#she discarded them because ghosts were more interesting

[nelkcats]

Distant family

Danny didn't quite know how to feel when his mother asked him if he wanted to go visit his aunt for a few days. He assumed it was his Aunt Alicia but apparently not, which didn't leave him with much of a choice as to who it might be. He wondered if it was safe to leave Amity for so long.

Later, his mother rectified herself by saying she was more of a distant aunt of sorts, which didn't help the halfa's confusion in the least but he ended up agreeing to it. Mainly because Jazz asked him to take a vacation.

That's how he found out his aunt was Wonder Woman, because sure, why not, Aunt Diana seemed to be just as curious about his existence but didn't tie him up in her shiny golden bow so Danny considered it a win.

Apparently his grandmother was an Amazon that left Themyscira after falling in love. His mom had met Diana when she was separated from her homeland as a sort of united group of exiled Amazons.

Danny wondered what that meant for Jazz's future, at least he had a story to tell Pandora, she would be proud of his origins...probably.

[melancholyshadow]

Undressed

pairing: simon riley x afab!reader

word count: 1.2k

content warning: creeper!ghost, she/her pronouns, reader gets undressed while simon is in the room and she doesn't know he's there, mention of male masturbation, body descriptions, no actual smut but MDNI.

an: more cod stuff, whose surprised? i saw a tik tok, and i came up with this. so i hope you enjoy. let me know if i should write some more stuff, even send me some ideas! not proofread!

Weirdly enough, Ghost enjoyed safehouses. 

Maybe it was the quietness that fell over the house when everyone was way too tired to be loud.

Or the secludedness of the house, away from all the political bullshit. 

Even if most of them were in shitty condition. 

Or the size of a one bedroom flat. 

Which both of those statements could be said about the one the five of you were currently in now. It was dark and dingy, none of the overhead lighting worked, so everyone was guided only by the few table lamps scattered across the house. Most of them being used by Gaz and Price who were using them to light their maps, trying to figure out the best way to get to their next location. But Simon had stolen one to read, cooped up in the only bedroom in the entire house. 

It was an old novel, one he found on the dusty bookshelves out in the living room. Even for its age, it was quite interesting. Almost interesting enough for him to miss the commotion coming from the small kitchenette that was located right outside the closed door. It sounded like a loud frustrated groan, and the shattering of glass. 

That’s when the bedroom door flung open, and you walked inside. Ghost only briefly looked up from the book resting in his large hands. You were mumbling something under your breath, and that’s when he noticed a large red stain on the white-beater you were wearing, and even on your jeans. “God, fucking damn it.” You muttered, picking up your rucksack from its place on the ground, and throwing it on the bed which was accompanied by a large creaking noise under its weight.

You began rummaging around in your pack, pulling out what looked like another tank top and a pair of issued-thermals. He was almost positive you hadn’t noticed him sitting in the corner, because you began unbuckling your belt, more mumbled curse words flying out of your mouth, and something to do with Soap, who he assumed was the cause of your frustrations. Once your belt was undone, you began fiddling with the empty thigh holster you still wore. 

Your small fingers fumbled with the small multiple small buckles, shaking with anger. Ghost looked back down at his book, figuring you were about to change into a new set of clothes that weren’t so saturated with whatever that red substance was. His eyes started on the first sentence on the new page he had flipped to right before you barged into the room. But his brain couldn’t concentrate on the tiny-printed words, reading the same sentence three times. 

When he glanced back up at you over the top of the book, you had finished fumbling with the holster buckles, and it was discarded on the floor. Now ripping your belt from the belt loops of your pants, discarding it in the same place. You had the same issue with the button and zipper of your pants, unsteady hands trying to fiddle with something so small. He glanced back down to try reading again, trying to give you the privacy you deserved. He could just stand up and walk out, but he could have startled you, or made you even more mad for not announcing his presence in the first place. 

So, he sat as still as possible, trying to just keep his eyes off you. But that didn’t last for very long, after trying to comprehend the same sentence for the fourth time, his eyes glided back to you, almost unintentionally. You were now shimmying out of your jeans, struggling as they clung to you in their wet state. “Fuck you, Soap.” More muttering under your breath. Ghost’s eyes trailed over the newly exposed skin of your legs, noticing your calves, defined from the years of training. Your thighs, also toned, but more malleable, a slight jiggle when you move. He imagined himself leaving bruises on the insides of them, bite marks even.

He admired the white cotton panties that covered the apex between your thighs, and hugged the fullness of your ass. He couldn’t help but notice the small bow that decorated the front of them. Definitely not in regulation, but he couldn’t care less at this moment. His mind was running wild with thoughts of you. He would be lying if he hadn’t thought about you in this exact situation. Except usually, it was him undressing you instead. 

Ghost had been attracted to you since the moment he laid eyes on you, almost three years ago. But he was not the type to act on it, or even hint at it, unlike Soap and Gaz. It was no secret that most of the team, excluding Price, who had taken on almost a fatherly role to you. The remaining three had some sort of interest in you. It seemed only natural when you were the only female in an all male group, but everyone was respectful about the situation. Gaz and Soap would joke about certain topics with you, but at the end of the day they would take a bullet for you without any question. Ghost would too, obviously. 

Ghost shook his head almost cartoonishly, trying to free his mind of the thoughts plaguing him. He shouldn’t think about you this way, you were his comrade, and these thoughts were too distracting to have while on a mission. At least, he thought that until you pulled the soaked tank-top over your head, exposing your bra-clad chest. The bra was nude, perfectly matching your skin tone. It was also stained red, so in one quick motion, reaching behind your back, you let the bra fall to the floor along with your other clothing. 

Ghost only had a side-view of you, but your breasts were perfectly sculpted for your chest, everything he had dreamed of while cumming into his fist after a long day of pretending you had no effect on him. Ghost had completely forgotten the book in his hands, the cover falling closed. He was completely gawking at you, no shame, well, maybe a little. But that was the last thing he was thinking about at that moment. He was disappointed, as he watched you latch another bra around your chest, covering your breast once again. 

Next was a white tank top, similar to the one you had on earlier. His eyes wandered down to your ass, taking it in for the last couple moments. Who knew when, or if, he would ever see it again. You struggled with the thermals, swaying your hips back and forth, trying to get the tight-fitting garment up your legs. They fit you snug, not leaving much to the imagination, the other men would surely get a kick out of them, but Ghost was the lucky bastard who got to see you without any of it on. With one last huff and shimmy, you turned and walked back towards the door, ripping it open again. 

“Soap, I’m still gonna kill your stupid ass!” You exclaimed, slamming the door shut in one smooth motion before disappearing back into the kitchenette. Leaving Simon there, the book still shut and completely breathless. And not to mention a raging hard on.

[onpointedfeetandbrokendreams]

Day 7 - DBDA Week

Day 7 of Dead Boy Detectives Appreciation Week: 10th-16th June by @dbdcentral

A bit late but I did it! Thank you so much for organising this event, it's been a lot of fun! This is actually the first fic I wrote, then I got super self-conscious about it, but anyway here we are.

Also tagging @padfoot-lupin77 @jinchaeji and @lydiabop because they asked in the post.

Prompt: Memories

Relationships: Edwin Payne&Charles Rowland&Crystal Palace&Niko Sasaki

Tags:  Post-canon, Slice-of-life, Alive Niko Sasaki

TW: None

--

Edwin approached the package on his desk cautiously, memories of flames and the Night Nurse’s sudden appearance vivid in his mind. He relaxed when he saw his name in Niko’s pretty hand-writing on the wrapping paper. If she had anything to do with it, the package could not hurt him.

He examined the box, feeling its weight on his hands and turning it over with the care one would reserve for something fragile and precious.

Charles was not there, so he couldn’t extend his hand and wait for his best friend to put the letter opener in it like he would have on any other day. The thought was sudden, and it was discarded immediately, but it left a bitter taste in his mouth. He was still having some trouble in sharing Charles with the new members of their agency.

He noticed there was a pair of scissors on the desk, Niko’s doing as well for sure if the anime characters on the plastic handles were any indication.

Smiling the soft, affectionate smile he only reserved for the girl in question, he used one side of the scissors to open the package. 

There was a note inside, on a light blue card:

“A present for you, by Crystal and Niko”

There was a smiley face with heart eyes, and one with a funny scowl on the corner next to the names. It didn’t require a good detective to understand which one belonged to who.

Edwin tried to remember when was the last time he had received a present. Charles brought him books or interesting artefacts sometimes, but considering that they shared pretty much everything in their existence, none of them were entirely his.

Behind the card, he found a stiff envelope, from the weight and the size, he thought it probably contained a book. He tilted it to one side to let its content slide on his open hand.

When he saw what it was, a breath caught in his throat. There was a picture frame with a drawing of the office and the sign “Dead Boy Detectives Agency” behind the desk. The image of Charles leaning casually on the back of the chair with his charming smile, and his warm, beautiful eyes captured so perfectly that it could have almost been mistaken for a picture, if he didn’t know very well that ghosts didn’t appear in pictures. Sitting on the same chair, was a face he hadn’t seen in more than a hundred years, save for a fleeting moment, completely covered in blood in Hell. He barely recognized it.

He touched the drawing with trembling fingers, the emotion so strong it was overwhelming him. Drawn-Edwin had a satisfied smirk on his face, green eyes happier than he had ever seen them in a mirror when he was alive, he wondered if that was really how he looked like from the outside, and wished he had a way to find out.

Tears started streaming down his face, and he clutched the picture frame to his chest, like he was afraid it would disappear if he let it go.

It was in that same position that the other three members of the agency found him some time later.

Niko immediately understood what was happening, and moved to hug him from behind, her eyes teary as well.

“Oi Edwin, are you crying? Is everything okay?” Charles asked, clueless. Edwin smiled at him, to say that there was nothing to be worried about.

“I knew you would like it,” interjected Crystal with a smirk, sitting on the couch. She didn’t come too close, even if Edwin thought that he could almost hug her too in that moment.

“I-” Edwin tried. He wanted to say thank you, but he didn’t seem to find words big enough to express his emotion.

“Don’t worry, we know,” said Niko, letting go of the embrace and taking place next to Crystal.

“We found this artist online who accepted commissions,” Crystal started to explain, to fill the silence and give Edwin some more time to recover, he had never realised that she knew him so well - now he was certain he would hug her too. “It’s not been easy to make it work, because we didn’t exactly have reference pictures to show her. We told her it was for the cover of a book we were writing, and we described everything as accurately as we could. It took so many attempts, but we think she did an incredible job in the end.”

“We also paid her well,” Niko added, feeling it was important to point it out to avoid him feeling guilty about inconveniencing a human in her daily job.

“Can someone please include me in this conversation?” Charles said from behind the couch. He was standing with his arms crossed, and it almost looked like he was pouting.

Edwin didn’t want to separate from the picture, but there were few things he could deny Charles, if any, so he extended his hands and let him take it.

He was rewarded by a blinding smile on his friend’s face, one which rapidly scaled Edwin’s personal ranking of his favourites.

“Mate, it really looks like you,” he said in a whisper, his eyes fixed on the Edwin in the drawing instead of the real one in front of him.

Of course Charles would know how to immediately answer the question that was burning inside him but that he didn’t know how to ask.

It started a new wave of strong emotions. Edwin knew, on some level, that he was happier in his afterlife than he had been in life, and certainly a lot more than he had been in Hell, but now he had in his hands a tangible, concrete proof to confirm it. Seeing himself from the outside next to Charles, in the office they created, looking so peaceful and serene, made him feel like he was exactly in the place where he was supposed to be. There was nothing more he could ask for.

[intermittent-showers]

Part 3: Postponed Games & Rainy Days

When the rain ruins the day's plan, Tommy and Evan still make the most of it.

Read below or on AO3

---

"So, that was Hen." Buck said, tossing his cellphone on the coffee table before taking a seat next to Tommy on the couch. "She said the game was postponed."

Tommy stretched out a bit. "Mm, not surprising. That field would be a mess if they played on it in this rain."

"Yeah, I was looking forward to going, though, and so was Denny and Mara."

"We can take them next weekend."

Buck sighed but nodded. He knew Tommy was right, but it still annoyed him that their plans had been canceled. Hen had been so relieved when Buck volunteered both him and Tommy to take the kids to the baseball game today. Karen had to work, and Hen was not a fan of the sport whatsoever.

Shaking off the disappointment, Buck got up off the couch and headed into Tommy's kitchen, deciding he'd use today to make that new recipe Maddie had told him about. He had picked up the ingredients yesterday anyway, so he might as well do something productive with his day.

Reaching up into the cabinet above the stove, Buck felt two strong arms snake around his waist. With a kiss to the side of his neck and a tender squeeze, he heard. "You okay?"

The item he was searching for was completely forgotten in that moment. "Yeah. I'm... I'm fine."

"Evan."

Sighing, Buck turned to face Tommy. "It's stupid."

"I highly doubt anything going on in that head of yours is stupid. Odd, maybe... interesting, always... but never stupid."

"Promise you won't laugh?"

"Scouts honor."

"When I was young, my parents were... uhm... distant, I guess you could say? They'd make a promise to take me and Maddie somewhere and then when the day came... well, we never went."

Tommy leaned back, taking in the almost hidden pain on his boyfriend's face. "And you think that because the baseball game was canceled, you let Denny and Mara down."

It wasn't a question, but Buck still answered. "I guess? Maybe... I mean, yeah, I do."

"This situation is completely different. You didn't cancel the game, baby. The rain did."

Buck smiled at Tommy, suddenly feeling silly for allowing his mind to berate itself. "You're right. I know you're right. Sorry, my therapist says the same thing, but I still doubt myself sometimes."

"And that's okay. It means you're normal." Tommy chuckled when he got an eye roll from the younger man. "So, what are we making?"

"We? You don't trust me in your kitchen?"

"Key point there is that it 𝘪𝘴 my kitchen."

Buck shoved Tommy away playfully. "I'm making meatloaf."

"Can I observe the cook at least?"

"You mean, can you check out my ass while I zoom around 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 kitchen?" Buck looked back at his boyfriend, who was raising an eyebrow in his direction. "Always."

"You're a menace. You know that?"

----

Half an hour later, Buck slid the meatloaf into the oven and set the timer.

"Now, it has to cook for an hour. You wanna watch a movie or something?"

Without any acknowledgment of Buck's question, Tommy linked a finger through Buck's belt loop and pulled him close. "Or something." He said, hooking two fingers under his boyfriend's chin, making sure they made direct eye contact. "I really like you in my kitchen."

Buck grinned into the kiss, sighing happily when Tommy deepened it, all the while expertly untying the straps of Buck's apron.

The kiss broke abruptly, allowing Tommy to slip the apron over Buck's head, discarding it somewhere on the floor. Then, with a growl, Tommy lifted him onto the counter, eagerly taking up refuge between Buck's legs.

"Someone's eager."

"You said we only have an hour, right?"

Buck reached down, grabbing the bottom of Tommy's shirt before helping him remove it. "Probably closer to fifty-six minutes now."

Laughing, Tommy brought their lips together once more, one hand anchoring them both to the counter as the other cradled the back of Evan's head. He shivered, feeling the warmth of Evan's hand running up his bare chest, ghosting over his nipple before continuing its descent down to the hem of his pants.

Tommy pulled away slightly, both of them gasping for air, yet both still willing to drown in one another. "Think we can beat the clock?"

One nod was all it took for Tommy to grab Evan's wrist and lead him straight into the bedroom.

[loganwritesprobably]

Day 10 - First Kiss

Mila belongs to @bloglophop, Grave belongs to @imveryyellow, Cornelia belongs to @frillsinadress, Iskra belongs to @skullfacedlady, Teume belongs to @discordantwritings and Marsh is mine

Tags/Warnings: Mila/Law, Mila/Marsh, Mila/Grave, Mila/Cornelia, Mila/Iskra, Mila/ Teume, kissing booth, this is just a little silly, first kisses, french kissing, height difference, teasing, praise, pet names, mild mature content Word Count: 2113

Mila had agreed to this only because her brothers had asked so nicely. They’d heard stories of how well loved MIla was across the Grand Line and through the blues, and had suggested a little game to earn some extra cash.

Pay for a kiss from Mila, just a couple of berri per kiss.

