#pick a place on grave yard

[autemka]

Eclipse is the real definition of LER jerk! He's already big enough to easily push you down and worst!? HE HAVE FOUR F[beep]K ARMS, he wouldn't be a problem for him holding your wrists down and with the other pair, tickling the s[beep]t out of you 👀

………. This is. A very. Dangerous description to give me.

You all in danger. I’m not joking.~

[noteviljustlazy]

What upsets me is there is enough information to make a 1v1 replica of the titanic on land as a tourist destination that could churn out just as much if not more money than the titanic tours and be 100x more safe.

[bakuettes]

Catch My Drift 🏁 chapter 1

Street racer!bakugo x Street racer!reader

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: cursing, douche bakugo, slight misogyny, alcohol consumption, drug use, illegal activities etc

Kanjozoku; The term Kanjozoku is derived from the combination of the words “kanjo” (meaning ring) and “zoku” (meaning group).

Kanjozoku primarily consists of young car enthusiasts in cities like Osaka and Tokyo who have a passion for speed and a desire to showcase their driving skills.

Osaka was the place to be. Not where tourists go to take pictures and try japanese cuisine, maybe pick up a few souvenirs from the large amount of little gift shops that littered the streets but where a community of young adults with the passion for racing congregate. The night was still young, the sounds of tires screeching against the cold pavement and engines roaring was heard over the heavy base of 2000s club music. Girls dressed in scandalous outfits mingling with the guys posted up next to their pimped out rides. You could practically feel the vibrations of the noise in your head.

Three cars lined up with the drivers sitting on the hoods of their prized possession. A bright orange 1993 Mazda RX-7 FD on the far left. The car’s color was comparable to an orange or maybe even the warm sunsets that would settle over japan. The next car over was a 1993 Toyota Supra Turbo Mark IV. The bright colorful lights that surrounded the meet reflected beautifully off the cars mustard yellow chrome. The third and final car was a looker. Silver 1999 Nissan Skyline GT-R R34 with royal blue detailing along the sides and on the hood. A royal blue flexivity rear wing with matching led lights underneath the body.

It was Bakugo’s baby. Spent years modifying and perfecting it. He was a skilled driver sure but having a car like his? Most would be intimidated to challenge him. “Yo Mina, let’s get this race going!” the orange mazda driver shouted. it was hard to find anyone in this crowd but said woman emerged from the sidelines with a confused look on her face. “Woah woah, wait a second.” She looked around the lot, once overing the lined up vehicles. “where’s your fourth at? i’m counting only three.” mina crossed her arms, unimpressed. the yellow toyota driver spoke up first “it was supposed to be joaquin but he caught the grave yard shift man.”

once you were scheduled to race it was a hassle to find new drivers, the time and place was set in stone. it wasnt that often when scheduled racers were a no show but then again many get caught racing outside of meets or their car needed more time to be repaired. It was a waste of mina’s time. she was the flag girl, not their fucking coordinator. “Na, y’all either find a fourth or you don’t race. How’s that sound? Times ticking boys.”

By standers erupted in shouts of anger and disappointment. they wanted to see a race, most of them drove well over an hour to be here! gas wasn’t cheap and neither was Minas time. Hearing the crowds complaining mina sighed and pitched them an idea. “Alright! i hear you guys, relax. How about this, why don’t i find y’all a driver and we settle this now?” bakugo smirked, nodding in agreement. he never said much but he also never needed to. his aura spoke volumes. “bring ‘em on.” he wasn’t nervous, he knew his talents and was confident. resting the palms of his hands on the hood of his car, he tilted his head towards the other racers, waiting to see hear their answers. “Anyone i want?” mina questioned with a grin that would give the cheshire cat a run for his money. “anybody baby!” orange jululis shouted, raising his arms to the side. cocky bastard. mina rolled her eyes and turned away from the drivers, pulling out her phone from her bra. there was a whole list of people she could call but there was only one person she knew who could end this race quickly.

she could hear the static from the other end of the phone. “y/n, you wanna race tonight?” it was quite for a moment before you spoke in to the speaker “i’m always down, send me your lo.” your voice was smooth like silk but sultry like a vixen. it sounded like you’ve been up for a while so mina didn’t feel bad for calling you so late. she knew you came alive in the night anyway. your energetic friend squealed before gathering herself together. “you got 5 minutes hun!” and then the line went dead.

it never took much convincing to get you out. when mina called you it was 12:15 am, meaning you only had exactly 5 minutes to get there. the meet lot was about 20 minutes out. you arrived there in 4, only a minute left to spare. the sound of you engine had heads turning (a certain blonde as well) as you slowly pulled through the crowd, careful not to hit party-goers. the hot pink body of your 2000 Honda S2000 was hard to miss. everyone knew who was inside and that fact alone made them scream louder. you never really cared too much though, it wasn’t like you had vocals like mariah carey. you didn’t have the ability to move like michael jackson. you were just a damn good racer and that was enough for them apparently.

all three racers turned their heads in the direction of the obnoxiously loud honda, tensing up at the sight. well, all except for one of course. bakugo had no idea why everyone was so fucking hyped. who was that? and why’s everyone acting like they’ve never seen a pink car?? “Racers!” mina yelled excitedly “here’s your fourth!”. your black stiletto boots were the first thing he saw exit the car. then it was a black leather hat. he glanced over at the others to study their reactions and they all had excitement swirling in their eyes. maybe even a hint of nervousness? bakugo didn’t have time to be sure because before he knew it, you were leaning back against the hood of your car crossing one leg over the other. “oh shit, it’s y/n.” you weren’t new to this, you were true to this. the air was crisp and cold, you probably should’ve brought a jacket because this top (if it could even be considered one) with this miniskirt wasn’t doing you no type of favors.

from the corner of your eye you could see a blonde headed man with spikey hair almost looking annoyed as he walked over to mina who was standing in the middle of the road. “no offense but i’m not racing a damn girl. you never said it would be a girl.” you rolled your eyes, who the hell does he think he is? a race is a race. why did it matter who was behind the wheel? you best friend looks beyond over this shit, she’s been annoyed her this whole night and she’s about to lose her patience. “you said anyone i wanted, i wanted her! stand next to your car before nobody races.”

“you scared spikes?” he turned his head to the side, watching you push yourself off the car and strut to the middle where he and mina stood. he sized you up, shamelessly checking you out. “what the hell did you jus call me?” he wasn’t scared. why would bakugo be scared of some princess nobody? “can you even drive with those heels on?” your outfit was impractical he thought. a miniskirt that just barely covered the expanse of your ass (not that he really minded) and what looks like a triangle bikini top. if you were to bend over then— no. now’s not the time to thirst over you. even if he did think you were hot.

“i’m just askin.. why wouldn’t you wanna race me if you weren’t scared?” you’ve dealt with his type before, cocky, thinks they’re better than everyone and so on. he’s got sharp red eyes with a piercing gaze. you let your eyes trail away from his face down to the hardened muscles on his chest. clearly well built and his black tshirt was doing nothing to hide it. “man whatever,” your eyes moved back to his hearing the sound of his voice. “i’m not doin this, find somebody else.” he wasn’t scared, he just felt that he could be using this time to race against someone on his level. why’s it that the egotistical men somehow always find you? you would’ve just let him go but you hated the feeling of being looked down on. he’s no better than you, he doesn’t even know what you have to offer. do you did what you do best, you uped the ante.

“15 grand.” you raised your voice a bit. silence fell over the crowd. “i’ll give you 15 grand if you agree to race tonight and win, that applies to the other racers too” you say to the other two drivers still next to their cars. that made him stop dead in his tracks. were you insane? you’re acting like that’s pocket money. fuck, he doesn’t know if he should do it. he didn’t need the money, but his sister did. he tries to help his mother out the best he can, this would cover at least two months worth of bills. gritting his teeth he turns around starting directly at you “don’t start to regret this when you lose ma.” got ‘em, you thought with shit eating smirk.

you walked past him, shoulder checking the man who’s name you still don’t know. he looked at you, staring at your ass as your skirt rode up with every step you took. you must’ve felt bakugo’s stare because your hands grab them hem of the denim and pull it down, throwing him a flirty smile over your shoulder. the tips of his ears turn a shade of pink. he quickly looks to the side, licking his lips attempting to play it off as if the whole meet did see the interaction. all the racers start getting into there respective cars, starting them up. mina struts to the middle of the street once again only this time with a checkered flag. her brown skin was glowing, the lights reflecting off the body glitter she wore.

“Racers!”

mina exudes confidence. you hand your left hand on the wheel, the other hand tightly gripping on to the gear shift. foot tapping on the gas a bit. you were high off adrenaline, you lived for moments like these.

“Start your engines..”

bakugo couldn’t help but stare at you. the look in your eyes. ‘s like you got off on this, the wicked smile on your lips doing nothing to make him think otherwise. he wasn’t fazed though, he had this in the bag. maybe even after he wins he could take you out but that was something he’d ask later, he needs to focus. the flag drops.

“GO!”.

and you were gone.

𝐀/𝐍!!: okay why was this way harder than i thought? 😭 please bare with me ik im not that advanced in writing. i also don’t know a lot about cars but i research by chapter. lmk how u like it so far and i promise to produce better work as time goes on!

[revelboo]

Disappear

Tarantulas x reader- seeing something you shouldn’t

• So you made one teeny, little mistake. That snowballed and reached avalanche proportions until you’re now saddled with community service to make amends. And given a choice between dealing with living humans at the nursing home or the much quieter dead ones in the local, historic cemetery, you opt for scrubbing tombstones for a few weeks. Easy.

• And it is, except for the guy. It’s an old cemetery, overgrown and stark. Most of the tombstones haven’t had flowers left in years, maybe decades. So you don’t really expect to see any other people and you nearly drop your bucket of supplies when you round a corner of the crumbling stone wall separating the newer, but still ancient, part of the cemetery from the truly ancient parts. He’s just standing there, vacant thousand yard stare into creepy space.

• The fine hair at your nape prickles as you keep moving past the guy. He doesn’t blink and his eyes don’t track you. Don’t see you. Maybe the guy comes to the graveyard to get stoned and space out. You still keep an eye on him because something about him is seriously wrong.

• There’s a human in the graveyard and Tarantulas isn’t sure what to make of it. Sure, the place is full of humans, but not the living, breathing kind. It’s why he picked the place. But now there’s a human and it’s staring at his holomatter avatar. Scrutinizing him. There are still so many bugs and he is suddenly, cripplingly sure that he hadn’t programmed breathing or blinking. Humans did that, right? A lot?They definitely didn’t phase through tombstones or go just solid enough to get stuck in those same tombstones.

• Like right then as he steers the remote avatar around to continue to watch the human.

• You didn’t believe in ghosts. That sort of silliness was strictly slated for the back of your mind with all the childish fears you’d banished long ago. Except, the creep just walked through one of the old tombstones. Sort of. Bucket of cleaning supplies thumping in the grass, your mouth falls open. Did ghosts get stuck? Cause creepy guy who might be, is definitely, a ghost seems to have a leg and his bottom half stuck inside the time worn angel bowing its head over a grave.

• Turns out, you do believe in ghosts. Very much so as you start screaming. And you know what? Spoon feeding the elderly is starting to look amazing right then.

• Scrap. Panic bubbling up, Tarantulas gives up on the blasted avatar, because there’s the very real problem of the hysterically screaming human. That awful screeching is going to draw more of them or it’ll snap out of its apparent paralysis to run screaming and still bring more humans back to investigate. Nope. He tears out of the tomb he’d sheltered in, spidery legs clawing over the grass.

• Apparently, this graveyard is just a gate straight to hell. Ghosts and cryptid nightmare fuel galore. The appearance of the big, metal spidery horror of pure nope is enough to unfreeze you and for your screaming to cut off into an almost hysterical whine. Turning to run as it tore towards you on too many legs, you trip over the bucket and go sprawling in the grass face first.

• And then, it’s webbing you up as left overs for later. Turns out you can scream much louder and you do up until the thing webs your mouth shut and hefts you under an arm like a sack of potatoes. You can still breathe through your nose and you make little panicked whining noises against your gag as you hyperventilate anyway.

• Well, the human isn’t screaming anymore. Not for lack of trying, though. Tarantulas has no idea what to do with you. Sure, there’s plenty of graves and who’s going to realize one has two occupants, not one? Slumping with a hard shudder, the human goes limp and he lifts it a bit higher, head tipping. Nope, still alive and alert, but mercifully silent. Big eyes staring at him.

• Huffing through his vents as he moves deeper into his lair, he debates. His avatar needs work and while he’d studied videos of humans over and over, he hadn’t actually studied a living one. And it wasn’t screaming anymore, just making that hitching, whining sound.

• The decision to keep you is pretty easy. After all, you’ll just run screaming to other humans if he lets you go. Can’t have that. You’re a curiosity that he fully intends to satisfy.

