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dreamersparacosm · 1 month ago

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under the checkered flag - epilogue blurb 2!

prompt ; in which sunday’s are your favorite day.

warnings ; tooth aching fluff. that’s all. watch out for cavities yall xoxo

request ; linked here

part of under the checkered flag universe

There’s some song written about days like these with your boyfriend. Something about Sunday mornings, something about them being all you need.

It’s like it always is with you and Jungkook—a soft, slow Sunday morning where he isn’t subject to interviews, training, or anything that requires him to take his time away from you. You savor these moments, them being far and few between. You’ve adjusted to it in the long time you two have been together, and now find solace in the peace of your home, in the moments away from the races and Excel sheets.

And it would be all beautiful and dandy and sunshine and rainbows on this particular morning, however, when your hands outstretch, shaking the sleep from your body, feel the sheets next to you, you realize it’s empty. Jungkook’s warmth is gone.

Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you shuffle into your slippers, wrap the wool blanket around you that his mother had gotten for you, and make your way to the living area of your home.

The smell of buttered toast and sizzling sausage wafts into your nostrils as you shuffle through the house. It’s warm, inviting, a scent wrapped in comfort.

And to no one’s surprise, you find the origin of the scent standing in the kitchen.

Jeon Jungkook, in all his sleepy, early-morning glory. Hair still a little messy, a loose t-shirt hanging from his frame, his silver chain glinting under the soft kitchen lights as he stands by the stove, spatula in hand.

You blink slowly, dreamily, adjusting your eyes to the light as you lean against the doorway.

“You’re up early,” You yawn, voice still thick with sleep.

Jungkook turns at the sound, a grin immediately spreading across his face at the sight of you.

“Morning, baby,” He hums, reaching for you instantly, tugging you toward him with ease. You let him, stepping into his warmth, arms looping lazily around his waist as you press your cheek against his back.

“You’re making breakfast?” You mumble, peeking at the pan of perfectly cooked eggs, golden and fluffy.

Jungkook chuckles, one hand still flipping the eggs while the other sneaks down to squeeze your fingers. “Your favorite,” he confirms.

Your heart swells, the simple gesture so unbearably sweet, so him. He has yet to fail you in the sweetest boyfriend competition.

But then, as another yawn escapes you, a thought hits.

“It’s too early for this,” You whine softly, nuzzling into his back.

Jungkook laughs again, light and warm, but before he can reply, you’re already fighting him. “Come back to bed,” You sigh, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to his shoulder.

“Tempting,” He drawls, reaching for some seasonings in the cupboard. You grin against his skin, fingers tracing lazy shapes against his waist.

“I just wanna cuddle,” You say, not quite a lie, but also not the whole truth. You also want to drift back off to sleep, something you do best when you hear his heartbeat pounding away underneath your ear.

Jungkook hums, turning the stove off before spinning to face you. “That’s all you want, huh?”

You blink up at him, playing innocent. “Mhmm.”

His grin deepens, and he leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. “Eat first,” he says, lips still grazing your skin. “Then I’m all yours.”

There is a warmth pooling through the windows as you and Jungkook settle onto the living room couch, plates in hand, breakfast steaming between you. There’s something so domestic about it, something you never thought you would have with someone like him. Maybe it’s the way he sits beside you, thigh pressed against yours, comfortably close as he digs into the food he made for you both. Or, the way he occasionally reaches over, stealing bites from your plate despite having the exact same meal on his own. It’s these small moments that make your heart ache in the best way, the kind of love that settles in, familiar and steady.

“So,” Jungkook starts, nudging your knee with his. There’s a quiet hum of the TV in the background, playing some weekend morning show neither of you are really watching. “What’s the plan for today?”

You chew thoughtfully, taking a sip of your coffee before answering.

“Well,” you begin, shifting slightly to face him. “We need to pick out a gift for my coworker’s baby shower next weekend.”

Jungkook’s brows lift instantly, eyes flickering with sudden interest. “Oh, right. When is that again?”

“Sunday afternoon,” you reply, setting your plate down on the coffee table. “We should probably get something soon. We’ve gotta outdo Jisoo, she said her budget for this was her whole paycheck.”

“What do we get her?” He muses, shoveling another bite of eggs into his mouth before glancing at you. There’s excitement creeping into his features like he’s a kid in a candy store. “Like, a stroller? Cute baby clothes? Oh! What about one of those little stuffed animal things? You know, the ones with the big heads and tiny bodies? Jellycats?”

“I think she’d love that,” you say, unable to hide your smile. “You’re really into this, huh?”

Jungkook shrugs, grinning through a mouthful of food. “Babies are cool.”

It’s subtle, but undeniable. You had never really thought of it, never let yourself dream. It wasn’t because you couldn’t have it, you knew that much. In fact, there was a small part of your brain, tucked deep within your subconscious, that hoped and prayed it would be Jungkook at the end of all this.

Of course he’s like this. Of course he’d be good with kids, thoughtful and compassionate.

You picture it before you can stop yourself: the way he’d probably be the most hands-on dad, the way he’d play with his kids, spoil them rotten, make them laugh until their little bellies hurt.

Deep down, you picture them with him. With his eyes that resemble boba pearls, his ridiculous bunny-toothed smile, his heart.

You don’t hate it. You actually want it so bad it scares you to death when you think of the possibility that it could not happen. But you shake that thought away before it can fully settle.

“Earth to [Y/N]?” Jungkook’s voice pulls you back, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Where’d you just go?”

“Nowhere,” You lie, reaching for your coffee again.

Jungkook narrows his eyes, clearly not buying it, but to your luck, he lets it go, smirking as he nudges your thigh again.

“Okay, space cadet,” he teases. “Then we need to make a choice. I’m all in on the Jellycat.”

You’re laughing again, warmth spreading through your chest as the conversation fills the room, the sunlight peeking through the blinds and illuminating his features.

He doesn’t dare bring up how his heart aches for the same thing that you do.

Jungkook is still focused on his breakfast, chewing thoughtfully as he leans back into the couch. You’re sipping your coffee, still trying to shake the ridiculous warmth still lingering in your chest from the idea of a mini Jungkook running around.

You don’t get to finish the end of your daydream, however, because Jungkook drops a bomb of epic proportions on you, enough to shatter your world and explode into smithereens.

“I kinda want a baby.”

You choke on impact. The sip of coffee you had just taken goes down the wrong way, and then, to make matters worse, the bite of eggs you were mid-chewing follows suit. Enter stage left: a dramatic fit of coughing.

Jungkook’s head snaps toward you immediately, eyes widening in alarm as he quickly sets his plate down, patting your back with firm, steady hands.

“Shit, babe, breathe,” he says, brows knitted in concern. “You okay?”

You nod between coughs, waving him off as you struggle to swallow properly. The man must be out to kill you if he’s going to say things like that, in your shared home, that you pay half the rent for (he believes in chivalry.) After what feels like an eternity, you finally manage to clear your throat, wheezing slightly as you blink up at him.

Jungkook is just staring at you now, mouth parted slightly, as if he’s unsure whether to laugh or keep worrying. “What the hell was that?” He asks, clearly holding back amusement.

“I—” you pause, pressing a hand to your chest. “Sorry, I just— what did you just say?”

Jungkook blinks. Deadpans. Realizes his words may have carried more weight than he thought. “I said I kinda want a baby?”

His hardened exterior fades and his expression tips, a little nervous. “Wait,” he says, tilting his head. “Is that… weird?”

Thoughts buffering..

“I just—” you stammer, still slightly breathless from your near-death experience. “I didn’t know you wanted all that… with me.”

Jungkook’s expression softens immediately. He didn’t even realize it was something you might question. He thought it was a done-deal, cross his heart and hope to die. Jungkook was never really sure of many things in his life besides racing and gold medals, but this.. this, he was so sure of.

He exhales, reaching for your hand instinctively, threading his fingers through yours.

“Baby,” he murmurs, voice warm, steady, grounding you. “We’ve been dating for a little over a year.”

One year. One year of knowing him, loving him, building a life together. One year of late nights tangled in sheets and early mornings, such as this one, where his sleepy voice is the first thing you hear. Of laughter echoing in spaces that once felt too big for you, of shared glances across crowded rooms that say more than words ever could. You didn’t even realize it was all coming together until you looked around one day and saw a life that was so intricately woven with his, it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

“Yeah,” you swallow, eyes flickering down to where his thumb is slowly tracing circles against your skin. “I guess we have.”

“You know..,” he begins, his excitement bubbling up before you can even process your own., “I think you’d be the best mom.”

You suddenly feel dizzy, like your breath has been punched out of you.

“You really think that?” You ask, voice barely above a whisper.

Jungkook nods immediately, shifting closer on the couch, eyes flickering over your face; the man is already picturing it.

“Are you kidding?” he scoffs, grinning so wide it makes your stomach turn over. “I can already see it. You, holding our baby, doing that cute little humming thing you always do when you’re focused, like when you’re crunching numbers for clients. Probably making tiny little meals, cutting everything into heart shapes because you do that for me already.”

You laugh, but it’s shaky. “Jungkook—”

“And I’d be the fun dad, obviously,” he continues, unstoppable now. “Teaching them how to ride a bike, letting them get away with stuff when you say no. Probably buying them toy racecars too early because I get too excited.”

You see it so clearly it almost hurts. Jungkook, holding a tiny hand in his, a child with his nose and your eyes, running ahead while he watches with that soft, lovesick smile. Jungkook, pressing a kiss to your forehead while you rock a baby to sleep in your arms.

You want that so badly. Now, it’s within arms reach, and you want to reach out and clutch it to your chest so tight it can’t run away. You swallow hard, eyes burning, blinking rapidly to fight off the sudden rush of emotion.

“Baby,” Jungkook notices immediately, voice dropping as his smile falters slightly. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” You whisper, and it’s true. It’s not sadness weighing you down. It’s everything else. Hope. Love. The terrifying, overwhelming realization that you could have everything you ever wanted, and it’s sitting right in front of you, ready for you to take it.

“Just…” you pause, voice trembling slightly. “I guess I didn’t know I could have that with you.”

“[Y/N],” he breathes out, bringing a hand to cup your face, his thumb tracing delicately along your cheek. “I want nothing more.”

You don’t want to overthink it, don’t want to let it linger too long in fear of it disappearing.

“I want that too,” You whisper.

You feel it, the way his whole body tenses, the way his fingers freeze against your cheek. His eyes, wide and searching, lock onto yours, scanning your face for any sign that you might not mean it.

“You do?” His voice is quieter than before, hardly recognizable.

You nod, swallowing around the lump in your throat. “I do.”

There is a slow, breathtaking smile that lights up his whole face, makes his dimples appear, makes something inside you feel like it’s unraveling in the best way.

“Well then,” he muses, shifting even closer, his hand sliding down to rest over your thigh. “We should probably start with marriage, hmm?”

You choke. Again. This time, on your saliva.

Of course, Jeon Jungkook would just casually drop that into the conversation like he’s talking about the weather, like he’s asking if you want almond or oat milk at the grocery store.

“I—” you splutter, wheezing slightly as your brain short-circuits for the billionth time this morning. “I—what?”

“Okay, that’s enough,” he laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners as he squeezes your thigh. “I need you alive long enough to actually get a ring on your finger. At this rate, Im nervous that if I actually propose, you’ll pass out.”

“Well, you can’t just say stuff like that!,” You half cry out, half mumble.

“Why not?” Jungkook teases, “It’s true. You’re already stuck with me forever, might as well make it official.”

The thought of forever with him doesn’t scare you like it probably should, like it would’ve a year and some months ago.

As Jungkook continues rambling excitedly about your future—about rings and wedding colors, about how he’s definitely going to cry when you walk down the aisle, about how your first dance has to be something ridiculous like a choreographed number—you just watch him.

It’s somehow overwhelming in the best way.

Because if someone had told you back when you first met, back when he was just a racecar driver with a gaggle of fan girls, at the apex of the NASCAR world, that this is where you’d end up, you wouldn’t have believed it.

Now, you can’t imagine wanting anything else. Not when he’s right here, grinning at you like you’re his whole world, planning forever like it’s the easiest thing in the universe. Or, maybe it is that easy.

Oh, how you love Sunday mornings. They’re kinda like that song you listen to.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

masterlist + request

#jeon jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook fluff #jungkook fanfic #bts jungkook #bts fanfic #bts x reader #jeon jeongguk

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rifle-yes · 2 days ago

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Library mutuals, library friends of a friend, and library cryptids who are more than six degrees of separation from me:

Hey y'all.

My introductory earth science/geology class recently submitted a podcast project that required them to use at least one of 42 books as a source. Students were informed that these books were freely available in our university library in quantities sufficient to support every single group.

However, while grading their podcasts, I started to notice a pattern that prompted me to stop and re-listen to all the podcasts so that I could start an Excel sheet to track The Patten.

Y'all. 72% of my students declined to go to the library to get their free book.

58% opted to purchase their book (& I need to stress, these are not "fun read" books for most of the population)

13% simply didn't use a book because of reasons from the "I didn't want to/I don't know how/I'll just take the point deduction" family

1% told me they found a pdf online.

After speaking with my classes, it genuinely seems like they are intimidated by the library and/or unsure of how to navigate it. A lot of them hadn't been inside a library since their elementary school years. (The only really positive news that came out of the talk was that one student referred to the DDC as the "Dew Drop Numbers" and I don't know why but I love that.)

Anywho, I have a lot of freedom with my labs, and so I want to organize a library field trip class that includes an in-library lab. (& please don't stress, once I have an idea I plan to reach out & get the approval of my Library Bestie)

I was thinking if I put this lab at the start of the class, they could actually use this lab to gather and check out their sources for their podcasts, but I'm really struggling to come up with something that wouldn't be just "look for your sources!" because I can already see students blindly grabbing 3 books at random and calling it a day.

