#.thread: ghost of floor 6

[chadillacboseman]

Regrets

Summary: This was never supposed to happen. Simon did everything in his power to keep you safe. He failed. Reader is gender neutral!

Warnings: Torture, bodily injury.

A/N: Holy shit I actually wrote something for Ghost. I don't particularly care for him myself, but I know others do. So, have a little treat I guess.

--

A fist connects with your cheek, and you feel a hot, coppery taste spring into your mouth. Again, your vision swims, hazy, on the brink of unconsciousness.

Oh, how you wish it would take you. How you wish you could slip into sweet nothingness and let the pain subside for a moment.

Instead, fingers thread into your hair and yank, hard, lifting your face to the gaze of your assailant. The man has dark eyes, narrowed over a black balaclava. He barely speaks your language, and you don't speak his at all.

He's been at this for what feels like hours- but maybe it's only been minutes.

Simon always taught you to never count the time.

"I can do this all day," the man spits the words at you, dripping with vitriol and a thick accent you still can't place.

You don't have what he wants. Truthfully.

Simon never told you anything that could put you at risk. He kept you at arm's length, like a collectible on some high up, dust-covered shelf.

"I don't. Know. Anything," you hiss. Blood patters from your lips as you speak, falling in thick rivulets onto your t-shirt.

Another blow.

This time, it sends the chair you're tied to toppling to the floor. With your arms subdued, you can't break the fall; instead, your face connects with the cold pavement with a sickening whack.

The darkness tries so hard to claim you.

The soldier's boot connects with your ribs and you're torn from the brink of it, wheezing as you feel at least one of your ribs give way with a dull crack that reverberates through your body.

A hand tangles in your hair once more and you're hauled upright, too broken and exhausted to even cry out at the pain.

Another man in a balaclava approaches your interrogator and places a hand on his shoulder. Words are exchanged that you don't understand.

The two of them depart together, leaving you alone in the room. Perhaps they had decided that you were no good to them dead.

You wonder what Simon is doing.

Is he panicking? Is he as calm and collected as always?

Has he decided that this is just an acceptable loss- something that comes with the territory?

You let your head loll back, ignoring the way the pain throbs to life in your temples at the motion. A single, dangling bulb above you burns into your eyes until you see sparks in your vision and have to close them.

You're no soldier. You're not built for this. That you've survived this long surprises even you. But you're at your limit now, and you know it.

You know that Simon is going to blame himself. This might be enough to push him over the edge.

You wish you could tell him you forgive him. That you knew the risks when you chose him, and you would never go back and change it.

The door on the opposite side of the room creaks open and the two men return, this time with a metal cart on wheels.

Your heart takes residence in your throat as you glimpse the blowtorch that rests atop it.

"You know what this is?" Your interrogator holds up a small container, but you can't read the label in the dim light, "White phosphorus."

The glint in his eye tells you that this is bad.

He opens the container and collects what looks like a white paste onto his gloved finger. As he moves toward you, you instinctively recoil, trying desperately to get away, your bindings still holding form.

The interrogator drags a line of the substance down your forearm, about 6 inches in length. It gives off a pungent odor that makes your eyes water as the man gestures for the blowtorch.

The white hot flame ignites and you struggle at your bindings once more, jerking violently in the chair as it moves closer to your arm.

The flame connects with the paste and in an instant it ignites, sizzling to life like a firework.

The pain is almost instant.

It's like nothing you've ever felt before - it makes you shriek until your throat is raw. It feels as if every nerve in your arm is being rended to pieces by a heated claw.

Nausea sets in alongside the pain, threatening to make you relive your breakfast. The two battle until finally pain emerges triumphant and your vision goes black.

--

Simon's boot connects with the door, sending it flying inward as the flimsy frame shatters with the force of his kick.

Soap, Gaz, and Price filter in alongside him, making quick work of the two men in the room.

"Fuck!" Simon's eyes fall on you, slumped in the chair, a tendril of acrid smoke still curling into the air from your arm.

"Go, we'll clear the rest!" Price gestures to you as the three of them make their way out the door.

Your name barely escapes Simon's lips, falling dead in the quiet room. You don't move.

There's so much blood.

He repeats your name again, louder this time as he crosses the room to you. He kneels beside you, feeling the tightness of panic growing in his chest when you don't respond.

Shakily, he feels for a pulse on your wrist. Feels a wave of relief wash over him when he detects it, thready and weak, but there.

"I'm so sorry," he murmurs as his knife makes quick work of the bindings. His words feel like a bandaid placed on a gunshot wound.

How could you ever forgive him for this?

"Simon?" You croak his name out through blood covered lips and he jerks his head up, eyes wild as they find yours.

Seeing your face makes another pang of guilt rip through him- dried blood is caked to your skin and hair, and deep purple bruises have made you almost unrecognizable.

The pain in your arm nearly makes you black out again, but you don't. Holding onto the thread of consciousness to make sure that this is real.

Simon scoops you into his arms gently, but you still whimper in pain as your broken body is lifted from the chair.

He presses his masked forehead to yours, taking a moment to inhale shakily, "This never should have fuckin' happened, I-"

He's interrupted by the arrival of Price, who shuffles over to examine you.

"Shit. It's bad, Simon-"

"I know."

Price brings his radio receiver to his mouth and calls for Nik as you once again flit on the verge of unconsciousness, Simon's masked face swimming in and out of focus.

It takes you once more.

--

The darkness is ever-present, pressing on you like a weighted blanket. Through it, you can hear an incessant beeping, and the muffled sounds of voice you don't recognize.

Your whole body feels heavy, and yet you seem to be floating.

You try so hard to wake up, to open your eyes, to move your hands- anything.

Then a voice you recognize pierces through the darkness- a thick Scottish accent floating somewhere around you.

"Go home, LT. You look like hell," Soap sounds like he's speaking from the end of a tunnel.

"No," Simon's deep voice is closer, less distorted

"They'll call you if there's a change. You sittin' here for days on end won't make a difference."

"Fuck off."

A sigh of exasperation and then footsteps fade into the blackness.

There's a long silence, punctuated by that fucking beeping. You feel a new weight, a hand on yours, rough and calloused, offering a gentle squeeze.

"I don't know if you can hear me," Simon's voice is still close, not quite clear, but there. Reassuring in its familiarity, "I need you to wake up. Please."

You try so hard for him. You really do.

You try to squeeze his fingers, focusing all of your effort into the muscles in your hands.

It doesn't work.

The darkness is too strong, too pressing. The effort you expend trying just drags you back down as if into a deep, black ocean.

Even the beeping fades away.

There's no sense of time wherever you are. Has it been hours? Days?

Weeks?

Simon's voice comes and goes, as does his grip on your hand. Sometimes, other voices come, too.

Gaz. Price. A sweet woman who changes the bandages on your arm and asks Simon if he needs anything.

He always says no.

As time wears on, Simon talks more- he tells you what's happening back home, and lists the people who have asked about you. He describes the flowers that adorn your hospital room, coming from as far as Las Almas with love from Rudy and Alejandro.

He tells you about the guilt he feels for not coming sooner. For letting this happen at all. Promises turn into begging, pleading for you to wake up.

He tells you he cleaned the house to prepare for when you come home. The thought of that makes you feel warm, almost seems to push the darkness away for a moment.

Your hand twitches in his.

"Did you just-" Simon searches your face, looking for a sign that you're awake. He hadn't imagined it, had he?

"Can you hear me?" He is squeezing your hand now, his other hand on your face, "C'mon, do that again. I know you can. I know you're in there."

You want to tell him how hard you're trying.

God, are you trying.

"I felt movement, Johnny," Simon's hand never leaves yours, but his voice moves away from you.

"LT...you need to get some sleep. In your own bed," Soap sounds worried, "It's been a week."

Ah. There it is.

Simon doesn't answer him, and eventually you hear footsteps fade away. The beeping remains.

You're determined now. It takes what feels like hours, concentrating, focusing- willing your body to just fucking cooperate.

Come on. Wake up. WAKE UP!

Your eyes flutter open and you're met with a dimly-lit room. Machines to one side of you flicker and beep. Your vision is still blurry, your eyes no doubt weak from their extended vacation.

It's still hard to move- your muscles seem to have forgotten how to cooperate. You manage to glance to your left to find Simon slumped over in a chair, snoring softly, his face half covered by a black surgical mask.

"Simon?" Your voice sounds so foreign to your own ears.

He jerks awake and his eyes first look to the door, then to you.

For a moment, he doesn't move. Scared that this might be a dream. A rug pull brought on by his exhausted subconscious.

When he's sure you won't disappear when he blinks, he grabs your hand, one of the few familiar feelings you recognize.

Words don't come to either of you, but he rests his forehead against yours and just breathes.

"How long have you been here?" You manage to ask; your mouth struggles with the words, but he still understands them.

"Never left."

[abouttofillhisshoes]

Talking like you do - M.H x Reader // blurb

A/N: I wanna keep y'all fed as I cook up chapter 6 of MPIND so have this disgustingly filthy blurb of mpind Matty 💕 This is NSFW minors do not interact. Tysm my dearest @beforeyougo-turnthebiglightoff for hyping me up always!! Enjoy yourselves my loves❤️ (edit: this is non-canon, so it doesnt have anything to do with the plot of MPIND or its sequel, Before you go)

wc: 1.5k

The tea kettle whistles, the sound echoing through the large kitchen. You pour yourself a mug, peaking your head around the corner to ask if Matty wanted some too. That's when you see him. Sprawled out on the couch, arms above his head, eyes watching the TV intently. 

You still, watching him move. He lets out a groan that can only be described as obscene, stretching his arms even further above his head. You see his shirt ride up slightly, revealing the pale skin of his lower stomach. Sucking in a deep breath, you close your eyes, trying to steady yourself. Taking a sip of your tea, you take to tidying up the kitchen. 

It takes 10 or so minutes to put everything in its place, the counter sparkling by the time you were done. You peer around the corner once more, finding Matty in the same position he previously was. More of his stomach was on show, and you can see the faint trail of hair disappearing into the waistband of his sweatpants.  

He stretches again, his legs readjusting on the leather sofa. You watch him, your attention being pulled away by a wet spot on the floor next to you. Looking back up, you're met with Matty smirking at you, knowingly

He knew you had been watching him, purposely letting his shirt ride up, for you. He cocks an eyebrow at you, a challenging look in his eye. ‘What are you going to do about it?’ 

You take a step towards him, slowly making your way over to the sofa. 

“Comfortable?” you ask, your hand stroking his cheek. 

“Very.” he answers, looking up at you. He lets out an exaggerated yawn, covering his mouth as he turns onto his back. 

You waste no time climbing up on top of him, straddling his waist. 

“Were you trying to rile me up with your little show?” you raise your eyebrows at him, fingers trailing down his chest, lightly grazing the skin.

“Depends, is it working?” he bites his lip at you, smearing the tinted lip gloss he had put on that morning. 

You catch his lips in a kiss, feeling him gasp against you. Taking the opportunity, you slip your tongue into his mouth, drinking in each and every sound he made. His hands find your back, stroking your waist up and down, letting himself be kissed. 

“You're so pretty like this,” you say, threading your hand into his hair

“I know, right?” that earns him a tug, whimpers leaving his mouth at the pain. 

You pull again, watching his reaction closely. His whole body flushes, a thin layer of sweat sticking to his skin. A moan.  

His hips buck upwards, grinding against your leg. You can feel him growing hard underneath you, sighing at the sensation. He mutters something unintelligible against your lips, causing you to pull away. 