It was genius, if you asked Alfons, and was sure to make them a quick buck. So, advertisements were made and sent out across the globe, two weeks ahead of the event to give people time to travel - and travel they did. He stood in front of the booth, looking around the various people gathered just for his sister. A pang of something he didn’t recognise resonated in his chest, but he pushed that down. This was good for them, and he didn’t care how Mila felt about it. He didn’t.

With a den den in hand, Alfons announced the opening of the booth, with several of his brothers working to keep the line in order, collecting payments and handing out numbered tickets for the order of the kisses.

Mila sat in her little chair, shuffling nervously. She was antsy, interested to see who would come to an event like this - it was just her, after all, there was nothing special about it. Just a few kisses. Then the people started coming, and they seemed to keep coming. So many people that she’d delivered to over the years of her being a mail carrier, all here just for a kiss. She was a little blown away.

An hour in, she saw a face that she recognised far more clearly than the others. Marsh Linwood. He was a dear friend of hers, a safe place for her to go on her travels for some rest, or a clean change of clothes.

“Marsh.” Mila said softly, making her friend smile.

“Hey kit. Had to come check this out when I got the ad from the news coo. Looks like you’re making a pretty penny.” He said, taking a seat in the stool opposite the smaller woman, hands resting loosely in his lap.

“Guess so.” Mila said, still trying to force her brain to catch up with the fact that Marsh wanted to kiss her. Marsh.

“Well.. I believe I paid for a kiss.” Marsh prompted, reaching over the booth between them to take Mila’s hand in his own, rubbing the pad of his thumb gently into her palm to keep her calm and hopefully help her relax. Mila didn’t have any words to respond, rather just nodding her head. Marsh chuckled and shifted his chair to be closer to her rather than on the other side of the cute pink booth, his knee slotting between hers.

“Is this okay?” He asked softly, voice just a whisper, his breath ghosting over Mila’s lips.

“Yes.” She replied, barely audible, yet her words were sure. Marsh closed the limited remaining distance between them and gently pressed his lips to Mila’s.

The first kiss was short and sweet, their lips only softly brushing each others, and there was a brief moment after where both considered the repercussions of moving in again. Then both discarded them. Marsh leaned in first but Mila moved faster, lips moving eagerly against each other, and soon Marsh’s tongue was in her mouth, hands moving over her body not so innocently. They parted again, softly panting, and Marsh smirking.

“I’d say that was worth my berri.” He joked, and a little disbelieving giggle worked it’s way out of Mila’s mouth. “Good.”

Alfons was rushing Marsh away after another moment, and the look Marsh gave the man was a promise of something to come, though none of the three of them knew exactly what.

A few more people passed through before Mila saw another friend. He hardly fit into the tent, comically bent down so that he wouldn’t ruin the decor or manage to rip a hole in the canvas. The chair was far too small for him, so instead he knelt down in front of Mila.

“Grave.” She said with a smile, still made nervous by him after all this time, but it was getting easier slowly. He didn’t say much, just regarded her for a moment.

“Did you agree to this?” He asked, which caught Mila quite off guard. “Oh! Yes. Alfons thought it was a good way to make some money for the family, so I agreed.” She explained, and Grave looked as if he wasn’t sure about her answer, but made no further comment. “They’re not charging as much as they should be.” He said instead, and Mila just shrugged. She didn’t really know what the value of a kiss was, just trusted her brothers to know what people would be willing to spend.

“You want a kiss?” Mila asked, to keep the interaction moving rather than him getting moved along before he gets what he came for.

“Uhm-” Grave coughed to clear his throat, then nodded rather than trying to speak. Mila smiled and giggled, leaning forward so far in her chair that she almost fell out of it, then one of Grave’s large hands reached out to steady her, and their lips gently brushed.

Grave flushed darkly, then pulled away, though Mila could see his embarrassment for what it was. “I’m going to leave now.” He said, awkwardly shuffling to his bent standing position. “Okay. I hope I see you soon, Grave.” The man grunted and didn’t reply, heading for the exit. Mila hoped that he enjoyed their kiss, even if it didn’t last for very long.

After Grave, came another incredibly familiar face. “Vice Admiral Iskra.” Mila greeted, slightly nervous to have her so close by when her brothers were just outside, and definitely vulnerable to someone as strong as her.

“Relax, little one. I’m here for what I paid for, I’ll leave your precious brothers alone this time.” The marine said, stalking across the room to gracefully lower herself into the chair provided, looking intently at Mila. Under her intense gaze, Mila withered slightly, fidgeting in her chair once again. Something about the Vice Admiral’s eyes made her feel unsettled.

“Well, you’re in the right place then.” Mila murmured, feeling stupid for what she’d said the second the words left her lips - of course she was, that was the entire point of the whole booth. 

“I’d certainly hope so.” Iskra licked her lips slowly, edging closer and closer to Mila with a predatory smile. For a moment, Mila was sure the Vice Admiral would just devour her whole. The brush of lips was not gentle as it had largely been before. Iskra dominated the kiss wholly, leaving no room for Mila to move or take control. Long fingers wrapped around Mila’s upper arm and rested on her thigh, taking and taking until Mila was sure she was blue in the face from lack of air.

Iskra separated from Mila with a smirk. She wiped some rogue lipstick from Mila’s lips then gave her a wink. She moved like she was a liquid, all her movements infinitely more fluid than Mila could comprehend, and then the Vice Admiral was gone, leaving Mila to her next paying customer.

A dozen more people passed by, all getting soft kisses from their favourite mail hare, and her brothers were celebrating the large bag of berri they’d manage to collect from the losers. One of two brothers hesitated, glancing at the flap that led to her, and wondered whether this was wrong. But they were pirates, weren’t they? Surely wrong is what they do. Yet, the weird feeling persisted.

Mila’s next familiar visitor was a certain fishman, who could only grin as he entered the tent, one hand tucked into the pocket of his trousers while the other rested loosely by his side. Just his being there made Mila flush, his cheeky smile sending a rush through her. He had always been just so damn charming, and she couldn’t help being just a little taken with him. Though, like with most people that had passed through, her desire to keep relationships professional had denied her until now.

“Well little bunny, looks like you’ve gotten yourself into quite the situation.” Teume commented, quickly closing the space between himself and Mila. He dropped himself into the chair set for him, but turned it so he could lean against the back of it rather than sitting as he should in it. It made Mila giggle softly, she just couldn’t help it. “Something like that.” She replied with a nod and a small shrug, it was so easy to lose her words in front of him. “I hate to think something so terrible, but really I just couldn’t help taking advantage of it. I couldn’t just ignore the little flyer we got, I just had to know what my favourite bunny tastes like.” He said, voice softer, smirk almost predatory, and Mila would be lying if she said she didn’t enjoy it.

The day was slowly coming to a close and the amount of noise heard from outside Mila’s little tent was gradually decreasing, signalling the reduction of people waiting to feel the press of her lips. But, still there was noise outside, and so there was more to come.

A woman entered the tent next, and once she turned to face Mila she recognised Dragon’s personal assistant Cornelia. They’d become good friends over their limited interactions, and the thought that Cornelia would want to kiss Mila, not just Sabo? It made her little rabbit tail flick excitedly. Cornelia was just so pretty!

“Hey Mila - who got you doing this?” Cornelia asked casually, settling herself in the chair given for visitors. “My brothers, mostly Alfons and Felix.” She admitted freely, giving a small shy smile. There was no doubt that Mila hadn’t needed much convincing.

“Well, I’m glad. Sabo wanted to come too, but couldn’t manage,” she replied, and Mila nodded along to show that she was listening intently, “so I guess I’ll have to get my kiss, and his too, and I’ll give it to him next time I see him.” Mila’s eyes widened a fraction but she nodded eagerly. Who could say no to two kisses from Cornelia?

In the next moment, their lips were pressed together in a soft kiss. Nervous, hesitant, every marker for a first kiss between two people. It was sweet and gentle, everything you might want. They didn’t kiss for long, parting quite quickly, both flushing a light pink colour. “That was from me.” She said softly, the confidence she’d seemed to have on entering having dissolved away. Then, however, their lips met again in a more eager kiss, hands remaining placed respectfully on each other’s bodies, on arms and hips rather than breasts or upper thighs. Their lips danced together for a long moment, before they pulled apart for air. “That was from Sabo. I know from experience that he’s quite the gentleman when he wants to be. Not that you’d know that from the outside.” She added. They lingered for a moment longer, smiling and blushing, before Cornelia gave a quick and awkward wave and dashed away.

Finally, the voices had almost died out completely. One of the voices she could hear was clearly her brother’s, and he briefly stuck his head between the tent flaps to speak to Mila. “Last one. You’ve gotten through a damn good number of people today - just another day of it to go.” She nodded, hoping that tomorrow would be just as good as today had been. Everyone has been surprisingly respectful, and she’d been pleasantly surprised.

The final person to enter the tent was none other than Trafalgar Law.

“Hey Cottontail.” He said, his smile feeling something like home. Law and Mila were so far from strangers, legions from it, so much shared history between them and a deep set understanding. If soulmates were real, Mila was sure that Law was hers. “Hello Doctor.” Mila replied with a little giggle, gesturing to the seat in front of her. Law slinked over and lowered himself into it, sitting there with a comfort that said he’d been here a hundred times before, though it was his first time.

“I heard people were coming here for their first kisses.” He said, and Mila raised an eyebrow, unsure where Law was taking this.

“Sure have been. But this is far from our first kiss.” She said, smiling despite her confusion.

“It’s our first today.” He replied as he closed the distance between them, and then for the final time today Mila’s lips touched another’s, and this one just felt so right.

[charlizekkelly]

little mortal

Yandere prompt: “Let me go, please.”

Pairing: Reader x Deacon Frost (Blade 1998)

Word Count: 923

Authors note: Guess who rewatched Blade and needed to write something for this man because he’s criminally unappreciated…yup. Me. I’m clearly a whore for murderous vamps.

Silence clamoured in her ears, deafening and resolute as her heart collided with her ribcage and her gaze darted across the room in search of an escape. The white walls were devoid of windows, the frigid tiles beneath her bare feet polished and gleaming as her stare locked on a door moulded into the walls and she rushed toward it.

Her fingertips skittered over the seamless design, trembling despite the tight grip she held on her emotions as she tried to find a way to open it–to escape. To live. The white-bathed room unnerved her, drenching her mind with a terror she longed to dispel because she knew it wouldn’t save her.

Not now.

Not when his lackeys had tossed her into the simply furnished room, left to await his appearance like he hadn’t been waiting months to drag her into his domain.

Moreover, she knew she shouldn’t have hesitated in fleeing the city when she’d had the chance. She should have left without looking back. But she didn’t, instead, she’d fooled herself into believing that he’d lose interest. That he’d forget about her. That Deacon would let her go like she had foolishly assumed. How wrong–naive–she’d been to believe that he’d discard his twisted interest, that he’d lose sight of what he’d set his mind on. 

Her head swivelled to locate a phantom sound, focus shifting away from the door as she crept around the simple seating area and her footsteps echoed across the room. Something shifted in her peripherals in the same moment she froze in the middle of the room, the open doorway bathed in the room’s white light as she turned to face the slate-eyed brunette who leant against the door frame. 

His features seemed sharper, more intense than the last time she’d seen him from the opposite side of the club. His irises were as grey as the ashes of an inferno, alight with a disconcerting quality that trailed across her skin when he stepped into the room and his navy-blue dress shirt rippled with the fluid movement.

A sharp breath shuddered past her lips, ghosting the walls as she skittered several paces back with each step he took in her direction. Desperate to create space between herself and the dark-haired vampire who’d tracked her every move in the months after he first laid eyes on her at the club–his club. Her heart jolted in the caverns of her chest as Deacon’s lips curled into a dangerous grin at the sound. 

“Oh, sweetheart. You’re not afraid of me, are you?” He drawled, continuing his approach like she sought to keep the distance between them.

“N-no.” She said, shaking her head as if it’d purge her body of the terror she felt. 

Deacon cocked his head, gaze sparking with a baneful glean. “No?”

“No,” she repeated firmer than before as she squared her shoulders and her back collided with the wall.

Dread borrowed within her chest as she glanced at the wall, turning ever-so-slowly back to Deacon when the weight of his gaze seemed to sink into her and she startled as his proximity registered in her mind. Mere centimetres separated them as she swallowed nervously and moved to slip away from him before he moved quicker than she could comprehend. 

A mocking tut filled her ears as his hand wrapped around her bicep, steering her backward until he caged her between himself and the wall, elongated canines catching her eye as he peered down at her with a grin. Deacon released her bicep in one breath, and in the next, his fingertips trailed a salacious path from her arm, across her chest, to the column of her throat.

Her eyes widened a fraction before she schooled her features into a mask of frigid disinterest. Like his hand wrapped snuggly around her throat or the way his opposing hand rested upon her waist and bracketed her against the wall didn’t scare her. That he didn’t scare her.

Deacon’s stare appraised her silently, chest pressed to hers as his scent of cedar and cigarette smoke filled her lungs and his honeyed voice reverberated in her ears. “Not so fast. You don’t get to leave now that I have you.”

“Please.”

His dark eyebrows arched, head lowering so his lips brushed the shell of her ear–the danger of his proximity shunted to the forefront of her mind. “Please what? Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”

“Let me go, please.”

A low hum emitted from the depths of his chest as his lips pressed a possessive–claiming–kiss to the junction beneath her ear and the beginning of her jaw. “I can give you anything else, little mortal, but I won’t give you that.”

Her gaze darted across the plains of his face, searching for the answers she sought as if it was etched into the ivory tone of his skin. “Why not?”

“Because I can’t do that.”

“You can. Just–please let me go.”

His head lifted from the crook of her throat, eerily grey irises locked on hers. “No.”

“What?” She pressed, a frown etched across her forehead.

“You’re mine, little mortal, and you’re not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.”

And before she could react or try and fight him off, his grasp tightened on her. The hand wrapped around her neck tangling in the tresses of her hair, tipping her head back as his unnatural canines sunk into the flesh of her throat and her screams of agony rented in the marrow of her bones.

[tuliptired]

He's Good People Ch.3

Chapter 3: I Didn't Mean to Take Up all your Sweet Time (I'll Give it Right Back to Ya, One of These Days)

Pairing(s): Gn!reader/Ray, Gn!reader/Egon, Gn!reader/Winston

Summary: (Winston centric, briefly Egon centric) To get out the firehouse, you 're invited for a day out on the town with the "common man" of the Ghostbusters, and he won't stop opening doors for you

Warnings: Reader wears masc presenting clothes for like one paragraph

THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE :((( hope a longer update makes up for it!

read it on Ao3!

  It was fairly late into the night. You felt weird about going to bed while none of the others had returned, like you were overstepping. You were content with being curled up in a chair as Egon annotated a book in the dimly lit lab. He had offered you one of the many works from his personal collection, but the words started to lose their meaning after the first handful of pages. Maybe he ought to read it to you, instead. You set the book aside, much more interested in watching him. He had his sleeves rolled up again, fairly unnecessary because he was only working with paper and pencil.

He discarded his work for the second time that day, looking over at you. The need for sleep was creeping up on him, as his eyelids sat low and his gaze remained soft. 

"I´m sorry for boring you."

"I´m not bored. Are you tired? You don't have to stay up with me."

He put the pencil back into a mug full of others. He rose from the workbench, opening the book to a heavily noted page. Crossing over to where you were sitting, Egon joined you, holding it open for you to see. There were large, square photos of terrifying looking sculptures. Upon further inspection, they were really just recreations of exotic animals. A boa constrictor, an alligator, a giant salamander, a…platypus. Behind each of them stood a Victorian era man, beaming with self-worth at the spectacles surrounding him.

“See him?” He pointed to the man. “That’s Benjamin Fairhooke. He had a penchant for imported animals. And too much money. So much so he had the theater near your building constructed to show them off.”  He turned the page to a large spread of the theater in the late 1800’s, advertising an oddity show.

“They started showing plays and operas soon enough. But everyone knew how passionate he was. Piranhas-in-the-bar sink, frogs-on-the-staircases-passionate.” There was a photo of Fairhooke next to a woman. Despite her exquisite clothing, elegant features, and extravagant jewelry, she had a fairly sour expression, while he still beamed at the camera, an iguana in his lap.  

