#i think it's probably the dementia like she's probably hearing people fighting or like scream screams? like that kind of auditory

[bunnyb34r]

😶 mom was talking to our nextdoor neighbor yesterday and I guess the neighbor asked mom if she heard people screaming around here.... now it could be that this poor woman has Alzheimers or dementia (which we think she does based off these hallucinations she told us ab, and the fact that her daughter is now staying with her) OR it could be me she's been hearing 😶😶😶😶😶😶

Could be both! But uh I do stress scream a lot.... like short but loud AUGH!!! screams at LEAST once a day lately... um sggdgdgdgdgd idk and I'm afraid to ask at this point 😬

[hedgefairy]

Well hello there. While I'm waiting for that breeches video I've been talking about to finally upload, here's

Bridgerton, Episode 4

Phew, half time!

If you've missed the other ones, the tag is Bridgerbore, btw.

Okay, so we start of with Dukey who's going home-ish because drama and heartbreak in the last episode. Stop pretending, nobody takes your pouting seriously! We all know it's twu wuv!

Erm. So, I know, I'm white and this is a delicate matter, but I gotta say I'm not super happy about the whole POC-justifying explanation here. I'd much rather have no explanation at all, it worked perfectly well in Merlin, and this is just as much historically inspired fantasy just with less magic, which I'm honestly quite upset about. I'd be far more okayer with the costumes and overall ugh-ness if there was magic.

But honestly, I'm not a fan of shoehorning that explanation in (it doesn't seem to come up in the books, either, where everyone is basically a baguette in terms of whiteness). The fact that the implications aren't discussed any further makes it even worse. We're talking about the British empire here, and while POC are apparently part of the society (but with more pressure, which... no, this is not how nobility works) the wealth and luxury of this age still stems from the exploitation of POC everywhere else. How isn't there a revolution going on? How is this not talked about? From all I see, Bridgerton is a fluffy, pastel, nice alternate version of the 1800s, and I don't get why anyone would put politics in there instead of just doing what TV tropes refers to as "colourblind casting" and be done with it. Either you do the alternate history thing thoroughly, or you just cast people for being pretty (and maybe good actors) instead of the idea the audience might have about a character's skin colour and have weird costumes and just roll with it.

Also the Queen's marriage seems to suck. I would have liked a deeper, more heartbreaking connection between George III and her, especially because I saw how my Grandmother suffered when she gradually lost my Grandfather to dementia, and it would have been a scene where we could see Charlotte as a person rather than a weird plot device in tafetta and bling, but no, she just seems as annoyed and bored and snappish as ever.

This is getting far too serious. Where's the snark?

We get some Tchaikovsky in the background, which is weird, tbh. Yes, I'm perfectly fine with them covering Top 40s hits and using waltzes from the 1950s, but I draw the line at something from the second half of the 19th century! It's not right! It screams its time of origin all over the place, and even worse, most of the characters would probably actually get to hear it later in their lives, it's not a decent anachronism, it just feels like bad research! This is serious business!

No really, where's the snark?

Oooh, I get it now. That was when I was really, really done with bingeing this show. Yes, I tried to get through as much of it as possible in one sitting. The notes read, in very shaky handwriting

I cannot possibly take more than that

in one day

, so let's continue a few days later when I felt like I could muster the courage to face it again.

So yes, I'm pretty sure this waltz is to young for this show.

Aww, look at that, flirting over cheese! I also like that one of the Featherington girls (I can't really tell the non-Pennys apart) has a suitor, they deserve nice things, too.

The musicians are a mood.

WTF with the hair and the strass. We don't like the strass. Make it go away.

I love Prince Freddy. The poor boy. It's doomed from the start!

Ah, Dukey (also at the ball, even though he was whining about things earlier) gets a heartbeat in the background, because twu wuv.

Middle Bridgerbro goes and meets with the Bohéme. I want more of that! That's finally interesting! That's my people! There's a cool bohemian lady with a pretty dress! People look interesting! Aaaah!

There's a random 18th century burlesque singer at this Regency ball, we need to talk about this. Oooh, it's Opera Girl! Cue Lord B turning into even more of an idiot while Ma Bridgerton tries to hook him up otherwise.

Of course Philippa (that's one of the Featherington Girls) can't possibly have anything nice. Thanks, Dad. You don't get to marry someone you like, that's the people across the street's thing! (by which I of course mean the Bridgertons, just in case anyone forgot the location layout here.)

Eloise is being weird to the housekeeper.

"Are you not supposed to be the smart one", the housekeeper retorts and I'm feeling it, followed by a "WTH, hero" about how servants are too busy to be Gossip Girl, you privileged prat. I think I actually snorted.

Penny gossips with Ducktail Colin, but he's more interested in Cousin, whose dress looks like it was made from the cheap curtains my ex best friend had in his first semester at uni, and God, I hate Daphne's kerchief.

Poor Prince Freddie is trying to propose to Protagonis Girl but of course there's Dukey in the background so she simply must run outside as dramatically as possible where he can find her as she equally dramatically rips the necklace Freddie gave her from her milky white throat. P&P-ish banter ensues. Yawn.

Dukey: * broods *

Daphne: * dramatically exits *

Dukey: * romantically follows her*, and oooh, snogging ensues, oooooh, instant second base, but Bridgerbro the Eldest (known also as Lord B) intervenes.

Lord B: "Marry her!"

Dukey: "I can't!"

Lord B: "Bitch!"

Dukey: "I can't!"

Lord B: "I want satisfaction!"

Me: "Don't we all"

Daphne: "You'd rather die than marry me?!"

(the fuck with her hair)

Middle Bridgerbro is still at the Bohéme-party, and still draws (naked people!). Gay vibes ensue, it's cute. This is Netflix after all, and it took four episodes to get some LGBTQ+ representation!

The Featherington's housekeeper looks a lot like O'Brien from Downton.

Cousin tells Penny about what a cutie Ducktail Colin is, also Penny's "night gown" is really cute (it's not a night gown. She's still wearing stays. It's also the only thing in the whole series that fits her well so far). Penny is super upset but gets interrupted by a hyperfocused Eloise. They fight, and Penny goes on about being mature and not being a "pretty Bridgerton", and that Eloise wouldn't understand. I get her, though, and really, having a perfect family and a "bad" family is such lazy writing.

Somber blah blah between Lord B and Daphne happens and Middle Bridgerbro gets dragged into it. He's informed that his life is pretty much over either way (either way being Lord B dying or being exiled for killing Dukey in the scheduled duel) because his oder bro basically just wants out of his duties. Sucks to be him.

Boxing Bro has to host a frustrated, possibly blueballed Dukey and offers himself up as a second for the duel.

Lord B goes and pleads with Opera Girl to get back with him (doooooon't) because of his little duelling plot and of course intercourse ensues. Girl, where's your self-respect?

Lord F comes into his dark study (we haven't seen much of him yet overall, he probably was too busy gambling) and hark, there's Lady F like the mafia boss I feel she should be, wo berates him about said gambling and that they're broke and how much he sucks. He starts crying, thumbs up for male vulnerability!, but it's kinda played for laughs via her awkward patting of him. Because of course (and I bet the late Daddy Bridgerton would never have lost his composure like that, but he didn't gamble, either, and these are the Featheringtons)

Lord B leaves Opera Girl for THE DUEL (I feel like this almost deserves a ™ by now).

We get gallopping horses! The drama! The panache! Daphne asks Ducktail Colin where it's going down because she wants to stop them, insert pandering feminist ranting about her choosing her own life but I don't really feel it and I wonde where her bangs go when she sleeps because her hair looks so different all of a sudden.

Lord B makes Middle Bridgerbro promise to care for Opera Girl in case he dies.

More gallopping horses! Daphne and her billowing cloak are pretty epic, to be honest, and there's Ducktail Colin on her heels. It's basically a family outing now!

Ugh, I like the seconds in this duel so much more. They should just off and go for a pint or something and leave Lord B and Dukey to their misery.

Duelling protocol ensues. Ten steps, blah blah, nice camera work, though.

Daphne full on rides into her brother's bullet, but she's fine (it would have been so dramatic, can you imagine? It would have been interesting!).

Oh no, they were seen (by her romantic rival, back when they had the dramatic make-outery in the park at the ball after the botched proposal. Sorry, Cressida is such a much better name than Daaaaphneeee. I have a RPG character called Cressida, I might be biased.), she's ruined if they don't marry!. and so she is basically emotionally blackmailing him into marrying her. But he can "never give [her] children!", and goes on how she deserves a household full of love like her family home because the Bridgertons are such a perfect family. God, they all annoy me so much.

Daphne ends the duel by saying that the Duke and her are to be married, with a pained facial expression, no less. I think I just wanna throw a pie in her face or something.

And that concludes Episode 4. That was a long one! Only four more to go! So this is

To be Continued!

Thank you for making it this far with me!

[mish-tique]

Nursing the evil - II

< previous part | part II | next part >

Aelin is a second-year nursing school, working in a home for people with dementia. Peaceful, her life screams. Innocent in a way people describe angels – helping those who need it without any selfish wishes. However, the moment her cousin reappears in her life it’s anything but innocent and peaceful. Aelin goes from nursing the old and the weak to patching up knife and shot wounds. She isn’t prepared for anything but with her Aedion’s name on the line she adjusts extremely fast… even when the leader of it all, Rowan, is a huge ass

A/N: not proofread. Actually hit the 1k mark. Yahas.

“Crawl to the other side of the car,” Aedion bit out and it was serious in a way she had never seen him before. So she did exactly as he said. Thank god she got off at a very strange time – six – which wasn’t a standard shift time so there weren’t any other nurses. There weren’t any visitors coming or leaving either. The silent rule was well known in the nursing house: you don’t come in during dinner, which started at five and was usually done by seven. You either visited before or after, but you don’t come in the middle of dinner, causing it to be an even bigger chaos than dinner already is.

When she finally gets to the other side of the car she gets herself up in a sitting position, her back against the car, and takes a deep breath. She doesn’t know where the shooter was hiding nor where he is right now. “Aelin, I know you like to do whatever you want but I want you to do exactly what I tell you,” a second of silence, “Understood?”

Instead of replying she taps twice on the car. She hopes Aedion still remembers their “secret code” from when they were younger. She would reply to show how strong and brave she is but she honestly doesn’t trust her voice right now. Nowhere she looks is anyone that looks in any way suspicious and she’s afraid that if she makes one wrong sound there will be a second gunshot coming down her way.