“Please– just touch me, please.” he begs, eyes wide, pupils completely blown out. He's breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling rapidly.  

“What, like this?” You reach your hand down, squeezing him through his sweatpants. 

“O-oh my god,” he moans at your touch, twitching underneath you. He’s rock hard in your hand, pulsing with need, want, desire. You take him out of his boxers, your fingers lightly stroking up and down his cock, ghosting over the tip. Beads of precum leak onto your hand, serving as the perfect lube. 

You continue stroking him, reconnecting your lips. He writhes at your touch, begging and squirming for more. You listen to his silent pleas, speeding up your movements. His hair sticks to his forehead, and his eyes droop closed. He loses himself in the pleasure, growing louder with each tug of his cock.   

You use your other hand to bring his arms back above his head, effectively pinning him to the sofa. He whines, struggling against you for a second before giving in. You bite his lower lip, letting it snap back into place. 

“Tell me when you're close, baby.” your voice is soft and breathy, your mouth right against his ear. He moans as you press a searing hot kiss to his neck, sucking a deep purple hickey into his skin. It stands out beautifully against his complexion. 

“M’so close, please” his voice is pitched high, sounding almost feminine. His eyes meet yours. You watch the horror in his eyes when you stop right before he can come, pulling your hand away completely. 

“Why? Oh god, please don't do this, I was so close!” he complains, squirming underneath you, trying to get his hands free. You don't let him, instead waiting for him to calm down before you speak. 

“I want you to beg for it, Matty, I'm not going to just give it to you.” you were dead serious, looking at him expectantly. He lets out another pathetic whine of ‘please’ and you shake your head, sighing impatiently. 

“Look– i’m sorry for earlier, i just wanted your -fuck- attention. Please let me come, I'll be soo good for you. You want me to be good for yo-?” you cut off his rambling with a stroke of his cock. He sighs in relief, quickly morphing into desperate moans. 

Tears run down his cheeks, making you crack a smile. He looked absolutely ruined, and you tell him as much. 

“You look so pretty with that eyeliner running down your face, baby.” Your hand comes down to stroke his face, letting his arms roam free on the expanse of his chest. He tweaks his nipples, tugging at the piercing, moaning even louder at the stimulation. 

Your hand wraps around his throat, making him let out a slightly choked noise that transforms into a whimper as your thumb and index finger press into his neck, cutting off the blood flow to his brain.

“You look so gorgeous like this,” you say, watching him intently, his face tells you he’s close, teetering on the edge of an orgasm. His cock twitches in your hand, even more precum leaking onto it. 

“You like being pretty for me?” you coo at him 

“You like it when I hurt you?” you press down harder onto his throat. The moan he lets out is pornographic, music to your ears. 

Your hand leaves his neck, making its way to his chest. Your nails had grown fairly long. They were long and sharp. An idea pops into your head. 

You trace a heart just above his collarbone, pressing down to scratch the skin's surface just hard enough to make a mark. You leave faint red lines in the shape of a heart in your wake, the skin rising slightly. 

“Fuckk– jesuschristthatssogood” he moans, the burning sensation bringing him to the edge. You kiss him as you feel him spill into your hand, shuddering as you work him through his orgasm. He squirms away when it becomes too much, whining at your touch. 

He looked fucked out. He looked like the embodiment of sex itself, the way he panted in the aftershocks of his climax. The way his eyes were still screwed shut, only opening them to look at you. 

His hand reaches to feel the mark you had left on his chest, feeling the raised skin against his fingertips. A smile creeps onto your face as you take in his features. Eyeliner was running down his face, his hair was wild, sticking out into every direction imaginable. 

“You did so good for me baby, did that feel good?” you ask, your hand finding his, pressing your lips together. He can only nod, too tired to speak. He offers to return the favor, but you shake your head

“This was all about you, Matty, I'm glad you liked it.” He laughs, saying he did much more than just like it. You lay on top of him, his arms wrapping around you. 

“I love you,” the words roll off his tongue, and you smile. 

“I love you, too.”

[puppyrelp]

Introducing the Exanimate Insanity (InanimateSwap) AU!!

Since this has been doing so well on twitter, i decided to share it with you all here as well !! This au we made is inspired by the whole underswap thing where characters swap roles with one another !! I hope you guys like it we worked really hard on it and we're continuing to work on more stuff with this au !!

More info (+art!) under the cut :] SUPER LONG THREAD BTW !!

1. Nickel (The Pint Sized Leader), and Baseball (The Ball of Insincerity)

2. Microphone (The Loudmouthed Jerk), and Knife (The Jab To The Ears)

3. Suitcase (The Forgivable), and Balloon (The Pushover)

4. Bow (The Wannabe), and Pepper (The Sweet yet Bitter One)

5. Paintbrush (The Creative Mindset), and Lightbulb (The Sparkling Firework)

6. Salt (The Desperate Memory), and Marshmallow (The Forgettable Sweetheart)

7. Dough (The Explosive Puzzle Piece), and Bomb (The Unusual Stoic)

8. Paper (The Calm Idiot), and Pickle (The Insanitys' Candidate)

9. OJ (The Long Gone Rogue), and Taco (The Easy-Going Victor)

10. Tissues (The Teary Eyed), and Cheesy (The Walking Stench)

11. Yin-Yang (The Balanced), and Cherries (The Rivals)

12. Trophy (The shining freak), and Soap (The jealous jock)

13. Cabby (The Studier), and Apple (The Ditzy Genius) ok so the only thing we Really changed here are their personalities because Cabby's OWN BODY is important to her story, and also tbh we couldn't think of who to swap Apple with. So she'll be friends with S&P in this au!

14. Test Tube (The Rambling Fan), and Fan (The Mad Scientist)

15. Goo (The Angsty Puddle), and Blueberry (The Optimist)

16. Tea Kettle (The Selfless Helper), and Lifering (The Proud Papa)

17. The Floor/Guinea (The Unknown Luck), and Clover (The Tiny Sneaker) In this au, Clover is like a regular plant stuck to the ground, and as for Floory, we had to give him a body and since his VA is from Australia, we thought he would be a Spreading Guinea Flower, or Guinea!

18. Candle (The Posh), and Silver Spoon (The Enlightened)

19. Ghost Salt (The Dead Memory), and (Salt) Bot (The Unwilling Shadow) !! Bot's form is inspired by Canon Salt because we all know that Bowbot was created out of Fan and Testube's idealized version of the real Bow. So we thought Idealized Salt was based off of canon hehe

20. MePhone4 (The Envious Terminator), and MePhone4s (The Short Tempered Host)

21. Alex Inksky (The Man of No Regret), and Corn Cob (The Bearer of Bad News)

22. Siri/Stylus (The Upgraded), and Trash (The Fool) So we know 4S Had Siri in canon ii right? OK SO before 4S ran away, he sees this robot stylus body. We couldn't swap "mepad" and "toilet" with each other because we thought it'd be too difficult.

23. B.R.I.A.N. (The Writer) Since 4S is voiced by Brian, we thought that He would be the "Adam" of this Universe hehe

24. Box (The Pastry Box) LAST BUT NOT LEAST!! BOX!! Weeee couldnt change him either so his box type just changed

Thank you for reaching the end of the thread!! have a bonus doodle i made of swap!suitcase in s1ep1 :]

[claireelizabeth85]

Come Home To Me - Chapter 6

John Egan x OC Female!Reader

Summary: When the idea of a past life turns out it isn't just an idea or a dream.

Warning: angst

AN: This is a work of fiction and is based on the TV characters from the Apple TV series. No disrespect is intended towards the real men of the 100th BG.

All previous chapters can be found here

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

Lizzy's hands shook slightly as she clutched her coffee cup, taking a slow drag from her cigarette. Sitting outside the pub in the early morning quiet, she felt every rustle of the wind and distant murmur stir up echoes of her past life. Around her, the village was waking up; shadows stretched across the cobblestones, morphing into haunting memories she couldn’t escape. Each sound, rather than soothing, seemed to whisper back stories she wished she could forget. Pulling her jacket tighter around her, she exhaled a cloud of smoke and tried to push away the ghosts that lingered a little too close. Stubbing out her smoke, she made her way indoors, taking a seat opposite Sarah as they settled down to eat. 

“I want to go home, Sarah. I can't stand being haunted by these memories anymore,” Lizzy muttered, her voice a fragile thread amidst the clatter of morning utensils.

Sarah leaned in, her eyes burning with a mix of concern and determination. “What? Are you sure? We’re on the brink of understanding why these memories are resurfacing now.”

Lizzy’s weary eyes met Sarah's. “What does it matter? It’s all past, isn’t it?”

“It’s never just the past with us, Lizzy. Remember your flight to Berlin in February ’45?” Sarah’s voice steadied, heavy with implication. She leaned in closer, her tone conveying the weight of her findings. “I've been digging through the archives, and I found the weather reports prepared on the day of your mission. They noted an unusual cloud bank, described in terms stupidly similar to other incidents years later."

She paused, letting the information sink in before continuing. “But it’s not just the weather reports—there’s more. I've also gone through the after-action reports from the crews who made it back. They spoke of disorientations and malfunctions that seemed to centre around that same cloud bank. It's been mentioned repeatedly, across decades, in different contexts. This isn’t just regular weather; it’s something else, something anomalous.”

Sarah pulled out a folder, stuffed with copies of the documents, and spread them out on the table. “These aren’t coincidences, Lizzy. There’s a pattern here that we can’t ignore. This cloud didn’t just appear in 1945—it’s been a recurring anomaly, linked with multiple unexplained phenomena and disappearances. And I think it’s linked to your memories.”

Lizzy’s fork hovered in mid-air, her appetite lost. “You think a cloud formation is the reason I’m reliving this….nightmare?” Sarah sighed exasperated. “It’s a theory, yes.” 

Reluctantly, Lizzy glanced at the documents strewn across the table.  They seemed to pulse with a foreboding energy, each page a reminder of her last moments in the skies over Berlin. “And you believe diving back into that” she pointed at the weather report with her fork, “will change what’s already done?”

“Yes,” Sarah countered sharply, her voice slicing through the quiet. “Because I can’t stand to see my best friend dissolve into shadows and whiskey. Maybe, just maybe, confronting this can bring you peace. I don’t know, maybe it’ll take you back to John.”

Lizzy's emotions flickered across her face—hope warring with fear. Before she could formulate a response, Sarah’s focus shifted abruptly to the entrance of the bar where Abigail had just entered followed by a man that was not her husband. 

Rising abruptly, Sarah’s chair scraped back loudly against the floor. She approached the couple with a determined stride, her tone polite yet firm. Abigail, who Sarah had seen the day before at the museum, was now accompanied by a different man. He was tall with dark hair, cut into a neat, short back and sides but with enough length on top to style it.  Sarah could hear their conversation and given his tone, the man was unimpressed. 

“You’ve dragged me halfway across the world, to the middle of nowhere, on the word of an old lady. And for what? A pub breakfast?” Abigail frowned, equally unimpressed by his complaining. “If Nana believed her, then we should too. She wouldn’t send us on a wild goose chase without a reason. There’s more at stake here than you realise.”

Sarah coughed lightly to gain their attention. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she began, holding up the photograph that had unexpectedly altered the course of her investigation. “I know you mentioned yesterday that your identity wasn’t of concern, but I need to understand who you are and where you got this photograph from.”

The tall, dark-haired man took the photograph with a furrowed brow. His initial confusion soon gave way to irritation. “Abigail, what the hell are you playing at?” His voice was tinged with frustration.  Beside him, Abigail remained calm, her expression serene yet confident. She glanced at Sarah, her smile faint but reassuring.  “Like I said, I believed her. There are bigger things at stake, one of them is that photograph.”