“That was his wife, Claira. Their marriage was falling apart while ticket sales peaked. They held their son’s wedding reception in the lobby of the theater.” He had a grainy photo bookmarked. There was a newlywed couple, normal. Claira’s in the background, though. Not happy her son was just married, but instead staring down the barrel of the camera like it was a gun.

“She had just found Benjamin in a parlor, tending to a snapping turtle. She got so mad, she took the shovel from the fireplace and managed to decapitate him in 10 minutes.” Holy shit.

He could feel your shock. “I know. She left him there for the rest of the night. They searched for weeks, until they found his body. She told them everything- just not what became of his head. His animals went missing, and his kids wanted nothing to do with the theater. Local legend says that the souls of his then neglected animals are still searching for Claira. Anywhere she could be. But it fell into obscurity. Everyone who believed in it died at the turn of the century.” He shut the book.

“So. The ghosts of a bunch of critters are running around my block, looking for his murderer? And one ended up in my washing machine?” 

“Essentially. I’ve wanted to investigate since I heard the story, but it was always word of mouth. I only just found it buried in an anthology of neighborhood ghost stories in Ray’s store.” He sighed, getting up and placing the book back into its place on his shelf. “He was pretty excited about my findings. He always is. But he’s been dragging his feet about it.” Egon looked worried, if not at least a bit frustrated, as he took a seat back next to you, knees touching unintentionally. You could understand, this was his longtime friend, after all. This all seemed very perplexing to him.

“Maybe he’s just scared? Of what he’ll find?” The words really don’t serve much purpose other than to soothe his nerves- they don’t convince you, even as they fall from your lips. Ray was a discerning and generally happy man, but he was still brave. He wouldn’t be a paranormal expert, a Ghostbuster if he was scared of what he loved.

You could tell his fears were still there. You placed a hand on his, silently grateful as you felt that they were still the same hands you held earlier.

“I promise, the moment I can get back into my apartment I’m gonna look for the key.”

There was the predecessor to a smile, before he had a look that read as accepting defeat. “I apologize for you being stuck with us so long. Only a day more.” Before you could protest, tell him that you’re having a wonderful time and you’re sorry for being in their hair, you heard cursing downstairs, followed by heavy steps approaching, making you jump.

Ray and Winston joined you upstairs, covered in thick, oozing slime of some sort. Winston held a smoking machine like the one Ray had after cleansing your house, only this time a bit more scratched up.

“It wasn’t a mannequin at all. God-damned-ghost-komodo-dragon on its hind legs. Sprayed us bad- we hosed ourselves off 6 times on the way home.” Winston tried wiping the slime moving from his glove to his wrist off on his pant leg, only making the viscous substance spread more.

Ray didn’t look angry, but he wasn’t bouncing off the walls. “This is big. Y’know that old theater-”

“I already explained it.”

“You’re kidding.”

‘’No. I explained Fairhooke, Claira, the ghosts. All of it.”

Winston could feel the start of a petty back and forth, so he discreetly asked you to follow him. He laughed and shook his head as he went down the steps to the very bottom of the firehouse. You had seen this room when Ray brought you down for pajamas, and you recognized the door he had peeked into, but not what was on the wall. A large, red electrical looking panel stared back at you.

“Ray taught me how to do this when I was new here.” He went through the motions of showing you how they used it to hold ghosts. You were glad he took the extra step and explained what it really did under the surface, because lord knows you were puzzled.

“He even made a rhyme. ‘When the light is green, the trap is clean’”.

“Does this make me part of your team now?” You complain, purely jokingly.

“You don’t wanna be? I wouldn’t mind.” You had to hand it to him, he had a charming way of disarming you. He didn't give you time to respond, as he made his way to the laundry area. He came back with new pajamas, softer looking ones.

“I hope these are a little more personable.” He handed you a light purple t-shirt, and dark purple sweatpants. There was thought behind these, definitely not something they had laying around in the hamper. 

You smile at the consideration. “Thank you.” He returned it, very white teeth and all. He gave you privacy to change, and was peeling his suit off upon your return. It looked incredibly uncomfortable, the mire of today´s job trying to stick to his skin. He finally got the soiled jumpsuit off, and it stuck to the floor like a glue trap. As he stuffed it into the industrial washer, another one tumbled out a laundry chute and onto a pile of dirty, but not slimy, clothes. He sighed, carefully picking up the soiled suit and garments and placing them in, too.

“What is it, anyway?” You watched on as he poured a cocktail of different, unmarked liquids, which you assumed were non FDA approved cleaners for these kinds of unconventional stains.

He pressed the washing machine closed, turning a few knobs and pressing a few buttons. “Ectoplasm. As graceful as it sounds.” You follow him, as he makes his way back up the steps.

“Like sticky skunk spray.” He stops in front of the sleeping quarters, and it gives you a moment to wonder why exactly you were still following him. As you start to mull over it further, he places his pointer finger over his lips.

“We oughta get out of here tomorrow. Ray’s gone to bed without dinner. Bad sign. It’s not pretty when he and the professor get into it.” He explains, voice hushed.

“Are they okay?”

“They will be. Ray stresses for a day, but he always apologizes, ‘cause he’s scared to lose his friend.” Winston smiles familiarly, thinking of the men he’s grown to know well over the past 5 years since his initial hiring. You can’t stop the spread of warmth under your skin as you think, too.

“Kindred spirits. I hate to see them both so worked up.”

“They can’t help it. They’ve got a new distraction running around.” 

You don’t have time to process it, again, before he’s halfway back down the steps to the first floor. You lean over the railing, just as he passes Janine’s desk.

“Where are you going?”

He doesn’t stop walking, until he reaches the exit. “I promised my mom I’d stay over. Be up early tomorrow, ok? I’ll take you on a joyride.”

“Goodnight,” you wave, as he gives you a two finger salute, letting the door shut behind him.

You can’t really sleep- you don’t want to, anyway. Egon’s still upstairs, Peter’s with Dana, and Ray’s in bed by himself. As tempting as it is to go up there and console him, you really don’t want to come off as pushy. So, you had an apron tied over your front, sleeves rolled up and gloves on as you worked to scrub the slime out of blanched fabric. What a night.

The stickiness was seldom coming off, but you noticed progress. It would bubble and sud with the soap, but it was nothing a frequent rinse didn’t get rid of. The only problem was that it was thick, and it sat deep in the absorbent material. You lost track of the hours you spent, going down the line; Soaking, scrubbing, rinsing, scrubbing, rinsing, soaking- over and over. The need for sleep left you, as this housekeeping mystery kept you unwilling to give up until it was completed.

There was a click of the heavy door, and your thoughts of finishing the task as you feverishly scraped a suit against a large washboard suddenly ceased. Winston stood at the door, dressed and holding 2 cups of coffee-shop-coffee.

“Good morning,” his face was both impressed and fearful. You figured this was enough, as most of the slime sat mixed with now greenish water in the large sink. You carefully transferred it to the dryer with the others, and peeled your gloves off.

“Goodmorning,” you wiped some soap off your cheek with your wrist.

He handed you a cup. “You think you deserve a shower after all that?” You walked out the laundry with him, the warm liquid having the opposite of its desired effect as it made you the slightest bit sleepy. 

Your shower was quick and to the point. In the few days you’ve been there, your towel has had a permanent residence on a hook by the door, a fair distance from the other 4. You figured this would have to be your second day in the blue sweater, but you didn’t mind all that much. You managed to wash it as well the night prior, so it was dried and fluffed as it waited for you.

Winston ran into you on your way out the bathroom, something dark in his hands. He unfolded it, and stepped behind you to put it on your shoulders.

“What’s this?” You whipped your head around to watch his movements. 

“Had to pick this up from my mom’s, too.”

It was a dark purple jacket, the sleeves needing to be cuffed by him in order for your hands to appear. You could see a wide, black stripe wrap around the back and little pinstripes around the collar. You knew Winston was a more eccentric dresser than his coworkers, the brightly colored laundry telling you so, but to take something so nice from his mom?

“I can’t take this, She doesn’t even know me.”

“It’s mine. And it’s going to a good cause.” He drops your wrist. Taking a step back, he examines his work with a hand on his chin, an unsatisfied look on his face. He figures out what’s wrong, as he grabs the zipper from the bottom and pulls it up, the blue of the sweater underneath now hidden. There’s a pleased smile on his face as he takes another step back, before starting down the stairs.

“I’ll be waiting for you in the car,” and he disappeared.

While you were excited to get out again, to have some sort of normalcy for a day, but the urge to check the kitchen overtakes your legs. Your heart feared for the worst, you peek across the threshold, and you could’ve died then.

Egon was at the little table, pancakes, eggs, and coffee on two plates in front of him. The thing was, yours was untouched. He sat there, hands in his lap, face unreadable, until he noticed your presence. He didn’t light up, his features didn’t change, but you could’ve sworn there was a slight, upward twitch of the inner corners of his eyebrows. You felt a sort of nausea wash over you, that settled in your chest as you thought of what to say.

Walking towards him felt condescending, as if you were increasing the parameters of whatever obviously negative emotion he was feeling, but it was the proper thing to do. You folded your hands in front of you, unthreatening. Benevolent. He looked at you through his eyelashes, like a wounded animal. 

“I’m sorry. That I wasn’t around this morning.” To anyone else, this would seem melodramatic. A meal skipped out on between 2 people who have known each other for 2 days. But the way there was a flash of forgiveness, that you saw so often in the downcast faces of those young men and women around a coffee pot, weeks after their indulgence of passion. One of them did something. And the other so desperately wanted things to be okay again. They’d be engaged. You saw it on the faces of teenage actors, as their parents commented on a poor performance, before bringing them ice cream. It was the small injustices, from the people that you loved.

He opened his mouth to speak, before a honk from the garage cut him off. Winston was calling you, the unfortunate timing making you cringe.

“I’m sorry, again. I won’t be gone long.” He didn’t respond as you retreated to the door.

You reluctantly disappeared out the room, before appearing one more time.

“I’ll make it up to you.” 

You take your leave down the stairs, the garage door open as the Ecto-1a runs idly. Winston leaned over, opening the passenger door for you. Settling in with a huff, he turned to you as you pulled your seatbelt on.

 “Ready?” When you nod, he pulls the car out the garage, and onto the street. After a few minutes of driving from the firehouse, he reaches for the glove compartment, his hand emerging with a cassette in a purple case. 

“Hope you don’t mind Mj,” he grins as he slides it into the car’s slot. The singer’s voice fills the car, and he eventually joins in. He has an amazing singing voice, honestly, and you’re too compelled to take pleasure in his gaiety as he drives.

“The Jackson 5: Jackie, Tito, Marlon, Jermaine, and Winston,” you tease him. The city’s awake with you, as children took their lessons on the blacktop of the school’s playground, and grandmother’s bought fruit placed in their foldable carts. A handful of dogs howl as your highly decorated car passes by. 

“I could never take Michaels place,” Winston crosses his heart, the cassette starting to play a Stevie Wonder song. He nodded his head along to the beginning of “Signed, Sealed, Delivered”. 

He enjoyed himself for the whole song, even roping you into joining in. Eventually, he turns the volume down a few notches.

“What music do you like?” He questioned, nodding in acknowledgment as you listed off your current favorites. As he waited at a red light, he skipped a few songs, claiming that you’d like this one more after the inventory you gave him.

You take another look around, as the setting gets more and more unfamiliar to you. “Where’re we going, anyway?” You tilt your head.

“Right now, I’m thinking the music store. But I have other ideas, too.” He pulls up to the curb of an aptly named record shop, shutting off the engine and opening your door from the outside before you could protest. The inside was fairly simple, musical equipment sitting on shelves behind a desk, records stretching around the perimeters of the room, and cassette tapes in the square middle.

The layout intrigues you, as your brain pings at recognizable albums. You shy away from Winston, flipping through a few records in your favorite genre. He reappears at your side, a small box of blank tapes in his hands.

“Are you recording something?” You continue to browse. He shakes his head.

“You’re gonna need your own tape to play in the car. We all have one.” He peers over your shoulder casually, taking in music he’s never heard of. You shake your head apologetically, fearing the effort it’ll take. He picks up an album you’d been eyeing.

He turned to look at you, eyes earnest and eyebrows slightly raised. “Make space for yourself.” Simple words. He wasn’t asking a lot from you. But he was speaking to you- I want you to survive. I want you to live. 

You have nothing to do but nod your head, no point in protest. He has a pleased smile, and examines the album a little more before putting it down. Something else catches his eye, and he brightens, mouth open in awe. There’s a full stack of reddish yellow squares, and he spins around to show you, eyes twinkling like a little kid.

“Tommy! I thought you didn’t carry Hendrix!” He chides the man excitedly, flipping the album around. You stand behind him to read the song list as well. Tommy merely shrugs.

“Best guitarist since Berry,” he proclaims to you. “Absolutely insane sound.” He had such a look of delight on his face. It was different from Ray’s- it wasn’t analytical, he probably didn’t know everything he could’ve about what he loved, but that only made him love it more. Winston’s joy was simple, but it wasn’t unimportant. As he talked on about the man he looked up to, his soft eyes crinkled, a wide smile meeting them. 

“I wasn’t allowed to play him.” He pulled out his wallet, paying for not only his newfound treasure, but the empty cassettes and your own personal favorite. “Not when I was at home, or when I was deployed.” Tommy handed him the items in a plastic bag. “But I paid my neighbor a nickel to let me when our parents weren’t home. I lost a lot of commissary that way, when I got older.” His story had a boyish tone to it, as he held the door open for you. He wouldn’t stop opening doors for you, insisting on it as you got in the car.

“Are you hungry?” His question makes you recall the other companion you’d forgotten at the firehouse, your heart filling with cement. You agree to lunch, knowing he really wouldn’t let you refuse.

Your next destination is a little restaurant, the area busier as midday approaches and working class America is looking for something to eat. When you enter (and he holds the door), there’s a teenaged boy behind the counter, packing orders and taking cash. The interior is smaller than you assumed, as the floor is taken up by the buffet-style kitchen behind the spot to order, and a  few tables and chairs. It smells amazing, though, and the menu looks even better. Winston watches you pridefully as you marvel over what to get, before his voice breaks you out of your stupor.

“Know what you want?”

“I can’t decide. It all sounds great,” you confess, the idea of choosing making your head hurt.

Winston chuckles at your response, guiding you to a little table and making you wait there as he chooses for the both of you. After letting some highschoolers get in front of him so they could get back to school before the hour ended, you see that he’s an exceptional conversationalist, becoming instantly acquainted with the people in line with him. He asks them about their day, listens intently, and when asked about his own he gladly replies with “day out with a friend,” pointing to you. You give a bashful wave to him and his newfound comrades.

He speaks familiarly to the kid at the register, counting things off his fingers, and even slipping him a bill that was definitely not a part of his total. He soon has two styrofoam containers in his hands, steam rising out the slight openings. He opens yours for you, the water vapor and aroma hitting you like a punch. There’s greens, mac and cheese, and fried fish staring you down as your eyes widen. While you were stuck in your hypnosis, he reached over, cutting your food for you.

It was like you died and went to heaven, before being sent back to finish your plate. You almost absentmindedly held onto the table to keep you tethered to the Earth. 

“You guys have kept me fed all weekend,” you say between rushed bites. It’s true- this is the best you’d eaten in a while. You swallow. “I can’t remember the last time I was able to stop and make actual food.”

“Egon treats you to breakfast, I treat you to lunch.” He raises his hands in a shrug. “Good?”

“Amazing,” you chew. “You seem to know this place well,” you suggested.

“I take lunch here everyday,” he wipes his mouth on a napkin.

“I can see why. Is it a favorite?”

“No, my favorite is the Jamaican lady down the corner.”

You raise an eyebrow, setting your fork down as he blissfully kept eating. “But…you know everyone here, they know you, you come here every day.”

He blinks. His tone is slightly quieted. “I know. But the owner’s trying to put his daughter through college. Any penny I can give to him counts.” He talks as if the act of selflessness was the simplest thing in the world. It amazed you, how easily kindness and servitude came to him. In your short time with him, he was nothing but humble and friendly with everyone he interacted with. The small smile that spread on your face was one of admiration, and genuine mystique at the kindly man across from you.

You chatted for a bit longer, about growing up, your families, before you were both finished. He tossed your trash, and bid the teen at the register goodbye before walking you back to the Ecto. Once inside, you couldn’t help but lean your head against the glass, your lack of sleep the previous night manifesting after eating so good.

