#superstitious bullshit

[dogret]

everyone on planet earth chomping at the bit for Halloween, but i just want it to be December.

[gallusrostromegalus]

AEIWAM canon fun fact for no reason: Zaraki Kenpachi 100% fully believes in, and practices, tarot reading.

The deck he's using is, of course, completely sideways of a conventional tarot. There are no suits, not properly faces, as the deck is entirely comprised of Cards* that he picked up at some point and felt a connect with.

The Garbage Tarot is accurate to the point of violence, will happily tell people about the present or past but gets huffy and sarcastic if you try to prognosticate too much or too specifically. It will never tell anyone how they will die but will practically spell the name and address of who they're going to marry. Or murder. Sometimes both. You get to figure that part out, asshole.

It also seems to work only for Zaraki- even touching the deck can lead to disaster, at least according to Renji who tried to use it once and immediately had the worst run of luck of his life for a week that culminated in a monkey attack and having to get the rabies shots.

Despite its accuracy and the fact it shares Zaraki's peculiar sense of humor, he doesn't use it often. "I ask it when it's an emergency or it tells me it's got news. Otherwise, it's resting. What would happen if you kick in my door in the middle of the night to ask me about your love life? I'd fuckin' castrate you, that's what. Leave it."

* "Cards" here meaning "approximately 3x5 inch flat rectangle-ish objects with two different sides that can be shuffled. This includes, but is not limited to: beer mats he scribbled important names and addresses on, Smutty polaroids he found in the back of a desk drawer, a Christmas card, a compact mirror, laminated natural objects like flowers and snakeskin, swathes of fabric, tile, the checkout cards from Library copies of famous literature, postcards, business cards, academic flash cards, the very small menu of a seafood restaurant, and a handful or normal playing and tarot cards just to be funny.

It makes a horrible noise when shuffled.

Mayuri despises it, calling it superstitious bullshit and refusing Zaraki's offer to do a reading before an important project. Mayuri flounced from the building in disgust, and as soon as he set a toe outside, he was strick by lightning.

Unohana was disappointed that he'd believe in cartomancy at first but she's kept careful notes on the results of the draws and how things turn out and there's always an element of confirmation bias but she's slightly alarmed that it may actually work. To be fair, that would only be the fourth or fifth most improbable thing about Zaraki.

[sharkylass]

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!

(It's not belated what are you talking about-) With the spooky day I bring...

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--------------------------------------- There's A LOT OF ART under the cut, however it's A LOT OF SPOILERS.

ESPECIALLY FOR THE ACT 6 ENCOUNTER/TWO HATS, EVERYTHING IN THIS POST IS DEPENDANT ON THE FACT YOU KNOW ABOUT THAT ENCOUNTER.

(The dandelions are frozen in time) (...) (You envy them, but you think that's sacrilege, so you move on.)

The gif takes forever to load, please bare with me-

ALRIGHT, LET ME INTRODUCE YOU TO ROBORO.

Roboro (it/they/he) is cold and calculative. It spent so long trying to get out of the loops, that a lot of their tact and bubbliness gave way to their cynicism and bluntness.

They exhibit more of their younger traits. Extreme smarts and avoidance. However, they still carries themselves tall, and aren't afraid to speak their mind. Most of the time, they simply choose not to.

The decision to make him cold and distant, rather then manic and erratic, actually came from Loop themselves. Loop is very actively trying to be the opposite of Siffrin. They act chatty and cruel because that's how far they've been driven, that's how they choose to hide themselves now.

Roboro is the same, in the sense that it's supposed to appear the very opposite of Isabeau.

"Why is it a Dandelion?"

From what I've seen, most people lean on the space idea for the guides, and I find that super neat-

But as an exercise (before this AU was even an IDEA in my mind-) I tried to design Mira, Odile and Isa as guides.

I tried the space theme, and felt really limited with it.

So instead I decided to design them based of ways to wish

Mira was a fire (candle)

Odile was a coin (throwing a coin in a fountain/well)

And Isabeau WAS in fact a dandelion (blowing on a dandelion)

And I guess that idea just stuck around in my brain until I got to making this au.

Their Dynamic With Isa

The two's dynamic isn't too dissimilar to Sif and Loop. Isa still tries to be his loud positive headstrong self, and Roboro sees past the bullshit, and grinds Isa's gears

(Fun fact for that second one: Roboro knew Isa wanted to be called "good boy" cause it probably would have wanted to hear it too-) As time goes on, the two learn to get along if only a little. Isa starts to appreciate the bluntness of Roboro, together with the helpful tips. Roboro meanwhile, seeing Isa's descent starts to feel a spark of empathy for the guy (which sucks for ACT 5 whoops.)

Silver Coin Equivalent

The equivalent is called "Lucky Pencil". Isa is a pretty superstitious guy, despite knowing better logically. So I thought he'd totally be the type to carry around a lucky charm of sorts!

(You recall.) (Before you lost yourself to time, you tried to become a defender.) (You got so tired of being the lone kid, the one people would not see, or think about.) (You were smart, but you were invisible.) (Sure, you were quiet, but you had good grades! You were getting by!) (Even your own family didn't think much of your solitude.) (And yet, you were so scared to open your mouth, to even answer questions you knew the answers to-) (It was hard. Suffocating even.) (When teachers started giving you good grades without you even having to try-) (Something had to change. You had to change.) (And you did! You became stronger, resilient, reliable. Became the very antithesis of what you used to be.) (Left everything you were behind.) (But it was worth it! You could finally!!! Talk!!! You could bring smiles to people's faces! They'd smile when you entered a room! And each time you felt pride. Pride in who you were.) (You tried talking with your family more, being more open, loud-) (They still didn't see you.) (Smart kids turned away, uble to face you, see their fears embodied. Fears that if they wanted to belong, they had to leave their brains for brawn.) (It was better. You were happier. But you still didn't belong, either.) (In hallways filled with people, you were still just there.) (…) (You tried really hard for you Defender exam. You exercised to near faints. Only really ate and slept cause you knew it would make you stronger.) (Buried your nose in reading and studying to avoid thoughts of doubt. And when they'd reach you anyways, you'd go for a run.) (You know it wasn't the best for you. You're supposed to be stupid, not unwise. "Just until I pass" you told yourself.) (… You were exhausted on your exam day. As your nerves heightened, so did your "coping". You were ready!!! You just, needed a little help.) (So you opened your drawer, filled with old papers and textbooks and notes. You don't like looking in there too much, but you took what you needed.) (A beaten up pencil. Your little lucky charm!!! Sure, you always knew the answers, but it was easier if you believed this pencil was helping you, guiding you.) (It was silly to think it would help, but you weren't taking chances.) (…) (Even after all that time, you couldn't leave that part of yourself behind.) (You still can't.) (You're the only one that can't.)

ACT 6 FIGHT

The ACT 6 encounter would... go about as well as you'd expect. Not only did a version of you win- it's the version of you that pretends to be a meat head, the one that's preoccupied with being nice rather then thinking ahead. How did he get to win when you, you who's changed, you who's given everything you had, everything you wanted to simply get out?

Why does he get to win? Why does this loud mouth, emotional, explosive guy get to win? He's learned nothing!---

I have more stuff to draw for this encounter, including the "I'm sorry/ thank you" pictures. I leave this one off with the knowledge that Isa used to tug on his hair as a stress stim. Guess is stuck around huh.

______________________

Post Loops Roboro

Roboro, once again, Changes! This time to resemble a yellow dandelion, rather then a white one. The family is long gone by the time Roboro wakes up again, and first thing's first- It has to find clothes. It doesn't like the weird looks people give him.

So, he goes to the House, braves the looks and gasps and confusion. It's trauma be damned, it's gonna talk to that Head Housemaiden finally.

He meets up with Euphrasie, and she quickly catches on what must be going on.

She's readily willing to give Roboro one of her old dresses-

Problem being- 1. They are too big on it (he may be Tall, but not EUPHIE level tall-) and 2. It wouldn't be the most comfortable wearing a dress around.

So, they figure they should make some adjustments. Euphrasie is willing to make the adjustments, it would only take her a day or two.

However, Roboro kind of... wants to try to do it themselves. There's no rush, it has nowhere to be. Maybe... maybe learning to re-engage with an old hobby could be good for it...?

Euphie excitedly lets it stay at the House, figure out what it wants to do- to take it's time changing!

Obviously, Roboro has trauma from the House. The walls, the cramped space- it terrifies them. But they also don't want to stay at anyone's home in Dormont, the awkwardness would kill him, if feeling like a nuisance doesn't do it first.

So. Roboro stays at the rooftop.

Roboro does some sewing on a new outfit, at the top of the House. At the very end of everything.

It's a bittersweet reminder that it's over, so it's as good as it could get while staying at Dormont.

I have a whole comic about this in particular, but this is already a massive infodump so I'm gonna stop it there for now-

Roboro travels around a while. It and Isa agreed to meet up eventually, but there was no rush to it.

He went around a while, re-familiarized itself with life, with people, with hobbies, with existing-

Probably made some friendships along the way. Those are probably the people who pushed it into reconnecting with the family.

I'm not gonna go into detail about everyone's dynamics and stuff, this is too long, and I'm still writing that stuff anyway.

I can however leave you with this:

(I might change how Post Loops Isa looks in the future, I haven't quite figured it out yet)

______________________

PHEW

THAT WAS A LOT

IT'S NOT EVEN EVERYTHING I HAVE, I HAVE SO MUCH STUFF AUGH,,,

Anyways, I just wanted to thank you all for the support on the first post, I didn't expect it at ALL Just know I appreciate it :]

[epiphainie]

tommy is so real because he saw buck at his insanest, at his most jealous, at his clipboard!buckness, and now his complete superstitious bullshit and he still wants to date him like woah man he's in it

[hazbinwhoree]

Hi!!! this is my first request so bear with me,

maybe an Adam X Sinner reader where Adam visits reader before the events of ep. 8 assuring her he’ll be fine and the aftermath of ep. 8?