• You live here now. With your cryptid, horror alien spider-robot. Once you finally stop trying to sneak/run away, he’ll stop webbing you to a wall before leaving to patrol the area. He brings you things he finds, but has no concept of what’s a good gift and what’s going to send you in a panicked scurry to get away, but he tries.

[toomanythoughts2]

Here's some miscellaneous Metalocalypse headcanons. I'm gonna put them here just to get them down.

Skwisgaar has flat feet, which will result in leg problems later in his life.

Toki has nerve damage to his back and he can't feel it in places. He has to go to massage therapy for it every week so it doesn't get too bad.

Murderface has long hair, his fro is just so dense. It's as long as Skiwsgaar's hair.

Stella Murderface is William Murderface's paternal grandmother, so his mother is Stella's Daughter-In-Law and his father is their biological son. Murderface's looks skipped his father, so his father and his mother were average looking individuals. The idea that Murderface's looks were the catalysis for his father's mental break were probably intensified because of the paternal skip.

Murderface's mom was very excited for William's birth. She spent a long time getting ready for his arrival. William was a wanted, planned child, whose mother was fully encapsulated in being a good mom. She took so many photos of her pregnancy and had a baby book prepared. Mama Murderface was fully ready to be a mom. When William was born, she fell in love with him. William is probably less than a year when they died, but more than 4 months. Up until their death, his mom obsessed over him, loved him, cared for him. There are so many baby photos of him up until their death, and his baby book ends at the same age of when they died.

Murderface has multiple photos of his mother tucked safely in his room. He looks at them when he's feeling particularly sad and lost. He'll look back over the home movies she took, listen to her voice, listen to how much she loved him and how she was waiting for him. He blocks out his father in the video as much as he can. He hates him more than he hates himself.

Toki has a hobby grave yard. However, he is not afraid of any hobby and will at least become competent in them.

Pickles still doesn't really understand the internet. He's got the concept but it alludes him for the most part.

Toki's family is actually the black sheep of the majority of the family and Toki is the black sheep within the black sheep.

Toki was on his way to becoming the next Reverend after Aslaug, but the family at large was very wary of this possible development. They avoided Toki at all cost due to his presence with death and his possible future position in the family.

Everyone has neck pain from head banging and windmilling, so they have physical therapy on their necks to keep them strong and to stop any further deterioration.

Nathan has back pain. Like really bad back pain. Him and his father, since they are larger men, have consistent back issues that make it hard to stand for long hours.

Rose is Nathan's biggest supporter. She co-signed on the apartment, she helped get him his first van, she helped pick out stage clothes, she painted his nails. He would read his lyrics out to her (and his dad) at the dinner table and she would help him with lyrics and support his direction. Rose knew that Nathan's life was not leading him to college, but to something else, and she fully believed that he could do anything he set his mind to.

Skwisgaar is double jointed and can pop and crack his knuckles. Murderface and Pickles DESPISE it.

While there are many "Deaddy Bears", there is only one true, original Deaddy Bear. It's the one that got burnt up in "Dethkids" but it came back afterwards. Why? BECAUSE IT'S POSSESSED! ITS A POSSESSED DEADDY BEAR KINDA LIKE THE VELVETEEN RABBIT! TOKI MADE IT BE ALIVE WITH HIS LOVE AND THE TRUAMA! TOKI NEVER QUESTIONS IT AND THE BAND IS VERY WORRIED ABOUT IT!

Murderface has gotten himself stuck in the Iron Maiden before.

There's a lot more wholesome/domestic moments within the band dynamic than their fans or even the label knows about. It's regular shit, like a routine they have worked out with themselves about how to live with each other without going crazy.

They do the "Do you want my broccoli?" "I can take your rice." "Here, take the pepper, I dont want it." kind of switch with their food when they go out. It's just a choirs of plate scraps from one plate to another.

[pinkglitterygelpen]

crows

summary, crows are known to gift small trinkets they find on their travels to those who have been kind to them, much like daryl always keeping an eye out for things he thinks you’ll like. (1.6k)

dear reader, happy birthday normi !!! this is based off that moment in season 4 where daryl picks up that jasper stone and stares at it for the rest of the episode, like the thoughtful and sensitive cutie he is. this is quite long and wordy and sadly self indulgent lol.

before the world ended, the concept of owning things was different. some people wanted to own the earth, other people didn’t want anyone to own anything at all. we owned things by paying for them with money, to be insured that it rightfully belonged to us. that, with most other civil systems, died a sudden and complete death.

that’s changed, whether it’s easier or even more difficult now is up for debate. most things we would classify as our own are things we need, things we’ve taken from the relics of a family home or abandoned store. it was painful for a while, scavenging felt dirty and disrespectful, like we’re tearing apart any remnants of the people who died so that we don’t have to. but, now, it’s been over a year and it’s more rationalised, it’s something we need to do to survive.

some people thought the forgotten world had become a grave yard, but you saw it like a museum. even though most people had disappeared, their belongings immortalised them, a simple symbol of the life they once lived. knowing you might be the last person on this earth to take notice of the wedding photos and framed certificates made you feel a sort of comfort, acknowledging their existence maybe meant they could acknowledge yours and understand you’re only picking them apart to live on for the people that weren’t that lucky.

you’d accumulated a small collection of memories that didn’t belong to you, lockets and city magnets you knew where once treasured by someone else, too precious to be left abandoned. they rested in a beige shoe box in your cell. no one really knew about it, except for daryl.

not only was he the one you went on runs with, so he’d seen you picking up the small memorabilia; he also found himself in your cell quite frequently, nosing around. he’d never admit but he was always seeking out your comfort, when he couldn’t be with you he’d surround himself with you. reading your books, cleaning your guns, laying on your bed.

a while ago you came back from a quick job with carol to find him hunched over your makeshift dresser, carefully lifting thing out the box to look at them in the light. you didn’t try and explain it to him because you knew you didn’t have to, he might not have completely understood why you kept what he thought was junk but he didn’t mind to. you walked up behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your cheek between his shoulders; he thinks it’s beautiful, how much love you have for everything.

“makes me sad.” he speaks low, only for you. holding what looks like it could’ve been an engagement ring you found in a nightstand next to a bed containing the corpse of a woman.

“doesn’t have to.” lifting your head to place your chin on his shoulder, getting a better look what he’s holding. he turns his head, lips almost touching your cheek, waiting for you to continue.

“you don’t have to see it as love that’s been lost, it’s proof of love after loss.” there’s a beat of silence before he places the ring back in the box and turns in your arms, holding your head to his chest.

“that’s nice.” you don’t see his face and he doesn’t say anything else, you don’t know what he’s feeling but you never have to with daryl. he’s not good with words but he lets you know in other ways, the things you need to know.

the next day he went on a run with some of the men to clear out a small cottage they’d came across deep in the trees. shuffling through cabinets and draws to find any supplies worth lugging back to prison, daryl found a small porcelain bunny, something a grandma would keep. only around four inches tall with minimal detail and a blue floral pattern on its back. after making sure no wandering eyes had found him, he secured it safely in the front pocket of his trousers to give to you when he got back. as always, he found you tentatively lingering near the gates for his arrival and he felt a spark go right through his heart. when he held your hand in his and placed the token of affection in your palm, there was no telling who was happier. you understood that him thinking about you even when he was supposed be working and remembering your little quirks was his way of showing love. he understood that he’d steal a thousand small bunnies to make you happy.

from that point on, he was never not looking for things to bring to you. he was particular about if the nick knacks where good enough sometimes, other times he’d bring you actual stones he thought where coolly shaped or extra smooth. every once in a while, when he was feeling particularly emotional or you’d been extra close, he’d be super sentimental. coming up with stories for them or attaching a specific symbolism. like today, he found a jasper stone.

as soon as the pretty green chip of rock caught his eye he reached to the ground to pick it up. whipping the dirt off with the pads of his fingers, being conscious of his strength he so often disregarded as to not damage it. he heard michonne huff out a sarcastic comment and gave a half-assed response but really he wasn't focused on any conversation. too busy thinking about what it meant, he never had time for the spiritual and cooky phases others went through but he knew people used believe these kind of rocks had meaning. he had no idea where to start with it but he was sure you probably did. it was a long day of work, he would so much rather be in his home with you, he must have pulled the rock out of his pocket thirty times to think about what you'd have to say about it when he showed you.

"hey." he greeted you simply after watching you from behind for a few seconds, folding clothes at the laundry station.

"hey. how was it?" you reply with a smile, trying not to reveal the anxiety that you felt for him every time he was away from you and outside the walls, failing by giving into your initial instinct to grabs his cheeks and inspect him for any injuries. he soothes your hearts aches with one kiss your palm and small smile.

"'m fine." he waits a pause to take you in before reaching into his pocket to pull out the rock. "look what i found." he watches your face light up immediately when you see it, what he's anticipated all day. "i think its jasper. definitely real though, found it in the dirt, near some water. there's probably more, i could always look." most of what he says sounds like a question, getting shy only because he wants you like his small gift. you look up from inspecting the stone to catch his eyes, leaning in for a short but rich kiss. "if you'd like."

"thank you." he nods awkwardly, head down to conceal his growing smile. "well, its definitely jasper." you hold the stone to his temple, he just stares into your eyes as you compare your thoughts. "matches your eyes."

shying away even more now, reaching up to rub his palm over his face, unable to accept the simple yet bold flattery. "don't do that." he grumbles out the statement in an effort to avoid the all too familiar distaste any praise causes him, years of abuse and neglect conditioning him to believe he doesn't deserve it. you see it written all over his face and it causes a crack through our heart, using the back of the hands holding the stone to brush his cheek, you wont stop loving him until he believes it.

"this's very thoughtful of you, ill find a good place for it." you wrap your arms around his neck, elbows on his shoulders, chest to his, undoubtedly a nosy pair of eyes watching from somewhere close by. you kiss his cheek like you've done a thousand times before, lips placing a protective layer over his precious skin and delicate soul. he wants to give into you so bad, lay his head over your heart and let you bury him in your arms forever, but he's just not there yet. he hopes that somehow you understand what he's telling you through all his efforts to find nice things for you. he doesn't know it, but you do.

he leans back from your embrace, just far enough to look into your eyes but still bask in your warmth. "do you know what it means?", almost embarrassed of his statement he speaks quietly.

"i remember my grandmother hanging a jasper stone she'd bought in the shape of a heart over my bedroom door when i was a teenager, 'said it would give me strength through changes and new beginnings, she had loads." its silent for a few seconds, the sounds of the prison fill in the blanks. carl kicking up a fuss about something, rick telling him off, carol bashing pots and pans around as she cleans, glen stomping on the gravel. its a welcome moment of peace, everyone can only hope lasts till tommorow.

"i like that." the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. his hands coming to rest on your back, rubbing up and down as he takes in his environment. "maybe we hang this over the door to the cell?" he looks at you expectantly, you smile back at him and nod your head. leading each other to the block holding hands, the little rock safely between them.

the world is surely lacking in its comforts, you're one of the lucky ones to have still be able to love. wherever he goes, whatever he sees, he'll remember that and carry it with him. his tiny trinkets he brings home to you carry an amount of affection no one can bother to measure, its beautiful and its yours.

[cod-dump]

Step dad Graves is so so funny. Especially if they’re close in age and both secretly love it whilst putting up a fuss. Let Ghost collect father figures and Graves get to impart knowledge . Let Graves hate it at first then get some Ghost lore and be like “…I’m not your stepdad I’m only 6 years older than you…… what do you mean you never had a birthday cake…… what do you mean you were made to laugh at a dying prostitute…… “well guess I’m getting this man a skull cake and we’re playing catch in the yard

The more Graves learned about Ghost the harder it was to pretend he didn’t like him.

They were barely friendly when they worked together going after Hassan and Graves’ betrayal ruined whatever that was. Graves cutting ties with Shepherd and fully working with 141 (to atone for his past and right wrongs all while being able to still work) Ghost had greeted him with much expected hostility.

And Graves responded with indifference. He figured things would stay that way, Ghost would never let go what happened and Graves would never show any care for the man beyond comrades. But then Graves started learning bits and pieces about him, the longer they were around each other the more Ghost started to start talking to him with actual conversations instead of threats. That’s how Graves learned about his fear of snakes. The Ghost, the man who would pick up a fucking spider bare handed, an animal lover to the core, was terrified of snakes.

Graves discovered this during a mission together. They had spent that time in that forest in almost complete silence, waiting for Price to give them the go ahead, when the fearsome Ghost jolted where he laid, flinging something into the bushes nearby before moving away from the spot he had laid in without even moving an inch for two hours.

“Fucking devilish bitch!”

Graves saw the tail end of a snake darting away, and that was when he learned about Ghost’s fear. And that would open up to him learning a lot more about Ghost, more than he ever imagined due to their not so friendly work environment. He, of course, originally was going to taunt Ghost over his rather surprising fear, planning to exploit it until it was no longer effective.

