#loaf speaking from the void

[loafthecat]

Now I don’t have any drawing or anything planned for the anniversary-

But I do wanna express how much this game means to me personally-

Honestly, I don’t even remember what drew me into ctm, lol- I just remembered the series from some old play throughs and thought to give it a watch but- something about the game just made my brain want more of it-

So- I watched more playthroughs and comic dubs and animation memes, (even vine comps too-) I just- loved it- and from there it’s led me a lot of places-

Thsc was how I joined discord and met some of my best friends and some of greatest people I know! All my mutuals are really creative and nice- idk what I’d be doing without @emperorcandy or @rubianarosevine or @toxsradioactivelocks and ESPECIALLY without @randomgasleak because Leaky is one of the bestest, nicest friends I have- and I would seriously miss out on every fun lil conversation and infodump we have with eachother, getting to share my ocs with him is some of the most FUN I’ve had in my life- and i am seriously thankful to EVRYONE in Tox’s server for just- existing lol-

Also no I didn’t forget about- @kean-thebean or @savagepotat or @cybercypress24 or @lynplaque or stormy love yall too-))

Thsc led to me learning about more lgbtq+ identities that I didn’t even know of- in fact it helped me figure out my own identity and realise I was AroAce! So thanks for that-!

Thsc also helped and inspired me to improve my art!!!! Seeing the talent in this fandom made me wanna improve and develop an art style I truly love to draw with- and well- I did it!!!! I finally have an art style I LOVE to use and which actually looks good!!!! I can finally draw necks!!!! And no that was not something I could do before thsc- hm, funny because sticks don’t have necks technically so who would’ve thought-???

Continuing on from that, thsc is directly responsible for the creation of some of my FAVOURITE ocs!!!! Ollie, mitzy, mavy, Kapper, Tulip etc. heck- even ocs that while they ain’t sticcs or direct thsc ocs were INSPIRED by and influenced BY the game!!! (Lookin at you, Opal and Angus-) I especially have to gush about Ollie because I just LOVE him so much- who would’ve thought a BACKGROUND oc for a rp would become one of my main ocs today-? Not me that’s for sure-, I especially didn’t expect that I’d cry over how invested I am in him lol- I just love my lil gae sticc so much!!!!! He’s brought me so much joy, he’s helped me to vent out my problems- I just- I just- LOVE Ollie- lol- and I’m sure I’ll continue to do so even in future-

Thsc also introduced me to Dave panpa’s existence so everything is 100% worth it. I would die for this man, I want to platonically hug him and him and Rupert kiss kiss, I should know- I am the loaf of bread on their countertop!

And I guess last of all- I wouldn’t be on tumblr if it wasn’t for thsc. Thsc gave me the confidence to branch out and actually start using over websites aside from YouTube- it’s also how I joined discord and as I’ve said meet all my closest friends- sure- tumblr hasn’t always been the best at times but- I enjoy being here and while yes I’m not the most popular person here or even of note to some people- I’m still here right-? And I gotta thank thsc for that-

So in conclusion-

It is 23:24 pm at night- and my WiFi really didn’t like me finishing this- (it f^cked up THREE drafts of this that I had like wtf WiFi-????)

Now. Is this normal-? No, it probably isn’t normal to have a extreme obsession over a silli game about a sticc figure stealing shi- but shush I’m weird- and autistic it’s fine-

So yeah. Thanks thsc, and thank you puff for making the game.

You changed my life- for worse or for better take your pick-

[sister-cna-reader]

Dan the Cat

“Well that could’ve gone better.” Jazz huffed, shaking the magic powder from her over sized leather jacket. Jason covered his mouth and his shoulders shook with stifled laughter.

“Babe.”

“What?” Jazz snapped at her boyfriend, not keen on yet another “Bat Family contingency that everyone and their dog would know”

White teeth gleamed in mirth as he gestured to the pair of cats on the cafe floor. “Were your siblings cat people?”

The void cat, all fluffy black with luminous green eyes meowed indignantly, it’s tail swishing in irritation. A smaller one, black with white socks and the same ectoplasmic green eyes attempted to claw her way up Jazz’s jeans.

Danny and Danielle were all accounted for, but they were one alternate self short.

“Sonofabit-”,

Dan shook himself free of the magic powder and took stock of himself. He had paws for hands and an extremely fluffy body that seemed to be more fluid then solid. He could still float, standing on air like it was solid.

Fuck “Meow.”

Great, just fabulous.. he was a cat.

He sat, then curious with his body, and leaned forward into a loaf, tucking his paws underneath his chest.

Ooooohhhh

Comfy.

Some time later, with no family in sight he wandered around the neighborhood, calling for Danny or Ellie or his sister.

~~

“Oohh pspsps. Hello pretty kitty,” Catwoman called from a rooftop when she caught sight of the glowing white cat. It walked on air, lime green toe beans barely visible under all of the ethereal white fur.

Like a ghost or living flame, the white cat meandered it’s way up to her, proud red eyes watching her every move.

“What’s a pretty kitty like you doing in a place like this?” she asked the creature, extending a hand out for the cat to greet.

Like a feared prince, it sat just out of her reach, long flame tail wrapping around it’s body. It’s gravelly prolonged cry caught her interest just as she registered the black collar obscured by the majestic mane.

“Who do you belong to handsome boy?”

Another, shorter rumble and an adjustment of feet.

“I might be able to hear you properly if you came a little closer.” Selena offered.

The tail curled in thought, and after a beat, the cat stood and came up to her leg, watching her.

“Where’s home baby?” she purred, raking cautious nails over the flame white fur.

Orange hair, tall woman, friendly smile, works at a computer a lot….

The proud cat was not fluent in cat speak, but knew enough to get his point across.

“Very well. I think I know where you go.”

~~

Barbara Gordon did not expect to adopt a cat. Neither did she expect to be a cat’s chosen human, but that’s what Catwoman had insisted at her bedroom window, the strangely handsome cat slipping in the cracked window opening like smoke.

“I don’t have a litter box.” She told the cat, running a hand down the plush white coat. “You certainly aren’t starving.”

The large cat was purring up a storm, quickly making himself at home on her blanketed lap. Barbara ran a finger along the slim black collar, finding a small tag with her nail.

“Dan, huh?”

A red eye opened and Dan the Cat licked a paw. Of course, what other name would I have? He seemed to say.

The sun was coming up, and this cat wasn’t a threat or an emergency to solve. He was actually quite the charming floof ball, despite his weight. So Barbara laid back down in her bed, content to leave the mystery for future her to solve.

[mothiir]

list of astartes ocs

here’s a brief little summary of my ocs, because i often lose track of them and thought that you might like to know more about the boys. NSFW stuff included, so stuck it beneath a cut. this is just the space marines — taleath will get his own post because he’s my favourite (don’t tell the others). Happy to answer asks/write stuff about them

Vanatas Borjigin

The self appointed leader of the trio. Turned into Astartes later than generally recommended, so has a decent memory of his life before; of raising a batch of squalling sisters, of scavenging for meat in Nostramo’s rancid streets. It gives him major older sibling energy, even now.

Taller than Shrike, shorter than Zakyr, with bone-white skin and void-black eyes. Wears his long dark hair in a ponytail more often than not; a severe hairstyle that accentuates his raptor-sharp cheekbones. He has the usual scars you’d expect an Astartes to carry, but due to the implants being carried out well into his teens (rather than in prepubescence) the surgery scars are far more prominent than normal, standing out liver-purple across his abdomen. 

Prone to fainting fits, in which he collapses, jaw tight against the screams welling in his throat, his skull singing agony. Blood drips from his nose and his eyes, and when he wakes he babbles nonsense — and yet the nonsense always seems to come true. That’s right: our boy Van is cursed with the gift of prophecy — something he is at pains to hide from the rest of his brothers. Zak and Shrike know, but they keep his secret. Normally, Vanatas can tell when one of the attacks is coming, and it gives him just enough warning to hide, or for one of the other two to shove him into a cupboard to stop someone seeing.  

He is mean mean mean to you. He really likes it when you cry, whether you’re begging for mercy or for him to slow down or please Mr Night Lord not back there — and he always gets a bit feral when you start getting weepy. He’s the most likely to treat you like a serf-shaped fleshlight, grabbing you with very little warning, yanking your skirt to the side and sinking in with a low, contented groan. 

Despite the above, he’s normally the one ensuring you’re functioning as well as possible. He remembers to feed you, shouts at the others when they’ve let you go too long without sleep, and even gave you painkillers one time, after Zak had been a mite too rough. Maybe there’s a shadow inside him, a whisper that remembers what it is to care. And maybe not. Who knows. 

Zakyr Lamnidae 

Large, even for an Astartes. Almost eight feet tall, all bulky muscle, and — as you might imagine — almost constantly hungry. The other two taunt him for being a lardass, but he always ends up with the best bits of any meal they’ve stolen (or hunted). They never say that they are doing this, nor does he acknowledge it or thank them. It is just how it is. You hide Van when he starts bleeding from the eyes; you give Zak the fat-marbled rump of an unfortunate heretic. Yum. 

Has the same black hair, black eyes combo as Vanatas and ninety per cent of other Night Lords. He wears his hair short, shaved at the sides, and has a distinctive scar on his cheek that crawls across his jawline, and down onto his throat. It looks almost like it was caused by the talon of a great bird — or maybe a set of claws, swift as lightning? Either way, he’s not saying how he got it. If you ask, he and Vanatas start getting a bit twitchy. Some secrets are best kept quiet. 

He was in the dungeons for stealing a loaf of bread. He was six years old and starving. That’s how he ended up getting shipped out to be a neophyte — this isn’t a story he tells much. He just sees it as a great amusing irony. Imprisoned for the most base of offences, and now free to commit far worse ones. That is justice, isn’t it?

Is the most intelligent of the three, if we class intelligence as ‘book smarts’. Speaks fluent Gothic, as well as a handful of other languages, and can threaten to flay someone in upwards of twenty three tongues, including some xenos ones. Is a truly excellent artist, and absolutely would not have given the poor serf that abomination of a tattoo. Back when they were neophytes, and thus not even allowed to smell women, he did very well for himself by drawing — uh — ‘special pictures’ for other Astartes. He likes drawing the serf, and has a sketchbook full of paintings that run the gambit from surprisingly beautiful to absolutely obscene. No one is allowed to touch that sketchbook — not since Van borrowed it and returned it with the pages sticking together. 

The others are doing their best to learn Gothic, and to teach you Nostramon. Unfortunately, it’s a slow process, so Zak often finds himself conscripted in for translation. The deal is simple: he will translate, but he gets to join in. 

As for the NSFW stuff — he can be very lazy in bed. He likes being ridden, because he does enough physical work in his day job and damn it he just wants to lie back and watch a pretty girl cry as she tries to get his dick inside. Is that too much to ask? He knows, theoretically, what a clitoris is, but good luck getting him to touch it. He likes degradation, but in his sadistic hedonist way he likes to get you to degrade yourself. He’ll whisper in your ear what a horrible little slut you are, spreading yourself for the legion, and get you to repeat it back for him. It’s also how he’s teaching you Nostramon. You have a very niche, very detailed vocabulary. 

He will threaten to get you pregnant at least once a week. If you hadn’t seen Vanatas and him get in a literal fight over it, you would believe the threat - he sounds so sincere. He will be buried balls-deep in your warm innards, cooing about what a shame it would be if he came inside, how awful it would be for you. It’s a game: you’re meant to beg him not to, to offer to suck his cock, or offer up your arse. And you probably should play it. If you don’t, he starts getting a bit huffy, and no one wants that. 

Shrike Melloria 

The man is an Emperor-forsaken pervert.

Right, you probably want more detail than that. Shrike is the youngest of the group, and was born in jail. His mother was a whore; his father some unknown vagabond. When the ships came for new recruits, they grabbed up the infant because, well, what else were they to do with him? 

The words ‘boyishly handsome’ aren’t usually used to describe a Night Lord — but Shrike manages to justify their use. Yes, he’s a seven-foot killing machine — but he also has golden hair, and eyes that are more very dark blue than black. He is pale, like all his brothers, but in a way that suggests he would tan under sunlight, rather than incinerate. Give him a paint job and a week on a farm, and he could pass for an Ultramarine (as long as he didn’t open his mouth, or come into contact with any civilians)

In battle, he is a stone-cold sniper; a prodigy. There’s very little that can escape his reach. As a consequence, he’s less scarred than your average Astartes, since the enemy doesn’t normally have a chance to reach him. In another, more foolish, Legion this might be seen as a mark of cowardice — but Night Lords are pragmatic, and Shrike’s strategy gets the enemy just as dead. 

Right, now the good stuff: he is a toxic mess of a man, clingy and snuggly and nuzzly, even while doing the worst possible things to you. He’ll fuck you full, almost render you speechless from fucking your throat, and then coo about how pretty you are while scooping his cum from between your legs and jamming it into your mouth. His brand of dirty talk is cloyingly sweet, while also being absolutely horrifying: “Sweet little fledgling, open wide for me! There we are, now that’s all you’re getting —“

Vanatas has explained to him multiple times that serf cannot survive on jizz alone, and yet he still considers trying it. 

Breeding kink like whoa. Doesn’t actually want a baby, but loves the idea of making you so completely his. Would be the worst father imaginable. Is being slipped birth control by both of his brothers just in case he gets any ideas. 

Yes, he did the tattoo. No, he did not ask permission. Yes, he considers you his wife. No, the others do not agree. No, divorce is not an option. Yes, of course Vanatas and Zak have elaborate ‘let’s cuck Shrike’ role play. 

So, these guys aren’t nearly as fully formed as the Night Lord Idiot Trio, but throwing them in here to remind myself to write something later. Here are my Black Templars: 

Ezra Rothenburg 

Captain of his squad, a venerable dilf veteran of countless campaigns. Tall, broad, grey-haired, with a bouquet of scars, including one that stretches across his lips, giving him a permanent sneer. 

Blessed by the Emperor and most devout in obeying His Commands. Those that know him note that the Emperor’s Commands tend to coincide with what Ezra was planning to do anyway. 

Can and will fake visions to get the more fanatical of his brethren to fall in line. The way he sees it, the Emperor would have struck him down if He disapproved. He has not, so He must be on Ezra’s side

Isaiah Bodenstein von Karlstadt 

Primaris Marine. Big boy. Very sweet and earnest and utterly devoted to the Emperor and his captain, in that order

Himbo energy hides a mind like a whetted knife

[atoriv-art]

asks

putting these above the readmore because otherwise i will be speaking into the void

fave. grouping these together to say: i do read fanfic on occasion but it's usually filtered through a friend of mine who reads far more than i do! ie, she reads stuff and sends me what she likes

however she did say that i could tell people to link me things so she can read through them. so feel free to link me whatever in the replies/asks/idk. no promises i will be the one reading it LMAO but we have very similar tastes in characters/pairings and also the types of fics we like 👍

i actually gravitate towards gen fics which are a dying breed lol but you can link whatever you want <3

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anyway. under the cut: misc asks, sasuneji 💕, also a tiny hyuga ramble

this is so late LMAO sorry, its all in my old blog @atoriv-moved ! haven't deleted any of it so if anything happened it's tumblr's fault. i miss kingdom hearts i need luxu to be in things again so i can go crazy :/

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thank you so much!!! 😭😭 it always makes me happy to hear the emotional weight of my work comes through! it's what i'm always trying to improve to make the little scenes in my head real :)

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thank you!!!! i never know what to say to these but they always make me smile 8)

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thank you so much!! honestly noses still give me trouble sometimes but as someone who is particular about trying to properly translate 3D shapes, especially of the face, in my rendering it's probably one of the most important landmarks :P and i think you can enhance a design sooo much with them, despite my struggles they're one of my favorite things to draw now!

i totally encourage you to start drawing again if you want to! but i'm biased of course hehe

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cute i never know how to answer these... maybe a little boring but i'm of the opinion sasuke is the clingier one in the rs :)

he's a very loving person but because of both his personality and collection of issues he struggles to fully articulate his thoughts in a manner that doesn't come off as rude or detached, but imo sasuke esp once he's out of his spiral would hate to have his love go unexpressed. so i think him having trouble with words and making up for it with flopping onto the people he loves like a large dog is sooooo cute, and i always think about how clingy he was as a baby.. he is made for latching onto people and wiggling them with a 😐 face

neji on the other hand is Weird About Intimacy since he's trained himself to be self-sufficient, and is hyperaware of how other people might perceive him due to him having to calibrate himself around his family. neji is very principled and especially when he's older won't let his anxieties keep him from doing something he believes in, but it gets a little more complicated when it comes to his personal relationships because for 90% of his life he had no hope of fostering those. so he ends up in a weird middle ground where he Does allow himself to express some of those feelings, but not fully, and often in a very self-conscious manner. his default answer to vulnerability is fluffing up like a cat because that's what's he's trained himself to do lol

so with these two in particular i think it'd combo into a lot of "flopping onto you like a weighed blanket because you're upset and i don't know what to say but i want to be here for you" situations, especially with sasuke doing it to neji because neji struggles with verbally articulating when he needs comfort like that. i think it works wonders for them because sometimes words get really messy when you have their combination of issues... it doesn't mean they can't talk through their problems of course, it just means that if something can be solved by the cat loaf maneuver it will be :)

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not reading too much into it at all, i love it! i like how much people talk about my kabuto hahaha i really want to draw him more often, i think he's a way more interesting character than he's given credit for (and this is coming from someone who really didn't like him at first :P), and his hairstyle change is one of the most obvious ways to explore that visually imo!

tysm for this, i really enjoyed reading it!

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i do! i wish more was done with her because i'm really fascinated by the implications of how she's presented, and how she could've shown that being the favorite child of someone like hiashi isn't necessarily a good thing! i always thought she seems like she's a little dissociated from life outside of the clan, which is really fun to work with (and definitely sucks for her because the clan is Not good lol)

i haven't gotten through the arduous task of watching all naruto filler (lmao) but one of my favorites is the one about hanabi and her relationship with hinata, especially the first half, episode 389 i think? i'm really obsessed with the way that episode shows what day-to-day life was like for the kids and the way the hyuga structure themselves, and how it creates distance between them. i'm pretty sure it implies hanabi (pre-plot) didn't know who neji is, for example? which i get isn't canon but i looove that thought. and on a less deep note hanabi is one of the few characters who gets a design i actually like in boruto! i think she looks soooooo cute

since i spend a lot of time thinking about them i actually am fond of all of the hyuga to some capacity, hiashi definitely in a "wow this guy sucks so much it's impressive" way but still lol i think his relationship with his brother and how it informs how he regards neji is very fascinating, or at least the directions it could have taken (if kishi cared at all.) are!

see my problem is that i wish naruto was about weird families and their issues (i am also obsessed with the suna family <3), but it is a shonen anime made for normal audiences

[pierrotwrites-hc]

Chapter 43 Sneak Peak

Being locked away in the back of the cart brought back memories of the cell at the training house. Only this time Luca wasn’t the one in pain; Doran was. Somehow, that was so much worse.

Doran spent the next few days feverish, drifting in and out of consciousness. He called out for Annie, for Connell’s mother, for his own. Once even the Duke.

“Infected,” said Connell grimly, surveying the festering mess of Doran’s back. “I’ll need to flush the wounds. Can you hold him down?”

Luca’s new muscle might’ve horrified the Steward, but he still wasn’t strong enough to restrain Doran on his own. The kind guard—his name was Saunders—took hold of Doran’s other arm and braced a knee against his thigh.

Luca had hoped Doran would be too delirious to feel the antiseptic burn through raw tissue, but no luck. He thrashed and bellowed, insensate with pain. Luca grit his teeth and tightened his grip.