Before It All Went Wrong

A/N: I’ve gotten a lot of requests to rewrite the aftermath of episode 8, so I only did the first part of the request. Keep an eye out for Aftermath fics coming soon

“Adam, you can’t attack the hotel, it’s dangerous.”

“Relax, babe, they’re nothing against us!”

“Maybe them, but Lucifer would defend his daughter.”

“I can take on Lucifer.”

They were laying in bed on their sides, facing each other. Adam had an arm slung over her hip, tracing patterns on her lower back. His other hand was intertwined with (Name)’s. She squeezed his hand.

“No, you can’t. He was a Seraphim, my love, that power didn’t diminish when he fell.”

Adam bit back a “Fuck you, yes I can,” knowing that she was right. He finally settled on a quiet, “We’re still going to attack the hotel.”

(Name)’s bottom lip began to tremble, tears welling in her eyes.

“Oh no,” Adam groaned. “Don’t fucking cry. Don’t do that. What’s wrong?”

“You’re going to get hurt,” (Name) insisted. Adam wiped away a tear.

“I’m not gonna get hurt. I’m fucking Adam. I’m the first man. These demons are nothing against me. There’s not even a guarantee Lucifer will show up. I’ll be fine, babe.”

“My gut is saying you won’t be, and you know my gut feelings have never been wrong.”

“That’s some superstitious bullshit,” Adam laughed, rubbing his thumb back and forth over her cheekbone. She squeezed his hand again. “Fine. Just… just promise me you’ll be so careful.”

Adam kissed her forehead. “I promise.”

Later, when Adam went to leave, (Name) stopped him at the door. “Adam?” He turned around.

“Watch your back.”

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for "casting a curse" on my superstitious aunt?

I (32NB) have been out for almost a decade as trans (and more recently nonbinary) with the great support of my friends and partner. My family is another story. when I came out publicly they were very messy, my Aunt was the worst of it- telling people to stay away from me if they were being publicly supportive, DMing my friends to chastise them for being the wolves of Satan tearing at my flesh and basically trying to rebuke them in the name of Jesus or something like that.

I had her blocked for quite some time, but after about 8 years, I started coming around family functions again because it was a lot harder to misgender me when I look and sound completely different. because it was hard to coordinate holiday bullshit with her blocked (my family all uses FB for scheduling and organizing who brings what) I unblocked her. Plus, my mom promised she was going to be nice and was turning over a new leaf or something.

quite recently I found out my family have all been pretending to respect my pronouns and legal name and have been using my deadname and incorrect pronouns behind my back. I've been keeping my distance from family because this has been so hurtful to me, but I broke this unofficial silence to get into an argument about some unrelated political stuff. My aunt chimed in on this public thread by tagging me and then deadnaming me. I said "that is not my name, do not call me by that name." very firmly and just disengaged from the conversation entirely. she responded by saying, "Would shit head be more appropriate?"

I saw a red, I have never name called her despite her constantly being a menace to me and my friends and supportive loved ones. So, like the title says, I DM'd her and pretended to cast a curse on her, since she thinks I'm possessed by Satan anyways I might as well play the part. I then blocked her so she couldn't respond, and now no one in my family is talking to me so I don't know if she told them I did that or if they all just are tired of pretending to love me now.

uhhh, AITA for doing that?

What are these acronyms?

[honestsycrets]

brujería i: inhuman | ceo!miguel x succubus!reader

❛ pairing | ceo!miguel x succubus!reader

❛ type | doubleshot, explicit

❛ summary | since taking over his bio-father's company, miguel just can't seem to sleep. there may be someone behind that though. or, a succubus wants miguel.

❛ tags | some sacrilege, succubus!reader, ceo!miguel, sex-dreams, sleepy sex, dub!con: miguel is asleep during many encounters, exhibitionism outside of a church, f!reader, some mention of blood and wounds, au with deviations from canon, slight hurt miguel, slight caretaking peter, excessive bodily fluids, some mindgames.

❛ request fulfilled | Was wondering if i could request ceo!miguel x succubus! reader? whether he’s spider-man is completely up to you but reader is basically like a demon hiding in plain sight, toying and feeding on the sexual energy of people. maybe she’s a new hire and then she visits him in his dreams or smth. miguel becomes her target and he finds himself falling in love with her and wanting her so much it brings out an intense carnal desire inside him (1/2)

❛ sy's notes | i based some of miguel's sleep paralysis on my own experience. the catholic religious connotations are not very heavy, but if you're sensitive to that sort of thing, i'd probably skip this one.

Miguel O’Hara was never a superstitious man.

He grew up in a deeply Catholic home thick with superstition. His grandmother’s rosary still sat on his desk, enveloped in a spherical glass alongside stacks of organized paperwork on the latest drug his not-so-dearly held biological father left before he kicked it. Corruption was fiercely rooted, a fact that Miguel was not so subtle about. The papers he rifled through that morning revealed the stupidest account of Brujería among reports of Rapture.

“Brujería-- what bullshit,” he murmured as he dropped a stack of papers back onto the oak desk. He glanced at the glass tabletop and found his reflection therein. His eyes, crinkled at the edges, carried the reflection of countless days of his dark exhaustion. “Si no es una cosa es otra.”

“Miguel?”

“What, Lyla?” Miguel threw a glare at the ceiling at the AI that sang at him. She seemed far too happy with her position as the resident terror of his new office. New was an overstatement. It was his father’s before he croaked, reflected in some of his tacky taste in the things Miguel had immediately thrown out. Why else would it have a picturesque, but grandiose view of Nueva York but for a great view of the people he was destroying? The bright windows also did a bang-up job of burning his eyes

“The psychiatrist is here,” she chirped. “Are you going to tell her about your wet dreams?”

The flutters that danced over his skin at night at the strike of three. Foreign warmth caressed his skin like a warm blanket over his skin. His heart rate raced, and pleasure burrowed under his skin. It never failed that Miguel would wake to a rush of pleasure, cum painting his sheets sticky, his heart soaring into his throat. With such pleasure, why would he tell anyone but Lyla about his pathetic, ruined state that came night after night?

Miguel waved his hand in dismissal. He instead checked the chunky watch on his wrist. You're just on time. He appreciates a punctual professional given how much work he had to complete. In lieu of the report of spiritual abuse, he picks up the pile of sexual misconduct. That was a more pressing matter to address. The actual victims were far more important than some bruto’s complaint of ojos based on a huevo in some water. He should send these idiots to any middle schooler’s chemistry class. The bruja who was coming to visit him today could hardly be a source of concern.

“Why would I do that? Let her in. You listen in and I’ll unplug you.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” Lyla teased, but he knew she was right. Lyla was one of his only friends and by far the one he spent the most time with. She has patience for him. He slips his reading glasses out of their holster as the lock on his office door hisses apart, welcoming in the strange woman whose name he could never find but in Stone’s personal records. A chroí, my love, like Stone could love anyone else but himself.

“Dr. O’Hara.”

Miguel slipped the lenses on. Not only was the woman before him, not the sort of hippy-dippy woman he expected, but you were… familiar. Oh, so familiar. He’s never met you before. Yet, he finds himself inexplicably pulled to closing the gap between your bodies.

You extend your hand for him to take.

“Dr…” You finished his sentence by offering your name.

“Have I met you before?” His large hand clasped your own. A blanket of warmth blossomed from your small hand in his grip. Gentle at first, your very same small hands laced in his. The sudden realization of where he’d seen you hit him like a bullet through the head: unexpected and instantaneous. The image rippled across his mind, Miguel’s hand collared on your nape, his fat dick splitting your cunt against his office’s wide windows. Another pulse of heat soared through his hand--

Miguel jerked his hand back. What in the hell?

“¿Estás bien?” You were so close that he could smell the perfume on your skin. A dark cherry, sultry, and so good. He was swimming in the vague delusion that was your skin against his. There was something delicious about the way you looked at him, tracing the outline of his tie that sat tightly behind a constricting vest. He was hazy, clumsily falling back into his office chair. Moving was tiring with the sudden vial of desire that flooded through his veins. You were at his side in an instant.

“I’m fine,” he lied. “It’s… the heat.”

“Oh! Stone's office is always hot. Here, I'll help you,” No-- he tried to argue. Against his wishes, you slipped his suit jacket off his shoulders and down his muscular arms, loitering a bit too long along his pumped biceps. “Though, I guess it’s all yours now, isn’t it? We all are.”

Miguel has no energy to fight you, lost in the haze that was last night’s forgotten dream. He’d never met you before, that much he was sure. Yet he swore, on all that was scientific and right, that he dreamed of your body on his, emptying him of any worries as he came into the nothingness of his sheets. It wasn’t just pleasure, it was a sea of rapture, and he drowned in it.

“According to your AI, you’re burning up lately.”

How do you know? You walked around his chair, your slender heels clicking over the hardwood floor. His eyes traced the curves of your velvet red pencil dress up to your bust as you leaned in, the back of your hand taking his temperature on his forehead. Your bust had delicate black lace detailing that enhanced your natural beauty. It scorched his ability to be a decent gentleman. Every man had their limits. He’s nearly at his, and you’ve only just arrived.

“You're so warm,” you gasped, but it's strained, a crack through stained glass. “Let me help you.”

You reached for the knot of his tie. That’s enough-- Miguel shoves your hand from his neck. He tugs the charcoal tie away from his throat, drawing it away from his white button-up. You wet your lips, drawing a sheen across your perfectly applied lipstick. You came in here with a plan and purpose to inflame him-- and did just that.

“Careful.”

A pause-- your eyes challenged him, seemed to know how weak he was in resisting the strain of lust that came with your mere presence. He was losing the fight quicker than he’d like. Miguel has to focus. “Your findings on Rapture’s… trial run. Where are they?”

“Destroyed,” you answered curtly.

"Project 2099?"

“Under seal. Oh, don’t look at me like that, hermoso. It wasn’t my choice.”

Hermoso. A flicker of anger shot through him as you reclined on his desk and ran your hands across the rim. You seem to notice the rosary on his desk, eyes lingering on it for more than a few seconds. You dipped so comfortably between propriety and looseness. The distance between your easily accessible skirt and his hardening erection is the entirety of only a few steps. “Stone’s orders, not mine.”