I've never done anything like this before, and neither has my Library Bestie, so I'm wondering if anyone here has ideas or experience with activities that could keep 20-40 undergraduates engaged and exploring the library for 1-2 hours.

I'm open to and appreciate any suggestions!

#all of the continents used to be one body so you aren't ever alone

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iloveladybuglucy · 1 month ago

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To be his strongest, people have to be afraid—does he want people to be scared? Or worse...does he need them to be?

introducing my first invincible oc! Caelum is a nursing student at Upstate University who works as a part-time paramedic and becomes the eventual boyfriend/husband of Atom Eve in my au :)

ref sheet and character bio under the cut

Hero Name: Reverie (pron. rev-uh-ree, a state of being lost in one's thoughts, a daydream, or a dreamlike trance)

True Identity: Caelum Somner (meaning "sky" and "sleep")

Origin of his Powers:

As a medic who had witnessed countless gruesome, untimely deaths and mass murders, Caelum began to feel the effects of everything weigh heavily on him. While doom scrolling through Reddit, he came across a post looking for volunteers willling to try out a cutting-edge neurological experiment meant to help people with PTSD, anxiety, or coma recovery. The experiment involved neural stimulants and exposure to dream-state frequencies, aided by the government. Caelum, desperate for an escape from his own head, decided to reach out and agreed to do the procedure. However, the experiment was botched and his brain was permanently altered; now he can sense emotions, enter dreams, and manipulate fear.

Powers:

Emotional Manipulation & Empathy Aura

Can sense and absorb emotions, particularly fear and anxiety, which make him stronger.

His Empathy Aura can be used for calming others, reducing panic, and easing pain, making him an excellent medic.

Dream Walking & Fear Manifestation

Can enter people's dreams and explore their subconscious fears and desires.

In combat, he can trap enemies in a nightmare-like illusion, forcing them to confront their fears.

The more terrified the opponent, the stronger he becomes.

Terror-fueled Strength & Reflexes

Gains temporary enhancements (speed, agility, durability) when absorbing strong fear or anxiety.

Weaknesses & Limits:

Emotional Dependence

If his opponent is fearless, rational, or emotionally numb, his power weakens.

Can be overwhelmed by chaotic or conflicting emotions, making him vulnerable.

Dream Walking Drawbacks

Entering someone’s mind leaves his real body vulnerable.

Some strong-willed individuals can resist or manipulate the dream space against him.

Empathy Overload

If exposed to too many intense emotions at once (like a disaster scene), he can experience emotional burnout, making him ineffective.

Requires Fear to Get Stronger

Against an opponent with a calm, strategic mind, he can’t gain any boosts, forcing him to rely on his physical combat skills.

Personality:

Calm & Introspective: Caelum is naturally reserved, preferring to think before he acts. He’s methodical and observant, which makes him a great medic but sometimes slow to trust others.

Cynical but Caring: His experiences as a medic and exposure to constant suffering have made him skeptical of the world, yet he still feels deeply responsible for others. He doesn’t always believe in hope, but he acts because he wants to be the hope people need.

Dry Sense of Humor: He uses humor as a coping mechanism, often making sarcastic or dark jokes. It helps him detach from the horrors he sees daily.

Loyal but Guarded: He will fight for those he cares about, but letting people in is a different story. Trust doesn’t come easily to him.

Flaws & Internal Struggles

Emotional Burnout & Detachment – Caelum deals with so much emotional distress from others that he struggles with his own emotions. He might not even realize when he’s suppressing things until they bubble over in unhealthy ways.

Fear of Losing Control – The stronger he gets, the more he fears what prolonged exposure to terror might do to him. Could he lose himself in the emotions of others? Could he become addicted to fear?

Struggles with Optimism – He admires Eve’s idealism but finds it frustrating. In his eyes, the world is cruel, and thinking otherwise is naive. This could be a point of conflict between them.

Sleeplessness & Overworking – Since his powers weaken with exhaustion, he constantly pushes himself to the brink, unwilling to rest even when he needs it. His body and mind often suffer as a result.

Dependency on Others’ Fear – A terrifying realization for him is that in order to be his strongest, people have to be afraid. This creates a moral dilemma—does he want people to be scared? Does he need them to be?

Relationship with Eve:

Caelum is calm, introspective, and a deep thinker—opposite to Eve’s more emotional and idealistic nature. While Eve often feels conflicted about her powers and their impact on others, Caelum is able to show her that even in the face of difficult decisions, there are always other perspectives to consider. His quiet demeanor and rational thinking can help her make clearer choices without the burden of too much stress.

Their relationship is balanced—Eve helps Caelum tap into his emotional side and push beyond the logical, while he helps Eve regain a sense of grounding when she gets too idealistic or overconfident in her powers. Their differences complement each other—Eve is emotional, driven by ideals, while Caelum is rational and grounded. She helps him see that it isn't stupid or pointless to have hope, while he keeps her from overextending herself.

Caelum often struggles with Eve’s desire to “fix” things with her powers, as he believes not everything can (or should) be fixed. On the flip side, Eve finds his cynicism exhausting.

#invincible #invincible fanart #invincible show #invincible comic #invincible oc #original character #invincible original character #oc x canon #invincible atom eve #atom eve #samantha eve wilkins

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mer-acle · 12 days ago

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So I am the kind of person who needs to have extra info about everything I write always so I made this little excel sheet that lets me adjust the "current date" for the story and helps me keep track of the ages of the characters. For you, this mainly means you get a random drop of everyone's birthdays from Silent Wars lol

The years don't really matter for the story because there are no "real world events" in the universe it's like a time capsule of some vaguely present day setting. (Let's be real do we really want them them to deal with that shit?)

But yeah, Athena is a winter child bc ofc she is :D

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fowlfics · 8 months ago

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OP Age Comparator

Hello OP writers! Have you ever wondered, "how old was this character when X happened?" or had to do the maths on the ages of a cast of characters at a specific point in time?

Would you like to simplify that process to a mere few clicks?

I have created a google sheet which contains the data of the 432 characters with canon ages*, allowing you to compare any set of up to ten people at once!

*I might be missing some minor characters who had their ages shared, but all the major ones should be available.

How it works is quite simple:

Use the dropdowns in row as needed. These only contain the letters of the alphabet

Use the other dropdown in row 3 to select the character you want. This dropdown will only list characters whose name starts with the letter picked in the first dropdown

That's it!

Column A lists "years from current canon" (as of August 2024, in case Oda blindsides us with another timeskip lol)

Column B lists some major events that happened that year, up to 38 years before canon. For more events check out the World Timeline on the wiki

Column C lists the in-universe year

The link provided above (and also here) only allows for using dropdowns. Please feel free to copy the entire sheet into your own drive if this is something you would find useful!

If there are any errors you find, or something runs wrong, please do let me know and I'll fix it ASAP!

I cannot guarantee the sheet could run in excel or anyplace outside of google sheets. I can guarantee the sheet won't run if you only copy the visible tab or its contents alone xD

Edit Aug 20th, I slightly optimized the layout of the dropdowns due to a sudden "hey i can just do it like this" realization haha

Please enjoy!

#one piece #fowlficsrandom #writing resources #I spent a fairly long time on optimizing the formulas used #and like 3x that on harvesting the data off the wiki LOL #so now im going to inflict it upon all of you #please enjoy <3

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astroboots · 2 years ago

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Every You Every Me #8

COLLABORATED WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: You embark upon 'a Cosmic Masterplan to survive' - Phase one

Word count: 6,600

Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[Previous] [Next]

Ten days have passed since your home was blown to a million pieces.

Ten days since you found out that there are multiple universes.

Ten days since you learned that your universe—the world as you know it—has less than three months left before it implodes unless you can somehow find a way to save it… and yourself.

Despite the fantastical nature of those events, you find yourself returning back to your everyday life, just as mundane and ordinary as ever, cosmic murder attempts notwithstanding.

The helicopter crash was featured across the front page of The Times by morning, and apparently no one was hurt. The pilot had somehow been flung from the helicopter into a nearby window and miraculously survived without even a scratch. The only real casualty was your every worldly possession.

After a personal calamity of that scale, you’d hoped you might be offered an extended leave from work. Unfortunately, corporate America stops for no tragedy.

The only thing you're offered is a very sympathetic email the day after with a gift voucher for Dominos attached. Then Sally from HR had let you know that, given the severity of your situation, the company was generously granting you three whole personal days to sort out your affairs. After that you were requested to return to the office—the second quarter of the financial year was beginning soon after all.

And so you find yourself back at work.

Back to 8+ hours a day spent sitting in your rickety office chair, killing your eyesight in front of your computer screen as you pore over excel sheets. Back to the same old boring one-on-one meetings with your boss, who keeps harping on about Key Performance Indicators, as if they mean anything. You don’t understand what the point is. No matter how key your performance is, it never seems to be enough to net you a raise.

“Our total revenue increased by 15% compared to last year, which is a significant achievement considering the challenges in the market, but I know we can do better if we just–”

You stifle a yawn, as you readjust yourself in your chair. It’s Monday morning, and you find yourself in one of the stale meeting rooms, with staler treats that you’re not even allowed to have because they are for external clients only. Your boss is right next to you, droning on and on about how she wants to see better results in the next fiscal quarter. All the while you’re trying to fight the losing odds of keeping your eyes open and the temptation of gravity that wants your head to lay down on the conference table for an impromptu nap.

“We managed to improve our profit margin by 3% by reducing overhead costs, but we need to focus on further optimizing our operations in order to–”

Out of nowhere, the sound of her shrill nasal voice stops, and for a second you think that perhaps, sweet mercies of mercies, the meeting is finally over. But instead she points out the window and says the last thing you expect.

“Hey, isn’t that Spiderman?”

Huh?

You whip your head around to stare out the window so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash, and the sight that greets you is nearly enough to give you a heart attack on the spot.

Oh, it’s Spiderman alright. Your Spiderman.

Your maybe-vampire-but-maybe-not (he hasn’t combusted in sunlight yet, but then again he wears a full-body spandex suit) Spiderman.

Your Spiderman is right there in front of you in plain sight on the outside of the building, plastered to the wide wall-to-wall meeting room window. That dark blue super suit with the angry red spider emblazoned on his chest like a neon sign screaming: ‘Here I am!’

Your boss skips closer to the window in giddy excitement, until the two of them are only about a feet away from each other separated by a half an inch of glass.

“Look, his suit is different! I wonder if it’s an upgrade?” she exclaims, tilting her head to study him from the window. “He sure is a lot bigger in person, isn’t he?”

You feel the blood drain from your face, and the whole of your back breaks out in cold clammy sweat against your blouse. Doing your best to act normal, you force yourself to stay seated in your chair despite the shrill scream ringing in your head and the way your heart is threatening to leap right out of your throat.

What the hell does he think he’s doing!?

Thank fuck your boss still has her back to you, too enthralled by the unexpected superhero sighting to pay attention to anything else. You take advantage of her distraction to gesture frantically at Miguel, waving him away with as covert of a shooing motion as you can manage and praying that he’ll take the hint.

You know he sees you because the triangular outlines of his eyes narrow into annoyed slits and then he turns his face away as if offended, refusing to look at you. But at least he finally moves, leaping into the air and disappearing out of the sight of the window.

“Oh, shoot! There he goes again,” your boss says, letting out a long, loud sigh as if even she doesn’t want to go back to listening to her own voice for the rest of this meeting. “Well, back to work. Guess that was the excitement for the day.”

Scratch what you were saying before. There are no more completely mundane days. Not now that Miguel O’Hara has entered your life.

Once upon a time, your biggest dilemma with him was that he was avoiding you, refusing all your attempts to force a face-to-face meeting. Now you find yourself in the strange position of having the opposite problem.

True to his promise, Miguel is always there to protect you.

In fact, he’s just plain always there.

Never more than 10 feet away, regardless of where you go. He’s the last thing you see… or rather, hear before you go to sleep, his incessant snoring reverberating off the walls of your shared hotel room. Then, when you wake, it’s to his big 6’9” frame draped across the tiny velvet sofa, his long legs sticking off the end and hanging out into the room.

Miguel hovers over you when you eat, in case you get another piece of toast stuck in your throat and he needs to do the Heimlich maneuver on you again. Or, like that one time last week, in case you developed another hitherto completely undiscovered food allergy and have to be rushed to the ER. He is constantly on alert, eyes glued to you at all times.

Miguel comes with you when you go grocery shopping at the corner bodega. Sticking close to your back in the cramped aisles, lest one of the shelves fall over and bury you under crates of Lucky Charms and Fruit Loops… again. He has a sneaky habit of covertly dropping the most nutritiously questionable grocery items in your basket: jellied donuts, sugar-frosted pop tarts, fun dip and jolly ranchers. He eats like a five year old who has too much pocket money and no understanding of the food pyramid. It’s worrying to watch and you definitely google diabetes risk for spiders at least once, but the internet has nothing helpful to offer on that front.

Even when you’re relaxing in the luxury hotel suite that’s become your home, flipping through Tik Tok-edits on your iPhone (the newest model, which Lyla snagged for you!) or catching up on Netflix, Miguel is always right there. Not two steps away from you, looking over your shoulder.

Being the constant center of Miguel's attention is… disconcerting. You know it’s because he’s watching for the next random disaster to strike, but having his eyes on you nonstop leaves you feeling uncomfortably aware of him all the time. Especially when you’re trying to watch Bridgerton on your new macbook pro (also courtesy Lyla) and an R-rated scene comes on. You’ve resorted to having Lyla order books and magazines for him in an attempt to keep him occupied, but it doesn’t seem to make much difference.