The memory came, unbidden, of holding Asher down for Master Boq. Luca pushed it away. He could only hope that Doran would forgive him.

(Luca didn’t hope for forgiveness from Asher. He didn’t deserve it.)

At last, Doran passed out. They shared a sigh of relief. Connell was able to seal the now-clean wounds with pine sap. Already the inflammation was receding.

“You’re a medic, eh?” said the guard, impressed. “Didn’t know they trained slaves for healing. You’ve a deft hand, lad.”

Connell’s ears went pink. Through the haze of guilt and exhaustion, Luca was pleased for him. Connell was brilliant. He deserved to have his gifts acknowledged.

Doran healed more quickly than any of them had dared hope. But something had changed in him. He filled the cart with brooding silences. Luca tried to tell himself that Doran was just in pain, but he knew the hurt went deeper. More than his back had been rent by the whipping. His pride was damaged—and that not even Connell could heal.

Doran’s discontent found an easy outlet in outrage on Luca’s behalf. The Steward insisted on replicating the conditions of the seray as much as possible. Luca was allowed out of the cart only at night, and only to relieve himself. No one was allowed to speak to him, and he was, of course, forbidden to speak without permission.

That’s a kindness, isn’t it, hole? You’ve nothing to say that’s worth hearing.

The first week in the cart, Doran was too out of it to notice how Luca was being treated. How little he was being fed. But it was only a matter of time before Doran heard Luca’s traitorous stomach growl and decided to do something about it.

The next time a guard came with their meals, Doran pushed himself up on his elbow, ignoring Luca’s noise of alarm. He watched through narrowed eyes as the guard set down their rations: a flat loaf of millet bread for Doran, and a crust for Luca.

“Where’s the rest of Luca’s portion, sir?” Doran asked.

The guard shrugged.

“Steward’s orders. He says General Balkas let the Golden Bird get fat.”

The moment the doors slammed shut, Doran exploded.

“Fat! What, because you weigh a little more than your shadow now? Fields of hell, Mouse, that bastard can’t expect you to survive on so little.”

Luca had survived on less, but he wasn’t about to tell that to Doran. It wouldn’t improve his mood.

(Besides, he wasn’t hungry. Funny; hunger had been his companion for most of his life. Now it had deserted him. All that was left was a hollow, void of feeling.)

“Here,” said Doran, breaking off a lump of bread. “You eat that.”

Luca took what he was given. He didn’t want to fight.

When Doran wasn’t looking, he tore the bread in half and tucked the uneaten portion away.

Redditch met General Gaskin with rather less than the expected fanfare. Lieutenant Davies—no, General Davies now, though Gaskin would always see him as a puffed-up little boy with a receding hairline—was holed up in his quarters and refused to greet Gaskin in person.

“Refused” was perhaps a strong word; Davies had sent a fulsomely apologetic letter with his secretary, a spiderlike man with a mouth pinched in what Gaskin suspected was a permanent expression of distaste. But Gaskin knew a refusal when he saw one.

No doubt Davies resented Gaskin’s presence at Redditch. No doubt he surmised—correctly—that it indicated a lack of faith in his leadership.

Had Davies the courtesy to meet him in person, Gaskin would have reassured him that his arrival did not herald a changing of the guard. He would stay at Redditch only long enough to refit his own men and collect supplies for the Enkaaran Legion. During that time, he had intended to do Davies the favor of deferring to him. Or at least appearing to.

But Davies had decided to lock himself in his room like a child. Well, let him stew. Gaskin may only be staying at Redditch for as long as it took to refit and restock, but while he was here, the garrison would answer to his orders and his orders alone.

While Gaskin was busy playing new-crowned King of Redditch, Tris took advantage of his master’s distraction to commandeer Binns.

Binns was not happy to be commandeered. Then again, he never was. It grated on him to take orders from a slave. This was why Tris so enjoyed issuing them.

“Take me to the forge,” he ordered, and watched with amusement as Binns’s face turned colors.

Binns protested, of course—the forge was no place for a pleasure slave, never mind one owned by the most powerful General in Solas—but he knew as well as Tris who held the power here. At last he gave in, on the condition that Tris wear a woolen wrap to protect him from the lascivious eyes of the forgeworkers.

Tris didn’t mind the wrap. It served his purpose to give Binns these little victories. Besides, Redditch was bloody freezing.

At the forge, cold and hot pressure systems converged. At once the wrap felt oppressive. Sweat prickled unpleasantly at his nape. Ignoring Binns’s protests, Tris pulled the wrap down, baring his face.

The reaction was less than he might’ve hoped for. The smiths were either running to and fro or bent over their anvils, hammering madly; they were too busy to look at him. When Tris approached a laborer to ask whether he knew a smith named Finn, the man pointed him to a slave hunched over his anvil at the far end of the forge without more than a fleeting (but, Tris consoled himself, admiring) glance.

He supposed it was to be excepted. Gaskin had ordered new weapons be made for the Enkaaran fleet; the forgeworkers were understandably preoccupied. Besides, that idiot Balkas probably had Luca running errands all over the garrison. No doubt the forgeworkers are used to visits from beautiful courtesans.

Pity. Beautiful courtesans should never be taken for granted.

As Tris approached the slave at the anvil at the far side of the forge, he felt a twinge of unease. The man was big enough to be a barbarian. (Well, a normal-sized barbarian. Tris had always suspected Luca was some sort of mutant.) His shovel-sized hand was wrapped around a hammer, and he brought it down on the red-hot metal on his anvil with enough force to shake the earth.

Apparently Tris wasn’t the only one discomfited by the smith’s strength. He was chained like a dog to his anvil. Had he tried to run?

Tris shivered, and not from the cold. He reminded himself that Aram said they shouldn’t think about running until it was time. They should look at freedom only from the corner of their eye, as if it were the sun on a clear day. Otherwise it could blind them.

The smith—Finn—looked up, and Tris’s unease melted away. His face was broad, sooty, good-humored, with laughing eyes and a mouth that turned up at the corners.

“Don’t tell me you’re another one from Highcourt,” said Finn, grinning. “Come to have your golden collar swapped out?”

“My collar is silver,” said Tris, pulling down his collar to show the gleam. “And I’ve come from Breakwater, not Highcourt.”

“Well, that makes a change.” Finn wiped his hands on his apron, leaving streaks of soot. “What can I do for you, lovely?”

Tris took the funny little box from his tunic.

“My friend asked me to give this to you. He says he solved your puzzle.”

“Your friend?” said Finn, furrowing his brow. Then the coin dropped. “Luca? You know him?”

“We’re colleagues,” said Tris, annoyed. Did this drudge not recognize a pleasure slave when he saw one?

“Yeah. Right.” Finn looked down at the puzzle box. A slow grin broke over his face. “Thank you.”

“I don’t do it to be thanked,” said Tris grandly.

As Tris allowed Binns to herd him back to Gaskin’s quarters, he caught sight of carts at the gate, their contents unloaded by rag-clad peasants. The peasants had that drawn, starved look, and Tris wondered—not for the first time—whether he ought to be glad his mother had been sold after her parents lost their the farm. Slaves were fed, at least, however meagerly.

For a moment, Tris thought he saw a familiar face—so familiar, in fact, that he felt a phantom pain in his nose from an all-too-well-remembered fist. Then it was gone, and Tris was left wondering what in the name of all the gods Asher Lacey was doing at Redditch.

[lookinghalfacorpse]

i have a bad habit of dumping au or 'what if THIS happened!' bunnies onto people so i have a dsmp one for you, also its really long i am so sorry

what if cdream, in the back of his mind, always knew that XD had made him? His whole purpose was to bring together and maintain the peace and family like nature of the server. Too whatever lengths it took. The original Dream, the manhunter speedrunner the eight were close too became the server that universe, thats why its call Dream SMP. XD was created by the server to maintain it, XD created this puppet replica of Dream so his friends could live there, their friends could live there and their family and friends.

after the vault, cDream knows hes too damaged to keep fullfilling that purpose. Philza and Techno get the vibe that Dream's given up. They try to help him regain that, but Dream has accepted that as soon as he's in reach of one of XD's anchor points, such as the End Portal, XD will most likely undo him and remake him. A different version of Revival. HE doesn't tell Phil or Techno this at all, why? it doesn't change anything, and they would try make so it did.

Then Punz shows up, in a rare moment that Techno and Phil are gone (syndicate meeting? ranboo's still dead and dream is almost refusing to even try to get better) and takes Dream to that End Portal. Following Dream's instructions to his End. They show up, holding this broken puppet man and XD appears. Neither XD or dream speak, but XD lays their many hands upon dream, like a mother upon her child and says "Sleep, You Have Done More Than Earn It. I Will Take Care of Them All For You Now." and Dream nods and goes to sleep.

And all the Life leaves him, however you want to envision it. Techno will say like cooling corpse on a hospital bed, Niki will say like barely there steam from a fresh loaf rising and twirling away.

And Phil? Phil would say that even though Kristin stood over trying to catch the butterflies and dragonflies that left him, she couldn't. Those little creatures return to the server, along with rumors from the Artic of a Dream who's never known the rest of the SMP, who is exactly the same as the Dream the eight knew, before anyone else joined. Quietly, in the Void with the Dragon, a deity hopes that this time they'll find enough love in their to heal from the posions they fed themselves and the puppet man who had hurt them so much trying to protect them.

like an amnesia arc for only c!dream ?? am i reading that right ?

i’m picturing a dream who’s confused by the scars on his skin, who doesn’t remember losing any fingers, who’s frustrated by his trembling hands and the ache of his shoulders and hips.  he’s confused, and lost, but in other ways he’s still very much himself.  he’s sharp.  quick-witted.  he loves animals and insects and has read all of techno’s books about wildlife already.  he smiles more.  he doesn’t shy away from touch.  he has gruesome nightmares about lava and pliers and needles and infinite tnt falling from the sky and he doesn’t know what they mean.

philza would love him.  he’d teach him about history.  he’d show him how to heal, how to grow crops (not potatoes-- that’s techno’s job), how to cook, how to build.  phil already watched sam lose his memories and start a new life, so he’d surely grant dream the same freedom.  he’d be protective of this second chance, hiding him from the rest of the server because he Knows that the younger members won’t recognize what a rare and merciful opportunity this is.  at first, in the face of dream’s many many questions, he might say that he’s dream’s father or a similar arrangement.  in time, he might find a way to tell him the truth.

techno would mourn him.  at least at first.  all the inside jokes, the memories, the infallible Trust he worked so hard to build has disappeared.  losing that would be hard.  i do think he’d come to agree with phil, however, that this was probably the best option-- the kid was on death’s door anyway, so at least this way they haven’t lost him completely.  he’ll be grateful that punz had the foresight to see that.  he’d feel honor-bound to the new dream, determined to protect him, and, of course, to make him laugh.  he’s good at that.

niki finds it hard to look at his face and forget who he used to be.  it takes her some time.  punz feels the same-- there’s an ache in his chest that won’t seem to pass.  anyone else who comes to the cabins to investigate is chased away.

dream will wander off on his own, and when he finds the frozen body of a butterfly in the snow, he’ll take it home and preserve it.

[smells-like-mettaton]

Sensory asks- 55 for gaster, sans, and papyrus :)

Dis-carded

Rating: G Word Count: 986 Prompt: Finding old photographs you'd forgotten about Read on AO3: here Notes: probably both more angsty and stupid than what you'd expect lol. takes place post deltarune and post ut pacifist

XXX

“Hey, uh, Dad?” 

Sans stared down at one of the boxes Gaster had brought with him when they’d finally fished him out of the Void. You’d think that getting stuck in Nowhere would leave you with a lot of Nothing, but somehow Dad had remained as much a hoarder as ever. 

“You get into scrapbooking while you were stuck in time prison?” he asked, looking up.

“Scrapbook—? Ah, yes, that.” Gaster swept over to pull out the green leatherbound photo album. He tried to brush dust off the front of it, but just succeeded in dribbling it with black goop instead.

“Didn’t think there was enough light in there for takin’ pics.” Sans’s head tilted curiously.

“You have pictures of the Void???” Papyrus stuck his head in from the kitchen, where he was cooking a healthy post-dimensional-hopping meal. 

Sans wasn’t sure if Dad would be able to eat it or not. Maybe he’d be better off if he couldn’t.

“Not exactly.”

Gaster settled down on the living room carpet. He looked more like a cat becoming a loaf than he did a skeleton. No legs to speak of, just his floating hands gently flipping open the book.

“I had nearly forgotten about these. Ralsei compiled them for me, as an ‘Escaping The Abyss’ gift.” His wobbling smile stretched a little wider.

Ralsei… which one was that? Dad hadn’t given them a super thorough run-down of his, uh, ‘Void Adventures,’ yet. All Sans knew was that he’d screwed around with another universe, and one of his Void Buddies had finally patched Sans and Papyrus through to pick him up. Dess, her name was. She’d made some comments about teaching Gaster how to use a microwave.

“Did you make friends in the Abyss??” Papyrus plopped down next to him. “What was it like?”

“Well. Mostly, I kept watch over the Player. Their assistance was required to prevent the world from being covered in darkness.”

Gaster pointed to a photo of a glowing heart, the red blown out against the dark background. It looked just like Frisk’s soul, from the few times he remembered seeing ‘em in combat.

“But wasn’t your world already covered in darkness?” Papyrus asked. 

“The not-place where I resided was. But the world itself, was not. Mostly. Depending on your perspective.”

“Thanks. Real transparent explanation, there.” Sans grinned, as he always did. Dad didn’t know him well enough to see that it was tight at the corners.

Dad had been gone, and then he’d been back. No warning. No explanation. No apologies. Barely even an acknowledgement of what Sans and Papyrus had risked to tow his melting butt out. 

Papyrus didn’t seem to mind. Sans didn’t seem to, either. Mostly because expressing any kind of annoyance was too much effort.

(Also because it was Dad. Dad, who moved, and expected the world to move with him.)

(And for the most part, it did.)

“There is Kris and Susie’s first meeting with Ralsei… he was so shy at the time. I couldn’t code too strong of a personality into him, you see, or it might have clashed with the Player…”

“Huh?”

“And there’s Lancer—isn’t he just the cutest little thing? I modeled his form somewhat after what you looked like as a child, Sans. You always did enjoy wearing your hood up…”

Something in Sans’s stomach dropped. Gaster continued talking warmly, fondly, about the kids who he’d either made or manipulated. His voice turned to white noise, fuzzing in the back of Sans’s skull.

“Um, Dad?” Papyrus interrupted with a frown. 

“Yes, son?”

“You know that controlling people is bad, right?”

Gaster blinked. A glob of goop dripped from roughly where his shoulder should’ve been.

“It was to save the world. They understood.”

Sans sighed and shook his head.

“You drove several of them insane,” Papyrus insisted. “You have photos. You just showed us. You saw Spamtong—die? Did he die?”

Sans shrugged. He figured if Spamton was as much like Mettaton as the pictures implied, then losing his “BIG” body must have been like dying in any way that mattered.

“He poured his essence into the pair of spectacles. See, Ralsei is wearing him here when they fight—”

“DAD!” Papyrus gripped his ‘shoulders,’ his gloves sinking into the goop. “That is unacceptable!! You can’t just—throw people away when you’re done using them!”

Sans snorted. Couldn’t he, though? What had done with Sans and Papyrus, huh? Left ‘em as soon as he’d had bigger and better things to do.

“He was not discarded, as you can see—”

“Father!” Papyrus jumped to his feet, stomping his boot on the carpet. “No more arguing! There is only one thing to be done about this!!”

Sans’s eyelights flickered out, just for a minute. Papyrus really didn’t plan to go back there, did he? It sounded like they could spend years and not clean up all of Dad’s mistakes. Besides, how would you even turn a pair of glasses back into a person?

From inside his ribcage, though, Papyrus pulled out a tall bundle of Hallmark greeting cards. They had a picture of a skeleton and a joke on the front, though Sans couldn’t quite make out the words. Looked like something about birthdays? Getting old and dying, maybe? That was a bit morbid, by Papyrus’s standards.

“Apology cards!” Papyrus dropped the bundle on top of the photo album.

Gaster squinted at them.

“...These are for someone’s fiftieth birthday.” 

“Not after some help from my trusty Sharpie, they won’t be! Nyeh heh heh!”

Sans couldn’t help chuckling, though a few cards wouldn’t make a difference. Screwing up someone’s life that bad wasn’t something you could just apologize for. But maybe a few hours of cramping phalanges would teach Dad a lesson.

And at least next time, Sans and Papyrus would be here to make sure he didn’t do anything too stupid.

[colossusking-orach]

1 - Autumn POV

“Autumn…Little Kitty? Where are you?”

A thunderously deep voice rumbled above just before the ground shifted. Autumn would have surely flew into the void had it not been for her claws finding purchase in the soft leather of the pillow. She shot daggers towards the still shifting colossus, whom only now seemed to notice her plight.

The deep, rippling sound of the giant’s chuckling felt more like the thunder of a distant storm. A wide hand came from beneath to cup Autumn’s chest, it tried to pull her away from the pillow. While not forceful the movement forced an embarrassingly pathetic mewl out of her. The force disappeared but the hand continued to cradle her.

“Oh no! Little Kitty! Here, I help!”

Autumn hissed and spat when she felt a fingertip thicker than her tiny paw start to gently stroke her fluffy little head. Her ears tilted back at the giant’s soft rumbling in his native language. A coarse humming or soft growl, sounds like a curious bear. He spoke within the rhythm of his deep breathing. Forceful breaths tousling her thick fur, now developing mats.

He had not brushed her once since abducting her from the forest. Autumn began to question if he knew how to care for a house cat at all.

The thick digit began moving on to massage each pad enough to retract her claws. Once free, he placed her onto a fleece blanket at the head of their sleeping nook. Panels of the wall slid up out of sight to reveal the larger space of the room.

The mountainous man pulled himself out of the alcove before thundering off to the washroom to begin his day.

Now suddenly alone, Autumn settled into a loaf to wait for the giant space bear to come back. It is only within these quiet moments in the morning that Autumn would dare to venture a thought about what her options are.

She held little hope for escape, there was no chance she would evade a man so obsessed over a cat he found in the woods. She struggled to focus and use the only human part she had left.

Her psyche.

It took her some time to realize he hadn’t come back yet. The sounds of water running and low growling still coming from somewhere out of sight beyond the threshold.

Now may be my one chance to get away from this alien.

She paced back and forth mentally calculating the risks of jumping. The fall felt more like 3m than the 2m it actually was.

It’s still too high to jump! I’ll break my legs!

Autumn wasn’t really familiar with her cat body yet, she had been taken by the giant shortly after the Solar Flare transformed her. He already knew she wasn’t a cat.

THUD

mew

She slid and fell onto the ground, sprawling out before to finding her paws again. She hoped so desperately that HE hadn’t heard her.

“Kitty?

“Autumn, tell me where you are! You’re too small to wander. Little Kitty, say something.”

Autumn curled into as tight a ball she could, his voice was sharper now, closer to a snarl. She has seen how others flinched whenever her giant spoke to the lesser giants. He must be a feared man, but she didn’t know why.

Slow, deafening, methodical steps sent jolts straight to her core. Each one more jarring than the last. Shuddering with indecision, helplessly staring at the ever approaching giant.

Sudden tears surprised her, cats don’t cry in the way a human would. She felt ridged with terror coursing through her. Her breath caught, heart sank. Trying to at least keep composure.

“There!”

Autumn flailed, instinctively trying to claw and bite the hand that seized her, she battled the large hands trying to trap her as the looming shadow of the alien fell over her.

“Let! Go! Ow. Squeeze too hard!”

The little kitty yowled, fighting to get purchase on the thick green skin.

“Oh, so now you speak to me?