“Great.  Hope you get everything together though because I need you to call someone.”

Oh god. She tapped twice again.

“Amazing. My phone lays on the passenger seat. Get it and call emergency number four.”

Two taps again.

She shifts so that her side is against the car and her hand holds the handle of the door in one try. What’s harder is opening the door out of her position; if she opens it a little it will fall back really easily and she doesn’t want her fingers crushed.

So she decided that thinking about it won’t make it easier, especially since it feels like she has already been stuck here for a long time. She whips the door open the littlest as possible and slips her fingers through it as fast as she can. Her wrist is through by the time the door falls back but she just bites her lip when the pain goes through.

Shifting a bit higher, still like a second skin to the car, she blindly feels for the phone.

“Aelin, any time would be amazing,” Aedion comments and Aelin is secretly thankful for it. It distracts her from the situation and gives her enough frustration that she finds her voice back. “Shut it cousin, this is the second I’m doing this today and I won’t get better at it.”

A chuckle is heard from the other side of the car and she laughs at herself. Only they could be like this in the middle of a situation where a shooter is pointing a goddamn gun at them.

Cold glass touches her fingertips and she mentally cheers. “Gotcha!”

But the moment her hand fully grasps the phone she hears a click. One shatters the glass of the door she’s holding open and she hisses at the feeling of the glass falling on her skin. She doesn’t have long to complain though because at that second another click follows and it manages to hit the phone.

A curse gets out of her before she knows it – the way the phone felt the moment the bullet hit it really wasn’t something she wants to go through again. “Aelin, you’re not shot?” Aedion’s worry was obvious through his voice.

“Nope, I’m gonna hope your phone still works though,” she replies and then adds, “Seems like they made the newest Samsung bulletproof. Thank god for that.”

The on-off button doesn’t reply to her but with a bit of pressing on the screen it lights up. The back of the phone, blown in a very strange shape by the bullet, hurts her hand but she can ignore it when she listens to the beeping while it calls ‘number 4’.

“Aedion, what do you want,” a male voice growls and Aelin replies before she notices it. “What you’re doing right now is probably not that important.” The male chuckles. “But someone is currently holding us at gunpoint from god knows where so we would really appreciate some help right now.”

“Got it, dear” the male’s voice turned serious, even with the teasing nickname. “Tell Aedion that Connall is on the way from the safehouse, but go try to meet them on the way. Over.”

The click tells Aelin that the conversation and she curses the man for not providing her any more information.

“Aedion, we got to meet Connall, he’s coming from the safe house.” She whisper-shouts as loud as one can without being actually heard. Two taps are the only warning she gets before she sees that Aedion is suddenly entering the car.

She doesn’t need an order to do the same and they’re already off the parking lot of the nursing home before she even has her seatbelt on. One deep breath in and she spares Aedion a glance. That’s when she notices that he isn’t leaning with his back against his chair. While she would understand that if he did so to take a better look at potential threats but he isn’t looking outside a lot – his eyes are solely focussed on the road.

“What’s wrong with your back?”

“Glass,” is the only thing he bit out.

Aelin huffed. “No need to get all bitchy, I can’t do anything about the fact that we got shot.”

A silence followed. She knows that they need to talk about it but if Aedion is anything like the Aedion from ten years back he will try to avoid it for a while until he knows how to bring it.

“Shouldn’t we go to the hospital then instead of some safe house? If the pain is bad enough that you won’t sit in a normal way the cuts must be deep enough to need stitches,” she reasons.

“Nope, not the hospital,” Aedion groans and Aelin can barely stop her eyes from rolling.

“Then please, please tell me you know a nurse of medicine mayor that’s willing to stitch that mess up for you?”  But the plain silence she gets from Aedion as reply is enough. “Great, then can I call number four so they can get the stuff I need so I can patch you up?”

“Yeah,” Aedions voice is rough and the small tremble indicates that the pain might be even worse than he let himself show. “And his name is Fenrys. Not number four.”

She doesn’t grace him with a reply and just dials number four – no wait, Fenrys, again.

“Hope you like shopper mister, because I have a whole list for you.”

A/N 2: Gavriel isn’t going to have the same relation in this fic as he has in the books with Aedion. Also, hellooo Fenryss. Also also: I haven’t written suspense nor anything in related to fighting in years. Excuse my rusty ass writing.

Taglist: @rowaelin-cressworth​ @alifletcher2012​

[thisisamadhouse]

I met you too late

A/N: This prompt came to me and wouldn’t leave me alone so it had to be written: “I’m the ghost who haunts the house you just bought, and for some reason you’re the only one who can see me.” Also this one from @onhowtobecrazy ‘s Hamilton inspired prompts seemed fitting: #12 “Dying is easy. Living is harder.” Also big thanks to Manon for her feedback and encouragements. Some dialogue are borrowed from Season 4. AO3 link

The captain goes down with the ship, that’s what Commander William Adama has always believed. From the moment he joined the Colonial Fleet almost forty years ago during the Cylon War, he never thought he would live long enough to be retired. Yet there he is, in the suburb of Caprica City, putting down the last of his boxes in the living room of the four bedrooms, three baths, furnished house he has just bought for a ridiculously cheap price only a couple of weeks after the decommissioning ceremony of the old bucket of a battlestar he has started and finished his career on.

Despite having studied the house from roof to basement, to look for any defect that would explain the unexpected bargain, and after the silent, intense glare he treated his realtor with, to no avail, he just shrugged and signed his name on the check and the paperwork.

It could seem a bit big for a single man, but he has two sons and a daughter-in-law whom he hopes will visit, and a best friend with a wife who both tend to overdo it when they have a full bottle of alcohol in front of them, and he would rather not see them drive if he can help it.

He looks around the room with its warm walls and dark cherry furniture. Even if the house has been empty for over a year, it is almost in pristine condition, only a few scraps here and there that speak of a full life spent in a place built especially for, and looked after by, the family that occupied it for as long as he has first boarded a spaceship to go and fight the Cylons, at least that’s what his realtor told him. Most of the personal items are gone, but there is one picture left behind on the mantle of the fireplace, and Bill heads towards it, curious to know more about the people who stood there before him.

He is about to grasp it when he hears someone speak out behind him.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a feminine, low, soft lilt of a voice says, and Bill swirls around, his eyes rapidly sweeping the room, looking for the intruder who managed to sneak up on him unnoticed.

A giggle then, apparently coming from the couch... the very empty, devoid of any human presence couch. Bill frowns, wondering what kind of game this is. He approaches it carefully, searching for a camera, a speaker, anything that could explain it. “Don’t bother,” the voice utters, amused, and now he is certain that he has the right location.

He starts pulling apart the cushions, throwing them on the ground, pating the structure, until the voice protests. “Hey, that’s rude, I’m right there you know,” and this time Bill thinks he can feel a breeze of cold air onto his face. He straightens up and takes a step back, frowning. If he had had the chance to fill up his drinking cabinet yet, he would be worried that he had had one too many, and this seems a bit too sudden for an early onset case of dementia. There is another possible explanation though, and he isn’t sure he likes it anymore than the others.

“What the fr…” he starts to say when the phone rings. He hesitates, looking between the couch and the phone, before shaking his head and crossing the room to pick it up.

“Don’t,” the voice says, all playfulness gone, the tone all at once urgent and anxious, and Bill’s forearm becomes ice cold, frost forming on his skin in a pattern, fingers, a whole hand actually. The ringing stops and the answering machine takes over.

“Hello, you’ve reached the Roslin’s, if you’re looking for Edward,” the recorded message starts with a man speaking, “Judith,” a woman follows, “Laura, Sandra, or Cheryl,” three younger sounding voices speak in rapid succession, and one in particular holds Bill’s interest as he listens to the rest of the recording, “please leave a message and we will call you back,” the family of five talk together in a perfectly synchronized way, the message ending with a collective laugh before the beep resounds.

“Huh, I hope I’ve got the right number. I guess you haven’t had time to personalize your voicemail yet, but you really should cause that was a bit creepy. Hi, Dad, it’s Zak, by the way, but you probably already figured that out. I just wanted to check up on you, see how the moving in is going. Kara and I have some leave coming up, and we thought we might come by, have dinner, visit for a couple of days even. I talked to Lee the other day, and he is almost done with his exams so he may be able to join us. Anyway, call me back when you can. Take care.”

Bill smiles as his son’s ramblings end with another beep. Things haven’t always been easy with his boys, his career robbed him of a lot of time with them, he missed a lot, and ever since the divorce he has been trying to make it up to them. It wasn’t easy to see Zak flunk flight school, his own then fiancée now wife deeming him unfit, but his youngest found a new calling as a deckhand and he is thriving. His eldest had more success as a pilot, but in the end Lee decided to go back to school and become a lawyer. Bill can’t say it doesn’t hurt not to have any of his children follow in his footsteps, but then he remembers that he has Kara, and his daughter-in-law is worth a dozen so-called hotshot pilots at least.

He shakes himself, he will have to return Zak’s call later, but right now he has a more pressing issue, because he can barely feel his fingers, and he is pretty sure that they are turning blue from being exposed to the cold for so long.

Just as he is wondering how to solve his predicament, whatever, or as he is becoming increasingly convinced, whoever is holding him lets go.

“Sorry,” a whisper in his ear, and the sound confirms what he thought.

He heard about the Roslin tragedy on the news last year. The wave of emotion generated after the successive passing of a whole family of well-liked teachers had reached even Galactica. A few of the younger Caprican members of his crew were taught by either Edward or Judith Roslin as children, some even had siblings, nieces or nephews who were in the daughters’ classes.

It started first with the death of the mother following a long, hard-fought battle against cancer, then the car crash with a drunk driver which claimed the father and the two youngest sisters’ lives, one of them pregnant with her first child, and finally the oldest daughter who drowned in a public fountain after hearing the news. From the look of things, it appears that one of them made it home after all.

He spent his childhood listening to his grandmother talk about the ghosts she could see and was trying to help. “They are stuck, Billy,” she used to say, the only one who ever called him that. “They are neither here nor there, but they can’t let go, they can’t move on, they try to cling onto their past lives but they can’t grasp anything. Everything is so cold and dark for them, we have to help them find the light and the shore. Treat them with respect, Billy, always.” Though why he would start seeing them himself now is the real question.