“I think that knocked me out,” you tried hard to suppress a yawn in your throat as he turned on the ignition, soft rumbling making it harder.

“There’s a word for that,” he laughed. That was the last thing you could remember, before waking back up. The car was still parked in the same spot, and as you sleepily looked around, Winston sat in the same spot, peacefully reading a small book. Your stomach dropped as you noticed the time- nearly 3 o’clock.

“I am so sorry,” you stumbled through an apology, sleep still sticking to your panicked words. He simply took his reading glasses off, eyebrows raised as you rambled.

‘I don’t mind. I had my book.” 

“I didn’t snore, right?” Your skin burnt.

He paused. "It made a good ambience.”

You threw your head into your hands, Winston snickering at your expense as he started the car again. He drove out the area, sidewalk now full of families coming from school and work, in addition to teenagers loitering for a bit before they headed home. The scenery became less cozy and residential, and slowly became more retail, tall buildings advertising clothes and businesses. You recognized it as being your downtown area- albeit the parts you felt too low-income to pursue.

“What’s next?” You wondered if there was dried drool on your chin.

“I doubt anyone is talking to anyone back home.” Winston bit the inside of his cheek. He kept his eyes on the road, thoughts behind his eyes. He had a bittersweet look on his face, before speaking again. “When we didn’t have anything to do- or any spare money to do it with, my mom took my siblings and I to the department store.”

You’ve heard quite a few personal stories in the last few hours. Maybe it was his way of connecting. You decided to probe. “What’d you do?”

His face softened a bit, recounting the positive parts of the memory. “All types of fashion shows. Found future gifts to our dad. Made our mom promise to find us shirts just like the ones on the rack- and she did. We pretended we were the richest kids in the world. Preacher’s kids, we weren’t…terribly poor. But there were reminders. Mom made it better.” He smiled fondly, despite the car being stuck behind a bus.

The car moved forward. “I’m sure she’s the reason you turned out so well.” The car suddenly stalled, and you were honked at from behind. Eventually, you were parked against the busy sidewalk of a wide, tall building. The sheer size was enough to intimidate, as you still sat in the car, gazing at the top of the structure as he had the door handle in his hands.

You were estimating the floor count, before you felt a hand grab yours. His palms were soft, slightly calloused, but warm nonetheless. He looked down at your conjoined hands, before simpering back up at you. “So you don’t get lost.”

As Winston guided you through the bustling floor, your anxiety was substituted for security. The makeup counter was absolutely packed, as were the prom dresses upstairs. That made a fair amount of sense, as the school year would be ending soon. While on the escalator, you can see all the patrons, hurrying in and out with their bags. At the top, something in the toy section catches your eyes. Winston lets himself be led over.

“What a find,” you take a rectangular box off the shelf. It’s a nearly identical Smokey the Bear plushie, just a newer model. There’s a tribute to the old one printed on the back of the packaging. Winston watched as you reveled in the coincidence.

You remember his presence, and the lack of context he has for you suddenly admiring a children’s toy. “Ray sleeps with an old one. Smokey’s seen better days.” Winston smiles as you place it back on the display.

“Why not get it for him?” 

You shake your head swiftly. “I’d be dishonoring your mom. I thought the point was to not  spend money?”

He picked the bear back up. “She also says that you can’t take money to the grave. Maybe it can be a goodbye present? We can find something for Egon and Peter, too.”

You think on it. At this rate, there wasn’t much for you to repay their kindness with. Well-thought-out gifts paid for with Winston’s money will have to do, for now. You agree, before disembarking to a clothing department. You end up in the men’s section, articulate and hip pieces you couldn’t even dream of affording. Winston gazes up at the flashy, electric purple suit vest on a mannequin, as you sit back on a chair behind him.

“You like that one?” You sit up.

He puffs out a laugh at the outfits' pure hedonism. “It’s a lot. Even for me.”

“And you want it,” you rise, skimming the racks for the matching pieces in his size as he protests. You wordlessly hand them to him, and he surrenders, disappearing behind the entrance to a men’s dressing room. In the meantime, you’d look for Peter’s gift. To be fair, you knew him the least out of the 4 men. But Winston had told you he messed around too much in the lab, and lost his favorite tie to a small fire. He apparently never had time to replace it, and Winston could remember the exact brand, style, and color, so you figured he could single out the one you were looking for out of a short stack of silky, red fabrics. 

As you waited in a warmly lit lounge area by the fitting room, he emerged, holding his arms out and up to model it for you. The satin of the cream colored undershirt fit around him nicely, the bright vest even coming in at his waist a bit. He had the full ensemble on, even down to the suede loafers. He looked like a moviestar, even if he was too humble to actually admit it himself, the price tag swinging underneath his arm. 

“It’s something,” He looked at himself in the mirror, hands on his square hips.

“It’s great, that’s what it is,” you say honestly.

“You like vampire-soul-train?” He turned.

You put your hands up defensively. “I love vampire-soul-train.” He continued to look indecisive about it, confidence visibly falling. “Are you gonna come back for it?”

“Where would I wear it to?” He peeked at the price tag one more time, dropping it like it burned his fingers.

You shrugged. “You don’t need an occasion. Sometimes it’s just fun to dress up. Ask Janine.”

He laughs. “I guess you’re learning from the best.” He looks down pleasantly surprised at what he’s seeing on the floor. “If anything, I’d come back for the shoes.” He looks at you through the reflection in the mirror. “Did you find anything?” 

You look around at the dozens of clothes behind you. “I guess not.” There’s a lot to choose from, and a lot of bright colors fighting for your attention. It’s all a little overwhelming, looking at clothes you’d fall in love with and never buy. You end up standing in the middle of the department, scratching your head swimming with uncertainty, until Winston taps you on the shoulder.

“They have it in your size.” So you matched. 

“We look like a magic act,” you tease him, remembering Peter’s tie situation. After he pinpointed the correct match, you admired yourselves a little longer- at least until the staff were tapping you on the shoulder and asking if you needed anything, courteous smiles twitching as they watched you saunter around in their merchandise. 

You looked at more things in different departments- jewelry that you tried to convince Winston to re-pierce his ears for, home decor you’d have if your place was bigger. Eventually, he gladly paid for the 2 gifts, the large bag in which they were placed sitting next to you at an ice cream counter. As you ate, you both came to the conclusion that Egon deserved a decadent little chocolate cake from the dessert store you were at, and you hoped it would keep in the fridge overnight. 

“You ready to go home tomorrow morning?’ He put his spoon in his mouth. Butter pecan. You groaned lightly. You wanted to give them their space- and their money back, but it was like the ending to a pleasant dream, going from companionship and a warm place to sleep in a hard time to a now-damaged apartment and job fairs.

“As ready as I can be. Thanks, for putting up with me this weekend.” You put your spoon down.

“You won’t get rid of us that easy. We’ll be there to help you clean up.”

“The 4 archangels. I promise, when I get back on my feet I’m finding new ways to repay you all.” He dismissed your offer.

“It’s the minimum. Louis’ office was in the boiler room for a bit, you know.” He lightened your guilty mood. As he smiled, you noticed the now dark bruise against his jaw. Impulsively, you reached out and manipulated his face gently. 

“Does it still hurt?”

There’s a crash from the first floor. You both rush to the balcony railing, watching as people run to the exit, as feral growls vibrate around the large store. Winston grabs your hand again, though less tender now, running down the steps of the now disabled escalator against waves of people running up instead. When you reach the bottom, you watch in terror as an angry alligator destroys the store. As you looked on, you could see that the tail of the beast was vaporizing in front of you, as it hissed out a slime like the one you worked to wash out early in the morning. This wasn’t just an escaped animal. It was a ghost. Winston came to this conclusion at the same time that you did, pulling you towards the exit and to the Ecto. 

“Should we call Peter and Ray and-”

He opened the door to get his equipment. “They won’t get here in time. And they won’t have any  of this.” He grabbed a proton gun, staring down at it before sighing. “I’m gonna ask you to do something very dangerous.”

Your eyes flickered down to the weapon in his hands, before your mouth fell open. “Absolutely not. Dr. Spengler said that it was ‘unregulated units of atomic energy.’” He ignored your protests, putting the proton pack onto you. He pulled the belt tight around your waist.

“It’s easier than you think,” he said hurriedly, adjusting the straps on your shoulders. “Have you ever flown a plane?”

You stare at him, eyes blown and wide, before burying your head behind your hands. He pries them off gently, placing them each on different points of the gun. “Well then it’s just like driving a car. You shoot the ghost with this, okay? Just keep holding onto him, and I’ll open the trap for you. We’re gonna do it, and we’re gonna do it together.” 

Before you could revel in him talking you through it, he’s pushing you inside. Herds of frightened customers cling to the walls, out of the way of the ghost, and make room for you and Winston as they quietly whisper to each other that help has come. The alligator is ripping up a display, the woman in the ad subsequently dressed in Victorian style dress. Winston creeps up towards it slowly, before advising you to stay behind one of the makeup counters.

“I’m gonna tell you when. When I do, hit this button. That’s all. Okay?” You purse your lips, nodding, and crouching despite the nerves being felt in your weak legs. He leaves you behind, the ghost with its back turned as it tears up the poster. From your hiding spot, you can hear it notice him, growling loudly as it charges. He signaled you, and you popped up like a toy, shaky fingers igniting the stream.

He did the same, exclaiming loudly as you immobilized the spirit. He advised you to raise it up slowly, as the phantom flailed around. 

“What now?” You called over the volume of the particle accelerator whirring like crazy on your back, separated from your skin by a spring jacket and a sweater. He didn’t have an answer.

He hesitated. “You didn’t manage to grab a trap while you were out there, did you?” You could have fainted.  You saw his stream falter. “I’ll be right back. Keep holding him- I’ll be two seconds!’

His stream stopped, as he sprinted out the door, nearly slipping on ectoplasm in the process. The ghost thrashed harder, trying to resist the force suspending it in the air. You felt like the weight of holding up an adult alligator suddenly, and your arms couldn’t keep up with its fight. Your stream gave out for a split second, and in that time it was free, and on the floor. It locked eyes with you.

Your cry for Winston echoed throughout the department store- hell, throughout the city as you ran as fast as your legs could take you around the floor once, then up one of the escalators. You skidded to a stop at the end, as the chaos of the escaping crowd managed to knock down a large glass case, sending glass all over the floor. Your momentum didn’t stop you soon enough, and you slid over the shards before falling to the waxed floor. The ghost got closer, sending your heart to your toes as it opened its mouth, expelling a wave of noxious green slime. You saved your pride, ducking out of the way at the last second. You only had a moment to celebrate your triumph, as a quick movement of its ghastly tail reminded you of its ability to interact- and harm, the physical world. 

You got back on your feet, before noticing Winston run back inside out of the corner of your eye. You needed to get back downstairs, but all of the possible ways down were blocked. A large decoration swung from the ceiling, reaching fairly low to the ground. The ghost was creeping closer, teeth bared. If you die, please let your soul haunt the firehouse. 

Your nerves steeled themselves for you, hesitating on the ledge, before taking your literal leap of faith as the ghost lunged forward. You squeezed your eyes shut, only opening them when you felt your sweaty palms make contact with the course rope. You slide quickly, before remembering you actually had to catch the violent apparition. You reach weakly for the gun swinging behind you, forgotten, and feebly aim your gun at the glass part at the railing where it watched you. The glass shatters in its wake, and as you continue your ride down the rope, the ghost is caught in your stream, the speed at which you’re moving dragging it through the air. You reach a safe enough distance to the ground, letting go of your hold on the rope and dropping on your knees unstably. 

Winston’s been watching from the floor, regaining his strategy as the ghost hovers ahead. He sets his stream on it, and kicks a trap directly below. Your ears are ringing, and your heart’s beating at a thousand miles a minute as he calls on you to lower the spirit. With diminished resistance, the ghost is caught in the trap, smoking rising to the ceiling. The entire store is quiet. The smoke reaches the alarms, setting off the sprinklers, and the hostages erupt in celebration.

Winston lays an arm around your shoulder, speaking low into your ear. “I told you, it was easy. You’re amazing.” 

But you're still in a daze, and Winston recognizes it as he gently guides you to the car, avoiding reporters and even a few policemen. Before he takes you to the passenger side and aides you down into the seat, he raises your hand for everyone watching the news in the tri-state to see. 

“Y/N came, saw, and kicked its ass!”

You don’t say much as he drives back to the firehouse, siren on. You suddenly startle back to consciousness, turning to him in disbelief. 

“I caught a ghost.”

“You sure did.”

You laugh weakly, rubbing your eyes. Your laughter picks up, before it turns hysterical. You crank down the window, sticking your upper body out in ecstasy. This was the most alive you’ve felt in your entire adult life, and you let everything in the car’s path know.

“I caught a ghost!” You cry out as the Ecto drives through the city’s streets.

[have-a-hiddles]

Within Your Heart, A Story To Be Told

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five

Pairing: Cardinal Copia/F!Reader

Words: 4.5K/16.4K

Warnings: Vague reference to suicide, but no such act occurs. Intense bullying both verbal and physical. Reader is a Sister of Sin and is written to be quite plump. Lots of swearing, both in English and Italian.

🔞 MDNI 🔞

A/N: I’m keeping Primo, Secondo, and Terzo alive. Because I fucking can. However, Sister Imperator is still the only one aware of Copia’s familial connection. Copia knows Imperator is his birth mother, but not that Nihil is his father.

Everything takes place circa 2018-2019 between Terzo getting dragged off-stage (30 September 2017) and Copia being anointed as Papa IV (March 2020).

Tucked away in a short hallway that only led to a janitor’s closet, hiding among discarded crates of merchandise, you struggled to breathe without sobbing. It was not the first time you’d had to utilize this barely frequented hiding spot. You’d been with the Ministry for nearly five years; yet you still remained unable to find your place. It seemed to be a lifelong fault of yours; never fitting in.

Your earliest memory was of being picked last for recess sports in elementary school; of stern-faced priests telling you to stop crying, stop being so sensitive. Boys will be boys and boys like to pick on their classmates. Maybe if you didn’t present such an irresistible target, they’d leave you alone. Always turning a blind eye to your skinned knees and bruised arms.

Middle school was no better. In fact, it was worse. Now, the girls got in on the bullying too. They mocked your chosen hobbies; reading, drawing, singing. The one time you got a solo in the school choir for a special Mass for some important visiting Cardinal, they made farting and oinking noises behind you, whispering and laughing just low enough that the Sister didn’t hear them. You’d faltered in your singing, trying desperately not to cry, your cheeks flaming red. You had worked so hard on this part! It was your favorite hymn! Sister had yelled at you and berated you for not practicing enough on your own. In the end, she took the solo away from you and gave it to another girl who wasn’t as good a singer as you were but was vastly more popular.

And high school? High school was pure torture. Everything that sucked about middle school, but now with hormones and heartache mixed in for a toxic cocktail. Other students now sought to humiliate you by dangling a mirage of hope. Some bold joker would sidle up to you to say something along the lines of: “Hey, my friend over there thinks you’re super cute. You should ask him out.” And naturally, naively you did, hoping against hope that said boy was telling the truth.

Said boy never was.

University life hadn’t treated you much better, although the overt bullying ceased. You tried to keep a low profile. Went to social events even though you were an anxious wreck the whole time; house parties that your exasperated roommates might drag you on, street festivals for arts and crafts by local artisans, concerts in crowded and often smoky clubs.

It was at one such concert that you first saw the band Ghost and had something of an epiphany. If the so-called “good” people were so horrible to you; then maybe the so-called “evil” people would treat you nicely. Twelve years of Catholic school with its mean nuns and creepy priests had soiled much of your interest in faith. You hadn’t been to Mass since graduating from Saint Hubert’s. Not even for Christmas or Easter. When you’d flat out refused to attend a Catholic university, your family had all but disowned you. And sadly, that changed very little for you. They’d never been much interested in you.

Then Ghost had returned to your city, now as their own headliner instead of an opening act. You’d ponied up the money for general admission tickets to the Haze Over North America tour even though the idea of being jostled around by a bunch of sweaty strangers made you feel nauseous. You’d queued up before anyone else even got there. You’d even caught sight of the band and roadies arriving, although you wisely did NOT rush over to them even though you really wanted to. You very briefly caught sight of Papa (still Secondo at that time!) in his full robes heading from a black SUV into the side of the venue.