It’s so bad that you can barely go to the bathroom without Miguel guarding the door like a zealous German Shepherd, his back plastered to the nearest wall when you emerge. You try not to let the lack of privacy bother you… or to think about the fact that his spidey-supersenses probably let him hear everything.

The only place Miguel doesn’t come with you is when you go to work, because he doesn’t have the clearance needed to get into the building—tourists and non-personnel aren’t allowed any further than the lobby. It doesn’t stop him from climbing the walls of the building and hanging around outside the 44th floor though. You know he’s there because, you see his shadow blurring at the window whenever you get up to get more coffee or unstick the paper jammed in the printer.

It’s an adjustment, but for all the madness that comes with the package, having Miguel around does make you feel safe.

Time always seems to pass too quickly when there’s a deadline approaching.

The problem is that right now the due it’s not the date of a school assignment or some work project that you’re worrying about. And if you take too long, the consequences will be much worse than a lower grade or a slap on the wrist. If you fail to meet this deadline, it will be the end of the world—not just as you know it, but for everyone in your entire universe.

A week ago you had been dauntless, facing Miguel down across the table at Starbucks and announcing that you intended to fight cosmically impossible odds in order to live. Bold even, when you’d confidently declared that the only thing you needed was three months and his protection from the universe's murder attempts to make that happen.

In retrospect, you might have been less dauntless and more… delusional, because so far the only real progress you've made is drawing up a Master Plan, complete with a bullet point list and no idea if any of it is actually going to accomplish anything.

'A Cosmic Masterplan to survive' - Phase one

Step 1: Personal history:

Identify past wrongdoings

Determine if they could explain cosmic retaliation

Step 2: Analyze incident patterns:

Study recurring near death incidents

Identify commonalities and patterns

Determine strategies to stop or prevent future occurrences

Step 3: Research genealogy:

Explore family history

Investigate any ancestors who may have incurred celestial grudges

Determine if these grudges extend to descendants

Step 4: Examine past life wrongdoings:

Establish if reincarnation is real

Investigate potential past life transgressions

Assess if they correlate with current cosmic retaliation

Step 5: Seek cosmic expert assistance:

Consider approaching Dr. Strange for guidance

Request expertise in understanding cosmic phenomena

Things had started out okay.

You completed Step 1 in less than a day, quickly compiling a list of all the people you’d wronged in your lifetime. Anything that might make the universe want to intervene on their behalf and dole out some karma against you.

So far, your life's most egregious crimes include:

That time when you wet the bed during a sleepover when you were six and blamed it on your friend Sally Jenkins.

The night you bailed out in the middle of a date with a dentist from Tinder who insisted on ordering for you and kept talking about Alpha and Betas. (It was only after a very confusing and awkward conversation that you realized he was not talking about the omegaverse). You’re pretty sure you did both of you a favor when you told him you were going to use the bathroom before dessert and took off without saying goodbye instead.

That summer you brought only chocolate with coconut back to share with your coworkers after your vacation in Canada so that Matt in accounting (who always steals your yogurt out of the office fridge) couldn’t have any because he's allergic to coconut.

Are those the actions of a good person? Probably not.

Are they petty? Oh yeah.

Are they bad enough to justify karmic retaliation from the universe in the form of death? You doubt it.

As for Step 2, despite all the near death experiences you've had recently, there doesn’t seem to be any discernible pattern that could help you predict or prevent future incidents. After all it’s a bit difficult to predict that an impromptu mounted police parade would take place near your office, only for there to be a wild stampede of panicky horses that tried to mow you over.

Step 3 of your plan? Another dud.

Your family line is made up of uncles working blue-collar jobs at warehouses, aunties who pester you about being single, one grandfather who likes to talk about how things were better in the old days and a grandmother who likes to complain that you never call every time you call her (and another grandma you actually like because she feeds you sweets and cakes when you go visit).

There are no skeletons hidden in your family closet. Nothing interesting at all except maybe that one cousin who claims to have hooked up with Leonardo Di Caprio at Coachella (unverifiable and unlikely).

Your mission to try to figure out if all of this is caused by any past life connections in Step 4?

It had seemed like a reasonable thing to look into, but how the heck do you go about doing that? You’ve put it on hold for now.

As for the final step? Your search to seek out cosmic expert assistance is still ongoing.

Contacting another Supe that has a magical expertise in the cosmic should be the most logical avenue. Doctor Strange is the superhero that famously deals with the magical cosmos stuff, so you figured maybe he could help in some way. That it wouldn't be hard for Miguel to reach out to him, one superhero to another.

It’s the one part of your plan you could actually take action on that seems like it might lead somewhere. Problem is, you've run into a big sassy roadblock named Miguel O'Hara.

Miguel flatly refuses to have anything to do with Dr. Strange.

His justification?

"Hate that guy."

Repeatedly pestering him has gotten you nowhere, and it’s not like you, a random normie, can just rock up outside of Dr. Strange’s residence and ask for help because the universe is out to get you. That’s a good way to get yourself hauled away, like that guy from Colorado who was in the news last year for faking a UFO invasion with cheap props on YouTube and then camping out outside of Bruce Banner’s lab. Idiots like that show up from time to time, Superhero fanatics seeking the attention of the Avengers for some fake emergency.

Worst comes to worst, you could probably just stand outside Doctor Strange’s house until something tries to kill you again and hope that he’ll notice, but you’re not sure the universe won’t thwart you on purpose. Probably not the best use of your limited time, especially since you’re out of PTO.

For now, you’re hoping to change Miguel’s mind through sheer persistence, but given how stubborn the man is, that might be more of a lost cause than trying to thwart the universe itself.

It’s payday today, and you’ve decided to take Miguel to dinner in Chinatown as thanks for the man’s continuous efforts in saving your life.

As touristy as that area can be, there are some good, cheap diners owned by grumpy Cantonese families that serve large enough portions to feed this horse of a man.

It’s not entirely selfless. You’re tired of being cooped up in the hotel room as soon as you get off work, and you want to stretch your legs. You’re also hoping that stuffing Miguel full of food will make him more receptive to the next round of your arguments in favor of Step 5 of your Cosmic Masterplan.

But you’ve been here for two hours now, and you’re not sure Miguel knows the meaning of the word full.

He’s ordered egg tarts by the dozen. Crispy fried seafood noodles drenched in sweet cornstarch slurry. Deep fried turnip cakes soaked in sweet soy sauce. Beef Ho Fun. Every other dish is deep fried and slathered in XO sauce, and you are starting to be genuinely concerned about his cardiovascular health as you watch him shovel it down his maw, barely pausing to chew as he goes.

At least he looks happy while eating? Endearingly so. It’s the only time you’ve seen him relaxed and finally drop his guard a little bit, though you’re sure he’s still aware of every minute detail in his surroundings. You decide it’s better not to say anything since scolding him about being a glutton would be like the pot name calling the kettle. Your wolfish food habits is a shared hobby you have with Miguel at this point.

“What’s wrong with the egg tarts?” you ask, eyeing the plate that lies still untouched on the table, the only food to have escaped Miguel’s massacre. Given how sweet they are, you would have expected him to inhale them within seconds.

“I ordered them for you,” he says, not slowing down as he spears more food onto his plate. “Your favorite, right?”

You nod slowly and reach for one, touched by the gesture but not sure what to say.

There’s a fleck of sauce smudged on his cheek, a stray rice grain on his nose. He looks like any other civilian as he scarfs down the food in quick succession.

Out of his super suit, he looks different. He’s partial to oversized clothes that makes him look oddly gangly even with his build. You’ve caught him with glasses on more than once, even though you’re pretty sure he’s mentioned that supersight is one of the things he’s gifted with. You can’t help but wonder if he wears them out of a sense of habit or if it’s a conscious fashion choice. Probably the former, given what you’ve seen him wear so far—fashion doesn’t seem to be one of his fortes. All in all, it makes him look like a much homelier person with a slightly nerdy vibe than the handsome superhero when he’s on the job.

He’s softer without the supersuit. Still scowling, but it’s less intimidating when he’s doing it wearing a big hoodie with dumb logos printed across his chest.

It’s still odd seeing Rude Spiderman in these domestic settings, but you think you prefer him like this.

“How’s your plan coming along?” he asks, mouth full of fried rice as he’s already reaching for a piece of char siu.

Of course, he has to ask you a question just as you bite into sweet and creamy egg custard.

“I’m kind of stuck,” you admit, the words muffled slightly by the pastry in your mouth. “I think we need to talk about reaching out to Dr. Strange.”

“No.” He doesn’t even bother to stop eating, still chewing with a gusto as the word emerges.

Nothing more than that. No reasons or explanation given, just ‘No.’

Irritation brews in your chest at his unhelpfulness. He’s throwing a monkey wrench into your cosmic survival masterplan, and he won’t even tell you why.

Too busy stuffing his face with crispy wontons.

“But why? He’s the only Avenger with an expertise in cosmic magic!”

“Expertise, my ass,” he retorts.

“Why do you hate him so much?” You slide the plate of roasted duck across the table, away from him, and that finally makes him pay proper attention.

Miguel is doing that scowling thing again, first at you and then dropping his gaze to glaring down at his rice and chopstick like he’s about to stab it.

“Because he’s an idiot. “Doesn’t have a clue what he’s talking about. Gives terrible advice.”

“He was one of the world’s leading brain surgeons,” you huff. “I don’t think he’s an idiot, Miguel.”

Miguel leans over the table, sliding the plate back closer to where he’s seated.

“Being handy with a scalpel isn’t a transferable skill to the supernatural. And he wears a cape. Only idiots wear capes.”

“Wait, what? You don’t like him because he wears a cape!?” you spit out incredulously. You don’t understand this man’s logic sometimes.

“Capes are impractical. Get snagged everywhere. No superhero worth the name would wear one,” he explain as if this alone perfectly justifies hating someone. He stabs a piece of meat with his chopstick and brings it to his mouth. “I will never ask that man for help again.”

Then he inhales the rest of the plate of roasted duck.

You leave the restaurant frustrated.

Miguel’s stubbornness remains as immovable as stone, and this big red and blue boulder has left you stuck at a dead end roadblock in the middle of a street, one you don’t know how to get around. He won't agree to talk to Strange, and you don’t know what else to do.

You need divine inspiration, or failing that maybe just… a hint. Something to tell you what direction to go in. Some kind of a sign.

Deep in thought, you turn round a corner, barely noticing how the alley narrows as you keep walking forward. It’s not until a pile of crates in front blocks your path, forcing you to stop dead in your tracks that you lift your head to survey your surroundings.

You and Miguel are at a small alley that you don’t recognize, which is weird because you know this area like the back of your hand. Somewhere along the way you must’ve taken a wrong turn.

Just ahead of you, there's a red stall set up on the sidewalk surrounding a small rickety table with red cloth draped over it, a couple of folding chairs set up in front.

Above it is… a giant sign. Fortune Teller, it says.

Not quite the metaphorical sign you were asking for a few minutes ago, but maybe the universe has given up on subtlety for today. Hey, at least it’s not trying to kill you… unless fortune teller assassins are a thing. Shit, is the universe resorting to baiting traps now? You really hope it doesn’t start setting out poisoned cookies on window sills, because then it will be game over for you and Miguel both.

You look the stall over, noticing that there are no crystal balls. No tarot cards. No trinkets or ancient scrolls like the ones you see in the movies.

There’s just an old lady. Her head is cleanly shaven, shining slick under the sole street lamp in the alley. She’s wearing a thick robe with a blue shawl draped over her shoulders that seems much too warm for the current weather, and cheap oversized sunglasses perch on her small nose despite it being evening. That outfit is certainly a choice.

Maybe you should be more cautious, but what harm can it do at this point?

The fortune teller certainly looks harmless and frail with her big round cheeks, sitting on a small stool. Even though she looks nothing like her, she makes you think of your grandmother—the one you actually like to call. The grandma who always has cookies stashed away for you when you come to visit.

Maybe she can give you a reading of who you were in your past life.

Maybe she can give you a protection amulet to make the universe chill the fuck out for a while.

Maybe she can burn some incense that will make you relax and get rid of the migraine you've gotten since the universe decided to murder you.

"Miguel." You tug at the lapel of his jacket, and point in the direction of the sign.

He turns around, scanning the space and then his eyes narrow disapprovingly.

"Fortune… teller,” Miguel reads off the sign in a slow skeptic drawl. He doesn't need to say more to express his complete and utter disdain, but that doesn’t stop him.

"You know it's all a scam right? People like this can't actually tell the future. They have no supernatural powers. What they do is cold reading."

It’s entirely unsurprising Miguel doesn't like the idea. There are a lot of things Miguel doesn’t like.

"What else do you propose we do?"

"Ask someone with actual skills who can help us?"

"You were the one who shot down the idea of asking Doctor Strange for help," you remind him.

"I don’t want his help," Miguel shoots back, grimacing as though the mere mention of the name is enough to leave a bad taste in his mouth.

"Yeah, so you keep telling me." You continue on to the stall, despite your companion's strong protests.

The sweet old lady greets you as you sit down at the table. She looks even weirder from up close, her bald head abnormally large for her small body. You try not to stare, not wanting to make her self-conscious, but you can’t help but wonder how gravity keeps her head upright.

“Fifty dollars,” she announces the moment you take a seat.

Fifty bucks to get your fortune read!? Talk about highway robbery! You could get seven overpriced Spiderman cookies for that.

“That’s too much.” You shake your head, rising from your seat.

“Okay, okay. I can do cheaper,” the woman immediately concedes, looking nervous at your sudden outburst, and you have to bite back a smile.

That was easy.

“How much cheaper?” you ask. You know how this game is played.

“Twenty?”

If she’s willing to drop the price from fifty to twenty that easily, you can definitely get her to go lower.

“Ten.” You cross your arms where you stand, making no move to sit down.