But, of course, he would learn something else related to the snake. Ghost seemingly was deep in his mind after running in with the limbless creature, and he offered up a explanation for his irrational fear (irrational considering all the other creatures he adores).

“Old man liked to force them in my face. Thought how I squirmed was hilarious.”

And just like that, after that piece of information was processed, Ghost didn’t say another word. Graves was left with that piece of history involving Ghost he never expected to learn, let alone from Ghost himself. And after that, Ghost seemed to open up to him more. Graves would like to think he heard himself some leeway with Ghost by not going through with his original intentions on teasing him. It was the only thing that made sense as to why Ghost was starting to warm up to him.

Warming up to him to the point he was willingly offering up more of his lore.

“Don’t like crowds, especially not in dark places.”

He dropped that on another mission, completely unprompted. It was a mutter just for Graves to hear, even though Gaz wasn’t far away. That made something stir within him, something about Ghost just telling him something instead of a man who he is considerably much closer with. And that slight tug of his heart strings became pulling when he learned why he didn’t like crowds. And his old man was behind the reason as well.

The more Graves learned about Ghost, the more he hated his probably long dead father. There was a twisted similarity to Mr. Riley and Graves’ own father. And that just made him become protective of Ghost. He started treating Ghost like he did his Shadows. He was pretty much Shadow materiel with skill and efficiency, but now he was a Shadow to Graves because of what he went through.

Graves had a type he went for when recruiting Shadows. He looked for skill, experience, attitude — But he also looked at their history. He has a soft spot for those with bad home lives, made him feel more connected with them. If he was looking over Ghost’s records with the intention of recruiting him into Shadow Company, man would’ve been a Shadow after he learned about Roba.

“Since when are you two friends?” Soap had questioned, Graves noticing the jealousy in his voice but also the curiosity.

“I can understand his accent better,” Ghost jabbed at Soap, his eyes squinting slightly to show he was smiling under his mask.

Soap made a very insulted gasp, “Oh, is that so?”

Graves felt at place finally, standing next to Ghost as he and Soap bickered. It turned playful rather quickly and Graves felt more at ease next to Soap than he had since they first met. And, dare he even think it, Ghost felt comfortable standing next to him. Finally opening up, finally dropping his metaphorical mask of hostility (Graves doubts he’ll take off his actual mask any time soon).

And, of course Price noticed. He noticed a while back, Graves knows he had. Man knows anything that has to do with his boys, especially Ghost. He hadn’t said a word, never hinted in any way to show he knew. He just acted like it had always been. It was like he wasn’t even surprised. Goes to show he knew Ghost was better than anyone.

“Good to see you two finally getting along,” Price said to Graves one evening, the two had long retired to bed while the boys stayed up playing cards (not UNO, they would be enemies before morning and it would take a few days to get them to drop the pettiness).

Graves hummed, taking a moment to realize what Price was talking about. He didn’t expect him to say anything without Graves mentioning it first.

“We’re tolerating each other.”

Price hummed back, slight smirk on his lips. He knew. He knew that Graves considers Ghost as one of his Shadows. As one of his boys.

[certifiedfreec]

i can’t stop thinking about neighbor!graves… pt. 2 🤔

thank goodness for the nextdoor app! (pt. 1)

saw this pic on pinterest and thought…yeah…that’s our man <3

🏡 you and your cuddly cat theo are finally settled into your new house! it was a much-needed change to the mundane routine, and the place is adorable. you ultimately picked this one because of its large windows- perfect for theo to sit in the sun and watch what was happening outside. it also has hardwood floor- no more cat clawing at the carpet. hooray! you thought that your sweet kitty was handling the move well, but you notice that he’s hiding under furniture more often. all the articles online said it could take time for cats to adjust to a new place, so you chalk it up to that.

🏡 one afternoon you drag your first big grocery store haul into the house, calling out for your precious theo as you close the door, but he doesn’t show. hm. he normally scampers right up to you when you’re home. you reason that he’s still hiding somewhere, so you go ahead and get started on dinner. after still no sign of him hours later that night, you resolve to checking every corner of the house, and he’s nowhere to be found!! a panic rushes through as you hurry to turn on all your house lights out front and scope your yard real quick, unable to find him in any shrubs or plants. fully planning on walking the entirety of your neighborhood and knocking on every door to make a search party, you suddenly have an idea: maybe there’s a neighborhood app i can post his picture on.

🏡 you immediately do just that, finding the nextdoor app and punching in your information. you post a picture of theo- your favorite one where he’s cuddling with his beloved bird toy- and write a brief caption saying you’re new to the area and that you’d be more than happy to give cash to whoever finds him. within minutes, you’re receiving all kinds of good luck messages and “nope, haven’t seen him”s, and they all make your stomach swirl. damn cat. he’s probably living it up while you’re sitting there terrified for his wellbeing. as you’re waiting beside your phone and watching all the messages roll in, you’re fully prepared to stay up all night and start driving the streets, until a few minutes later a new private message bubbles up onto the screen.

🏡 it’s a picture of a man, pretty fit-looking from the few features you can see, and he’s holding a cat that scarily resembles theo. do you dare feel relieved? you read the comment underneath the photo. “is this him? little guy followed me home on my jog. let me know!” you’re about to cry tears of joy as you zoom in on the picture, pinpointing the unique stripes around theo’s eyes. that was in fact your little guy. you answer in a blur, “yes, that’s him! thank you so much! can i come get him?” the man, whose nextdoor display name is “phillip g.,” answers you in seconds. “i’ll bring him over. what’s your house number?” you send it to him, and he tells you he’s actually a handful of houses down from you. you allow yourself to feel relieved as you wait those dastardly two minutes, nearly jumping when you hear a firm knock at your door.

🏡 you open the door, and you find theo cuddled up to what can only be described as pure handsomeness. look what the cat dragged in- literally. “phillip g.” has dirty blond hair and tan skin, with pale blue eyes and a rugged scar that rests on his sharp cheekbone. he’s got a perfect straight nose and the slightest blond stubble, and he’s wearing a pair of black sweats and a dark grey tee that cling temptingly to him. “there you are,” you finally say, not entirely sure if you’re directing it toward him or your cat (where has this beauty been all your life??). part of you honestly can’t blame theo for following this guy- yeah, he was definitely living it up while you were panicking.

🏡 “hey there,” he replies to you with the most delicious twinge of southern drawl, and you quickly step aside to give him room to come in- he’s pleasantly surprised that you’re even better-looking in person ;) “let’s get ya inside, bud.” phillip steps into your home, prompting theo to hop off and trot over to his food bowl like nothing happened, as if you weren’t just about to go DEFCON 1 for him. it makes you both snicker, and then you thank the gorgeous stranger profusely before trying to offer him some money. he only shoos it away with a “no problem, he’s a great lil’ man,” and he explains to you that theo started following him back to his house during his jog that afternoon. when he got home, he immediately climbed onto his lap. the traitor!! you’re in disbelief; he’s never cared for other people that deeply. you wonder if theo knows something you don’t- perhaps he’s a feline matchmaker? 🙏

🏡 while you two chat about the neighborhood, theo struts back over to the entry area where you are and brushes up against phillip, almost like he wants to make you look like the worst owner ever. “i promise he likes me,” you laugh, and phillip flashes you an unforgettable grin. “i guess i’ll take your word for it,” he teases, and then he adds sincerely, “i’m actually gonna miss him, y’know, he was my little amigo today.” he kneels down to scratch behind theo’s ears and god does his back look good in that shirt, and you don’t even think as you blurt out “well, feel free to visit him whenever you want.” he stands back up to his full height, smiling again. you barely miss the once-over he gives you. “i just might take ya up on that.”

🏡 you’re surprised to see that he actually does! phillip makes a point of stopping by during his jogs sometimes to check on theo (and you, obviously <3), and man oh man does he look fantastic all out of breath in his workout gear :’) he also fills you in on the drama at all the other houses- a wealth of knowledge, this guy is! turns out those jogs are a great way to collect information- he’s very strategic, it seems. theo acts like jesus christ himself has arrived at your doorstep every time he’s over, of course, bounding into his arms and purring uncontrollably. you feel ridiculous when you get a pang of jealousy toward your cat- if only you knew all the ways phillip wanted to handle you :))

🏡 it all feels so nice and neighborly with the way phillip’s checking up on you both, that southern charm working its way into all your thoughts late at night. he hits you with the occasional “sweetheart,” or “darlin’,” and it never fails to make your heart (and something else) pound. you end up exchanging numbers the next time he jogs by, and he uses it at the perfect opportunity to see if you wanna tag along on his next trip around the neighborhood. he totally doesn’t just want to see you in some tight leggings… you tell him you’re not the greatest runner, so he insists on walking instead :’) he’s such a sweetheart!

🏡 like clockwork he’s at your door a few evenings later, and you’ve changed into some comfy clothes that he immediately wants to tear off of you. theo’s incessantly demanding his phillip cuddles, snuggling into his toned arms with no intention of moving. that stunning neighbor of yours looks at you with a mischievous grin. “say, why don’t we bring ‘im along?”

🏡 it’s equal parts endearing and ridiculous, the sight of you and phillip taking turns holding the most spoiled cat in the world during your walk <3 part of you likes to think theo has decided your fate- and you’re not opposed to it at all. it’s a nice evening, and phillip ends up telling you while you’re gossiping about the other neighbors that his career in the military has always prevented him from having a pet of his own. he doesn’t reveal much about it, just that it demands long periods of time from him, and seeing theo has actually done lots for his war-hardened spirit. poor baby, there’s so many other ways you could help him relieve some of that stress :((

🏡 there’s something you say that must kinda insinuate that, because suddenly you’re rerouting to his house so he can get you both some water. might as well stay for dinner too, he’s quick to add ;) he’s just got such a big crush on you that he can hardly stand it! theo already knows the lay of the land when you go inside, and he proceeds to dart off somewhere in the spacious home while you admire phillip’s minimally rustic décor. no wonder theo escaped here, you think. phillip gets your glass ready, but before he hands it to you he puts down a fresh bowl of water specially for your precious boy next to the temporary litter box and food he must’ve picked up for him when he escaped that day :’) yeah, that’s a man right there- look how good he cares for your baby! he could take care of you like that too!! <33

🏡 neither of you really care about the water at this point, and phillip decides that this is the perfect time to show your own kitty some lovin’ ;)) there’s not much buildup needed for you to end up completely spread open on his soft bed, workout clothing shed immediately before his skillful fingers are pumping and curling in your soaking pussy, hitting that sweet spot scarily fast. you always thought he was a sweetie, but you learn that he’s got an ego on him, wanting to hear you beg to cum all over his hand :/ you’ll do anything he asks though, and you’re soon rewarded with that sweet, hot release that coats his digits :’) he makes you clean one of his fingers while he licks your slick off the other- you guys just make a great team <3

🏡 you thought his fingers stretched you? his thick cock practically splits you apart, and he’s cooing at you “doin’ so good for me, darlin,” “knew ya could take it, sweetheart,” “that’s it, baby,” as he watches you bounce along his entire length. your flushed face, your little moans, it’s the prettiest show he’s ever seen! :’)) he’s stopped making you beg to orgasm at this point since the tight circles he’s rubbing on your clit are producing so many, but he is making you tell him who’s getting you to feel this good. “tell me, darlin,’ use your words. who’s makin’ you cum so much, huh?”

🏡 it’s incredible- phillip fucks as good as he looks! he must have more stamina from all that jogging. he puts you on all fours, arching your back with his hand as he feverishly rocks his hips into yours. he loves to watch you suck all of him in-you’ve never felt this full! not much longer after he starts pounding into your tight cunt from this angle, he’s groaning your name along with a strained “fuuuuuck,” and you feel his warm release coat your insides. he’s so glad he got that second workout in!

🏡 you both hop into his unbelievably nice shower to clean up, and pretty soon you’re drifting off to sleep in his bed, whole body sore from getting taken care of so thoroughly :’) phillip holds you the whole night, but when you wake up the next morning he’s got theo in his arms, who is happily purring away. you realize that the little fucker is responsible for all of this, and maybe he’s just as strategic as his neighbor-slash-future-parent. phillip is ridiculously smug when he chuckles at you, scratching behind your sweet boy’s ears. “i hate to tell ya, darlin’, but i think theo likes me more.”

[whoops-all-jennas]

Final Duet pt 4. - c.s.

Cairo Sweet x fem!reader

"My thoughts will follow you into your dreams."

Summary: Winnie checks in on Cairo, where she finally answers after a year of isolation.

a/n: Inspired by Omori, if you haven't played it, do. The story is beautiful. There will be no spoilers in this so don't worry about that :)

Warnings - Bullying, Homophobia, Death

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.

The hot summer sun bakes my skin as I pour a watering can over my white egret orchids. I take a moment to admire the wing-shaped flowers before putting my watering can away.

It has now been over a year since we missed our recital, gardening is one of the few things I have where I feel close to you again.