“There are no copies?”

“Why would there be? Stone was always very persistent with what he wanted.”

You? He doesn’t ask.

Something in him doesn’t want to think of it, what his father could have done to you that would make you so willing to stand so close to him. Your gaze faltered. You bore at his groin, his sleek dark slacks straining against his length.

“Now you want to know if I fucked him, que no?”

That's a yes. The way you slip onto his desk, legs slightly apart, tells him all he needs to know. His gaze falters, down then up again, an irrational amount of envy welling low in his belly. He found himself wondering what you’ve done in this very room. You bat your long lashes, far too pretty. He isn't easily dissuaded.

“I've barely met you and you want to know everything about my work and personal life. You’re so greedy. So like him.”

“I am nothing like that man.” At that very moment, his eyes locked with yours. A distant rage filled his belly. No one, he meant no one, compared him with that maniac. His tongue twisted in his mouth, ready to make some sharp remark, but you snatched his words by leaning forward, pressing your lips to his head. Your fingertips combed through his dark hair, a warm comfort. A kiss? His hands felt heavy, weighed down by an impossible weight, one he couldn’t push off no matter how much he strained.

"Hasta luego, Miguel.”

The door closes behind you with a clap. Back in the chair, Miguel was heaving heavy breaths. The restriction on his body loosened up and allowed Miguel to grab the black mirror stashed in a drawer below his desk. Your sticky lipstick left a stain on his forehead, strained with stress lines. He wiped away the red stain of your lipstick and rolled the remnants between his thumb and middle finger.

"Like Stone," he repeated with a hiss. "Mierda."

He wracked his hand around his swollen cock-- panting as he beat himself off, ecstasy claiming that he had to have you. The insatiable need to have -- his father’s whore-- overrode any of the papers on his desk. He came into the cold nothingness that is the air, his hands coated in his own essence. Miguel untucked a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped himself clean.

“Lyla? Who?” he gasped a breath, “Who is that woman?”

“Beats me,” Lyla thought she was so funny. “She’s not in any electronic records.”

“Really.”

Even if that was the case, Miguel would be damned if Stone got the better of him in death. Miguel cleaned up his hand and whirled open the sexual harassment folder-- he was nothing if not a determined man.

You shouldn’t be here. No, really, you should not be employed here.

He doesn’t know your qualifications because he cannot find them. In the electronic documents, your file is bare bones. The suggestion of your education is non-verifiable but signed off by Stone himself. If it were only him, he might chalk it up to corruption. But there were others-- other dead bodies-- who signed off on your highly amended report on Rapture. The board claimed your employment was not a subject for discussion. Even if he were the face of the company, you were untouchable.

He left his office to the small coffee shop on the third floor. The man who ran it, Peter, was a refreshment from the stress of the day in his own, weird little way. It was probably the high quantity of caffeine that kept him awake.

On the surface, Miguel’s dreams are unoffensive. Light things, like fingers brushing veins that creep along his muscles, soapy breasts dragging along his chest. Using your body like a sponge to clean him after a heavy session at the gym. You are always on your knees, suckling the cum free from his cock with an angelic little flutter of your lashes and those sultry, cat-like eyes. He was in a state of constant arousal with nothing to show for it but a consistently swollen dick. At his age, he considers it a feat.

“You’re so sexy, Peter.”

There it was again. Your giggle over top of the sound of the hiss of a coffee machine. Peter was laughing, shy, or uncomfortable, he couldn’t quite tell. Miguel slips off his wire sunglasses, looking along the bar for the source.

“Hey, Miguel!”

He paced around the corner, then back. There are a few work couples and colleagues speaking with one another. Their tables are fresh with coffee and tea, tiny wrapped sandwiches a poor lunch. You’re conspicuously absent. The lack of sleep was fucking with his head, it had to be. He settled the glasses into the lining of his suit pocket and withdrew his wallet.

“Miguel! You'll never guess who came by. Uh, the usual?” Peter bounced over, leaning over the cash register with a glitter in his eye. He was more upbeat than even usual. Some girl must have made his day, he decided. Sí, he rumbled. Miguel dipped his fingers into his wallet to pull out his card only to be stopped short of the action.

“Nope,” Peter pushed Miguel’s hand away. “Someone paid for you.”

“For me?” Miguel settled the card in its proper slot. “Who?”

“You know,” Peter whispers. "The bruja."

“She was here?” he repeated, following Peter across the side of the bar as he began to make his coffee. Peter is an airhead, a wonderful airhead. Some part of him is infectious on days when he’s not being stalked by a woman with no traceable name. It was as if you were wiped clean. “When?”

“About two hours ago? She said you looked spooked and left me some money for your coffee. I think she likes you.”

You were doing more than liking him.

“And why would you think that?” Miguel pulled out a chair at the bar, humoring the scrawnier man. Peter frothed some milk, a fluffy cloud of relaxation on top of his usual coffee dusted with cinnamon and nutmeg. Miguel takes the mug from Peter, wrinkling his nose at the addition of nutmeg.

“Well, she turned down some dude from marketing,” Peter mentions. “I've been here for a while and-- she rarely turns anyone down.”

You rarely turn anyone down?

It bothered him long after he finished the coffee. You’re so sexy, Peter. You weren’t there. Peter told him that you’d been gone for two hours. He should not have heard the wisps of your caramelized voice in the coffee shop.

It’s the exhaustion, Miguel convinced himself. He just needs the weekend, to rest.

By Saturday night, he hit his last nerve.

Restful sleep would not come. He lay in his large, empty king-sized bed after searching through files for another project that had no other name but 2099 for the entirety of ten long hours. Any information-- redacted-- but your name slapped over the top and bottom of countless documents was like a great, big fuck-you O'Hara. The more he read about you, the angrier he became. You enraged him, but he was positively enthralled with your presence.

He lay in bed listening to should-be soothing jazz that now grated his ear. Night after night, his torment never failed. When he finally found an instance of peace, his muscles locked up. Not quite awake, but not quite asleep. Heavy pressure overtook his chest and arms forced him to remain still. The world fazed in and out, doom on beating alarm bells in the back of his mind. Then he felt it, the phantom pressure on his neck that slid over his tawny skin, from his belly to the dark happy trail that dipped below his silky pants.

Miguel gritted his teeth and ripped himself from his trance. When his eyes popped apart, he was greeted by his shock. Hunger flowed through him in warm waves, piercing underneath his skin. Miguel’s fingers twinged, your phantom figure on top of him. It looked like you, but misty, as though an illusion. In the darkness, he can only make out the shadows that bounce off what little light is in the room.

“Motherfucker--”

Though he said that, your teasing fingers freed him from his cozy pants, ripping them around his hirsute thighs. His length lulls against his body, a shameful drool of cum gathered at his cock. A night of phantom touches has done him in. Miguel lurched back onto his flat pillows when he was abruptly shoved down by an outrageous amount of force. With his arms thrown up by his head-- he whimpered, frustrated with tonight's-- dream, delusion, dare he say-- reality. His joints were locked by invincible chains that forced him to stay in place. The more he fought, the hotter his need became for what came next. His body was pitifully trained.

He wasn’t certain that it was you-- but it smelled so deeply of your perfume, rich and cherry, flooding his nostrils. So familiar. He glanced down at the opaque figure, grinding over his hard cock. A pair of hands crashed onto his shoulder, claws curling into his broad shoulders. Blood seeped forth. A growl gathered in his chest, ripping up when something warm and tight sunk down on his bobbing dick. Miguel gritted his teeth: it had been a long time since he’d been with anyone. Not for a lack of viable partners, but his annoyance with them all.

Despite his immense muscle, he was too weak to do anything about it. Even if he could, what would he do? Throw off the sex-crazed hallucination on his dick? You rolled your hips over him, suckling him right back up. Hypnotized by the smoky illusion, Miguel gazed on begrudgingly, grunting as you rolled over him, his dick straining your insides. He was a toy, nothing more and nothing less, used for his fat cock that split your airy body apart. His hips jerked, frustrated as he found he could go no deeper. You punished him by dragging your claws over his swarthy shoulders, over his collarbones. Blood ripped free, sliding down his deltoids.

“Chingado,” Miguel’s lips parted for the word, hips juddering up like a hungry slut. It wasn’t normal, the warm tickle of your lubricant over his shaft, exquisite in its nature. His heels dug into the bed, balls tightened. He was so damn close to his relief, he could taste it on his tongue, bordering somewhere between immense pleasure and decadent pain. Your need for his pain won out, dipping down over his chest and latching your fangs over his chest-- then up, hooking on the front of his throat. It was going to bruise, badly.

You shook loose his orgasm, ripped free with the need to fill you, own you-- as though he were not the one being owned. His hips staggered, sticky whips of cum coating your walls in waves. More than he’d cum before before. His eyes shut hard, tears pricking the sides of his eyes. Then, as if it never happened, the hold on his hands was released. He struggled with his freedom, his hands slack, softening cock worthlessly weeping over his thigh. The pain-- oh, the pain, it washed over him moments later.

“Woah,” Lyla interrupted, “Miguel! What happened?”

She couldn’t see you. His eyes were like two dark coins, staring up at the ceiling, wide, and unseeing. He can hear her frantic questions, the ligature marks left behind from invincible chains, and the all-too-real blood and bruising that left him utterly ruined.

“It,” he choked out, heat biting at his well-chiseled face. “It hurts.”

He doesn’t remember what comes next. It was five in the morning when he finally rolled out of bed, and onto the floor, gripping the growing headache that grew miserably behind his head. Bitterness bubbled in his stomach, exhaustion in his eyes. The aberration that was his poor sleep was irksome more than anything. He felt someone’s eyes on him, soft and worried, rushing to his aid as though he were an old man who fell off a bed.

“Hey, you’re awake,” Peter said with an undercurrent of concern soaring through his words. “No, wait. I got you.”

He helped him sit against the frame of his bed, a frame that looks small as shit with Miguel’s large body against the frame. He’s unsure of what to say, assuming that Lyla called him in desperation, and let him into the house that Peter most definitely did not have a key to. Miguel’s chest ached. “What happened? Are you… are you okay?”