You’d been all but clinging to the stage, watching them and, more importantly, listening. Secondo liked playing to the pit, often making eye contact with various individuals. He had a reputation of being something of a man whore and you could see where that idea had come from. Despite his papal robes and miter (or maybe because of it?), he exuded a dark and very tempting sexuality. Still, he didn’t see you, his mismatched gaze always seemed to go to someone just to your left or right.

Then came the encore, Monstrance Clock. The quieter instrumentals reminded you of that long ago choir that you had loved so much. You had closed your eyes to take it all in, your heart feeling as though it was expanding to press against your ribs, a shuddery sensation going through you. You were a virgin, yes. But you knew what an orgasm was; and although not quite the same, this feeling was very similar. Distantly, you remembered that many paintings and sculptures depicting a spiritual awakening often called them an “ecstasy”.

Hypnotizing horns of ram Paralyzing pentagram And the eerie sound of the monstrance clock Singing

Come together Together as one Come together For Lucifer's son

You then felt as though you were falling, but you weren’t scared at all. The sensation of a dark and heated cloak being draped gently over your shoulders, wrapping you in warmth and safety, made you feel completely protected and loved. It was a feeling you had searched for all of your life and never expected to find at a metal concert! When you finally opened your eyes, Papa was kneeling on the stage right in front of you with his eyes boring into yours. And despite his very stern and somewhat scary expression, you weren’t afraid. He’d narrowed his eyes briefly then nodded at you, claiming one of your hands and brushing his lips over your knuckles. When he rose to his feet, he looked to one of his ghouls and jerked his head in your direction.

When you’d stayed put long after everyone had left the pit, that same ghoul had darted out to you, explaining that Papa wanted to see you. To say you’d been surprised was an understatement. Backstage, Secondo had already removed his skull paint, although the absence did not lessen his presence. Under the watchful gaze of the Nameless Ghouls, he explained the Ghost Project and the Ministry. As Papa, he had a few subtle quirks that sometimes helped him find those who would be excellent additions to the faith.

And apparently Satan had singled you out. During Monstrance Clock, when you’d been so overwhelmed by the music; that had been something of a test. A test to see how you reacted to His Light, His Presence. A test you passed with flying colors by not panicking or blaming the feeling on some physical malady caused by the festival environment, by accepting the warmth of the Father of Outcasts.

Did you want to join their faith? You would be sheltered and cared for. You would be protected. You would have a job for which you would be paid. You would take classes to further your knowledge. And, oddly enough, your Catholic upbringing would prove to be an advantage. You already understood the ritual and hierarchy and language. You knew enough Latin to easily understand what the prayers meant. You understood nebulous concepts like transubstantiation and substance–attribute theory.

You’d agreed with almost no hesitation.

Everything after that was a blur. You’d packed up your few belongings and quickly been instated as a postulate in the New York ministry. You’d had very high hopes after being lauded for your intelligence and organization skills. You were set up as an assistant in the library, which also gave you plenty of time to study up even more on this new path you found yourself on. As such, for the first few months, you mostly kept to yourself, your hyper-fixation on learning temporarily replacing the bleeding need for companions. When you did try to make friends, swallowing down your fear as best you could, things did not go as planned. Attempts at jokes only got you blank looks. Trying to join in on conversations or activities only seemed to make others around you uncomfortable.

After two years, it was decided that you didn’t fit in at the New York ministry. And while they weren’t kicking you out, they thought you might do better in a different location. One year in Los Angeles later, it was decided you didn’t fit in there either. So, you’d been moved again, this time to the main Ministry in Sweden.

Two years into your life here and you were still longing for that feeling of belonging that you’d experienced for a scant few moments at the festival while Secondo had sung. Secondo had “retired” and it was Terzo’s turn under the miter. He was wildly successful; more personable with audiences than Primo or Secondo, more confident and charismatic. You’d never spoken to him directly. The handful of times you’d made eye contact (during Black Mass or on-site rehearsals) he had smiled and winked at you. But you knew full-well that he did that to everyone. It was a band-aid over a slit wrist, but it was better than nothing.

Abruptly, that had all changed too and now there was no Papa, but a Cardinal was “filling in” while he was also schooled in being the new Papa. You’d only seen him a few times, his red cassock drawing attention amongst all of the black and white of the habits you and your Siblings of Sin wore. He always seemed to be off in his own world, muttering to himself in Italian, probably going over prayers or sermons. Most people thought he was a tad weird. You, however, found him a bit fascinating.

Most of the other Siblings fawned over Terzo, which you could hardly blame them for. He was incredibly popular. Cardinal Copia, though? Something about him struck you with warmth whenever you did catch sight of him or overheard him at rehearsals with the band. You found him very handsome in an off-beat kind of way. Whenever he led Mass, you were more attentive than you ever were for any of the previous Papas. Something about him just called to you.

Whatever that something was, it was obviously one-sided. The Cardinal had never so much as glanced in your direction.

You were still working as a librarian, but no longer an assistant. You were the scribe of the ancient texts; carefully going through delicate parchment of dense Latin and digitizing them so they would never be lost. Being one of the younger members in the Ministry scholary, your grasp of technology was far and away better than that of the other librarians.

You didn’t know what you’d done to draw attention to yourself; but less than a month into your time in Sweden, you were re-living junior high school. A trio of your fellow Siblings; Kaser, Lynx, and Cantata, had decided that you were a fun target to torment; with plenty of ammo at their disposal. You were still awkward and anxious. You’d developed something of a nervous stutter and struggled more than ever to put your thoughts into words. Worse, your body had decided that freshman fifteen was meant to be a challenge; as you had gained thirty pounds, so you were much chubbier than most of the others; wide hips, a sizable ass, a rounded belly, and tits that refused to be contained by most bras. Like the long-ago middle school boys, they liked to painfully snap your bra strap. Or they would trip you in the hallways. Shove you into walls. Tug off your veil when they knew Sister Imperator was near so that she would scold you for having it off.

Their favorite thing, however, was to harass you about the fact that you’d been a postulate for five fucking years! Most postulates became novices within a year and then a full Sibling at three. Were you too stupid to pass the exams? Were you such a loser that even Satan didn’t want you? Were you afraid that Papa would turn you down?

That last one was closer to home than they knew. Part of a postulate’s “graduation” into a novice was to have sex with Papa; sometimes in private, sometimes on the altar in front of everyone. You simply couldn’t stand the idea of any of the Papas taking one look at you and deciding that he was not going to put his cock in someone as pathetic as you. It had never happened before to your knowledge (and you’d looked it up!) so there was no reason to fear such a thing. But fears are nothing if not irrational.

All of which led to your current predicament, sitting on a crate of Ghost merchandise near a janitor’s closet, hiding from your triad of bullies behind a double-stack of the same crates. If the closet hadn’t been locked, you’d have been in it. You sputtered and coughed, choking on your own tears. Were you always going to be so painfully lonely? You prayed as hard now as you ever had as a Catholic… and, like God, Satan was now frustratingly silent. Perhaps it was just time to accept that you didn’t fit in anywhere and never would. Maybe you’d ask to transfer to another Ministry just to escape your abusers; but you’d stay with the church since at least your work was satisfying.

Footsteps approached, prompting you to cover your mouth to silence yourself, not wanting another round of abuse if it was Kaser, Lynx, or Cantata. You curled yourself into the tightest ball you could, cursing your extra weight for making that very difficult.

“Eh, hello?” a soft voice, lightly accented in Italian. Oh, fuck… had they lied to Sister that you’d done something wrong to get you in trouble? They’d done it before; blaming you for something they’d done. Fucking hells bells, what had they done that would prompt one of the elder Italians (of which, there were many) be addressing you?

“I’m sorry!” you burst out, covering your face with your hands. “I was just, um… j-j-j-just… ah, taking a… m-m-moment-.“ Curse that idiotic stutter!

“No! N-n-n-no, sorella. It’s… ah… okay. I only… I mean I just was passing and I h-h-heard you.”

The foreign sound of someone else stuttering made you look through your fingers. At first, all you saw was red. A long, red cassock and black gloves.

The Cardinal.

You were so shocked by the revelation that the man who would soon be Papa was apparently a bit anxious and awkward too, that you didn’t say anything for a moment. You merely stared at him, your cheeks still stained with tears, but at least you were now breathing somewhat normally.

“You’ve been c-crying,” he pointed out as if it wasn’t obvious.

“It’s… it’s nothing, Your Eminence,” you shook your head, finally remembering your manners and lowering your gaze, wiping hurriedly at your cheeks. “You needn’t worry about it. You must have many more important things to do!”

A long silence followed, both of you seeming to size the other up with caution. Strange, he was so confident and eloquent when he performed Mass or gave sermons. And now he seemed genuinely lost as to how to talk to someone one on one.

“C-congratulations, by the way!” you finally blurt out. “If… if that’s the proper thing to say. I’m sure you’ll make a wonderful Papa. I’ve overheard some of the rehearsals and you sound amazing.”

That was at least true. The Cardinal had a beautiful singing voice and a powerful stage presence.

“Oh! Eh, grazie… thank you. It’s a great honor,” he smiled slightly, his black upper lip curling up at the corners in a way you found immediately endearing. “Not to be, eh, too forward, b-b-b-but… what has so upset you?”

“It’s… it’s nothing. It’s stupid. I just… I feel like… I don’t really…” you paused, closed your eyes, and took a deep breath. “I’ve never really fit in anywhere…and even though I’m trying so hard… I don’t seem to fit in here either. Square peg, round hole.” Woah, that was the most pulled-together thing you’d said in months!

You silently prepared yourself to be told to try harder, not be so sensitive, don’t be so weird, or some other variation of unhelpful advice that authority figures always tossed at your feet.

“Sì, it’s very difficult. I understand.”

You snapped your eyes open to meet his uneven gaze head-on.

He continued, “Some people just seem to effortlessly be adored and others… others must work tirelessly to be accepted by even a few.” He sounded contemplative, even a touch sad. “It… it can be overwhelming, I know.”

“Are you saying that… you’ve had t-trouble fitting in? But you’re terrific on stage and at Mass! In fact, every time I’ve heard you talk, you’re always so sure of yourself!” you exclaimed.

He gave an ironic smile. “It helps, sorella, to have a sc-script. At the microphone, I already know what I’m going to say or s-s-sing. I don’t have to anticipate the questions or comments of others because I’m the only one expected to t-talk, sì?”

“Oh,” you said with a note of surprise. You’d never really thought of it that way. “I’ve not really ever spoken to an audience. Or sung. Not by myself anyway.”

“You sing, sorella?” he perked up, the motion making something warm slide over your heart.

“Yeah, yes. I mean… I used to. I sang in choir all through school and I was in the Mass choir in Los Angeles. I’d like to join the choir here, but they aren’t accepting new singers right now,” you shrugged, biting your bottom lip.

“The choir at the L.A. ministry?” his eyebrows rose. “You must be talented then, sorella. The choirmaster there is very exacting.”

You smiled, despite knowing that your cheeks were flaming red. That had been one bright point of the last few years. The confirmation that you did still have a good singing voice had meant a great deal to you. “He is. The rehearsals were grueling sometimes, but I loved it just the same. Music is just so… powerful. I can’t think of a better word. Even ‘powerful’ feels inadequate. It’s what brought me to the Ministry in the first place. I saw Papa Secondo during the Haze tour and, I don’t know… something just clicked in place.”

“Papa Secondo, eh? Small wonder, he was quite the commanding presence when he was Papa. Still is, actually. But, wait…” he paused, looking up and muttering in Italian. “Papa Secondo hasn’t been Papa since, what 2013? That was five years ago. You’ve been a postulate for that long?”

Motherfucking Christ on a popsicle stick, why did you have to mention Secondo?

“Um… yeah. It’s just… never felt like… the timing was right. And… if I’m honest, I’m scared,” you swallowed tightly.

“Scared?” he repeated with a cock of his head. “What is there to be scared of?”

“If I may speak plainly… it’s the whole… um… sex thing..?” Your words came out more like a question than an answer.

“You’re scared of… sex?” he said, seeming to only want to confirm that he had heard you correctly.

“Not exactly. I’m not afraid of the act. B-b-but I’m afraid of… it’s-s-s-s-stupid of me, I know… but I can’t help but be sc-sc-scared of being… rejected…” you managed to strangle out, eyes glued to your hands folded in your lap. “No one’s ever wanted me before. Why would this b-b-b-be any different?”

“Sorella, it’s not stupid. Fears like that are very… d-difficult to shake. However, being as currently said deed would fall to m-me, I can promise you that I will not be rejecting such a lovely soul.” His voice had gone a little lower and he drew closer to you, kneeling down so you were at an even level, although you didn’t look up at him.

A black leather glove obscured your view, curled fingers tucking up your chin, coaxing you gently into looking up at him. “Sorella, I promise it. I would be more than honored to help you complete your… eh… training, if that is the word.”

You chanced looking up and meeting his gaze. Even at a distance, it was obvious that the Papas and Cardinal all had one ghostly white eye. But this close, you could see that his other eye was a rather pretty shade of green. You’d always liked green eyes.

Apparently, your momentary contemplation of his eyes made him a little nervous, because he looked down, cheeks slightly flushed. “I-if-if you like, of course… I’m not… I mean… eh, Sathanas, no pressure? Is that the, eh, the phrase? If you don’t want to have me as your initiator, it’s eh… it’s o-o-o-okay. One of the other Papas would be happy to serve in my place. I know most people seem to like T-T-Terzo the best. And if I know him, he would never turn down an initiate,” he rambled slightly.

Under any other circumstances, you would have assumed that he was agreeing to make you feel better and then trying to pass you off to one of the former Papas to get out of the chore. But something about the Cardinal’s anxious patter convinced you that he was only trying to give you options, not avoid the task.

Completely on impulse, you clutched at his nervous hands, holding them still. This also served the purpose of stilling your own hands. “You don’t need to advertise the others to me. It will be you, Cardinal.”

He looked up from your joined hands with a half-smile. “It will, eh? Does that mean you’ve decided to go through with becoming a novice, sorella?”

Your breath stopped. You had just implied that hadn’t you? Shit. Shitshitshitshit! “I guess it does, Your Eminence.”

“Bene, sorella. I look forward to it,” he smiled, though his gaze returned to your hands. A small shift and he was able to press your hands into his, palm to palm, with your fingers entwined. The motion reminded you of something…

-Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,  Which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,  And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.

The Cardinal chuckled softly under his breath, a rather deep sound that gave you delightful goosebumps. “Shakespeare, sì? Hmm, let me think…”

Fuck! Had you said that out loud? You must have! Random Shakespeare was not going to get you anywhere and of course you’d choose a passage rife with Catholic imagery.

- Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?

Holy shit on a shingle, he was reciting Romeo’s part now? Oh Satan. Lucifer. Lilith. Hecate. Kelly Clarkson! What was the next bit?

-Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.

-O then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do. They pray: grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.

-Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.

-Then move not while my prayer’s effect I take.

You’d both been leaning closer to each other and now were barely a breath away. You licked your lips nervously. That small gesture apparently spurned him on. He completed the connection, kissing you so sweetly that you thought you might actually pass out. You’d been kissed before; but those previous kisses felt nothing like this! Your lips felt as though they were burning, the familiar heat of arousal curling low in your belly.

-Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged.

How could he even remember the next line after that! It took you a decent minute and a half to recover your thoughts and remember the next line.

-Then have my lips the sin that they have took?

He smiled, nearly grinned, teeth very white against his black upper lip.

-Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.

You were ready this time, meeting his kiss with one of your own, tenderly mapping the sensation of his lips and the searing path of want as it spread in your veins. Fuck, you already had a little crush on Copia; this would inevitably push it into full-blown infatuation.

-You kiss by th’ book.

You practically moaned that last line as you both paused, foreheads pressed together, hands still palm to palm. He was panting ever so slightly, as were you.

“You understand what I mean about having a script, sì?” he whispered softly. “Neither of us stumbled or hesitated even once. Not what you were thinking when you began reciting, I know. But, for myself at least… I would not yet have had the nerve to kiss you. But with the Bard’s words to encourage… it felt very natural to kiss you.”