This past year I've been isolative, lonely by choice. I know it isn't healthy, but discovering your premature death had a strong impact on me.

It doesn't help that, even now, my parents are never home to raise their child.

When I enter my house, I hear a knock at the front door. I see Winnie's silhouette past the glass. My eyes are lost at the door, deciding if I should answer it or lock myself away in my room once again.

I turn the knob, opening the door to reveal Winnie on the other side.

"You actually answered." Winnie looks at me, shocked. "I was, just wanting to check on you, maybe go out and do something."

Winnie has been trying to get in touch with me ever since your funeral. I've been evading her attempts, I know it's mean, but I just wanted to be alone.

"I guess." I say, in a low tone. I know I need to get over your passing, but locking myself away isn't going to help.

"I wasn't expecting you to answer, I didn't really have any plans." Winnie stands, pondering ideas, while my mind stays blank.

There is something I want to do, but it's not exactly a fun group activity. "Can we visit Y/n's resting place? I haven't been there in a long time."

While of course, your tombstone brings me closer to you, I just see it as a reminder of what I lost. I feel mean for never visiting, but I just couldn't.

"That's fine, it's a nice first step." Winnie says with a patient smile, the same type of smile you'd always give me during practice. You were always so kind and patient with me, even during what I imagine to be the tedious process of teaching someone a new instrument from scratch.

"I'll be back." I say, turning to walk to my back yard. I open the door, approaching the orchids that I've put all my love and time into that I wished I could've spent with you. I pick a few of them, making a small bouquet of your favorite flower.

Winnie and I are walking on the side of the road, the wing-shaped flowers flowing in the breeze.

"Did you grow those?" Winnie asks as I find her eyes before looking at the bouquet.

"I did, they were Y/n's favorite." I say, numbly.

She stares at the flowers. "It looks like you did a wonderful job, Y/n would be proud."

My throat closes for a moment, it has been awhile since I heard anyone utter your name. I open my mouth to speak, but no sounds come out. I opt to replying with a mere nod.

I approach your grave with Winnie staying by the cemetery entrance, white egret orchids whole and hearty surround your tombstone.

I stare at your memorial, forgetting I planted those seeds a year ago. It's a miracle that such a delicate and needy flower as been able to even sprout on its own.

I place the bouquet in front of your tombstone, the flowers flowing delicately in the wind.

"Cairo?" I hear a masculine voice behind me, causing me to turn around. I'm met with one of your two bullies, hulling a small wagon with gardening supplies.

I stare quietly, unsure what to do. He grabs a full watering can, approaching the grave before he waters the flowers.

"These were Y/n's favorite." He says, taking a moment to look at the bouquet I left. "But it seems you already knew that."

He smiles at the small patch of flowers that decorate your tombstone. "I've managed to forgive myself for what I've done, managing to find peace with Y/n's death."

He turns, facing me. "Yet you, you have nothing to be forgiven of, but you still let the weight of her passing pull you down. Why is that?"

For the first time in a year, anger bubbles past my numb surface. "You forgave yourself? After everything you've done to her that is not your responsibility."

He looks away for a moment. "I don't mean how I treated her. I'll never be able to forgive myself for that."

I find myself lost in my emotions. "What do you mean then?"

He looks at me, shocked. "Do you really not know?"

"Not know what?" I ask, now more confused than anything else.

He goes silent for a moment, his throat restricting his voice. "Y/n didn't just trip and fall down the stairs..."

He slips through the backyard, sneaking into your house through the backdoor. His footsteps fill the empty, dark house as he navigates up the stairs.

The door to your room opens as he twists the knob, quickly searching all the bookshelves to find your book of memories. He hears the front door open as he pulls it off the shelf, leaving the room as fast as possible.

He heads towards the stairs, you halfway up them. "What're you doing in my house?!"

He took a step back, shocked to find you here. "Taking back what's ours."

You quickly ascend the stairs, anger in step. "Yours?! I made that! You abandoned me!"

"Abigail said you threw it away one night before she gave it back to your mom!" He shouts. "You don't deserve it!"

You grab the book, trying to yank it out of his hands. "You think you deserve it?! Please! As if your homophobic ass does!"

He resists, pulling back on the book. "Let go, Y/n!"

"No!" You continue pulling as sweat builds under your palms.

Your grip slips, causing you to fall backwards, your body tumbling down the stairs. The loud thunks of your body hitting the steps fill the silence of the house until you land on your head at the bottom, your neck contorting to the pressure.

He stood there shocked, looming over your body from the top of the stairs.

Suddenly, a loud knocking is heard at the front door. He pulls himself together, quickly descending the stairs, leaving through the back.

"I turned myself in a month after her funeral." He says, staring at the ground, guilt squirming through his body. "I couldn't stay silent anymore, the guilt of what I did was destroying me."

I stand there silently, feeling numb to the truth just like how I felt the past year to your passing. I turn around, taking my first few steps to leave.

"Wait, Cairo." I stop in place to his voice. "Do you think I deserve forgiveness?"

Even though he says he's forgiven himself, it's clear he hasn't. The guilt of your death eating him from the inside out.

"I don't believe I'm in the mental state to answer." I respond, truthfully.

I walk back to the entrance, thinking about his words.

'Yet you, you have nothing to be forgiven of, but you still let the weight of her passing pull you down. Why is that?'

I find Winnie by the entrance. "I know something else I'd like to do, if that's okay."

My violin case rests over my shoulder, the dust from lack of use falling onto the street with each step. For the first time in a year, I hum that familiar tune you loved so much as we approach the school.

The sun is beginning to set beyond the horizon, finding the rays of golden hour nostalgic to your presence.

We walk through the back entrance, closest to the music room. The silence of the hall deafening as we approach the forgotten room, it's as if I can still hear you playing piano, muffled through the wall.

Winnie opens the door, revealing a dark room before flipping the lights. The same fluorescent light in the corner flickering.

The room looks more abandoned than before without you maintaining it, cobwebs and dust litter the room.

"Is it okay if I'm here alone for a minute?" I ask, quietly.

Winnie nods, giving me a patient smile.

I approach a music stand, setting it up to be able to be read from standing. The zipper of my violin case tears through the silence of the room, finding the picture we took on the first snowfall of January. You have the widest, happiest smile while my face is flushed red, looking away from the camera.

For the first time in a year, a smile finds my face as I reminisce.

I take the sheet music out of the case, placing it on the music stand. I stare at the blank space where a title should be, noticing small writing in blue pen at the top of the page in your handwriting.

why don't you think of a title for me? you read a lot, you must know plenty of words

I stare at the words for a moment, seeing merely your handwriting having a clear effect on me. I grab my violin, admiring the flowers engraved in the glossy wood before I check the tuning of the strings.

I tighten the bow and apply the resin, before doing the warm up exercises you taught me.

My eyes find the sheet music, hesitating for a moment as I take a deep breath.

I close my eyes, feeling your presence behind me, sitting in front of a glossy black piano. I'm standing on a stage, facing a small audience I can't see through a spotlight being cast over me.

The beginning notes of a piano fill the stage, your fingers gliding over the keys. The notes descend from it's initial high notes until it reaches a deep, low note. You transition the notes back up an octave, finding the middle of the piano.

The last note is followed by a chord as the tempo increases slightly, creating a bright atmosphere.

I slide my bow across the strings of the violin, the note stretching across the concert hall.

As I play, I can't help but reminisce on all the times I spent with you. The hours we spent in the music room, your patient smile guiding me calmly as you teach me the instrument I'm performing now.

I remember your tears the first night we stayed at my house, staining my clothes the same way you pleasantly stain my memories. My arms lulling you to sleep as I hold you comfortingly.

I feel the cold on my hands as I roll a snowball on the ground near you, making the biggest snowman I have, or will ever make. After we had a little snowball fight we warmed up by the fire. There's hardly a better feeling than thawing out after a cold day, but doing it with you is the true experience.

My legs find the red and white quilt on the soft grass as you place a flower crown over my head. This was the day you gave me the violin I'm playing. I will never forget the excitement on your gleeful face when you revealed the recital we were performing at.

That flower crown you gave me resides above my bed, wilted, but the memories still intact.

I see the blank audience once again, the experience I'm living that never happened. I draw out the final note of the song, feeling your presence fading behind me. A bare piano lies in your place, yet still warm by the idea of you.

I open my eyes, the complete song branding into my memory for the first and last time. I'll never get to hear the complete song again, as I will follow your wish of it being our song that no one else will perform.

The abandoned music room settles around me, clashing with the clean and well-lit stage I was imagining. It feels as if a weight was lifted off my chest, even if your presence will fade, the memories will not, and I won't let my grieving tarnish my happy ones.

I find a blue pen, drawing it to the blank space. There's only one thing I can think of that suites your masterpiece, albeit a long title.

My Thoughts Will Follow You Into Your Dreams

a/n: The song that's linked in all parts is the song you made in the story.

[byjove]

My friend’s grandpa (extremely cool guy, WW2 sniper, killed so many nazis, dude I got the mummified piranha from) died in his own home alone. Likely a stroke. He was 85 years old when it happened. He asked to not be embalmed and to be placed in a biodegradable pine coffin and buried in the small cemetery in his front yard (house he’d lived in his whole life) next to his wife. The whole funeral was so laid back, it was one of the first funerals I’d ever been to. The children got to play and pick flowers and throw them in the open grave. Then his coffin was lowered in and he was buried everyone just socialized. I think that is a death with dignity and peace. I think that is a lovely funeral, the way a funeral is supposed to be.

[colleybri]

Does Kleya Marki save the Rebellion in Andor?

“Receiving messages is just as dangerous as sending them,” Kleya icily reminds Vel when the latter insists on a meeting after the heist.

Two episodes later and we get a horrifying illustration of the dangers of radio communications. Bix, trying to get hold of Cassian to let him know that Maarva is gravely ill, insists on using the hidden radio in Salman Paak’s yard . She signals Luthen on Coruscant, who she knows only as “the buyer”, hoping that he can provide a lead.

Kleya picks up the signal and tells Luthen who it is and what it’s about. He wants to answer as he thinks, somewhat ironically, that Bix might have a lead that is useful to him. Because by this point in the story… he also wants to find Cassian. So as to kill him - as a loose end. (Cassian himself is out of reach – in the Narkina 5 prison. In a twisted way, considering what a wanted man he is, it’s about the safest place he could be right now. )

Kleya can see that Luthen is letting his desperation to close off this loose end cloud his good judgement. “You’re slipping!” she tells him, sternly. Their dynamic is so fascinating. She tells him she’s “shutting down Ferrix: the frequency, everything,” but waits for his direct instruction to do exactly that. “I’m thinking clearly and you’re not,” she tells him, starkly. Her behaviour is not really that of a subordinate but not of an equal either. How do they know each other, I wonder? How long have they worked together? She seems so good for him… keeping him exactly where he needs to be. He absolutely respects her and I think there’s some love there too. Of what kind, I’m not sure.

Anyway, Luthen concedes in the end. And thank goodness he does.

Because the Imperials were listening. That evening they come for Salman Paak who is tortured into spilling everything about the radio and Bix being the sole user of it. Bix herself is then caught and tortured to the brink of insanity. Paak is hanged.

But were it not for Kleya, Luthen’s operation would have been exposed too. “Nobody’s listening!” Cassian yells to Kino in Narkina. He’s right in that case. Unfortunately, the Imperials were listening to that broadcast from Ferrix. Many pay the price for that. But thanks to Kleya, Luthen escapes… for now. 

[whencyclopedia]

Grossmunster

Grossmünster (“large cathedral” in German) is a Romanesque ex-cathedral situated in the heart of Zürich, Switzerland, which was built over the course of the 11th and 13th centuries CE. According to legend, the Holy Roman Emperor Charlemagne founded Grossmünster around c. 810 CE to house the bones and relics of the early Christian martyrs St. Felix, St. Regula, and St. Exuperantius who were believed to have fled to Zürich and died in city during the 3rd century CE. Grossmünster is Zürich's most recognizable and famous landmark by virtue of its iconic twin towers, and it retains a place of prominence in Protestant Christianity due to its role in the Protestant Swiss Reformation, which began at the direction of Ulrich Zwingli in 1519-1520 CE. Along with Fraumunster, Predigerkirche, and St. Peterskirche, Grossmünster is one of the oldest and largest churches in Zürich. Its triple-aisled crypt is also the largest in Switzerland.