Everyone seems to ask him that lately.

“I’m fine,” he was alien to the feeling of care. He knew when Miguel dug himself into a hole. Miguel didn’t want to think about what happened only a few hours prior when his exhaustion took over his body and knocked him out. He dreamed of nothing. An abyss of unsettled nothingness, the ache low in his belly to fuck you until you were soaked in his cum and Miguel could finally, finally rest his tired eyes. Miguel pulled on a fluffy white robe Peter supplied, dragging it over thick strips of gauze and medical tape.

“You don't look fine.”

They both know he’s lying, but what else could be said? That the state Peter saved Miguel from was a rarity? That he’s used to being preyed upon by his own delusions? He needs a fuck, maybe that’s it.

“If you’re going to stay, be useful and get me that file.”

“Oh-- okay, this one?” he doesn’t look surprised. He padded across his room to his desk, kicked a chair that was falling apart aside, and picked up the folder on Brujería. It was buried behind more useful folders such as sexual harassment and inter-employee workplace violence. A fact that Miguel wasn’t exactly proud about in the first place.

“Brujería? Like witch stuff, right? No way. You think work is haunted too?” Peter says with a choked-out, nearly forced laugh. Miguel doesn’t pay himself enough for this. Of all the files at hand, it was nearly untouched. It included such things as ancestors, spirits, demons, and curses.

“I don’t. But the workers obviously do.”

Peter was soft and kind, but not stupid. He plopped down next to him and crossed his legs one over the other.

“The ones that say she’s a bruja?” Peter tapped on your photo. Your photo offers emptiness. That though you have a bright smile in the photo, it is undoubtedly fake. He never saw a woman look so innocent and sweet, but dangerous.

“You’ve heard?”

“Well, the men she hangs around always end up dead. They get all successful and rich then, bam, dead. But you can’t believe that right?” Peter reasons. “She’s not cursed, she just has bad luck. She’s always been nice to me.”

“A curse?”

“Yeah,” his warm breath wavers into a sigh. “Stone wanted company, found her in Sacred Heart-- you know, the one they say is cursed?”

“A cursed church? Give me a break. The only curse at Sacred Heart are the exploitive priests.”

“I’m just saying what I heard,” he’s whispering, shivers wracking up his arms at the mere mention. He tries not to push him anymore. Peter stood up and walked to the coffee stand in the corner of his dark room. For the days that he couldn’t be bothered to leave his room, he’d make a hot coffee in the corner and keep working just as he always did. “She’s always been nice to me.”

“Maybe you’re not her taste.”

“Yeah well, probably not. I don't look like you-- but she did call me sexy, so that's something right?” Peter laughed, “Want a cup of coffee?”

Sexy. That's it, he's so fucking sick of this shit.

“No, I don’t want a cup of fucking coffee,” Miguel bit back, shoving the bed several inches as he pushed his hand off of it, storming into his walk-in closet. “Lyla. When is mass at Sacred Heart?”

“Sacred Heart?” Lyla laughed. “You’re kidding--”

“Lyla,” he snarled, chucking his bag across the closet. It connected with his tall, black safe with a loud boom. She was quiet for a moment, undoubtedly momentary confusion for why non-believer Miguel O’Hara wanted to go to, of all things, a Catholic mass.

“6:30,” she answers.

“I’ll go with you,” Peter calls out.

Don’t bother, Miguel returns from the next room.

It’s been a long time since he dressed for mass-- some dark brown slacks and a warm, vanilla button-up. He snaps a chain necklace around his thick, bruised throat and his favorite watch. As he grabbed the manilla folder on brujería he felt like a child, lectured by his grandmother to not be like his bad man-loving, alcoholic mother and go to church. Despite very much not believing in any of this shit, it was frustrating, annoying even, that he had to go back there.

He didn’t want to go but his spirit was unsettled. Something told him that going to his grandmother’s favorite church would give him a sense of illumination, that it would make sense of the things that made no sense.

Sacred Heart stands on a hill, both physically and metaphorically. It takes offerings off the backs of the poor and sits atop a lush hill. Its stained-grey architecture is only beautiful by virtue of its stained-glass murals. He doesn’t care for the saints that loom overhead, unseeing eyes judgemental and cold. Viejitos and the truly devout are the only ones in attendance. Based on Peter’s account, he should expect you there. It doesn't take long to be proven right.

“Bendición.”

Is he hallucinating again? Despite the many rows of unspoken burgundy benches, you sit by him. Miguel is disconcerted as you slide your thick hips by, sandwiching him between the side of the bench and your chunky, beautiful thighs. He worked his words in his mouth for entirely too long.

“Dios te bendiga,” he said, the words chalky and thick in his throat, drawn up from the bottomless abyss of his fluttery stomach. You sat with a black lace veil pinned to your head. The only sort of women who wear a veil are very old or not Catholic at all. He veers on the latter. “You’re Catholic?”

“If you want me to be.”

“Why else would you be here?” he reached over and plucked up a cheap bible from a pouch behind the bench before him. Your eyes follow pupils dilating in a way that isn’t human at all, staring at the many words on the page that spun under his thumb.

“I think you know why,” you said with soft and pliable words. He felt himself melting.

Of course, Miguel thought, you always seem to show up during the most inopportune times.

"You didn't bring a bible," he offers it to you. Your eyes, dilate wide and bright at the sight of the thing, flicker a look down to it, then Miguel again.

"I prefer to listen." You turn away from it. He flipped it in his hand before returning it to its rightful pouch. For some reason, you did not want to be close to the book. He thinks he knows why.

“So you are stalking me.”

"Stalking is such a mean word, Miggy. Haunting, I like haunting better." Miguel throws open the report. He doesn’t want to read it-- but it is the last folder that may hold the information he needs. Your eyes fluttered to the footsteps of others filling their spot, an archaic song on the lips of the practitioners. Wrong page, Miguel.

"What was that?" he asked you.

"Nada."

He looked down to his lap where the report sat. The voices of those present, their lips forming an off-tuned song, itched at his already exhausted mind. The more he fought, the worse it became. You flipped open a black fan and cooled yourself with long flicks of your wrist. He doesn’t think it’s so hot.

“The rosary on your desk is from here, isn’t it?”

How would you know?

“You’re hiding something.”

Page 76. His fingers thumb on the pages on their own accord. Your eyes traced the movement, looking down at the pages before him. On deaths of company men.

I just do.

The thought entered his mind without prompting. He scanned names on the page. Aaron Delgado… asphyxiation. Tyler Stone… myocardial infarction. There were photos pinned there, photos that shouldn’t be so graphic, but somehow are. The men are as naked as the day they came into the world.

“If you say so, Miggy.”

“What are you hiding?”

You brought your hand over the file, closing it shut on top of his hand. He turns his hands over the top. Your fingers run over his knuckles, in misleading circles. “Are you sure you want the truth?”

“I don’t hide from the truth.”

“The truth,” you leaned in, your words husky against his ear. “The truth is I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m a good girl, Miggy. You have to believe me.”

Something about the way you spoke enraged him, prickling him enough to force him to stand in the middle of the priest’s words. He snatched your wrist with his thick hand, gripping you enough to leave pepper bruises across your skin. Your heels clicked after his boots, out through the foyer, past the bath of holy water, and down the discolored steps.

“Miguel?” you sang like a siren.

He’s hit his limit, throwing you against the discolored church wall. A gasp punched out of your lungs, aggravated by Miguel’s large hand strangling the breath from your throat. He felt warm as he kicked your legs apart and took up that space. The heat doesn’t feel like it is his. His bulge against your skirt certainly is. Now, he seems to expect pleasure when he is in your presence.

“You want me to fuck you, sí? That’s why you’re tormenting me every fucking night.”

“I thought you liked cumming,” you relinquished with a harsh giggle. It grates his last nerve. “You finally look relaxed when you do.”

“Qué mala eres,” Miguel snatched the bottom of your skirt, ripping it up the slit to expose your warm skin. He found no panties there, just smooth skin. He cupped your sex for emphasis. “No panties in church. You're filthy.”

“¿Y qué? You’re proving why I didn’t need them.”

He stared, lingering for a moment, challenging your insistence on control. Since he took over this god-forbidden company, you had been defying him with your devilish smile. Miguel slapped your cunt, eliciting a groan that was half of the pain that he’d had only a few hours ago. You liked it, scratching lines up his arms to his broad shoulders.

“You’re so big,” you balanced his abuse with your overwhelming worship. “So big and pretty.”

“Shut up,” he bit out and slipped his middle finger inside of you, unconcerned for your pleasure. Your muscles tightened around his finger, drawing him deeper. He slides another beside it, his hand leaving your cunt to slap your jaw, forcing you to keep focus. Your tender flesh is hot and red, a wonderful tenderness radiating throughout your jaw.

“And you're dripping, do you have no shame?” He grips your chin to look at your face. Raw defiance was slapped across your face. You rolled your hips onto his hand, forcing him to caress your walls in the right spot. He perked his brow, listening to the priest lecturing in the background. Your sweetness drooled over his curled wrist, dripping from his squelching fingers.

“For you,” you whined. “I want your dick. Give it--”

“You’re a brat.”

He said that-- but he was amused. Miguel slipped down onto his knees, knocking your legs rudely apart. His mouth encircled your puffy clit, bringing it into his mouth and suckling it fat. His rhythm was quick, making a point that he could make you cum too. You weren’t debating him, your hands tight in his hair, loud little moans beating free from your lips. His tongue was warm and soft, kissing and nipping.

The priest went quiet.

“You’re being too loud. Do you want them to hear us?” Miguel’s brow furrowed, slipping up from your vulva.

"Why is that my problem?" You whined in distaste after he stopped pleasuring you, your pulsing cunt beating like an open wound. Asshole.

"You could care for someone other than yourself." Miguel tilted his head, turning you to face the wall. He pulled himself free of his pants-- his thick cock fat against the curve of your ass. That’s what you wanted, he decided, gauging by your whine that came with his action.

"How does that get me what I want?" You shook your ass at him, waiting for him to rear back.