You felt your cheeks grow hot, although for once it was not from humiliation or shame, but from pleased embarrassment. The way he was looking at you! No man… hell, no person or ghoul or whatever… had ever looked at you the way Copia was looking at you. There was a hunger in his eyes that made your stomach do flips. But under that desire lurked a sweet, longing kind of affection.

A beeping noise interrupted your thoughts. “Cazzo!” he hissed and pushed back the sleeve of his cassock to reveal an old digital watch. “Perdonami per favore; I seem to be running late for rehearsal. Had I the choice, I would not be leaving you so… eh… abruptly,” he apologized with sincere regret.

“It’s OK,” you replied somewhat dreamily, still feeling a bit floaty from his kisses.

“I will look for your… ehm… initiation papers and authorize them. Then you n-n-nneed only set the date,” he assured you as he rose to his full height. “I must go, sorella.”

“Oh! Yes! Right. Don’t let me keep you. Rehearsal’s important,” you nodded hastily, not wanting to come across as needy even though you wanted to bury yourself in his chest and cling to him like a koala.

“It is, si,” he allowed, before looking down on you with a fond expression. “But you are important too, no?”

He turned to leave and was almost around the corner before he stopped and turned back to you. “Eh, mi scuzi, but… I didn’t get your name, sorella.”

“Huh? Oh! It’s Y/N, F/N L/N,” you replied perhaps a bit louder than you should have.

“Y/N… lovely,” he echoed with a small smile. “Arrivederci, Y/N.”

What? Just? Happened?

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[peachetteprice]

27 Hawthorn Court | Simon "Ghost" Riley

Chapter 4 - The Apple Falls Far

Chapter Summary:

Ruth has doubts about her previous endeavours with the investigation. Though her worries are soon dispelled after a familiar face invigorates some much-needed passion for justice.

1.8K Words

Content warning: mentions of alcohol (?)

Ruth entered the bar at no later than seven in the evening.

There was a dainty whisper of a piano and saxophone harmonising in some form of light jazz - though she was never much of a connoisseur - shrouded by tangerine and fuschia flourescent lights which somehow possessed the ability to amplify the band's smooth tones, handily concealing any discolour Ruth felt about those case files by virtue of bewitchment.

It was a dark and damp evening, all things considered. The only thing that could have salvaged her mood was a heavy drink and some menial chatter with the bartender.

So, she approached the bar, and - after waiting for some time, clearly understanding the general predicament Ruth had gotten herself into - the bartender asked with concern;

"What can I get you?"

Ruth sighed.

There was nothing she could have done except sigh. It wasn't her place to inform anyone of her own broken hubris, let alone a bartender privy to the most detrimental of secrets. Dissolving marriages, petty crime, cheating scandals; it was his day-to-day, and it was in Ruth's best interest not to become part of his orderly convoy of discussion for the next patron.

"Give me your strongest," she muttered, bottom writhing on a stool too small for her. 

It was such a subtly aggravating predicament.

After some time, as the bartender rooted beneath the bar top for a drink suitable for a grown woman, he swiftly placed it before her.

Ruth stared at it for a moment before saying;

"I said your strongest, George." She sighed. Because George was playing 'barkeep', and she was his sole customer, though he wasn't doing a very good job at it. "You can do better than orange juice."

And he likely could. 

It was then, that, only a few moments later - after a rummage through the cabinet on his hands and knees (which was really a wicker basket full of snacks and cartons of juice) - the bartender produced apple juice, this time, placing it before Ruth with a proud smile

"That's more like it," she hissed with adoration, stabbing the straw through the flimsy sheath of aluminium foil, "did you have a good day at school?"

"Yeah." His eyes wavered around the bar, and Ruth watched them ardently as he spoke. "But Molly stole my brachiosaurus."

"Why did she steal your brachiosaurus?" 

"I don't know." Muttered George, and he went straight back to wiping stains along the bar top with a heavy-machinery-themed rag where there were none. 

So, there was silence. And Ruth let it hang.

Perhaps she was thinking of how her own day went, uneventful and uninspired as she crawled through the streets of Greater Manchester on roads too choked with traffic and suffocated by people too idiotic for their own aspiring ideals. It was a day of rampant teenagers stealing their parent's cars and running them dry around the estates, middle-aged alcoholics starting public brawls in the car parks of Asda and Tesco - a national issue - and faux calls from elderly ladies complaining about pieces of litter discarded in their front gardens. 

"How did you feel when she stole your brachiosaurus?" Ruth was palming over the text on the rear of the carton, now, reading line by line. No added sugar, no added colouring, naturally sourced ingredients.

"I felt sad."

Sad. Huh.

Ruth knew a little bit about feeling sad. Dull, she would have called it, not wanting to give anybody the impression she was streaming tears in the shower on a dark night or onto her pillowcase before she fell asleep. Dull was a feeling she felt often, and in small waves, though sometimes big - but nothing more than a wailing rumble because that was a different feeling entirely - and it was one she knew rather well, too. It wasn't her favourite emotion, per se, but it might have been her most default one

It was intruiging, it truly was - George's predicament, that was - and she wished to further the conversation, probing

"Did ya feel anything else?"

George pondered for a moment, eyelashes fluttering against the sprig of curls in front of his forehead. He'd need a trim soon. "Maybe a little bit angry." He whispered, almost as if it was a secret he shouldn't tell.

"Angry. Because it was precious to you? Your brachiosaurus."

George thought, napping a carton of apple juice for himself, and - although it was almost seven-thirty and he wasn't allowed sugar before bedtime - Ruth thought he might have needed it and let it slide. "Yeah. And it was mine."

"It was yours." She affirmed, sucking the last dribbles from the bottom of the carton. 

"Molly was being mean." He grumbled, flicking the curl of hair from his own forehead. He had the most beautiful set of locks, did George, and he was the spitting image of his father when he was younger, too. Bright, gleaming blue eyes and sweet bulbous cheeks that crinkled whenever he smiled.

George was the complete antithesis of Ruth. She had dark, rather frazzled-looking brown hair from too much styling in her younger years - much more monotone and less saturated than George's - and matching brown eyes, though if the lighting was generous, they almost shone with flecks of gold.

"Did'ya shout at her to give it back?" Ruth pondered, smiling a little as she spoke.

"Daddy said you shouldn't shout. He said that if you ask politely, they'll give it back."

Hm. Daddy. Chris, he was called. A bastard of a man. 

"And did she?" Ruth brushed the hair from his eyes, ensuring it wouldn't irritate his lashes anymore.

George simply nodded, intent on drinking his before expelling his thoughts.

Yes, he explained. She did give it back because she was just being a little bit mean, but not loads mean. Otherwise, she wouldn't have given it back. If Molly was being loads mean - and George was really dragging out the vowels in 'loads' - he would have called on the teacher to intervene, of course, because that's how dynamic in a reception classroom prevailed.

"Why d'you think Molly stole your brachiosaurus?" She repeated, barely remembering she'd asked it earlier.

George gulped down the last droplets of juice, blinking blankly, before answering;

"Maybe she was lonely."

Maybe she was lonely.

What drivel.

There was a full glass of wine, now - to the rim, in fact - within Ruth's palm. The case files were on her lap, including her typed notes at her hip. Truth be told, there wasn't much to say about it. The affinity she felt to that little boy, plagued eyes boring through her skull, was crippling. The suspect's disposition, moreover, equally so, just as were the troubling words spoken by Price in the booth of the McDonald's in Sale.

"Lonely..." She sighed, finger travelling the circumference of the glass.

Perhaps she was lonely, too. Perhaps she needed a drink elsewhere, somewhere a little more crowded, a little more stuffed with people who could talk her ears off - whether they were a part of her conversation or not.

Yes, that was it.

She needed a drink.

And so, by nine, she had adorned her newest pair of black heels - ones with thick wedged soles and velvet trim - with a smart top with jeans. She wasn't one for princess dresses or overt makeup, nor did she wish to see any of her colleagues (or God-forbidding, any of her previous convicts) in an outfit that showed more than its provocation whenever she bent at the waist.

By ten, she was sitting in the pub with a vodka and coke in hand - though, it was more at her fingertips as they lazily drawled over the side of glass, smearing the condensation along - eyes transfixed on the bartender as he shifted from one side of the bar to the other with a smile that could only be described as 'over-compensating'.

It took another few minutes of silence before anyone approached her. She might have accepted the invitation to conversation, had she not recognised the stranger beside her who did, unfortunately, try.

"I didn't take ya for a vodka-and-coke drinkin' woman."

That voice. Deep, gruff, heavy.

John Price.

"I don't wanna talk." Spat Ruth.

Clean, cut, and straight to the point. The truth was, she hadn't come to the pub for chatter with a man like him. His words squirmed through her mind like the fall-out from a bad ear infection, and she despised another set of his words compounding the agony.

"Thought I'd thank ya." His lips smacked in the plenary of an awkward moment. "For bein' so professional and giving the case up, that is."

The case. The case files. They were still in her home. On her piano stand, where she'd also placed her unfinished glass of wine that was probably brewing with a layer of dust, now. And here was John Price, right beside her, shoulders occupying the air made for two. Maybe he knew. Maybe he knew she had taken the case files (or at least taken copies of them, at least), and he was there to confront her about it with every inch of his brooding six-foot stature.

"S'that it?" Questioned Ruth. 

"Sure." He nodded, flexing his chest with a gruff groan. "Wanted a bit of conversation, that's all. One investigator to another."

"Sorry." She huffed, fingertips turning wrinkled from the condensation on the outside of her glass. She still hadn't touched it, not in five minutes. Not since John sat down beside her. "Guess m'not in the mood tonight."

"Fair enough." He sniffed, palm running along the wood grain of the bar top. "I'll leave you be, then."

The thought was swift to occur - alarmingly so, even - as John stepped from the bar stool, his head still firmly aligned with hers on the vertical. And the thought was, in no fewer words than some:

"What's gonna happen with the case?" 

It made John come to a standstill. In the few seconds following, he paused, pondered, and pivoted himself back towards her. His shoes were already pointing in her direction, that, they both could see, but he had since adjusted the tilt of his shoulders so that his eyes could more easily glide over her face. Ruth looked back at him, pupils bloated, a worried knot niggling her brow. 

Neither knew what the other was thinking.

And neither, for a rather long time, said anything.

Until John, being the bigger - albeit only - man, grumbled;

"It'll get sorted, Wyatt."

And, after that very sentence, Ruth could only think of one thing. It plagued her every thought, caused an even larger kink to dig into her brow, and sent another queue of thoughts to sit pending as the current wasted away behind her eye sockets. And the thought was, of all possible thoughts;

If she had stolen his brachiosaurus, it was a bloody massive one.

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[davekat-sucks]

Feferi, Fefetasprite and ghost Nepfef (the ship) are the greatest proofs of wasted potential envolving a troll I've ever seen in hs.

It would be cool if the author remembered the relationship (by adoption) that Feferi has with the Egbert-Harley-Crocker-English and addressed Feferi as a "nice" aunt. I would like to see Feferi in the role of guardian of the Dream Bubbles and having relevance with the ghosts.

Fefetasprite interacting with Erisol and Arquius... it would be bittersweet, sad and emotional if given the opportunity to her (and not exploding).

And ghost Nepfef: They seemed to get along well in the dream bubbles, I would like to see some friendship, or maybe something more, appear there.

It's a shame that the author seems to hate Feferi and put that bootleg version of HIC in her place.

And yet, Andrew Hussie discarded Feferi. He says she is nothing more than a joke character like the rest of Blue Team, despite being tied to something bigger. And part of his excuse of not wanting her in is because he hates her typing quirk, thus would have other characters make an excuse to drop the )( thing. To continue pushing Feferi aside, people saw how the fandom was loving Aradia and uses her to replace Feferi as the one to guide the Dream Bubbles, despite the person with the best connections to Horrorterrors, especially to Gl'bgolyb. Aradia may be a Derse Dreamer like Feferi, but Gl'bgolyb had whispered prophecies about her future, likely with Sgrub and the events that come, to Feferi. Which is probably why she had trust and wanting to connect with the Beta Kids because her lusus told her what it is to come. The only other thing that would even come close to tying the horrorterrors with any other trolls would either be Gamzee or Eridan, due to the blood color of horrorterrors are a shade of purple or violet. It could have gone to either one due to them being villains. With Gamzee being part of Lord English that it becomes ironic that horrorterrors would share the same blood color as one of the components as their enemy or Eridan, the one that despite had helped Feferi to feed Gl'bgolyb, would also be the one to kill Feferi too in his despair and his action was needed to move the timeline along.

It would have been interesting for Nepeta and Feferi to have talked to each other either as their ghost selves or reflecting as they were as Fefpetasprite. Nepeta and Equius moirail relationship would be something that Feferi had thought she and Eridan were back then and would have wished it was back then. But then she hears about how Equius would try to make Nepeta keep distance from other lowbloods, it might get her to think twice about it. While in turn, Nepeta could sympathize that the people she had trusted or wanted to believe in, were not great or had left her for good. Cause at least for Nepeta, she can always fall back to Equius after death. But Feferi, she doesn't have anyone. It's not like she can go to Eridan if he is in an emotional mess for his actions that he feels guilty and believes distancing himself from her would be for the best. She can't go back to Sollux since he's back with Aradia, his real girlfriend. Her lusus died and the Dream Bubbles she and her other dead friends get to live in is her only evidence left that her lusus had cared for her. So who does Feferi have? Nobody. And that's sad. Feferi was brushed off as a joke character and Hussie created Meenah to apologize to Feferi fans. They couldn't have two fuchsiabloods because that would mean typing out similar quirks involving the )( thing. And Hussie prefers the femdom attitude that Meenah has over the sweet but passive aggressive Feferi. Because Meenah would be like Vriska. And we know how much Hussie likes Vriska. He loves her so much that we would have many other Vriska clones later on. That's why Meenah was even lesbians with Vriska. I really feel so sorry for Feferi fans.

[sk8termikey]

Chapter 26 of 21 Questions

better interface on wattpad

Lily and Alex were finishing getting ready when their doorbell rang. They were supposed to spend the day with Jade and Lucas as they would finally tell their friends everything that had happened with the Sturniolo triplets since the girls first went to a show. After exchanging hellos, the four friends went inside Lucas’s car as he would drive everyone to an Italian restaurant they liked to go to. Once there and sitting in their usual booth with drinks, it was time for Alex and Lily to tell their story.

From the first meeting in Atlanta to the last in Fort Lauderdale, a lot had happened in between. While Jade was still shocked that Alex went on stage and managed to make her favourite triplet win the Orlando show, Lucas was praising Matt’s courage and brain for eventually leading to the actual friendship that was now happening with Lily. The two listeners were searching for every single detail in the story and kept asking questions, mostly regarding Matt and Lily obviously. When the discussion then came to the little time the triplets had spent in Spring Hill, the mood also shifted. Lily was clearly missing Matt a lot although she wished not to – she blamed it on attachment issues with a nervous laugh – and admitted her doubts about their relationship. The girl was afraid that Matt would eventually regret what he did and end up ghosting her, as it had been his initial thought months ago. Lily’s friends assured her that it wouldn’t happen and Alex started listing the proof that Matt valued Lily as much as she did him.

“Bro literally made this whole scenario up because he was afraid that you wouldn't want to meet him if you knew the truth about his identity,” Alex sternly reminded as she started counting on her fingers between each sentence. “He got you to meet his family and friends at the same time as him. He put us in the same fucking hotel where he was staying and even offered to pay for the room. He accepted to come spend two days in a stranger’s house – and bro drove us there for a while. Do I keep going with the vlog and how he was always looking at you to make sure you’re ok?”

“We get it, thanks.” Lily was now looking away in embarrassment as she found her pizza very interesting right now. She knew that she shouldn’t discard Matt’s efforts that he had made from the beginning but the ‘what ifs’ in her head didn’t want to leave. “I think we covered everything now though.”

“I wanna come back on something,” Lucas chimed in as a detail caught his attention. “May I?” When the girls nodded, he couldn’t help the smirk on his face as he looked at Lily. “You, Lily, let an almost complete stranger drive your precious car when it took me more than a year to get that privilege?”

“Bro stop”, Lily mumbled in reply. She hated him for pointing that out as she remembered Alex doing the same when it happened. “He’s a designated driver just like me, I had to trust him. And also, I was fucking exhausted so it was nice to just be in a car and chill.”