“Are you really haggling over this? You were the one who wanted to do this, and now you’re going to cheap out over ten bucks!?” Miguel says from behind you, but you ignore him. It’s enough to have him there looming over the lady as you stare her down, taking a note out of his intimidation tactic book.

“Some of us aren’t made out of money, Miguel–”

“Fine! Ten, I’ll do it for ten,” the lady says over the top of your arguing.

She’s skittish in the sudden silence that follows, looking over her shoulder to her left and right, as if she’s checking if your loud outbursts have attracted any attention.

Seemingly reassured that there’s only the three of you here, she gestures for you to sit back down and then tilts her head towards you.

From behind her sunglasses, you can see that her eyes are clouded white from glaucoma, but when she raises her gaze to give Miguel an appraising look from head to toe, it’s obvious that she’s still able to see.

“Your husband is tall.”

You see Miguel go rigid out the corner of your eye and chance a quick glance up at him. His sour expression hasn’t changed but you can tell he’s uncomfortable from the way his fingers are gripping the fabric of his hoodie where the chain holding his ring is hiding underneath the layers of clothing.

"Can you do a past life reading?" you ask instead, trying to steer the conversation away from anything that might inflict further painful reminders upon him. "I want to know if I could have attracted bad karma in my past lives."

“No such thing,” she says bluntly, shaking her head, "You have no past life. Reincarnation is not real."

That’s step 4 taken care of, you think to yourself, and you think you hear Miguel choke back a laugh behind you. You’re not thrilled that he’s having fun at your expense, but at least he’s not sad anymore.

"Uh… okay…" You try to think of what else was on your list. "Then can I buy a protection amulet or something? I've had really bad luck lately."

The old granny looks you over appraisingly, eyes traveling from the top of your head as far down as she can see before the table top gets in the way, and her benign and friendly smile fades as she does.

"No," she says, eyes wrinkling with worry. "An amulet is of no use to you. Just a waste of money."

Oh wow, grandma is really dissing you right now.

She gestures her hand in a come hither motion to get you to lean down, and then pulls out a paper and pen and starts to draw an uneven circle with thick, crude lines.

"See here?" she says as she loops the circle closed, "This is all of us, our world"

Miguel is suddenly right next to you, hunching down and bent over the small table. You don’t know when he managed to sneak up on you, but he’s right there, so close his shoulder is brushing up against yours.

The fortune teller moves her pen inside the circle to draw a much smaller one, then a forked line sticking out of it, and another line across the center of that one. It’s so crudely drawn it takes you a second to realize it’s a stick figure.

"This is you," she points at it with a pen, seeming to admire her own creation.

Next to you, Miguel is staring down at the childish drawing with his hands crossed against his chest in irritation, his right eyelid is twitching. He looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.

Even though he’s not saying a word, you swear you can almost hear his inner monologue, protesting the lady’s poor handmanship and drawing skills. He doesn’t need to say it but even $10 is too much of a price to pay, even for a man with infinity dollars.

Seemingly oblivious to Miguel’s irritation, the fortune teller proceeds to draw angry darts from inside the circle aimed at the poor you stick figure. Pressing so hard with her pen that the ink bleeds into the paper and the darts are starting to look like daggers. You almost wince when you see a couple of them pierce through your stick figure. “Outside interference has brought bad luck to you. It will never go away; it will follow you forever.”

You peer down at the paper with a sense of unease. Aren’t scam fortune tellers supposed to tell you what you want to hear? Where are the reassuring lies? Shouldn’t she be telling you that you’re going to meet a tall, dark, handsome stranger? Or that you were a princess in a past life? Since when do they tell you that you’re doomed to die over and over?

“So what am I supposed to do?” you ask.

“Keep moving,” she says with an unfaltering smile as if she hasn’t given you the most grim fortune telling of all time.

You lean back in your seat deflated. Scam or not, the prognosis isn’t looking good for you right now.

The lady ducks under her desk, and is sorting through a pile of junk paper, before she pops back up again. She shoves something into your hands, and leans over to you with a piercing gaze in her milky-white eyes. “The man who will help you lives here.”

Hope sparks bright in your chest at her words. Finally, a lead! Someone who can help you! You can’t believe your random decision to stop has given you the first clue that might actually lead somewhere!

You look down at what she’s given you. It's a pamphlet map of New York. Yellow and bright, the title reads: ‘Star Maps of Celebrity Homes.’ One of those cheap plastic ones they hand out with the tour buses.

The hope that had been building in your chest deflates, popping like a cheap balloon.

You make yourself scan the tacky star map for any clues as to who she means, but you you don’t see anything to lift you out of your disappointment. As much as you love Robert De Niro and Whoopi Goldberg and would love to get their autographs, you don’t think any of the people on this map are in any position to help you.

You sigh.

Ok, maybe Miguel was right. The fortune teller was a bust. What a waste of money.

From behind you, you can already hear the rustle of movement from him, as he’s stepping away.

“Come on, Cielito,” he says as he nods his head in the direction towards the exit of the alley.

The fortune teller grabs your hands in hers, as she leans in closer to your ear and whispers, as if trying to be out of earshot of Miguel. “Be careful with that one. He’s not from around here.”

Back at the hotel, you plop down on the ridiculously wide and fluffy bed, but not even the luxury of your surroundings can lift your spirits. You’re still uncomfortably full from dinner. The overload of delicious egg tarts sit like lead in your stomach, weighing you down.

Wasn’t there a Swedish king at some point who ate too many sweet buns and died of a burst stomach? Wouldn’t it be ironic if, after all the calamity and disasters you’ve escaped, your gluttony was the thing that ended you? You don’t think anyone who knows you would be surprised to read ‘died from eating too many egg tarts’ in your obituary. It’s perfect. A stupid and meaningless death to match your stupid and meaningless life.

From the corner of your eye, you see Miguel drag off his hoodie over his head. You squint your eyes, pretending not to look as the tan skin of his firm muscled back is revealed to you before he pulls on a tight-fitting white t-shirt that pulls taut against his chest.

The free peep show usually makes excitement and heat thrill through your spine, but tonight it does nothing. You feel… oddly numb.

The lights go off with a gentle click, and then you are left by yourself in darkness with nothing but your thoughts to keep you company.

You don’t know what to do. The fortune teller had been as stupid and pointless as every other idea you’ve had.

You grit your teeth, sighing as you turn restlessly onto your side in the bed, stretching out your leg to make yourself more comfortable, hoping sleep will claim you so that you can stop these thoughts from running on a constant loop on your brain like the world’s shittiest radio channel.

God, you can’t believe you spent $10 dollars on that fortune teller, and got nothing to show for it except a crappy map meant for gullible tourists.

What are you going to do if you’re too stupid to think of any other ideas? Your skin crawls at the thought, a tangle of worry sitting in the pit of your stomach, climbing upwards and trying to burst out of your chest. You roll over, but it only seems to get worse.

Are you just going to wait out your time like a sitting duck?

You twist your body, squeezing your eyes shut. The thoughts won’t stop.

Are you just going to sit here doing nothing?

Are you going to di–

Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeech.

The loud noise startles you, and you freeze, suddenly aware of just how vulnerable you are with only the sheets and comforter for protection.

Oh god, what is trying to kill you this time?

Your eyes are wide open with a strain, staring off into the darkness like a deer in the headlights as you listen to the sound of something sharp scraping against the wooden floor.

It’s coming closer.

Fuck. Is it an assassin? Some kind of otherworldly monster that’s come to drag you to hell with it?

And where is Miguel? Why isn’t he stopping it!?

Maybe he’s gone, a cruel voice whispers in your head. Maybe he’s had enough. Maybe he sees what you don’t want to—the futility of what you’re trying to do. Running around like a headless chicken trying to find a way out of the grand cosmic slaughterhouse that is set on ending your life. Maybe he’s given up on you.

Maybe you need to give up too.

You’re too scared to risk making noise, but you can’t not do anything. You turn as soundlessly as you can in bed, rolling towards Miguel—hoping with all your might that he’ll still be there to save you—only to be greeted by the sight of his back closer than you expect, hunched over the lounge chair as he drags it towards the bed, the metal legs scraping against the floor, making the very sound that had just scared you half to death.

You dart upright in the bed, outraged.

“What are you doing!?”

Miguel looks back at you, then down at the chair he’s moving, and then back up at you with that blank expression on his face.

“Moving this?” He sits down on the lounge chair that’s now next to your bed, “I heard you tossing and turning. Thought you couldn’t sleep.”

There’s a pause as he peers at you in the darkness, then he rubs his hand at the back of his neck.

“Shit, did the noise scare you? Sorry, Cielito.”

There’s that nickname again. You don’t remember when it started or where it came from, but it’s something he’s been calling you more and more often. He’s wearing a wrinkly oversized t-shirt and a sheepish expression as he’s eyeing you, making sure you’re okay. It’s almost, nearly endearing.

“Why do you keep calling me Cielito?” you ask. “Is that what you used to call other me?”

“No, I didn’t call her that.” He shakes his head, the same aching longing in his eyes that’s always there at the mention of your other self. “I called her Nena.”

“Then why Cielito?”

He tilts his head down at you as if the answer is obvious, and then he breaks out into a small smile. “Because you keep falling through the sky.”

You stare at him in silence for a second, at the goofy looking grin he’s wearing. He looks so proud of himself and his silly dad joke that you can’t help but smile back, laughter bubbling up and out of your chest. His smile just gets bigger.

What a dork.

You lay back down in bed, still tittering with laughter, and there’s a comforting weight that rests on top of your head for a brief moment. It’s his hand. The touch is pleasant, his palm warm against your skin, and the comfort of it erases the last trace of residual alarm in your body.

“Just go to sleep already." The words are impatient, but his voice is gentle, and it makes your chest warm as he continues, “It’s okay. You don't have to worry. I won't let anything happen to you.”

He hasn’t given up on you.

His words drip through your insides and warms you from inside out. It’s comforting, the way a blanket feels wrapped around you in the winter when your heating is out. He sounds so confident when he says them. Like there’s no doubt in his mind that you’ll survive this, because he will personally see to it. The anxious chatter in your mind finally quiets, and you close your eyes, knowing he’s only an arm’s length away.

Somehow, with Miguel here, the impossible odds you’re up against don’t seem quite so impossible, and hope buzzes pleasantly in your chest as you drift off to sleep. It's the best sleep you've had in a long time.

~ Next Issue

Credits & Dedication: Love a thousand and million years for @thirstworldproblemss who had to finely comb over and beta-read and edit this chapter over and over and rubber duck i with me while I was fixing up the details. I hope that I get to write with her til I go old and grey and senile, because it is the most wonderful joy and experience and I love her so.

This chapter is also dedicated to the wonderful and talented @forwantofwill who was endlessly kind in doing this amazing, beautiful piece of art of Miguel eating cookies in the windowsill Thank you so so much for making this and gifting me not just with your immense talent but also your time!

For those of you who haven't yet please follow her! She's amazingly talented and have such a wonderful blog filled with gorgeous and amazing fanart!

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow astroboots-writes and turn on notifs.

#miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara fic #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara fanfic #miguel o'hara fanfiction #spiderverse #oscar isaac #across the spiderverse #marvel #spiderverse fanfiction #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara #miguel ohara x you #marvel mcu

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talenlee · 3 months ago

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My Weirdly Embarrassing Love of Spreadsheets

This is gunna be a post about like, the nuts and bolts of making big projects like ongoing writing projects like this blog, but to get there I need to talk to you about silly stuff like journals and buses and spreadsheets. We get there, please, trust me.

One of the first tools I made for blogging was a table in my bullet journal. If you’re not familiar, a common thing to do with bullet journals (or ‘bujos’ as cooler or more tedious people than I call them), is to write up a calendar at the start of each month, something that lists what you’re doing through the course of the month. When I started doing this, I had a way to look at the month, that I could scribble on, so I did, and it meant I was able to get into the habits of putting an article on a game every friday and an article on a story every monday, resulting in my Story Pile and Game Pile series.

This was back in 2017, and the notebooks are in my bookshelf, each of them a record of a year that… huh, I could go back and reread.

Anyway, one of the problems that came up with this system was the bus.

Not kidding.

I would get a bus home from the uni most days. When I was on that bus, or when I was at the uni, I would have time to write, but I wouldn’t necessarily have access to my notebook. I found myself wanting a copy of the chart that I could manage on two different computers – my laptop at the university, and my computer at home. This is how One Stone got written, too, the trips home on the bus being when I wrote the blog posts that became the first chapters of that book, eyes closed, not looking at the screen, and focusing on the road to avoid being car sick.

It is wild to consider how much of my first book I loved writing I did with my eyes effectively closed.

In 2019, I resolved midway through the year that I needed a better system, and started on a system that would handle the transport between two locations better, for the year coming where I anticipated a lot of travel between two sites.

Ahem.

Yeah, uh, 2020.

Anyway, that it wasn’t necessary didn’t stop it being useful! That led to the creation of this Google Sheets spreadsheet:

I made this in Sheets because Sheets is like Excel, which I like using, and it’s like Calc, which I now use, because the version of Excel I pirated doesn’t have access to IFS functions. Point is, this sheet, as originally conceived, did not need anything as a spreadsheet to work; I wanted a table with 365 cells in it that could show the entire year at a glance and be given a simple, straightforward tick or cross. It became something more, as the years progressed.

I’ve been using this kind of spreadsheet now, for 5 years. In 2025, the spreadsheet looks almost the same:

Being a spreadsheet, it is an array of data. You can manipulate that. You can track data in it. You can use indexes. You can cocatenate things, and that’s the stage this spreadsheet is at now. When I sit down to work on a blog post, the first thing I do is not open up WordPress to pull at my drafts, it’s to instead open up this spreadsheet and look at when I have slots available, where my next upcoming gap is, and what kind of thing that gap wants.