Sarah’s own confusion mounted. “So, you recognise the picture? Can you tell me when it was taken?” The man who had not been introduced looked over it and then looked back at Sarah. He shot a look of surprise at his sister before exhaling sharply. “Holy shit,” he muttered, the realisation hitting him. “I hate to admit it, but you were right, Abby.”

As he spoke, Abigail’s gaze was drawn to the table where Lizzy’s distant figure sat hunched over her plate, the man following her gaze. “Is that?” Abigail held his arm “Don’t say anything. She can’t know we’re here. She mustn’t know about us.”

He sighed, the fight going out of him as he stood still, the photograph in his hand. He glanced at it once more, a mixture of awe and resignation washing over him. “Alright, Abby. Let’s see where this goes. But if you’re wrong, you owe me more than just breakfast.”

Abigail nodded, her smile returning as she looked back at Sarah. “We’re here to help, however we can. What do you need to know?”

Sarah turned back to face the woman, her voice a mix of frustration and curiosity. "Why can't Lizzy know about you? What are you to her, and why this secrecy?"

The man accompanying Abigail, now clearly annoyed by the complexity of the situation, threw up his hands. "You have the answers, you explain it. I'm off to get some breakfast." He walked away, leaving the women to their tense exchange.

Abigail motioned for Sarah to sit back down, her expression solemn but with a hint of an authoritative tone. "Ignore him; he’s my older brother and he's always reminding me when I’ve overstepped. But he’s right about one thing—I did start this.” She gestured between herself and Sarah, linking them in the unfolding mystery. “And you're right, you know. You're on the right track."

She paused, her gaze intense and searching. "The key to all of this is Lizzy. She needs to fly again. That's the only way we can begin to untangle this mess."

Sarah scoffed, her scepticism evident. "And how do you propose we manage that? It’s not exactly easy to just hop into a B-17 these days."

Without missing a beat, Abigail slid a flyer across the table from her bag. "I can’t divulge too much about who I am—only that I’m…family. Someone very wise instructed me to come here at this precise moment, hand you that photograph, and ensure that we don’t repeat the mistakes of the past."

As Sarah examined the flyer—a promotional piece for an upcoming air show featuring a fully operational B-17—her mind raced. The plan was audacious, bordering on the insane, yet the urgency in Abigail's voice made it impossible to dismiss outright.

Abigail tapped the photo gently, her voice lowering to a near whisper, compelling and earnest. "And it’s not just Lizzy who needs to fly; you need to be there with her. This is about closing a loop, about healing wounds you both don't fully understand yet."

The enormity of the task weighed heavily on Sarah as she picked up the flyer. Just then, the man returned from the bar, his meal in tow, breaking the intensity of their discussion. As he sat, Sarah stood, clutching the photo and the flyer.

"One last question— who took this photograph?" she asked, needing some tangible connection to anchor the surreal task ahead.

Abigail's face softened, her eyes shimmering with a blend of pride and deep personal connection. "My maternal grandfather. He was there, right in the midst of it all, just like you are now."

With that connection made, Sarah felt a shift in her perspective. This was no longer just about diving into history or helping her best friend—it was personal. It linked them to a family story that spanned generations, wrapping Lizzy and her into a narrative bigger than they had imagined. She looked over at Lizzy, determination setting in. They had a plane to catch, and some history of their own to make.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Sarah and Lizzy were in the museum office, enveloped by the soft murmur of activity as Fred sorted through what they dubbed "donations" from Abigail, organising them into meticulously arranged piles. Despite the normalcy of the scene, Sarah’s mind was elsewhere, wrestling with information she wasn’t yet ready to share. With a casual air that belied her internal tension, she glanced over at Geoff and Fred.

"You wouldn’t happen to know who owns the bomber featured at this weekend’s air show, would you? Any chance we could get Lizzy on board?" she asked, her voice casual but tinged with an undercurrent of urgency.

Geoff and Fred exchanged a look of uncertainty. "We might be able to pull some strings," Fred replied, scratching his head thoughtfully.

"Could those strings possibly extend to Liz flying it?" Sarah probed further, the urgency now barely masked by her nonchalant stance.

The room was suddenly filled with a cacophony of concerns. Lizzy, typically more outspoken, only managed a half-hearted jest, "I haven’t flown in years!" Geoff, more grounded, pointed out, "She's been nearly drunk nonstop for a week; she'd need to sober up first." Fred, ever the sceptic, added, "Plus, her pilot’s licence isn’t even current."

Sarah raised her hands, silencing the room with a firm gesture. "This is about more than just licences or sobriety. Lizzy and I need to be on that plane, and we need to fly it to Germany. It’s our only shot at making things right."

Lizzy laughed, more out of disbelief than amusement. "You want to steal a B-17?"

Sarah's composure momentarily faltered, and she let loose a passionate outburst. "I’ve been buried in archives for days, uncovering everything about this damn bomb group and the hell they went through—the very hell you lived through! I can’t—and won’t—stand by and watch you disintegrate under the weight of haunting memories and a lost love so profound I can literally see it breaking your heart." Her voice softened as her eyes locked with Lizzy’s. "Getting on that plane might be our only chance to end these nightmares."

Lizzy’s scepticism, however, remained steadfast. "And what happens when we hit that cloud bank over Berlin? We just dive right into the middle of a war and hope for the best? I tried that once, remember? Look where it got me."

Sarah’s eyes hardened with resolve, her tone steely. "No more self-pity, Lizzy. And no more whiskey. You're going to get sober whether you like it or not, and you're getting ready to fly. Lieutenant,” she used Lizzy’s rank to underscore her point, causing Lizzy to straighten her posture, “you need to clean yourself up. Check if your flying overalls still fit and remember how to do your hair up properly because you’re going to look the part, even if I have to dress you myself. Understood?"

Lizzy put her glass down, mumbling a resigned “Yes, ma’am,” acknowledging Sarah’s uncompromising stance.

"The nightmares those men endured now plague me too," Sarah continued, her voice unwavering. "And I’ll be damned if we don’t at least try to see if flying through that cloud again can put an end to all this."

Turning back to Geoff and Fred with a determined yet composed look, Sarah requested, "Please, make the call. Let's see if we can list her as a pilot. I'm really counting on this to help her." She paused, her tone softening further, "And could we find a flying jacket that fits? you know how pilots are about the cold.”

Taglist:

@victoryrollsandredlips @bobparkhurst @prettyinlimegreenboots @ginabaker1666 @thedeviltohisangel

[isagamis]

𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐒

gojo satoru x reader ┊ chapter 1 ┊ wc: 3.8k

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: when y/n is transferred to tokyo from america for a teaching position at jujutsu tech, will it be the new beginning they need or not enough to exorcise the ghosts of the past?

cw: troubled reader, gojo is a ball of sunshine, super friendly gojo, mentally ill reader lmfao, light hearted, cold reader, canon timeline

hide & seek masterlist

[song for the chapter]

6:00am.

The obnoxious horn of my alarm sounds, the rattling of its vibration adding to my early morning irritation. I reluctantly turn over to stop it.

“C’mon, we start work today, you gotta get up,” my self-stated encouragement does little to nothing to motivate me. With a defeated sigh, I pick my phone up to go through it before I get ready.

Email, email, email. A few ‘i miss you’ texts from friends back home. One missed call from an unknown number. I lock the device and take a deep breath to soothe the anxiety that’s slowly building up for the day. I packed up my whole life in a day and got on the next available plane to Tokyo. It’s hit me that I really haven’t given myself any time to adjust. I’ve only been here a couple of days and I’m already starting my new job. I was told a car was being sent to escort me to the jujutsu technical school at around eight. With a groan, I force my legs off of my bed. My fists rub the sleep from my eyes as I yawn. I look over to my uniform that was laid out over my desk chair. The maroon fabric was worn from years of fighting, it was probably time for a new one.

“You’ve been through the ringer, huh?” my fingertips graze over the seams that sprouted loose threads. I strip myself of my pajamas and adorn myself with the familiar pieces. Wearing them now, in a new country, feels like a memory. Like I’m not meant to be wearing them here. I sigh, the nervous ache in my bones bleeds through the fabric clothing me, and I can already feel the sweat building up.

Breakfast, maybe eating will calm my nerves. I drag my feet to my small kitchen and pop a couple of pieces of bread into my toaster. A cold glass of water meets my lips as I wait. The early morning sun is starting to peek through my kitchen window. The view of Tokyo from my window wasn’t much, but it was still nice to look at. I mean, it was better than what I got in the States. The pop of my toaster releases and startles me, just as it always has. I grab the butter from the fridge and spread it on lightly. I’m careful to not dirty my uniform as I eat, eating over the sink to avoid crumbs. My phone rings from my bedroom, interrupting my meal causing me to throw away what bits I didn’t eat. The ringing, which had just been another alarm I set, stopped once I got a hold of my phone.

7:50am.

The driver will be here soon, I should get going. I grab my backpack from the floor and sling it over my shoulder. The weight sits comfortably on my back, all the textbooks we had to use back home weren’t required here so they’ve been taken out. I then grab my keys and reluctantly walk outside. A new job, new home, new faces.

Within five minutes, a black Audi pulls right in front of my place. A short man, who looks about as nervous as I do, steps out of the driver’s seat.

“A-ah, y/f/n? Yes, I’m Ijichi Kiyotaka,” he introduces with a slight bow and a thick japanese accent, “I’ll be driving you to Jujutsu Tech.”

“H-hello,” I politely bow back, “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Have you eaten? We can stop for breakfast if you’d like?” he asks kindly as he opens the back door for me.

“I have, yes!” I reply while slipping inside, “Thank you, though.”

“You’re welcome,” he smiles, my anxiety shrinking a little at the comfort in his words.

The car ride is silent, except for the soft sound of a random japanese radio station. We travel through winding roads that erode through a thick forest. I was told the school was hidden within one of the mountains in the outskirts of Tokyo. That they disguise themselves as a religious school to hide from the government or something along those lines. As we get closer, I’m in awe at the structures that lead to the school. Each one was constructed beautifully, and I’m fully anticipating the architecture of the school itself. Ijichi rounds the car in front of the final temple style gate and instructs that I will be escorted by a teacher from here. I grab my things once again and exit the car, making sure to thank him on my way out.

My surroundings almost overwhelm me. Statues everywhere, the whispered roar of the wind blowing through the trees, being in a new place in general. My eyes scan the area for anyone that looks like they could be a teacher but find none. My anxiety starts to build again, and I begin to walk on my own up the stone path. That was until something flashes in front of me.

A man, maybe about six-threeish, appears before me. His hair is white like the snow that covers the mountain tops and his face is adorned with a black blindfold that covers his eyes. It of course sparks my curiosity.

“I apologize for being late, that is solely my fault, I happen to just not be good with time,” his voice is sweet on my ears as he generously apologizes. I can tell already that he carries himself with ease, that nothing makes him anxious. He’s carefree almost. I’m so caught up in his ways that I didn’t even notice that he spoke to me in perfect english.

“O-oh, does everyone here speak English?” I of course did not want to assume, but considering that sorcery was pretty international, maybe they were taught more than one language at their schools. My own requires that students learn Spanish along with their normal English classes.

He chuckles, “Jujutsu Tech offers English classes for anyone interested. Most take them due to an overload of oversea missions. I was taught many languages growing up as are most that come from the three main families.” He smiles as he finishes explaining.