“I don’t blame you to be honest,” Jade chimed in. “Half of us have their licence so you and Lucas don’t really have much choice when it comes to driving – I swear Alex and I will get it one day. And I watched a couple of their videos, you must have had a great view from the passenger seat.”

As Jade winked at Lily before innocently taking a slice of pizza, Alex and Lucas snickered. Lily then laughed with them as she admitted that she wasn’t one to turn a blind eye when the occasion of having a handsome guy driving next to you arose. The atmosphere then went back to a more light-hearted one and the rest of the lunch was spent filled with smiles.

~~~

Four days had passed since Lily last saw Matt. Such a pathetic state I was in, the girl cringed at herself. Based on a brief exchange by text, Lily knew that Matt hadn’t changed his mind regarding their friendship and thanks to her friends two days ago, she had managed to bury those doubts deep in the back of her head. Reading back their quick conversation, Lily hesitated before starting to write a message.

Matt🍂

Hey there, landed safely in bos

Hope you’re doing well and not missing us too much :)

Ttyl

Glad to know!

And ofc ye we are devastated😔

You’ll survive, we’re not that far away

True true

For now i’ll have to survive the interrogation ab our crazy meeting so

Same here i think

We’ll have to complain more after it happens

We def will!

Seen

This was on Thursday evening. They had spoken a second time on Friday as Matt had replied to a funny Instagram story that Lily had posted about her cat Bernard. Getting herself out of daydreaming, she eventually finished typing her message – after deleting and rewriting it three times – and sent it.

Matt🍂

Hey Matt, how’s it going?

Lily hey

Gimme 5min and I’m all yours

She was surprised at how quick he had replied and couldn’t help but smile at the thought that maybe he was about to text her as well. Only two minutes had passed before Lily was surprise once again as her phone was showing her that she was getting an incoming from Matt🍂. Tapping on the green phone icon, Lily brought her phone to her ear.

“Hello Matthew, pleasant surprise.”

“Hey Lily”, Matt replied with a weird exhale. “Sorry, I just got home.”

“No problem, do your thing bro.”

“Just need to change quickly so I’m putting you on speaker but I’m still here. Catch me up on your life meanwhile”

“Don’t worry, take your time.” Lily could hear Matt rummaging through his clothes and almost laughed at the way he was probably making a mess. “And I’m all good to be honest, had the wonderful experience of being questioned like a suspected murderer but it went well.”

“Sounds wonderful”, Matt sarcastically answered. “Hope you’ve only said good things about me, because I did for you.”

“Of course!” Lily scoffed, feigned to be offended. “Who do you take me for? I’ve put you on a pedestal, but Alex was the one to call out your creepy plan.”

“Damn her.” Matt shook his head with a smile, although Lily couldn’t see him. “Can’t say she’s wrong though but it worked out well so…”

“That it did”, the girl agreed. “Tell me about your weekend, how’s your family? And Nate?”

“Everyone’s good, it’s nice to get some rest and be home.” Matt’s grateful tone made Lily smile as she knew from the triplets’ videos how much he loved being in Boston.

“When are you back in LA?” Lily asked. Although an innocent question, they both knew it was a way to ask when they’d be even further away from each other.

“Somewhere during the week,” Matt thought for a bit. “Gonna have to ask Nick for the exact time though but we’ll definitely be back there before the weekend.”

“Any plans already made? Except for all the videos y’all have to make.”

“To be honest, yes,” Matt sighed. He was happy to get back into a routine but he knew the next weeks were about to be busy. “We’ll start filming again soon, especially the podcasts. But the first thing on the agenda is just a concert with Madi.”

“Oh that’s nice, who are y’all seeing?”

“Travis Scott, you like him?”

“I can’t really say because I haven’t listened to him properly like–” Lily scrolled through her Spotify to see if she knew some of his songs. “I only listen to one song from Chris’s Playlist: NO BYSTANDERS. Haven’t checked anything else to be honest.”

“That’s a good one”, Matt approved. “Might send you a live clip if you want.”

“Please do”, Lily gladly accepted the offer. “Do you often go to concerts? I remember talking about mine but I can’t recall if you did the same.”

“That’s because we don’t go very often,” Matt chuckled as he reassured the girl that her memory wasn’t faulty. “Apart from Tril or Skies, this is one of the very few we’re doing without knowing the artists beforehand.”

“You saw Skies? That’s so cool!”

“You didn’t know?” Matt sounded confused.

“Was I supposed to?” Lily felt confused too. “Oh my god, have I forgotten? I’m sorry, I swear I pay attention to what you say the rest of the time!”

“No, no it’s not you. Have you been on Instagram or TikTok?”

“Hmm not since yesterday I think”, Lily replied as she went to check the first of the two applications before letting out a gasp. “You went on the fucking stage?!”

“Yeah”, Matt said with a small laugh at Lily’s shock. “Thought you knew and that’s where you were going with the conversation.”

“I had no idea bro. You and Chris look so happy damn, I’m truly glad for y’all.”

Replaying some videos, Lily was truly enjoying watching her two friends enjoying this experience. The smiles on Chris’s and Matt’s faces were enough to make one appear on her face as well. Lily was just silently looking at more videos, which led Matt to wonder about her not talking anymore.

“You good?” Matt asked after a couple of minutes of not hearing anything. “You’re unusually quiet.”

“Sorry,” Lily apologised by instinct. “I’m just so happy for you, it seems to have been great.”

“It was”, Matt confirmed. “Pros of Chris befriending him, we’re seeing him again in LA when we’re back.”

“Sounds amazing! Only the two of you again or?”

“Nick will come this time”, Matt replied as who else was going to be here. “Madison and her boyfriend too, plus a couple of mutual friends with Skies I think as well.”

“Madison?” Lily repeated as she didn’t know why Matt was using her full name. “Madi, you mean?”

“Madison Beer,” Matt clarified.

To say Lily was shocked was an understatement. She remembered that the triplets had filmed a podcast with the singer Madison Beer, but she hadn’t thought about them actually hanging out together after their collaboration.

“I am so jealous right now”, Lily admitted. “Y’all are so famous actually.”

“More like we’re friends with famous people though,” Matt denied. He and his brothers didn’t like to think of themselves as celebrities, more as lucky people who eventually managed to be around actual celebrities.

“You’re on the right path though”, Lily countered as she believed that the triplets could achieve so much more than they already had and would be even more successful as time would pass. “I entered your life early enough not to be a gold digger.”

“Please don’t joke about that, I’d feel terrible.” Matt didn’t want to be too dramatic so he let out a small laugh along with Lily's, but he really hoped deep down that this situation would never happen to his friend.

“Sorry, but for now it’s not happening so no worries.” Although he couldn’t see her, Lily was smiling at Matt being concerned about her. “I’ll stay in the dark and be the mysterious five-star baker that appeared once in a vlog.”

“That’s perfect.”

A comfortable silence then took place. Matt and Lily simply basked in the peaceful quiet between them before the girl found a new subject of discussion:

“By the way”, she started. “Have y’all seen the comments on the vlog we did together? I swear they’ve been cracking me and Alex up for the entire weekend.”

This is something Matt hadn’t expected to talk with Lily as he was now hoping that she hadn’t read anything that she didn’t like. However, given that Lily was introducing the matter with a positive tone, Matt felt glad even though he could probably guess that it was the comments he hadn’t liked very much when reading them.

“Can you believe people are shipping me and Chris? For literally thirty seconds!”

While Lily was chuckling at the ridiculous thought of her being with the youngest triplet, Matt had no choice but to lightly laugh with her, although a bitter feeling rose in him.

“That’s insane yeah…”

Although Matt thought he was hiding his annoyance, Lily immediately picked up on it and was confused about it. Was she imagining it? Were the triplets mad that people had commented about that? Lily knew that they were sometimes cases of Matt and Chris randomly being shipped with people – it had unfortunately happened with Madison Beer when they released their podcast with her – so she was now scared that this was going to be a problem for her friendship with the triplets.

“Is Chris mad?” Lily quietly asked, afraid of the answer she would get. “I’m sorry, I should have toned down my attitude but I just felt comfortable with y’all. I swear I didn’t want to create any issue–”

“Lily stop”, Matt quickly interrupted as he was surprised at Lily’s thought process. “No one’s mad about anything, don’t worry.”

“You’re sure?” She couldn’t help but want to confirm.

“Yes, I am. Chris and Nick actually found those comments hilarious, I’m just silly grumpy me so no worries.”

“M’kay, I’ll trust you on this one and let it slide.”

Although Lily knew that something more might be going on, she didn’t pry for more information and Matt was glad that he didn’t have to explain his stupid jealousy. Lily wasn’t one to force people to tell her everything and if Matt had anything to say to her, she knew that he would. Communication was a key element of their friendship, but small matters like that fortunately didn’t need full transparency.

After this small discussion, Matt and Lily kept talking about their plans to come as Lily was trying to get information on future video topics that the triplets would film. Matt just told her that videos regarding Halloween were going to be posted during the week but this was all Lily could have for now as Matt didn’t want to spoil her. They then hung up when Alex called Lily for dinner and promised each other to call again soon, even if their respective lives would get busy. 

Thank you for reading. Votes and comments are always appreciated if you like this story :) The story is co-written w @/little_grapejuice on wattpad

[riftdancing]

haunt·ed (adjective) 1. inhabited or frequented by ghosts. a haunted castle. 2. preoccupied, as with emotion, memory, or idea; obsessed: His haunted imagination gave him no peace.

Unfortunately for me, it's both. It's been over two decades since you passed, but I still see you in the mirror every morning. Your judgement echoes in my ears and your haunting white eye continues to scrutinize my every move. My technique. Never quick enough. Foot work is always sloppy. Missed a spot cleaning that revolver barrel…

Was it love or obsession? Did you really love me, or were you chasing the remaining desire for my late Mother? I see her when I look in the mirror too. In my own reflection. In my features. I was not woman enough to be the daughter she wanted. I was not loyal enough for my Father's pride. I was not obedient enough for my Brother's care.

They all share your grave now.

Sometimes I feel ill when I miss you.

I remember when Father gave me to you. Like an object or a toy he'd discarded, something he'd grown bored of after I didn't fulfill his expectations. After I filled him with disappointment. I don't blame him entirely. After all I betrayed all of them. Not just the family… but the entire crew too. Even when he gave me to you, you didn't want me and I wanted nothing to do with you. I was a burden, but you made me useful. While Father ensured I'd never see the inside of another cockpit you honed me into a fine weapon. At first I hated you for it, but you taught me discipline and over time I learned how to be a ghost, just like you. Your very own protégé...

...But you are gone, and I still feel your gaze from behind. I still feel you watching when I look over my shoulder. When I am with someone new. Heckling me about having a particular type. That I am still soft. Vulnerable. Weak. Womanly. A hound ready to obey. Maybe I am.

He says it too and in many ways, he reminds me of you. He is one of the few people on this star who has proven to be worthy of my subordinance. But unlike our troubled past, he doesn't force me to be something or someone I don't want to be.

He is the catalyst to my healing.

He has taught me my choices are my own.

From now on I will no longer be a slave to my past.

((There's a bit of context in bullet points under the cut for this if it interests you but it's really raw because she's got a very long and complicated story as I've been writing her since 2011.))

Some bullet points on Blink's early history:

Blink was born into a life of Sky Piracy.

Her Father was the Sky Pirate Captain of the Harbingers.

His First Mate was a man named Judas, who was known in more public circles as a ghost-like assassin.

Blink fell in love with a pirate in a rival crew and tried to secretly elope with them. Her Father found out, he saw it as a huge betrayal, and sent Judas to hunt her and the lad down.

Judas killed the guy in front of her, brought her back to her Father.

Her Father disowned her after arranging her marriage to Judas (something neither of them wanted)

Judas viewed her as a burden, and basically decided when life gives you lemons, you turn them into your protégé and train them like a soldier.

This brought the pair of them closer over time… and as they'd both been screwed by the Crew's bullshit hierarchy and politics they decided to do something about it together.

Judas wound up fighting Blink's Father for Captaincy, and won. While it was supposed to be a fight to the death, he let the man still walk away with his life.

He was a good Captain for a while, with Blink as his First Mate and under the two the Crew had a prosperous window.

But, unfortunately her brother thought he was entitled to inheriting the title of Captain and was furious about Judas killing his Father. So eventually he wound up fighting Judas and killed him-- in front of Blink, taking up the role as Captain (and he was terrible at it.)

Blink wound up going into hiding for six years after this. There was some more trauma laced in this I won't get into. But when she surfaced again she had enlisted with Garlemald to become one of their soldiers. Which is a whole other arc I won't get into tonight. But… that's some context to this story/post.

Fast forwarding past the Garlemald years... I will at least say that Blink eventually wound up fighting to get the Harbingers back and served as their Captain for a good while (The crew's choice). It was basically the crew's golden years with her in the lead. However, eventually she decided it wasn't the life for her, so she wound up retiring to do piloting work and that's how she fell in with Firelight Trading Co. To this day, the Harbingers still revere her as their Captain even though she's passed that title on to someone she trusted.

But yeah, ask me about those Garlean years sometime... those are a doozy. Like an Event Horizon inspired arc through Void Ark... :|

[lorei-writes]

However, he is... Leon

Leon x MC Soulmates AU Forbidden Love AU Angst Word count estimate: 800

Ahh, the last one! (Or is it?) Written for Different Universe, Same Love 2 CCC by @xxsycamore & @queengiuliettafirstlady ! >:3 Thank you guys for organising this <3 I had lovely time.

Content Warnings: implied mutilation

Cool linen of the nightshirt is soothing on his skin, the wide collar sliding smoothly over his raven hair. It sits comfortably around his neck, much lighter than the shackles he used to wear, although it needs no weight to bind him. It has its own ways, as now Leon is the Fourth Prince of Rhodolite.

A dejected cloak looks up from its place over a chair, perhaps wishing to be worn again. Clothing rustles, disappointment pooling in the many creases of the discarded garments. As if they didn’t know who wore them. As if it was their first time…

Leon steps away from the bed and towards the oaken wardrobe, the thick carpet lounged over his bedroom floor muffling any sighs the boards would otherwise make. He walks silently, not even his breath disturbing the stationary air, quiet to the point of his presence being made negligible. He exists, barely more than a ghost of a person, for a ghost needs to possess him for his – their – secret to be safe… Or perhaps because he is destined to kill himself by living in place of the dead. Leon does not know. He has not decided just yet.

Cool linen of the nightshirt is soothing on his skin, the wide collar sliding smoothly over his raven hair. It sits comfortably around his neck, much lighter than the shackles he used to wear, although it needs no weight to bind him. It has its own ways, as now Leon is the Fourth Prince of Rhodolite. Leon, supposedly, has royal blood in his veins. Leon needs to act in accordance with the best interest of the people, for he is sure that is what the real Leon would have done, and moreover, he is that Leon. He has to be now. There’s no going back from this lie.

Leon turns on his heel, away from the wardrobe and towards the bed. He walks again, away from his worries, away from himself. Towards the man that he isn’t. He carves away at his feelings, figurative blade mimicking the very real one that was once brought to his skin to remove the last traces of… him.

His bed is cold, the pleasant chill soothing the newly roused burning lingering over the surface of his scars. Leon closes his eyes, burrows himself in the covers, perhaps telling himself it won’t hurt as much if it is his back that receives the —

Emma’s smile is bright.

The image comes alive in his mind. He can see her as she stands, her back turned towards a bookcase, a volume in her hands. Soft hair flows freely down the length of her back, few shy waves framing her face. Her lips twitch – she sends a puff of air to move a wayward strand back into its place. Emma reads quietly, eyes scanning the pages to shell meaning out of the words, beyond engrossed in the story and unable to stop herself from wanting more.

Until he comes.