Blue slots are story pile, green are game pile. I have all the video article slots pencilled in already with a ‘V,’ on the working version, so I can look at the line of Xes under each date and then see the point where oh, yeah, I gotta work on one of those spots. But see, also, in that top left? That number? The 0 is a count of how many blog posts have been set in place for the year, how close I am to being finished, or on track for the number of days in the year I’m at.

I try to keep the blog progress (blogress) at around 51 posts. That is not because this is the number I’ve decided I need or anything like that, it’s just a round number that makes me happy. Just being able to look at that number and see it being reasonably high? That’s a progress number. I could make it a progress bar proper, with a pair of graphs, but y’know, not worth it. I could make it a fraction too, like, the formula it’s doing over a “/365” if I wanted.

The thing that I’m most happy with though is the cell next to it.

See that cell looks like this:

='Topics & Ideas'!A2

And oh ho what is that?

Well that leads to this:

Here’s what this is: This is a whole spreadsheet of idea categories. Each category has at the top of it, a cell that looks down in the list for a random entry in that list and just provides it. For some things this is a long list of possibilities, for some things this is a tiny list of possibilities. But that is an index function – it looks randomly up and down the list and finds something. That means any time I want something for a specific theme, I can go to this sheet and I’ll see a random selection from these ideas. If I have an idea for a thing to write about at some point, I can jam that in the list, and know that it will eventually be exposed to me at some random point.

Then, at the head of that list, there’s the cell that also randomises the other cells along that horizontal line. Which means that any time I open this blog arranger up, I get to see a random offering of just… anything I could be writing right now. That list can include really broad things, like hey, write about an OC? and sometimes it could be really narrow and specific, like here’s a real event, you know about that one, you should write about it.

Now let me be clear: This is not a tool I recommend for everyone. This is a lot of elaborate effort I put into what is essentially, a producivity toy. This lets me produce a big pile of input and get a random output, and it lets me collect long lists or short lists of things and also, along with all of that, I can just get a periodic output from that list.

The original purpose for this chart wound up being unnecessary. I didn’t need to write on the bus any more. I don’t need to track the post count like this. I don’t need the randomiser. None of this stuff is in any way necessary.

But making this tool though, and playing with it, I have ways to engage with the project of this blog, with the writing when I can’t do that. When my ability to muster words has left me, I have still a chart, a tool, I have productivity items that I can work on. Sometimes just… fine tuning formulas is still working on it.

There’s this idea, maybe you’ve heard of ‘just do a little every day.’ Well, making it so there is a little you can do is really valuable, as part of that.

Check it out on PRESS.exe to see it with images and links!

#Making

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potahun · 2 months ago

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Furuya and Edges

i started typing this in the tags of a frkz post and then thought i might as well type it out.

we've all been in the camp of "ZTT is crap, it makes Furuya a boring gary stu yadda yadda" or "it softens him too much". I was in that camp as well on my first read, it poured a whole bucket of cold water on my toughly acquired appreciation of Furuya as a character. Absolutely loathed ZTT

And now I do want a ZTT 2. For furukaza reasons, yes, but also, I realise what I like about ZTT is that it does give Furuya edges which we are missing in the main manga. It does show us Furuya, as Furuya.

Furuya needs to be edgeless as Amuro. He needs to be friendly enough but also distant enough to be approachable to all, without anyone actually getting any intel on him that they can use. That's why all of his personality is smoothened out into something "universally" likeable or at least acceptable.

It's also why 97% of the times we see his personality surge out in the manga is regarding Akai, when the rage takes him - because he always disliked Akai, yes, but most importantly, bc Akai is too directly connected to Hiro and the wound of losing Hiro; Hiro, the heart of his heart: the one who guarded the most genuine parts of him, having seen him as a child. And what do we see in those moments when Furuya's edges emerge?

Impatience and rashness. (rushes into the Kudou's house without proof, is in too much hurry to get to results)

Temperament and emotion. (uses kisama on Akai, gets destabilised, goes up to a guy with no agenda other than to say he's dying to pull down their collar or that he hates someone enough to kill them)

This matches the traits we see in WPS and in the flashbacks of his childhood, where Furuya:

is hot-headed and temperamental (gets into physical fights based on feeling, is asked if he can get along with the person he fought with and snaps instantly with "are you joking?" (Hiro is the one who creates a window for him and Matsuda to talk again))

is reckless and intense (gets hurt on purpose to visit Elena)

is stubborn and opinionated, in that he actively tries to figure out what's wrong with Matsuda, but his views remain heavily and stubbornly biased despite learning more about him (his vision of the police as a good student vs Matsuda's personal grudge).

But WPS is in the past, and the manga only shows us Furuya when he "loses it" with Akai (+once, his pettiness with Kid). It is mostly "unhinged" moments when he loses to negative emotions. It counts! But it's incomplete. Your most stressed out side is not your only, real personality.

And so, I do like ZTT for filling the missing picture. In ZTT, we do see a lot of Furuya being Amuro, edgeless and a gary stu. But in details, we also see A LOT of furuya being furuya and having a personality with ugly edges.

An overwhelming majority of this happens when Kazami is there, because with Kazami he's always Furuya. It's not for nothing that Kazami struggles to call him anything but Furuya-san. It's reciprocal! Furuya is never Amuro with Kazami, not when they're alone. But he also does show his "edges" a few times with Camel and Azusa!

We see Furuya being impatient, and wanting things to be given to him straight / to have things be straight. (he's a "what is it? say it clearly!" guy and a "it's a hassle to give directions. i'll drive myself (hierarchy be damned)" guy and also a "let me explain to you why i'm single. see i absolutely cannot let you go away from here with misunderstandings" guy)

We see Furuya being opinionated and judgey (he gives the stink eye often, e.g. when Kazami spits out celery like Haro, he does it with Camel, with Azusa and her pumpkins and the velvet cake).

We see him be obsessively controlling (excel sheets for haro's diet, really?)

We see him be prickly ("you better not think that i'm the one getting vaccinated...")

are those good traits? no. what a terrible guy. but damn, we definitely are seeing those edges there. And they're in little things - not in the big losses of temper.

So I like ZTT for allowing me to say with sound basis that Furuya is actually a really "prickly, rash and opinionated guy at heart, and he might actually prefer things to be set straight as fast as possible in his own daily context, which is the opposite of his worksona". It does make him a more likeable blorbo and gives me so much more material to make fun of him.

It also fuels so much of my furukaza headcanons. But that is a story for another day.

PS: Incidentally, it's why "emotional" is not something I use often as a descriptive for Furuya's personality despite emotion being one of the edges we see most in the main manga, because, I think, he loses it with Akai as a result of his deepest wound and he's shit at processing the grief other than channelling it into anger. But I don't necessarily consider it a character trait. Ironically, I wonder whether, if he was an emotional person, he might actually be better at processing grief (or understanding Matsuda' off the bat's POV, for example). It's like the question of whether your trauma-induced PTSD is part of your personality? It's not the same thing, but I sometimes feel that his own losses of temper, as a placeholder for grief-processing, are actually a sign that he's under-developed in terms of emotional maturity, which, to me, suggests he favors rationality as his main tool, and therefore defaults to emotion only when the rest is lost. I think he's "temperamental" but not necessarily "emotional".

#dcmk #meitantei conan #detective conan #furuya rei #amuro tooru #zero's tea time #ztt

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kasdan · 2 months ago

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𝐁𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝

❝It wasn't supposed to be like this. It was only supposed to be a simple job: get the shit he needs and get out, but of course, the universe had other plans for him.❞

pairing: detective!frank x gn!reader

warnings: big angst, mild language, fake relationship (one sided), crying, grammar might be weird sorry

word count: 1.9k

masterlist | ko-fi

It's been months since the wedding, and Frank is still as lost as ever trying to figure out what your father is trying to hide. All his accounts are so secure that he thought marrying you would have made them easier to gain access to, but all he's finding out is everything is just as hard as it was before he met you.

There's a knock on his office door, causing him to quickly hide the page he was on, landing on a random Excel sheet with random numbers that had absolutely no meaning. You walk in the door with a small smile after he answers the knock, holding a plate of food in your hand.

"Sorry to interrupt." You speak, taking a few more steps into the room. "I just thought you might be hungry." Frank glances at the time, realizing it's well into the afternoon. Where did the time go? He watches as the plate is placed down next to him on the desk, and he mutters a small thanks at the gesture.

You give him another smile, leaning down to give him a quick peck on the lips before leaving the room, not wanting to disturb him any further. He doesn't move for several minutes, even after you're already long gone. He can still feel the remnants of your lips on his, giving him so much love and emotion while his are almost emotionless. For him anyway. He's been doing this for years, and as time passed, he got better at playing the role his job told him to, including forcing fake emotions to come to the surface whenever they're needed.

He didn't ask to start a relationship with someone against his free will, and he certainly didn't ask to get married hardly two months into the "relationship". He knew it was moving fast, and he knew it was what had to be done to get the information he needed and dip as fast as possible. However, that part is still in the works, not having thought it would take more than five months for him to get everything.

Guilt is threatening to eat him alive every day he has to stay in this fake world he was forced into. You look at him with so much love and admiration; it sometimes takes everything in him to not break and tell you everything right then and there. For all you know, this is a completely real relationship with a loving husband, no matter how quickly it came to be. You were shocked the night he proposed to you, and it wasn't until a week later that he got an answer from you at all. During the time, Frank thought he blew his shot immediately, being too focused on getting the job done quickly that he began to think he failed it before he was able to get any information he needed from it.

He still remembers your smile when you finally said yes, and he slipped the ring onto your finger. The same ring that he still feels the touch from when you cupped his cheek only moments ago. The coolness he felt from it practically taunts him as he turns back to the computer.

He minimizes the Excel sheet, clicking back on the other window with countless tabs open on bank statements and credit card information. He has all of your information right at his fingertips; the issue is, it's not your information that's needed.

He's talked to you about your dad before, but most of the conversations left him at a dead end and back to where he started from. You were never close with your dad, with him having hardly any fatherly bones in his body. Some of the stories you've told him got him angry on your behalf because what kind of man would do that to his kid? What type of man would pursue a fake relationship with someone just to get information on a parent?

Frank lets out a deep sigh, his eyes finding the sandwich you left him, reaching out to grab it. He takes a tentative bite, the flavors blending together nicely, but it all leaves a bitterness in his mouth from the guilt that won't go away. He downs the rest of his coffee, placing the cup down on the desk so impactfully that the thud echoes loudly in the room.

He sits still for so long, the only sound in the room coming from the low tick of the clock on the wall and the quiet hum of the laptop in front of him. Every little thing feels like it's out to get him in that moment, the bank statements on screen, loudly portraying his betrayal, the gold band on his finger that mocks him with a small glint in the corner of his eye every time the light in the room hits it the right way; it's like he can't stop the web of lies he's woven himself into.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. It was only supposed to be a simple job: get the shit he needs and get out, but of course, the universe had other plans for him. He wants to act cold and distant towards you, but he knows he wouldn't be able to handle seeing the hurt on your face. Ironic, isn't it? Since the same hurt look is going to be on your face regardless because the truth is bound to come out. He just has to finish the job.

The sun in the sky is beginning to lower on the horizon by the time he feels completely mentally and physically exhausted. He closes the documents on the computer, yet another day of not finding anything that would be even close to the things he would need to send your dad off to prison and his job to be officially over.

He stands up to stretch his limbs from sitting all day, rubbing his eyes before making his way out of the office, flipping off the light as he leaves. He walks into the bedroom to find the bathroom door cracked open and the shadow of you moving around getting ready for bed. He has your routine down by now from the months you've spent married to each other. You'll settle down early in the evening to spend the rest of it curled up in bed watching TV or scrolling aimlessly on your phone.

You step out of the bathroom in your pajamas, your eyes brightening when you see him in the room, immediately going to wrap your arms around him. He hugs you back, staring straight at the wall behind you, the warmth from your body doing nothing to stop the icy, empty feeling inside of him.

He usually puts up a front so you don't notice his lack of much of a response, and he's good at it for the most part, unless it's times like these where he feels himself slowly deteriorating.

"You okay?" You ask him after pulling back from his body slightly to be able to see the look on his face.

"Yeah," his tone is more gruff than he planned it, causing him to clear his throat slightly. "Just a long day." He says, grabbing your hand with a small, forced smile on his face.

"Hm, okay," you speak quietly, figuring it's something more, but not wanting to push him, not realizing how much more it really is. "Come lay with me." You say, stepping back with his hand still in yours, stretching his arm out slightly towards you.

"In a bit," Frank says, gently releasing your hand. "Gonna go shower real quick." You tell him to hurry back as he walks into the bathroom, hearing the sound of you jumping onto the bed before he shuts the door completely. He quietly flips the lock on the handle, needing a minute to breathe without the threat of you walking in and figuring out something is severely wrong.

He walks over to turn on the shower but makes no move to get in yet, instead leaning forward against the counter in the bathroom, pressing his palms into the cold marble beneath him. He closes his eyes, hanging his head down and taking a deep breath. Today has hit him harder than any other has, and he's feeling everything all at once, his chest feeling extremely heavy.

Eventually, he opens his eyes, looking up at himself through the mirror in front of him, not noticing who the person is staring back at him. He still looks relatively the same as he did a few months ago; his eyes just seem more sunken in, from stress or lack of sleep, he doesn't know; he's betting probably a mix of both. But he stares deeper, deeper into himself, trying to find any piece of him that's still alive.

He looks as if he's trying to stare into his soul, trying to find anything that's still there under all the darkness, but the hint of light that's still there is burning out fast. Soon, there'll be nothing left.

Frank wipes the involuntary tear that falls down his cheek before standing up straight and taking one last deep breath before tearing his gaze from the mirror and slowly stripping off his clothes to step into the shower.