“This is what you wanted, hm? Fine, have it. Just shut up."

He leaned over you, your scratchy black veil catching along his stubble. He doesn’t wait for a response, pushing inside. He wasn’t just thick, he was long. But he knew you already knew that-- you knew every curve of his body, loved the thick veins on his cock that filled you so well. You scratched at the wall as he crushed you into the wall, his hips stuttering with your walls tightening him, drawing him further, impossibly deep.

Estúpida, he thought-- and knew you’d hear it. Whatever you were, you weren’t human. You were somewhere between a human and desire itself, evident in the way you looked at him, pleasured by his rutting hips against the church. The priest went back to his lecture-- the churchgoers enraptured in their worship. The only thing Miguel was enraptured with was the way your pussy tingled, the fluid soaking his cock, and the stretch in your lower belly. His hand clasped over your mouth, index finger poking into your mouth. Your tongue drew him in, fangs nipping his finger.

It earned you a hard slam, stuffing you full, your strange body catching his thrusts beautifully. He slipped his hand over your soft cunt, working your clit for your orgasm, though you deserved no such thing. Habit, he supposed. Gloria a Dios-- the churchgoers clammed with one another. Nearly out of time, your pleasure won out, gushing over his fat cock. Miguel suckled a breath, his ego demanding him to hold out, batter your sweet cunt through your orgasm.

“I’m hungry-- Give it to me,” you bit on his finger, breaking the skin and urging blood to flow into his mouth. Your body twitched violently around his cock, drawing bright pleasure forth. “Give me your cum.”

"Stay out of my dreams."

"I don't want to," you reared your head back at him, your nose tight with wrinkles. He drew you fully onto his dick, the final thrusts were sloppy and immature-- but he held out, making you angrier by the second.

"I'll cum on the floor right here, I don't give a shit."

"No, no! Fine! I promise-- I'll let you sleep," the threat of going hungry is enough that you concede, punching your fist against the wall. He grunts in response and feeds your body with whips of cum that felt far heavier than his usual. A pleasure, far sweeter than any orgasm he could give you. Miguel soaked your sweet little body with his sticky cum, chest swelling heavily against your little back. He finishes and pulls himself free. To his surprise, your cunt doesn’t leak. Miguel staggers back with a perk in his eyebrow.

You look far better for wear than he does, clumsily zipping himself back into cum stained slacks, running his hand through his sweat-soaked hair. You recline on the wall, inspecting him. He knows how he looks. He's bruised, long gashes down his chest, and properly fucked-- a mess. The manila envelope sits forgotten by your heels, your skirt-- perfect, as though he never tore it in the first place.

“You’re not human.”

Miguel bends down, picking up the folder. Not like he needs it anymore. He does, however, need that information on Project 2099. I can help you, he hears. He catches your wide, toothy smile. You've grown fangs. He isn’t surprised.

“Not even a little.”

[loserboyfriendrjl]

random marauders headcanons

remus doesn’t know how to draw and never knew how

sirius and james can carry entire conversations through just glances

peter has the neatest handwriting out of them

sirius gave up newt-potions, despite having the necessary grade to be able to take the course, saying that he doesn’t want slughorn “kissing up his ass just because of his family name”

remus swears by afternoon naps, and whenever he can sleep, he does

peter is an anxiety-induced nail-biter, and it worsened as the situation raging outside hogwarts did

james is awfully superstitious in regards to quidditch, and he always has the same pre-match routine (sirius tells him it’s bullshit, and that they win because they have a good team, but james just “wants to be sure”)

remus is very observant of everything and everyone but his own feelings

for the longest time, out of the four of them, peter had the most relationships (admittedly short-lived) due to being the most approachable

sirius dislikes playing quidditch and only attends the matches because james is on the team; he cheers the loudest whenever he scores

james always doodles snitches on his papers

remus annotates and dog-ears his books; he believes that a book that’s read is a book that’s been showed love

remus’ best friend had, until hogwarts, been his mother (and his ginger cat, saffron; he was heartbroken when he could take her to hogwarts)

sirius was the first who transformed into his animal form and james had been thoroughly jealous

[mcflymemes]

PROMPTS FROM TASKMASTER SEASON 16 *  assorted dialogue from the tv show, adjust as necessary

you look so nice, but underneath it all, you're just a shit.

it's just exciting to know people are talking about me.

i don't want to be in there with some wet guy.

oh, i'm gonna push this bitch.

are you a child of divorce?

to this day, i don't know what vibe i give off.

i know it's annoying, but it's all i've got so... just let me have it.

i've never done that.

i'm actually quite good with a sword.

this is one of the most exhausting things i've ever done.

why didn't i just draw a cock and balls?

i don't know why i said that, 'cause i don't really regret it.

you're easy to look at than i am.

oh, you're here. what a thrill.

you absolute anus!

you've got a friend?

would it be mischievous to say things that i'm not supposed to say?

can i just say, i love weapons.

you made me say every country in europe.

do you have a license?

if i do nothing else in this life, that was worth it.

[name], the heat is on.

what sort of cool things do you want?

stick that in your pipe.

i knew what had happened, and even i was swept along by the narrative.

it was avant-garde. it was french cinema.

good luck with your career.

bit late for a banana.

it was very, very cold that day and i wanted to get it over with.

is that your starting position?

i knew it was something boring.

don't have to tell me twice.

it is the least sexy thing that anyone's ever said to anyone.

i don't like going upside down.

what have i done? oh dear. what have i done?

it's nice, it's harmless, it's warm.

this thing is disgusting.

that's useless. that's worse than useless.

i also agree with them. you are sick.

your pie technique was dreadful.

i really like it when you're disappointed in us.

oh, is there a fire? how awful.

nothing going through my head is family friendly. not one idea.

lovely legs, sir!

you got a problem?

that was heterosexual male banter.

are you a superstitious person?

it's too late for that.

do i just choose a name?

i can drive people crazy.

that is a true story, and i feel a bit sick.

i bought it to annoy my husband 'cause i thought he'd hate it.

i'm well-presented, very smart, and available for no-strings fun round the back of the barracks.

what room am i in?

what's your favorite number?

why is there smoke?

running a business is bullshit.

when i think exercise, i think exorcism.

we're not allowed to work with nature?

we were at a wedding together once, and i made you eat a whole pat of butter.

obviously you want to put it on a penis.

are you joking me?

is this something that would excite a heterosexual?

you're going to get a lot of letters.

i'm gonna go for plan b and just throw some things.

is this your stage persona, or is this what you're like?

i don't know what you mean.

you can hide in there waiting for your victims.

i'm sorry, i nearly killed you.

is it appropriate to call him "sir?"

i just really like the idea of stuffing a massive stick up a mannequin's arse and rotating it like a rotisserie chicken.

i was made for this.

i was told by an ex that i have the hands of a midwife.

is that a compulsive disorder of some kind?

what an absolute shower of shits you are.

[girlyguy]

Fuck Zodiac signs. They're bullshit.

[beroebluejeans]

come read the baru cormorant books! we got:

monetary policy

homoerotic scheming

feral arithmetic-ghoul named Baru

mean redhead

lesbian terminator

awkward sex

treating other people well superstitious bullshit lol

alcoholism

fucked-up whale

body horror

birds

[honorarysimp]

4: The Woods Don't Contain Just Secrets

series masterlist

Over the next few days, you throw yourself into the investigation, spending hours at the station as well as interviewing locals and searching the town.

During your time at the station, you’ve had numerous discussions with the Sheriff and Officer Carpenter, asking questions and absorbing every bit of information they were willing to provide. You also spend time researching the town's history, going over old reports of previous disappearances, and most importantly the “royal” blood.

Or otherwise said, the families that have been here the longest.

As you interact with the locals, you take note of their superstitious nature and the way they all seemed to speak about Ghostface with a mixture of fear and reverence.

You observe the dynamic at the station, noting that only the Sheriff and Officer Carpenter seemed relatively untouched by the idea of Ghostface being a paranormal entity.

The Sheriff, of course, was skeptical of the very existence of an entity at all, while Officer Carpenter appeared to be more preoccupied with her younger sister. You had noticed the officer’s worried glances whenever her sister is present. Which is so far, every day.

Honestly, it’s the most emotion you ever see Officer Carpenter show, other than when you’d stepped out for a smoke yesterday. She’d given you a weird look when she saw what you were doing, you’d silently offered her one, and you could’ve swore she almost smiled as she accepted it.

The younger Carpenter, who you’ve learned her name is Tara due to the amount of times Officer Carpenter has scolded it, is a lively and energetic presence at the station, always chattering away and putting everyone at ease. Even the gruff Sheriff seemed to soften when she was around.

But you? You, she barely acknowledges unlike everyone else. You, when she does speak to you, it’s with attitude and indirect answers.

Today however, you’ve been tasked to join Officer Carpenter out into the woods after a “disturbance” was called in. A particular name drop has the woman fighting back an eye roll you can clearly see.

The good news: it’s midday.

The bad news: a fog has settled over town.

You decide to go in the simple basis that the family that you’re going to speak with are heavily rooted to this town, going back a few generations. Their daughter however had been the first disappearance of a handful over a decade ago, according to the Sheriff the woman calls almost every other month looking for excuses to have the police come search her property for their daughter.

You’d tried making light conversation with Officer Carpenter on the drive, but she seems to be in a particular mood today.

She’s always in a mood, just more so today it seems.

As they reach the driveway, you sigh and slump back at the sight of the gate chained shut.

“She knows we’re coming right?” You mutter, half joking, but by the time you’d even turned your head to glance at her she’s already out of the vehicle.

You both trek through the dense foliage, the sunlight barely filtering through the trees and casting eerie shadows on the ground. The atmosphere was quiet and solemn, with only the sound of your footsteps and the occasional rustle of leaves breaking the silence.

You decide to try and break the quiet again, “so-“

“Take the hint.”

Instantly you bite your tongue, trashing the initial idea of casual conversation and decide to switch gears.

“You know as much as I don’t mind you projecting personal bullshit on to me, the stranger not from here, I respect it. But… dude you can at least reassure me you aren’t actively conspiring to bury me alive” I joke, which has the corners of her mouth slightly quirk. Fighting back a smile.