“Laura,” Bill says. “You’re Laura Roslin,” he looks down where the voice came from, and it suddenly seems like a veil has been lifted. Flaming, dark red hair, translucent skin, jade eyes that widen as he looks straight into them, a petite, slender but shapely figure with endless legs, the whole picture leaves him feeling rather robbed that he never got the chance to meet her while she was alive, and the thought instantly makes him feel like an oaf.    

She nods hesitantly, and it has him wondering how long it has been since she last heard her name being pronounced. “Yes, I am,” she says more assertively. “And you can see me, that’s new.”

Through her would be a more accurate term, but Bill is not sure he wants to voice that thought. “Believe me, no one is more surprised about that development than I am. I think I would have remembered if the realtor had told me that the house came with a roommate only I could see.”

Laura shrugs. “I have never had to worry about that before. People usually don’t hang around very long.”

Bill’s eyebrows rise. “And you have absolutely nothing to do with it, of course.”

She suppresses a mischievous smile, but he still catches it, and he wonders what kind of stunts she pulled to the poor fellows who ventured here before him. “It’s my family’s house, I have every right to be here. It’s not my problem if they can’t handle it.”

He can’t help but chuckle at the petulant tone from this prim and proper teacher. “Well, you’re going to need to learn to share, because I’m here to stay.”

She purses her lips. “You don’t seem overly surprised or concerned that you’re talking to a ghost.”

“My grandmother had the gift, that’s what she called it anyway. She could see and talk to ghosts, help them find their way,” Bill tells her, and she snorts.

“You’re one of those then,” she says disdainfully. “Thinking you know exactly what’s best for me, where I should go. One of the former buyers was some kind of priest, or exorcist, I’m not sure which, I didn’t care enough to find out. He thought he knew what was best too. He lasted a week before he ran screaming.”

Bill grins, imagining the scene. “As I said, that was my grandmother. As long as you stay out of my way, I’ll stay out of yours,” he concludes, finding nothing else to say, and she seems too stunned to retort. For some reason, it makes him smirk to have rendered her speechless. Something tells him it hasn’t happened often.

He decides to get started on putting together his bookshelves, and he can feel her presence lingering near as he works. She gets closer when he fills the shelves with rows and rows of hardcovers and paperbacks, looking over his shoulders to study the edges. When he turns back towards her inquiringly as he notices her longing look, she only shrugs and disappears from view.

It is a strange living arrangement that they have, but somehow it works for them. He has never minded being alone, and in between his children and Saul’s visits, that is the case more often than not, but after spending most of his life on spaceships full to the brim with soldiers or workers, even as a Commander with his own quarters, it is not something he is used to. Her presence, as silent or as loud as she wishes it to be, fills his existence and gives rhythm to his days.

It doesn’t take him long to notice her intense yearning for reading. The fact that she has already spent hours just looking at his collection was quite a clue.

“One can flicker lights on and off, break fragile objects, generally mess around the house, -and really, Bill, that’s no place to put spoons away, and by the Gods those wine glasses! I swear I will take everything out when you’re asleep and you will have to do it all over again in the morning-, but I can’t hold on to a book without it turning into a solid block of ice within minutes. How unfair is that?” She told him without batting an eye during his second day at the house, and he had to pause, two spoons in a hand, a wine glass in the other, before deciding to call her on her bluff and tidy up as he pleased. He found all the contents of his kitchen drawers and cupboards emptied on every available surface the next morning, Laura standing in the middle of the room with a smug expression, daring him to comment.

He didn’t and he has since learned to just roll with it and not cross her, it’s way too much work anyway. He has taken the habit, in the evenings, to pick out a book and read it aloud. He starts with the standard literary masterpieces, thinking about her education and her former occupation, but, even if she listens from her usual, self-proclaimed seat on the couch, she seems to lose interest rather fast and turns back to the TV that he leaves on during the day to distract her and only mutes as he sits down in his armchair to focus on his chosen volume.

It’s a gamble to extract one of his favourite mysteries from the bookcase, but it pays off. He has barely uttered the title that she swirls towards him, giving him her full attention. He pauses, looking at her over his glasses. “You know it?” He asks, and she shakes her head.

“Edward Prima? I’m embarrassed to say that it’s one of those classics I never got around to reading, despite my weakness for mysteries,” she says, biting her bottom lip, and he really should get a grip on himself, because he is not supposed to find this endearing, especially as he starts imagining the way she would have flushed…

He is doomed.

It’s in the little things, like lighting the fireplace year round even if he can barely stand it, because she can’t keep warm otherwise; like setting out two cups in the morning and brewing her favourite tea that he will never drink just so she can inhale its scent; like picking the sport pages out of the newspaper and neatly unfolding the political ones so she can read them and huff and puff at the stupidity of their leaders.

He asks her once if she would have ever considered a career in politics, and she laughs because she hates it as much as he does. It’s a shame, he thinks, with those legs in a power suit she could have convinced anyone to follow her anywhere, him included.

It’s in the reminders, when she gives him a lead for the crosswords he is stuck on, when she tells him that he has spent too much time home and he will become an hermit before long, “I will have dinner ready when you’re back,” she teases him, as she tries to push him out of the door to join his sons or Saul.

When she respects his silence and simply sits beside him, when she listens to his stories about the good old days, and when she shares some tidbit about her life to which he hangs on like a drowning man with a lifebelt, the boxing matches with her father, her paintings, and he can never get enough of seeing her light up when she talks about her work as a teacher.

It’s in the quiet moments, when she leans over the pots as he is cooking some traditional Tauron dish and confesses that she wished she had tried it when she could; when she watches him work on his model ship amused and intrigued in turns.

He is so used to her presence that he has to reign himself in each time he has a visitor and remember that it wouldn’t do to interact with someone only he can see, though he thinks he has spied Kara’s eyes following Laura’s mouvements once or twice, he can’t be sure and he certainly won’t  ask.

It hits him fully one day, as he is reading Love and Bullets by Nick Taylo, a pile of blankets on his lap and beside him, patches of ice here and there, where Laura rests her face.

“It started as it always did, with a body. This one was in the river, and I could tell that she had once been beautiful. But this, a bullet and fast current had taken away from her. All we are, all that we think we are, all that we are certain about is taken away from us. When you’ve worked the streets and seen what I have seen, you become more and more convinced of it every day.

Caprica City had been my teacher, my mistress. From the moment I open my eyes, she’s in my blood, like cheap wine. Bitter and sweet, tinged with regret. I’ll never be free of her, nor do I want to be. For she is what I am,. All that is. Should always be.”

He pauses, pondering the words. While he can’t associate them with Caprica City, he certainly can relate them to the woman occupying his thoughts, his space, his whole existence. He allows a chuckle to escape as he finally admits to himself that he has fallen in love with a ghost, and there is absolutely nothing he can do about it.

His movements make her stir from her comfortable position, and she blinks up at him, eyebrows rising in question, but he only shakes his head before continuing his narration. What good could it do to her to reveal the extent of his foolishness?

A couple of weeks pass, and his fingers skim the shelves in search of something new. He stops when he reaches Searider Falcon, not exactly new but it had never disappointed him before.

Laura smiles widely as he shows it to her, she hasn’t read it in years, she tells him, and can’t remember how it ends, and though it is his favourite he is not much help, he has never been able to finish it, he never wanted it to be over, like a lot of things in his life.

It is a short but intense story, it doesn’t take him long to reach the seventh chapter.

“I must warn you that I’m getting into the part that I haven’t read yet,” he says, and she grins.

“Oh dear, are you going to be able to continue?”

“The raft was not as seaworthy as I had hoped. The waves repeatedly threatened to swamp it. I wasn’t afraid to die, I was afraid of the emptiness that I felt inside. I couldn’t feel anything, and that’s what scared me. You came into my thoughts, you filled them, it felt good.” He falls silent, the words resounding deep within him.

“I wish there had been someone to fill my thoughts in the end, someone still left to miss, maybe it would have made it harder,” Laura says, still and tensed, turned away from him.

“Easier you mean,” Bill counters, but she shakes her head, turning on her back, looking at the ceiling.

“Dying is easy, living is harder. Finding a reason to continue when there is no one left, when it’s so simple to just drift away. I didn’t mean to die, Bill, but in that moment, in the water, with only my memories, I let go. I could see my parents, my sisters’ faces, and they seemed to be calling me, but once it was over, I realised that they would have never wanted that for me.”

“Is that why you couldn’t move on? Because you thought they would be ashamed if you joined them?” He asks, before holding his breath in anticipation. He has always avoided the question, thinking that it is none of his business, and she would tell him if she damn well pleases, but it’s the first time she has ever talked about her death and he can’t quite help himself.

He is certain he has gone too far when a long moment passes with no reply, but then she nods, her eyes shimmering, and he reaches for her hand, squeezing it, bearing through the cold to let her know that he doesn’t need to hear more.

She was right, he thinks, as he slowly opens his eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun and a breeze over his face that smell of sea air, it is easy to die. It was bound to happen, his ticker could only do so much after all. He has no regrets though, he has lived a good life, it has taken long enough but his relationships with both his sons have been fully mended, he has seen them both happy and fulfilled, and he is so very proud. He would rather leave on a high note.

He can distinguish the golden shore and a milling crowd is assembling there, he wonders who will welcome him.

A hand slips into his, and he doesn’t need to turn to know who it is. Still, he looks at her, and his breath catches in his throat: not only is it the first time he can touch her without fearing frostbite, she also has never looked more stunning, with full colours to her cheeks, the sun shining in her eyes in such a way it makes him realise he has never seen how green they really were, and her smile… If it were possible this smile would make his heart grow three sizes.

He smiles, threading his fingers with hers, leaning down to rest his forehead against hers.

“You didn’t think you could leave without me, Commander?” Laura whispers, and he chuckles.

“The thought never crossed my mind, Ma’am.”

[olderjustneverwiser]

Too Good to Touch (Spencer Reid)

Masterlist

Well, I did it. Finished my first Spencer Reid piece. This is based off Reasons Not to Kiss Her, a poem which you can read here. I recommend reading the poem before reading this because it may make more sense that way.  

This is different than anything I’ve written before. It came from a personal place, and it’s also pretty self-indulgent at times. 

Spoilers of basically every bad thing that has happened to Spencer during all 13 seasons, so watch out! And a thank you to @of-salt-and-moon @moresvuheadcanons @ventixx and @am-i-right-counselor for their help! Enjoy!

one

She is soft. Spencer knew this the moment he met her, that day all those years ago when she quite literally ran into him outside of a coffee shop one morning. She was rushing to get to work and she was trying to balance her full cup of coffee in one hand, her phone in the other while trying to adjust her purse strap on her shoulder and had not noticed the man in front of her. In her defense, he also wasn’t paying attention. He was too caught up in his latest case that he didn’t see her coming.