Her head lifts at the sound of his steps, and he can see a smile sprout and bloom over her features, tiny wrinkles emerging around the corners of her eyes. Emma glows, tension easing our of her shoulders as she nods when he approaches her. He opens his mouth to talk, however, his mind is elsewhere. He realises it all is all just temporary, but a part of him cannot help wondering how blessed would it be for her to stay until the little crow feet grew deeper and became permanent… How blessed would it be if he were the very reason behind the joy that caused it, if his hand held hers as they aged.

Leon opens his eyes.

His scars sting… burn. Burn the same way they do whenever their eyes meet, whenever he hears her voice, whenever Emma glances outside the window or hums to herself, passes him in the corridor, admires the roses, recommends him books or simply is. They burn just like when he sees the traces of marks scattered over her shoulders and arms, his thoughts latching onto the few glimpses of scarlet vines creeping up her nape. His mind screams. He knows that, were he to travel back in time, they would match with his. His. Not Leon’s. His.

However, he is… Leon.

Leon is him.

Him? No. Leon is alive. Leon’s soulmate is alive, therefore his soulmate is alive, even if they were not meant to be…

No, that is wrong.

He and Emma are the ones who were not meant to be. What a shame, really. She is quite lovely, and smart, and caring, loving, brave, imaginative, dedicated, eager, radiant —

A shame, truly. A shame that her soulmate is dead, although… were he still alive, Leon fears, he would not be a man nearly good enough for her. No, he is certain that person would not measure up. That she would deserve better than the best this man could give or have. So he closes his eyes, the dejected cloak still staring at him questioningly from its place in the chair. It has no reason to worry, however. Leon is Leon and that shall remain the case.

Tag list: @lancelotscloak @violettduchess @pathogenic @fang-and-feather @tele86

Tell me if you'd like to be added to my taglist :)

[gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot]

Chapter 1: Moveo Et Profitior (By my actions I am known) Part 1

 Disclaimer: Innacuracies everywhere. English is not my main language

Part of the first chapter of my fic Fortis Soli, Fortiores Una (Strong Alone, Stronger Together)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/47442772

Previous / Masterlist / Next

‘‘Alright, next in the list is… Sergeant… wait a minute’’ Captain John Price fumbled with the folders, discarding the one the team had been discussing until that moment, and grabbed the correct one, handing out photocopies of the basic details to the men around him in his office. Then he clicked on his laptop to show the next photo on the screen. ‘‘Sergeant Christine Vega, callsign…’’

‘‘Riot!’’ Sergeant Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish bellowed and threw his hands in the air, overjoyed. ‘‘Oh, Cap, you for sure want this one’’

‘‘I take it you know her, Soap’’ Price looked at the file in his hands, considerably thicker than the photocopy he had handed out. ‘‘Ah, yeah. She was with you in boot camp, right?’’

‘‘Affirmative. We were together in boot camp, then in a few assignments together… She is like my sister, I trust her with my life’’

‘‘Is that a good or a bad sign?’’ Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick smiled, studying the photocopy in his hands. Soap shrugged.

‘‘I swear, she is good, fucking good. Good head on her shoulders, cold in battle, a fucking beast, but charismatic. We used to say she was too fucking stubborn to just lie down and die. Relentless.’’

Lieutenant Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley said nothing as usual, the photocopy dangling from his hand over his crossed arms, just listening. The group had been stuck in Price’s office for almost two hours now, since the Captain had got into his head that they needed more team members. They had been going over the files of he had lost count how many, because he wasn’t interested.

He appreciated that Price wanted them in the process although it would be his the final call. What surprised him was how many people Kate Laswell had in her sights, having sent the files not even twenty minutes after Price had commented his idea in the daily meeting with the Station Chief.

So, there they were. Wasting their morning looking at faces and listening to personal data he cared very little about. But the fact Soap knew one of them, and seemed excited to vouch for them, was enough to pick his interest and raise his masked face and stare at the screen.

Light blue eyes with a touch of grey stared back at him from a serious, inexpressive face. Light blonde hair loosely braided and kept in what it seemed a half undone ponytail. The photo wasn’t the official one on file, the one he was seeing in the photocopy and Price’s folder, but a more casual one that Laswell had chosen for some reason. It showed a woman in her late twenties but young looking, wearing civvies and holding a half empty glass of beer.

The photo was clearly cropped from a larger one, as parts of bodies could be seen, and an arm thrown around the sergeant’s chair. She didn’t look happy, either at the company or at the photo being taken.

‘‘Who’s that?’’ He asked, and Price looked at the screen, and frowned. The arm over the sergeant’s chair had a tattoo of a skull impaled on a spear, with fire shooting out the empty sockets. Price grunted, and the three other men in the room perked up. If their Captain disapproved, they disapproved too.

‘‘A fucking bastard. I know that tattoo’’ Slowly, the Captain left the folder on the desk and grabbed his third cigar that morning. ‘‘That’s Captain William Rico, he commanded the HeadHunters’’

‘‘Isn’t that the company that was disbanded three months ago?’’ Gaz looked up from the photocopy, raising both his eyebrows. Price nodded, and grabbed the folder again, and started to read again.

‘‘Good at recon, licensed drone pilot, decent sniper, good with knives, fluent in five languages’’

‘‘You want her, Captain’’ Soap threw his photocopy, dutifully folded into a paper plane, and giggled when it landed right on the laptop’s keyboard.

‘‘I have the final say but I want your opinion. We have discarded four and accepted two, and she’s the last folder for today. Votes?’’

‘‘You know my vote!’’ Soap smiled widely. ‘‘I trust Christine, she’s solid, we go way back. I would put my arse in her hands without doubt… ehm… not in that way!’’

‘‘If Soap says so, that’s good enough for me’’ Gaz shrugged, placing the photocopy back on Price’s desk. The Captain nodded and looked at Ghost. He trusted the Lieutenant’s intuition more than he trusted Soap’s memories.

Ghost was still looking at the photo on the screen, and then turned his hard gaze to look at Price.

‘‘Yeah, why not’’

[lycanlovingvampyre]

MAG 154 Relisten

Activity on my first listen: apple cutting + sitting thrilled on the couch.

Ah yes, I remember it so clearly when I heard that episode the first time. I was almost done cutting apples, but I didn't quite feel satisfied after MAG 152 and 153, those are statement that were a bit subtle for me. So I thought "Okay, I'll give one more episode a shot" (even though the episode title didn't sound particularly interest-piquing) and then it’s a Gertrude tape and I had some problems following a lot of Gertrude statements before, I don't know, her voice makes me sleepy xD And I was already prepared to drift away during this episode again and felt a bit demotivated. But I kept going. Well, best fucking decision ever. As soon as I realized she's reading from the Catalogue of the Trapped Dead I was like "Ohhhhh!"

JON: "And I started to pay attention to the ones I… wasn’t drawn to. The tapes I instinctively wanted to discard." That's very clever, go against what the Eye wants!

JON: "There was one, this one, that my hand… pulled back from. I dropped it, twice, when I went to pick it up." Lol, that actually sounds funny. Like "Whoops! I dropped it... Woaa, dropped it again, ahaha, clumsy me."

JON: "I am the avatar of awful knowledge and revealed secrets." Oh Jon, you theater kid!

GERTRUDE: "“When he opened his eyes, he of course saw nothing" Ok, she already read that part and still couldn't guess what was necessary to quit. Already talked about this in MAG 111 - because of this I think those memory-ghosts of the Catalogue work like the appearances of people plugged into the Matrix, a mental projection of their self. How they most liked seeing themselves. So when it comes to depicting Book!Eric, I think he'd still have intact eyes. Cause he says he "destroyed them completely", I can't imagine how one could not see that, if the appearance is the same as in the moment of death.

I love how similar Eric and Gerry sound, and I don't think it's because of the ghostly echo. After all, we do have a recording of Gerry without that effect. Very good VA choice!

ERIC: "I know that I’m not really Eric; I’m just a memory someone wrote down. It hurts, most of the time." Primarily it's probably meant to be an effect of the Catalogue's nature, of the Fears just doing their job. But I guess the knowledge of not actually being you also makes it weird and uncomfortable. Sometimes I think about that, like what are we anyway? Isn't the memory of oneself's entire life basically what makes one that particular person (+ hardwired personality probably)? Because it still matters on which hardware we run. Otherwise, how would we explain body dysphoria?

ERIC: "You too. (beat) You got old." GERTRUDE: "Better than being dead." ERIC: (short sigh of a laugh) "Fair enough. To be honest, I’m impressed, more than anything. Hard to get old in this business. You either die, or you, uh, stay young. (short, uncomfortable pause) …How did Mary look?" GERTRUDE: (same sort of short laugh) "She got old, too." Well, let's see, this is in 2008. My educated guess from MAG 35 was that Gerry was born sometime around 1983 or 1984. Perhaaaps 1985 when we'll go with the most extreme numbers from MAG 35. We don't know when exactly Mary killed Eric, Eric says he left the Archives months before she killed him. So, Eric died.. what? 1984 or 1985? So he hasn't seen Gertrude in over 20 years! He probably saw Mary a few times since she summoned him to bounce off ideas of him. But even if she kept doing that for a few years and then stopped, 15 years would still be a long time with visible changes^^

ERIC: "And Gerry? Have you seen my son?" Nawwww... He actually calls him Gerry, like he always wanted friends (and probably loved ones) to call him.

ERIC: "Yeah, it doesn’t feel great. But being dead, I s’pose you don’t feel things quite as strongly. Little bit – flat." Ha, flat like a piece of paper!

ERIC: "Elias? Elias Bouchard, seriously?!" GERTRUDE: "Hm, he’s changed a lot." <.<

GERTRUDE: "So. What did they not want me to know?" ERIC: "I quit." GERTRUDE: "You – Sorry, you quit?" ERIC: "Yeah. I figured out how." Well, on my first listen I was sitting at the edge of the sofa at that point, staring wide-eyed at the TMA logo in the YT video on screen.

ERIC: "You know, you were never actually all that nice to me when I worked for you, Gertrude. Not like Michael, or Emma." Hahahaha, very good, let her dangle a bit! I'd like to say I'd do the same but I know that in the end I never want to give people, one: what they did to me, and two: something they could hold against me in return.

Eric: "I don’t know what she saw in me, not really." Not-really counter of S4: 20!

ERIC: "You were almost there, you know, with your theory that James could watch us from any eye, even an illustration. What did you do? How did you sever that link?" GERTRUDE: "My God!" Yeah, at that point I said "Fuuuuck" out loud... My spouse was sitting on the couch next to me was like ?? and I just kept saying "Fuck" over and over again. First: Eyes are one of the body parts I find the most horrific... I can watch every body horror torture splatter movie without problems but when it's about eyes... Fuck off! If I'd be in that position I'd be like "Yeah, you know what, I actually like the Archives! Screw that, y'all go ahead and do what you must do, but keep me out of it." Second, I love moments like this in fiction! The last one like this I remember was when I read The Last Wish (The Witcher) by Sapkowski, specifically The Lesser Evil. When that innkeeper (or whatever that guy was) explained what happened in Tridam and it dawned on me what Renfri was about to do (just like it dawned on Geralt in that moment. I love having the same reaction like characters. When I can discover huge things alongside them).

[TAPE CLICKS ON.] [JON SIGHS HEAVILY.] JON: "Fuck." [TAPE CLICKS OFF.] Yah, same...

JON: "I know. I know what you said, but I just – (inhale) I think I’ve found a way for us to leave the Institute." [BRIEF PAUSE.] MARTIN: "O-kay…?" JON: "Yeah. But it’s – (heavy inhale) It’s pretty drastic." MARTIN: (hah) "What, you going to gouge your eyes out, or something?" [BEAT.] MARTIN: (gets it) "Fuck off!" Such an iconic piece of dialogue xD

MARTIN: "Erm… like, I mean… permanently? Or…" This has the same energy as answering "In general?" to the question of "Haven't seen a dog, have you?"... Those idiots^^

JON: "But we could leave here, you and me. Escape." Eeek <3

JON: (squawk) "Uh, I, I don’t know. I don’t – know. But… maybe it’s worth it? The risk – y-you and me, together, getting out of here –" [MARTIN SNIFFS.] JON: "– one way or another." MARTIN: "Jon." Double Eeeek <3

So what's going on here has a name, URST or UST. It stands for UnResolved Sexual Tension, although I don't like that term cause it's just as well used for unresolved romantic tension. Especially when we're talking about a couple with an ace character, or when it's used in a show for minors about minors (Miraculous is a textbook example). So basically it's a trope to keep suspense going on by having all kinds of obstacles to keep the love interests from actually getting together, usually also having them pine after each other over and over again + once in a while giving them a scene in which it looks like they finally get somewhere. Full disclosure: I'm a sucker for that trope. I loved that in Inu Yasha, I love this in Miraculous (although it's getting a bit destroyed by all the What-if-episodes with a subsequent time reset or memory wipe) and of course I love it in TMA.

JON: "I mean, whatever their plan is for me, I am damn sure that doing that isn’t it. I’d derail everything – we could derail everything, and then just – leave!" Time travel fix-it for TMA is extremely difficult because you basically have these powerful forces which had it all planned out. I think there are actually two points in TMA where it could really take a very different turn. One of them is here. If Jon blinds himself, he won't belong to the Eye anymore and can't complete the ritual. And given what Annabelle says in MAG 197 it sounds like Jon will even survive being cut off from the Eye. (There’s of course still the problem of just going ahead with a new Archivist, so it’s only a temporary resolve...)

MARTIN: "Nothing; It’s just – (one more laugh) It’s just ironic, that’s all." That's totally in the sense of "At any time before taking Peter's deal I would have run away with you in a heartbeat. But back then you never came to me and now when you do it's me who won't do it"-ironic, right?

@a-mag-a-day

[the-fae-tricked-me]

···🧚‍♂️·✧·•°♡·✧·∞·✧·♡°•·✧·🧚···

Hello! Welcome to my blog!

I've learned my lesson about giving my name— considering the fae tricked me, stole my attention AND executive functioning too! The nerve!— but you can call me Vue if you want! (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)⁠♡

Some things about me:

I'm 20f, and my pronouns are she/they ♡

I got diagnosed at 6 years old with ADHD which is very uncommon for my demographic as we tend to present more inwardly, but being the little anomaly I am— I present outwardly, so I matched the "boyish" description the psychologists were taught to look for

My Myers Briggs is INFP I know it's pseudoscience but it actually describes me pretty well. Not perfect by any means but it's still a pretty solid description

I'm a Leo, my Sun is in Leo, my Moon is in Aquarius, and I'm a Capricorn rising! I don't know what this shit means but I'm gay as hell and queer people love knowing these for some reason. I mean I don't think I'm gonna find the future love of my life on Tumblr or anything, but hell, I won't complain

I'm pan-romantic and demisexual (⁠｡⁠•̀⁠ᴗ⁠-⁠)⁠✧

My favorite number is 2, but my favorite angel number is 333

My favorite animal is an elephant, but my favorite baby animal is the baby hippo if you have not seen a baby hippo I swear to the GODS you must look them up this INSTANT!!!!—

My favorite colors are pink, green, yellow, and blue ♡

I have a multitude of collections that include but aren't limited to: rocks/crystals, quarters, old coins/coins from other countries, buttons, feathers, and other discarded or lost bits and bobs I've found at some point or another that I just loved and wanted to horde keep. yes, I'm a magpie. Stuff like cute tiny screws, bent nails, assorted small plastic shapes/things, pendants and charms, pins, worthless coins, lost or broken earrings, and other shiny/pretty little knickknacks and doodads (⁠.⁠ ⁠❛⁠ ⁠ᴗ⁠ ⁠❛⁠.⁠)

I love listening to music/singing along off key, and writing poetry. I also really love reading, but mostly fantasy, sci-fi, and romance novels, preferably ones with two or more of those themes/side plots(⁠◕⁠ᴗ⁠◕⁠✿⁠)

Despite all my other hobbies and interests, playing videogames is probably my favorite one— or at least very close, depending on the day! I'm a PlayStation girly, (no hate at ALL to Xbox players, it's just the PS4 was my first and only console, and I don't like how the Xbox controller is laid out! ♡) and my favorites include: Mass Effect Legendary edition, Red Dead Redemption 2, Days Gone, The Last of Us 1 & 2, The Ghost of Tsushima, Skyrim, Life is Strange remastered & Life is Strange Before the Storm, God of War & God of War Ragnarok, Untill Dawn, The Sims 4, Minecraft, and Splitgate. I also really love Balders Gate 3 but exclusively by/from watching different playthroughs because I can't afford a PS5 lmao </3

If you made it this far, wow!

I wasn't expecting to see you through! Now you know a little more about me. (⁠✿⁠^⁠‿⁠^⁠) If you like what you see or what you read, rather, you should follow me! Or, ya know, follow me because you like my posts/reblogs, I'll like that too! (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)♥