Familiar yet again, figures.

As you approach the Becker residence, you catch sight of an elderly woman standing on her porch, her face pinched with fear.

"Thank goodness you're here," she wheezed as you approach. "I’ve still been hearing strange noises in the woods behind my house for days now. Last night someone tried to break in again, thought it might be that dang Ghostface come to get me. He can’t take me, not after he took- he took my sweet-“

You exchange a quick glance with Officer Carpenter at the mention of Ghostface, your skepticism showing through in both your expressions. Nevertheless, you both put on a reassuring smile for the woman who’s clearly still grieving the loss of her daughter.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Becker," Officer Carpenter says in a soothing tone, one that almost makes your eyes bulge out at how strange it sounded coming from her. "We'll check out the area and make sure everything's alright, you mind showing me where the break in happened?”

The old woman visibly relaxed at the Officer's words, her shoulders sagged in relief. "Thank you, dearie," she said, her voice shaky but grateful.

Officer Carpenter then goes stoic once more as she turns her head to address you, “search the perimeter of the house, I’ll join you once I’ve finished up”

You shift uncomfortably, eyeing the fog that had started to accumulate, a part of you wants to protest but then again… you’ll cut your own tongue out before you ever admit to Officer Carpenter you’re a little uneasy.

This is your job anyhow, you’d seen far worse, dealt with far worse, you blame it on staying up in a hotel room with a stiff bed and restless sleep.

“Be careful and stay mindful,” Mrs. Becker chimes in, her uneasy expression now fixated on you “the woods don’t contain just secrets…”

You register her words and try not to let them unsettle you more, so with a curt nod, you make your way around the house and into the backyard. The dense foliage of the woods just a few yards away casting long shadows around them. Your eyes scanned the area, keen and sharp senses on high alert for any signs of anything.

As you venture further, you feel the fog creeping in more and more, slowly enveloping the area in a thick, misty shroud.

You try not to go too far just so you don’t lose sight of the house, but after a few strides further, the fog began to thicken and you lose sight of it anyways.

“This is the part in the movie where the protagonist start to regret their decisions” you mumble to yourself, hoping at least the sound of your own voice will sooth you.

It doesn’t.

Your footsteps slow as you try to make out any sign of the house, Officer Carpenter, or even Mrs. Becker.

The sound of a twig snapping has the equivalence of a gun firing off in this sort of silence, making your head whip around. Every nerve in your body prickles uneasily, a few hairs on the back of your neck standing up.

"Officer Carpenter?" You called out, voice low and cautious. There was no reply, the dense fog muffling your voice, and about that moment is when you don’t hear the crickets humming nor the cicadas singing. Frustration and worry began to build within you as you turn and take steps, hopefully, in the direction you believe you came from.

You strain to listen for any sounds, but all you hear was the rustling of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl. The fog was so thick that you can barely see a few feet in front of you, making it nearly impossible to locate anything.

"Damn it," you mutter under your breath, fishing into your pocket for your phone and flicking on the flashlight, which barely does anything to cut through the haze surrounding you.

“Sam!” you shout a bit louder, hoping to get a response, even when saying her first name feels weird.

With no other options, you simply just continue forward, which logically isn’t exactly ideal but what other choice do you have rather than standing still and calling out for someone like a child?

By this point your pulse thrumming slightly higher than normal as you continue to explore the backyard, and for a while it’s nothing. But then your peripheral vision began to catch glimpses of movement in the fog. At first, it was subtle, just brief flashes of movement that could be dismissed as the wind, approaching near the treeline and the fog breaking up enough to catch a glimpse of it, or even your imagination playing tricks on you.

But as you become more aware of it, those glimpses of movement became more frequent and more distinct. You could sense something watching you from the surrounding foliage, but every time you tried to catch a clear glimpse, it would disappear into the dense fog.

Your heart is now racing in your chest, your breathing quick and shallow as you move further into the backyard. Your eyes darted around the surroundings, flashlight beam barely cutting through the thick fog and illuminating nothing but foliage and shadows.

The feeling of being watched was overwhelming now, the sense of a presence just beyond your sight filling you with a creeping dread that makes your skin crawl. You stumble over a root in the ground, heart skipping a beat as you struggle to catch your footing.

Adrenaline and unease now clouds your better judgement, your breathing quick and shallow as you seem to move even further into the backyard. Your eyes darted around the surroundings, flashlight beam finally cutting through the thick fog and revealing the treeline just ahead.

You freeze and stare down the tall trees luring overhead, heartbeat pounding in your ears, thoughts racing with the implications of being out here alone in the fog so close to the woods. Another snapping branch makes you flinch, whirling and aiming the flashlight, body taut and ready for a fight.

At this moment you begin to regret choosing today of all days not to carry your weapon on you.

Your mind is racing, senses heightened and on edge as you back away from the treeline, knowing that if you go in a straight line the opposite direction it should lead you back to the house. The fog yet again closes in around you, claustrophobic and oppressive.

So focused on searching for the house and trying to calm your racing thoughts, you don’t notice the figure creeping up behind you, silently materializing out of the fog like an omen of death coming to reap toll.

Suddenly, the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, a bone chilling breeze making goosebumps erupt across your body as if screaming “danger”. Before you can even turn around, a sharp pain exploded across your shoulder, and you feel a stinging sensation as the blade slices through your flesh.

The abrupt pain and sudden attack causes you to panic, and you let out a strangled shout and spun around on instinct. You lift your flashlight, illuminating the figure behind you just long enough to catch a glimpse of a masked face. The figure stumbles, knife raised for a second blow getting deterred as the blinding light temporarily takes away their vision.

With adrenaline coursing through your veins, you cradle your injured shoulder with one hand, feeling the warm blood seeping through your shirt, and began to run as fast as you can through the fog.

You stumble through the thickening fog, breathing ragged and sharp as you try to outrun the attacker, your will to live keeping your legs moving. You kept going until you slam into something solid, the panic finally succumbing you as you believe you’ve met your end.

The impact causes you to stumble, but then very real and very solid hands quickly steady you with a firm grip. "What happened?" Officer Carpenter demands, her eyes going from your panicked expression and widening at the sight of the blood now soaking through your shirt.

"Ghostface," you gasp in between ragged breaths. "Attacked me. Came out of nowhere."

Officer Carpenter looks over your shoulder and into the fog, silence as well as no sign of the attacker presents itself in retaliation to your claim.

“You sure you didn’t just imagine it and cut your arm on a tree? I can’t see for shit right now” Officer Carpenter says as she releases you, pulling out her radio.

You grit your teeth as you apply pressure to your injured shoulder, the sharp pain causing you to wince “I know what I saw, there’s actually a motherfucker out here in a goddamn costume with a knife.”

Officer Carpenter nods at this, relaying the information back to the station through the radio and getting confirmation on backup underway to search the woods yet again. Once she relatches her radio to her belt, her eyes come back to you “you’re bleeding pretty bad, can you walk?”

"Thanks for the astute observation," you snark at the officer, voice laced with sarcasm. "As it turns out, I can still walk. Who knew?"

The officer rolls her eyes at your sass, but for once there’s a hint of a smile on her face. "Just making sure," she replied, her tone dry "let's get you out of here before Ghostface comes back to finish the job.”

You try not to roll your eyes, “I’d just like to stop losing the liquid that’s suppose to stay inside my body, if that’s alright with you.”

“Sure” Officer Carpenter grunts, making a show of tearing your sleeve right off your good arm before you can protest. She then is quick to wrap it under your arm and loops it back over your shoulder, tying it snug “looks like you’ll live to see another day, Detective.”

You sigh “I’m not a Detective, I’m a Private Investigator-“

“Too many syllables for me to give a shit” she shuts you down, gesturing for you to follow after her back down the driveway towards the car.

Your mind is whirling with everything that’s occurred. You try to rationalize it. You can defend yourself but you aren’t exactly a trained fighter, your mind is more of a weapon than your body is.

So, as you walk in silence, you use it.

You hadn’t actually heard the attacker coming, but it was too quiet, you should’ve heard them. You’d felt the knife, clearly it was very real, therefore there must be a person underneath that white mask and black robes. Logically, if you think about it, what doesn’t make sense is how they knew exactly where you’d be with all that fog.

By the time you reach the car, your head is hurting and the sound of approaching sirens signifying the arrival of backup filled the air.

Officer Carpenter is quick to debrief the Sheriff as the other deputies venture ahead to try and search the woods surrounding the house, which you know will be of ill effort with how bad the fog still is.

Numbly, you dig into your pocket and fish out your pack of cigarettes, the edges of the box already showing a bit of wear and tear. You pluck a cigarette out and place it between your lips, only to realize you have no lighter as you check the pack and your pockets yet again.

Great. But then again, not a surprise, those things never seem to be a constant. Coming and going when they goddamn please.

What does surprise you, however, is seeing Tara climb out of the back of the ambulance that had been called out for your injury. A bit unnecessary, in your opinion, however your entire shoulder is numb and you haven’t exactly looked to see how bad the wound is. As you approach, you watch her quickly pull all the medical supplies she’ll need to tend to you, your surprise gave way to realization.

"You're a doctor" You say dumbly, flinching as she suddenly snatches the cigarette out from between your lips and gives you an annoyed look before flicking it away.

You let out a pained hiss as she then pushes you to sit, cutting away at the material of your shirt to be able to assess the damage fully.

“Wow, good to know your eyes still work, sometimes getting stabbed in the back makes you go blind” Tara says sarcastically, giving you the same attitude you’d given her older sister just a few minutes ago.

You can’t help but smirk at the sassy response from the Tara. "Seems like being a smartass runs in the family," you quip back, wincing as she began to clean and bandage your wound.

As Tara continues working on you, she shoots you a pointed look. "You know, you're not exactly in a position to judge us small-town folk," she said, her voice tinged with irritation.

"You're the outsider here, Detective. You come here with your fancy city sensibilities and expect us to be some kind of backwards yokels.”