She immediately begins apologizing after they collide. Luckily the coffee didn’t spill on either of them, as most of it hit the sidewalk apart from a few specks that landed on Spencer’s shoes. He insisted that it was fine, and allowed himself to look up for the first time since their meeting to see her face. He was so caught off guard he almost didn’t register her question.

“Can I buy your morning coffee?” Her face is expectant and her voice soft and silvery, and he soon realizes that he should answer before he looks foolish. He shakes his head no, tells her that it’s fine.

She continues, “Please? I’m going back in anyway, I’ll just be right behind you in line. I can’t function without coffee.”

She ends her statement with a loud laugh and Spencer swears he has never heard anything so lovely come out of someone’s mouth. So he agrees, and she smiles, and when she extends her hand Spencer can’t help but take it.

Spencer remembers that day perfectly, but he can’t let himself act on his feelings. She is soft, and so is he, but the world is too harsh, too mean. He has seen what the world can do to a person. It can cut them up until they are no longer themselves, and he cannot stand to see that happen to her.

two

She is not the first person Spencer has loved. He knows that she is not the first person to love him, either. His mother, of course, and his team. Morgan, and JJ, and Blake. They all love him, and he loves them, but he does not know how to love. Lila wanted to teach him, but thousands of miles stood between them and before long he was sure she no longer thought about him in that way, and it wasn’t like he really cared about her anymore anyway. Maeve loved him, but their love affair was cut short by a bullet.

He loves her. He is truly, deeply in love with her but he does not know how to love her. He has never had the practice or the lessons on how to treat the person you love. He knows the basics; be kind, make them laugh, and he already does those things for her. But he does not know how to make her feel wanted and loved. And at this point he is too scared to try.

Spencer dreams of loving her. He thinks about finally undoing the not-doing with a kiss that leaves them both breathless, but would his lack of practice show through? He dreams about everything, about slow dancing in the kitchen and holding hands, about loving her in the most intimate of ways, showering her with pent up kisses and praise but he is so scared to hold her in that way. He is too much, he has too much baggage. She knows all of it, and she accepts it, but he knows deep down that he is scarred too deeply to give her the love she deserves.

three

She loves him, so much. Spencer knows that the people he has in his life love him, JJ, Morgan, Garcia, his godsons. They love him, they have told him as much but they do not love him like she loves him. Spencer sees it in the way she looks at him, her pupils dilate when her gaze falls to his lips. He sees it in her texts, telling him to get home safely, to come back in one piece. He sees it in the way she holds him, always asking before she does because she knows how he is but her touch is always warm and loving.  

Does she really think that he doesn’t notice? She tries to hide how she feels, but Spencer is good at his job, and he notices everything. Spencer knows that she loves him outside the realm of friendship, but she is waiting for him to make that move. She knows his past, knows he is scared to love anyone. She does not want to push him and that makes him love her more. It makes him want to tell her how he feels for her, that he aches when he has to leave her. He wants to tell her that he knows that she loves him, but he is scared. He is so scared to drown and take her down with him because he does not know how to be loved.

four

She is beautiful. She has always been beautiful to him, though through the years his definition of her beauty had changed. When they met, of course the first thing Spencer had noticed about her was the way she looked. Her eyes shining bright and full of kindness, her smile that nearly knocked him off of his feet. Sure, Spencer had seen countless beautiful people in his life but she was something different, something that, for once in his life, left Spencer’s mind blank in search for a word or phrase to describe it.

Being a man of science, Spencer has never believed in love at first sight, but meeting her challenged his beliefs. She was beautiful, sure, but Spencer knew in his gut that she was so much more than that. The more they saw one another, as their friendship grew and he learned more about her mind and her heart, he learned that she was not only lovely on the outside. No, she was a good person. She genuinely cared about the people around her, about her world.

She is beautiful, so beautiful that Spencer has always been scared to touch her in that way. Scared that he may make her dirty; leave her damaged in some way, like he is. Every hug they exchange, every time Spencer curls up against her body after a long, harrowing case, him clinging to her tightly as she holds him close, he reminds himself to hold back.

five

She always knows; whenever he calls after a case that leaves him gutted and feeling hollow, she hears the difference in his voice and begs him to visit her. Every time, he goes to her place; when he’s too tired and empty she offers to make the drive to his apartment. She is there for him, always, like good friends are. She knows the horrors of his job, she’s heard his screams when he has nightmares and he has told her stories of what he’s seen. Children murdered, women defiled and mutilated. He has truly seen the worst of what humanity has to offer, so she always tries to show him the good.

This one, this case was hard on Spencer. She could tell by the way he hung his head as he walked into her living room, the look in his eyes. He says nothing, he just walks into her open arms and wraps his arms around her, finally letting his dam break, and his tears fall onto her shoulder.

“Come on,” she whispers, “Let’s sit on the sofa and you can tell me about it. Or don’t, I’ll just hold you,” so they do, and she holds him until his cries subside and all he is left with are a few sniffles. He stays quiet for a long while, except for a ‘thank you’ and they sit there, she holds him like his body is glass and he could break at any moment. At times, that is how he feels - like he is so close to finally breaking. And he is terrified to break and leave her to pick up the pieces of him.

six

She is so full of life. She knows how to live, and Spencer loves the moments when she makes him forget about his life and reminds him to live, too. He treasures days like this, when he’s off and doesn’t have to think about murders and rapists and terrorists and he can be with her. They never do anything extravagant or extraordinary, but these are the days he enjoys the most.

Sometimes they sit in a quiet coffee shop, or rest under a tree in a park. Other days, the two of them lay on her couch, watching bad movies and eating greasy takeout. It is these days that he is reminded how much he truly loves her; she is so comfortable and she is home. They lay together in a way that they probably shouldn’t; limbs tangled together under a blanket on her small couch, so close that he can smell her hair and the chapstick she uses, and he fights with himself every time. Wanting to kiss her, to finally do the thing he has been thinking about doing for so long.

Then he remembers Maeve, the first woman he fell in love with. He remembers Diane, the gun that she held to Maeve, and the inevitable gunshot that he can still hear plain as day in his mind. He can still see the light leave Maeve’s eyes as she died, murdered right in front of him. Reminded that he never got the chance to even kiss Maeve, he tells himself that this is for the best. He could not bear to see the same emptiness in her eyes.

seven

She would catch him, and he knows that. She’s told him as much; that she would be there for him no matter what came at them, but did she know the extent of that? Did she truly understand what that may entail? It was no secret that his mind was full of horrors, but it was so much deeper than that. Ever since he was young enough to understand his mother’s disease, Spencer has been afraid of his own mind. Not just of what he could do with it, but what it could to do him.

Spencer’s twenties were filled with worry; knowing that oftentimes schizophrenia showed itself in that time frame. He was able to breathe a sigh of relief once he hit his 30s, only to have another disease haunt his mother. It killed Spencer to know that one day his mom may not recognize his face or remember who he is. Dementia would most likely be in the back of his mind until the day he dies, always wondering if he will wake up one day and not remember his time at the BAU, or his mom, or her. More than that, though, he worried about her witnessing his seemingly inevitable fall down into the darkness that is dementia.

His father had left him and his mom because of her disease. It got to be too much for him to handle, understandably. After taking care of his mom himself for a short time, a small part of him understood. Would he one day become too much for one person to handle? Too much, that even love could not make them stay? Throughout his life Spencer has witnessed countless marriages end for different reasons. Hotch lost Haley to a bullet, a disease tore his own parents apart. Spencer could not make himself build a life with her just to have it taken away.

eight

She is sweet, but she has her sour days. Days when the world and the people in it get to be too much for her, so she retreats. She hides out, calling in to work, barely having the energy to drink a glass of water or wash her face. He hates when she is like this, and he is relieved when she agrees to let him check in on her.

The sight he walks into always manages to make his heart ache; a dark living room, a tired and distant look in her eyes as she answers her door. No smile to greet him, no joke about his unruly hair or crooked tie. She mutters a greeting before falling back onto her couch, and he follows suit. Asking permission before he hugs her or rubs her back, even though her answer is always the same. She leans into him, and depending on how bad it is, she opens up to him.

It’s not like she’s naive or gullible, but she wants to believe that there is still good in the world. She wants to believe that people are inherently good. If she doesn’t, she’ll drive herself crazy. Part of Spencer is thankful for that, After all the bad he sees on a daily basis, he likes that she reminds him of the good. It’s times like these, though, that he wants to grab her and beg her to grow a tougher skin. He wants to tell her that the world is not good, but he doesn’t. He knows that she doesn’t need that right now, not while she’s feeling the way she feels.

Spencer knows all too well what it is like to hate yourself; to feel empty. To hate everything around you. All too often he feels the same. Not suicidal, but wanting the world to stop for a while. Wanting to feel something other than despair for once. He hates that she feels that way and he does everything he can think of to help her.

Spencer looks down at her while she’s in his arms and he wonders if he is partially to blame for her pain, if he could make her happier if he would just be open for once and allow himself to love again. He is scared to hurt her, but he wonders if this, his silence, is hurting her. It is a vicious circle that he does not know how to break.

nine

She is good. Not just in the way she acts, but in the way that she is. She still believes there is good in the world and always tries to find happiness in the little things; she always finds the silver linings.

Spencer vaguely remembers a time when he felt the same. When he first joined the FBI he was full of optimism. He knew he could have done anything with his life, having three PhDs at the tender age of twenty-three was more than impressive and they would have taken him anywhere he would have wanted to go, but he chose the FBI at Quantico. That decision continues to keep him up at night, wondering if he made the right choice. If the heartache and the pain he had endured were worth it.

He knows he cannot logically blame all of his problems on his job. Not even his addiction. Even though he would have never taken dilaudid if it wasn’t forced into him while he was held in Georgia, it was his choice to take it again once he was back home. It was Spencer who sought out dealers in D.C., not Hankel, his captor. He came very close to ruining his career, as well as any chance of a nice future, for a high.

Spencer is sure he came close to making his mother’s mental state worse when he tried to care for her himself. Years of guilt over hardly visiting her finally got to him and he made the decision to move her in with him. How was he so ignorant to believe that he could help her? He had hired help, but it was idiotic and selfish for him to think that she was better off with him.