Legends & Medieval History

Legend has it that the patron saints of Zürich - Felix, Regula, and their servant Exuperantius - were once members of the Christian Thebaic Legion, which had its base in what is now the Swiss canton of Valais. Due to the intense persecution of Christians by Roman authorities in the region, Felix, Regula, and Exuperantius fled to Zürich at some point in the late 3rd century CE. When Roman authorities in Zürich discovered their Christian beliefs, the Roman governor of Turicum - Roman Zürich - forced the three Christians to be boiled in oil and drink molten lead. Soon thereafter, he ordered the three Christians beheaded. Folklore has it that after their executions, Felix, Regula, and Exuperantius calmly picked up their severed heads and walked 40 paces - or about 27 m (30 yards) - to the place where they wished to find eternal rest and ascend to heaven. About 500 years later, Charlemagne (r. 800-814 CE) came to Zürich in pursuit of a large stag that he had seen while out hunting around Aachen, Germany. Upon arrival in Zürich, Charlemagne's horse stumbled over the graves of the three saints, and it was there that Charlemagne ordered the construction of a new church along the Limmat River: the Grossmünster Cathedral.

The basilica of Grossmünster was constructed in six stages from c. 1090-1230 CE and was erected over a 9th-century CE Carolingian building of similar dimensions. Architects made periodic renovations and structural alterations to Grossmünster in later centuries; most notably, increasing the cathedral's southern tower to match the height of the northern tower in the late 15th century CE. Grossmünster's organization and activities were overseen by the bishopric of Konstanz, Germany until the advent of the Reformation in the 16th century CE, and Grossmünster was both part of a secular canon's monastery and a parish church until that time too.

During the Middle Ages, Grossmünster's fortunes were intricately connected to those of Fraumünster, which was the nearby Benedictine convent located only 180 m (551 ft) across the Limmat River. These two churches stood facing from one another, dominating Zürich's skyline as the two largest structures in the city and as pillars of the influence and power of the Catholic Church in northern Switzerland. The two churches were, however, in perpetual rivalry with one another for control over the relics of St. Felix, St. Regula, and St. Exuperantius. The two churches shared and publically showcased these relics in an elaborate urban procession held annually on September 11th. (That day is the feast day of the three saints; this day is still celebrated as a holiday in the city of Zürich.) Zürich emerged as an important pilgrimage center by the late Middle Ages as the faithful visited the relics of the three saints while en route to other pilgrimage centers like Santiago de Compostela in Spain, the Vatican in Rome, Italy, and the Benedictine Abbey in Einsiedeln, Switzerland, which lies only 40 km (25 miles) to Zürich's southeast.

Continue reading...

[lighthouseas]

nancy found a dead rabbit in her yard when she was little. it got caught in a trap that her parents set because rabbits were eating up karen's wildflower garden. she cried so hard and so long and just held the rabbit in her arms, because it was so little and fragile and its life had just been snatched away from it. it wasn't fair, and she didn't understand why it had to happen. she had a funeral for the rabbit, because she felt it at least deserved that much. mike helped her dig the tiny grave. "it was so cute and small," nancy murmured through tears, "i don't understand why it had to die just for eating some flowers. it's not fair." mike placed the rabbit in its grave when nancy was finally ready to let go of it, and they held a little funeral service. "you're right," mike replied. "it isn't fair." they sat outside, just staring at the grave, for hours. eventually, nancy picked one of karen's wildflowers that it had tried to eat and placed it on top of the heap of dirt. she felt it was a fitting parting gift for such a cute little creature. mike did too.

[whosbloom]

Kit Walker » Decorating

day 10 of flufftober

⋆.˚ summary: kit comes home to find you decorating with the kids <3

⋆.˚ fluff , dad!kit , no asylum trauma because kit doesn’t deserve that , son’s name is Liam and the daughter is Charlotte :3

“Why in the world is our son covered in fake webs?” Kits voice rang throughout the house, your son, Liam, following in behind him while giggling loudly.

“Well, Kit, me and the kids were decorating for Halloween. Liam said he could handle putting them up on his own.” You smiled and walked over to the little boy, pulling the fake webs off of him and kissed his forehead.

Your husband nodded, walking over to you and pressed a quick kiss on your cheek, before walking further into the house to find your daughter drawing in a few small pumpkins. “

“You guys went to the farmers market without me? I wanted to pick pumpkins with you guys.” He playfully pouted, kneeling down in-front of her and ran a hand over her hair, kissing her temple.

“Mommy wanted to surprise you.” Charlotte said with a smile, showing off the pumpkin she had been coloring, before pushing herself off the floor and rushed to go put it on your front porch.

“Is that so? Momma wanted to surprise me?” He looked up at you, raising his brows as he stood up straight and placed his hands on his sides.

“Maybe..” You couldn’t help but smile, following after her to go put the cobwebs up, carefully and strategically hanging them around the large fake spider you had gotten earlier that week.

He was quick to follow after you, wrapping his arms around you from behind and kissed your cheek with a grin.

“I can help you decorate, y’know. I’m home now.” He suggested quietly, squeezing you lightly as he looked back at your kids messing with the pumpkins.

Of course you took up his offers quickly.

You had him rake up the leaves to shove into those pumpkin leave bags, tying them tightly and set them up infront of the porch, while getting the kids to not jump on them and tear them open.

He had even helped Charlotte carve one of her pumpkins, lighting a tea candle inside for her, watching as her face lit up.

Meanwhile with Liam he helped him set up some fake graves and bones around the yard, listening to your son rant about zombies and the undead the entire time.

You couldn’t help but admire him, loving how he was interacting with the kids, making you fall in love with him even more.

“Hon, you’re staring.” He raised a brow at you from where he was stood in the yard, a smile on his lips as he walked over to you and rested his arms on the porch railing.

“You look pretty in the moonlight.” You simply said, reaching a hand forward and carded your fingers through his hair.

“That’s rich coming from you.” He chuckled lightly, grabbing your hand and gently kissed the pulse point on your wrist. “I missed you today.”

You leant forward and gave him a quick and chaste kiss, pulling back after a second and squeezed his hand. “I missed you too. Maybe tomorrow you can come with me and the kids to get some baking stuff.. they wanna make cupcakes.”

“Cupcakes? That sounds amazing.” He gave an approving look, glancing back at your kids before turning his gaze to you once more.

“Cupcakes it is. Let’s get them to bed so we can do that and they won’t sleep in until afternoon.” You gestured for him to get the kids while you went inside, cleaning up the kitchen quickly before entering your bedroom.

It didn’t take long until he was entering the room, his gaze falling onto the bed and gave you an amused look.

“Really? You switched my pillowcase for a pumpkin one?”

“It’s cute!”

tags: @lemoniiiiiii , @xrag-dollx , @jazz-berry (ask to be added!)

[necroromantics]

🧺 — Laundry And Taxes

chapter 2. // (masterlist)

Toby wiped his dirt-stained hands onto his jeans as he stood over the 6ft deep hole he had dug in his backyard, the dark silence of midnight encompassing him. His arms were overworked and weak, strained from endless hours of laboring at the hole. Back where he was from, digging a grave only took about four to five hours, but here in the backyard of his childhood home, he had been working until dusk.

The boy turned around from his handiwork and picked up a dead rabbit which had been rotting on the grass behind him. Grabbing it by the ears, Toby tossed the body into the grave. He stared at the carcass for a moment, devoid of any purpose, before his face scrunched in repulsion. Toby gripped the handle of the shovel, gritted his teeth, and began to cover the rabbit back up with dirt.

Once the dark skies brightened with the morning summer sun, his mother had awoken to see what her son had been doing throughout the night. She caught him sitting in the backyard smoking a cigarette staring out at the forest that wrapped around their home, graveyard dirt on his sneakers and animal blood smeared on his hands. At six in the morning, Connie rushed out and asked him what happened, and demanded he put the cigarette out at once. Her boy only looked at her in a daze, as if death had meant nothing to him. Toby shook his head, brushing his mother off as he pushed past her and headed inside. As Connie looked out at her yard, she noticed for the first time how many dirt patches there were. From that point on, it had only gotten worse as his mother insisted he start to get out more, talk to more people, do more things. Her ignorant attempt at aiding her troubled son.

A jingling melody of a bell filled the air of the corner store as Toby walked in; his attempt at going out more. He looked as he always did, tired and a mess. Feral, ruthless, diseased. He glared through his thick brow at the cashier, something of a warning sign. As he walked past aisle after aisle, the boy occasionally pocketed a chocolate bar or two. The buzzing of the fluorescent lights overhead brought him back to the times he was able to get away with nearly anything, and nobody dared to try to stop him. Without buying anything, Toby made his way out of the store, before being stopped by the man behind the counter.

“You gonna pay for those?” The cashier pestered.

Toby stopped in his tracks, shame turned into anger, and anger turned into violence.

“Pay for what?”

“Those bars you stole. Either you pay for ‘em or I call the cops.”

His jaw clenched as he felt a familiar burning sensation boiling in his chest. It was righteous, it moved him. He took one of the stolen chocolate bars out of his sweater pocket and chucked it hard at the older man.

“Have your fucking chocolate bar then.”

Toby spent his time in the world eagerly awaiting the day he were to wake up from his fever dream of a new life. It itched and clawed at him, a loud sort of desperation for what once was. He needed answers. He knew far too well that he wasn’t built for this world, and he needed to go back to the place he was made for. The world which shaped and molded him with violence into nothing but a weapon. And what is a weapon in a world with no war?

Toby stepped back, gaining momentum before kicking the basement window of the local library in. He wrapped a spare piece of cloth around his arm and pulled out the shattered frame of glass, before crawling his way into the building which was now closed for the night. If he wanted answers, he was going to get them.

The boy walked around the faintly nostalgic library, looking aimlessly for the newspaper archives which he knew to be kept in the back. Toby had been on similar trips to libraries in his days as a proxy. To get rid of evidence, or to find some. This time, he was hellbent on finding any articles that would prove he wasn’t completely alone in this strange world.

Once he found the large filing cabinet that held numerous documents and archives, he slid open the drawers for articles from 1990-2010s. The boy sat on the cold floor of the silent library, sifting through newspaper after newspaper. He skimmed over every word, looking for any evidence. The first thing he noticed was that there was no Jeffery Woods manhunt, which used to be front page on many different papers for awhile back in the late 2000s. The second, was that as he read over an article that used to contain a small segment about a recorded series titled Marble Hornets, it seemed that the entire column had never existed in the first place. The space was now replaced with retail advertisements.

There was a jingle of keys heard from down the hall, and the sound of heavy-booted footsteps, which was slowly approaching the archive room. Toby whispered cuss words to himself as he quickly shoved the documents back into the filing cabinet and snuck out of the room, utilizing his knowledge on stealth to not get caught by the security guard. To his luck, the boy managed to wriggle his way out of the open window he kicked in, and ran out into the night. All he gained was the knowledge that Toby had nothing left of the life he once lived. Or the war he once survived.

It was a constant uphill climb of a life for the boy. A Sisyphian punishment. The boy couldn’t sleep well that night, worse than the previous nights, and the next morning his mother insisted he were to get out of the house and go to the park, or the mall. Toby decided disgruntledly to visit the park, possibly he could find signs there, beyond the trees. The desire for answers consumed him, his light at the end of his tunnel vision. The boy approached the playground, eyeing his surroundings and making mental notes of all the people, and things, in the area. The tall, mighty oak trees painted the surroundings green, the sky was clear and vastly blue. A perfect summers day.

Quickly, he noticed a small group of older boys sitting on and by their bikes, one of which was mocking Toby’s strange twitches and jerks as they whispered and laughed amongst themselves. A real comedian. In that moment he was dragged, tossed, thrown, kicking and screaming, into the past he once lived. Back when he was first seventeen, back in middle school. The hunger for revenge. He may have had the body, but he wasn’t that same kid anymore, Toby wasn’t weak anymore. And he wasn’t going to let anybody mess with him ever again.

Without a second thought, Toby turned around to face the group, fire and fury in his dark eyes. He approached the boys, and like a rabid dog, he tackled the one who was making the jokes to the ground. Toby grabbed a fist full of his hair, and drilled his other fist into the boy's face repeatedly, ignoring the desperate attempts from the older to squirm out from under him, screaming. Everybody looked at the violent scene, mortified.

Back when Toby was seventeen for the first time, he drew clear lines that he wouldn’t cross. Things he wouldn’t do. But as he grew older, angrier, he crossed those lines and gained the dangerous knowledge that the world wouldn’t come to an end if he did bad things. He could hurt people and still wake up the next day. As he continued to scream at, and beat the other boy bloody, Toby could’ve sworn there was a line there once.

The drive back home with his mother after getting picked up at the police station was tediously long. Toby was trying his best to ignore Connie's disapproving silence as he glared out of the passenger window at the passing city beyond them, darkening into evening skies.

“What has gotten into you?” Connie spoke, exasperated. Toby continued to ignore her.

“Well?”

“It doesn’t matter, just drop it,” He responded, irritation growing in his tone.

As the two made their way into the house, Toby was greeted by his older sister leaning up against the kitchen counter. Toby felt words breaking in his throat, he stared at her like an angry bear. Lyra stared back frightened at his swollen eye. They saw each other with a strange surprise. The boy avoided her gaze, turning his head down to look at his feet like a bad dog as he pushed past her and made his way to his bedroom.