You wince as you feel small jabs of pain along your shoulder, the clicking of a sterile skin stapler following to a count of five before you stop counting, her ministrations efficient but not gentle.

“There you go with your allegations again when you don’t even know me” you catch her eye and smirked slightly. "Just for the record," you add. "I'm a Private Investigator, not a Detective."

"But regardless," you continue, "I'm here for the same reason as everyone else - to find the missing people and stop whoever is behind this. And in case you hadn't noticed, I just got a pretty damn good reminder of what we're dealing with out there."

Tara pauses in her work rubbing ointment along your injury, her irritation softening slightly as she looked at you. "I noticed," she said, her voice a bit quieter. "And it takes guts to go out there and put yourself in danger like that. I have to give you credit for that, my nerves are shot every day knowing Sam does the same.”

There was a hint of begrudging respect in her expression, though she tried to hide it as she starts to wrap your wound. "But that doesn't change the fact that you're still an outsider here, this town has been through more than it should’ve. Anyone with decency can see that, and as we’ve already established, you still have your eyes.”

Tara finishes wrapping the bandage around your shoulder and taped it in place, her hands moving with practiced ease.

You study her for a moment, admiring her skill and her witty attitude. "Tell me then, I could use someone with less biased insight," you start, tone casual. "And from what I've seen so far, you don't seem to be as superstitious as some of the others around here."

She says nothing, but you feel her watching you from her peripheral as she starts to put away the remainder of her medical supplies.

"How about we grab a drink later? I'd like to get your... less filtered perspective on things" you find yourself asking, a small smile playing at your lips. "Help me get a better perspective from someone who isn't either a skeptic police officer or a local caught up in superstition."

Tara raises an eyebrow at your suggestion, her expression clear disbelief at your sheer audacity to even consider asking her to get drinks with you. "You want to buy me a drink and pick my brain?" she echoes, her tone tinged with amusement.

You stammer for a moment, caught off guard by her blunt response. "Well, uh, I mean it's not like that," you fumble. "It's just... sometimes talking to people who aren't so entrenched in the local folklore or denial can give you a different perspective on things."

She raises an eyebrow, leaning against the side of the ambulance as she assess you yet again with those dark brown eyes. Judging? No. Maybe curiosity? If you are lucky.

You curse silently at yourself, annoyed by your lack of eloquence. "Besides," you added, "I could use a drink after the day I’ve had and… to be fair you’re the only person I’ve met so far that has an actual personality.”

Tara chuckles, her expression softening a bit more. "Flattery will get you nowhere," she teased, but there was a hint of a smile on her lips, clearly enjoying the fact that she has flustered you. "And what exactly do you expect me to talk about over that drink, Detective?" she retorted, a hint of teasing in her voice.

Regaining your composure slightly, you meet her eyes with a coy grin.

"Well, Miss, if I haven’t convinced you to join me for a simple drink, then I'm clearly not doing my job well."

This makes Tara laugh, a hint of surprise in her expression at your forwardness. There was a spark of what you read as tension between you two for a moment before she finally responded.

"Fine," she said, feigning indifference. "If I feel like it, maybe I'll consider joining you. But don't expect too much from me, Detective."

You give her a full smile, standing and rolling your shoulder experimentally to see if the bandages will hold. It hurts like a bitch, but you’ve had worse.

“Who said romance is dead?” you say, watching her slip into the back of the ambulance, the engine revving as she signals to the driver they were good to go.

She leans out to grab the doors, hovering over you just slightly, a bit of sunlight cuts through the fog above and reveals a scatter of freckles across her cheeks.

"Oh please," she retorted. "Romance might be dead, but clearly your ego isn't. Keep it in check, hot shot."

And with that, she shuts the back doors, leaving you standing there watching the vehicle drive off into the fog that’s finally dispersing slowly but surely.

Hell, maybe there’s luck after all.

“Detective!” you hear the Sheriff call, snapping you back to attention and turning to see him standing over by the now opened gate, no longer chained shut.

“Got some more fight in you? Or did a little scratch put you down?”

You can’t help but laugh, shaking your head at the absurdness of it all as you begin to head in his direction.

“Not at all Sheriff, takes more than a kick to keep me down.”

previous, next

[clintbartonruinedmylife]

Bucky: It's bullshit, Sam! It's your brand of bullshit from first to last. Sam: No, you can't ever see the big picture. You can't see any picture! Bucky: I am talking about something primal. Right? Savagery. Brutal animal instinct. Sam: And that wins out every time with you. You know, the human race has evolved, James! Bucky: Oh, into a bunch of namby-pamby, self-analyzing wankers who could never hope to... Sam: We're bigger. We're smarter. Plus, there's a thing called teamwork, not to mention the superstitious terror of your pure aggressors! Bucky: You just want it to be the way you want it to be. Sam: It's not about what I want! Clint: Sorry. Is this something we should all be discussing? Sam: No. Clint: It just sounds a little serious. Sam: It was mostly... theoretical. We... Bucky: We were just working out a - Look, if cavemen and astronauts got into a fight, who would win? Clint: Ah... you've been yelling at each other for 40 minutes about this? Sam: Bucky: Clint: Clint: Do the astronauts have weapons? Bucky, Sam: No.

[dwobbitfromtheshire]

Steve finally moved out of his parents' house after Robin graduated and into a shared apartment with her. His parents never let him have a pet before, and he had always wanted a cat. It was all he could think about when they moved in.

"If you want a cat, get a cat," Robin shrugged as she doodled Vickie's name over and over. "We're still rolling in that compensation money."

Steve grinned, grabbed his keys, and dashed out the door. He made sure to stop by the pet store first and get as many supplies as he could. The next stop he made was to the animal shelter, and he really shouldn't have, but the first kitten he saw he fell in love with. Her black fur was curled like a sheep's and she only had one green eye. She was curled up in the back and looking weary.

"No one wants her. They always walk past her when they come through the store, which is a shame because she's a beautiful cat. I'd take her, but my husband says I can't keep adopting every animal that comes through here," the clerk said. "I think they pass her by because she's black."

"Well, that's racist," Steve scoffed.

"Yeah," the clerk agreed. "Superstitious assholes."

"She's the one," Steve declared.

"Okay, be careful. She's a little skiddish," she warned Steve.

Steve held out her hand and let her come to him. She didn't at first, still looking at him in an untrustworthy way.

"I won't hurt you. I promise. I just want to give you a home," Steve said.

She understood him because a few seconds later, she was crawling into his hands. Steve smiled and held her to his chest, scratching behind her ear.

"Meow," Yeah, I'm going with you, but I'm also keeping an eye out.

Steve snorted.

"I think that I'll call you Raven," Steve said. "Raven Harrington?"

"Meow." It'll do.

When Steve came home with the kitten in the carrier, Eddie was waiting outside of his apartment door. He had forgotten they were supposed to hang out tonight. Steve blushed. He was wearing an open vest and nothing underneath with his usual pair of black ripped jeans. His hair was in a loose bun, which always drove Steve mad. Heart thumping in his chest, he approached him. He had yet to tell the metalhead how he felt, and he really needed to. Everything about Eddie drove him crazy. Eddie grinned and spread his arms wide. Oh God. He got his nipples pierced.

"Well, what do you think?" Eddie asked.

"They're, uh, nice, Eddie," Steve said, swallowing thickly. "I got a cat. Shit, my hands are full. Uh, is Robin not home?"

"Nope. Do I need to fish your keys out of your pocket for you, big boy?' Eddie asked.

"Y-yes, please," Steve said.

Eddie stepped right into his space, his nose practically touching Steve’s. He fingers slid into the front of Steve’s pocket. Eddie's eyes furrowed. The keys weren't there. He checked the other pocket but still no keys. Eddie grinned and slid both hands into the back pockets of Steve’s jeans. Steve’s mind was completely blank, his face red.

"Oh, keys, where art thou?" Eddie asked.

"Oh! Uh, yeah, they're in my jacket pocket," Steve realized.

Eddie cackled and fished them out of his jacket pocket. He dangled them in front of them before going to unlock the door.

"You know, you could have put the kennel down," Eddie pointed out.

"Yeah," Steve said and scoffed.

"Meeeeooww!" Okay, enough of this bullshit.

Eddie unlocked the door, grabbed the bags from Steve’s hands, and followed him into the apartment. Steve set the kennel down and opened the door. Raven looked weary again and was curled up in the back.

"It's okay, Raven. This is your home now, if you want it to be," Steve cooed, holding out his hand again.

Raven walked out, unsure, and curled up into Steve’s hand. Raven sniffed the air, glancing around the apartment.

"Meow." Better than the shelter, anyway.

"Thanks," Steve scoffed.

Raven glanced over at Eddie, apprasing him. Raven glanced at Steve.

"Meow." This is the man you wish to mate with?

"Why do you have to say it like that?" Steve sighed.

"Uh, Steve, watchya doing?" Eddie asked.

"Oh, you know, just chatting with the cat," Steve said with a shrug and watched with a grin as Raven curled up against his stomach. "Aww, look, she knows her mommy."

"You don't mind being called mommy? I thought that was a joke," Eddie said.

"Mommy, Daddy, you know, whatever I'm in the mood for," Steve shrugged.

"You're just full of surprises, Stevie," Eddie grinned.

"Meow." I am NOT calling you mommy or daddy.

"What if I give you all of the belly scratches and treats you want? Hmm?" Steve cooed.

"Meow." I'm listening. . .mother.

"Good girl," Steve smiled and rubbed her belly.

"Meow." You know, a cat needs a father too.

Raven glanced at Eddie. Steve snorted, blushing. He tucked her under his chin and looked at Eddie, pouting.

"Can you believe that people at the shelter didn't want her because of the way she looks?" Steve said, looking at Eddie.

"Assholes. She looks like a cute little black sheep," Eddie said, kneeling on the floor with Steve. "Although she's not nearly as cute as her mother."

"Meow." Smooth.

"You know, Raven says she needs a Daddy too," Steve said.

"Are you asking me to raise this precious kitten with you, Steve Harrington?" Eddie asked.

"Yes," Steve said.

"Hmm, I guess we can split time evenly between my place and yours," Eddie said.