You're curled up in bed with the TV on when Frank emerges from the bathroom. If you notice he was in there for more than half an hour, you don't say anything, just making room for him to get into bed alongside you.

That night, he doesn't sleep, or any of the nights that entire week for that matter. He stares up at the ceiling, feeling your soft breaths on his neck, his own body feeling foreign to him as he lies there with your sleeping body tucked under his arm.

He puts all his efforts into finishing the job, not able to handle any more of this. It makes him feel even worse when you're so understanding of how much work he needs to do. On the days you're home, you always make sure to bring him food, and when you aren't, you leave easily prepared food in the fridge for him, texting him as a reminder to eat it. You were being a good and loving spouse, and he was the asshole who's been using you throughout all of it.

The next week goes by, and he's finally done it. He's managed to get everything he needed to take down your father. It all happens so quickly. The phone call to his employer, the packing... the signed divorce papers left on the kitchen table, it all happens in a blur. Before he knows it, he's at the motel given to him for the time being until his flight the next day.

It's when the first voicemail comes that he starts crumbling to pieces. You sound so sad and confused, and it makes him feel even worse. The voicemails get worse the more he listens to them, unable to stop himself from clicking on them, listening to your emotional wreck over the phone as if this is his way of punishing himself for being the one who put you in this state. It's the end of the fourth voicemail when he starts breaking down himself, wishing he could just apologize for everything, but he knows it wouldn't make a difference for what he did.

His tears drip down to his jeans, his phone dropping to the ground, not having the strength to hold onto it anymore. His fingers find the now-empty finger where the wedding band used to be, causing the tears to fall harder.

buy me a coffee ♡

#frank castle #frank castle x reader #frank castle x you #frank castle x y/n #frank castle x gn!reader #gn!reader #the punisher #the punisher x reader #marvel #marvel mcu #marvel x reader #mcu #jon bernthal #frank castle angst #frank castle fic #frank castle fanfiction #punisher #punisher x reader

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i-did-not-mean-to · 8 days ago

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Point of no return

As always, there's a birthday fic.

This one has been chosen by my husband from the prompt book he's gifted me. (So it's going on main haha)

And he's chosen Aemond from the HotD fandom.

Pairing: Aemond x OC

Words: 1k

Warnings:none

She was a theatre kid. He was very much not.

In the natural order of things, their paths should never have crossed.

However, he believed in fate, and she had faith in whimsy, so neither one was too astonished when she barrelled into him as she ran along the university hallway.

Running late, as per usual, Nola hadn’t even considered meeting someone else in the near-abandoned building long after classes had concluded.

She knew of him, of course, but they didn’t share any friends or interests, so she wouldn’t have claimed to know the man himself.

When his long-fingered hand shot out to keep her from falling backwards, the world turned upside down in a flurry of sheet music and handwritten copies of lyrics.

He didn’t ask where she was going—he didn’t even cry out in alarm and anger. He just stared at her from the uncannily mismatched eyes that were the subject of so much gossip.

“Oops,” she said automatically, her own gaze taking in the pool of paper at her feet. “I have to run, but…let me buy you a coffee sometime to make it up to you!”

The words had flown out of her mouth like startled birds before their full weight could make it through her thick skull—they were not friends, and she had no right to invite him so brazenly.

“Sure,” he replied in a calm, cold voice. “I’ll hold you to it.”

A shiver of excitement and apprehension shot up Nola’s spine, and she dropped to her knees to scoop up her various notes.

The slight tremor of her fingers was a nuisance, though.

A moment later, his towering frame folded noiselessly like a house of cards collapsing in a flurry of black and white.

“I’m Aemond,” he said as his detestably steady hands closed around a stack of paper resolutely. “You’re auditioning?”

Nola flinched as if caught with her hand in the cookie jar—she was ferociously secretive about the roles she coveted for fear of jinxing her chances, so she didn’t want to discuss these matters with a perfect stranger.

Moreover, Aemond Targaryen, scion of the realm’s most illustrious and morally questionable house, didn’t strike her as the kind of man who’d take an interest in musical theatre and melting love songs.

Shame, really, she thought. He would have made an excellent villain.

Tall and brooding, he had the perfect face—an alluring mix of sharp lines and sensual curves—to give an antagonist depth.

Moreover, she’d always had a secret soft spot for the misunderstood rogue.

“Thank you,” she breathed as he handed her the sheets he’d collected. “Find me then,” she added on a whim, eager to look at him longer and fantasise about all the roles he could so easily fill.

“You’re welcome,” he replied automatically, even though his face betrayed neither warmth nor understanding.

“Intense,” she laughed as his brows furrowed in deep thought. “Be careful your face doesn’t get stuck like this!”

He merely scoffed.

Aemond told himself that it was only natural to at least glance at the sheets he was straightening for the imprudent, insolent creature before him.

If he committed every word and title to memory and, instead of going home as he’d intended, went straight to the library to do some anonymous research, it was due to his natural proclivity for intellectual curiosity and his need to know things rather than a marked interest in the wild-haired, bright-eyed woman who’d invited him for coffee so flippantly.

He’d never been overly fond of musical theatre—his own life was dramatic and tragic enough for him to know for certain that people rarely fell to their knees to sing their hearts out when their whole existence fell to dust and ashes around them.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t rest until he’d unearthed and memorised every single line he’d so fleetingly glimpsed.

Feeling like a hopeless codebreaker, he pored over the words again and again until they were etched into his brain.

From there on out, he started stalking around the auditorium more often in hopes of finding the mysterious songbird.

Aemond wasn’t sure she’d remember him and the silly vow she’d made, but one day, ambling down a rarely used stairwell, he finally heard a silken voice lament the wretched solitude of Éponine.

“Will we ever meet again?” he recited in a muted tone.

A low gasp interrupted the song, and then the woman’s head popped over the railing.

Seamlessly, she transitioned into “Who was that shape in the shadows? Whose is the face in the mask?” from Phantom of the Opera.

“Stranger than you dreamt it. Can you even dare to look or bear to think of me?” Aemond rejoined, the words flowing like water from his lips as they bubbled to the surface of his mind.

His efforts were rewarded by a brilliant smile. Soon, he heard her light steps racing down the stairs toward him.

“There's something sweet and almost kind, but he was mean, and he was coarse and unrefined. And now he's dear and so unsure. I wonder why I didn't see it there before,” she chirped, cocking her head invitingly as she laid a small hand on his arm as if to retain him.

“She glanced this way, I thought I saw. And when we touched, she didn't shudder at my paw. No, it can't be, I'll just ignore…but then she's never looked at me that way before,” Aemond supplied smoothly.

“You surprise me, Targaryen,” she cackled. “So, do you have time for a coffee?”

He felt as if his spine was about to break as he nodded. “Did you get the part?” he asked as they continued downwards side-by-side.

“Hmmm,” she hummed her affirmation. “Christine Daaé.”

To Aemond’s surprise, she threw her head back and laughed—a full, bewitchingly melodious symphony. “I’d never have bothered with that fool of a Vicomte, of course.”

“Fond of monsters, are you?” Aemond heard himself ask automatically.

“If they know the words…”

#og post #IDNMT writes #fanfiction #writing #HotD #House of the Dragon #Modern!AU #prompt #birthday fic #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #aemond x oc

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clarkes-and-god · 6 months ago

Note

do you have any tips on a fundie save? also what’s your fav place to get fundie gossip? I am engrossed now!

oooh i think my tips would be:

1. i would recommend doing a LITTLE research if you’re not sure on something so you don’t accidentally do something weird that you then have to live with. for example, why is ANTONIO RICCIARDI baptist? that is a very catholic name! are italians just not predominantly catholic in my universe or is his family very upset at him? i really don’t know because i just picked a name i liked.

2. don’t do storylines you don’t find interesting. you won’t like doing them and then it’ll drag on forever and you won’t want to write the story. and you don’t have to give every child a story if you don’t want to.

3. planning is good even if u don’t really like it. i get weirdly embarrassed about writing my plans down so i don’t do much physical planning but i make sure i at least have an idea of how i want a storyline to end. it helps avoid the same issues as point 1. some people are crazy and do excel sheets and shit but i personally love my badly organised obsidian file.

4. these have all been about story writing and i’m realising u said SAVE and not story so for the actual game, i recommend using clubs if you have get together. it makes it easier for sims to make friends and hang out and tbh i should use it more. i dont use it much atm so most of my sims don’t know their extended family 😭

5. i like taking screenshots of all my sims eating together for the aesthetic but honestly don’t try doing that if it’s not for a screenshot. employ the teenage daughters/mom to make tons of cheap party sized meals so you can put them in the fridge and take one out when u need to feed a crowd of hungry children. unless your fundies are lucky and live in a mansion then they’ll probably need the extra time to get everyone to use the bathroom and shower.

6. infants are weirdly easy. out of all the kids that have been born in the game, iva is the only one who got the bad infanthood trait and she was really difficult and also a twin. as long as they’re fed and you sometimes pick them up for a cuddle they should be good. they can sleep on the floor in the day at least. tbh i wish bad infanthood was easier to get because my sims should not be doing this well.

i don’t really keep up with irl fundies that much but when i do it’s mostly via reddit or fundie fridays on youtube. i do follow a bunch of blogs here who talk about it which is good for letting me know when something crazy happens/a baby is born.

#asks #fundie sims #quiverfull sims #fundie snark #fundie simblr #modest sims #homeschool sims

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horriblengrossstories · 27 days ago

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Mutt, Season 1, Part 13

Derek Goffard x Reader All parts here

Derek is having some fun, knife play, waterboarding, and needles galore. This is the end of what I call Season 1 of this story. I have the next season planned out(it's already twice as long), and I just gotta do so many edits. So enjoy, I'll be back with more parts soon :3

A drunken Derek was a sight to behold, still obnoxious, still rude. Still seeing a Man like him be able to get drunk made him a little less scary for a moment; he's just another human. He bleeds like everyone else, he must also have soem feelings other then being horny and violent. You think back to what Matt said: he likes obedience and dogs. You've done a pretty good job thus far in just rolling over. Crying, he loves the crying as well.

Seven bottles of wine on the wall… should you start counting the bricks again, oh maybe the floor tiles this time, Derek finally gets back, and you perk up. By the sounds of his footsteps, it sounds like he had an okay day. Maybe this is your chance to get him to open up. Here is to hope.

“Welcome back,” you greet as he turns the corner. He gives you a weird look.

“What are you doing?” he asks and crosses his arms. “What, you miss me or something?”

“Well…I guess I did,” you admitted. He doesn't unfold his arms and just continues to look at you.

“That's cute,” he says as he sits down on the couch and takes his shoes off. “god, my hangover still isn't gone.”

“...”

“Having to hear those guys' voices about stock market markers just made it worse, if I have to go through one more Excel sheet, I'm going to snap someone's neck!”

He throws his shoes against the wall near you.

“You're still feeling the effects of last night?” you asked.

“I had a couple of drinks before I came home, and then drank half a bottle of wine…ughim not 21 anymore, why do I do this?” he drags his hands down his face.

“Do you remember anything from last night?” you asked.

“I remember how your boobs felt when i grabbed them.” he mummbled “Vaguly everything else, why do you ask, in fact why are you so chatty today mutt?”

“Well, I guess it's just because I've been thinking-”

“That's new,” he said, Okay, you walked into that one.

“That I don't know much about you…” You trailed off, you hear him scoff, and he stays quiet

“Why would I need to tell you anything, you're a mutt, remember?” he said, “but fine, ill humor you…you get one question.”

You should start with something very basic.

“Okay, well, how old are you?”

“Really?” Derek said, looking over to you and rolling his eyes, “You're wasting your one question on how old I am, be a little more original.”

“I guess that is lame, well, what are your hobbies?” you ask, he looks up and lets out a hmm.

“I don't have that many, i like working out, going to parties, and getting whatever piece of ass i want,” he said, and yeah that sounds like him.

“So clubbing?”

“I said you had one question,” he said

“Sorry.” You apologize, he just snorts

“Nah, nothing like that. My clubbing days ended when I left university, now I go to house parties or private parties for my dad. saveing face an all that shit…gusse i don't actual like that, but it's something i do a lot so.” he trails off “"Why you so curious, got some weird crush on me or something?"

“What? No-”

“Ah, you are so easy to irritate, you're amusing. Ill give you that,” he replies, “but stop pouting, your sour face is making me wanna hurl.”

“Well, what else do you like?” you asked.

“You don't know when to stop, do you?” he glances over to you, but shrugs a little. "I like cars, and travelling. You know, the usual."

“That's vague,” you responded, “but cars, huh, you got a favorite?”

“I have a few I like, my favourite is probably the Aston Martin. It's a beautiful car," he said

“A what?” you asked

“You don't know Aston Martin? You've never heard of the luxury car brand?" he laughs a bit, and pulls his phone out and shows you a photo, you squint, “Aston Martin DBS Superleggera.”

“In red, I see, you do seem to have a favorite color.”

“Everything looks better with red,” he replied and scrolls through more photos. “Bugatis, Ferraris, Lambos, Aston Martins, Rolls Royces, Maseratis, McLarens...just about every type of car you could think of.”

“Wow, you have a whole collection, but the Aston is your favorite?” you ask.

“Yeah, it's one of my favourites. I love the way it looks and the way it feels to drive. Plus, it's a convertible, so it's perfect for summer," he explains. “Hood down, wind your hair and sun on your face, you could only dream about that feeling.”

"Don't be so sure, I could always just steal one," you joked.

“You think you could just steal one of my family's expensive cars? Good luck with that," he says, amused by your response.

“I'm not dumb enough to steal one of yours.”

“Are you sure about that?” he continues to laugh. “So you're going to steal somebody else's expensive car then? Good luck with that, too."