His journey to help his mom had done more harm than good, eventually landing him in federal prison. The charges were dropped after proving that he was framed for the murder of Rosa Medina, but the damage had been done. He still woke up in cold sweats, those prison bars still haunting his dreams at night.

Spencer was damaged goods, his career and life were in jeopardy until he cleared his name and got reinstated into the bureau, but still, he feels flawed. Cracked. Ruined.  

He manages to ruin everything he touches, and he cannot ruin her.

ten

She knows about every bad thing that has happened in his life. She knows about his mother, his father leaving. She knows about Tobias Hankel and the dilaudid, and about Gideon. He has told her about Maeve’s death, and Emily and Blake leaving. Cat Adams, being framed for murder, ultimately being sent to prison. He has had enough sadness and heartbreak to last a lifetime and she knows about all of it. She saw him in prison, of course she bugged Emily enough until she agreed to let her visit him. She knows about his past, his fears, and insecurities.

Spencer has told her about the time in high school when some older kids found out about a crush he had and stripped him naked in front of the whole school, which is where his hatred of his body came from. He has told her about being so young in high school that he never got the chance to go to dances or have any real fun, he feels like he couldn’t have a childhood because his mind was so big, there was so much to learn. Besides, no one wanted to hang out with a 12 year old child prodigy in the twelfth grade anyway. She knows that after Hankel was dead, Spencer stole his drugs and continued to take them just so he could feel something, and how he hated himself for it.

She knows about all of the bad in his life, and the bad things he has done. She knows, and she loves and accepts him all the same. Still he cannot bring himself to take that leap and let himself fully love her. She is too good, too light to be buried in all that he has experienced.

-

He loves her. God, he loves her and he is so tired of being alone. He’s tired of being scared, being selfish; he’s tired of fighting. He has had so much sadness in his life, he deserves happiness. He deserves someone to love him, and so does she.

Back at her place, they’re watching reruns of a TV show they both like. They’ve seen this episode so many times they can recite it from memory, but still there is no place either of them would rather be. Spencer looks over to her, and she feels his gaze on her so she turns her head and her cheeks turn red. “What?” she asks.

Reaching for the TV remote, he pauses their show and scoots closer to her. The look of embarrassment on her face turns to one of confusion as he does so, and she is about to ask him another question before he grabs her hand, briefly rendering her speechless.

“I love you,” he breathes, “I’m in love with you. I’m sorry I haven’t said so sooner, I was just scared.”

When she finally speaks, it is a low whisper, “Scared of what?”

“I don’t know. Hurting you, being hurt myself. Scared of everything, really. But I’m being honest, I love you. So much. Do you love me?” He knows the answer, but he needs to hear her say it.

She doesn’t say those three words, though. Instead, she squeezes his hand and gives him an answer in the form of a different three words, “Spencer, kiss me.”

And so he does. He presses his lips to hers slowly, finally doing the one thing he’s dreamt of for so long, and he can’t help but realize how perfect and right this feels.

[serahne]

37 for komahina?

37 - You would make the perfect father/mother

After a few months on the island, some things had started to become like a routine. Everyone knew who was up first - Nidai, most of the time, except on sunday where Hanamura insisted to make them the special brunch he used to cook at the diner he used to own with his mother - who woke up last - Saionji, by far, and at least once a week Koizumi had to drag her out of her room to join everyone for breakfast. Breakfast together, too, had become an everyday occurrence. They all had their own activities during the day, and often spend their time with the people they get along with the most, but despite how differents they could be, all of them agreed to join the rest of the group in the restaurant every morning.

Which could sometimes be incredibly chaotic. And this day was one of those days where it looked like the end of the world is still going on somewhere, and this ‘somewhere’ happened to be the inside the hotel’s restaurant.

Hinata entered the room still half-asleep, just looking for some coffee to start the day with as much energy as possible. He still suffered from occasional insomnia, his brain unable to shut the fuck up, and it tired him so much that coffee had become a lifesaver. Probably not the healthiest way to deal with his condition, but since he was a pretty unique case, and that anyone in the world with some competence in brain surgery probably had other things to think about than helping him to sleep, it wasn’t like he had any choice on the matter.

He walked through the restaurant, hearing Sonia fawn over the meal Teruteru had cooked for them this day, Souda scream at the said-cook whenever he was trying to suggest a way for Sonia to ‘thank’ him. In the corner, Koizumi was exposing her plan for the cleaning of the island’s beach to a nonplussed Pekoyama, Tsumiki was shrieking, almost crying while Saionji was on her way to prove everyone that she had the largest vocabulary of them all when it came to insults. Even without looking at them, he also could hear Owari and Nidai in a screaming competition, yelling and debating on the feasibility of some technical combat move. Sitting at one table, not saying anything for once and just observing the chaos surrounding him with a smile on his face, Komaeda seemed almost out of place, especially since he hadn’t even made the effort to pick something to eat.

Hinata sighed, closing his eyes for a while, before deciding that it wasn’t worth it. He reached to cupboard where the coffee was. Everyone was being silly, and after all, weren’t they allowed to be after everything they had been through ? Wasn’t it better to have Owari and Nidai piercing everyone’s tympans with their screams than having a metallic Nidai, dead on the floor of the Strawberry House ? Wasn’t too much life better than no life at all ? Shouldn’t he be glad that…

He stopped his train of thought, looking at the empty cupboard. No coffee. He blinked, his brain not processing what his eyes were seeing. Slowly, he closed the door, waited a few seconds, and re-opened it.

Still no coffee.

He breathed in and out, trying to not let the irritation crawl through him - in vain. Suddenly any little noise reaching his ears was like nails on a blackboard, Tsumiki’s whining weren’t so much touching than they were annoying, and Saionji didn’t help. Koizumi’s enthusiasm was more grating than soulful, and Sonia’s candidness made him want to roll his eyes off.

With a loud sound, he slammed the cupboard’s door shut and turned toward the rest of the room, who fell strangely silent - Hinata realized that himself wasn’t the kind to disrupt the organized chaos steaming from the room, that he was the kind to go along with it, and just stand in the middle of it, unperturbed. Well, he thought. That was him when some coffee was available. Which wasn’t the case now. And he was pissed.

“You” he said pointing his finger at Koizumi, who raised his eyebrows in return. “You’ll expose whatever battle plan you have tomorrow, as always, and until then you are going to stop stressing everyone with this stuff, okay ?”

He didn’t wait for an answer and turned toward Saionji who glared at him. “You are going to stop bullying Tsumiki, and I honestly couldn’t care if you eat a healthy breakfast or stuff your face with candies. And Tsumiki, you’ll stop caring about it too. And generally if you can stay from Saionji, it will be holidays for us as well as for you.”

He glanced at Hanamura next. “You are going to stop being a creep, she isn’t interested, no one is interested, if anyone is they will tell you, but for now please consider no one thinks your innuendos are subtle, funny or engaging in any way, thank you” Hanamura opened his mouth to say something that Hinata had no patience to hear. “I’m not interested either. And I’m not done.”

He looked at Sonia. “Stop being so weird.” and Kazuichi “Stop being so you.” And toward Nidai and Owari. “And if you two really wants to scream your heads off, fine by me, but could you please do it outside, if that’s not too much to ask.”

For a few seconds, everything was silent, looking at him in wide-eyed confusion, with the exception of Komaeda who seemed ready to burst out laughing. Hinata threw him a nasty glare to make sure he wouldn’t. He already felt pretty ridiculous as it was. As anyone could have predicted it, Saionji was the one throwing the first stone.

“Big bro Hinata” she called him in this innocent tone that he always used when she was about to say something crass “Are you on your period or something ? Or you have a cramp in your right hand and couldn’t masturbate for a week as the loser that you are ?” She punctuated his question with an adorable smile.

“Hiyoko !” Koizumi rolled her eyes, before giving a severe look at Hinata. “We weren’t doing anything wrong, and I’d appreciate if you didn’t use us to vent whatever negative feeling you have.” She bit her lips before standing up. “Pekoyama, we can keep talking downstairs, if you want ?”

The swordswoman nodded in agreement without looking at Hinata and the girls disappeared, followed by a crying Tsumiki and a mumbling Saionji. Sonia looked at the scene silently before starting to eat the food she had praised so much, and Kazuichi leaned away from her, giving her some space while Hanamura was running away toward the kitchen. Hinata, sighed, putting cereals in a bowl before adding some milk over it, feeling guilty to have spoiled the mood, but satisfied to not be surrounded by yellings and headaches-inducing discussion.

Well, Nidai and Owari were still screaming in the background. For some reason. They didn’t even look like they heard anything from his little speech.

“You’d make such good parent, Hinata !” a voice behind him - not that hard to know who since only one person could be that bad at reading the mood - said. After a few seconds of silence : “Or a good dictator. They are basically the same, aren’t they ?”

“Shut up” Hinata replied, knowing it would be absolutely ineffective. “Are you the one who drank the rest of the coffee ?” he asked, curious.

Komaeda frowned.

“No ? Don’t you remember that you told me that it would be bad for my health ?”

Well. He may have said that. But really, if being the Ultimate Luckster could save him from an airplane crash, from cancer, dementia and the apocalypse, he doubted too much caffeine could be that harmful, be he wasn’t about to discuss the technicalities.

“Sure.” Hinata yawned - he really needed his cup of coffee like three minutes ago. “Awful. Don’t drink it, ever.”

After saying this, he slammed the bowl of cereal he just prepared in front of Komaeda, looking at him with all the authority he could muster.

“And you know what’s bad for you ? Skipping breakfast. So you eat it, and then you can do whatever you want.”

It was a little silly, being the one making such basic breakfast for Komaeda when the most delicious food in the world was there, cooked by the Ultimate Chief, but Komaeda was weird like that and probably didn’t even think that he was included in the people Hanamura had cooked for, and Hinata was a too tired to fight right now.

Komaeda looked at the meal with obvious distaste.

“I like toasts better.” He said, and Hinata wondered if he was about to pout.

It was a cute thought, something his brain created as a symptom of withdrawal or something, he decided.

“Cereal are healthier. I’ll bring toast from the supermarket from tomorrow if you want.” Since he had to go there to get coffee anyway, he could take that as well.

Komaeda’s eyes light up and he picked up his spoon without further argument.

“You really are like a mom, aren’t you ?”