Soon thereafter, Toby had begun getting into petty fights with his sister, and often talked back to his mother. One particular evening, Lyra had shouted at her brother for being disrespectful towards their mom. She had made an unsettling offhanded comment about how Toby was going down a terrifyingly familiar path. A path the family had seen his father go down for years before Connie mustered up the courage to kick him out.

“You think any of that shit matters to me? None of this is real, none of it” Toby yelled back, waving his hands around and laughing to himself.

“What the hell is wrong with you? I’m real, you’re real, mom is real. And look at how you’re treating her.”

“You? You shouldn’t even fucking be here right now, you’re supposed to be dead!”

Lyra paused at the cruel words of her little brother. The boy gave her half of his orange one morning, and broke her heart in the evening. They both cross lines they shouldn’t. They’re both afraid of their rage.

“Just… Enough. I shouldn’t even be here right now. So do us both a favor and stay out of my business.” Toby lowered his voice at his sister's surrender and without another word, left again into his bedroom.

That night, as Toby laid silently in his bed, facing his bedroom window, he saw a fraction of light creep onto his wall as his door opened. A small shift of weight pressed down onto the mattress beside him.

“What happened to my sweet boy?” Connie spoke with a deep sorrow in her voice. No words could ever explain to his mother what had happened to him. Nothing he could say would ever make her, or anyone, understand the unfathomable. Toby gave her no response, and minutes had passed before Connie sighed and took her leave.

As his family had laid to rest late into the night, Toby quietly climbed out of his bed which creaked as his weight shifted. Grabbing an empty old backpack, he made his way into the darkened kitchen and began piling in canned foods, water bottles, and money from his mothers purse. He paused for a moment before entering the garage, where he knew he could find a familiar old hatchet sitting idly.

He stared at and took in all of his surroundings, and listened to the quiet ambience of the house. Toby knew that this was a home for a boy, not a killer. He had lost his innocence so early, shaped with horror from before he could remember. Toby wanted terribly to look out at the house he stood silently in and feel something good, something happy, like a distant memory that would make him smile warmly to himself when he thought back to it. But no matter how hard he tried, all he could remember was the battlefield. Constantly fighting to survive, wondering if he would ever make it out alive. Quickly, he scribbled a message onto a post-it note and left it on the fridge for his mother to find in the morning when she realized her son was no longer there.

“I’ll come back this time, mom.”

[thegreathuxton]

Partner in Crime

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem! Reader (NO USE OF Y/N)

Inspired by "Partner in Crime" by Madilyn Mei.

Summary: You walk right up to the head of the empty grave and point at it.

"Get in," you say.

Warnings: MAJOR SPOILERS - Follows book 5 (I've read the books lol). Friends to lovers. Angsty teens, but they find a resolution at the end. Lucy and Lockwood are JUST FRIENDS. Underage drinking. Swearing. Barnes is a huge cockblock. Fluff to angst to fluff. Insinuated height difference (Lockwood is taller than reader).

A/N: NOT BETA RED WE DIE LIKE MEN!! RAHHHH... I went a little Cuckoo Crazy for this one, guys. I'm guesstimating it's between 6k and 9k words. Who knows!

1.

The first time you met him, you were sitting on a bench in Scotland Yard. He was still quite young. Years younger than how you knew him now. He had a bloody nose and sat alone. You had a broken arm and sat alone as well, on a bench opposite of him, all the while filling out some paperwork with your one good hand. Your penmanship was undeniably horrendous, being it was coming from your non-dominant hand.

You felt him staring at you. A little too hard, you must admit. You got through half your case report before you got fed up. You were already agitated because filling out this paperwork was taking twice as long as it should have. You'd be done and gone if it weren't for that stupid, bloody poltergeist and your stupid broken arm.

"Can I help you?" You snapped.

He wasn't slow at giving you a faint smile. Even while holding a tissue to his cherry-red nose in quite an unattractive manner, his charm hit you in waves.

"Quite the opposite, actually," he said so softly. Your wall of anger cracked like an eggshell. "I was hoping I could help you out."

You looked down, partly because you didn't want him to see the blush of frustration blossoming on your cheeks and partly because if you stared at him any longer, your angry act might just crumble all together.

"I'm fine," you muttered.

"You don't look fine..."

The silence engulfed the hall. The ringing telephones were merely echoes, and the voices of people were quiet. It was three in the morning, after all. The only people who would be up at this hour would be the dead, and kids stupid enough, like you, to make the choice to become an agent.

You go back to your chicken scratch. It's a slow and miserable process. There really is no nice way to describe how you had a safe hurl towards you at lighting speed and pin your arm against the wall, snapping it in three places, when the pen you're using is bleeding all over the page and is very well-bound determined to empty itself all over the white paper.

You sat your pen down again out of frustration. You took a deep breath.

You suddenly felt someone draw close, and the clipboard you had been using was lifted out of your lap.

"I don't quite like asking for help, either, you know," he said, picking up the pen and crossing his legs. "But we all have to learn how to do so, eventually. I'll let you off this time."

He was smiling as he read over what you had written. He had shoved a tissue up his nostril to ease the bleeding for the time without having to use his hands. Quite frankly, he looked as stupid as he was exhausted. His hair was messed up. His clean dress shirt was rolled up to his elbows, and his tie was undone, hanging limply around his neck and shoulders.

He said your name, and you snapped to attention. He was still smiling and looking at the paper.

"Beautiful name," he murmured. "Too bad it's the only thing I can read on this piece of paper."

"It's not that bad!" You scoffed, taking offense.

"I beg your pardon?" He chortled, then held out the clipboard. He pointed to what looked like a sentence. It was more of just a blob where you had pressed down on the pen too hard. "What does that say?"

You were silent.

"Can't tell, can you?" He said, his eyebrows raised and the twinkle in his eye agitating you beyond belief. "Neither can I, and I'm sure Inspector Barnes won't be able to decipher this hodgepodge, either. So, let's start over."

He takes the paper you had spent thirty minutes on off the clipboard and crumples it in his hand. There's a fresh, new page beneath it. He then turns to you, grinning.

"Anthony Lockwood, professional scribe and interpreter at your service," he feigned a salute in an attempt to make you smile. Begrudgingly, you let him have that small win. He sat up straight and pretended to push up an imaginary pair of glasses on his nose. He spoke in a hoity-toity voice, like a stuck-up therapist. "What kind of visitor did you have this evening, ma'am?"

To be completely frank, it was hard to resist smiling. He was trying to cheer you up, and, admittedly, it was working.

"Poltergeist," you muttered, hunched over and looking at the floor. He scribbled on the paper.

"And is that what hurt your arm, or is the cast and sling merely a fashion statement?"

You shot him a look. He was still smiling, and he looked at you through long eyelashes. He looked like a dopey, single-tusked walrus with the way his tissue had been so stuffed up his nostril. You looked away again. If you looked at him any longer, your smile would break free. You then felt him gently touch the cast. His fingers merely grazed it. When you looked at him again, his eyes were still on yours, as if he knew you'd look again.

"How'd it happen?" He spoke oh so softly once more.

You sighed.

"It was a situation at the bank on Baker Street. A team had gone in and done away with one visitor and called DEPRAC to come help with the rest and disposal. I show up and go in by myself. The place didn't feel right to begin with, even with the visitor eliminated by a team of agents. I started scattering salt, and all of a sudden..." When you spoke, you used your good hand to help visualize. "A safe just launched out from the wall and pinned my arm there. I was lucky it was just that, but I'm going to be stuck in this cast for a while."

Anthony nodded along and rubbed his chin.

"Are you a sensitive?" He asked and started scribbling on the page again.

You nodded. "They employed me here at Scotland Yard to go on cases and provide extra security to our adult team."

He slowly set the pen down. "I bet working here is such a drag," he said rather slowly.

"Excuse me?"

"I mean, what's the adventure in working for Scotland Yard. You must have amazing skill for them to employ you. You could be an agent, I'm sure..." He casually started to tap the pen against the clipboard. "And, you know, I've been looking for a sensitive in my agency. I'd be happy to interview you."

You scoffed and smiled. "I'm good. Thanks for the offer."

"Oh, come on," he half-whined. "What do they have here that I haven't?

"Free room and board, all on top of good pay."

He was instantly stumped.

"Ah," he swallowed, looking away and slumping back against the bench. "I see."

He wrote a little more on the paper and then cleared his throat. He set the clipboard down but still held the pen intently. He looked at your cast then up at you.

"May I?"

You thought about it for a moment. Again, you decided to let him have this small win.

He helped you gently remove your arm from the sling and rested it on his lap while he signed your cast. He had the faintest smile on his face, and his eyes were so focused on writing as neatly as he could. When he was finished, he put the pen on the clipboard. You looked down to see what he had written. It was a phone number and his name. You wanted to scoff again but held it back. Inspector Barnes had just stepped out of his office and pointed at Lockwood before eyeing you.

"He troubling you?" The Inspector asked.

"Not at all," you muttered back, putting your cast back in the sling. "He helped me finish my paperwork."

Barnes hummed, and Anthony stood.

"Take that bloody tissue out of your nose, Lockwood," Barnes muttered. Lockwood was fast to cooperate. "Follow me."

Barnes disappeared into his office again. Anthony looked back at you. His gaze was soft and his smile softer.

"Stay out of trouble and away from haunted banks, won't you?" He beamed. "I'd quite like to meet again."

"Lockwood!" Barnes barked from his office and made you both jump before you could respond.

"You better go," you murmured. "He often gets quiet cranky when four o'clock hits."

You watched his chest rise and fall with a deep breath.

"Noted," he murmured back. He gazed at you for a heartbeat longer, then turned and disappeared into Barnes's office.

2.

You and Lockwood became good friends over the following months. You would see him on many cases and occasionally went out to lunch or breakfast with him and his associate, George Karim. He would make excuses to come to Scotland Yard to see you if he wasn't on a case. If he was on a case, or if he was pulled to the building by Barnes, he would go out of his way to find you and see you while he was there. You came over to Portland Row, his agency, more often than not. Sometimes, you'd even spend the night because you'd stay after supper for a cup of tea and get to talking into the late hours of the night. He's told you many things. He's told you about his sister. He's told you about his parents. George had even noticed that you'd become more trusted by Lockwood than he was.

What locked and sealed your bond was when he showed you the family graveyard, where his parents and sister had been buried. It was something even George knew nothing about.

An incredibly close companionship started there. When Barnes noticed, he warned you about the trouble that came with Anthony Lockwood, but you didn't listen, and that is what became your downfall.

"He throws caution into the wind at every chance," Barnes scolded you after you turned up late one evening after spending the night at Portland Row. "You'll get yourself killed."

Again, you refused to listen to his harping.

It was one winter, a year after you'd first met Lockwood, the last year you'd laid eyes on him, when cases spiked all over London. The London Underground had suddenly been infested with clusters of visitors. Many agents had already died by the time you had been brought in. You were assigned as a monitor/supervisor. The rest of Scotland Yard's supervisors were all scared shitless to go anywhere near the Tube, so they sent you instead, since you still had Talent.

Three teams from three different agencies were brought in that night. Fittes, Rotwell, and last, but not least, A.J. Lockwood and Company. That last one made you giddy and nervous all at once.

The clock had struck ten, and all the teams were gathered around in the station in little pockets of groups. Lockwood had a friendly arm wrapped around your shoulder, regaling you and George on a story. George couldn't have been less interested. He rolled his eyes and shoved his hands in his pockets. You, on the other hand, were enthralled. It had been days since you'd last seen him, then. Just having him close to you was a great pleasure.

It was a quarter until eleven when you all decided to start moving deeper into the underground. One of the sensitives from Fittes claimed to have heard a scream echoing. You were too enraptured in Lockwood's words, so you hadn't really been alert enough to confirm what she had heard.

All three agencies, plus one (you), moved deeper into the tunnel. Each team took their own readings but continued to come up with nothing but rubbish. Lockwood stuck right by your side with one hand on his rapier and his other hovering just above your lower back.

"I missed you," he muttered into your ear. You grinned.

"You're just saying that, so I'll tell Barnes to up your pay," you joked.

"No, really," he said. His thumb ran a tender line down your spine, distracting you from the skittering noise that your ears had just picked up that came from down the tunnel. "You'd be surprised by just how hard it is to get you off my mind after I've seen you. I still wish you'd quit this lousy job and come be with me... Us, I mean." He corrected himself and cleared his throat when George looked his way.

"You know good and well that there's no room for me in that shoddy house," you chortle and mindlessly check your thermometer. You unconsciously register the slight temperature drop, the deeper you travel into the tunnel.

"There's plenty of room!" Scoffed Lockwood. "The attic is always available. Or, you know, you could always stay with me in mine." He wiggled his eyebrows at you. You elbowed him in response.

You all walked about half a mile into the tunnel when you heard something that the others didn't and stopped. Lockwood was the first to notice. You listened for a moment longer. Those who were also sensitive to sound started picking up what you were getting as well.