“I could always hotwire it.”

“You know how to hot wire?”

“No.”

“Yeah, didn't think so." Derek stands up and stretches his arms over his head. "Anyway, I've got better things to be doing than talking with you."

“Huh, where are you going, you just got here?” you asked.

“I have things to do. Places to be, people to see, yada yada yawn," he says as he heads towards the door. “I only came by to make sure you were behaving.”

“Oh, okay…but when will you be back?”

“Try not to miss me too much while I'm gone," he says from the other side of the door, and you slump down. That was an abrupt end to your somewhat pleasant conversation; you didn't know how much longer you could fake being interested in him.

____

What feels like a few hours pass as you lie on the floor board out of your mind, maybe if a fly came in here, you could watch it buzz around a bit. The door opened, and Derek had returned from whatever errands he was running. How long has he actually been gone?

“Hey, I'm bored,” he said and nudged your body with his foot. You sit up and look up at him.

“I'm sorry to hear that. Did you finish those errands at least?”

"Yeah, but they were boring. I need something interesting," he said, not breaking eye contact, you gulp

“I see what you had in mind?” you asked.

“Oh, I just want to play a little game with you,” he said as he took a knife out from his back pocket. You eye the knife.

“What type of game?”

“Well, I get this, your little questions earlier got me reminiscing about my university days.” Derek explained, moving the knife back and forth, “I used to pay people like 50 bucks if they let me do the knife game with them, you know the one with the song.”

“I know the one,” you said

“Oh good!’ he said. “Don’t worry, I'm really good at it.”

You aren't convinced, but with no other choice, you set your hand down and spread your fingers.

“Perfect, let's start,” he said, but wavered. “Wait, do you know the song?

“Only the second verse…not the beginning,” you said, he lets out a what sounds like a pout.

“Fine, fine, I'll start, but when I start chopping, you start singing,” he said, you're shaking a bit, but nod, he clears his throat.

There is an old tradition, a game we all can play

You start by getting liquored up and sharpening your blade

You take a shot of whiskey, you grab your knife and pray

And spread apart your fingers, and this is what you say"

Derek slams the knife down outside your pinky, leaving a hole in the floor. Your voice gets caught in your throat.

“I said sing,” he said, raising the knife again.

“Oh, I have all my fingers, the knife goes chop, chop, chop

If I miss the spaces in between, my fingers will come off

And if I hit my fingers, the blood will soon come out

But all the same, I play this game 'cause that's what it's all about."

You shakily cry out as he hits the spaces between your fingers. Once you are done singing the verse, he stops, and you still have all your fingers.

“No, you can't use a pencil, you cannot use a pen

The only way is with a knife when danger is your friend

And some may call it stupid, some may call it dumb

But all the same, we play this game because it's so damn fun."

He sings out and points to you with the knife to sing the next part. Your heart is racing, but you mutter out the verse again.

“Oh, I have all my fingers, the knife goes chop, chop, chop

If I miss the spaces in between, my fingers will come off

And if I hit my fingers, the blood will soon come out

But all the same, I play this game 'cause that's what it's all about.”

He smiles as he picks up the speed, still stabbing the spoon in between your fingers.

Oh, chop, chop, chop, chop, chop, chop, chop, I'm picking up the speed

And if I hit my fingers, then my hand will start to bleed!

Derek stabs the knife a centimeter away from your thumb, leaving it on the floor. You felt your soul leave your body for a second

“See told you I was an expert in this,” he gleams, “Almost lost a finger at the end there though.”

You feel lightheaded, “yeah..I was worried there for a second.”

“You look like you are about to pass out,” he laughs before your eyes roll back to your head, and everything goes blank.

___

“Hey…hey…wake up. Derek says poking your cheek “come on, wakey wakey.”

Your out cold

"Huh, looks like she's really out." He says and leans down to feel your pulse, “Heart rate feels normal.”

He stands back up and looks down on you, and scratches the side of his head. “Guess she must have passed out from shock…what a pain.”

He nudged your body with his foot again, and then he got an idea, this will be fun.

He heads to the bathroom and grabs a couple of towels and a bucket of water. He leans down, places the towel over your face, then dumps the water on you. Being woken up to the feeling of drowning made you thrash your arms about, and something heavy is on your face.

You ripped the towel off and let out a loud gasp.

“Oh good, you're awake,” Derek said, holding the bucket over your head.

“YOU WATERBOARDED ME!?” You yelled at him, and he just smiled

“Well, it was either that, or slap you awake so,” he trailed, “so you back to the world of the living or?”

“I'm here!” you yell, “why…why would you do that?”

“Well, it woke you up, didn't it?” he said and put the bucket down. “Don't worry, it's not your bucket, just an extra I had in the bathroom, aren't I nice?”

“You're a sadist,” you cough out.

“Thank you.”

“You don't have smelling salts or?”

“Smelling salts? Why would I have that? The water worked just fine,” he gleamed. “Anyways, dry yourself off your shivering.”

You grab the other towel and wipe the water off.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

“No.”

“Aw, why?” he teased

“You waterboarded me.”

“How many times are you going to bring that up?” he groaned. "I barely waterboarded you. It was just a bucket of water. Trust me, real waterboarding is nothing like that.”

“...right.” You trailed off, he was getting worked up; better not push him anymore.

“Well, glad you are awake again, because I have something else planned for you,” he said

“Please, can't I just sleep? You already played the knife game and waterboarded me,” you begged. What else could this man possibly have planned for you?

“Aw, come on, you can't stop now. We've only played two little games," he said, the fear is starting to take hold over you.

“Please, Derek, I've had enough fun for one day,” you pleaded, grabbing his leg.

He looks down on you and just smiles; maybe his good mood is just as terrifying as his bad mood.

“Come on, mutt, the fun has barely started,” he said, “you aren't scared of needles, are you?”

“Please no…” You meeked out

“Oh, don't worry, it will barely hurt at all.” he yanks his leg away from you, and you fall to the floor on your hands. “I'll be right back.”

“Please Derek!” you yelled out but he is gone, leaving you there only waiting, what was he going t doo, inject some weird medication into you, a tattoo or a piercing. What was he going to try his hand at Acupuncture!?

He returns with a bag, a giddy look on his face.

“No-no, Derek, please, I don't want to play anymore, please!” you cried out.

“Come on now, where's the fun in stopping now?" he said, placing the bag down and pulling out a pair of gloves, putting them on.

"Please...I...I don't..." You trail off, unable to form a sentence, much to Derek's delight

“Aw, look at you trembling and scared,” he boasted. “Don't worry, I won't keep you in anticipation any longer.”

He pulls out a box of piercing needles, you feel like you're going to faint again; you just keep on blubbering.

“Don't worry, it will only hurt for a second,” he said, taking one of the packages out. "Besides...it's not like you have much of a choice in the matter, do you?"

“No…but please…dont do this…” you snivle

“Come on, you don't even know what I'm going to pierce,” he says, moving the package between his fingers.

“You'll probably pierce something awful!" you cry out as he comes closer to you.

"Oh? And what do you think I'll pierce that's so awful?" Derek grabs your face and turns your head so he can see your ear.

“My ear?” you say, shocked as he rubs your earlobe a bit.

"Yep, I think you'll look a bit better this way...wait, you didn't think if....pfttt hahah what were you thinking I was gonna do!?" he laughed, knowing exactly why you were fraeking out so badly. "Hmm? What did you think I'd do?

He gets a wipe-out and rubs your earlobes clean. "And why did you think that? Do you think I'm some sort evil monster, I mean the healing process on the nipples are a pain in the ass."

You can only cover yourself with your arms the best you can.

“I'm not gonna piriece anything that would make you look like a hooker I don't need a takcy bitch. Just gonna give you some cute earrings,” he said, and removed the sterile needle from the package.

“Oh…okay…” is all you mumble out.

“Good, now stay still,” he said. “Don't want this to get messed up.”

The needle is pressed through your skin and out the other side, and you flinch a little

“Owch,” you said

“See, not so bad,” Derek said, and got another needle out and did the other one.

“Ow!”

“They're done, what do you think?” He pulls his phone out and turns the camera on, two dainty-looking cherries earning each eye

“Cherries?” you said, a little confused, out of all the things-

“Yup, you seem like a cherry type of girl.” He says, you frown realizing the innuend,o “Oh lighten up, it's a compliment.”

Your eye twitches a little “some complement, cherry is better then hooker i suppose.”

“Oh, a lot better, you didn’t think I'd give you cheap little trashy piercings, did you?” he says, and you smile a little

“Apparently not, they're actually kind of cute,” you say, turning your head a bit to better see them in your phone camera.

“See told you.” He turned his phone camera off. “Okay, that's enough vanity from you. Get some rest.”

“Ah, finally some rest.” You lay your head down only to jolt up “ow!’

“Oh yeah, you're gonna wanna sleep stomach up,” he says as he gets into bed and turns the lights off.

#tpof derek #the price of flesh #derek goffard #derek goffard x reader #tpof

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adding-descriptions-to-media · 11 months ago

Note

https://www.gofundme.com/f/ne9gzx-help-them-to-survive?utm_campaign=p_lico+share-sheet-first-launch&utm_medium=copy_link&utm_source=customer

Dear Friends,

I hope this message finds you well. I am writing to share an urgent plea for help. Due to the ongoing conflict in Gaza, my family and I have been forced to flee our home and seek refuge in Khan Younis. My mother, who is pregnant, is in critical need of assistance to ensure her safety and the safety of her unborn child.

We are facing severe hardships and are struggling to provide her with the necessary medical care and basic necessities. I have launched a campaign to raise funds for my mother's survival during this perilous time.

Your support in sharing our campaign on social media could make a life-saving difference. Please help us spread the word and gather the support we desperately need.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Sincerely,

Please help us by sharing the post on your page so that we can collect donations and get out of the war. You are our hope. I will be very grateful to you . ❤️🙏🏼

"this fundraiser is vetted by nabulsi, fallahifag, el-shab-hussein, ibtisams, sayruq"

After some research (I do not/can not personally vet campaigns), I do believe that this is legitimate

Do help, if you are in the position to do so

GoFundMe description under cut

I am Ahmed Shaqqoura, a resident of France, the only hope for my brother and his family, I tell you his story after I stood helpless to do anything.

In the chaos of displacement and the exhaustion of fleeing from death, between the jaws of this insane aggression and genocide in Gaza, I could not immortalize the story of my tired engineer brother Bassam Shaqqoura, and did not allow him and his young children to grieve sufficiently for the pain they have been forced to go on living. I will tell you Bassam's story, which is one of the truly painful stories in my miserable city of Gaza.

My brother Bassam graduated from the Faculty of Agricultural Engineering at Al-Azhar University in Gaza in 1995 and was one of the most qualified agricultural engineers in the Gaza Strip and graduated in his life until he was able to build a beautiful family that seeks to be always perfect by excelling his children in their studies and reforming those who use sophistication as their platform in life

All this came before the Israeli army planes came to steal the smile from my brother Bassam's family after they targeted his wife's family on July 20, 2014, killing 9 martyrs, most of them children, and this news was all over the newspapers after Israel admitted to killing civilians at that time.

Among the heartbreak, my brother Bassam was able to overcome this pain and began to raise his children again, hoping that they would forget this loss and compensate his wife for the feeling of orphanhood.

He has five young children who love life and have a bright hope in this world, for example, Laila, eighteen years old, has a talent for drawing, she wants to be a dentist and a collection artist at the same time. And Baraa, who tells everyone that he will become an agronomist. Each of them had their own little dream that they wanted to grow up with. Until October 7th and their dreams were shattered.With the start of the Israeli military operation in northern Gaza, Bassam, his wife and young children were forced to leave their home in the Al-Saftawi area of Al-Malash tower "North Gaza - Jabaliya", leaving behind them dreams that were built with years of hard work and effort. Leaving behind dreams that were fought with years of hardship and unparalleled effort, under the sound of bullets and with the intensification of the fire belts on northern Gaza on foot, these young children and their tired mother headed through corridors prepared by the Israeli army called the corridors of escape from death, they settled in Khan Younis, where they were welcomed by a Palestinian family there after they sat down. A Palestinian family there after they sat on the side of the road looking behind them at the columns of smoke rising from northern Gaza and at their homes that were bombed and the children's crying did not stop at that time, I remember that I was trying to call them and the communication was cut off there, and my brother Bassam's voice was repeating that death is chasing us and we will not survive.

They didn't expect that Khan Younis would turn into a war zone like northern Gaza. On November 6, 2023, Al Jazeera's camera documented the targeting of a house for the Shaqqoura family in Khan Younis, which killed many of our family members in Gaza, and death began to loom over Bassam and his family again when they decided to go to Rafah. The suffering did not stop there. On February 7, while they were sleeping, the Israeli army planes bombed the building next to them, the building was destroyed on their heads and they were pulled out from under the rescue by the civil protection crews there, and after several hours of the targeting they remained under the rescue, but they still had a chance to survive. They will settle in a tent on the shore of the Rafah Sea, fleeing from death and suffering all kinds of oppression and pain. They have no shelter, their home was bombed, their lives were destroyed, and the symptoms of death were drawn on their faces. They look sadly at the Egyptian border and have a glimmer of hope to cross that border to safety, but this matter is expensive, as they did not have their daily sustenance after the famine hit their intestines, they competed with animals for food due to the severity of hunger and the child who has not yet seen the light of day is crying with hunger. They competed with animals for their food out of hunger, and the child who has not yet seen the light of day is crying with hunger, and here I stand helpless to do anything, I cannot help them to get to safety through the Rafah gate, and it is not for the evil people to leave us to suffer all these woes of genocide and psychological warfare.

Rafah is no longer safe, the sounds of shelling are intensifying, the Israeli army is threatening to enter Rafah overnight, and there is no time to escape death.