I nod to signal that the information he gave me stuck. “I don’t mean to be rude, but, uh, you are?” God I hope I don’t sound mean, I just realized that he hadn’t told me his name.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” he lends his hand out to me, “Satoru Gojo, honorary member of the Gojo clan and the first year teacher you’ll be working with.”

I grab his hand in return, “y/f/n, It’s a pleasure to be here.”

He pulls his hand away. Not in an abrupt way, but more in the sense that he didn’t like to be touched for very long, which I understood. Hell, I’m the same way. He turns on his right foot and folds his arms behind his back like a little kid would, “Shall I show you around?”

I’m quiet as I follow him, just taking in the scenery as best as I can. The estate was covered in traditional Japanese buildings and beautiful gardens with koi ponds. I was in awe at the detail put into everything.

“Not what you’re used to, huh?” the white haired man in front of me speaks.

“No, not at all. Ours looked nothing like this,” my eyes still gazed at the new school in front of me.

“What’s yours like?” he stops progressing forward and turns to speak to me directly.

“Like any typical American school,” I explain, letting my gaze wander just a bit more before meeting with his clothed one. “Our government is unfortunately heavily involved in our work so we weren’t allowed to disguise ourselves like other countries can.”

“Really?!” I was surprised that he was surprised. I assumed everyone knew.

I knew I was looking at him like he was stupid, and I felt bad for it, but I genuinely couldn’t help it, “The American government sucks, we can barely control giving out class upgrades. I didn’t get my grade one title until last year even though I should’ve gotten it when I was eighteen.”

“That’s insane to me,” from what I could see of his face, he was clearly shocked, “I’ve never had the chance to visit, so I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, but thankfully I’m not there anymore and can live a bit more freely here,” I try not to let the situation bum me out, although it does sadden me to think about the friends I left behind.

“Of course,” he hums and continues guiding me through the property.

-

“The first years had an early morning mission, they should be back around noon. I can show you where you’ll be staying in the meantime.”

”Staying?” confusion riddles my voice.

“The place you’re in now was just temporary, most sorcerers in Japan use the schools as a base of sorts. We didn’t move you in immediately so you could have time to adjust,” he explains, walking me over to the left side of the property.

“O-oh,” is all I could say.

“We are actually in the same building, I hope that isn’t a problem,” he says, sliding the main door open for me, “I promise I’m a quiet neighbor.”

He leads me down the hall, we’ve already passed by two rooms. Gojo pointed out that the second one was his. We stop in front of the very last one and he slides the door over, I slip my shoes off and step inside.

“You’ll be given a new uniform as well, we just-“ “I’d like to keep this one,” I cut him off, “if that’s okay?” Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I can tell that he gets the hint as he backs off, “Of course! We don’t focus too much on formalities here, anyways.”

“I’m sorry,” my fingers toy with the hem of my uniform jacket, “I just wanna keep at least this the same.”

“I understand, I can’t imagine what it must be like to leave your friends and family behind,” he says with his hand rubbing the back of his head. My face sours at the mention of family, and I immediately cross my arms over my chest.

“Yeah, could we see the rest of the school?” I try to ask in a way to change the subject, but I fear it came off more like I was annoyed. I beat myself up mentally as I notice Gojo shift uncomfortably on his heels. He nods, unsure of what to say, and turns to enter the hall again.

The rest of the tour is quieter than it was before. My fault I’m sure. He shows me the training field next. I can see a couple of what I assume are students out on the grass.

“Oh great! The second years are here!” his voice rings as he leads me down the concrete steps and onto the field. “Maki!” his hands cup around his mouth to elevate his voice.

The green haired girl turns around, bottle of water to her lips. A shorter blonde headed boy next to her looks into the direction of their teacher's voice as well. I can feel my heart start to beat faster as we get closer. This is my first time meeting my new students, I really don’t want to fuck this up.

“y/n, this is Maki,” Gojo’s hand rests on the upper part of my back which catches me off guard in the moment, but I brush it off, “the new teacher I mentioned last week.”

The girl’s face remains deadpanned, “please tell me you’re replacing him.”

I snort at her comment, her bluntness humored me. I quickly cover it up with a cough before answering, “no, just an additional help.”

She sighs in disappointment as she rests her chin against the wooden staff she held in her hands.

“And this is Toge,” Gojo motions towards the shorter boy. His face is covered by his high neck collar so I’m only able to see his eyes.

Toge raises his palm to me, “salmon.”

“Sal-mon?” I look to Gojo for an explanation, maybe this was just a prank on the newbie?

“Toge is of the Inumaki clan,” his arm slings around the younger boy’s shoulders, his eyes show immediate annoyance, “cursed speech is an inherited technique in their family, so he only speaks in rice ball ingredients to limit himself.”

“Damn, that sucks,” I felt like I was too casual with my words the second they left my mouth, I’m just so used to talking to my students back home this way.

“Shake,” he shakes his head, I’m assuming he’s trying to say ‘it’s okay’.

“You’ll just have to get used to conversation with him, it’s easy to pick up after a while,” Gojo explains, “anyways, there’s two more second years, but Yuta Okkotsu is in Africa for a mission, and I’m not sure where Panda is.”

“He was still sleeping, but maybe he’s with Principal Yaga now,” Maki informs as she turns to walk back in the field.

Gojo brings his hands together joyously, “Just where we were going next!”

I wave goodbye to my new students and follow behind my fellow sorcerer.

“Yaga sensei!” Gojo’s voice echoes through the empty room of the main building he’s just brought me into.

“Satoru!” a new voice replies. As we walk just a few more feet, I’m met with a man sitting among nearly a hundred stuffed animals.

He speaks again, in Japanese this time so I’m unable to understand him. I keep my attention focused on his conversation with Gojo, but I can’t make out anything they’re saying.

“y/n, we appreciate having you,” Yaga speaks to me in somewhat broken english, “if you need anything, let me know.”

“Thank you sir, I will,” I bow in response to his kindness, “Oh, wait, didn’t Maki say there would be a student here?”

“Oh, Panda!” Gojo adds next to me, “he must still be sleeping.” “The first years should be back, let’s go bug them, shall we?” A mischievous smile creeps onto Gojo’s face. I sense that maybe he might have a soft spot for these students specifically.

We exit through the door and progress towards the front lawn. As we walk down the steps of the main building, three figures appear from a distance.

“Gojo sensei!” a harmonious whine emits from the trio, “we’re hungry!”

The man next to me laughs, “these are our beloved first years.”

“Gojo, why do you have a phone if you aren’t gonna use it?” the black haired one mumbles. His expression told me that he wasn’t really a laid back type.

“Huh?” the teacher next to me pulls his phone from his pocket, I assume he hasn’t checked it all morning, “haha! my bad!” Steam was practically fuming from the poor boy’s ears, I have a feeling this is pretty normal for them.

“Anyways, this is Noba-“

“Nobara Kugisaki!” the caramel headed girl cheers, her hand extending to take mine.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I smile at her. I like her. Her demeanor is welcoming and gives off almost a little sister vibe.

“This is Yuuji Itadori,” Gojo continues, putting a hand on the middle boy’s shoulders, “You may know him as Sukuna’s vessel in the states.”

“Wait…this is him?”

“Well don’t say it like that!” Yuuji whines, I didn’t mean to say it in an offensive way, I just wasn’t expecting a kid.

“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that,” I shake my head, “I just wasn’t expecting you to be a child.”

Yuuji sighs, and Gojo moves into the last one. “And this is my beloved son, Megumi,” I’d never seen a grown man crumble so easily for a child. His long arms squeezed around the boy’s shoulders and pulled him into a restricting hug. Megumi was clearly uncomfortable and his counterpart clearly didn’t care.

“I wish you’d stop calling me that,” the younger struggles as he attempts to get out of Gojo’s death grip of a hug.

“Oh, c’mon, don’t be like that,” Gojo fake pouts at his student’s rejection.

“Gojo, you haven’t even told us their name, you are a terrible host,” Megumi scolds as he finally escapes from the grip he was in.

“It’s y/n, just call me y/n,” I inform the three.

“Well, now that we’re all acquainted, what should we do for the rest of the day?”

“I guess I should move in my things right?”

“Perfect! The first years make excellent movers!”

A symphony of groans erupts at Gojo’s suggestion. As each of them go back and forth with each other, I find myself in the backseat. Just studying the dynamic of these four. It’s chaotic, but I can tell that each one of these students cares so deeply about one another. Their teacher almost has an older brother dynamic with them, a mentor. We didn’t have anything like this in the states. I wish we could have though. Things would have been different.

“Okay, let’s go!” Gojo exclaims and pulls me from my thoughts. Together, we trail closely behind the students as we all walk down to where Ijichi dropped me off earlier. As the road comes into view, surely enough a black SUV waited for our arrival.

“I feel like we’ll need more than one vehicle for my things,” I laugh awkwardly, hoping this wasn’t all the space I had to stuff my things into.

“Oh no don’t worry, another one will follow behind us,” Gojo assures, opening the door for me.

I give him a small ‘okay’ and climb into the car behind my new students.

-

A summer’s day comes to an end with the chirping of cicadas settling outside of my new home. The dialogue of the show that’s playing on my computer is almost drowned out by the sound. I stood crossing the floor putting away my things. My closet was organized, my desk was set and every little decoration was in place. I did notice earlier that a tv wasn’t one of my already available furnishings so that’s one thing I do need to put on my shopping list. I also realized earlier after getting my stuff here that the teacher’s rooms were a lot bigger than the students. Ours were set up like little studio apartments, everything I needed was here. After I finally put the last thing of mine away, I closed my computer and slid my window open to sit on the back deck area.

The sky was glowing a dark purple hue, the slight shine of the moon was just starting to beam. My head leaned against the supporting beam beside me as I gazed out over the beautiful garden that sat behind the dorms. I hadn’t really had time to myself today, this felt nice, but since I was now alone, I could feel thoughts festering inside my head. I try my best to shake them, but the memories from home overpower me. I can feel my eyes start to tear up, I feel helpless. This move is supposed to be good for me so why am I still hurting?

“y/n?” a concerned voice startles me. I quickly wipe my eyes, how pathetic would I be to be caught crying on my first day. “y/n, are you okay?” It’s Gojo, he’s stepping out of his window to make way towards me.

His appearance catches my eye, he’s completely different out of uniform. His black blindfold is now replaced with white bandages wrapped around his head. His snow white hair fell flat over his forehead, and his uniform was now replaced with comfy pajamas. He looked domestic, I won’t lie, it was kind of attractive.

“Yeah, yeah,” I pull myself together quickly, “I’m fine.” He sits down beside me, one leg folding under his knee.

“I know you just met me today, but if there’s something bothering you, I’m free to talk,” I couldn’t see his eyes, but I could feel his genuine concern. His demeanor was much different than it was earlier today, less childlike, more like a friend.

“Gojo, I swear I’m fine, really,” I reassure. Please don’t push it anymore.

“Please, call me Satoru, I know calling someone by their last name isn’t really an American thing,” he laughs, “Plus, I’d consider us friends already.”

“Thank you, really, but I'm okay with calling you Gojo,” I pull my knee up to tuck it into my chest.

“Are you homesick?” he moves so that his back is against the supportive beam beside him and he’s facing me, legs crossed over one another.

“It’s not that, it’s just…” I try to find the best words to explain without having to trauma dump on him, but I can’t.

“I get it,” his arms fold across his chest, “I figure we all have something that haunts us, almost like it’s a requirement to be a sorcerer.” He laughs, I assume at the irony of being a sorcerer. That’s the only thing I can find funny at the moment.