Autumn only replied with a low growl, avoiding his gaze.

2 - Orach POV

Amused by her little intimidation attempt, Orach starts to hum. Drowning out her mewling protests, and choosing to ignore her. He knew it was mean of him, as she depended so heavily on him but the spunky little cat would only get in the way or worse underfoot if left to roam.

Orach let out a course huff resolving to never let anything hurt the fluffy brown cat. He clenched his jaw thinking about the woods he found her in. Now the Hunting Grounds, she’d be torn to shreds by the hunting parties

Instead he occupied his thoughts with where to put his little friend.

*Kitty put in basket*

[autumnalwalker]

Empty Names - 11 - Afterparty

Author's Note: Sullivan makes largely-accurate-but-crucially-flawed assessments of his teammates, round two. And some more glimpses of what he's capable of doing besides standing off to the side making snide comments. Sullivan may be terrible and kind of creepy, but he's surprisingly fun to write. Word Count: 3,959 Content Warning: Mild body horror.

<-Previous Chapter Masterpost Next Chapter->

There are at least seventeen dining rooms in Bridgewood Manor.  From the chandelier-lit and gleaming grand banquet hall whose long table with a throne-like chair at one end that seats dozens to a dim, cozy café with intimately curtained booths for two.  The whimsy of tea tables on lilypads drifting across a pond while whole flowers grow suspended in the air contrasted with the stark modernist experiment in black and white and chrome.  All are served by kitchens with staff constructed from the purchased memories of expert chefs, bargained as collateral in their youth and collected upon their retirement.  Only the finest ingredients stock the stasis-locked pantries, indefinitely preserving the foodstuffs that only a centuries-old sorceress from still-older money could have purchased without blanching at the price that comes from the combination of quality, rarity, and need to transport across worlds.

Sullivan and his friend are sharing their dinner of water, a loaf of bread, a small wedge of cheese, and an apple apiece, sitting on the floor of a never-used guest bedroom.

“My friend, I dare say we struck gold with these recruits of yours.”

“You know that’s practically a pun coming from you?”

“I prefer to think of it as ‘being on brand.’”

“Honestly, I’m more surprised to hear you speak highly of them.”

“I only said ‘struck gold.’  It still needs extracted, refined, smelt, worked, and shaped into something worthwhile.”

“I think you might be overworking that metaphor.”

“No, what was overworked was your inspirational speech there at the end,” Sullivan says, shaking a still-unbitten apple at his friend for emphasis.  “Then again, I suppose it’s comforting to hear that you’re still just as corny and over-rehearsed as ever in that department.”

“That was one hundred percent off-the-cuff, thank you very much.”

“That just makes it worse.  You understand why that’s worse, right?”

“No,” they say around a bite of bread.

Sullivan slowly shakes his head.  Void Without, they’re going to be the death of him one day.

“My advice, drop the speeches.  You’ve always done better with the more de facto leadership of being the one to step up and take responsibility for getting things moving than as a formal role.”

“I’ll take your word on that.  Heh.  It’s not like I’ve been able to learn from experience.”

Sullivan nearly drops the apple.  Did they just make a self-deprecating joke about that?  Oh, no no no no, changing the topic right now.

“But as I was saying,” he resumes without a trace of fear, “the kids have potential.”

“I’d hardly call Eris and Lacuna ‘kids,’ and barely Ashan.”

“Oh please, you and I are both older than the three of them put together and I married a woman with anecdotes older than the country we do most of our work in these days.  They’re kids.”

His friend freezes for half a second, awful recognition flickering across their face.  They open their mouth to speak but the moment passes, their expression returns to an easy casual smile, and whatever they were about to say is replaced by “Do go on then.  You almost never speak well of anyone, so this should be good.”

That was a close one.  Sullivan curses himself for bringing up their age.  Is he really that out of practice from so short a time apart?  He continues on as if he noticed nothing.

“Well, obviously there’s wizard boy being a proper anchor world mage twisting thermodynamics to fuel spells from a magic system where that shouldn’t work just because it makes sense to him.”  He starts rhythmically tossing the apple in the air and catching it again.  “It’s not every day you find a mage who actually thinks to make tactical use of his power source’s side effects instead of tunnel visioning on actual spells.  Not to mention his capacity for power draw and output exceeds even my expectations.  If he can figure out a way to internalize a more efficient channeling schema and diversify his repertoire we’ll have a true rarity on our hands.”

“So that’s it?  Just another rare and valuable artifact for the collection?”

“If one wants to set a strong foundation for the sort of organization you’re looking to build then one must needs start with the best of the best to inspire the next generation.  He has the potential to be that.  And besides,” he rolls the apple down his arm, behind his shoulder and into the other hand, “he’s demonstrated a truly classic willingness to throw himself into the fire to save his comrades.  He’s a good fit for you.”

Not that Sullivan or his friend needed the help back there, but the kid couldn’t have known that.

“That is the sort of thing I would have done in his place, isn’t it?”

“More like ‘have done repeatedly.’  Maybe you’ll get to ease off and take turns now.  He’ll make a good right hand for you.  With me ever as the left, of course.”  He begins contact juggling the apple, noting with satisfaction how his friend’s eyes follow it.  “The techie meanwhile: adorably spineless.  She’ll probably just do paperwork for us all day if you let her, but - credit where it’s due - I underestimated her usefulness when you said you were bringing her on as our fifth.”

“You’re referring to the remote glyphs.  She was reluctant to talk about that when I brought it up.”

“Oh she’s definitely not supposed to have those,” he chuckles.  “The records of what she was working on before she got sacked were thoroughly scrubbed, but having seen it, there’s not much else it could be.  It’s hilarious how skittish she is about anything she’s actually good for, but I’m sure that with the right push she’ll make good clay for you to shape into whatever you want her to be.”

“I’m not interested in ‘shaping’ anyone.  These are our teammates we’re talking about, our friends, not a bunch of shiny new toys to play with.”

“Call it ‘inspiring’ her then if it makes you feel better.  She’d probably like the clay analogy though.  Given today’s revelations and her circumstances I’d be willing to bet she’s got at least a decent theoretical grasp of any transmutation related topic you care to name.  It’s an obvious case of someone who doesn’t know who they want to be but knows it’s not who they are now.  Show her like you showed me.  It should be easy enough; it’s obvious every time she looks at you that she thinks the world of you.”

“Just like it’s obvious she’s terrified of you?  Seriously, what did you say to her when I wasn’t around?”

Sullivan clasps his apple-less hand over where his heart should be and gasps in mock indignation.  “Why, I was nothing other than my usual charming self.”

“That’s what worries me.  You were being antagonistic enough while I was around; I’m not completely blind to how you are when I’m not.”

The apple’s returned to its original hand when Sullivan pulls it away from his chest into an exaggerated shrug.  He cheated that particular sleight-of-hand, but that’s one of the perks of being him.

“I was just stress testing them.  If they can’t take a bit of light provocation now, how can we expect them to hold up a year from now in a real high-stakes situation with tensions running high?  Besides, if I’d really been trying to antagonize anyone there would have been bloodshed.”

His friend sighs.  “I know, I know.  But for once, could you at least pretend to get along?  I really want this to work out.”

Sullivan stops playing with the apple.  “I know, and so do I.  That’s why I did it.  But since you asked, I’ll… show some restraint.”

“Thank you.  Building up team trust and understanding is going farther than just learning to tolerate each other.”

Sullivan peels a bit of skin off the apple with his teeth instead of answering.  The taste is so-so.  Better as a prop than food, especially for one who doesn’t need to eat.

“I notice you didn’t mention Eris,” his friend says after a few bites of their own meal.

“Muscles?  What’s there to say?  Every team needs its resident brute and she fits the role.  Big, simple, strong, durable, and resorts to physical force at every opportunity without thinking the consequences through.  But, as they say, ‘when all you have is a hammer…’” He traces a ring around the apple’s stem with a finger and then rips out the core with one tug.  “It’s cute though how protective she gets of the techie,” he continues as he tosses the de-cored ring of fruit to his friend.  “Pound of gold says the two of them are sleeping together by the end of the year if they’re not already.  Muscles will probably be obsolete once the other two come into their own, but she’s a good shield until then and - as we’ve seen - putting her in danger’s a good way to motivate the techie.  Not that you would ever do that intentionally of course.”

His friend pauses, apple halfway to their mouth, and gives him a flat look.

“And not that I would either, don’t worry,” he assures them while lazily swinging the apple core by its stem.  “Besides, it’s not like I’ll be going into the field with them again anytime soon.”

“You have a lead then?”

“That remains to be seen, but as you pointed out yourself when you got the call for this job, a bizarre accident on a known smuggling route just weeks after a cross-world smuggling ring got wiped out and robbed is enough of a coincidence to be suspicious.  I’ll be checking on our lighthouse-dwelling acquaintance to ask him if he knows anything about this ‘pulse’ our sole survivor mentioned.  After that I still need to have an interview with said survivor to make sure there aren’t any other details he’s forgetting, sort through the salvaged luggage and cargo for anything incriminating, and grease whatever appendages on whatever politicians in Crossherd I need to in order to get all those pod people out of my garden and back to Culescu.

“Suffice to say, that all should keep me occupied for some time, and even if it turns out to be unrelated to your initial case there should be some positively delicious secrets to be dug up in the course of looking into why this happened.  Assuming you want me to find out, of course.”

“Go for it.  If there’s a chance something or someone intentionally caused this disaster then we need to know.  I’m guessing that ward monitor you had me plant at the lighthouse still hasn’t picked up anything?”

Sullivan shakes his head.  “No one’s been in or out of there except us and Cabetha’s crew, and at this point I don’t think anyone’s going to be.  Either that or whatever it is they’ve been doing to keep from leaving a trace is even more paranoid in its thoroughness than I thought.  I’ll retrieve it when I’m back out there tomorrow morning.”

His friend nods.  “In the meantime, I was planning on seeing if I can track down Jero and talk xem into helping wake up the passengers.”

“Xe’s still on-world, last I checked.  Let me know when you’re bringing xem by so I can get xem through security.  You bringing wizard boy along with you?”

“No, I figure we can let him and the others rest for a few days while you and I wrap things up on this quest.”  They smirk a little as they say that last word and Sullivan lets them have this indulgence without comment.  “I take it you’re fine with him staying here that long?”

“Whatever faults I may hypothetically have, I have always been an excellent host.  I’ll not remove a guest who hasn’t done anything to deserve it.  I’ll see to it that the staff keeps him and our other guest from getting lost without me.”

“Thanks.  Speaking of Ashan though, any idea what’s with the tattoo on the back of his neck?”

“Tattoo?” Sullivan asks, his surprise nearly causing him to miss the falling apple core he’d just tossed into the air.  Barely catching it with his teeth, he pulls it the rest of the way into his mouth and swallows it whole.

“I just caught a glimpse of it when he was pulling his hair back.  You were busy with the radio and I think Eris was distracted by seasickness, so I suppose it makes sense if neither of you saw it.  It looked like a glyph of some kind.  Thought you might have recognized it if you saw it, having lived with Carnette and all.”

Sullivan smiles wide.  “Now that is some interesting gossip.”

“Please don’t sneak into his room while he’s sleeping to examine it”

“Fine,” he concedes with a huff and a roll of his eyes.

*******

It’s approaching midnight and - to his own surprise - Sullivan’s been true to his word and not spied on any guests in their sleep.  Not for the first time lately, the thought crosses his mind that he might be going soft.

He pinches the ivory candle floating in front of him to snuff out its black flame, dropping the interior of the spherical mirror chamber into darkness and releasing the ghost he’d spent the past half hour cross-examining from the infinite reflection of its corpse.  He claps twice and soon he feels the subtle shift in the air from the chamber opening.  He gathers up the cadaver and candle in his usual fashion, takes a hold of the silk rope that’s been lowered to exactly where protocol dictates, and allows himself to be lifted out.  The pull of gravity returns, a trapdoor slides shut with a soft wooden swish-thunk, a carpet unrolls with a whump, and old wooden furniture creaks as it returns to its proper alignment.

As he lets go to drop into the plushly upholstered chair now beneath him a buzzing electric chandelier flickers to life, revealing the recreation of a nineteenth century occultist’s séance parlor around him.  Dark red velvet curtains (expensive) lining the walls, crystal ball (mundane) nestled in a pillow on the table (mahogany) in front of him, ouija board (fake) on one side, tarot deck (fake but good for introspection) on the other, human skull (real) on a nearby pedestal, cabinet of curiosities (fraudulent) behind him, and eldritch communion incense (distressingly real) resting cold and unburnt in a tentacle-shaped holder.

It had been another one of Carnette’s little jokes, setting up this hackneyed facade on top of the actual necromantic summoning chamber of her own design.  There was always one of those to go through anytime Sullivan wanted to get into the tools and mechanisms she’d left behind.  Daily reminders of her just as constant as the blue metal wedding band on his finger.

Sullivan’s no mage himself - and never could be in this world cluster - but he could still manage his fair share of rituals, especially with the help of his dearly departed wife’s implements, reagents, and grimoires.  Using one of the bodies of the Culescun crew members he’d discreetly gathered up while his video feed was off to summon the associated ghost to verify Dis!ma*s’s story had practically been child’s play with the mirror chamber doing most of the work for him.  Truth be told he’s feeling disappointed, both at how little a challenge it was and at how little new he learned.  Just because the ghost had corroborated the story Dis!ma*s had told them that didn’t mean there wasn’t more going on that neither of them knew about, nor did it mean there wasn’t still something the live one had left out.  Never trust a sole survivor.  Sullivan’s been one enough times to know.

As he removes the ivory candle from his person and places it in a candlestick he contemplates repeating the process on the ship’s resident flesh-shaper.  On the one hand, the other two were just grunts and someone of higher station might know more.  On the other hand, it’s not every day he gets his hands on a body with a skill this rare and it had been dead long enough before he got it into stasis that there’s not enough essence left lingering for both summoning and… personal indulgence.

A series of rapid beeps emits from his breast pocket.  What to do about that morsel is a decision that will have to be tabled for another time.  It was hard to tell with how they blended together, but at a rough guess Sullivan would say about twenty.  Roughly twenty people have just crossed the bounds of the perception ward around Lachlan’s lighthouse.  More than he’d anticipated - even before he gave up on anyone showing - but not, he thinks, more than he can handle.

This morning it had taken the carriage roughly forty minutes to make the trip from the front door of the Manor to the base of the cliff below the lighthouse.

Alone, Sullivan figures he can make it in five.

He stands and his skin ripples and writhes from that which is beneath it.

Space warps and compresses to a single point in his vision.

He takes a step and is out in the hallway.

Another step and he’s at the far end.

A turn, a step, another hallway.

Cross rooms and repeat.

The internal labyrinth of Bridgewood Manor is not conducive to this mode of travel.

He doesn’t bother waking his friend or Ashan.

Outnumbered as he expects to be, he may do some things they wouldn’t approve of.

He’s faster alone anyway.

And he hates to disturb his friend’s rare sound sleep.

One minute.

He steps out the door into the night air.

One step to the edge of the forest.

Three steps to the correct tree.

He lets himself settle for a moment so as not to confuse the security.

A brief transit north through the dark of the bridge.

Still faster for the master of the house alone than it would be with others.

Rise from the weathered wooden floorboards to stand in an arctic wind.

No longer a storm but still enough to rattle the remains of the old collapsed cabin.

Two minutes.

The twisting beneath his skin resumes.

One step down to the shore.

Practically a leisurely stroll down the winding coast.

Faster than the wind whose bite is but a tickling nibble to him.

Three minutes.

The boom echoes across the water and off the cliffs from kilometers away.

The pillar of fire erupts high enough to pierce the perception ward.

The lighthouse’s last light.

He picks up his pace.

Four minutes.

The receiver in his breast pocket beeps twenty three times.

The beeps are more spread out this time.

He swears and rounds the bend in the coast.

The dragon and the bone ship are long gone.

A single, strained step takes him across the bay and to the top of the cliff.

The receiver beeps once with his passage.

He stands at the base of the lighthouse.

It looks like the door’s been kicked in and then lit on fire.

Five minutes.

He steps to what’s left of the top of the lighthouse.  The glowing red metal grating of the widow’s walk bends beneath his weight and begins blackening and cracking the leather soles of his shoes as he perches at the edge of the hollowed out tube.  There’s light to be seen down there from the molten stone walls; not much, but enough to show that naught remains inside but swirling smoke and ash.

Sullivan stills that which is beneath his skin before opening is mouth wide (but only humanly so), sticking out his tongue, and breathing in the char on the air.  Plenty dead here, but nothing remotely recent.  Annoying, but curious.  He stands up straight and looks around, taking full use of the high vantage point as he blinks his eyes to cycle through spectrums and filters.

A quarter of a kilometer inland, well outside the bounds of the perception ward, he spots the last fading wisps of a spatial distortion marking a mass teleport.  Even from here he can tell there’s not enough left to trace the destination.  He gives a whistle of appreciation for whoever was skilled enough to break space that cleanly.  Turning his reconfigured gaze back to the burning hole that was once an alchemist’s workshop he notices a previously unseen current toward the bottom.  May as well check that out.

Casually, he rolls up the hems of his tailored pants, breaks apart the brittle and crumbling ruins of his shoes, peels off his flaming socks and steps over the ledge.  He falls twice the height of the lighthouse tower into the hollowed-out depths of the cliff before the shock of his upright landing sends a boneless ripple through his body.  The cavern he’s landed in is low and wide.  As above, so below remains nothing but cooling molten rock, ashes, and smoke.  Oh, and an entrancingly toxic mix of fumes from whatever alchemical concoctions the fire was meant to dispose of.  A shame the fire vaporized the equipment as well.  If he could condense this into a cologne the scent would simply be to die for.  Not that he’d have many places he could get away with wearing it, but he’s sure it would be a hit in the few that he could.  

Alas, he has a job to be doing, so he’ll have to satisfy himself with the short-term sensation of the gases that burn his face and nose just as surely as the floor is burning his bare feet.  He follows the invisible current of warping space to the gasping remnants of a collapsed bridge near the wall.  Had he arrived any later it would have been gone completely.  It’s visible now, up close, refracting the orange veins of light emanating from the wall more than what mere heat distortion could accomplish and gathering the ubiquitous fumes into a slowly swirling vortex.

Sullivan sticks a hand into that vortex, hardly feeling it as his palm is shredded and his nails are plucked.  Not passable - no surprise there - and routed through multiple proxy destinations.  Clever and thorough, as befits an alchemist worthy of the name, but not so clever that one worthy of the name of Bridgewood can’t get a feel for the general area of the final destination.  More importantly, he can feel the last traces of the alchemist’s “footprint.”  The man escaped before he set his home to blow up in the faces of unwanted guests.  Lachlan always had been the sort of man who’d rather destroy his own secrets than share them.  Not quite Sullivan’s style, but close enough that he can respect it.

He withdraws his arm with a smile and massages his wrist while his hand returns to a pristine and manicured state.  Now this was a lead.  And even better, his friend wouldn’t need to be sad and blame themself for the man dying under their watch.  He’d been worried about that when the the two of them first found the bodies aboard the Culescun ship, but fortunately Dis!ma*s’s timeline of the crew having died before his friend even got the call to investigate seemed to be enough for them to compartmentalize and rationalize it all as a success.

But best of all, it had been ages since Sullivan had a proper manhunt, much less one promising to end in a conflict with a large force backed by significant magical firepower.  He’ll need to expedite his other plans for the next few days because this is going to be delicious.

<-Previous Chapter Masterpost Next Chapter->

[ask-sad-ghost-piett]

Posthumous Admiral's Log - Entry 41

(OOC: There's a little bit of angst and dysfunctional parent-child relationships in this one.)