Hinata rolled his eyes and pulled on one of the other’s lock of white hair, strong enough to pass the message that he didn’t like the comparison, but not to hurt him in any way. Komaeda still yelped dramatically, as if he was being scalped.

“I’m sorry, the dictator comparison was more appropriate.”

“Eat your breakfast.” He said, hiding a smile. “I’ll be back. In a better mood.” He added a little softer, not really sure why, but he was happy to do it when he saw the timid smile Komaeda offered him in return.

All he heard was Komaeda’s humming and Nidai and Owari’s screaming while he left the restaurant.

[a-bau-tiful-mind]

On the Line (Spencer Reid x Reader)

A request fill for anon who wanted angst with a fluffy ending. Spoilers for 11x11 “Entropy” if you aren’t caught up. Everything italicized is from the show, not my words. Hope you all enjoy it. xx 

“I don’t understand why you keep asking me, Y/N! There’s nothing to tell!” Spencer was raising his voice, darting around the bedroom grabbing his coat, gun holster, and pistol, placing them on his person with over-exaggerated movements. 

“There clearly is and you’re hiding it from me!” You said from your spot on the bed, watching him helplessly. Ever since he got back from visiting his mom, Spencer was slowly distancing himself from you. The phone calls on his trip were short spoken. The fights you’d been having were more frequent. Instead of spending the rest of his time off together, he had hid away at his desk and ignored you. When you spoke up about it the first few times it happened he’d deny it, but then he started leaving abruptly without any reason, taking phone calls outside, and become increasingly more suspicious. Every time you pressed him about the situation, it’d escalate into a screaming match.

Spencer’s personal cell rang on his nightstand, the screen glitched and automatically answered. You could faintly hear JJ’s voice.

“Son of a bitch!” Spencer shouted, frustrated. He brought the phone up to his ear. “No, JJ. Not you, I’m sorry. I’m having a rough morning and now my phone’s acting up. Yeah. Alright. I’m on my way.” He aggressively hit the End button.

“Spence, we’re not done here.” You reminded him quietly. “Well it’s funny that you said ‘we’ because I’m definitely done here.” He retorted harshly, turning and leaving the bedroom.

You sat there, annoyed that he’d leave things like this. You always understood that his job came first, but always taking the backseat was taxing. Especially when he was being so closed off emotionally, it was like being in love with a shadow.

As the day went on your annoyance turned to anger, then to regret and sorrow. There was nothing you hated more than him going into work in the middle of the fight, his job was too risky. Anxiety set in and you started panicking. You started letting your mind wander to questions Spencer never wanted you to fixate on, what if he got hurt? What if the last thing you heard from him was how done he was with you and your relationship? You didn’t tell him you loved him before he left, you always made sure to do that, but you were just so angry and hurt that you let it slide. Overwhelmed with guilt, you started getting a sick, sinking feeling in your stomach and all you wanted was to hear his voice, have him home.

You looked at the clock and saw that it was close to 8, he should have been home by now. You tried to rationally think that he was probably working on case files and that he lost track of time, or that he was still annoyed and wanted to cool off. Either of those options would have been better than what your mind was stuck on. Your imagination was your worst enemy and you couldn’t shut it off.

Tears steadily flowing, you reached for your phone. You had to call him. If he didn’t answer, you’d call JJ, Hotch, or even have Penelope track him. Intuition telling you that you had to know if he was alright or not.

Holding your breath you heard the line ring, grateful that his cell wasn’t off. You heard a small click and caught on to muffled words. You remembered that his phone was answering calls automatically. You listened carefully heard Spencer’s voice speaking softly, relieved that he was okay. You caught onto a woman’s voice that wasn’t familiar to you. A week ago you’d never believe he could cheat on you, but lately you didn’t know what to believe. Spying on your boyfriend felt wrong, but you justified that you knew he would probably do the same thing if the roles were reversed. You turned on the speaker so you could hear better.

“My mom has schizophrenia and the doctor’s changed her medication which seemed to agitate her, so I went to the treatment center to help her.”

“That’s it? You just risked your life over mommy’s pills?”

“It’s the truth.”

“It’s part of the truth. You’re holding something back.”

You felt paralyzed, your gut proving you right. He wasn’t alright, and now his life was at risk because of some woman. What was so private that he’d risk his life to hide it? You held your breath, scared you’d get him caught if you made noise. You were shaking as you listened on to Spencer go back and forth with this killer, hearing him profile her and get stuck in a twisted game. Did he know he was going under cover? Why didn’t he tell you? Your mind was running a million miles per minute as you listened on.

“Wait. Your mother - tell me.” “Is this part of the game?”

“No. The game’s over.”

“When I looked at her medical chart, it didn’t make any sense. The medication that they gave her should have been helping, but I couldn’t figure out why it was making her so angry. So, I, uh, went to see her. The moment I walked in her room, I saw it. For three seconds, she didn’t know who I was. I had her tested that morning and I found out that night that she had early onset of dementia. Most likely Alzheimer’s.”

Everything made sense now, and you knew he wasn’t lying to her. Your broken heart shattered once again, hearing the unsub ask Spencer if he tested himself, exposing his fears of inheriting not one, but now two of his mother’s illnesses. You wanted to kick yourself for fighting with Spencer so much and not catching on to what was happening, but inside you knew that he didn’t want you to know.

“I can’t stop it. I can’t help her. All I can do is find people that I can help.”

Even under the weight of his world crashing down on him, he didn’t want to cause anyone any grief. He just wanted to help.

You heard commotion and movement, you deduced that she had Spencer at gunpoint and Derek was talking her down. After some intense words, she agreed to let Spencer escort her out of the building.

Once you heard the click of the handcuffs, you allowed yourself to hang up. You let out the sob you’d been holding in for the past hour. You didn’t know what to think. You were scared for Spencer’s life, worried about Diana and all the uncertainty she’d face, and you couldn’t help but feel betrayed that Spencer told a serial killer all of this before he told you.

You waited up for Spencer to come through the front door, when you heard the his key turn in the lock, you got out of bed and padded towards the living room.

“Spence,” you said quietly, your voice hoarse from crying.

“I, uh, know you heard everything,” he said just as softly. “I saw my call log as I was leaving the bullpen. I shouldn’t have had my personal phone out on the field, I’m so sorry you had to hear all of that.”

You’d started sobbing all over again running towards him, “Oh god, Spencer.”

“Shh, it’s alright.” Here he was, having just come home from being held hostage, consoling you for what was happening. He stroked your hair as he held you.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You asked, “Why did a contract killer hear it from you first? Why do insist on doing everything on your own?” You were still frustrated with his stubborn independence.  “I don’t know, Y/N. Ever since I got back, I had this idea that if I kept you out of this and distanced myself, I could learn to live without you. Eventually, I’m going to have to know a world where you and I don’t exist.” You could tell he was terrified at the concept.

“Hey,” you said, grabbing his face so he’d look at you. It was your turn to comfort him, “We aren’t sure what’s going to happen eventually. With us. With your mom. Anything. We don’t. What we do know is what’s going on right now. And right now I am here and I will be here to remind you that we exist. We are real. I love you and you love me. Don’t let anyone or anything take that away.”

“I love you so much,” he said, he was holding you so tightly that his voice muffled by your neck. “I don’t want what we have to die. I really don’t want to have to live without you.”

“You’ll never have to.” You promised.

[shannaraisles]

Set In Darkness

Chapter: 8 Author name: ShannaraIsles Rating: M (for language) Warnings: Canon-typical injury and violence; attempted rape/non-con Summary: She’s a Modern Girl in Thedas, but it isn’t what she wanted. There’s a scary dose of reality as soon as she arrives. It isn’t her story. People get hurt here; people die here, and there’s no option to reload if you make a bad decision. So what’s stopping her from plunging head first into the Void at the drop of a hat?

The Unwary

Why did she drink so much last night?

After her highly stimulating session with the commander, Rory had made the unwise decision to go to the tavern, where Varric had introduced her to the wonders of fermented berry wine and then attempted to embarrass her with a game of Wicked Grace, where the stakes were either secrets or clothes. What he didn't know was that, even drunk, Rory could hold her own. Wicked Grace was not that different from poker, and she'd learned how to play poker from an elderly lady with advanced dementia on some interminable night shifts. By the time he called a halt to the game, Varric was down to his pants - having refused to stake secrets himself - and all Rory had had to give up was one expletive-ridden anecdote about the scar on her inner left forearm. She'd gone to bed feeling very pleased with herself, but, oh, she was paying for it today.

But despite the killer hangover, she still had work to do. There were medicines to make up, bandages to change, the clinic to clean. Fabian needed more lessons in basic care, which was normally easy when she didn't have a queasy stomach and dizzy head. By mid-morning, they'd opened the clinic, and soon had a line of people waiting to see them; mostly newcomers, soldiers and servants from the retinues of nobles passing through Haven on their way to the Temple. By the middle of the afternoon, however, they'd seen all these, and Rory was going stir-crazy being stuck inside. So when she overheard Master Taigen complain of being low on elfroot, she immediately volunteered to go and gather more.

With a canvas sack in hand, she passed through the training ground on her way east to the forest where elfroot grew in abundance.

"Hey, Rory!"

Pausing, she turned at the sound of the familiar voice, smiling as Rylen jogged over to her.

"And where're you off to, oh illustrious healer of warts and all?" he asked cheerfully. "You look like a woman on a mission."

"Afternoon, Rylen," she greeted him warmly, shading her eyes from the sun. "I am on a mission. I have to fill my sack with elfroot leaves, or Master Taigen will turn into a kindly old man."

"Och, we can't have that, can we?" The Starkhaven captain laughed his robust laugh. "Haven might sink if he learned how to smile."

She laughed with him. "I'm doing my bit for the good of the community."

Rylen's smile faded as he glanced at the trees. "Just don't go far, aye?" he suggested. "My boys mentioned seeing a camp out that way. We might have some unwelcome visitors in the those woods."

"I'm sure I'll be fine," Rory assured him. "I won't be gone long."

"Mind you're not, I'll be keeping an eye out for you," he warned with a smile. "Good hunting, Ror."

"Have fun beating the dummies, Ry," she answered, smiling as she turned to continue on her way. She liked Rylen; he always managed to send her off with a smile, no matter her mood.