“It’s funny,” I add, “we spend our lifetimes saving so many people…so many that don’t even know they’re being saved”. I look out into the garden, the glow of the now night sky moon reflecting off the koi ponds. “Who saves us?” my fingers pick at the hem of my pajama pants.

It’s silent as we take in our conversation, searching for what we’ll say next. The buzz of the cicadas continues to ring through the forest.

“Sorcery feels like a marathon sometimes,” I can feel the sadness grow in my voice, “but all you’re met with at the end are the corpses of your friends.”

“You sound exactly like a friend I used to have,” Gojo turns his head to look at me, “that’s dangerous thinkin’.”

“Where is this friend now?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he smiles, I can tell he’s trying to lighten the mood. “Alright, c’mon get to bed, we have to be teachers tomorrow,” he urges as he gets to his feet and lends a hand out to help me off of mine.

I take it, it’s warm, like an oven mitt that’s just held a pan straight from the oven. His slender fingers curl around mine so delicately as he pulls me up. “Thanks,” I pull my hand away quickly, the contact making me more anxious by the second.

“No problem,” he ignores my gesture and turns towards his window, “oh and if you ever need anything, I’m a window away.”

“Night, Gojo,” I wave him off.

“Goodnight!”

His window slides shut and I take one last look over the garden, fully accepting that this is where I’ll be living for a while. With a sigh, I step back into my own room and shut the world out with the slide of my window. My bed swallows me as I curl into it, a plush ocean of blankets and pillows seals me for the night.

[sovasbussy]

at sixes and sevens

hehe i am back with angst uwu wrote this because pluto projector played in one of my spotify playlists so... as always, i recommend you to listen while reading this for that oompfh https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7fexiixR-0A&t=125s CW: major character death

Sova had been missing. For 6 whole months. You were getting frustrated at Brimstone’s reluctance to allow you to search for him. It was always tasks day in and day out, helping civilians recover from the chemical warfare that the mirror agents had inflicted onto your earth and the overall aftermath of a terrible fight. Every other agent had been accounted for except for your husband. 

“Brim, please. I need to find him.” Your voice laced with anger, only groaning when the commander gave you a firm, “No.” 

“Out of everyone else, I thought that you would care too, Brimstone!” You were tired of him not giving a single care towards one of his most important agents, not knowing how the man could just sit in his office without having the need to do anything for Sova. 

As you walked out of Brimstone’s office, Sage was waiting along the corridor and grabbed your hand before you could walk any further. With a finger to your lips, she gently pulled you away from the commander’s office, bringing you some place without others being able to eavesdrop on your conversation. 

Sage handed you a small usb stick, pressing it firmly in your palm. “This was Sova’s last known location.” She said softly, her eyes casted towards the floor. You clenched your fist and gave the woman a tight hug. “Be careful. We don’t know about the situation around his location.” Sage advised as she returned the hug, tightening her arms around you. 

“I promise, I’ll come back safe.” You reassured her while pulling away from her, giving her a light smile. 

___________________

You were on your way to the coordinates displayed on your phone, finding the area extremely familiar. It was the path towards the house you and Sova had bought right after you got married, a place to escape to when your breaks lined up, a sacred haven where the both of you could relish in each other’s company with no disturbances. There was a pit in your stomach as you trudged up the beaten path. 

Your gut was telling you that there wasn’t any good news in this place you once called home but you were holding, grasping on that thread of hope that Sova was still alive. There was no way that Sova wasn’t able to handle himself in such conditions, being an amazing hunter and knowing how to protect himself in dire circumstances. 

You exhaled at the sight of the dilapidated cottage, remembering how it looked livelier and warm. Now, it looked cold, desolate, far from the happy memories you had in your mind. You walked up to the door, hand just barely ghosting the knob. That sinking feeling never left your body even when you stepped into the house. Everything seemed so grey and monotonous, vines and overgrowth peeking over the wooden floorboards and wooden beams of the cottage. The floor creaked as you continued your path towards the bedroom, opening the door slowly only to find that your gut was right all along. 

On the queen bed lay Sova’s signature coat, untouched and coated in a light layer of dust. You kept trying to convince yourself that he was just out, hunting, doing something, longing that he would come back and pull you into that warm hug you so desperately missed. All hopes were quashed when you saw a skeletonised hand, tips of the fingers that were once Sova’s just on top of the fur lining of his coat. Your bottom lip quivered at the sight of the silver band on the ring finger of the hand, immediately recognising it to be Sova’s wedding band from the day of your marriage. 

You sat at the edge of the bed, hesitantly grabbing his coat and bringing it up to your face. Sova’s scent was barely there and you could no longer stop yourself. Tears just poured from your eyes, sobbing into the cloth when realisation finally hit you. Pulling the cloak away from your face, you noticed a yellowed letter on the bed as well with it addressed to you. You picked it up with shaky hands and opened the letter, covering your mouth with your hand to stifle your sobs.

 Even in his last moments, all Sova could think about was you and how sorry he was that he couldn’t be there with you. You folded the letter back up and looked at the ring, slowly sliding it off of the bone and slipping it onto your own finger. Your body racked with sobs as you clutched onto the very last belonging of your husband, still not able to cope with the fact that he was truly gone, out of your grasp. Long gone would be the days of the two of you living happily in each other’s company, his soothing voice whispering sweet nothings in your ear each night before bed.

 You no longer felt complete.

___________________

It was only days later when you returned to HQ. Everyone was in the common room, expectantly waiting for you and Sova to walk through the doors, ready to pull the both of you into a giant group hug but when only you appeared with his coat folded in your arms, the agents just knew. 

You cast your gaze towards Sage and Brimstone, eyes filled with tears, and all you could do was shake your head, turning down the hallway towards your room. 

Sova was gone. Forever. Nothing could bring him back.

[violettduchess]

Clavis 6 fall fluff

A/N: This is the third and final fic in what has become the Clavis Lelouch Domestic Fall Fluff Content Creation Challenge. And it is a nice segway because the next fic I post has the same prompt but is an angsty one. Bye for now, Clavis. You remain a chaotic joy to write.

You can find the other two Clavis fics here (cinnamon kiss) and here (cozy sweater)

Word Count: 877

"Whooooooo!" 

The wooden ghost figure toggles back and forth stiffly as it "walks" across the nightstand.  Clavis pitches his voice even lower before continuing. 

"I will fiiiiiiind you, little kitty…..muahahaha!"

The figure swan dives off the nightstand onto the thick carpeting to the sound of a shriek, a sound composed of equal parts fear and delight. A smaller hand quickly makes the wooden black cat hop across the carpet, following the embroidered golden swirl designs as if they were a path.

"You don't want to eat me! I'm just a little kitty!" Your daughter’s voice is still rippling with giggles as she scoots around, making room for her father. He lays down on his stomach next to her on the floor, a lock of twilight hair falling over his forehead. 

“But I am soooooo hungry.” The ghost stops walking and pouts, black painted eyes in a perpetual scowl.

“You could try eating Papa’s cooking. Bet you won’t be hungry again for a while,” you murmur from up on the bed where you are trying to finish your embroidery. Your daughter falls prey to another fit of giggles, the black kitty still in mortal danger of being devoured.

Clavis glances up at you, one brow raised. And then a slow grin spreads across his face, far too unhurried and sharp to be any good news. 

He picks up the white ghost, clearing his throat and walks it close to the feline. “Hey kitty. I know where we can both get some delicious food. Follow me, dearie, and we will both feast like kings tonight.”

You watch him suspiciously out of the corner of your eye as you work the blue thread through the fabric. Your chain stitch is suffering from your loss of focus as you watch your husband and daughter crawl around the foot of the bed and out of eyesight. Quiet whispers and unsettling giggles drift up towards you.

“I hear you both,” you mutter and are answered with the sound of laughter being smothered behind fingers. 

Suddenly, the bed dips when your daughter scrambles up and Clavis follows suit with a dramatic flop onto his side. Her little fingers with their last remnants of baby fat shove her soft, navy hair out of her eyes as she hops the black kitty right up to where you are lying, propped up against your pillows. 

“We made it, ghost!” The kitty dances around excitedly.

The ghost, held tight between Clavis's nimble fingers, waddles over to the kitty and tips its entire body backwards in order to look up.

“We did, brave feline! There is but one thing left for us to do. We must conquer……Mt. Belly!”

Now you are the one raising an eyebrow as you lay your embroidery aside completely.

“Excuse you.” 

Your daughter wiggles closer on the bed, smile full of sunlight. “But Mt. Belly is SO BIG, ghostie!”

You feel it. The beginning of a smile pulling on the corner of your lips.

“I know. But we must be brave, little kitty. For there is food on the other side. Away!” He lifts the ghost and walks it over the round swell of your midsection. When he reaches the top, it jumps up and down in triumph. “I made it! Come kitty! Join me!”

The kitty begins a hurried and rather uneven ascent, haphazardly bumping against you, little wooden paws digging into your abdomen. Before you can say anything, Clavis reaches out,  gently covering her hand with his, slowing down the wooden cat’s pace.

“Slowly and carefully, kitty. There is a tiny dragon that lives in the mountain. We wouldn’t want to wake him.”

“Or her,” she answers sagely and he nods at her wisdom. 

“That’s right. Or her.”

The kitty reaches the top of the mountain and is very carefully balanced on top of your belly, next to where the ghost is standing, basking in his victory.

Clavis grins. “We’ve conquered the mountain! The feast is ours!”

They join hands, both letting out a whoop of triumph. You sigh, now completely at the mercy of a wide smile. You’re about to comment on them using your pregnant belly as fantasy terrain when suddenly, the ghost and the kitten are booted from their position at the top of the mountain by a tiny foot. The owner of said foot has been rudely awoken by all the racket.

Clavis and his daughter look at each other with wide, matching eyes the color of warm gold.

“The dragon!!” 

They yell it at the same time and you can’t help but laugh as he scoops your oldest into his arms. “I’ll save you!”

He leaps from the bed, ready to flee the mighty dragon when she squeaks, “Papa! The figures!” He flies her back to the bed, lowering her just enough so that she can snatch them and hold them safely to her chest.

“The dragon foiled our plans but I know a certain giant who I bet will have some honey cakes we can snatch.”

"Let's go! Bye Mama!"

They blow you kisses as they bound out of the room and you shake your head in affection and exasperation, two emotions bracketed within the feeling of deep love.

"Good luck, Luke," you murmur, one hand rubbing your bump in hopes of soothing the little dragon, "You're definitely going to need it."

👻

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @atelieredux @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesroseforclavis @somekidnamedkai @ikemen-prince-writers-posts @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @ikehoe @redheadkittys @themysticalbeing @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @leotoru @ariamichel @kpop-and-otome @queen-dahlia @moonstruck-writing @scorchieart

[snazzy-suit]

Luigi: Liaison of Ghosts Chapter 5.9 - Hey! Creatures! Leave Them Kids Alone!

MP - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5.1 -5.2 - 5.3 - 5.4 - 5.5 - 5.6 - 5.7 - 5.8 - (5.9) - 5.10 - 6 - 7.1 - 7.2 - 7.3 - 7.4 - 7.5 - 8

Part 9 of 10

[Prefer to read on ao3? Click here]

In which something awakens, Luigi considers making a questionable deal with a wizard, and the final battle commences.

______________________________

Something has changed. Something that Luigi can’t identify, and likely won’t for some time yet. Something that won’t be contained now that it is free. It is dynamic. It listens carefully to Luigi’s heart and responds to his fear—to The Threat. Like a supernatural serpent, it assumes a defensive coil. It cannot hiss or rattle a tail in warning—it has no hood to flare—but it thrums with its own warning; a warning that goes unheard or unheeded. It doesn’t bother issuing another.