Read the full log on Ao3.

I have finally returned to the afterlife. I would like to say that I departed from my mother on good terms. Unfortunately, we had a rather acrimonious argument shortly before she exorcised me. The trouble is I’m not even entirely sure how it came about.

I woke up earlier than my fellow Imperials after Max pushed me off the bed in his sleep. I can scarcely blame him. That bed was much too small. So, I went downstairs and found my mother already awake.

I started telling her about what happened on Exegol. She seemed to be paying very little attention, frankly, being much too occupied with her Axxilan morning soap opera. However, when I mentioned that the Emperor asked me to command his nonfunctional fleet of frozen Star Destroyers, she suddenly became very excited and insisted that I must accept the offer.

I told her that I have no desire to lead a fleet under the Emperor’s command ever again. Firstly, the Star Destroyers he has acquired have been damaged beyond repair by the ice. Secondly, I must confess that my love for the Empire did not extend to love for Palpatine’s military strategy, especially in the twilight of the Imperial Era. Many of his ideas frankly made very little sense, and if I mustered up the courage to inquire for clarification, he would simply cackle and ramble about how everything was going as he had foreseen.

However, my mother refused to accept this answer and preceded to berate me for turning down a “great opportunity”.

“All this time I thought that our chances of restoring the Sith Empire were dashed the moment you crashed that ship of yours over Endor,” she said. “Now, you’ve been given the perfect opportunity to make it right, and you’re going to simply loaf around in the afterlife?”

 “I can assure you that there won’t be any loafing under Grand Moff Tarkin’s command,” I told her. “Truly, I work very hard to haunt the Rebellion and drag their souls into the void. I scarcely have any time to myself outside of that, mother. I have neither the time nor the desire to assume command on Exegol.”

The row only got more heated after that. Eventually, I got frustrated and asked her why she expected me of all people to restore the “Sith Empire” (whatever her conceptions of that may be, as they clearly differ from my definition of the Galactic Empire). She then told me something that left me more confused than angry:

“Because you had so much potential, Firmus. Your father being as Force-null as he is, I didn’t expect any of you to be Force-sensitive, of course. But you were the closest out of all your siblings.”

I then sarcastically asked her whether she meant to imply that I was Force sensitive.

“Of course not, Firmus,” she said. “And I don’t care for the attitude. You’re not Force-sensitive, but as I always said, you’re sensitive and that’s closer than any of your siblings ever were. That’s why I’ve always had such high hopes for you…”

“Well, if that’s true, you never did show it,” I told her. “And it’s a little late to start now. So, why don’t we get on with this exorcism, and then I can go back to perpetually disappointing you in death just as I did in life?”

Now, in retrospect, I will admit that wasn’t a very nice thing to say and I regret it now. We scarcely talked after that. My mother was very quiet for the rest of the morning. She didn’t even bother to berate Jerjerrod for being a bad influence, which means she must have been feeling very down. Afterwards, she conducted the exorcism fairly quickly. We did say goodbye and I told her I’d speak with her during our next séance but that felt insufficient.

Upon returning to the afterlife, I immediately retreated to my pocket dimension. Grand Moff Tarkin attempted to confront me about my unexplained leave (apparently my nephew nearly created an interdimensional fire while I was away) but for the first time in my life, I simply ignored him. I’ll pay for it later, but that’s a problem for another day.

Max found me eventually. Well, I suppose if I didn’t want to be found, I ought to have picked a less predictable hiding spot or created a new pocket dimension. At first, he attempted to cheer me up by telling me jokes about the futility of Rebel shield generators. However, for once, I actually wasn’t in the mood. The COMPNOR bulletins lied. There are some things you can’t fix with laughing about the downfall of the Rebellion.

“Family’s always difficult, Firmus,” Max said eventually. “It’s just part of having one.”

We talked for a while like that. I will not share all of it for the sake of sparing the reader the awkwardness. I will admit, neither of us are very used to discussing messy things like family and emotions. Usually, I just find a secluded corner and stare despairingly at the stars, ruminating about everything that’s going wrong in my existence. Max usually keeps his emotions bottled up and then unleashes all his rage in a devastating offensive against the Rebels, which was admittedly highly useful for the Empire. However, I can see how talking through things may be beneficial under some circumstances.

“You should try to talk to her,” Max advised me. “Can’t say it’ll be pleasant. Stars know it hasn’t been pleasant the couple times I’ve tried to talk to Zev. But it’ll be worse if you don’t.”

“You sound like Needa,” I said. “But I suppose I’ll entertain the thought.”

I haven’t quite decided what I shall do about this latest issue with my mother or Emperor Palpatine’s frozen fleet. I haven’t felt so dejected since Lord Vader choked Captain Needa and immediately turned around to threaten me. In fact, I daresay, I would prefer an encounter with Lord Vader to my current predicament.

-Admiral Piett

[loafthecat]

You know it’s funny how mystic flour cookie’s initials are MF

Which can also stand for Mother f^cker-

…….

Because she is one-/jjj

[crackspinewornpages]

Les Misérables 360/365 -Victor Hugo

351 

In the mayor’s office they were dressed in finery and nice clothes Gillenormand had to give away Cosette as Valjean broke his thumb. (how does this hinder him from giving her away) “Evil does not come from man, who is good at bottom.”p.870 Gillenormand declares everyone to be happy and also, he no longer has any political opinions. (they would be happy to hear that) They returned to a home full of flowers and a party of relatives, Theodule was now a captain, Cosette and him didn’t recognize each other. At the banquet Valjean told Cosette he was content and laughed at her command but as the guests entered the hall Valjean wasn’t there, he left with the excuse of his ailment. (just a broken thumb stop being a baby) Gillenormand makes a toast that there can't be too much love, women must be loved, impossible for God to make people anything but for it. The couple left for the wedding night, “To love, or to be loved-this suffices. Demand nothing more, there is no other pearl to be found in the shadowy folds of life. To love is a fufilment.”p.875 (that’s a theme of this tome) 

352 

When no one was paying attention Valjean slipped away to the chamber he had carried Marius eight months before. He listened to the party and left returning to Rue de l’ Homme Arme, the house was empty and bare. He took out Cosette's childhood mourning clothes he saved and thought of that December, thinking Fantine would be pleased she was mourning for her and was warm, broken hearted, he sobbed. 

353 

Valjean struggled once again, how many times has he been through this, a crossroad and heart-rending question. Marius and Cosette was his doing but should he retain Cosette, as a father, as he is in disgrace, in the law. He had clung to Cosette and ascended from disaster, should he let go, the Champmathieu affair is nothing compared to Cosette’s marriage. Reentrance to the galleys, to the void, should he impose the galleys to those children, sacrifice Cosette or himself, he thought of it for twelve hours. 

354 

On February 17 there was a visitor, Valjean returned to Gillenormand’s, he has to speak to Marius privately. Neither Valjean or Marius had slept well (we know you don’t have to say it) but Marius was happy to see him and they want him to live here. Valjean tells him he is an ex convict and it took a while for Marius to understand. He faked his injury since it wouldn't be right to forge the marriage documents, he’s not related to Cosette, she just needed him, he fulfilled that duty. “We have all undergone moments of trouble in which everything within us is dispersed; we say the first things that occur to us, which are not always precisely those which should be said.”p.883 

Marius asks why confess, he could have kept it a secret, what’s his motive, honesty. He doesn’t belong here, he doesn’t belong to family of men, (you stole a freaking loaf of bread and escaped prison decades ago) it all come to an end with Cosette’s marriage, he could lie for her but not himself, his conscience made him confess, he couldn’t have them share his taint. (again you stole a loaf of bread) He condemns himself and evaluates by degrading himself in his eyes, a galley slave with a conscience. (like nobody in prison have any redeeming qualities) “There are encounters which bind us, there are chances which involves in duties.”p.885 When one has a horror over their head, (you stole bread and escaped prison) it’s not right to make others share it without knowledge, Fauchelevent lent his name but he has no right to use it, he once stole bread to live and today he won't steal a name to live. (do I need to beat you with a newspaper too) 

Imagine if he said nothing and one day someone called out Jean Valjean and revealed him, he is a wretched man, Marius says he can get him a pardon, he’s presumed dead already. (yes this is the 1800s modern forensics and photo records don’t exist he’s believed to be dead for like a decade now how many people know his name and face and remember when the public saw you risk your life to save somebody they wanted you pardoned) It was then Cosette entered the room and thinks they are talking politics and won't have it, Marius tried to say they are talking business, then she’ll stay and listen but he wants to talk privately. She sees Valjean is pale and asks if he’s well, no and he smiles for her, and Marius convinces her to leave. Marius worries when she’ll find out, but Valjean has him swear to keep it from her, she was frightened enough of the passing galley slaves. He starts crying, wanting to die, Marius tells him he’ll keep it secret. Valjean asks if he shouldn’t see Cosette anymore, he thinks it’s for the best. As he leaves, he says he desires to see Cosette, but he had to tell him for nine years he was a father, he’s not sure if Marius understands, he’s told he can visit in the evening. 

355 

Marius was upset he felt instinctively enigmatic about Valjean and it was the galleys, was he and Cosette’s happiness condemned to it. He had entered this love affair without precautions and life amended it little by little. (that’s what happens when you marry someone you only knew for a few months) He had never told Cosette of the Gorbeau house affair, the fleeing victim, the Thenardiers, Eponine, he was so intoxicated with Cosette at the time nothing but love. (that’s obsession) Weighing consequences if he had told her and found out Valjean was a convict would it change anything, no, so nothing to regret. Valjean might have been hidden forever in an honest family but didn’t for conscience, Marius tried to find balance from Fauchelevent and Valjean, he went to the barricade for Javert out of revenge it seems. (you could clear this all up by asking him) How had to come to Cosette and kept her for so long, her childhood sheltered by a criminal, he couldn’t think of it without getting dizzy. 

How did he educate her, why raise her, that was Valjean and God’s secret. Marius knew God has his tools and Valjean was one for Cosette. He wouldn’t dare question Valjean, (seriously a third act misunderstanding stop being stupid) Cosette was pure and that was enough for him, so Valjean’s personal affairs didn’t concern him. “Jean Valjean was a passer-by. He had said so himself. Well, he had passed. Whatever he was, his part was finished.”p.893 The man was a convict, not even on a social ladder, Marius had found it simple, breeches in law should be followed with suffering, then there came Valjean. He should have freed his house of a man like Valjean but he made a promise and Valjean held his and one must keep their word, but his first duty was Cosette and through questioning her found the nettle protected the lily. (yeah it’s almost as if felons can still be good fathers) 

BOOK EIGHTH FADING AWAY OF THE TWILIGHT 

356 

The following night Valjean knocked on the Gillenormand house and was let in, fatigued, he sat in an armchair and dozed until Cosette came to him. He doesn’t move to embrace her and tells her not to call him father but Jean if she wants. She wants to know what he means, what happened, she doesn’t understand, she no longer needs a father since she has a husband. She’s furious at this (oh actual emotion besides weeping) and Marius’s strange behavior, is he angry at her because she’s happy, her happiness was his life now his days are over. She embraces him, he pulls her off and leaves and won’t address her formally again. 

357 

Valjean came the next night and Cosette wasn’t as warm, Valjean came every day and Marius arranged to be absent, no one knew the reasons behind it. Weeks passed like this and Cosette fell into married life, only wanting Marius to be with her and eventually Valjean became a different person, she doesn’t like it, who is he, she doesn’t know how good he is, she’d be afraid of him. Over time he visits became longer and once Cosette slipped and called him father he felt joy but said to call him Jean, she doesn’t see him cry. (you ever wish you could beat some sense into fictional characters as much as I do) 

358 

Then there was no more familiarity, he talked of her childhood, one day Marius took Cosette to the garden of Rue Plumet and forgot the time when Valjean would visit and Cosette didn't notice she didn’t see him. Valjean points out that she should have a carriage and hasn’t replaced Toussaint, why not profit from her riches, it adds to happiness, Cosette didn't respond. To stay longer Valjean talked of Marius, it was nice to forget by her side. One day Cosette mentioned to him Marius wants to live frugally on three thousand a year, (I don’t know how much that is in 1833 but in 2023 that is way below poverty line) Valjean didn't say anything to her but Marius believes he came into that money by nefarious means. (could have this cleared up instantly by just asking him) The lack of fire and distant chairs in the room was a subtle way of showing him the door. Once the chairs weren't there and a servant said they weren't expecting anyone to visit, the next day Valjean didn’t come Cosette inquired why and was told he was traveling. She only noticed he didn't come one day, it was two. 

359 

Summer 1833 shopkeepers noticed the same passerby in black from Rue de l’ Homme Arme he walked slowly and slowly shortened his journey, what was the use. (so he’s getting ready to die) 

BOOK NINTH SUPREME SHADOW, SUPREME DRAW 

360 

How terrible happiness is to make one forget duty, Marius regretted the promise so gradually estranged Valjean from Cosette, he considered it necessary and just. He tried to restitution the six hundred thousand francs and wouldn’t condemn Cosette to this knowledge, (again how is he a love interest he’s just terrible) who mechanically did as he wished, she was attached to her father but loved her husband. (she really has no personality of her own does she) Occasionally she asked if he returned from his journey and Valjean gave the answer no. Cosette allowed herself to be taken away from him, (really no personality or will of her own) it is the ingratitude of nature, youth go where there is joy, old age the end. (you have no idea how happy I am that this is almost the end) 

NEXT

[gingermcl]

Lord means master of a household, ruler, feudal lord, superior; husband, God," from Old English hlaford “one who guards the loaves," from hlaf "bread, loaf, a portion of bread baked in a mass of definite form," from Proto-Germanic *khlaibuz "bread" + weard "keeper, guardian" - from PIE root *wer- (3) "perceive, watch out for" I think of money being called bread and money is an energy harvesting system. I honestly feel the money system is the first beast system.

Lord sounds a lot like Lured. Like fishing lures. International law is Admiralty maritime law, or law of the sea. The Holy See/Sea also reminds me of this being a water world. And I think of the all seeing eye.

Lure means “something which allures or entices, an attraction, bait”from Proto-Germanic *lothran "to call"

The word Lure can be rearranged into rule; rules are the opposite of free will. Guidelines would be more appropriate. I hold the opinion this realm is a prison but we somehow came in here voluntarily. I feel strongly this realm was misrepresented & were not truly told what we were consenting to. We were lured and took the bait. We do not simply exit upon death either.

This is a reincarnation trap that uses a light, often in a tunnel, that lures you in and lovebombs you, then it tells you you have to do a life review and convinces you to come back and fix your wrongs aka do another life. Kind of like how a bug lamp lures a moth.

We have to remember that we are sovereign beings and we cannot be attached to the flesh or matter. We must tell these entities posing as our creator we do not consent, especially if a situation goes against your gut feelings because your intuition is actually the true God or the creator speaking to you.

Honestly I feel we need to avoid the entire light tunnel and go into the void. From there our inner light will come from within and/or an exit will appear. Blinding light is not where one can be peaceful and create but rather that happens in darkness. The first thing Elohim said is let there be light, presumably God came out of darkness. Anything posing as a Lord is trying to exercise authority over other immortal souls is a false God. Immortal essence honors free will, creative power, and sovereign authority of each fractal of spirit.

Lord of the rings comes to mind. I feel Saturn or Satan is the Lord of the rings. The rings around Saturn may be some type of technology working with the moon to project a lower density here. I feel this realm is 5D with a 3-D overlay. The moon has not always been here. There are legends around the entire around that speak of the moon arriving in the chaos that ensued afterward. The Quran speaks of a day the moon will breaks. Saturn was somehow a sun in this world long ago. Festivals such as saturnalia, which is what Christmas is modeled after honored Saturn. the Sabbath used to be on Saturday, saturn day, and was later moved to Sunday.

All I know is I’m tired of being lured into this matrix and am not answering to an external Lord. I hope to find the way out. I’m open to ideas.

[averlym]

to literally anyone who’s ever interacted with me on here, thank you so much

don’t have any new art today but but but! today marks the first post of this blog! i’ve been here for a year and hooray tumblr birthday and just- thank you so much for all the support seriously thank you thank you thank you to all the friends i’ve made and all the sweet validation and letting me share stuff here and wow huh this is interesting! i genuinely didn’t think i’d last a year but yay! i’ve changed so much and also not at all but i love it here and to whoever’s reading this, have a nice day!!!!

[marveldc-imagines-hub]

Imagine Coming Out to Steve as Bisexual:

A/N: Here’s (hopefully) the first installment of a sort-of series that I like to call the Imagine Pride Series. I don’t know how many I’ll get done this Pride Month since I’m starting it sort of in the middle of the month but if people end up liking it and I get enough ideas/requests for it, I’ll continue it and maybe it’ll become an annual thing until I’ve done a billion characters or get bored of it, lol. Anyway, this first one ended up being very personal for me, which I definitely didn’t intend, but... yeah, lol. Also, this series will be filled to the brim with my personal LGBTQ+ headcanons for Marvel characters, so if that’s not your thing, steer clear. Anyway, enjoy!

Word count: 2,477

Warnings: Coming out anxiety. Use of the Q-slur (reclaiming) and one F-bomb.