"Flashlights off," Lockwood ordered for you without you having to say anything at all.

You couldn't help but cringe when overhearing another agent mutter the words "kiss ass" beneath their breath. It wasn't the time to get snippy, though. Something was coming. You could hear it, but the fact that you couldn't see it unsettled you. The long and dark tunnel before you made your hastily grasp the handle of your rapier.

It was a very faint clicking and hissing sound at first. It wasn't until it got just the faintest hint louder that you realized what it was. The air itself seemed to start shaking, and the ground trembled beneath your feet.

"Everyone get to the side!" You screamed. Lockwood pulled you to him, then pressed the two of you flush against the wall of the tunnel, and all three teams divided unevenly on either side of the tracks. Not but a few seconds later, the air screamed past you and rattled everyone's equipment. The rush of a speeding train made everyone's ears pop, and the wail of the dead came with it. There was no visual. Just a foul smell and a sharp, piercing scream. It lasted for what seemed like an eternity, then abruptly stopped. The clicking and hissing and a faint whistle of a train died away.

"Ghost train," you grumbled. "Lovely."

Lockwood was the first to open his eyes. You were next. Your heart dropped.

One by one, visitors of all kinds started to morph out of thin air. Not a single one of them were recognizably human. The reimagined corpses were singed flesh in bone. You could actually smell the burning, and it made your eyes water.

"I read that there was a crash down here in 1980," said George suddenly, loud enough for everyone to hear as you all brought out your rapiers and salt bombs. "Fittes documents say that it's been taken care of... but I guess it wasn't taken care of well enough."

The Fittes agents had no time for witty retorts. More and more visitors started forming, and their sorrowful wailing was becoming too much to bear.

"Is it even possible for sources to reappear?" Lockwood mumbled.

"No clue. That, or Fittes didn't take care of it properly in the first place," you mumbled back. "I don't see anything that could be considered a source. There's no wreckage or bones or anything. Not even a stuffed animal. They probably just scattered salt and called it good..."

You looked down. The railroad tracks were rusted over and stained from ectoplasm burns. You had a feeling your theory was correct.

"There's too many," said one of the Rotwell agents.

"You all were assigned this job for a reason. You get it done, or you don't receive pay," you said. Later, you cursed yourself for this. You had spent too much time with Lockwood and started to pick up on his reckless habits. He still stood next to you as if personal space didn't matter.

You took a step forward, much to Lockwood's chagrin. The closest visitor, a tar-black skeleton with a dangling jaw and a few wisps of charred hair clinging to the dead scalp, raised its head and reared back. Orange fire engulfed it as it screamed and drew the rest of the visitors to attention. It charged, and you readied your rapier.

A salt bomb exploded behind you and sent your flying forward before you got the chance to swing. You missed the visitor by the meekest of scrapes. You scrambled to your feet. The sleeve of your coat steamed from the slightest touch of ectoplasm. A Rotwell agent was ghost locked, standing in the middle of the tracks. The visitor was still charging, now heading towards the agent on the tracks.

"Move!" Someone screamed, trying to get the agent's attention, but it was too late. Another Rotwell agent threw a bomb but sorely missed. The panic had turned the lot completely stupid. It exploded against the wall and blinded everyone in proximity, including you.

You covered your eyes for just a second. Your ears were ringing, and your vision was blurry when you looked again. There lied the Rotwell agent, flat on their back, jaw dropped and eyes a pure, milky white. Their body twitched and spasmed, then fell still.

Someone screamed. The rest of the visitors followed and started charging. You sat there and watched the body, feeling entirely numb, until someone grabbed your hand and pulled you free from the state of shock you were in. It was Lockwood, of course. He had his rapier drawn and protected you with his life, swinging at visitors with the passion and excellence you were so used to.

Fittes agents joined him in his fight and held their magnesium flares high, but the visitors were fast to reform, and there were too many to look for a mass source.

Out of bombs, flares, and steaming with ectoplasm, you all had retreated. The visitors still screamed in their agony. Lockwood, ever the gentleman, still held your hand and held it tight. He didn't let go until you were back at the station.

3.

Everything passed like a blur. The Ghost-Touched Rotwell agent had been left on the tracks. The team would go and retrieve the body in the morning when it was safe.

DEPRAC was called and brought in. Inspector Barnes came to you first, and it wasn't a pretty sight. He went rumbling right past everyone else, straight to you. Lockwood had been consoling you before he'd seen Barnes, and the color left his already pale face. Barnes screamed at you for your reckless abandon. The fact that a Rotwell agent had been killed only made it that much worse.

Lockwood tried to interject, but Barnes quickly had him pushed away.

"You were supposed to supervise!"

"I was! It's just that--"

"There are no excuses. You had one job, and you blew it. Now we have another dead agent, and another mountain of paperwork to fill out before this section can be cleared!" Barnes didn't want excuses. When he looked at you, you crumpled. Your self-worth lowered with every searing second.

"She was doing her job, Inspector," Lockwood came back and cut in again. He tried to get close to you, but Barnes quickly cut him off.

"You," Barnes seethed. "If it hadn't been for you, she would have been fine."

"Don't blame this on him!" You interjected. "He didn't do anything!"

"He did plenty," barked Barnes. "He's been distracting you and knocking you off course for the past few months. And I speculate that he's been doing it on purpose, too." He switched and looked to Lockwood. Lockwood had a sudden stillness about him. He was stiff and quiet, neither denying nor agreeing with Barnes's statement. Barnes's eyes narrowed.

"You've been trying to get me to fire her, haven't you, you little shit?"

Barnes using such foul was virtually unheard of to you. You wanted to get Barnes to stop, but once he was going, there was no stopping him.

"Just so you could add her to your own grubby crew, huh? Is that what you want?"

"I have to say, it's been quite tempting," Lockwood said very quietly. He still did not move. "She's quite an agent, sir. And I believe she deserves to be with us, rather than waste her time in a place like Scotland Yard."

Barnes's eyes went wide with anger and shock. Without turning to look at you, he spoke to you.

"I'm transferring you to the Liverpool sector."

"What? You can't just--"

"Yes, I can," said Barnes. His word was final. "Until you can get whatever this little twat has done to you out of your head, you will be working with the DEPRAC stationed in Liverpool. End. Of. Discussion."

You stood there, frozen. It felt like your world just shattered into a million and one pieces. Lockwood was calling your name, but it all seemed like an echo. You felt warm hands on your cheeks. Your vision came back into focus. Lockwood had his forehead pressed against yours, getting your attention so abruptly.

"He doesn't mean it. He couldn't possibly," he muttered relentlessly. You said nothing because his words weren't registering in your mind, and the tears stung your eyes.

If there was anything you had learned about Barnes over the years you worked with him, it is that he never went back on his word.

"It's over, Anthony," you muttered and squeezed your eyes shut.

"What?" He whispered, brushing back your hair. You could feel his breath fanning your face. "No, no. You can't be serious. He's not serious at all. You are NOT leaving. That's not how this is going to go. That's not right."

"You can't decide how the world works," you said. You reached up and placed your hands over his, slowly getting him to lower them. "If that were true, all this wouldn't be happening in the first place."

You opened your eyes again and wanted to do nothing but start crying. His big, brown eyes searched yours so desperately. Every time you tried to lean back, he'd chase after you and keep you right up against him.

"Don't go," he whispered.

"I don't think I have a choice."

"I need you here," he wrapped his arms around your waist. "I need you to stay with me. Stay forever."

"Lockwood, I--"

"Please..." He buried his face into your shoulder and held you tighter. "I can't lose you. I need to be around you. I swear, I'll go crazy if I can't see you."

His hands shot up to hold your face in his hands again. His thumbs gently brushed over your cheeks, and his lips seemed impossibly close to yours. Too close. You had to break free. If he got any closer, you knew you'd quit your job just to stay with him. Stay there in London. God, the longer it repeated in your head, the more irresistible it seemed to be. He was driving you crazy.

"I have to go," you whispered.

"I won't let you."

"You have to."

"I don't, and you know it."

He kept getting closer, and he spoke more breathily. His lips barely touched yours. They ghosted, then finally pushed fully against yours. His lips were soft and sweet. His kiss wasn't demanding. It was full of something you've never felt before, on top of need and desperation. You had to yank yourself away because you could feel yourself slipping. You actually had to shove him because every time you tried to peel yourself away, he would follow and keep you with him.

He stumbled, and his hands fell to his sides. His cheeks were pink, and his eyes were wide and wild. His lips still moved like a fish out of water, gasping for air. His shoulders, heavy with the burden of running an agency and the guilt brought on by past, rose and fell with heavy breaths. You just stared at him, unable to define whether he was an image of beauty or longing.

You then turned away before he could speak again and call you back like a siren. You had to cover your ears. Even as you rushed out of the station, you could hear him calling your name.

4.

Years had passed since then. You hadn't seen Lockwood since the morning he escorted you to the train station. Even then, that was filled with silence and his longing glances. Getting on the train was the hardest part. He would have followed you up the stairs if the conductor hadn't stopped him.

For months, you exchanged letters with him until he stopped replying. It made your heart ache. You waited weeks for a reply, but it never came. You gave up on waiting after a year. Barnes also checked in with you and constantly made sure you kept busy. You wanted to thank him for it. You managed to forget all about sometimes, thanks to the shit-ton of work he had provided you.

On your spare time, you would buy copies of The Times. More often than not, you'd find Lockwood somewhere inside. Pictures of him from yet another successful case. Then, there was suddenly the mention of another girl that had joined his team. A sensitive by the name of Lucy Carlyle. True, your jealousy festered and bubbled, but you didn't let it explode. Instead, you stopped buying copies of The Times and focused on your work.

Well, that all lasted until news of the death of Penelope Fittes and the collapse of the Fittes agency altogether came into light. And Lockwood was at the center of it all.

You'd never bought a train ticket so fast.

5.

You swept off the last traces of dirt from your clothes and pocketed your gloves, since they were dirty as well.

On the train ride, you'd read all about Lockwood's excursions. You'd read how many times he's been shot and stabbed. It made you sick to your stomach, just how much this boy had gone out of his way to get himself killed.

And now here you were, just outside of Portland Row, about to face him for the first time in years. It was obvious from each tabloid you'd read that someone needed to put him in place. If Barnes, George, or this Lucy Carlyle girl wasn't going to do it, then you would.

The first knock on the door sends an electric bolt right down your spine. There was once a time, you remember, when knocking wasn't even necessary when you came to Portland Row.

A dark skinned girl in a navy pinafore dress answers the door. You're a little taken aback, but if that shows on your face, the girl doesn't express it.

"Do you have an appointment?" The girl asked curtly.

"I need to speak with Anthony Lockwood."

"Many people want to speak with him, but with the recent collapse of the Kingdom's biggest agencies, he is kept occupied. Please, make an appointment and come back then," she moves to close the door, but a hand that isn't yours stops it. A familiar face is at once at the door, and it puts you at ease.

George replaces the girl in the door. He gives you one look, then moves to clean his glasses on his shirt. Once he fixes them back on his face, he motions for you to come inside, and you enter Portland Row in a split second.

While the girl closes the door after you've come in, you are met with an unexpected and grappling hug from George Karim himself. It sends you into a shock. You give him an awkward hug back, so unsure of what all that was for.

"Thank you for coming back," George mutters. He fixes his glasses once he pulls away from you. "I'd given up all hope of your return months ago, and I'm sorry for being so straightforward, but..." His eyes flicker from side to side. "Now that you're here, I can't help but think that Lockwood might go back to normal."

"Back to normal?" You scoff quietly. "He was always reckless, but from what I've read, he's way past that. He's suicidal!"

"He's mopey and hung up, is what he is. And I've only known him for a few months at best," the girl suddenly mutters. Her arms were folded.

"That's Holly, by the way," mutters George. "She's... our assistant. And you haven't met Lucy yet. I think you might like her. She almost got Lockwood out of his spunk, but not quite."

He shuffles around on his feet for a moment.

"He's out with Lucy right now, by the way. Got called for another interview. I don't know when they'll be back..."

You take time to look around the home. It's changed so much. What catches your eye most is the door on the landing. It is wide open. The house no longer smells of burnt toast but of fresh paint and new carpet. Everything smells new. There was no death glow beaming down the stairs. There is nothing. Just an empty room where the paint continues to dry.

"Where's Jess?" You whisper, and George joins you in looking up the stairs at the swinging door.

"He's managed to move on from some things," mumbles George. He fixes his glasses. "Just some things, though."

George then turns and goes into the kitchen. You and Holly follow. George starts the kettle and takes a seat at the kitchen, as do you and Holly.

"How's Liverpool? Last time I heard from you, you said it was quite drab," asks George, trying to make some nice conversation.

"It still is," you chortle and poke at the new thinking cloth on the table. It made you sad. Out of all the things you thought would remain the same, you didn't think the thinking cloth would be an item to go. "It's not as bad as London is, most of the time..." Your thumb rubs over an ink blob that contains Lockwood's handwriting. You stared at the same handwriting on all the letters he sent you for months, and for many more, you wished you could see more of it.