It listens to Luigi’s heart.

It feels his anger.

And now, so will The Threat.

Righteous fury guides the stirring energy down Luigi’s arm, chasing away the stabbing cold as it goes. The energy pools in his palm. One of his fingers twitches imperceptibly. With a blink, Luigi suddenly finds he can move. He doesn’t spare any time to question this latest development. Instinct, a reflex, something, has Luigi’s once lax hand mirroring the wizard’s crushing grip. Merlich looks between their interlocked hands and Luigi’s narrowed eyes with unmitigated shock.

The stirring finds its outlet.

A crackling, phlox colored energy surges through Merlich’s arm. The dark wizard cries out in surprise as he is brutally torn from Luigi’s grasp and propelled across the room with incredible force. He collides with the far wall with a surprisingly solid thud—as if the assailing energy briefly rendered the entity corporeal—and falls to the ground in a twitching heap. Sound and clarity crash back into Luigi in the wake of the wizard’s absence. Luigi gasps like a drowning man breaching the water’s surface. He blinks rapidly with a sharp shake of the head, desperate to return moisture to his stinging eyes.

The Dry Horde stare after their master in stunned silence. Luigi somehow manages to recover first, and quickly takes advantage of their stupor, wrenching himself from their hold. A couple of revenants make a grab for him as he leaps to his feet and pulls away. Luigi turns on his heel, left arm extended in a sweeping motion as he moves to strike the nearest offenders. The strange energy hungrily seeks its next outlet. It lashes out at its newfound targets, sending several revenants violently crashing into their hapless kin. Bones fly and rotted bodies clatter to the floor in a hazardous pile. Groaning undead struggle to disentangle themselves from the wayward remains of their obliterated comrades. The revenants lucky enough to escape the remains-turned-shrapnel hiss with agitation and alarm. A few begin a restless pace along the fallen, watching the retreating human warily.

Luigi backpedals from the Dry Horde with wide eyes. He looks down to his offending arm in time to see the last of the unknown energy fizzle out. The stirring seems to settle—satisfied, for the moment. Luigi stares at his hand as if it is something foreign.

What in Stars’ name was that?

A deranged cackle pulls Luigi from his stupor. He whirls around to find the dark wizard rising unsteadily from their prone position on the floor. Between Merlich and Luigi lies Dane and the unguarded Poltergust. Luigi’s eyes widen impossibly further. This was his chance!

Luigi dashes to his Poltergust as the slowly recovering Merlich continues to cackle madly. He dares to grin when he snatches up the device, but the triumphant feeling immediately dissipates when he finds the quick-release buckles on the straps are still disengaged. Precious seconds burn away as Luigi clicks them back into place with shaking hands. He curses silently to himself, eyes darting between Merlich and the Dry Horde while he threads his arms through the straps and retrieves the Poltergust’s wand. The moment it is in his hand, Luigi presses the button that manually releases his paranormal partner. A literal and figurative weight lifts from his shoulder as a familiar gurgling cheer announces Gooigi’s return.

“Oh, thank the Stars! You’re not—” Gooigi cuts himself off, looking from the recovering horde and cachinnating wizard to Luigi and the Doogan at their feet. “…I have questions.” 1

“I’ll have to answer them later,” Luigi says, turning to Merlich. He is dismayed to find the Vitiate has already recovered.

“Marvelous!” the dark wizard bellows, “A taste—a mere sampler—of what is to be mine!”

Merlich slowly makes his way towards them. The blast clearly weakened him, but Luigi’s unwitting demonstration of the unknown power also seems to have reinvigorated the dark entity. Luigi can see it in the hungry glow of their eyes. He quickly averts his gaze, unwilling to test if the wizard can induce that horrible trance-like state from this distance.

“I’m not sure if it will work on you,” Luigi whispers to his partner, “but just in case, avoid eye contact with Merlich.”

“You’ve been looking him in the eye?” Gooigi whispers back, “I can’t stop staring at his mustache.”

Merlich halts briefly to scrutinize his scrambling horde. “Hm. Unrefined, but admittedly effective. And it’s only just been brought to the surface!” He leers at Luigi. “Imagine that energy at peak capacity in the hands of someone that knows how to use it.” The wizard’s eyes crinkle in amusement. “Perhaps you don’t need to. Surely, you must have witnessed its full potential when you faced its previous owner.”

“What in Jaydes’ name is he talking about?”

“I don’t really know,” Luigi mutters quietly. It’s not a total lie. Regardless, now isn’t the time to get into it.

“Though I suppose, if that were the case,” Merlich continues, “you wouldn’t have been able to steal it, hm?” He looks back to the Dry Horde. With a wave of his hand, the fallen and entangled revenants are lifted and reassembled. They shake themselves out in apparent relief, bones rattling and jaws clicking as they readjust. Merlich resumes his slow advance. “Rest assured; it will soon be in more capable hands.”

Suddenly, the ghost hunting duo find themselves back-to-back as two threats approach from opposite sides. Luigi, facing the dark wizard, dares to spare a glance at the unconscious teenager situated between him and his partner. They need to find a way to get Dane out of the crossfire.

“Gooigi,” he calls, keeping a close eye on Merlich, “grab Dane and move him to the wall. I’ll cover you.”

“Why do I gotta be the heavy lifter?”

Luigi arcs a brow at the ectomorph. “Do you have a way to deflect magic?”

“Do you?”

Luigi pointedly lifts a hand sparking with electricity.

“…fine.” Gooigi grumbles. He reaches down and grabs Dane under the arms and begins to carefully drag him adjacent to the encroaching threat. The spell book, which had been carelessly deposited on the boy’s chest, slides down into his lap.

Luigi moves so he is standing between their paranormal foes and his retreating partner. He slowly walks backwards, matching Gooigi’s pace and keeping a careful eye on their pursuers. The trio are almost to the wall when Merlich makes his first move.

Merlich thrusts out an arm with a flourish, a colorful array of shapes following the motion as they swirl into existence. The geometric Koopa magic is almost comforting in its familiarity. Luigi is quick to call upon the Thunderhand to deflect it. He winces as the technique’s backlash stutters his step, but it isn’t strong enough to stop him altogether. Merlich switches tactics and summons a globe of water. To Luigi’s surprise, the Vitiate keeps their attack focused on him instead of targeting his vulnerable partner. The watery orb is immediately vaporized by his Thunderhand. Again, Luigi is hit with marginal backlash.

They have at last reached the wall. Merlich summons another orb of water, and Luigi swiftly vaporizes it as well. Luigi grimaces when the cycle repeats itself yet again. Steam from the colliding attacks thickens between them. He is beginning to question the dark wizard’s strategy as he destroys another water-based attack. It is during his next backlash that a significantly larger globe of water cuts through the vapor cloud. Luigi is unable to react fast enough. He desperately lashes out with the Thunderhand, but the aquatic orb is already too close. His attack hits its mark, yet it only succeeds in vaporizing part of the water-based magic. Most of it crashes into Luigi, saturating his damp attire anew.

Luigi is really, really, tired of soggy clothes.

His partner is not spared the water’s wrath. The ectomorph dissolves into a gooey puddle with a frustrated cry. Not even Dane is free of the splash zone. A cup’s worth—negligible, in comparison—washes over the boy’s face. Bafflingly, this is what snaps the Doogan out of his comatose-like state.

Dane snaps up in a sitting position, flailing and spluttering in the wake of his rude awakening. He shakes himself like, well, like a dog, dispelling most of the liquid from his fur. A few stray drops find their way to Luigi, but in the man’s soaked condition, it makes little difference. The teen’s focus falls on Luigi once he settles. He blinks up at them, bleary-eyed.

“…Luigi? What are you—” Dane squints, watching a drop of water fall from the brim of Luigi’s cap. “…did you get another pool thrown at you?”

Luigi’s eyes dart back to the dark wizard. “Something like that,” he grumbles.

Dane follows Luigi’s gaze. He gasps sharply, eyes widening in shock as they land on Merlich. “That’s him!” he cries, pointing frantically at the Vitiate. “That’s the hooded ghost I told you about! Where’d he come from?!”

“You.”

“…I’m sorry, what?”

“Well now!” Merlich interjects. “Look who finally decided to join us.” He spreads his arms, gesturing grandly to the Dry Horde. “My friends here have just been dying to meet you.”

The revenants click and clatter agreeably, shambling a little closer upon their delayed introduction to the boy. Dane scrambles backward with a shriek. He stares at the horde in wide-eyed terror, back pressed firmly against the cold dungeon wall. The spell book slides from his lap and flops to the floor unnoticed.

“Wha—zombies?! Why are there zombies?!” Dane dares to look away for a moment, eyes darting frantically around the unfamiliar room. “And where in Stars’ name are we? Why aren’t we at my house? What is happening?!”

Luigi grimaces. The teen’s fear and confusion are completely justified, but he doesn’t have time to answer all their questions. Brevity is all he can afford. “Remember that magic circle in your attic? The ‘hooded ghost’—Merlich—used it to bring us here; this is his domain.”

Dane gapes at Luigi. “Hold on—are you telling me the ghost pulled an Uno Reverse on us?” 2

Luigi blinks. “That’s… actually not too far off. Yeah.”

The Doogan grasps his head with a groan. “Oh man oh man oh man! I knew being eaten by zombies was going to be how I went out!" he rambles hysterically. “Why did I have to go and leave my silver dagger in my room?!"

Luigi isn’t given the chance to reassure (or correct) the teen. His focus is swiftly stolen by Merlich when the dark entity suddenly drifts closer. The wizard is but a few meters away.

“The boy is right to fear for his life,” Merlich says. “But perhaps… he doesn’t need to be.”

 Luigi frowns at the wizard, bemused. Merlich takes this as his cue to elaborate.

“Witnessing your power has put me in an oddly charitable mood,” he continues. “That energy far exceeds anything I could ever hope to take from the pup. In comparison, he’s rather useless. I honestly have no need for him.”

Dane squeaks fearfully at the implication. Luigi moves to shield him from Merlich’s view.

“You misunderstand me!” Merlich laughs, shaking his head mirthfully. “I’m not threatening the child, I’m offering to let him go.” His mustache lifts in a grin. “In exchange for your complete surrender.”

Luigi baulks. He can sense his recovering partner’s own incredulity. “What?”

“This is what you wanted, no? A diplomatic solution?” Merlich spreads his hands pragmatically. “Put down your weapon, surrender your power, and I’ll send the child home unharmed. Simple as that.”

“No, not simple,” Luigi refutes, agitated. “Do you really think I’d be stupid enough to fall for that?”

“I think it’d be stupid of you to not even consider it,” the wizard retorts. “Let’s take a moment to assess your situation, shall we? You’re completely outnumbered, and your grimy doppelgänger can’t hold up to even the weakest of water magic—the same magic, which has now rendered your electrical manipulation hazardous to yourself.” He gestures to Luigi’s freshly soaked clothes as he says this.

“I’m almost always outnumbered in my line of work,” Luigi says. “And I don’t need the Thunderhand to defeat you.”

Merlich’s eyes settle on the Poltergust. “I see. Let’s say, for arguments’ sake, you do manage to best me; that you use your strange little device to capture me like all the other spectral husks.” He sweeps a hand toward his revenants. “What of them, hm? They can’t be caught or killed. They’ll just keep getting back up, even if I’m not here to give orders, and they won’t stop until they’ve torn you to pieces.”

Luigi’s eyes flit to the only exit; the exit currently blocked by swathes of reanimated rot. Merlich follows his gaze.