Masterlist

Ko-Fi Shoppe

~~~

    You were in your bedroom getting prepared for lounge time before bed—and psyching yourself up—when you thought you heard the front door open through your apartment’s paper-thin walls. You grabbed your phone and turned down the music playing from your Bluetooth speaker; the current song was Janelle Monáe’s “I Like That”, from the Queer Confidence playlist that you’d built for this specific event. Taking a deep breath and giving yourself one more good look in the mirror attached to your closet door, eyeing the to-go bag you had packed with essentials and left ready to grab on the bed, you listened to the jingle of keys as they were dropped onto the table by the door. The sound was quickly followed by a voice.

    “[Y/N]?” Steve half-hollered, and you heard the sounds of movement as he made his way to the hall. His voice got softer as he got closer. “Baby?”

    You gave yourself a shake and patted your face with your hands before answering. “Bedroom!”

    Even though the two of you had been living together for well over a year, he still knocked and waited politely outside until you gave him explicit permission to enter. When he did, he immediately gravitated towards you. He casually looked over you, in your pajama pants and baggy cropped sweatshirt, as he strolled over, and seeing the slightest furrow of his brows made your stomach churn. Steve Rogers wasn’t too bad at reading people but he was always able to read you like a book and you immediately knew that he noticed how tense you were.

    Apparently, he also noticed that you were trying to keep your cool and act normal because he didn’t immediately jump into Worried Eyebrows Rogers. Instead, he decided to give you some time to sort yourself out and opted to simply hug you from behind. Nuzzling his head into the crook of your neck, his warm breath gave you goosebumps as he mumbled a soft, “Hi.”

    You almost forgot about your plan as you melted back into his arms. “Hi,” you replied just as softly as you leaned your head to rest on top of his. You allowed yourself to close your eyes and place your hands on his, slowly run your hands up and down his forearms; you tried to take everything in just in case this was the last time you would be held by him. The solidness of the chest you leaned against, the sturdiness of his footing even as you put your full weight against him because, in reality, your body weight was like carrying a loaf of bread to the super-soldier. The curve of veins and muscle across his arms, the dampness of his hair under your cheek that was probably caused by his evening run despite the rain happening at the time. The faded smell of the 2-in-1 shampoo-conditioner that Steve used despite your complaining, the much warmer body heat than any normal person that was like being wrapped in a heated blanket during the wintertime but being suffocated in a sauna during the summer, that currently bled into you and wrapped you into a comforting cocoon.

    You weren’t sure how long the two of you had been standing like that in silence but it was long enough for Steve to decide that it was Worried Eyebrows time. He slowly raised his head again and when you opened your eyes again, he was watching you carefully in the mirror. He wore a dark navy T-shirt that was just tight enough to outline the muscular form underneath—with the help of Thor and Asgardian booze early on in your relationship, you’d gotten a blushing and giggly drunk Steve to admit that he purposely wore clothes like it because he enjoyed the attention, just a smidge—and a pair of black joggers that you got him for Christmas a few months ago.

    “Are you okay?” Worried Rogers finally asked when he realized you weren’t going to speak first. He kept eye contact with you via the mirror, which almost hurt to hold on your end, as he pressed a light kiss against your temple and then a second one to your cheek. “You called me home early. Said it was something that couldn’t wait?”

    And now I don’t want to say it at all, you thought as you tugged your bottom lip between your teeth. After hesitating for a bit longer—a few seconds or a half-hour, you couldn’t tell through your anxious haze—you sighed and said, “We need to talk.”

    “What, it’s not like you’re leaving me or something, are you?” Steve questioned. The quirk of his brows and a brief smile that appeared told you that he was joking but when you didn’t even chuckle or tease him back, that smile quickly reversed into a frown. “That’s not what’s happening here, is it?”

    “Well…” you mumbled, then trailed off. You glanced towards the bed, where your emergency-leave bag sat waiting, and when you looked back at Steve’s reflection, he was staring at the bag with worry lines etched deep into his skin. “That’s up to you.”

    “Hold on.” Steve moved from behind to stand in front of you, although it was only briefly as he took your hands tightly in his and led you to sit on the edge of the bed with him. He glanced at the bag again, the lines on his face grew deeper again, and you were suddenly reminded of his true age. He looked you in the eye again. “[Y/N], talk to me.”

    “Ours” by Taylor Swift played quietly in the background as you tried to untangle your thoughts and make your mouth work again. The song wasn’t a Pride song or by an LGBTQ+ artist but something about it just fit so well. As you tried to recall the speech you’d been practicing all day, then decided to throw it out altogether, Taylor sang, “So don’t you worry your pretty little mind / People throw rocks at things that shine / And life makes love look hard…”

    “Steve, I…” Your tongue seemed to tie itself in a knot whenever you tried to say it. 

    Steve’s worried, borderline scared, look turned soft. The gentle Worried Eyebrows were back and his thumbs caressed the backs of your hands so softly that it felt like he thought you’d shatter at any minute. He pressed another, stronger kiss against your forehead and mumbled, “You know you can tell me anything.”

    Steve was one of the kindest, most welcoming, most understanding people you’ve ever known but there was still something intimidating about telling him. Normally, you couldn’t fathom him reacting poorly to anything that you could have said but now, you couldn’t help remembering the fact that he was a masculine, old-fashioned, soldier—a soldier from the ’40s—who was still the Ideal American Man to a lot of people, especially some rather unsavory people, and to your knowledge, Steve didn’t have any other queer people in his life that were close to him. Maybe he didn’t want any. Maybe he didn’t like them, like many people who idolized him don’t like them. 

    A little spark of anger sparked in the dark void of anxiety that you were feeling. It wasn’t fair that people hated people like you simply for existing and as much as you loved Steve, if he held the same sentiments, you definitely didn’t want to be with him. The spark quickly turned into a raging fire and suddenly you were blurting out what you’d struggled to say all day, all month, ever since you’d discovered yourself.

    “Steve, I’m bi.”

    Steve stared at you for a bit, then blinked. “What?”

    You took a breath and squared your shoulders. It wasn’t any easier to say it a second time, but you managed in what you hoped was a confident voice, “I’m bisexual.”

    Steve blinked again and his head tilted slightly to the side, but otherwise didn’t move much. “Okay.”

    “O… Okay.” You echoed. You felt your cheeks grow warm.

    Slowly, a relieved smile appeared on Steve’s face and you watched as the tension in his entire posture relaxed. “Was that what you wanted to tell me? You wanted to come out as bisexual?”

    Your face grew heated still and you glanced away. You pulled your sweaty hands from Steve’s and wiped them on your pant legs as you stammered, “Y… Yeah, I mean, yes.” You picked at the fraying hem of your shirt for a few moments, then looked back at your boyfriend—to see that he was absolutely glowing. “You don’t care?”

    “No, of course not,” Steve said, only to quickly shake his head and backtrack, “I mean, of course, I do! I care because it’s you and your identity. I just— It’s just not what I was expecting at all.”

    It was your turn to stare at him. Now you just felt a little silly. “What were you expecting?”

    Steve looked past you to the bag sitting on the other side of you and his expression saddened a bit. He took your hand tightly in his own and squeezed them as he looked at you again. “What were you?”

    “Uh…” you mumbled, avoiding his gaze, “Well, I guess… I don’t know…”

    “[Y/N],” Steve said more sternly, “you don’t have to sugarcoat it. I’m a grown man; I can handle it.”

    “A grown man who was America’s Sweetheart in the ‘40s,” you pointed out. “I had a right to be worried.”

    Steve nodded slowly. “No, of course, you did. I understand. You know I’m okay with it, though, right? I’ve made that clear, right? I’m proud of you and I’m grateful that you told me. Glad that you felt safe enough to tell me, even if you were still worried about it. You know that, right?”

    Kesha’s “Raising Hell” played in the background as you scrubbed your eyes with your sweatshirt sleeves, gave Steve a dumb-feeling nod. Of course, you knew Steve wouldn’t care.

    Steve took you in a tight hug as you tried to shake away the tears burning at the corners of your eyes. He ran a hand over your hair and gently rocked the two of back and forth in true, calming, Worried Eyebrows Rogers fashion. After a bit, when he felt you finally relaxing, he murmured against your hair, “I love you, you know? All of you. Because you’re you.”

    You felt your cheeks warm again and you nodded against his chest. “I love you too.”

    The two of you continued to sit like that for a while until Steve suddenly hummed thoughtfully. He slowly released you and you let him go, he sat back on his hands and chewed the inside of his cheek. 

    You watched him curiously as he glanced around the room, thinking. “What?”

    “You know, I…” Now he trailed off, glanced at you before his gaze darted away again and he chewed his cheek again. “I… Now I know this isn’t my information to share but Buck’s always been pretty uncaring about it, I guess.”

    Your brows furrowed. “Buck? Like, Bucky-Buck? Our Bucky.”

    Steve chuckled. “Yeah, our Bucky.”

    “What about Bucky?”

    Steve hesitated again but eventually continued, “I had almost the exact same conversation with him before he left for the war.”

    Your eyes widened. “Wait— Bucky?”

    Steve nodded slowly again and his gaze finally settled on you again. “Bi too. Coincidence, huh? He was lucky, sort of. Says he always knew. Obviously not super open, given the time, but he was never ashamed of it or anything.” He paused and briefly glanced away again before continuing. “I still don’t know.”

    You blinked. “Don’t know what?”

    Steve just stared at you, cheeks tinting pink as he waited for you to put the pieces together.

    “Wait, you’re queer?”

    Steve shook his head quickly. “Or something. But I don’t like that word. Power to anyone who uses it positively but I was around when it wasn’t.”

    “Right,” you said, still dumbfounded, “Sorry. Yeah, I won’t use it for you then. Hang on; you’re not straight then?”

    Steve chewed his lip and gave you the cutest bashful smile that you’d ever seen on such a large man; you could almost see the scrawny, sickly, pre-serum Steve sitting in front of you.

    “I’m offended,” he softly quipped.

    You stared at him a bit longer. Then you burst into laughter. Steve chuckled along with you, watched you with a growing smile as you fell back onto the bed in a giggling fit. Eventually, you calmed down, wiping tears that you weren’t sure were completely from laughing and staring up at the bedroom ceiling. “My gaydar’s fucked, dude.”

    This time Steve laughed and he collapsed back onto the bed with you. Then he grabbed you, wrapping his arms tightly around your back as he rolled over with you so that you were laying on top of him.

    “Well, like I said,” he said, watching you, “I don’t know.”

    “Well, you kind of know, though,” you replied, “right?”

    Steve tilted his head a bit, then nodded. “Kind of.”

    “So… what?”

    “What?”

    You shrugged and grinned. “I don’t know. What are you into? What do you think you are? Like, I uh… I like girls. And guys. And everything in between and outside.”

    “I thought that was pansexual or something?”

    “For some people it is. For some people, bi is only girls and only guys. I tried pan, omni, a few others, but bi was what I always came back to. Bi just… fits.”

    Steve sighed and stared past you at the ceiling again. “See, I just think there’s too much information. I’m too old. Get confused easily.” 

    You snorted and snickered as he flashed a smile at you. “Some people don’t do any of it, you know. Labels and stuff, I mean. They’re just kinda like ‘I like this and all there it is to it.’ No label, just them and love. Couldn’t be me but it works for other people.”

    Steve nodded again and after a minute said, “I just like people.”

    You smiled at him. “Okay.”

    He looked at you. “I really like you.”

    The smile slowly turned into a grin. “Oh yeah?”

    Steve smiled back and held you tighter against him. “I like you a lot.”

    “Well, well, Mr. Rogers—”

    “Captain,” he grumbled under his breath, “but it’s fine.”

    “Captain Rogers,” you corrected as you slinked up to lean over him. You took his face in your hands and leaned so close that your noses bumped together. “I like you a lot too.”

    Steve leaned in the rest of the way to kiss you and you kissed him back. Despite the teasing, the kiss was soft and sweet, and when he pulled away from you, the way he looked at you full of love was just as sweet.

    “Love you,” he said.

    “I love you too.”

[trulymadlysydney]

Scorpio Season: One

Harry is the ghost that haunts the sorority house, Misty is the only one who can see him, and Scorpio season is far too short.

tw: Death

***Do Not Repost Without Permission***

It had started with a simple knock on her bedroom door.

Misty Garland was sitting and reading on her bed the first time she’d heard it.  It was a windy fall day, the slightest bit of sun poking through the clouds every so often.  Her sorority sisters had thought it was the perfect weather to go day-drink over at the Kappa house.  Misty thought she would rather die.

Her knee-jerk reaction had been to call out a soft “Come in!” to the knocking visitor.  But it wasn’t until after the words left her lips that it hit her-- she was home alone.

It wasn’t something that could be passed off as the creaking of the walls of the old house, or the knocking of a branch against the window.  No, it was a clear, distinct knock, as if someone were trying to get her attention.

Intrigued, she’d set her book down and padded barefoot across the floor.  “Hello?” She’d called out half-heartedly, knowing perfectly well that it was in vain.  Cautiously, she’d turned the gold knob and pushed her squeaking door open, only to be met with an empty hallway.  Just as she’d expected.

It should have worried her.  She should’ve been frightened or at the very least, slightly alarmed.  But she wasn’t.  She wasn’t any of those things.  

If anything, she was intrigued.

A slow smile spread across her face as she stepped out into the hallway.  One half of her brain reminded her that this could very well be one of her sisters who’d chosen to stay home instead of blacking out on Strawberitas and Jungle Juice with creepy guys.  If that were the case, however annoying it would be, she decided she’d laugh it off.  Chalk it up to a harmless, albeit immature prank.  She’d get whoever it was back, in tenfold.

However, that was not the case.

After searching the entire house top to bottom, (even going so far as to enter all of her sister’s rooms uninvited) Misty came to the equally exciting and somewhat disconcerting conclusion that she was, in fact, home alone.

For the rest of the evening, she waited for a second knock that never came.  She spoke, whispered, even shouted into the void, calling upon whatever dark spirit that had seemingly taken up temporary residence in her sorority home.

When only half of her sisters returned home that evening (with the other half apparently electing to stay with their respective boyfriends, girlfriends, fuckbuddies, etc) she’d gone back and forth debating if she should mention it to anyone. Ultimately, however, she’d decided that explaining it was not a good use of her time.  So she’d gone to bed early, hoping to hear another knock.

Another knock never came.

It was about a week later that her attention was caught again.  It wasn’t from a knocking, but from a gentle thud against the cold tile of the kitchen floor.

Misty had been in the kitchen, washing the dishes that had been slowly accumulating in her room for the past few nights of mid study-sesh snacks.  The house was fairly quiet that evening, save for the television in the living room and the chattering of gigging girls in the dining room-- obviously doing more chit-chatting than studying.

She’d been zoned out, lost deep in her thoughts when she’d heard it.  Something in the pantry had fallen.  Assuming it was a clumsy sister, she’d turned around to help clean up-- only to find that no one had been there at all.

There it was, though-- a loaf of bread that had fallen from the top shelf and landed in a spot that, according to physics, it wouldn’t have logically been able to land.

Misty glanced around the kitchen nervously, unsure of whether or not she should even dare touch the bread. She cleared her throat, becoming more and more aware of the lump growing there. She willed her brain to come up with something to say, anything, but all she could force out of her mouth was, “I… who…?”

Honestly, she wasn’t sure what type of response she was expecting, so she wasn’t surprised when she was met with none at all.  Her eyes had darted between the bread and the sink, which she’d left running, as her brain tried with all of its might to explain this situation in a logical manner.  

She held her breath, waiting to see if it would move again while her heart pounded loudly in her ears.  There was no way she could have imagined this, because there it sat, plain as the nose on her face.  With a deep breath and another hurried glance around the room, Misty took a step forward, slower than she’d ever moved in her life.  She craned her neck to see if there was anyone in the pantry (of course there wasn’t) and willed her heart to stop thumping so loudly.  Surely there had to be an explanation for this.  Maybe it was a prank.  Maybe she had left a window open and it was windy outside.

A loud laugh came from the dining room then, nearly startling Misty out of her skin.  She gasped, whirling around only to quickly realize that the sound was no more than a sister, laughing at a joke presented by another sister. Because of course.

Misty sighed, shaking her head at herself and rolling her eyes at how jumpy she was.  For heaven’s sake, it was just a loaf of bread.

She walked to the bread, picking it up to return it to its rightful home in the pantry and allowing herself no further thoughts about the incident.  Whatever it was, there was no logical explanation.  And some things, Misty thought, were just better off that way.  She was comfortable not knowing what had caused the bread to fall.  Maybe she would never know.  And she was okay with that.

Or so she thought.

The final time Misty had heard it had been the most prominent sign, and the one thing that had tipped her over the edge.  It was a night not unlike any other, and Misty was tucked up into bed.  She’d elected to keep the window open while she slept, because the weather that day had been perfect-- not hot, but not too chilly either.  The perfect weather to cuddle up under a blanket. Misty loved it.

So there she was, nightlight on and covers pulled up to her ears. The sheets smelled like the lavender spray she spritzed all over her bed each night, and although it was familiar and comforting, she couldn’t help but notice that tonight smelled slightly different.  The sheets smelled almost spicy, like cinnamon, and although it seemed a bit odd, Misty didn’t spare much more of a thought about it as she yawned most ungracefully.

In the spot between sleep and consciousness, Misty’s ears buzzed.  She could feel herself slipping into fully numbed relaxation, her thoughts coming in and out of focus like waves.  She knew she was about to be pulled completely under and slip into a dream that was already beginning to form in her brain… and then she heard it.

“Misty.”

Loud and clear.

Immediately, her eyes shot open.  As her full consciousness came quickly back to her, she sat up in her bed, eyes scanning the dimly lit room for the source of the voice.  Her blood ran cold as she waited in anticipation to see something-- a shadow, a full figure, anything-- but as she lay there, trying to catch her breath, she couldn’t tell whether she was terrified, relieved, or annoyed to be met with absolutely nothing.

“Is someone there?”

The only sound she was met with was her own breathing, and she let out an exasperated sigh.

“Look, I know you’re here,” she said slowly, absentmindedly fidgeting with the sheets as she waited for a response.  “And I’m… not scared of you.”

It wasn’t really a lie, of course;  she wasn’t scared so much as intrigued. Truthfully, even as a little girl this sort of thing had always fascinated her.  She’d always felt she had a special and strange connection to the other side.  But it had been ages since she’d really tapped into it, and now that she was practically face to face (so to speak) with what she assumed--and hoped-- was a spirit, she was feeling, at the very least, overwhelmed.

“Did you hear me?” She asked, voice a bit louder than before.  “I’m not scared.”  Nothing. “You’ve been messing with me for like, a while now.  And I want you to know I hear you.”  Nothing.   “You don’t have to hide yourself.”

And still, nothing.

Misty sighed. “You know, I think it’s pretty rude of you to not introduce yourself.  You just show up and wake me up when I’m almost asleep and then ignore me?  You throw stuff around, you knock on the walls and the doors and stuff, and for what?  Just so you can get a laugh?”

When she was met once again with the deafening sound of silence, she rolled her eyes.  Misty reached up to rub the sleep out of her eyes with a finger and gave her room one last scan before speaking again.  “I’ll get you to talk,” she says, “one way or another.  Don’t think I won’t.”

Nothing.

“This is a threat.”

Nothing.

Misty shook her head, laying back down in her bed and pulling the covers up to her chin.  It really was a threat.  She had read about ways to contact spirits her entire life, but she’d never actually been brave enough to try any of them.  In fact, in all honesty, the thought of doing it now still scared her a bit.  Nevertheless, this spirit intrigued her.  And as Misty drifted somewhat uneasily into sleep once again, she went over the different ways she was going to try and contact them to know once and for all what it was they had to say.