"I mean, we could, but I think it might work better if you moved in here," Steve said.

"Where would I sleep?" Eddie asked.

"Meow." Wow, slow. Are you sure you want this guy to be my father?

"Okay, I'm so tired of dating. I spent a lot of time looking for the person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. I don't need to look any further because he's right in front of me," Steve said. "I know we're skipping a lot of steps here, but you're it for me, Eddie."

"You're it for me too, Stevie," Eddie said. "And yes, yes to everything."

Steve and Eddie moved at the same time, their lips meeting in the middle. Eddie smiled against his lips, wrapping his arms around the both of them. It was soft and sweet but also short. Eddie broke the kiss and leaned his forehead against Steve’s.

"Is Robin going to be alright with me moving in?" Eddie asked.

"Yeah, I didn't even tell her that I wanted you to move in. She automatically made space for you in the hall closet and the bathroom. She's also made a key for you. She's just been waiting for me to get my head out of my ass," Steve blushed.

"I'm glad you did," Eddie said.

"By the way, the nipple piercings are totally hot. You should never wear a shirt ever again," Steve said, and Eddie laughed.

"I knew you were only into me for my tits," Eddie said.

"MeeeOW!" I do NOT want to hear this.

Steve grinned and handed the kitten over to Eddie. He got up and started digging around in the stand by the door. He pulled out a key and knelt by Eddie, holding it out to him. Eddie grinned, taking it, and gave him a hard kiss on the lips.

"I love you," Steve said fondly.

"I love you too," Eddie said.

"There's something you should know before we enter into this relationship," Steve said and took in a breath before exhaling. "About me."

"Okay. . .lay it on me," Eddie said.

"I can talk to animals. You know, understand what they're saying and everything. I've always been that way. It's why my parents never let me have any pets. They thought it was weird," Steve shrugged. "I get it if you don't believe me."

"After everything we've been through, of course I believe you," Eddie said. "I think it's the coolest thing ever."

"Meow." This man is a walking doodle.

Raven was looking at Eddie's tattoos. Steve snorted.

"What did she say?" He asked.

"Oh, she called you a walking doodle," Steve said.

"Our daughter is so mean, I love her," Eddie grinned.

With the help of Wayne, Robin, and Vickie, they managed to move Eddie in over the next couple of days. Once Eddie was all settled in, they invited the kids over to hang out and introduce them to Raven. It was date night with Vickie, so Robin wouldn't be there.

"Alright, kids, gather around. Your mother and I have something we want to tell you," Eddie said.

"You know, Steve is not actually our mother," Max said. "It's just a joke."

Steve burst out of the kitchen wearing a frilly apron and carrying a plate of brownies.

"I made brownies!" Steve exclaimed.

"Yeah, a joke based on a lot of evidence," Dustin scoffed.

"Yeah, I got nothing," Max frowned.

Eddie snickered and watched Steve fondly as he set them on the coffee table.

"Anyway, we have something we want to tell you," Eddie said.

"Finally!" Mike said and swallowed his brownie. "Have you two idiots finally stopped dancing around each other?"

"It was getting painful to watch," El said seriously.

"Were we being that obvious?" Steve asked.

"YES!" They exclaimed.

"Okay, yes, we are together. I did move in here, and we did have another baby," Eddie said.

"What was that last part?" Will asked.

"Oh, we had another baby!" Eddie exclaimed with a grin. "She's probably up from her nap by now. I'm going to go get her."

They all watched as Eddie disappeared down the hall, and they turned to look at Steve.

"Is your boyfriend on something?" Erica asked.

"No!" Steve scoffed.

Eddie grinned as he walked back into the living room with Raven in his arms.

"Meow." Father is lucky that I was already awake.

"Introducing Raven Metallica Harrington," Eddie said proudly. "I came up with the middle name."

"Aww," everyone said, and crowded around Eddie.

Raven sniffed Max and jumped into her arms.

"Meow." I have a feeling that this one is going to be my favorite sibling.

Steve whispered what Raven said in his ear, and they giggled as they watched the kids sit on the couch, taking turns with the cat. Every family looks a little weird and a little different to everyone. There's not a single one that's the same, and as long as they make you happy, it's the only thing that matters. Steve was very happy with the family that he had now.

"Hey, Steve, can we babysit when you and Eddie go out on a date?!" Dustin asked.

"Oh, how the tables have turned," Eddie cackled.

[leclsrc]

happy 2023 bestieee <3 could i get some charles angst please? i love hurting <3

overly sincere – cl16

It should be easy to break a habit, but this one isn’t.

auds here... crunching the last of these reqs bahshha, title from this. edited a bit for clarity x <3

Charles always knocks on a door before he enters a room. It’s not weird, but it sometimes is.

It happens with the new intern, who stutters out a did you just knock on the fridge? And then immediately apologizes for the lack of professonalism. He politely waves him off, says it’s okay, but again he doesn’t answer the question. He just retrieves the bottle of water inside and exits the kitchen, rubbing a hand over his face, the same hand he used to knock on the fridge.

Then he knocks on the bathroom door that’s half-open, and now it’s Yuki asking, teasingly, beside Pierre. “It’s open,” he jokes, “no need to knock.” And Charles laughs, shakes his head as if to say I’m just out of it, and ducks into the toilet. He misses the way Pierre’s gaze lingers on him, dark with concern. But hears the hushed conversation from where he’s splashing his face with tap water. When he exits, there’s no more mention of the knock. 

He knocks again on the oven door before he shoves a tray inside. Isa’s head cocks to the side, inquisitively almost, but she smiles tight-lipped. He thinks she’s answered her own question in her head. She leans on Carlos’ shoulder, and Charles watches them, alone, as the room fills with the smell of bread. He knocks again before he takes the foccacia out.

It’s rare, he thinks, it’s rare and strange and amazing to have picked up a habit so difficult to stop. He’s got many—the sign of the cross, the click of his tongue, the cigarette every time he drinks something with bourbon in it. But this habit will never die, and he fears it’s because he’s not trying to kill it, because killing it means losing the only fragment of you he has left.

You just knocked on the car door, he’d said incredulously then when you climbed in beside him.

You looked up, met his eyes. What about?

He scoffed. You don’t knock on car doors.

You laughed, oh, I knock on every door.

Every door? Every door.

He hummed. Why?

You shrugged. I dunno. If there are any spirits inside, they know I’m there. 

That’s bullshit.

I’m superstitious, so everything is bullshit to me.

He’d teased you then, thought of how obscure it must’ve been, how tiring it could’ve been to explain why you knocked on every single door. But now he does it, too, not only because he’d adopted your behavior then, but also because the sound of knuckle hitting surface reminds him so much of you. Of your pretty smile, your laugh, the letters you left him on bluish early mornings. 

He will knock on the fridge because it reminds him of the way you did, the sing-songy way your fist hit the metal before you swung it open to retrieve breakfast or a beer. It reminds him of mornings, nights in your kitchen, where he was finally himself, a chef in his own right. It reminds him of your favorite brand of milk, the way it was never dairy but instead always oat or almond. 

He knocks on the bathroom door because of how often you did it, and how it became somewhat of an alarm clock to him. The sound of your hand meeting the wood woke him in the morning, and alerted him to bedtime at night. And he’d follow you inside, kissing your face, laughing if your eyes met in the mirror while brushing your teeth, fucking you in the shower.

The oven is knocked on because you’d made up a silly story about how the monsters in your flat lived not under the bed, but inside the massive oven. He remembers all your silly inside jokes that he’s now had to unlearn, to find unfunny, to stop referencing because really, nobody else gets it. They just laugh out of pity. So still he knocks, remembers your stories, remembers the kisses when the bread burned.

Charles realizes he’s made up of so many people he’s met, but you especially. Each knock sends another aching memory to his brain: knocking on your first flat, on the cage of your first dog together, on his parents’ house to make a big announcement. You’d become such a big part of him that now, he’s the fool who knocks on the oven. Now, he’s the guy who knocks on the fridge and open doors and cars and anything he needs to swing open. 

So when his date, the pretty blond girl who’s friends with Lando, asks amusedly, “Why are you knocking on the fridge?” He finds himself mute, unable to form a proper answer for her. He just shrugs, mutters something in French so she can switch the topic to his fluency in it, and like that, the situation is defused.

And he should be angry that he’s such a fool, but he doesn’t think he could be.

He knocks on his own bedroom door, his own sanctuary, his own safe space, like it’s a stranger’s room housing a stranger’s bed. But this time, he knocks not because of you, or your stories, or your kisses, no, not those. In fact, it’s for the same reason you knocked in the first place. So if there were any spirits, they’d know he was there. But he’s not wary of the dead. Charles has befriended grief, and has known that, in the same way the dead are never really gone, the living can become ghosts, too. Figments, imprints of the past, like dust on the wall or whiffs of perfume. So when he burrows into his sheets that still smell of you, he thinks the knocking is useless.

Because, like every figment appearing to a human, Charles finds he can still feel, hear, smell you, so pointedly he can almost touch you, there in the corner of the room where you placed the engagement ring back in his hand and left his life behind quietly.

[starlightomatic]

Literally the entire discussion of "can atheist jews particiapte in jewish culture" isnt the point. Im a new york jew, its literally impossible for me in my home town to not engage with jewish culture. The question is are atheist jews looked down on? Are we told we are still in some way believers, because judaism isnt christianity and our made up fairytales are different somehow. Are atheist jews made to feel that being non believers in god is wrong? Are atheist jews constantly talked over by religious believers of any stripe, telling us what actually we are, when we try and say this? Looks like it...

All the "atheist" jews around jumblr talking about "god is everywhere" or "judaism is orthopraxy not hard religion" or some bullshit about agnosticism and trying to parse out a nonexistent difference between the superstitious fairy tale elements of judaism from christian fairy tales, completely missing the forest for the trees, proving my point.

No wonder so many of us identify more as atheists then even culturally jewish, cause all the "cultural jewish atheists" around somehow dont think their belief in superstitious religious practice based on the fairy stories makes them religious.

I mean they’re describing themselves and a lot of them do self-identify as religious