“Oh yes, do try and make a run for it. I’m sure that will end well,” the ghost cackles. “Even if you somehow manage to leave this room, you still have the rest of my dungeon to contend with. It’s a veritable maze full of traps, dead ends, and, of course, my vast horde of the undead. You only made it through unscathed because I allowed it.”

Luigi had suspected as much, but the revelation is unnerving all the same. Merlich’s level of influence and reach in their domain is a deadly unknown.

“But, again, for arguments’ sake, let’s say the Stars smile upon you, and you somehow escape in one piece. What then? You have no idea where you are! We could be in the middle of a desert, or high in the treacherous mountain peaks. We could be in an entirely different dimension! How ever will you get home?”

It’s quiet but for the anxious rattle of pacing undead. Before Luigi can offer any kind of reply, Dane clears their throat.

“W-we, uh,” Dane begins nervously, “We could leave the same way we got here?”

Merlich barks out a harsh laugh, shaking his head in amusement. “A grand idea! Because teleportation magic isn’t volatile in the slightest! I’m sure an an inexperienced mutt, a speech-impaired slime monster, and a human with a curious aversion to magical texts will wield that power with grace.” He chuckles sadistically. “Yes, I would love to see you try and execute that type of magic while a horde of the undead bear down on you…”

Dane mumbles something unflattering under his breath. Though neither quite catch what he says, the ghost hunting duo silently agree with the sentiment. Luigi scowls at the wizard in the hopes that it conceals his growing uncertainty. He hates to admit it, but Merlich has raised some very good points. The outlook of the mortal’s situation is rather bleak.

Luigi shakes his head, ignoring the mantra of denials trickling in from his partner. “It doesn’t matter how solid your argument may be, the fact of the matter is you can’t be trusted to uphold your end of the deal.”

Merlich reclines in the air as if taking an invisible seat. Luigi’s eyes narrow at his display of ease. “A fair concern,” he admits. “Tell you what, I’ll send the runt home right now in a show of good faith. Your little doppelgänger can even accompany them, if you like.”

Gooigi thrums with irritation; irritation that turns to disbelief when Luigi doesn’t immediately tell the wizard off. Disbelief that slowly turns to fear the longer Luigi stays silent.

The dark wizard folds his hands over his lap. “Protecting others is your top priority, is it not? You’ve been backed into a corner, Star Child, and the odds are stacked heavily against you.” He tilts his head as he regards Luigi. “Do you dare to gamble the boy’s life on such a grave uncertainty? Can you live with yourself if he is made to pay for your… failure?”

The Poltergust’s wand creaks under Luigi’s tightening grip. Luigi isn’t sure what he hates more, Merlich’s smug look or that he’s giving the wizard’s offer serious consideration. The thought sends Gooigi into a frenzy. He demands to be released from containment, but his frantic clamoring fails to garner Luigi’s attention. The latter is centering himself—eyes closed as he takes a deep, composing breath.

What would Mario do in his place…?

Merlich rises from his casual recline and drifts a little closer. When he is but a few paces away, he extends a cold, shadowy hand to Luigi. “Well, little hero? Do we have an accord?”

Luigi eyes the hand like it is a venomous serpent set to strike. Phantom ice prickles along his left arm as he recalls their last physical contact mere minutes before. Luigi scowls at the memory. With a weary sigh, he prepares his answer.

“No.”

Luigi turns sharply to Dane in wide-eyed surprise. The Doogan is glaring at Merlich with a defiant scowl.

Merlich meets the boy’s glare with one of his own. “This doesn’t concern you, pup.”

Dane scoffs. “Uh, yeah it does. Your dumb deal has me as a bargaining chip. I’d say it concerns me a whole lot.”

“Dane,” Luigi says patiently, “it’s alright. Let me handle this.”

“Uh-uh. No way!” the kid squawks. “You can’t sacrifice yourself for me; that’s messed up! This whole thing is my fault in the first place!”

“Kid—”

“Even if I was willing to go along with this—which I’m not—that creep would probably double cross you anyway! I mean, how can you even be sure Gummy Man and I get sent back home? Or that he wouldn’t just come after us anyway after you’re… you know.” Dane shakes his head with a grimace. “Besides, I think it’s suspicious that he offered this deal in the first place. ‘Good mood’ my hat—he totally knows there’s a chance you can beat him!”

“You’re right.”

The teenager blinks. “…I am?”

“Yeah,” Luigi smiles tiredly. “I’ll admit, I was tempted for a moment there, but then I remembered a bit of advice I gave your friend, Koojo.”

“Uh… never give up?”

“Don’t make questionable deals with wizards. But yeah, ‘never give up’ is good, too.” 3

Dane huffs a relieved chuckle, a sentiment Gooigi quietly mirrors. “Oh, thank Grambi. I really didn’t want to be known as the jerk that got Luigi killed.”

“No,” Merlich agrees, “I think I’d like to have that honor all to myself.”

The hairs on the back of Luigi’s neck rise in warning. Luigi whips back around to face the dark wizard, but he’s not fast enough to dodge or deflect the colorful, prismatic spell aimed at his person. It knocks him to the ground with a pained cry. Luigi narrowly avoids landing on Dane, who pulls his knees to his chest with a startled yowl.

“Oh dear, you weren’t ready,” the wizard notes flatly.

Luigi pushes himself up into a seated position with a grunt. He winces at the moderate burning sensation where the magic made contact. It was relatively weak for a spell spun of Koopa magic (Kamek has delivered more devastating blows), but Luigi has a feeling that was intentional. The attack was to get his attention, not to incapacitate him.

“A thousand pardons; I didn’t read the room correctly,” Merlich continues. “I had gleaned that you decided to decline my generous offer to show mercy. Was I wrong?”

“I think you already know the answer to that,” Luigi grinds out.

Merlich shrugs, looking wholly unbothered. “Suit yourself. If you want to do this the hard way, I’m happy to oblige.”

Unknown magic crackles to life in the dark wizard’s hands. The Dry Horde form a half-circle behind their master, hissing and rattling in anticipation as Luigi scrambles to his feet. Luigi retrieves the Poltergust’s fumbled wand with great haste. A press of a button later, the weight on his back lessens, and Gooigi is freed from the canister at last. The ectomorph gives him a Look—one that promises an impending lecture—but otherwise says nothing. Luigi grimaces. Wordlessly, he and his partner take up a defensive stance in front of Dane.

“Let’s see what you’re really made of,” Merlich cackles, lifting their arms into a striking pose. “Give it your all, Star Chi—!”

A white blur crashes into Merlich from above. It slams the dark entity face-first into the hard, stone floor, effectively silencing him. The magic in his palms fizzles out.

Gooigi bursts into hysterical, gurgling laughter while Luigi stares at the new arrival in shocked awe. “…Pepper?!”

The Polterpup yaps happily in the affirmative. He sits on the downed wizard’s head, his ghostly tail little more than an excited blur. With a cheerful bark, he abruptly leaps off his impromptu cushion and makes a line for Luigi. Pepper only just keeps from tackling his favorite human to the floor. He settles for excitedly pawing at Luigi’s legs, vying for the man’s attention. Luigi relents with a watery laugh.

Impeccable timing? Waggly tail? Dopey smile? There’s no doubt in Luigi’s mind: this is the real Polterpup.

“It’s good to see you too, buddy,” Luigi says, cupping the spirit’s beaming face. “Is this where you’ve been all this time?”

“No, we’ve only just arrived.”

Luigi turns with a yelp, startled by the new, but familiar voice. There, floating at his side, is the wayward knight. They meet Luigi’s surprise with quiet scrutiny.

“…You’re still alive,” the knight observes, sounding almost impressed. “Well done.”

Luigi blinks dumbly. “Um… thanks?” He clears his throat. “Your warnings were, uh, enlightening.”

The Dry Horde look from their prone master to the interlopers with no small amount of uncertainty. A few dare to creep forward, whether to check on the dark wizard or lead an attack, Luigi can’t say. They hardly make two shambling steps before a slew of spear constructs abruptly rise from the floor, pinning the skeletons in place like insects on a board. Luigi grimaces as they writhe and click their jaws in distress.

The knight lowers their outstretched arm. They turn their burning gaze from the impeded revenants to the dark wizard, the latter of which has begun peeling himself from the floor. Merlich rises unsteadily, giving his head a rapid shake as if to clear it. His gaze falls on his servant. For a beat, he regards the knight, uncomprehending. Luigi sees the moment it finally registers in the wizard’s mind.

“What?! Where did—?” Merlich cuts himself off when he spots Pepper. He lunges backward, eyes growing impossibly wider. “The chaos spirit! How in Jaydes’ name did you get here?!” 4

Luigi’s brows furrow in confusion. Chaos spirit? Hadn’t Merlich said something about a chaos spirit earlier? Something about one favoring him? He squints down at the Polterpup, bewildered. Merlich had been talking about Pepper?

“We used the magic circle,” the knight replies evenly.

“Impossible!” Merlich hisses, swiping a hand through the air. “I barred you from the circle; you shouldn’t have been able to enter the blasted thing, never mind use it!”

The armored Koopa nods to Pepper, an amused glint in their glowing red eyes. “Tell that to the chaos spirit.”

Merlich glares down at the Polterpup, shaking with rage. Pepper looks back, dopey smile strangely absent. It’s a little unnerving, the way he regards the dark entity. The intensity of the pup’s gaze almost feels challenging.

“Meddlesome creature… You had your chance at claiming the Star Child’s power for your own; it is now mine for the taking! And you—!” Merlich points at the armored Koopa, “Your rebellion was amusing at first, but my patience is at an end. Once I’ve dealt with the Star Child, you will suffer dearly for your insolence!”

The flames burning in the sconces along the walls flicker and flare in time with the wizard’s ire. Their warm color shifts into an icy blue. The ember-like glow in the eye sockets of the revenants stand out starkly in the eerie new light. Luigi frowns as his vision adjusts to the ambience’s dramatic shift; sometimes he hates being right.

Merlich thrusts out a commanding arm, eyes now locked on Luigi. “Bring me the mortals!” he bellows.

The Dry Horde surges forward with an eager snarl. Luigi flinches when a row of spear constructs manifest before him; parallel to the floor with sharp points trained on the undead. They abruptly streak toward their targets in a shadowy blur. The front line of revenants is knocked back as the constructs penetrate and thread through their boney bodies. Several standing directly behind their comrades are skewered as well, like a batch of particularly unappetizing kebabs. Another row of spear constructs form as the knight turns their head toward Luigi.

“I will keep the horde at bay,” they tell him. “Focus your efforts on my master.”

With a sweep of their arm, the second row of spears perforates the next wave of revenants. The knight shoves them back in the direction of the door. They repeat the process again, ensuring to pin down any of the undead that dare to break formation. The Dry Horde shrieks angrily as they begin to lose ground.

“…did I have a stroke, or is the armored ghost talking normally?” Dane asks. “Also, when did they join our team??”

“It’s a long story,” Luigi sighs.

“Useless,” Merlich growls, gaze now settled on the knight. “I’ve had it with your interference.”

Luigi’s eyes widen as electricity begins to arc between the wizard’s fingers. If Merlich manages to incapacitate the knight, they’ll lose their buffer from the revenants. He can’t allow that to happen.

“Pepper, stay here and look after the kid,” Luigi says, keeping his eyes on the wizard. “Gooigi, you’re with me.”

Luigi takes off with haste, leaving no room for argument. His partner quickly follows. Luigi begins to charge up the Strobulb as he comes within range of the wizard. The latter has yet to notice their approach. When the charging whine of Luigi’s flashlight crescendos, he calls out to Merlich to get his attention.