Which is how Misty finds herself where she is now.

Currently, Misty sits alone in the attic of the old sorority house, setting up for a ritual that she’s never been brave enough to try.  The attic is old and a bit stuffy, and Misty coughs as she crawls along the dusty floor into the center of a circle of unlit candles.  In hindsight, Misty realizes that the ritual doesn’t really need to be performed up here, considering that she does have the entire house to herself this evening.  Still, it seems fitting-- the perfect amount of spooky while still being in a somewhat well- lit and cozy area.

The sky outside is a dark blue,  bright enough for her to be able to see her surroundings just barely; and as she glances around in the darkness, she notices that one of the candles in her circle is slightly out of place.  She reaches forward to adjust the candle, then takes a deep breath in through her nose to steady and ground herself before reaching into her pocket for a small green lighter.

“Alright,” she says, reaching forward to begin lighting the candles one by one.  “It’s just you and me here.  And you will show yourself to me one way or another, alright? Nice and easy.”

As she works her way around the circle, lighting each and every candle, Misty prays that the spirit is a kind one.  Maybe a sister from the very beginning of her sorority’s chapter.  Maybe a lost child trying to find their way to the other side.  Maybe--

“OW, fuck!” Misty yelps when she accidentally burns her finger lighting one of the last candles in the circle.  She sticks the finger in her mouth to wet it, then pulls it out and shakes it violently, trying desperately to ease the pain.

Misty sighs in frustration at the slight inconvenience of her throbbing finger, then finishes lighting the final candle in the circle.  She glances around, pleased with her work, before settling herself in the direct center of the candles, cross legged and as relaxed as she can possibly be.

She tries her hardest to calm her pounding heart. Everything she’d read online about this process had highly recommended getting a professional medium-- one who wasn’t going to get anxious and mess up the process.  Misty, of course, did not have access to that.  So here she is.

Taking another deep, slow breath-- in through her nose and out through her mouth-- Misty allows herself to sit in the stillness for a few beats.  She feels her heart rate slow down, and she takes another breath. Reaching beside her quietly, so as not to disturb the peace that is washing over the room, she picks up one of the stones she’s brought up here for protection.

The small stone feels rough and cold in her hand, and she squints down at it to make sure it’s the stone she wanted.  It’s light purple color tells her that it’s an amethyst, and she focuses intently on it for a few moments before taking another long breath-- in through her nose, out through her mouth.

Misty holds the amethyst in her palm, allowing herself to really observe the feeling of it.  She focuses on the weight of the stone in her hand, and the way the cool, rocky underside feels against her sweaty palm.  She tries to focus on the energy she can feel from the rock, envisioning it surrounded in a glowing white light.  She stays like this for a while, and when she’s certain she can actually feel the warm light that she’s envisioning,  she clears her throat gently and speaks.

“I dedicate this crystal to the highest good of all.  May it be used in light and love.”

Misty lets her words hang in the air for a few moments before repeating them, three more times.  After she’s certain her words have stuck, she slowly brings the stone up to her chest.  She allows herself to pause, to really feel the faint thump of her heart and the jaggedness of the stone against her chest.  She takes in another deep breath and closes her eyes.

“I program this crystal for clarity.  For heightened intuition, for protection from evil.  I program this crystal for open communication, and unclouded thoughts. I program this crystal for calmness.”  With one last breath, she speaks her final words-- a repeat of an earlier sentence.  “May it be used in light and love.”

Misty lowers the crystal then, placing it in front of her in a spot where she can always see it out of the corner of her eye.  Programming the crystal did help to ease her nerves, yes, but not entirely.  Seeing it sitting in front of her in her little circle of candles does wonders, however, to remind her to stay calm, stay focused, and stay present.

So, shit, she thinks, she’s done everything she can at this point.  Now it’s time for her to act.

Shot in the dark, she opens her mouth.

“If there is someone in here with me tonight,” she begins slowly, eyeing the room, “will you please show yourself?”

When she is met with silence, she sighs.  “It’s just me here,” she says softly.  “Just me. We have the whole house to ourselves.  I just want to know who you are.  If there’s something I can help you with.”

Misty pauses, and goes to open her mouth to speak again when she sees it.  The gentle flutter of only one of the flames.  If she’d have blinked, she would’ve missed it-- but there it is.  A little wiggle of the flame that deviates from the gentle flicker of the others.  Misty smiles, and lets out a little surprised breath.

“Was that you?” she asks, then pauses.  She doesn’t even realize she’s holding her breath as she watches the flame intently, and when it flickers abnormally again she lets out a pleased laugh.  

“I see,” she says, unable to hide the smile on her face and the pounding of her heart.  “That was easier than i thought it was going to be.  Are you the spirit that’s been messing with me?”

There’s a brief pause, and then the candle flickers again.  Misty can hardly believe her eyes.  “I knew it,” she says, more to herself than to the spirit. She scrambles to think of the next question she’s going to ask, because she wants to hold the spirit’s attention as long as she possibly can.

“Can you do something else to show me you’re here? Maybe like… move two flames instead of just the one?”

There are a few moments of silence, and Misty almost worries that she’s asked too much of the spirit.  She’s about to say a few words of encouragement, to remind the spirit that it’s only her and them in this room, when she sees it.

Every single flame flickers chaotically, in all different directions.  Misty can hardly believe her eyes.

“Oh my god,” she breathes.  “Holy shit.”

Misty swallows thickly as she ponders what exactly is happening.  “Okay,” she says slowly.  “Can I ask you a few questions?”  

There is no response, but Misty thinks nothing of it.  “Who are you?” she asks, then immediately rolls her eyes at herself.  How is she expecting the spirit to identify themselves to her?

“Okay, don’t answer that,” she quickly adds.  “Umm… how can I ask this?”

There’s a creak in the floor, as if someone were stepping closer to her, and it makes the hair on her arms stand up. She licks her lips as she tries to keep herself calm.

“Okay… um… are you a ghost? One flame for yes, two for no.”

She feels stupid for asking that, but she isn’t really sure how else to ask.  She stares at the candles almost a little too intently, and scoffs when one of the flames flickers.

“Should’ve figured that,” she mutters, “sorry.”

Misty notices that one of the candles is slightly out of place, and she reaches forward to adjust it.  Just as she does, however, she is overcome with the sense of feeling insanely cold. She gasps, retracting her hand quickly, and the air in the room becomes tense.

She clears her throat as she processes what she just felt.  “Was that you?”

There is no response, but the thickness of the air does resolve a bit.  Misty settles appprehensively back down into her comfortable position before changing the subject.

“How long have you been dead?”  she tries.

There’s a brief moment, and she considers rewording her question, when she notices that four different flames flicker in succession, one right after the other.  “I see…” she says,  “So four years then?”

There is no response, and Misty thinks about their answer.  “That’s not very long,” she says, frowning.  “This must be a pretty fresh death, no?  I’m sorry.”

One of the flames wiggles, almost sympathetically, and it makes Misty giggle.  In all honesty, she’s feeling completely comfortable with this spirit.

“Look,” she says, relaxing her posture a bit.  “I wish I was better at this.  Truth be told, I’ve never really…. talked to a ghost before? So like, I hope I’m doing this right.  I wish I had a better communication system though.”

The flame that wiggled gently before suddenly begins to shake with more vigor, burning brighter and somewhat bigger than it had before.  This catches Misty’s attention.

“Do you have something you’d like to say?” She asks, and the flame grows slightly larger.

“You’re free to say it,” she says, moving to tuck her knees under her butt.  “Like I said, it’s just you and me in here.”  She watches the flame dance, enthralled and fascinated by its movement.

“Why me?” she asks, and another flame begins wiggling violently as well.  “I mean… why have you contacted me?  Surely you have something to say.”

A third flame begins shaking, and Misty is growing a bit anxious.  “I know you have a voice,” she says, her own voice a bit louder now.  “I’ve heard it.  You woke me up the other night.”

Misty’s eyes dart from one flame to the next, willing herself not to panic at the way the flames seem rather large.  Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the reflection of the flames on the glassy edges of her amethyst, and she thinks perhaps she should reach for it to remind her to stay grounded, stay calm, stay focused.

Just as she raises her hand to reach for it, however, a fourth flame grows larger in size.

“What are you trying to tell me?” she asks, growing a bit frustrated.  “I don’t know how else to help you other than--”

Misty is cut off when she sees the amethyst move, ever so slightly.  She freezes in her tracks.

She wants to pass that off as a trick of the lights, but there’s no way she can.  She saw it move, plain and simple.  Not to mention she’d heard the soft scratching of the stone moving against the wooden floor.

When Misty looks up, almost all of the candles are flickering aggressively.  She gasps, completely panicked now.

“Show yourself!” she blurts out.  “I know you’re here, I know you have something to say!”

She watches the flames intensify, and she almost considers abandoning this entire mission and blowing them all out right here.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks.  “Just… say something!”

In somewhat of a trance by the way the candle lights flicker, Misty feels her heart rate increase as she stays stuck, frozen against the wooden floor.  That same smell of cinnamon as before fills her nose, and she swallows thickly around a dry throat.  “I--” she nearly chokes on her words.  “Why are you trying to scare me?” she shouts.  “I said, say something!”

Still nothing.  Now she’s growing increasingly more impatient.

And then it happens.

With a sudden gust of air Misty is shoved, and all of the air in her lungs is let out with a forceful grunt.  The candles are extinguished all at once, and the room instantly grows a stuffy sort of dark.  The moon shining brightly in the window somehow fills Misty’s stomach with anxiety and dread, not relief.  She swallows thickly, taking a few moments to gather her wits and straining her eyes against the thick blackness surrounding her.

The stillness of the room is alarming, and Misty’s heart pounds aggressively against her rib cage.  It isn’t until her lungs start burning that she realizes she’s been holding her breath for fear of breaking the silence, and she lets it out slowly and cautiously.  

With a shaky hand she reaches forward until she feels her lighter once again, and she flicks it on. She can hardly see in the dimly lit room, but her eyes begin to adjust, and she glances around herself nervously.  “Who are you?”

“It’s about time, sunshine.”

The voice comes from behind her and startles her so much that she jumps, flinging the lighter halfway across the floor and bathing the room in darkness once again.  Shit.

“Ohh,” coos the voice, deep but unthreatening.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.  Here.”

Misty feels a brush of cold air that causes the hairs on her arms to stand up before, one by one, each candle in the room flickers alive once again.  Her jaw trembles as she tries to find the source of the voice in the now illuminated room.

“I thought you weren’t scared,” the voice says again, now coming from a different direction.

“I wasn’t,” she says, then swallows around the dryness of her throat.  “I’m not.”   It’s a complete lie, but she doesn’t want to let her guard down now.

The voice is raspy and deep, but friendly, and a thick, honey drip of a british accent coats the noise sweetly.  “That’s a lie,” it says, and it sounds like a man.  A pouty man at that.  “You weren’t so afraid of me before.  Now you’re shaking.”

“You just startled me, that’s all.  Where are you?”

“Well, I’m not going to show you if you’re going to be scared.”

Somehow, his words aren’t comforting.  Still, Misty isn’t a quitter.  “What is there to be scared of?  Are you a ghost?”

“I am.”

She smirks.  “Are you an ugly ghost?”

This time, he scoffs. “Hardly.”

“Well!” Misty says.  “Someone’s full of himself, isn’t he?”

“I’m not!” he insists, and he sounds closer now.   “It’s just that you spoke a big game before. Now I’m not so sure you’re ready for this after all.”

Misty sighs, growing increasingly more irritated by the second.  “If I wasn’t ready for this, I wouldn’t have summoned you.  I thought you were intriguing before.  Now you’re just annoying.”  She moves like she’s going to stand, and suddenly feels another gust of cold air on her arm.

“Wait!”  He sounds as though he’s right in front of her now, and she’s overwhelmed by his cinnamon scent.  “I’m not trying to be annoying.  I just… want to make sure you’re ready for this.”

“I told you I am,” Misty huffs.  She gestures vaguely around the room.  “Your words are scaring me more than any of this did.  Why wouldn’t I be ready to see you?”

“I don’t know,” he says softly.  “Just… sometimes people don’t know how to respond when they see their first manifestation.”

“I’ve seen a ghost before, dude.”

Now, it’s his turn to sound intrigued.  “Have you?”

“M-hm.  I’ve always been able to sense these kinds of things.”

“But have you seen one?”

“Shadows mostly.  Or I heard voices.”

“But a physical manifestation--”

“You don’t count shadows?”

“Of course I do.”  There’s a noise, and it sounds as if the spirit has just sat down.  “But I’m not a shadow.”

“What are you then?”

“I’m a different type of ghost. Did you know there are several types?”

Misty leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees.  “I mean yeah, of course, but I had always just assumed you all showed yourselves as shadows.”

“Not all of us.  I mean, we can-- but it isn’t natural for me.  I’m not sure we’ve got an actual name for me, but there are many out there like me. We’re a certain type of intelligent ghost that can physically interact with the linear time and space around us.  Usually we’re harmless.”

“Are you harmless?”

Once again, she can practically hear the spirit’s smile.  “Usually.”

“So… when I see you, you’ll look like, what, just a regular dude?”

“Yeah, more or less.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.  Why are you hyping this up so much?”

“I don’t know! It’s been a long time since I’ve manifested in front of someone!”

“Ah.” Misty grins.  “So you’re the one who isn’t ready.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“It’s why you’ve been stalling for so long. You wanted my attention so badly, and now you’ve got it.  So show yourself.”

“Fine,” he huffs.  “There’s no need to be pushy.”

Silence follows his words, and Misty stares blankly ahead-- waiting for something to happen.  She shakes her head slowly and shrugs.  “I don’t…. Get it....”

“Turn around.”  

Once again, Misty jumps out of pure surprise when the spirit’s voice comes from behind her.  She whirls around almost too quickly, nearly losing her balance despite being seated.  The minute she sees him standing calmly behind her, she rises.

She takes a moment to really just look at him.  She’s not sure what exactly she’d been expecting; maybe a glowing transparent blob of a young man from the early 1900s, or, worst case scenario, a perfectly normal looking guy who just happened to have a very visible axe lodged into his brain (or some other indication of his death)-- but in any case, he doesn’t look like anything she’d been anticipating.  He looks like any other guy she’d see walking around on campus, and if it weren’t for the hardly visible glow outlining his body, she’d assume this was a new Kappa pledge pulling a prank on her as part of his hazing.

He’s got shaggy brown hair that hangs from his head in curls that frame his face and his ears.  His eyes are blue-- or are they green?  Misty isn’t close enough to be able to tell, and truthfully she’s still a bit apprehensive about befriending a dead guy, so she stays put.  Whatever color they are though, they’re beautiful.  He’s not floating-- she doesn’t know why she’d been expecting him to-- but standing flat on his feet he’s still taller than her.  He’s one of the prettiest people she’s ever seen, and it makes her feel faint (although she blames that on the fact that she’s face to face with someone who’s died).

“I’m Harry,” he says slowly.  He’s calm, but he’s unsure.  He watches her as if waiting for some type of earth-shattering reaction.  The less she moves, the more nervous he becomes.  When she doesn’t say anything, he speaks again.  “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

For someone who isn’t alive-- Misty can’t seem to get over that fact-- he dresses remarkably well.   He honestly does look like a Kappa brother, and it weirds her out.

“How did you do that?” She frowns at herself.  That was the first thing she could think to say?

Harry laughs, relieved that she’s seemingly so calm. He shrugs.  “Dunno.  Just something I can do.”  He takes a step towards her and, instinctively, Misty takes half a step back.

This time, Harry smirks, but he doesn’t move closer.  “Are you still scared?”

“I was never scared!” Misty groans.

“Just startled then.”  There’s a twinkle in his eyes, and now Misty can see that they’re clearly green.

Misty rolls her eyes.  It’s impossible to stay annoyed at him when he’s looking at her like this.  “Fine!” she sighs.  “I’m a little scared.”

“Ha!”  Harry beams jubilantly.  The smile fades just as quickly as it came, however, and he frowns.  “Why are you still scared?”

“I don’t know! I’ve just never done this before.”

The bright smile returns to his face, softer this time, and Misty-- though still apprehensive-- relaxes a bit.  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says gently.  

“I didn’t think you were,” Misty replies.  “But I also don’t know why you wanted my attention so badly.”

Harry shrugs.  “Because.  I think you’re pretty.”

It’s so straightforward that Misty is taken aback, and she scoffs.  “What, seriously?”

“Yeah.”  Harry blinks back at her, standing by his words completely and keeping that air of smugness about him.

Misty waits for a further explanation, but when Harry only stares back at her and raises his eyebrows, she realizes that she isn’t getting one.  She laughs in disbelief.  “So you went through all this trouble…. Just to tell me I’m pretty?”

“Suppose so.”  Harry’s head cocks a bit to the left, and it’s the first time that Misty notices the endearing little dimple on his cheek.  She doesn’t know why he flusters her so badly, but she feels her cheeks heating up when she realizes that yes, he’s telling the truth.  He really did just want to tell her she was pretty.

Misty’s hand comes up to comb through her hair and she swallows thickly. “Oh.  Well.  Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward, but it’s tense.  The air is thick with tension, in fact, and Misty wonders if it’s possible to flirt with a ghost.

Harry clears his throat.  “Anyway. If you want me to leave you alone--”

“No!” Misty responds, almost too quickly.  “I don’t.  Not at all.”

“You don’t?”  Harry beams back at her, and Misty realizes that he really is just as nervous as she is.

“I don’t,” she replies.  “But, I mean-- are you just gonna live here from now on?  In the attic?”

Harry laughs, a tinkling noise that sends butterflies straight to the pit of Misty’s belly. “I live in this house one way or another.  Have for several years.  It’s just that I can only show myself at a certain time of year.”

“But why is that?”

“You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?”  Harry laughs, taking another cautious step towards Misty.  When she doesn’t retreat, he relaxes and fully closes the gap between them.   Once again, the smell of cinnamon fills Misty’s nose.  Slowly and decidedly, Harry reaches forward to touch her arm and the instant his hand comes in contact with her skin, she is flooded with goosebumps.

His skin is cold, but not as cold as she was expecting. Although honestly, she wasn’t expecting to be able to make tangible contact with him at all.  But she can feel it so clearly-- five fingertips trailing comfortingly along the skin of her arm with the gentleness and intention of a lover.  Five perfectly groomed fingernails that show no indication of death.  Standing this close to him, she can make out the details of his face; a little scar on his neck, a small freckle on his lip, soft smile lines around his eyes.  Misty shivers-- partly because of the coldness of his touch, but mostly because it’s been ages since she’s stood this close to someone so beautiful.

His fingers trail down to her hand, and then more specifically, the one finger she burned.  She’s almost in a trance as he brushes his cold fingers against the stinging patch of skin, and in an instant any pain she felt in the throbbing finger is now gone.

Misty glances from her finger, then back to Harry, who’s smiling the most tender smile she’s ever seen.  “How…?” She begins slowly.

Harry lets out a sigh, and Misty realizes they’ve just been staring at one another.  “Don’t worry about it, sunshine.”

Misty practically melts into his touch, and she isn’t sure if he’s got a spell on her or what, but she has the overwhelming urge to kiss him now.  She swallows, then opens her mouth to speak before Harry cuts her off.  “Your sisters are home.”

“What?”

She doesn’t have time for answers, however, when through the attic window she sees the blue mini cooper of one of her sorority sisters pull up to the curb.  She watches the car for a moment.  “How did you--”

But when she turns to finish her question, Harry is gone.

------

The following day, Misty finds herself bundled up and sitting in her favorite spot on campus, despite the chill in the air.  She’s sitting on the cold grass against a large rock, overlooking a tiny stream that runs throughout the entire small town. She knows it won’t be long before the stream freezes over, so, despite the cold weather, she’s brought herself here to read and listen to the babbling water while she still can.