Still, it was a little unsettling to be walking alone into the woods after his warning. Until now, Haven had been a safe place to be. Oh, she knew that wasn't going to last, but she'd convinced herself that demons were all she had to worry about in the near future. It hadn't occurred to her that humans or elves might be a threat to her safety, despite all the play-throughs with predictable bandits. But then, bandit was just a word to her; avatars who only attacked the well-armed and armored player character so she could up her XP. She'd forgotten that here, bandit could mean anyone, and they were actually more likely to prey on the defenseless. And defenseless was a very good word to describe Rory in this world.

All the same, she did carry a knife, even if that little blade spent most of its time in the sheath at her belt. Not today, though. Today, her little knife was busy, harvesting leaves from the elfroot stems she found growing in abundance in a wide patch just beyond the logging stand. To date, she wasn't sure why only the leaves were required from a plant called elfroot, but she wasn't going to start experimenting. Tried and tested techniques that worked in this world were just fine.

Time spent outside did wonders for her lingering headache, the last of her hangover easing away in the fresh air and the quiet. That was something she was still getting used to - Haven was so noisy. From dawn 'til dusk, the little village rang with the sound of people going about their business. There was the forge, the training ground, the chatter of men and women as they gossiped over their chores, and underneath it all, the continuous drone of the Chant of Light. Even at night, the Chantry stayed awake, brothers and sisters reciting the canticles in shifts, fulfilling their part of Andraste's promise. Yet out here, in the middle of the day, it was so quiet. Just half an hour from the village, and you could be forgiven for thinking you were miles away from any kind of civilization. All she could hear was the breeze in the trees, and the shuffling crunch of druffalo hooves over the snow. It was peaceful, calming, and as she worked, Rory found herself humming, making music for the first time since Ria's death. The intrusion of an unexpected voice brought her humming to an abrupt end.

"Pretty tune from a pretty girl."

The accent was French - Orlesian, Rory - and belonged to a man about her own age, dressed in hunting leathers, and lounging against a tree not too far away. He was armed with long knives at his belt, and was looking at her with more than simple interest.

Rory's fingers tightened about the hilt of her small knife. "Thank you," she said warily. "What brings you out here?"

"Milord prefers to eat game hunted by those he trusts," the hunter told her, pushing away from his tree. "As for me, I am delighted to find beauty in these ill-favored wilds."

Forget the elfroot. Feeling the alarm bells ringing in her nerves, she rose to her feet, her half-filled sack in her hand. "Well, I'm expected back at the village," she informed him. She knew this feeling, had felt it often enough when walking home late at night through London's quiet streets. It was fear, naked and raw, and cramping her throat as her heart began to pound. "They'll miss me if I'm gone too long."

She made to leave the little clearing, but he stepped in front of her, a predatory darkness about his eyes that made her back away quickly, gripping her knife harder. A knife she didn't know how to use. If this was a story, rescue would already be on its way. But as he advanced on her, she knew this was no story. She was alone, defenseless, and this man was a born predator who had found easy prey.

"We won't be long, petit," he told her, laughing as she raised her little knife between them. "Be a good girl, and I won't slice your pretty throat with your pretty little blade."

"That's my choice?" she heard herself demand shakily, unable to keep her incredulity silenced. "Lie back and take it, or you'll kill me when you're finished?"

"You will not get a better offer, petit."

It wasn't the words that frightened her so much as the way he said them - as though no one would blame him even if he did kill her. As though she deserved what he intended simply by virtue of being female and out of sight of help. As though raping her was his right, and somehow her life was a generous gift in exchange.

A sensible person would probably have taken the offer, knowing without needing to test the theory that he was more than capable of doing worse than just raping and killing her. Rory, however, had regular bouts of unsensible behavior, especially under duress. "I think I'll take my chances, thanks," she spat at him in sheer bravado, and lunged, slashing wildly at his face with her knife.

He easily sidestepped her attack, catching her wrist as she made an attempt to get past him. Strong fingers bent her hand back, cruel eyes glinting as she cried out in pain, the knife falling from her fingers. Caught, she tried to pull away, opening her mouth to scream for help in the vain hope that someone might be near enough to hear. The hunter dragged her back, throwing her down onto the unforgiving snow with enough force to knock the breath from her lungs, and before she could raise herself to scramble away, he was on her. Rough hands ripped at the laces of her bodice, tearing the linen shift beneath, snarling as she cried hot tears, begging him not to do this. He ignored those tears, too strong to fight off; a monster in human form that pawed and bit at her bared flesh, too hot, too heavy, too hungry, too self-important to care that she was unwilling.

His mouth slobbered over her neck, teeth biting savagely as she struggled, big hands reaching down to drag her skirt upward, to push his pants downward, discounting the push of her hands, the kick of her legs ... and suddenly he roared in pain, blood spurting from a wound in his shoulder to splatter hot against her skin. The hunter raised himself from his prey, and a short figure seemed to materialize from nowhere beside him, planting a firm kick into that injured shoulder to send him sprawling onto his back. As Rory scrambled back, curling tightly into a sobbing ball, a second figure ambled out from the trees and brought a great hammer down onto the hunter's chest. No amount of fancy leather armor could have stopped that blow, the blunt weapon staving in breastbone and ribs, each one puncturing some organ vital to life. A great geyser of blood erupted from the hunter's mouth and nose, staining the snow with more than blood as death took him swiftly.

It was all over in seconds. Shocked, shaken, terrified, Rory stared at her saviors with wide eyes, unable to keep the tears from flowing. They were dwarves, male and female, cleaning off their respective weapons as though there wasn't a half-naked corpse with very little chest left lying between them.

"Happy now, Malika?" the bearded male was saying. "You know she's going to tell them she saw us."

"Oh, and you would have preferred to just walk past?" the female snapped back. "She won't say a word. Look at her - she's so shaken up, she probably can't even see us."

The male scratched his beard, eyeing Rory thoughtfully. "If you say so," he conceded, nodding to his companion. "Grab his pouch, let's get going."

In a mess, her mind jumbled with thoughts of what almost happened and what did happen, Rory lowered her head to her knees, hugging herself tight as she struggled through her own fear and relief toward some kind of calmness. He might have - But he didn't. He tried to - But he didn't. I could have - But you weren't. Pull yourself together, girl, and get back to Haven. On your feet.

She staggered upright, pulling her torn bodice over her bruised skin, forcing herself to look around the clearing. Who knew how long she'd been crying there? She was alone again but for the cooling body of her attacker, her rescuers long gone. But her half-filled sack of elfroot leaves stood by the path toward Haven, filled to the brim and tied shut, her little knife resting on top of it. Despite her state, she actually laughed at the sight of it, at the knowledge that two dwarven warriors had stopped long enough to finish her harvesting and clean her knife before continuing on their way. Grateful, but desperate to be gone from here, she snatched up the sack and the knife, and ran for the track that would take her back to Haven.

She had just passed Master Taigen's cabin when the Fates conspired to try and kill her with fright for the second time that day. Reassured by the nearing sounds of swords clashing, her frantic pace had slowed enough that she could convince herself to stop and make an effort to repair the damage to her appearance. Her dress wasn't that badly torn, on reflection - the laces were snapped and would have to be replaced, and a long tear along the seam at her left shoulder would need to be sewed up, but on the whole, it wasn't a disaster. The shift beneath was torn to the breast, but again, salvageable. She could feel a bite mark rising into a bruise on her neck, and another where her neck met her shoulder, and her wrist throbbed painfully, but she knew she had been very lucky. She couldn't expect to be that lucky again.

And then a burst of flame ignited the path directly in front of her, ripping a scream from her bruised throat.

"Don't turn around, shem."

The voice was harsh, female, and Rory had no doubt that turning around would result in the next flame taking hold of her. This was not her day. She was never leaving Haven's walls ever, ever again.

"Well, now you've scared her speechless, fa'lon, mind if I do the talking?" a second voice interjected. This one was male, and a lot friendlier.

"Be quick," the female ordered in an unforgiving tone. "They'll have heard her scream."

"This is why the Keeper didn't want you to come, you know," the male responded. He sighed, and Rory heard footsteps moving closer to her back. "Where's the Temple of Ages, please?"

Trembling all over, Rory took a slow breath. Someone will have heard you scream. Answer the nice elf before his friend decides to flambé you. "Temple of Sacred Ashes," she heard herself say in a voice that was too scared to be hers. "Past the village, over the river. It's at the head of the valley." Please don't hurt me.

She heard them move away, but her eyes were focused on a familiar figure visible through the trees ahead of her. They did hear me. Thank gods. Five figures were running toward her as she sank down onto her knees, shaking like a leaf.

"Rory! You all right? What happened?"

Suddenly safe, the shock of her afternoon hit her with the force of a hurricane. She burst into tears, groping her way forward to throw her arms around Rylen as she sobbed out the incoherent story of her misadventures. Her friend held his naked sword away from her as he tucked an arm about her shoulders, listening patiently as she pieced together everything that had happened since she'd left the village.

"You, go back to Haven," he ordered one of his soldiers. "Report to the commander that we need a perimeter sweep now. You three, go to the logging stand and retrieve the body." As the four saluted, moving to follow those orders without a moment's hesitation, he sheathed his sword, turning his attention back to the shaking woman under his arm. "All right, darlin', I've got you. Come along with me, let's get you back to Haven."

Clinging to him, Rory was only too happy to be guided back to the deceptive safety of the stockaded village, too shaken to notice the curious eyes that followed their progress to the clinic, where a horrified Fabian took charge of his traumatized senior. She didn't know how angry people were as word spread of the attack on their healer, how alarmed they were that Dalish elves and unknown dwarves were in the area. She didn't witness how tense things suddenly became when the dead hunter was identified as a man-at-arms in the service of an Orlesian marquis, who had the gall to demand that she was punished for his death. No one told her that Cullen almost broke his hand on the marquis' nose in answer, or that Haven was hastily declared off-limits to all the parties passing through to the Conclave. No one could be trusted but their own, clearly.

All she knew was that the world of Thedas was suddenly a very real, very frightening place. The time had come to start taking things very seriously indeed.

[wellmeaningshutin]

Short Story #32: Ghost.

Written: 1/29/2017

The crickets filled the forest with noise after the sun went down, and although Thomas hated the forest, hated the noise, hated the humidity, he still had to be out there every night, because there was nothing that made him more angry than teenagers fucking on his property. He never thought of himself as an angry or bitter man, he found enjoyment in a lot of small things like getting worked up when watching the news, having a cold beer, or making tiny, glass figurines. Hell, he even could have fun lying on his back and watching the clouds go by, but there were only a couple things that made him mad. He wasn’t a crank, he normally didn’t mind youths and was always pleased to see children wandering around in his woods, picking berries, playing games, and sometimes he wandered out to drink with the teenagers who snuck out there at night, but sex made him angry.