You and George continue to speak quietly. You learned more about Holly as she started warming up to you, too. George fixed your tea, making it just the way you liked it. It touches you that he remembered.

You try not to focus on the time and instead hone in on the conversation at hand. Before you knew it, it started getting late. Really late.

You glance at the clock on the stove. It reads 7:45 PM. When you look, so does George and Holly. The room falls silent.

"You could... spend the night. I know Lockwood won't mind," says George.

Suddenly, you all shift. The front door unlocks and swings open. Three voices enter the house. You all stand. First George, then Holly, then you.

"I'm fine, I told you. Don't touch me! Let me go!"

You recognize that voice all too well.

"Lucy, do you think you can get him upstairs?"

"I don't think so. He's too heavy."

"Lemme go, you bloody idiots," Lockwood grumbles. There was rumbling, and things were knocked over. A glass breaks. "Ach, bloody hell... who the fuck put that there?"

"Aaaand there he goes," one of the voices you didn't recognize sighs. George steps into the hall, and so does Holly. It was too crowded to see much.

"What happened?" Mutters George.

"He got asked a question that was a little too sensitive. Took it too hard and got something to drink because of it. A little too much to drink," says a female voice. "I asked Quill to help me get him home. He kept smacking me away every time I tried to take away the bottle of whiskey away from him."

You step into the hall, finally. Heads raise.

"Who's she?"

The heads turn. You recognize Quill Kipps, an agent who also frequented the pages of The Times. You also recognize Lucy Carlyle. You look down. Long legs in dress pants are slipping and sliding on the tile floors, trying to stand. You look away, back up at the eyes staring at you with curiosity.

"Hi," you murmur and introduce yourself. "Pleasure to meet you all."

"Who the hell..." More things rattle. Your heart races as you watch him stand. He swipes his hair back, eyes closed, and a cocky, drunk smile on his face. His eyes open slowly, and they then focus on you and stop. His smile wavers.

"Here we go," mutters George.

Your eyes burn with tears, and you stand straight as he stumbles slowly forward. He shoves Kipps and George out of the way when they try to steady him. Nothing stops him from reaching you.

Lockwood's long arms wrap around your waist, and his nose buries into the crook of your neck. You feel him breathing you in and starting to melt against you. It's all silent. He starts to shake, and you hold him to you, afraid he might fall and actually hurt himself.

"I missed you so much, my sweet girl..." He whispers. His breath is hot and shaky against your skin. You feel hot wet tears streak along your skin as he nuzzles himself deeper.

You put your hands on his shoulders and try to push him away so you can see his face. He allows only that. His brown eyes search yours. His pupils are blown, and his pink lips are slightly agape. He goes to push his forehead against yours. His lips are so close to yours again. You can smell the whiskey on his breath.

"I waited for you for so long," he whispers and leans in.

Before he can get too close, your instincts kick in.

You smack him across the face so hard his body tilts to the side. The sound echos through the hall. He stumbles again and has to put his hand on the wall to catch himself. He raises his hand to touch his stinging cheek. It's bright red, and he immediately flinches as soon as his hand comes into the slightest contact with it.

George suddenly grabs Lucy's sleeve and starts dragging her away. Kipps and Holly follow as well, a little too quickly. You and Lockwood are then alone.

6.

"That wasn't very nice..." mutters Lockwood, pouting like a petulant baby as he puts himself back together.

"I hoped it wasn't," you mutter, wiping the tears from your face. "Maybe it'll fucking sober you up so I can finally tell you what a piece of shit you are and have the chance you'll listen to me for once."

He actually chuckles and leans his back against the wall. He rubs his cheek and looks at you, as if he still can't believe you're here. He's smiling, and the tears are still present in his eyes. You stand there, unable to look at him and rocking on your heels. You keep rubbing away the tears, then fold your arms, trying to quiet your sniffling.

"The fuck is your problem, Anthony?" You hiss again.

"Don't believe I've got one, sweet girl," he chuckles again, tilting his head and taking his hand off his smarting cheek. "But we could make one. Me aaaand you. In my beeeed."

He slowly tilts himself forward and stands up straight. He glides across the hall in one long step. You're tempted to slap him again. Instead, you just shoulder-check him and head straight to the door. You shrug on your coat and open the front door.

"I've got something to show you," you say to him and point to the road outside. "So get your sorry ass out of the house, and you better sober up a little before I smack you again and make you."

Lockwood looks at you, his lips pursed. He wipes his mouth and blows a raspberry. He looks at the ground, rubbing his shoe on the new entrance rug.

"Whatever you want, sweet girl. You know I'd die for you."

7.

"Aha, I think I know where you're taking me!" Lockwood beams and grunts as he pulls himself up over the ledge of the small graveyard. He drops down and dusts himself off. He still has that dorky, drunk smile on his face as he looks up at you, and he puts his hands in his pockets. You have to turn away and walk deeper into the tiny cemetery, shuffling through knee-high grass and over abandoned tombstones.

"You know, if you wanted me to cry out all the booze I drank, you could have just hugged me back when we were at the house," he chortles, but once he came upon his family's graves, he stops. There is a freshly dug grave sitting right next to his sister's. The shovel is sticking up from the mound of dirt beside it. His smile drops as soon as he sees this. You see it, and as soon as he sees you see it, it pops right back up like nothing has changed.

"What is all this? Certainly not the... homecoming gift I was hoping for..." He says, breath lost and choked up. He rubs the back of his neck and clears his throat.

You walk right up to the head of the empty grave and point at it.

"Get in," you say.

"Pardon?" He stutters.

"Get," you point again, "in."

"Why?"

"Well, you've obviously had a death wish since I've left. You made England's biggest agency collapse and nearly died doing that, too. You've been shot and stabbed I don't know how many times, and it's driving me insane that you keep doing this. You keep getting hurt, and it's not by ghosts. You're getting yourself into shit that I don't know about and I'm so afraid that, one day, I'll pick up a fucking paper and your obituary is going to be the first thing I see," you tried to keep yourself from yelling. "So you wanna die so fucking bad!? Then die then! Get in the grave and see what it's like! Show me what I came all the way from fucking Liverpool to see!"

He just stares at you, almost in disbelief.

"This is a nice joke," he laughs. He raises his hands and beams. "You got me! I'm sober! I'm good!"

"I'm not joking."

You storm back around the grave to face him.

"Get in the grave, Lockwood."

He scoffs and laughs. His eyes roll and he shoves his hands in his pockets again. His tongue clicks and he leans forward, getting face to face with you.

"No."

Oh. His smile makes you want to slap him twice as hard. You purse your lips, and your jaw ticks from side to side. Upon your silence, his smile keeps growing.

"This was nice, but now it's time to go back home and get something to eat--"

You grab him by his collar and shove him toward the foot of the grave. He spins, his arms flailing wildly to try to catch his balance. He gets his footing, just as his heels teeter right at the very edge. His arms still whirl around like windmills. His look of panic transforms into flushed embarrassment. He smiles again. God, that smile.

You pick up a rock and chuck it at him. Unfortunately, that's the one thing to send him over the edge.

Your eyes go wide as he yells out and comically falls backward into the grave. You heard him land with an 'oof' and loud thud.

8.

You run up to the edge, get on your knees, and look down. You are worried at first, but slowly feel that worry ebb away.

He is lying on his back, legs up in the air. His navy blue socks, covered in a sailboat pattern, are now covered in dirt and dust. You huff and glare at him as his legs fell to the ground. Another cloud of dust plumes at his theatrics. He coughs a little bit, trying to catch his breath after the fall. You watch him take a deep breath and huff.

"Did it hurt?" You ask.

"When I fell from heaven? Not really, but I scraped my knee pretty bad crawling my way out of hell--"

You throw another rock, and it pings right off his chest. He yelps and croons. He curls himself into a little ball, as if that will shield him from being pelted further by rocks.

"Okay! Okay, I get it. No jokes. All serious," he let's out another deep breath but remains in his protective ball formation. "Yes. It hurt quite a bit."

"Good. And you deserved it too, since your the biggest twat I've met on this side of the world."

"You've met other twats like me?" He teases.

"Sure. Never as big as you, though."

You sit there in silence for some time. There are so many questions running through your brain, but your mouth runs dry, and you don't want to ask any of them. You force yourself, though. If you were going back to Liverpool the next morning, you'd be going back with long awaited answers.

"Why did you stop writing back to me?" You ask.

He sighs. He doesn't respond. You clump up a wad of dirt in your palms and throw it at him.

"Hey, will you cut that out!?" He barks, looking up at you. You throw another wad of dirt and hit him square in the face. It knocks him back onto his back. He's spluttering and snarling at the same time.

"Are you gonna answer my God damn questions? Or am I going to have to keep throwing dirt at you? I could do either, honestly. Seeing you look this pathetic makes me feel powerful."

"Oh? Does my misery turn you on?" He mutters, wiping dirt from his cheek.

"Shut up and answer me."

He sits up and tries to shrug off the rest of the dirt on him. He clicks his tongue and leans his back against the wall of the grave.

"Barnes found out I was contacting you," he says softly. "And told me to quit."

"And you listened?" You scoff.

"Not initially, no," he says in defense. "But I had to, eventually. One day, he just showed up at our doorstep and told me if I sent one more letter, I'd be fined."

"That sounds like bullshit," you say, folding your arms. You take a seat at the edge of the grave and let your legs dangle.

"I thought so too," he laughs, "until he hand delivered me a blue slip saying I owed one hundred pounds for an obstruction of privacy between a privately employed agent, and an employed agent of federal law. I still thought it sounded like absolute rubbish and sent another, but in came just another fine. Then, I was two hundred pounds in debt. I actually just got that paid off, by the way. There was a time when I tried to send another, but George nearly lost his marbles when I attempted it. Another hundred added to our debt was the last thing he wanted. That bloody bastard wrestled the envelope from my hands. He's actually much stronger than what he lets on."

You smile. The thought of George actually initiating physical contact with Lockwood amused you. You look up at the setting sun. The sky is a beautiful salmon and orange color. You sigh.

"So when you stopped talking to me, it wasn't intentional?"

"Of course it wasn't," chortles Lockwood. "You're my favorite person in the entire world. God would smite me before I'd ever purposely give up on talking to you. And I'd been planning on sneaking away to Liverpool for a holiday, but... well, I've had quite a few pairs of eyes on me for some time now. I didn't want to bring the danger to your front door."

"Anthony, your trouble in a man-shaped package. There's always some danger lurking in your corner," you laugh and he laughs too.

The silence is more comfortable now. Less tense, now that some weight has been released.

"I really did miss you," he then whispers. You almost strain to hear him. "I tried so hard to find someone to fill the gap you left, but I... it was impossible. There's no one like you out there in this world. No one as special. No one I could love as much as I do you."

Your heart stopped.

"You love me?" You whisper.

"I'm crazy about you. Of course I love you. Ever since I met you in Scotland Yard and I signed your cast," he smiles fondly at the memory. "I know that was probably at my least attractive point then, with a bloody tissue shoved so high up my nostril, it tickled my brain, but I just knew there was something about you. And when you first called, my heart was going so fast. You can ask George about it when we get home. He'll tell you all about how I nearly collapsed at the sound of your voice."

You laugh again, and it's like the sweetest song he's ever heard. He'll do anything for that sound. He'll do anything for you, alone.

"I saved all your letters," he says. "I have your picture by my bedside. I dream about having you by my side, every single night."

"Now you're just starting to sound cheesy," you scoff and smile. He keeps smiling right back up at you. That million giga-watt smile. He had your heart in a steadfast hold, and you knew it.

"Cheesy is my middle name," Lockwood hums. He picks himself off the ground and stands up. His hair is riddled with dirt, and his white shirt is stained brown in many spots. He watches curiously as you hop down into the grave. You teeter and struggle to land on your feet, but he's there to save you, like he always is.

His arm wraps around your waist and pulls you close to him, preventing your fall. His free hand cups your cheek and brushes away a small tendril of hair.

"So now you know my story," he beams. "I get to ask a question now. So, I missed you. That much is obvious. But... did you miss me back?"

You stood there, looking at his smile, feeling the way his thumb traced your spine just how you remember and ogling him. Not too long ago, you thought you'd never see him again. You're so glad that you were wrong then.

You lean up and kiss him. He's fast to kiss back. You don't push him away this time.

He lets you breathe once you both are satisfied and breathing hard. He looks right into your eyes.

"Grant a crazy man one wish?" He murmurs, eyes sparkling and rejuvenated. This was the return of the Anthony you knew. "Stay forever. Here. With me."

"Crazy man doesn't mean reckless or suicidal man, does it?" You giggle.

"I will fight to the very last inch of my life if it means I get to come home to you again," he whispers.

"Then you've got yourself a deal."