It instead blows a hole through a copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, and Manson looks up from where he’s cutting lines.

“Mind telling me why you’re shooting up the place?”

“I’m practicing,” you shush him, getting up and inspecting the smoking bullet hole, “What am I going to do when you’re away one day and some thug comes in, trying to kidnap me to get to you?” He stares at you through dark eyes, taking a sip of his vodka. You go on. “Picture it. Bates sends you off to Hong Kong to kill some arms dealer who wouldn’t pay. I’m here... all alone... dressed like I am...” You inch your dress up your leg, and his eyes dart down, following the hike of your skirt.

“So, you wanna protect yourself with a gun?” he muses, using a rolled up hundred to snort his lines. “How patriotic.”

“Fuck off.” You lick your matte red lips. “If you get to play with guns, so should I.”

A smug smirk dances on his lips as he admires your form. At least your breasts are being pushed together nicely the way you’re holding that pistol. “Uh huh. Have some of this.”

“I’m busy.”

He walks over to the couch, and sits behind you with his drink, watching. “Okay. Try again.”

You look at him, then back at your target: the damn plate.

He settles in, elbows on his knees, and watches your finger stroke the trigger. “Careful, angel. Aim nice and close.” You close one eye, and pull the trigger. Manson cringes as you blow his first edition Alistair Crowley book away.

He gets up, sighing, and sets his drink down. “You wanna learn how to do what I do?” he mumbles in your ear. He presses his weight up against you from behind, and wraps his arms around you, rolling up his sleeves. His hand encompasses yours, tattooed fingers making sure your grip is right. “Here’s what I do.” He jerks your arm, shooting the plate. Then he shoots a cross pattern into the wall behind it, with four bullet holes, and strokes his hand down your hip. You moan gently, and he pauses. “Oh. You like that?”

“Mhm,” you nod, and he brushes your hair aside, holding your shoulder.

“Your turn.” You aim, and he holds your hand again, steady. “Shoot,” he whispers, pointing just past you, “Here. And the world’ll get smaller, sweetheart.”

His voice is like sandpaper honeyed over. You lean back into him, and his hand finds your breast, massaging it as you try to aim. You give up a few seconds later, and he guides the gun down between your breasts, down your stomach, and slides your dress up your thigh.

“Please,” you whisper, and he dips the barrel of the gun into your black lace panties.

“I fucking wanted you all week,” he growls in your ear, “It killed me being away from you.”

“You could’ve called me.”

He drags the gun up and down. “I don’t have enough burner phones for how many times I had to jack off thinking of you.”

You shiver, reaching back to palm him. He’s half hard in his pants, and you want more. “What did you think of?”

“You, putting on a little show for me. Those gorgeous eyes, staring up at me like I’m the world while you suck my cock like it’s all you live for.”

“Oh,” you breathe, and he massages your other breast, starting to move the gun against your clit.

“You look good holding a gun, babygirl. Aim and show daddy just how good you are.” He gives you the gun, but you drop it and press your lips to his. He walks you back into the floor to ceiling glass windows, and tears your dress, letting it fall around your ankles.

“I liked that dress,” you pout.

“Fuck the dress,” he mutters, and turns you around so you’re facing the building opposite you. You’re only in black pantyhose and a black push up bra, otherwise exposed. He sinks his teeth into your shoulder, his grill making the mark even more pronounced, and you purr, grinding back against him. He grinds his cock into your ass for a moment, just reveling in the sound of your soft moans growing in volume.

He finally pulls your panties down, and positions himself, slowly sinking into you. You gasp, palms splaying out over the window. He grunts once he’s all the way in, then starts up a pace. You grind back into every thrust, and he holds you around your middle, slapping your ass with his hips every time he pounds in.

“You know, if someone broke in, you could just fuck them to distract them until I got back. Your pussy could send a man to an early grave.”

Angrily, you shove back against the window so that both of you fall to the floor, and you get back on top of him. He holds your hips, mouth falling open and head falling back as you start to ride him hard into the floor.

“Babyg... ah, ah... ah...”

“You like that?” you circle your hips, slamming down, “Huh? Mister tough hitman, scary pale emperor, thinks I can’t protect myself. You like feeling my wet little cunt around you? Guess who’s on top of who?!”

“Fuck,” he groans, and you put your forearms on either side of his head, dragging your breasts up over his face.

“I’m close,” you whisper, “Oh god.” He holds you tighter, reaching up your ribcage to grope your breasts and suck your nipples.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Cum on my fucking cock,” he sneers, “Do it, I know you want it.”

“Manson,” you moan, and he rocks you through your orgasm from beneath. When he knows you’re done, he flips you over, roughly pounding into you a few times before his hips stutter and he swears again, finishing inside you.

He catches his breath, and kisses your forehead, rolling over beside you. His hair is messed up, eyeshadow smudged over half-lidded eyes. 

“I’m sorry about the dress, babygirl. I’ll buy you a new one. Pretty one, just like that one, hm?”

“Thank you,” you whisper, crossing your leg with his. He holds onto your leg, chest rising and falling. You two finally rise, and you pull your panties up, so your lingerie set is at least complete to walk around in.

“Now. About this gun thing.” He runs his hand through his hair, and picks it up. “Why don’t we practice on something useful?”

He points out the window at the neighbour he absolutely despises. The guy has his Christmas tree decked out in LED blinking lights that never seem to go out, and while the building across from you seems like it’s miles away, it hasn’t stopped irking either of you.

“Kill Griswold over there.”

“I can’t kill him!”

“Your aim is fine.”

“I bet you I can’t.”

“I bet you can, and whoever is wrong has to give the other person... four straight hours of oral sex.”

You sigh, and aim the gun. “What about the windows, genius?” His hands find your hips, and he holds his hands together in front of you, resting his forearms on your curves. He lays his head in the nape of your neck, watching with you.

“We’ll replace them tomorrow, with your dress.”

“You think it’s smart to leave the penthouse of a contract killer wide open all night?”

“If anybody comes to get us, I know who’s gonna protect me.” He nudges you with his head. “Shoot the motherfucker.”

You pull the trigger, and hit the poor guy’s power box. His tree goes up in flames, and you stifle a laugh. You two watch as he comes storming into his living room, and looks over, trying to find who did it in a sea of tiny apartment lights. He finally looks all the way up at you two. Manson waves, grinning, and you blow him a kiss.

“My nasty little femme fatale,” he mumbles into your neck. He saunters over to the chaise, sitting back, and you sit on his lap, slinging your legs sideways over his.  

“When’s your next job?” you ask, taking a sip from his tumbler of vodka. He plays with a lock of your hair.

“Next month. Contract in Berlin.”

Berlin. That’s... “That’s not far,” you murmur, mouthing kisses along the corner of his mouth, playing with the last few done up buttons above his navel. You trace the long upside down cross he’s got tattooed there.

“Mmm,” Manson agrees, fondly stroking up and down your arms. “I think we should get a cat. We can pawn it off on Bates when we leave.” He idly looks back at the picture frame on the shelf, staring for longer than usual. You follow his line of sight, and try to think of the best way to say it.

“Maybe... he doesn’t want to be found, babe.” Manson looks back to you.

“Good. I hope the fucker stays lost.”

Snuggling into him on the couch, listening to the late night Stuttgart traffic from the open air where your window used to be, you feel his heartbeat pick up a little. No matter how much he tried to deny it, the mystery was weighing on him.

After Mission Grotesque, where had his old partner disappeared to?