Back in the war, one so long ago he can’t even remember which it was, he was stationed out in the middle of somewhere, maybe nowhere. There was a forest, he was sure of this, and he often had guard duty during the nights, staring out at the jungle, waiting for any signs of the enemy. Now, he was stationed out on an island (was it an island?) where they weren’t even sure if the enemy was around, but maybe they had reports and were checking it out, or maybe he was guarding secrets, but the point was that it was a dull job, waiting for any signs of people that most likely weren’t even out there, so he often had to resort to small things to keep himself preoccupied. Sometimes he played solitaire against himself, but one day he got sick of that and threw all of his cards into the forest. Then he tried reading, but there was only one book and it was smut, in every sense of the word, and that just made him have to fight horniness instead of boredom, so he chucked that into the woods too. There were also attempts at skill building, like juggling, writing poetry, singing, ventriloquism, and wood carving, but he got sick of all of those pretty soon, so eventually he just decided to sleep on the job, because there was most likely nobody out there.

Now, unbeknown to him, several of his friends (whose faces he can’t remember) had found out that he was sleeping on the job, which was discovered when one of them, Pete something or other, wanted to borrow the smut book and found Thomas cuddling with his rifle, so, to curb their own boredom, they decided to play a prank on him. During the next day, while everyone was eating lunch in the mess, they started telling him about how there’s a ghost in the woods, a lot of details of the story are lost on him now, but he remembers ending that story by forcibly connecting his fist to his friend’s nose, which shut the guy up real soon. He wasn’t a child, ghosts were bullshit. Yet, they were bored enough to keep going with the prank.

One night, when he was sleeping during his watch duty, he heard a rustling in the woods. He called out something, probably intimidating and forceful, he was a man then and he’s a man now, but there was no response. Naturally, he threatened to shoot, aimed his rifle, but then saw some figure walk out of the forest. It was as tall as two men, pale white, had antlers coming out of its sides, and made a strange moaning noise. He told the thing to stand down or he would shoot, it started to say something about blood-or was it about a haunting-and kept walking, so he emptied his magazine into it, unknowingly killing his two friends.

The shots woke up the rest of the camp, who thought they would never see combat and had been ignoring any semblance of combat training. They rushed out of their tents, well armed, half dressed, and excited, throwing grenades and firing at random, hoping to ward off any attackers that may have been in the area. In the confusion, that lasted all night and involved many cases of friendly fire but almost no casualties, since their aim was terrible, a grenade had landed and Thomas’ feet and blew his dick clean off.

In the morning, Thomas explained his story to some higher up who had been shot, stabbed, injured in some way, so a small search party was sent into the woods to investigate what had caused all of the commotion. It wasn’t long before they found the two guys in the bed sheet costume, and a pile of junk that was tossed into the forest, and it didn’t take long for everyone to put the story together. At sunset, either that day or the day after, the higher up (or maybe a different one) had the two dead pranksters hung, to punish them for the chaos they had caused. Thomas somehow got three medals and was flown home with an honorable discharge.

Because of those events he was unable to have any sexual pleasures, but every now and then he still got incredibly horny, which would just anger him because there was nothing he could do about it, it just made him angry. After several nights of sitting out on his porch, hearing the teens out there doing their business, getting him all excited, he formed a plan to keep them away from him and to keep himself from getting all worked up. In honor of his dumb, drunk friends, he made a replica of their shitty ghost costume, using rags and antlers, and would prowl around in the woods, like he was doing now, to keep them from entering his forest at night.

The costume itself was pretty itchy, so he tried wearing a wet suit underneath it, back from his old diving days, which helped keep the costume from irritating his skin. He only had to do one lap around the woods every couple of hours, just so they would know to keep away, however it was sometimes hard to see and he would bump into trees or rocks, often cursing afterwards, the price he had to pay to not get horny.

Walking around the woods, this night, was actually more pleasing than the other nights had been. Usually the crickets were too loud and got him all agitated, but he seemed to be getting used to him, or maybe it was deafness slowly setting in. He had to pause and think, could he be getting deaf? How loud did he keep his television on, and was it any louder than normal? If he was getting deaf would he even have to worry about hearing the teens out there, making this whole activity pointless? Some twigs snapped, he regained focus, and decided to move, wobbly, towards the noise. If it was teens he was going to get the scare on them.

It was an unsure path, especially since he was confused about where the sound came from, but after pushing his way through several bushes he found two teens necking heavily. For a little while he decided he should squat and watch, to build up some anger. They didn’t even notice the costumed figure, crouched between a large blackberry bush, antlers everywhere, eyes glued onto their young bodies. The male started to unbutton the girls blouse, but the girl grabbed his hand to stop him, “Scott, I don’t know about this.”

“Come on baby, I bought you dinner, and we do this all the time, whats the worry?”

“Well,” blushing, “isn’t this the woods where the ghost lives?”

The guy chuckled, “Aw, there’s no ghost, that’s a load of bullshit. That’s just something they tell teenagers to keep them from having sex, like the myth about AIDS or that having sex without condoms can get you pregnant, its a load of bullshit.”

“I don’t know,” she looked away, towards some twigs on the ground then to the bottle of wine they had brought out, “Tammy said…”

“Tammy smokes so much that her brain probably has a hole in it, there’s no reason to listen to her.”

“But…”

“Come on..” He began to keep unbuttoning her blouse again, Thomas was getting impatient, he at least wanted to see some cleavage before he scared them off, “Don’t be difficult.”

She shook her head and started to button her blouse back up, “Why are we out here anyways? Whats wrong with your car?”

His face seemed impatient, but he sighed and nodded, “Fine, we could go back to the car if you’re really this upset about it.” They both began to stand up, wiped the dirt off of themselves, and began to collect their things. “Its just romantic out here is all.”

She looked up at the stars, then all around her, took in the sounds of the crickets and the nearby stream, and it a way it was romantic. She smiled, drank a little wine right from the bottle, then put her arms around him and whispered, “Dance with me.” They sat there swaying for quite some time, but Thomas grew impatient. Damn kids couldn’t even get him angry about his dick being gone, they couldn’t even get him the slightest bit horny, he began to get pissed for other reasons.

“YOU FUCKERS!” He screamed as he charged out of the bushes. The girl screeched, but her boyfriend shoved her out of the way before the “ghost” head butted and knocked him to the ground. “GET THE FUCK OUT, GET THE FUCK OUT, GET THE FUCK OUT!” The ghost kept repeating, stomping his feet on the ground, and the girl ran scared into the woods, but the guy didn’t get up. In an attempt to motivate, the ghost began kicking the guy, but he noticed a dark puddle, his temper cooled. He crouched down, and became horrified that he had gored the poor kid right in the chest, killing him. Not knowing how to react to the situation, he started running back to where his house was, knocking into trees, falling into a stream, slipping on mud, jumping over bushes, until he finally got to the clearing around his cabin and he shed his costume almost immediately.

As soon as he could he burned the thing, buried the antlers, and went to sleep like nothing had happened.

The next day was spent like any other day, he did what he wanted to and ate when he was hungry, no reason to change up his routine, no reason to be worried. Who would know it was him? Nobody. And, hopefully, when dementia decided to set in, if it hadn’t already, he would forget about the whole ordeal anyways. At night time he would just turn up his television a little louder so he wouldn’t have to hear the sounds of passion.

The clouds were really interesting, so he spent an hour lying on his back, watching them, trying to remember the name of the girl that he loved back in high school. Malby? Margot? Margret? Marmalade? Malibu? He never even noticed the detective who approached him, wearing a black suit that had gotten marked with sap and dirt, displaying a gun and badge on his belt. The man looked down at Thomas, he had thick eyebrows, and asked “Sir, can I ask you a couple questions?”

Thomas squinted up at him, a little annoyed that his train of thought was interrupted, “What is it officer?”

“Is this your residence?”

Nodding his head, “Mhmm, been living here for a while now.”

“Did you hear anything last night?”

“I heard lots of crickets, same as usual.”

“Well alright, thanks for your cooperation.” The detective looked a little let down, and began walking back into the woods. He had no reason to worry, they didn’t suspect a thing, he could go back to watching the clouds without a worry.

Later, in the night, he decided to watch the local news, taking a break from the national station that got him all worked up about the immigrants who were coming into the country, renaming the states, changing the laws and traditions into their own. The reporter, some skinny guy with a handsome face and an alright voice, was talking about a teenager who was murdered in the woods, and how they suspected the murder was related to the fifteen bodies that had been unearthed in a clearing in the same woods. “It seems the ‘Ghost of the Woods’ is at it again folks, so make sure to stay out of the forest when the sun goes down. If your neighborhood is anywhere near the forest, make sure to at least keep a gun in your home, for protection, and make sure to not talk to any strange figures who may try to lure you into the woods, unless you want to be murdered. Local police are warning that its-” he turned the television off, and fell asleep in his chair.

He dreamed that he was back in the war, watching a USO show, the only one his troop ever saw. The whole thing was foggy, and it wasn’t happening for very long until he woke up. There was a noise coming from outside, like a shuffling of feet, and for some reason he couldn’t hear any crickets. Nudging his feet into his slippers, he slowly got out of his chair and trudged towards his window, to see what was out there, nothing. There was a knock at the door, he was annoyed that he had to walk, so instead he just shouted “Who’s there?”

It was a while before there was any response, but eventually he heard somebody say “Its me, the guy you killed.”

“I was in the war, I killed a lot of people,” this was an exaggeration, he only killed his two friends, “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

Frustrated mumbling could be heard from outside, the only word that could clearly be heard was ‘bastard’. “The guy you killed last night, the guy you gored in the forest.”

It took him a little while to remember, he was always a little foggy after he woke up, but eventually the gears began to move. “Well, what do you want?”

“Can I come inside?”

“Why, so you can get some ghostly revenge on me? No, I’m not letting you in.”

“But-”

“Its late out anyhow, and I was sleeping do you know how rude you’re being.”

“But-”

“Now if you keep harassing me I’m going to call the cops, and if you don’t mind I’m going back to sleep.”

The guy heard the old man walk somewhere, and shortly after heard some snoring. Not knowing what to do, he just sat by the door, maybe he’d take a walk around the woods.