The idea of exiting to Egypt through Yahala agency, the agent of the Egyptian authorities, the ticket costs 5000 dollars for an adult and 2500 for those under 18 years of age.

That's all we're asking for, just to stay alive in a place free from bombardment and death.

#free palestine #free gaza #palestine #gaza #gaza genocide #donations #fundraiser #gofundme #go fund them

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easilyandromeda · 3 months ago

Text

One More Troubled Soul (Dimension Jumper)

Fuck okay, so I decided to write the first piece of the anthology fic I discussed in a previous post. Basically, what would happen if our main character got blipped from her world into a world where the Clergy existed. This story is something I want to write out of order, so if anyone has as ideas for situations or events throughout the course of the story let me know. Shoot them in my inbox and I would be more than happy to write them. Hope y'all enjoy! <3

Cardinal Copia x Original Character (F)

Word Count: 3.0K

Trigger Warnings: Mentions of Anxiety, Google Translate Italian

---------------------------------------------------------------

I hate nothing more than the nights where I know I need sleep and my body simply refuses to let me. I tossed and turned for hours in this bed trying to still my mind and slip into sweet oblivion. I have returned to this bed every night for the past three days with barely any success in actually sleeping.

The bed was incredibly soft, luxurious even, with plush dark red sheets and a down blanket nicer than anything I have ever owned. The pillows were plump and cradled my neck in the perfect way to allow me to relax, but it wasn’t my bed. This was a strange bed, in a strange room, in an abbey that should not exist. In a world where I don’t belong.

That’s the thought that forces me upright with a jolt, curling my fingers into the blanket with the force to shake. The panic catches me in odd moments, like a jolt of lightning to my system. It forces me to move in primal terror, like I just can’t exist within my own skin. Existence feels wrong.

“You’re okay,” I mumble to myself, pulling the blanket up to my chest and under my chin. Peeling my eyes up from the dark comforter, I take a moment to look over the unlit room. Sister Imperator had been very kind to allow me to take one of the guest suites for the duration of my ‘stay’, as she put it.

The space was similar to that of a university dorm room, fitting a bed, dresser, small sitting area, desk, and kitchenette all within four walls. This style of dorm thankfully had an attached bathroom as well. The decor was exactly what you would expect within a satanic monastery. Dark oak furniture and draping red curtains, a painting of who I am assuming to be Lucifer himself placed on the wall next to the door. It did not discomfort me.

The entire situation was far more unsettling than the setting. Appearing from my world, where the Ghost project was simply a band that brought me joy with a kitschy story and excellent music, to theirs. A world where the Clergy existed, and all its characters were breathing souls with a quest to spread the Dark Lord's message. I was dropped unceremoniously into this place. I did not step through a portal, or appear on an altar. I simply blinked and was here. Standing inside of a mausoleum I thought existed in California as the occasional set for the band's videos.

I still have no concept of where the abbey actually is in this version of earth. The complex is surrounded by what appears to be miles and miles of trees, making this place feel like it exists outside of time. The universe was not kind, so I did not keep my phone when I transferred over. The inhabitants of the abbey or the library may be a better source of information, but I did not have the heart to try and speak to anyone. Anytime I have stepped outside of this room, I’ve heard the whispers of the Siblings of Sin that seem to flood this place.

I have run back into hiding every time. I can only handle this nightmare so much without becoming a zoo animal at the same time.

The Clergy has been very kind to let me stay, considering my situation. Someone has brought food to my door every day, and I have not been called to speak to anyone. I have just taken up space here. It has been more than gracious for them to let me settle as best I can, but they will likely try to speak to me soon about how I got here.

I need air. It’s the middle of the night, no one should be roaming the halls of the abbey. I should be able to slip out to the courtyard or to the library unnoticed. If I can’t sleep, I can hopefully try to find some peace or some answers.

I pull the blanket off of my lap and swing my legs off of the side of the bed, reaching down and pushing my feet into a pair of black slippers. Fuzzy, soft, opulent. Everything in this place has outmatched the quality of anything I have ever owned, but one could guess a church that has existed for at least a millennium would have money. That extended to the clothing I had been gifted to wear.

I was not given a habit or dresses like the Sisters of Sin, but simple black dresses and sweatsuits. All were within the dresser by the time I had been brought to this room, in my exact size. I had never told them my sizes, but it was possible that they were astute in their observations of me.

I was currently wearing a black t-shirt style nightdress, and debated changing before venturing out into the halls of the abbey.

“It’s not worth it,” I mumbled to myself, before standing and reaching for the black robe that was draped across the back of the desk chair to the right of the bed. I pulled the garment onto my arms and moved towards the door, not bothering to tie the sash around my waist. I grabbed my glasses off of the edge of the dresser as I passed, and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Hagard, that was the only word to describe my appearance.

Moving to the door, I hovered my hand over the knob for a brief moment. Did I really want to do this? It was so late, and I really did not want to be spotted. However, if I stayed in this room right now I would not be able to put myself to sleep. That was decision enough.

I turned the knob of the dark wooden door slowly, peering out at the hall through the crack. The abbey really was gorgeous, like it was plucked straight from a gothic-era novel. The walls were made from a dark stone, reaching high and curving at their apex. Beautiful tall windows lined the side of the building just outside of my room, their wrought iron bars and swirling patterns reflecting shadows onto the hallway floor thanks to the full moon glowing outside.

The hall was silent, no signs of life to be found. Excellent. I pulled my door open a little further, moving to step out into the hall. I palmed the door’s skeleton key in my pocket once to make sure it was still there before pulling the handle behind me. I felt the weight of the door slide shut, and heard the soft click of the latch. I took one more deep breath before turning left and starting to walk down the hall.

The abbey felt like a sleeping beast at night, all of the bustle I usually heard through my door replaced with an eerie yet calming silence. Fresco’s and paintings of previous church leaders lined the halls, glowing in icy shades of moonlight. This whole place was such a sight to behold at night that I couldn’t help but think maybe the sun was never meant to rise here. Shadows really did suit this ancient building.

After descending multiple sets of stairs and turning down multiple wrong hallways, I finally made it to a set of large glass doors that lead out to a courtyard. As I pushed one of the doors ajar, a strained groan resonated through the hall. I hissed quietly, quickly scanning the surrounding area before slipping out into the night air.

“Fucking glorious,” I mumbled to myself, walking out into the gardens. The courtyard was surrounded on all sides by the abbey, giving me the opportunity to gaze in awe at her rising spires and intricate architecture. The air was cool, billowing softly and brushing against my face. I couldn’t help but smile, this place was simply gorgeous. I wish I could have gotten the opportunity to explore her under any other circumstances.

“Signora?”

The sound of the voice behind me snapped me from my thoughts, whipping my head around to a sight that almost made me choke. A cardinal, dressed in black cassock stood in the courtyard doorway, the glass pushed ajar by a gloved hand. I knew his name, but I dared not to speak. Not even to breathe. The reality of my situation was becoming ever clearer.

“I am so sorry! I didn't mean to startle you. Are you okay?” The cardinal asked, taking one step further into the courtyard and holding the glass door a little wider. His salt and pepper brown hair was not pushed back or styled, but instead disheveled and falling across his forehead in wisps. He was piercing me through with those damn mismatched eyes. In this world, those are not contacts and his face is not a rubber mask worn by a different man. His face has life, the wrinkles adorning his cheeks and eyes scrunching with concern. His black eye paint was slightly smudged from what looks like attempts to rub away exhaustion. He, however, did not look like he had been sleeping.

He just continued to stand there, and I was staring. Fantastic.

“Oh, I’m sorry. You scared me.” I let out shakily, moving to grip the edges of my robe and tugging them in on myself. If there was a God, or a Devil, now might be the time to strike me down. I could not be here, could not be standing before him. This was all a cruel joke.

“Then I am the one who should be saying sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He spoke softly, stepping fully out into the courtyard and letting the door close with a creak. I don’t know how I didn’t hear him in the first place.

“Are you our new visitor?”

He’s prying me with questions. He wants me to speak, and I can see in his eyes that he wants to ask me so much more. At least in his green eye, the white is just as eerie and unreadable as in my world. I am an anomaly.

“You could say that, yes.” I responded, turning fully to face him as he walked a few steps closer. He was taller than me, which isn’t much considering I am 5’3 on a good day. He was gazing at me with what I could only describe as pitied fascination.

“My name, well more like my title is Cardinal Copia. Please, just call me Copia. What is your name, signora?”

“Alex. It’s nice to meet you, Cardinal.” I reach out one hand for him to shake. Damn it all if I wasn’t going to be polite. This was the opportunity of a lifetime and I wasn’t going to be rude just to satisfy the equally spreading dread that filled my bones. This was all so deeply wrong.

He took my hand in his own gloved one and shook. He squeezed gently before dropping my hand and turning his gaze to the night sky. He took a deep breath as the night air whipped around us again, fluttering the ends of my robe and his cassock in its breeze. It could have been almost picturesque, this scene.

“Sister Imperator informed me of your situation. Well, what we know currently. Are you feeling okay, Alex?” He fixed his gaze back on me, a soft smile crossing his lips. I had not spoken to anyone in days, and the smile that he gave made me want to spill every last thought in my mind about everything. All of the pain, and fear, and exhilaration of this situation. His duties and position as an actual cardinal in this world must afford him that kind of sway over people.

I laughed curtly, flicking my gaze quickly over the courtyard before turning it back to him.

“If you could call getting teleported from your world to one where you don’t even exist, and then trying to come to terms with that ‘okay’, then sure. I’m doing okay.” The words came out a little harsher than I intended, so I tried to put a smile across my face to ease the tension. I am sure it doesn’t reach my eyes.

“I am sure that has been scary, Alex. Cazzo, more like terrifying. I imagine that’s why you are out here at 2 in the morning.” His words are warm, and I feel them in my chest. Fuck, I have missed speaking to another soul one on one. Not an interrogation, but a conversation.

“It has been pretty nerve-wracking. I needed air, I couldn’t sleep. Same for you?” I watched Copia reach a gloved hand to run up through his hair. He let out a chuckle before meeting my eyes again.

“You could say that. I had some paperwork to finish. We have some outreach initiatives upcoming that I am a part of that need planning.” He is dancing around talking about Ghost. He is assuming that I don’t know where I am exactly, or who they are. Like the entire aesthetic of this place wouldn’t give away its satanic affiliations.

“The Ghost project, you mean.” The words fly out before I can stop them. If I could bury myself in the dirt, I would, because his gaze turns from soft to shocked in an instant. I watch a soft grin turn the corner of his mouth, and I have opened a can of worms I can’t take back. I have tried desperately to keep from the Clergy that I have an idea of who they are, and I just ruined all of it.

“Oh, so you know of us? Our message?”

“Ghost is a band in my world, but your church does not exist.” I respond, and he looks even more intrigued. I decided to continue.

“The band has always had the same frontman, just in different masks depending on which Papa or Cardinal is in charge of the story at the time. Really big following.” I waive my hand with that expression, getting a laugh out of the Cardinal. His eyes are almost radiating glee now, and I could almost swear that white eye is glowing.

“Masks? That just sounds uncomfortable. And it is all the same man? That seems like a pain.”

I am going to combust. This entire conversation is like the stuff out of my wildest dreams. Getting to stand across from Cardinal Copia and explaining to him how their band works in our world. It is all too much. I grin a little at his laughter before continuing.

“I could imagine it is, but the frontman is incredibly good.”

“Oh, so you’re a fan then? Of our work, I mean.” His grin has met his eyes. He’s going to try and tease me. This is all so ridiculous.

“I enjoy the music, yes. I have always been a fan of rock and metal music. Music in general, I miss it. I haven’t had the heart to ask for a phone or a radio since I’ve been here. I think if I had asked days ago I wouldn’t be so…” I trail off, the realization of my situation running over me like a tidal wave again. That sadness, the fear of this being my new reality. I pull the edges of my robe closer in on myself as the wind kicks up again.

Copia catches the falter in my tone and turns his gaze back to the glass door. When he looks back at me, concern and pity have replaced the playful look in his eyes.

“Come signora, let’s go back inside. It’s getting cold.” He holds out an arm for me to take. He is being incredibly kind, and I am hesitant to take his lead. It’s so cordial, so gentlemanly. I tentatively reach out, wrapping my hand into the crook of his arm as he walks us back to the courtyard door. He opens the door and lets me enter first, and the quiet of the abbey sucks all of the air out of me once again. The reality of all of this. I hear the Cardinal shut the squeaky door behind me before moving to stand next to me again.

“Fuck, I should probably let you get to sleep. Sorry for keeping you outside.” I turn to move back towards the stairs before a hand on my shoulder stops me. I turn my head back to lock eyes with Cardinal Copia. His gloved hand is gently resting on my shoulder, holding me in place. His gaze is soft and he is smiling with sympathy.

“Don’t be sorry for speaking with me Alex. Thank you for humoring my questions.”

He’s so genuine it hurts. He fishes in the pockets under his cassock for a pen and a piece of paper. He writes something down before passing me the note. It has a room number scrawled in messy writing. ‘6345’

“This is my office number. I will try and find an available MP3 player or old phone to get you some music. It always brings me comfort, I can only imagine what it would do for you right now. If you need anything, even someone to talk to. Please, don’t hesitate.”

I am smiling now, feeling slightly light as I flick my gaze back up to him. It is all so caring and sweet. He smiles in response, and I decide to choke out a few words.

“Thank you, for everything.”

“Non c'è di che, Alex. I am sorry for your circumstances.” His words sound pained with the last sentence. I feel the pain as well, but exhaustion is finally starting to grip me.

“Goodnight Copia.”

I turn back towards the stairs and start to walk.

“Goodnight, signora.”

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