Harry hadn’t showed up for the rest of the night last night, which had led Misty to wonder if she’d dreamt the entire thing.  It had kept her up most of  the night, and when he still hadn’t appeared this morning, she knew she had to do something to get her mind off of him.  

Which is how she’s found herself here now.  Most of her homework for the week is done, so she’s decided to spoil herself by grabbing her favorite coffee at the shop she frequents and a new book at the library before heading to her spot.

It’s a brisk October day, and the Halloween decorations hanging from the campus houses flutter in the chilly wind. Misty wraps her scarf a little tighter around her neck and snuggles further into her coat as she turns the page of her book.

“There you are.”

Misty jumps, nearly spilling her coffee, when she hears it.  The thick, British drawl she’s been so desperately craving to hear all morning comes from behind her, and she whirls around to see Harry, in the exact same outfit he’d been in last night, smirking at her.

“Stop doing that!” she hisses.  Despite her grumpy tone, she scoots over when Harry makes his way to sit beside her.  She feels immediately comforted when she smells the cinnamon that comes with his presence.

Harry chuckles, plopping into the grass. “Sorry.  Didn’t mean to.”

“It’s about time you showed up,” Misty huffs, putting her finger between the pages of her book to mark her place.

The smirk on Harry’s face is so smug that Misty wants to slap it off of him.  “You’ve been expecting me?”

This throws Misty off guard, and her cheeks go hot.  “Well, yeah,” she says, trying to maintain her attitude. “I mean, don’t you think you owe me an explanation?”

Harry laughs.  “No, I don’t.”

“Seriously?”  Misty rolls her eyes.  “You’re the most annoying person I’ve ever met.”

“Not a person,” Harry states.  “I’m a ghost.”

“Well whatever you are, you’re annoying.”  

“Thank you.”  Harry nods towards the book in her hands.  “What are you reading?”

Misty doesn’t answer him, suddenly far more self-conscious than she’d been before.  He reaches out to take the book and pulls it closer to himself to read the title aloud.

“‘When Ghosts Speak: Understanding the World of Earthbound Spirits.’”  He snorts.  “Seriously?”

“Well if you won’t tell me anything, I have to figure it out myself.”

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know!” Harry says, relaxing against the rock and stretching his feet out in front of him.  “Fire away.”

Misty eyes him for a moment.  “You’re not kidding?”

“I’m an open book.”

She takes his sudden burst of confident vulnerability and considers the questions she wants to ask.  There had been so many in her head since he’d disappeared last night, but now that she’s on the spot, she’s blanking.

Misty clears her throat.  “Alright.  I’ll start off easy.  How are you here?”

Harry smiles.  “I can go anywhere I want to.  Just like you.”

“Can anyone else see you?”

“If I wanted them to.  But I don’t.”

Misty looks around, suddenly nervous that anyone nearby might hear her speaking and think she’s talking to herself.  Luckily, she seems to be the only person crazy enough to willingly subject herself to this weather.  So she turns back to Harry.

“So then why did you wait for me to summon you?  Why didn’t you just show yourself?”

“That’s where it gets tricky,” Harry responds. “I can only manifest during a certain time period every year.  But in order to manifest at all, I have to be invited first.  After I accept the invitation, I’m free to come and go as I please until the end of the season.”

“So you’re going to be a pest for this entire fall then?”  Despite her words, Misty smirks.

Harry matches her wit and chuckles.  “No, not that kind of season.  Scorpio season.”

“Oh god,” Misty groans.  “You’re an astrology freak, aren’t you?”

Harry snorts.  “Look, I didn’t make the rules.  That’s just the way it is.  When Scorpio season starts, I can show myself.  When it ends, I leave.”

“Where do you go?  When it ends, I mean.”

Harry shrugs.  “I dunno.  Nowhere bad.  It’s just kinda… nothing.  I can’t explain it.”

“Is it scary?”

Harry considers her words, then shakes his head.  “I… really can’t explain it. It’s not scary.  It goes by fast.  I just kind of… sleep, I guess.  Nothingness.” A sudden thought dawns on him, like he’s remembering something.  “But! I can pop into people’s dreams while I’m there.”

“You can?”

“Yup.  I don’t do it too often, just because it takes a lot of my energy, but I’ve seen some pretty interesting things, I’ll tell you that.”

Misty doesn’t say anything, and Harry lets her sit in silence while she processes his words. He knows it’s a lot, and he knows he would be weirded out if he were in her shoes.  So he watches her, trying to gauge her reaction.

Finally, she turns to him.  She doesn’t look nervous, but something is on her mind. “Can I ask you something… a little more personal?”

“Anything.”

“Okay.”  Misty takes a deep breath, focusing her attention on the birds hopping around nearby.  “How did you… die?”

“How did I die?”  Harry repeats her question, then blows out all of his air in a puff.  “It’s not anything exciting.”

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,  I just--”

“No, no!” Harry holds up his hand.  “I don’t mind.  It’s just… anticlimactic I suppose. And you’re probably going to laugh.”

Misty leans closer, a serious look spreading across her face.  “I wouldn’t dare laugh about someone’s death.”

“No, you will,” Harry says, smiling to himself.  “It’s kinda funny.”  He takes a deep breath, preparing to tell the story.  “I fell off the roof of your house.”

Harry laughs, but Misty doesn’t find it funny at all.  “That’s horrible, Harry.  How did you--”

“While having sex.”

Misty stops her sentence dead in its tracks, and a new look of pure surprise blossoms on her face.  “You…”

Harry sighs, launching into the story.  “A few years ago, your sorority was throwing a Halloween party.  I wasn’t into Greek life but a few of my mates dragged me along.  I was already pretty drunk by the time we got there, right, so all bets were off.  Well, I met this girl, right?  Never even learned her bloody name, but I guess she was a sister.  Made eyes at me from across the room and it was over.  Drank some more, chatted her up, and then we decided ‘hey, might as well.’  Only, all of the bedrooms were taken.  So then, she had the brilliant idea to go up on the roof.  It was raining so, you know, in hindsight we should’ve known better.  But we were drunk and horny and stupid. So we went up, started going at it, slipped, and uh… splat.  So to speak.”

Misty doesn’t know how to respond, and Harry doesn’t expect her to.  He just chuckles.  “Found me with my pants around my bloody ankles,” he continues. “ Not a very dignified way to go is it?”

“That’s awful.”  Misty frowns.

“Eh.  What can you do? Apparently the girl lived but she felt so guilty that she dropped out of school and moved away.  I guess no one’s heard from her since.”

“You don’t think she did it on purpose, do you?”

“Oh, nah.  No way.  It was an accident.”

“I’m sorry to make you talk about it.”

“I don’t mind talking about it,” Harry replies.  “All I can do is laugh about it at this point.”

“Well,” Misty says, shifting her position against the rock.  “I still don’t think it’s funny.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Can I ask you something else?” she asks, changing the subject.

“Mm?”

“Why me?  Like, what was it about me that made you decide ‘Ah, yeah, she’s the one I’m gonna haunt?’”

Harry smiles, crossing his foot over his opposite leg and resting his ankle to his knee.  He gives her question a moment of thought before responding.  “Told you.  Think you’re pretty.”

Misty rolls her eyes but the smile that forms on her lips is undeniable. “That’s seriously it?”

“I mean,” Harry says slowly, absentmindedly shaking his foot back and forth.  “Yeah.  Been stuck at that house for the past, what, four Scorpio seasons now?  You’re the first girl I’ve seen who’s caught my attention.”

“Ew, so you like, spy on us?”

Harry snorts.  “No, god, I’m not a perv.  But, you know, I live there, too, so.  Sometimes I’ll join in for movie night.  Or game night.  I also pop in to the occasional party.  But I don’t spy.”

“Good,” Misty says.  “Although I don’t even think you’d find anything juicy anyway.  They’re a bunch of duds.”

“Can I ask you something now?”  Harry’s got an intrigued smile on his face.

“Yeah.”

“Why did you join a sorority?  You seem to hate everything about it.”

Misty sighs.  “I don’t hate it,” she says slowly. “I mean, it definitely wouldn’t have been my first choice for like, extra-curricular activities.”

“So why then?”

“I’m a legacy,” she replies.  “My mom and my grandma were both Beta Sigmas. They would’ve killed me if I didn’t.”

“Is it really that serious to them?”

Misty smirks.  “For someone who lives in a sorority house, you sure know nothing about sorority girls.”

Harry’s laugh is sudden and it makes Misty’s heart warm despite the coldness of his presence.  “It would appear so.  Jeez.”

The two fall silent for the next few moments, residual giggles dying off into happy sighs.  It’s obvious that they both enjoy one another’s company, and Misty is ridiculously glad that he’s come back to check up on her today.

After about a minute of silence, however, another question pops into her head.  “So.  You’re a Scorpio then?”  

Harry laughs, shaking his head. “I’m not, no.  Or, I wasn’t, when I was alive.”

“Why Scorpio season then?”

“Because it coincides with spooky season, I guess. Or maybe because I died at a Halloween party?  I don’t know.  I didn’t make it up.”

“What are you then?  What’s your sign or whatever?”

Harry smirks.  “Guess.”

“Taurus.”

He shakes his head.  “Guess again.”

“Leo.”

Harry makes a face now.  “No.  God, a Leo?  Who do you think I am?”

Misty giggles. “I don’t know! I don’t know shit about astrology!”

“Obviously.”  Harry snorts.  “I’m an Aquarius.”

“Is that good?”

“It’s the best.”

“Great.”

Harry giggles, letting the conversation naturally fizzle out before starting his next sentence.  “Misty?”

It’s the first time she’s heard him say her name to her face, not just in her ear late at night while she’s trying to sleep, and it fills her with butterflies yet again.  “Hm?”

“I’m glad you’re not, like, scared of me.  Really glad.”

Misty giggles.  “I am, too, honestly.”

“Even though you were scared in the beginning.”

Misty’s smile turns into a scowl, but there is still a playfulness in her eyes and in her tone that makes Harry laugh.  “I wasn’t. I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”  Harry scoots the tiniest bit closer to Misty and nods at her book.  “So.  Tell me what’s going on in your book.”

-----

Harry just might be the most annoying person-- or rather, entity-- that Misty has ever come across in her entire life.

And she can’t get enough of him.

They’d spent a good portion of their days together throughout the past week, with Harry lingering around longer and longer each day.  Misty didn’t mind, of course, and she welcomed his company.  By the fourth day of spending time together, they were chatting as if they were the best of friends.  Misty had learned about Harry’s life prior to coming to this school, about his mom and his sister and how he checked in on them via their dreams whenever he could. She learned about what he’d been studying prior to his death, and what he wanted to do with that degree.  And Harry answered each and every one of her questions with patience (and usually a snarky remark), which Misty loved.

In turn, Harry had learned much of the same information about Misty’s life, and he found her fascinating.  He asked her just as many questions as she asked him, and whenever she called for him, he showed up.  He loved it every time.

He’d manifested in the kitchen this morning as she was pouring herself a cup of coffee, and he’d followed her around like a child while she tried to find something decent for breakfast.  She hadn’t acknowledged him much, for fear of any of the other girls noticing, but she did manage to sneak him a few sleepy grins that he found himself melting for every time.

He’d then followed her up to her room, where he chatted with her while she crunched away at a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios.  They’d discussed her plans for the day and he’d asked her if he could stay with her (although truth be told, he didn’t really have to ask; he knew she’d say yes anyway).

It hadn’t been a very busy day by any means.  Misty had had a few errands to run (which Harry had found unbelievably boring and dipped out of, promising her he’d be waiting for her at home).  Presently, Misty finds herself sitting on her bed, laptop resting comfortably on her thighs, while she types away at a book report that she has due at midnight.

Harry had offered her his help, which she’d taken him up on, but Misty soon came to find out that the word ‘help’ in his case was used very loosely.  Harry had elected instead to continuously chat and distract Misty, and each distraction was met with a protest from her… as well as her deepest insight on whatever topic Harry had decided to bring up.  Truth be told, Misty welcomed the distraction.  She loved picking his brain, and he hers.

Currently, Misty types away mindlessly, while Harry sits quietly at the foot of her bed flipping through one of Misty’s old yearbooks.  Every now and again he’ll marvel at something in the yearbook, or he’ll tease Misty about her braces or tell her she looked cute during spirit week.  “‘Nerd Day�� huh?  Suits you.”  

After Harry has been particularly quiet for a while, however, Misty starts to get suspicious.  

She glances up from her work to find Harry staring at her, a mischievous grin that she hates to love tugging at his cheeks.  

“What?” she says, subconsciously squirming under his gaze.

He only blinks, hardly bothering to look away or wipe the smirk from his face.  “Sorry.  Just thinking.”

“About?”

“Don’t know if I should say…”

This makes Misty’s cheeks grow hot, though she tries her hardest to cover it up.  “Harry don’t be an idiot.”

Harry chuckles, using his finger to mark the page of Misty’s yearbook that he’s currently on.  “It’s nothing bad,” he says casually.  “It’s fine.”

“Then stop staring at me,” Misty says with a smile.  “Creep.  If you have something to say then say it.”

Harry grins, reaching down to wiggle his fingers against the underside of her foot.  “I do, actually.  I have an idea.”

Misty lowers her laptop screen just a tad so she can see him better before speaking.  “What kind of idea?”  

The smile on her face and the narrowing of her eyes tells Harry that she’s in before she even knows his idea, and he has to contain his giggles as he speaks.

“You wanna play a prank on your sisters?”  He asks.  “Just to spook them a bit.  ‘Tis the season and all that.”

“What kind of a prank?”  Misty sits up, leaning closer to Harry and lowering her voice excitedly.

“I don’t know,” Harry says, “maybe like… I could throw some stuff around.  Make a few noises.  Pretend to possess you.”

Immediately, Misty is intrigued.  She gently tosses the laptop to the side and beams.  “Shit, you think we should?”

“I do,” Harry says, a twinkle already forming in his eye.  “Obviously we’ll have to work out the details, but yeah.  Something like that.”

“Pretend to possess me,” Misty says, “do it.”

Harry raises his eyebrows.  “Someone’s a bit eager, aren’t they?”

Misty rolls her eyes, but the embarrassed little smirk on her lips doesn’t go unnoticed by Harry.  “Not like that,” she says, then tacks on a mumbled and affectionate “stupid.”

“Not like what?”  Harry wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, purposely making Misty squirm.  She laughs and tosses a pillow at his face.

“Nevermind,” she says through a grin, “I don’t even want to do this anymore.”

“Liar,” Harry says.

“Brat,” Misty replies.

Harry’s eyes twinkle.  “I take it that you’re in, then.”

“I guess,” Misty says. “Don’t look so smug.”

“You’re cute when you’re annoyed with me,” Harry says casually, and it takes Misty a moment to even register what he’s said.

Misty feels the heat rising in her cheeks at his words, and as flustered as he’s made her, she bounces back quickly.  “I must be adorable all the time then.”

Harry shrugs.  “You said it, not me.”

“Anyway,” Misty says, desperately trying to change the subject to cover up how giddy he’s making her,  “what did you actually have in mind?”

Harry smirks.  “How good are your acting skills?”

---

Coincidentally, tonight is movie night among a few of the girls and their boyfriends. Which,  Misty and Harry had quickly realized, was the perfect setting to execute their plan.

It’s 8:30pm, and Misty is sitting on the couch under a blanket, snuggled between a few other sisters.  There are sisters scattered around the entire living room, some cuddled up with their respective partners and some without. Everyone has alcohol of some sort; Misty herself is about a glass and a half of wine in, and she’s actively trying to ignore the thoughts about how badly she wishes Harry were sitting beside her on the couch.

Especially since she’s the only one who can see him right now, sitting so casually in the corner of the room, eyes glued to the screen like everyone else’s, and looking so, so handsome.

If Misty didn’t know any better she would think he was just another one of the guys, and for a moment she allows herself to indulge in the make-believe world in which Harry is her boyfriend who has come over to join the girls for movie night.  In her mind, he’s just gotten up to get Misty a bottle of water, but got so interested in the film that he ended up just sitting down to finish the scene.

It’s selfish, Misty knows.  But seeing him like this, so casually cute, makes her heart hurt.  Obviously she’s got things way easier than Harry, considering she is the only one between them with a beating heart.  But she has to wonder if it gets lonely in his world.  He can only visit his loved ones through dreams.  He can only show himself for a month out of the year.  Even now, he sits alone in the corner of the room, far from everyone else.

He had joked about it earlier, saying the reason he sat so far away from everyone was because the spot he was in gave him the best seat of the house every time.  However, a few moments later he’d admitted that the actual reason was because he didn’t want to make anyone cold and ruin the fun.  He’d given her a soft smile and brushed that statement off with yet another joke, but it had broken Misty’s heart.

As if sensing her thoughts, Harry turns just in time to catch Misty staring at him, and he grins immediately.  

“Stop staring at me, creep.” He winks at her.

For a full five seconds, Misty is terrified that Harry’s just blown his own cover.  She tenses up, glancing around the room in shock just waiting for someone to say something about hearing a voice.  When she realizes, with confusion, that not a single person has moved, Harry speaks again.

“Don’t worry, they can’t hear me.  Only you.”

Misty glances back at Harry, wanting to say something back but knowing she can’t, and he grins.  “God, I bet it’s killing you, not being able to talk back to me.  I could have some fun with this.”

When Misty shoots a subtle glare in Harry’s direction, he gasps.  “If looks could kill,” he says, shaking his head.

Misty wants to laugh and throw something at him and fight back but she knows she can’t, and he’s right, it is killing her.   She cracks her neck gently from side to side, in an attempt to relax herself, and Harry laughs.

“Alright, I’ll have mercy.  Are you ready to get started?  Or are you super into the movie?”

Misty’s face goes into a completely deadpan expression as she glances at Harry, as if to say “really?”  How on earth is she supposed to answer that?

“Oh,” Harry chuckles.  “Uh, blink once if you want me to start.”

Misty blinks as subtly as she can while still trying to make her answer clear to Harry.  He beams.

“Blink once if you think I’m hot.”

This time, Misty can’t control herself.  She lets out an exasperated sigh that does, unfortunately, catch the attention of a few of her friends.

“You good?”  The girl sitting beside her on the couch-- Kennedy-- laughs.  

Before Misty even has time to respond, however, Harry swoops in and saves the day. He knocks hard, twice, on the wooden floor, and every head in the room turns.

There is an intense shift of energy once everyone realizes that there is nothing that could have possibly made that noise.  

“Uhhh…???”  Another sister, Rosie, speaks up, curling even further into her boyfriend.

“What the fuck was that dude?”  Greg, one of the most unbearably fratty boys Misty has ever known, sits up.

And there sits Harry, smirking in the corner, obviously pleased with his work.

Misty realizes quickly that she can’t blow her own cover, so her face changes to one of apprehension and terror, mirroring everyone else’s.  “Uhh… everyone heard that, right?”

“That was like, distinct!” Rosie says.  “Like two deliberate knocks.”

All at once everyone starts talking over one another.

“What the fuck, dude--”

“Was it over in that corner?”

“Go check it out--”

“No you go check it out!”

“Was it one knock or two?”

“You guys, what the fuck was that?’

Misty glances at Harry, who is staring back at her expectantly, as if to ask if it’s okay if he makes the next move.  Misty gives him a subtle nod, and Harry rises to his feet.  

He walks gently along the wooden floor, making sure to get as close as possible to the people sitting scattered along it.  He wants them to feel his presence, and each person has a different reaction.  

It’s Luca, Rosie’s boyfriend, who says something first.  “Wait, I’m not even kidding you, I’m cold as shit right now.”

Harry grins down at Luca, shooting Misty a wink.  “Uh ohhhh,” Harry says softly. He reaches down to lightly tickle his fingers against the back of Luca’s neck, and Luca instantly shoots up onto his feet.

“Swear to GOD dude, something just fucking touched me!”

Rosie shoots to her feet as well, taking a step away from Luca.  “Luca you better not be fucking around--”

“Why would I fuck around about that shit?” he asks, voice raising.

“Guys there has to be a logical explanation for this.”  Kennedy speaks up, reaching for her drink on the table.  “Like, it’s getting colder outside.  Maybe there was a draft.”

Rosie sniffs the air a few times, then swallows.  Misty has never seen anyone look so worried before in her life, and it makes her want to laugh.  “Guys, I smell cinnamon.”

“Oops,” Harry says, turning to Misty.  “Might’ve gotten a bit too close there.”

In an instant, Harry is out of Misty’s sight.  But he manifests again in the back corner of the room and steps on a particularly creaky floor board, causing everyone’s heads to turn.

Harry observes the shocked looks on all of their faces, then gives Misty a shit eating grin.  “I do that a lot, actually,” he says.

As if backing up his words, another sister, Angie, speaks up.  “That’s the noise!” she says.  “Lindsey and I were in here the other night and we heard it!”

“I’ve heard it too,” Kennedy says.  “It happens like, all the time.”

“So you’re just like, not even scared?” Rosie asks, panic in her voice now.  “You’re like, completely fine with it?   Like it’s normal to you?”

“Misty.”  Harry’s voice is now right in Misty’s ear, and it makes her jump.  She can feel his cold presence against her skin, and his all too delicious spicy scent engulfs her.  She shivers, but turns her head as if to let him know he’s got her attention.

“You ever seen the movie Beetlejuice?”

Misty giggles and nods subtly, glad that no one in the room is really paying attention to her right now.

“Yeah?” Harry chuckles against Misty’s skin.  “Thinkin’ we could do somethin’ like that one scene.”

Misty doesn’t even have time to question what scene he’s even referring to, his coldness is gone just as quickly as it came.  She turns around again, eyes scanning the room of her panicked classmates and sisters, before she finds him in the corner of the room, messing with an iphone that’s charging.  He doesn’t pick it up, instead he just taps the screen.  Luckily, the phone is unlocked.

“It’s 2020,” he mumbles, “Who doesn’t have a bloody passcode on their phone?”

The unlocking of the phone, however, does not go unnoticed.

It’s Rosie who points it out, because of course it is.  “Guys,” she shrieks, “look at Greg’s phone!”

All eyes are on Harry-- or rather, the phone, and Harry rolls his eyes.  “Shit,” he mutters, then looks up at Misty.  “Ask them if they hear something.”

Misty wastes no time.  “Guys… holy shit do you hear that?”  

The room goes quiet, save for the movie that no one had bothered to pause.  Lindsey scrambles for the remote and quickly mutes the television, and everyone is stock still.

“I don’t hear anything,” Rosie whispers, and Misty quickly cuts her off with a sharp “Shhh!”

She glances back over at Harry, hoping he has a plan.  He doesn’t even look at her, he just continues scrolling through the phone with a concentrated frown on his face.

Greg rises to his feet and takes a cautious step towards his phone.  “What the fuck--” he mumbles.

And then Harry nods, pushes a button, and everyone jumps as the opening bars of Tainted Love fill the room via the bluetooth speakers in the corner.

A small smirk begins growing on Harry’s face as he slowly rises from his squatted position beside the phone. “Ahh,” he says slowly. “An absolute classic.”

Everyone seems to be in shock at what’s happening, so no one moves or reaches for the phone to stop the music.  Harry is beaming at Misty, and now she can’t even try to hide the smile on her face as he begins bopping towards her.  

His shoulders are grooving along with the beat, and he does a silly side step type of jig in Greg’s direction that makes Misty almost lose her composure completely.  He punches the air with each prominent beat, wiggling his hips closer to Greg.  

“Get his phone, Misty,” Harry says quietly, continuing his slow dancing movements.  “Don’t let anyone turn the song off.”

Just as Greg takes a step forward to get to his phone, Harry swoops in, taking both of Greg’s hands in his and dancing with him-- a very poor version of a ballroom dance.

Nearly everyone in the room shrieks.  “Greg this isn’t funny!” Rosie squeals.  “Knock it off!”

“I’m not fuckin’ doin’ this!” Greg calls over his shoulder, as Harry spins him around the room.

Misty seizes this opportunity and makes a beeline for the phone, glad that everyone is too preoccupied watching Greg dance with a seemingly invisible partner.  Harry, although focused on the dancing, keeps his eyes on her the entire time.  When he sees her pick up the phone and subtly slip it into the pocket of her sweat pants, he grins. “Good girl.”

Misty tries to ignore how those words make her feel.

Harry ends his dance with Greg by dramatically turning Greg away.  He glances at Misty with the most mischievous look she’s ever seen.  “Who’s next?”

He doesn’t give her time to even think of an answer, he’s already shimmying his way over to Rosie.  He stops briefly to deliberately knock a pillow off of the couch and giggles, “oops!”  when it startles the daylights out of Lindsey. Everyone in the room has begun to frantically look for the phone, including Misty-- who is just trying to play her part.  The scream that Rosie lets out when Harry grabs onto her though, is something Misty can’t even ignore.  She bursts out laughing, earning a few shocked looks from her friends..

“Help!” Rosie screams. “It’s not fucking funny Misty!”

Misty immediately tries to compose herself, forcing her face into as serious an expression as she can muster. “Sorry,” she says, “It’s just--”

“Rosie if this is a prank, I swear,” Angie cuts Misty off and lunges towards Rosie, feeling the air around her.

“It’s not!” Rosie wails. “I don’t know how I’m doing this!’

Harry twirls away from Rosie and right into the arms of Angie, who gasps as she’s led clumsily, around the room. “Oh my god!’

“Oh my god!”  Misty repeats, trying her best to seem as shocked as everyone else.  “What the fuck is happening?”

“That’s good,” Harry says over his shoulder, “But I’m gonna need more feeling from you.”

Misty lets out a horrified shriek that puts Rosie’s own shriek to shame.  “We have to find the phone!” she cries.   “We have to turn this stupid song off!”

Harry frowns now. “Hey.  Tainted Love isn’t stupid.  Watch your mouth.’

Misty ignores him as she joins in on the frantic search for the phone that she knows damn well is deep in her pocket.    Every now and then she and Harry share a knowing glance, as he switches from partner to partner.

Misty stands in the furthest corner of the room, pretending to busy herself looking for the item, when suddenly Kennedy laughs.  Misty doesn’t even bother looking up, assuming simply that Harry has switched to her.  It’s when Rosie speaks that Misty’s attention is caught.

“Kennedy what are you laughing at?!” Rosie wails, tears in her eyes.

“It’s kind of funny!”  Kennedy says, taking a sip from her drink before setting it back down.  “Like, whoever is doing this-- a ghost or a demon or like, whatever-- has a sense of humor.  They know a good classic when they hear it.”

Harry, who’s currently spinning Luca into dizzy oblivion, grins.  “Kennedy’s got the spirit!”

“It’s not funny!” Rosie cries. “How can you laugh?!”

Kennedy shrugs, already beginning a bop of her own.  “I dunno, I think it’s  funny.  I don’t think whatever’s doing this is like, evil.”

“I don’t think it is either,” Misty chimes in, although she’s brushed off by everyone’s talking.  Some people try to stop whatever force is making them dance, others are too scared to go near the dancer for fear of being next. Kennedy, however, just continues to groove on her own.

Misty reaches discreetly into her pocket to turn the music up a bit more, and Harry laughs gleefully.  “Louder!” He calls to Misty, finally releasing his hold on Luca and scanning the room for his next victim.

As Misty watches him, cheerfully prancing around the room and trying to catch Linsdey-- who’s darting around the room like a chicken with her head cut off-- she tries her hardest to ignore the twitching of her heart.  There’s no way she likes him, absolutely not.  He’s dead, for fucks sake.  But he looks so full of life, so full of happiness, and she realizes that this is probably the most fun he’s had in years.

“Misty what are you doing?” Kennedy calls.  “You’re not even looking for the phone, come dance with me!’

“Yeah Misty, come dance!” Harry adds, shimmying his way up to Kennedy and taking her hand.  

Kennedy shrieks, but she isn’t scared.  She laughs immediately, as Harry pulls out his best dance moves for her.

“Someone is fucking with us,” Angie says, “They have to be.”

“Misty, why are you just standing there?” Greg asks.  “You’re not even trying to help us!”

“Because,” Misty replies, her brain running a million miles an hour to come up with an excuse.  She’s distracted by how much fun Harry’s having, beaming at his one willing participant as he twirls her around.  She smiles.  “Because I agree with Kennedy.  Whatever kind of spirit is doing this is obviously having fun.  I think we should let him--” Misty quickly realizes what she’s said and corrects herself “-- or it, whatever it is, just keep vibing with us.  This is probably the most fun it’s had in years.”

“You’re right,” Harry calls over his shoulder as he dips Kennedy,  “It is.”

“You’re a fucking freak,” Rosie sobs, practically throwing herself into Luca’s arms.

“Misty is the only person this spirit hasn’t fucked with!”  Lindsey points out.  “She has to be up to something!”

Harry makes a face.  “That’s a good point,” he muses.   He gives Kennedy one last twirl before disappearing completely out of Misty’s sight-- only to reappear right beside her seconds later.

“Care to dance, ma’am?”

Misty lets her guard down completely and laughs as Harry takes hold of her.  For a moment, she seems to forget all the eyes in the room.  She forgets that she is the only one who can see Harry.  Kennedy cheers her on as Harry moves her body-- far more dramatically than he’d moved anyone else’s.

“Miss Misty!” Harry says, making a face as if he’s beyond impressed with her moves.  “You can dance!” He dips her aggressively and she squeals, reaching up to hold onto him for stability.

Kennedy starts to jokingly dance around with the other sisters, but Misty hardly notices because she’s so distracted by the silly faces Harry’s pulling as he flings her around. He goes to dip her again, nearly bashing her head accidentally on a lamp. “Whoops,” he says through a giggle.

Misty laughs so hard she snorts, and Harry brings her upright again with the biggest smile on his face. “Never heard you laugh this hard before,” he muses, “it’s cute.”

Instantly, Misty’s cheeks grow hot, and her insides twist as hard as Harry’s spinning her.  As if sensing how flustered she is, Harry laughs, reaching down to pinch playfully at her side.

“I know it’s killing you,” he mumbles. “It’s kinda killing me, too.” Harry lifts Misty off the ground, spinning her around ungracefully and making her shriek  “Although I know if you could talk to me, you’d probably yell at me.  Or make some smartass remark.” Harry spins Misty out, then in, his face now unbearably close to hers.  He grins.  “So I am liking this a bit.”

Misty catches herself staring at Harry’s lips, and she subconsciously licks her own.  She wants to say something so bad, and she knows he’s teasing her because he can.  She hears Kennedy’s laughter mixed with another (maybe Angie’s?), and she sees the commotion occuring around her in the room, but it doesn’t feel real.  The only thing she can focus on is Harry, and his scent, and the icy feeling of his breath against her skin.  

Maybe everyone is too distracted, and she can lean in and kiss him.  Can she kiss a ghost?  Obviously she’s never tried before but he’s so close, he’s right in front of her… surely--

Misty’s thoughts are interrupted with the sudden sound of silence.  She turns quickly, completely broken from her trance with Harry, to see Luca holding the wireless speaker in his hand, one thumb on the power button, mouth wide open in fear.

After a few more beats, Luca speaks. “Does anyone still feel anything?”

Misty turns to find that Harry is gone, completely out of her sight, and she tries to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach.

“It’s gone,” Rosie says. “I think it’s gone. No one is moving anymore.”

Misty scans the room, trying to find Harry somewhere blending into his surroundings, but much to her dismay she finds him nowhere.

Greg slaps Luca’s arm dramatically before taking a step into the middle of the room.  “Bro, what happened?”

“What the fuck was that?!”  Rosie’s mascara is running slightly down her face, but her voice is at a much lower and less panicked level than before.  “What the fuck just happened?”

“That was fucked,” Luca says, moving closer to Rosie.  “Like, fucked.”

Misty tries her hardest to play her part, trying to act as shocked as everyone else, but she can’t stop her hand from flying to the cold spot on her chin-- where she’d felt Harry’s own mouth brush. She can’t stop herself from thinking about his words, wondering how lovely it would’ve felt to kiss him.

“And Kennedy and Misty didn’t do shit to try and fix it!” Rosie cries, reaching up to wipe at her now completely wet eyes.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Kennedy says,  “What should we have done?  Begged nicely for this invisible fucking force to leave us alone?  I’m sure it would’ve totally listened to us.”  She chuckles almost bitterly, reaching for her abandoned drink on the table.  “You guys don’t know how to have fun,” she finishes, punctuating her sentence by chugging the rest of her beverage, “And it shows.”

The evening is cut short and it passes by quickly and in a blur, with everyone checking around the room multiple times for whatever the source of the music was-- to no luck.   At some point, Misty discards the phone subtly onto the couch for Greg to find.  Everyone around the room discusses their perspective of what had occurred, and Misty tries her best to participate-- although she is mostly spoken over by a crying Rosie and an overly anxious Linsdey.  

It takes nearly an hour for Misty to find herself in her own room, after reassuring her nervous sisters that they would be fine sleeping in their rooms alone.  She’s tried her hardest to brush Harry’s words about her laugh off, to stop thinking about them, and about him in general but she can’t.  As she slips out of her clothes and into her pajamas, she finds herself thinking deeply about his smile.

Misty hears the most gentle knock on her door, pulling her from her thoughts.  She finishes pulling her pajama t-shirt over her head before calling out a soft, “Come in.”

Harry manifests himself in her room without even opening the door, and Misty jumps when she sees him in the corner by her dresser.  She rolls her eyes as she speaks.  “You didn’t even need to knock.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt,” Harry states, a smirk on his lips.  “I didn’t know if you were changing.”

“You’re fine,” Misty says, plopping onto her bed.  “I mean, I was changing, but like, you’re a ghost. You can walk through walls.”

“I am,” Harry says, “and I can.  But I’m still respectful.  What kind of a ghost do you take me for?”

Misty giggles, tossing a pillow at Harry.   He dodges it-- not that he needs to-- and he snorts.

“Anyway, I just came in to say goodnight,” he says, his smile still wide on his face.  “And to make sure I didn’t like… overstep tonight.”

Misty smiles back, ungracefully untucking the covers beneath her. “You didn’t overstep,” she says. “And anyway--” she doesn’t dare look at him as she continues her words,  “I liked it.”

“Did you?”  Harry seems completely unfazed, and Misty can hear the smirk on his face.  It’s infuriatingly sexy.

“I did,” Misty says, finally turning to face him.  She rolls her eyes when Harry is, of course, nowhere to be found, but she’s not even worried about it.  She knows he’s still here.  Her confidence grows in his absence.  “I liked it a lot.”

“Did you?”  He asks again, his voice lower and coming from behind her now.  He’s close enough that he sends shivers down her spine, which don’t go unnoticed by him. He laughs.  

She turns around to catch his smile as he sits directly behind her on her bed, close enough that she can feel the crisp chill of his skin.

“Yes,” she says quietly,  “I did.  Told you I did.”

Once again, Misty feels hypnotized by his beautiful face.  Harry knows this, and he hesitantly raises his hand to trail along her arm.  She shivers again.  Without meaning to, she leans into him.  His smile tells her she’s not alone in the way she’s feeling right now.

“That’s good to hear,” Harry says, voice barely above a whisper.  

Misty lifts her head, lips ghosting along the icy feel of his chin.  “Did you?” she breathes.

“Did I what, sunshine?”  Harry’s mouth seems to follow Misty’s own without kissing her, and it absolutely drives her crazy.

Misty gulps, gathering as much courage as she can muster.  “Did you like it?”

With a cheeky grin, Harry removes his hand from Misty’s arm-- much to her dismay.  She is knocked back to reality just as quickly as she’d left it, but his words make her insides flutter.  “I fucking loved it.”

Misty giggles nervously, deciding to change the subject.  “Everyone’s going to think I’m fucking crazy from here on out.”

Harry snorts.  “No they won’t.  They’ll forget.  They’ll continue to think it was a weird occurrence, but they’ll forget that you were one of the only ones who didn’t.”

Misty frowns, jokingly.  “So I’m forgettable then?’

Harry rolls his eyes, his smile deepening wider.  “Hardly.”

Now Misty beams, ignoring the twisting in her stomach. “In all seriousness,” she replies, “You’re right.  It was a weird night.  I doubt my quick compliance to you was very memorable to them.”

“I liked your compliance.”  

Harry says these words so softly that Misty has to look at him twice to make sure she’s even heard him correctly.  He’s no longer looking at her, but the smile on his face makes Misty’s insides go weak, and she notices her own breath hitching in her throat.

“I--” she begins, not knowing where to even begin with a response to him.  “I liked--”

“You don’t have to say anything about it,” Harry says. “You don’t have to say anything at all.”  He smiles sheepishly at her after a moment. “I just want to tell you that you were right.  That was the most fun I’ve had in years.  And I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You don’t have to!” Misty adjusts herself on the bed so she’s facing Harry more.  “I had so much fun.  You deserved it.  And honestly--”

Mist trails off, licking her lips and preparing herself for what she’s about to say,

“I liked being the only one who could see you.  And hear you.”  Her voice grows quieter. “I liked you… Telling me what to do.”

Harry’s smirk deepens as he leans closer into Misty once again.  His lips look so delicious, so inviting, Misty isn’t even sure what she’s looking at anymore.

Moments pass, with Harry and Misty both so close to one another that it’s overwhelming.  Misty wants to kiss him more than anything else in her entire life, but she’s scared, and she pretends she doesn’t notice the way he melts when she sighs against his skin.

“Harry,” she breathes slowly, “I don’t know if it’s possible… but I--”

Harry stands suddenly, catching Misty off guard.  “You should go to bed,” he says, quickly but sadly. “I’m so sorry,  I don’t mean to cut off the--”

“No you’re right,”  Misty says, suddenly feeling completely self-conscious.  She retracts into herself, crossing her arms along her lower body.  “You’re right.  I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for!”

“No, I know!” she lies.  “But I… you know, I mean, it’s weird!”

“It’s not weird,” Harry insists.  “Misty--”

“I have to go to bed,” she says, scrambling ungracefully to get under the covers. “It’s time.”

Harry looks at her for a few more moments before blowing all of his air out in a loud puff.  “It’s time,” he repeats.  He steps cautiously towards her, then softens himself as he reaches for her hand.

Misty eyes his movements, then smiles as she gently takes his hand in her own.  

There are a few more moments of charged silence, before Misty speaks

“Don’t end tonight on a weird note,” Misty jokes, smiling up at Harry.  “I had so much fun with you.”

Harry gives her hand a squeeze.  “I did too, sunshine.  Promise.”

“And you’ll come back tomorrow?’  Misty asks.  “And it won’t be weird?”

“Why would it be weird?”  Harry laughs, and Misty, once again, grows flustered.

“I don’t know!” she whines.  “I just feel weird!”

“Don’t feel weird,” Harry says, leaning forward.  He kisses her head without thinking about it, and he ignores the slight shiver of her body when he does so.  “Promise it’s not weird.’

She smiles up at him.  “I liked tonight,” she says, for what feels like the hundredth time.

“I did too,” Harry reassures her, fighting the urge to bring her hand to his lips so he can kiss it.  “So fucking much.”

Misty stares at him for just a tick too long, then smiles to herself-- clearly happy with their conversation.  She snuggles down under the covers and Harry, without hesitation, pulls them up further to tuck her in.

“You didn’t promise me you’d come tomorrow,” she says softly, her eyes fluttering closed.

Harry reaches across her and flicks off her lamp, allowing his eyes to focus in the darkness before speaking.  “Of course I’ll come tomorrow,” he says.  “I’ve come every other day, haven’t I?”

“I just hate the idea of waking up and you not being here, you know?”  Misty opens her eyes, blinking softly up at Harry.  ‘I want to have you while I still can.”

Something about Misty’s words breaks Harry’s heart, and he leans in impossibly closer to her.  ‘You may have me whenever you like, pretty girl.  I will be here whenever you call.”

“Promise?”

Harry can feel tears welling in his eyes and he absolutely hates it.  He tries desperately to blink them away.  “Promise.”

“Good.”  Misty settles herself further under the covers with a content sigh.

“Get some sleep,” Harry mumbles, reaching up to wipe at his eyes as subtly as he can.  God, he wishes he were human.  More than anything in the world, he wishes he could give Misty the love she deserves-- fully.

“Okay,” Misty sighs.  “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah.”  Harry nods.  “Tomorrow.”

Misty smiles.  “Goodnight.  Don’t watch me sleep, weird ass.”

Harry snorts at her words.  Of course she’d end the night on that note.  With a gentle “goodnight,”  He rises to his feet and takes a few steps away from her bed, just so that she can’t detect his presence by his scent. He makes himself invisible to her while still watching her for at least another full two minutes.

The way he’s truly starting to fall for this girl is completely alarming, especially considering their circumstances.  If he’d still had a beating heart, it would be breaking, and he hates the isolated yet heavy feeling in his chest as he watches her drift gently into unconsciousness.  He wants her, plain and simple.  

And as Misty’s thoughts turn into dreams, she can’t seem to get the ghostly boy out of her mind.   She wants him, just  as badly as he wants her.  It’s something she fears she’ll never tell him, for obvious reasons, but she still allows herself to indulge in the visions of them experiencing a somewhat normal relationship together as she drifts into sleep.

And as the moon rises over the old, creaky house, both Harry and Misty find themselves imagining, if only for the night, that they can love one another the way they know they were meant to.   Surely it won’t be enough to sustain their longing for one another.  But for tonight,  Harry knows that he’ll subtly pop into Misty’s dream.   And he knows Misty will never mention it to him, but it will sustain them both for the time being.  It will make them both happy.

And Misty’s happiness, Harry thinks, is the most important thing of all.