“Hey!”

Merlich’s head snaps toward his voice. The second they lock eyes, Luigi activates the Strobulb. Merlich cries out in alarm as his vision is whited out by the blinding light. The lightning brewing in his palms fizzles out. Gooigi quickly steps up before he can recover and fires off a Plunger Shot at the wizard’s face. The ectomorph then darts forward and catches the end of the plunger’s rope with the Poltergust’s nozzle. He pulls with all his might in a downward arc, slamming the dark entity into the ground; once, twice.

On the third swing, he aims towards Luigi. The plumber quickly intercepts as the ghost breaks free from the plunger and captures them in the gale of their own Poltergust. The ends of the dark entity’s robes are snagged by the nozzle, and Luigi turns on his heel and slams the ghost into the ground twice more. Gooigi prepares to catch them after the third swing, but Merlich has long since caught on to their violent game of paranormal pass, and blindly lashes out with a volley of flames. The ectomorph just barely ducks under the elemental attack and Luigi diverts the fire with a blast of air from the Poltergust’s Burst function.

Luigi fires off another charge of the Strobulb shortly after he lands. Gooigi follows suit, but judging by the lack of glowing from beneath the ghost’s hood, they have wizened up and shut their eyes. Merlich sightlessly raises their arms above their head, and the sound of cracking stone cuts through the hissing and groans of the Dry Horde. Chunks of rock are torn from the ceiling, and with a downward thrust of the dark entity’s hands, they descend upon the duo like a vindictive meteor shower. Luigi and his partner frantically dodge the projectiles, but the chamber, though large, doesn’t offer much in the way of cover. One stone manages to clip Luigi’s shoulder, but the plumber barely notices the pain through the rush of adrenaline. Gooigi is less lucky. A large rock smashes the poor ectomorph into paste, forcing them back into the safety of Luigi’s Poltergust canister. Luigi dares to glance over at Pepper and Dane. He is relieved to find that their area has been largely spared from the raining rubble. Currently, the Doogan is looking at something cradled in his hands—the spell book.

Luigi can’t afford to divide his attention any longer. He releases his partner from the canister shortly after the final rock falls. The ectomorph grumbles in frustration.

“Now what?” he asks.

Luigi looks around at the fallen stones. He considers using some of them as projectiles—turn Merlich’s attack against them—but he isn’t confident that the Poltergust’s gale is strong enough to hold that kind of weight. Something abruptly grabs Luigi by the ankle. He yelps and twists in the offender’s grip. A Dry Bones had managed to slip past the knight’s defenses, and it’s no wonder; the revenant is missing its legs. Luigi supposes it would be easy to overlook a foe dragging its way across the floor when the immediate threat is either at eye level or raining down on you from above.

A horde of Dry Bones is one thing, but a lone straggler missing half its assets? Luigi can handle that.

Luigi takes up the Poltergust’s wand and points it at the reanimated skeleton’s head. He switches on the intake, and at this proximity, the strength of the gale is more than enough to pull the revenant’s skull from their vertebrae. He looks to Gooigi and nods his head at the weathered shell left behind.

“You don’t happen to remember how we fought that T-Rex skeleton back at The Last Resort, do you?”

“I remember being chewing gum.” Gooigi quickly snatches up the turtle shell with his own gooey Poltergust. “But I see where this is going.”

Merlich slowly lifts his arm, palms up. The rubble littering the floor gently follows the rising motion. “Yes, keeping talking,” the dark entity growls, “it makes it all the easier to find you.”

With a sharp wave of their hand, half of the floating rubble speed toward Luigi and his paranormal partner. The two ghost hunters leap in opposite directions as they desperately try to avoid the attack. The stones had broken into smaller pieces upon colliding with the ground, meaning there were more projectiles to contend with. Between that and keeping track of their boney arsenal, escaping the onslaught completely unscathed was nigh impossible. Luigi is grazed at least twice in his retreat. He can hear some of the debris glance off the Poltergust. One stone passes over his head close enough that it nearly takes his hat with it. Several smaller rocks whizz through Gooigi’s gelatinous body, but none are large enough to break his form.

Before the wizard can unleash the remaining floating rubble, Luigi takes aim and fires off the angrily chattering Koopa skull. The wizard Vitiate cries out in surprise as they’re struck. Concentration broken, the stones collapse to the ground in a noisy clatter. Gooigi doesn’t give Merlich time to recover. He quickly launches the dusty Koopa shell and cheers as it hits its mark.

Luigi rushes forward and activates the Poltergust’s intake. The stunned ghost is drawn into its gale, and Gooigi is quick to add his Poltergust’s power to the mix. The two ghost hunters gradually move backward as they work to draw the dark entity closer. Merlich pulls in the opposite direction, but it is clear he is losing ground to the combined strength of two Poltergusts. Then, to Luigi’s surprise, Merlich abruptly turns and allows the vacuum’s suction to bring them closer. Their hands are sparking with electricity. There’s no time to dodge.

White light fills Luigi’s vision as he is blown back with a concussive boom. The tell-tale pop! of Gooigi losing form is lost in the cacophony. Luigi comes to a sudden stop against one of the many stones littered across the floor, but the pain from the impact is negligible compared to his spasming muscles. His ears are ringing from the blast, but he can still distantly hear the groaning and clattering bones of the Dry Horde trying to circumvent the knight.

“I was going to be merciful,” the dark wizard hisses. “I was going to take your power and give you a swift death.”

Luigi laboriously works to get his arms underneath him. He looks up and finds he is now facing the doorway where the Koopa Vitiate is working tirelessly to keep the revenants at bay. The horde of skeletons are relentless; if the knight attempted to come to Luigi’s aid, the horde would overwhelm them all in seconds.

“I was going to spare you from witnessing your own failure as I took the boy’s life next.”

Luigi can feel Gooigi’s presence at the back of his mind. They are sending pulse after urgent pulse through their connection, prodding Luigi to get to his feet. But Luigi isn’t quite there yet. The spasming in his arms and legs have only just eased enough for him to get to his hands and knees.

“I even considered sending the child’s body back home—give his family something to bury.” Merlich chuckles darkly. “I’m not usually so generous, you know.”

Luigi’s jaw clenches as he shoves himself into a kneeling position. He can feel the wizard’s presence behind him.

“But now? Now I plan to save you for last.”

Luigi braces himself against a stone and carefully rises to his feet. When he feels certain he won’t collapse, he slowly turns so he is facing the dark wizard. He releases Gooigi from the Poltergust’s canister and stumbles slightly at the abrupt shift in weight. Gooigi moves as if to support him, but the plumber’s drenched clothing prove to be a strong deterrent.

Merlich sneers. “Still have some fight in you, I see. You just don’t know when to quit.”

Luigi glares at the wizard as he takes up the Poltergust’s wand. “Yeah,” he says, “I’ve been told that before.” 5

Merlich matches his glare. “It matters not. You cannot outlast me, mortal. You’re nearly at your limit.” The dark entity’s tone becomes sadistic. “Once I have you restrained, I’ll make you watch as I kill the boy—slowly. Then I’ll track down the other children and force you to witness their demise as well.” His gaze shifts to Gooigi. “As for the slime golem—”

“The what?”

“—I think I’ll keep it; mold it into an obedient little pet. It may have a lot of weaknesses, but it could still prove useful. At the very least, it would be entertaining.”

The Poltergust’s wand creaks in Luigi’s tightening grip. A strange feeling builds in his chest alongside his anger. “Are you finished monologuing?”

The approximation of a snicker bubbles from the ectomorph. Merlich’s eyes snap back to Luigi, and the temperature of the already chilly dungeon seems to drop further. “…it appears I’ll only be adding six skeletons to my horde,” the ghost says, voice dangerously level. “After I’m through with you, human, there won’t be anything for your dog to bury—”

The ghost abruptly silences himself. “…your dog,” he says slowly. Merlich turns away, eyes widening as he frantically scans the room. “Where is that chaos spirit?!”

Merlich whirls around, freezing as his eyes land on the Polterpup. No, Luigi realizes, not the Polterpup, but the kid at his side. Dane is on his hands and knees, hurriedly drawing what looks to be a magic circle the size of a dinnerplate. His canvas is the dungeon floor, and his chosen medium is a sharp rock in lieu of chalk. The wayward spell book is open face-up on the floor just off to his side. The kid looks between the hastily completed drawing and the reference page. With a nod to himself, he scoops up the book and scoots back. Pepper trots forward and drops something from their mouth into the circle’s center. Whatever it is, it’s too small to make out from where Luigi is standing.

Luigi may not understand what he is seeing, but the dark wizard clearly doesn’t share his ignorance. They point sharply at the Doogan with an angry roar. “YOU!”

Dane’s head snaps up from the book with a yelp. He stares back at the angry wizard with wide, terrified eyes.

“Foolish child! You dare invoke the ancient warden’s magic?” Merlich snarls. “Have you the slightest notion what’s at stake?!”

Dane gawks at the dark entity, jaw working uselessly as he tries to formulate a response. “I—! No, not really!” he squeaks. “But Luigi’s dog seems to think it’s a good idea so… yeah!” He looks back down at the book clutched tightly in his hand. “Here goes nothing…”

Dane starts reading aloud from the old tome and the magic circle begins to glow. The wizard lifts his arms, bellowing with rage as electricity once again builds in his hands. Luigi’s stomach drops. Merlich is facing away from him and Gooigi, so they can’t use the Strobulb or Suction Shot to obscure the ghost’s vision. There’s no time to get between the ghost and the kid, either.

The Poltergust’s wand drops from Luigi’s hands as he prepares to utilize the Thunderhand, consequences be damned, but then the strange feeling that had been building in his chest steals his focus. The stirring—the energy—once again demands an outlet. Luigi unconsciously abides. He takes a step and thrusts out an arm as if performing the Thunderhand technique, but instead of lightning, a phlox-tinged energy arcs from his hand. It feels natural, and yet not at all, but whatever it is, his drenched clothes don’t conduct it. All the strange energy hones in on one target.

Merlich howls in agony as the energy strikes him from behind. The electricity forming in his hands snuffs out as he crashes to the ground. Luigi blinks owlishly at the stunned Vitiate. He retracts his still outstretched arm, watching as a final spark of phlox energy fizzles from his palm. It’s just like what happened earlier…

Gooigi warbles in surprise, head swiveling between the spasming ghost and his partner. “Since when could you do that?!”

A furious snarl cuts through any response Luigi may have given. He looks up from his hand in time to see the dark wizard rise unsteadily from the ground. Dread seizes Luigi in a cold grip. Merlich’s appearance is warping and twisting before his very eyes. Their mustache, once a pristine white, has become greenish grey in color. Stringy and clustered, the hairs seem to sway in a non-existent breeze, like Spanish moss draped over the arms of an ancient oak. A fitting analogy, given the entity’s fingers have elongated into gnarled things reminiscent of the reaching branches of a tree. Their robe hangs on them in loose, flowing tatters. The old worn fabric also appears to ripple and wave, an unnatural phenomenon in this subterranean world where wind is a foreign concept. Beneath Merlich’s hood, a third yellow eye opens in what Luigi approximates to be the wizard’s forehead. Smaller orbitals wink in and out of the hood’s obscuring shadows. Luigi isn’t sure if these are all new independently operating eyes, or one eye with an ever-changing location, and he’s even less certain which would be more unsettling.

The corrupted form of Merlich shudders with rage and residual magic. His burning gaze flares as it settles on his attacker. The dark wizard’s arm rises in a sharp, stilted motion, a gnarled finger uncurling from his warped fist to point in silent accusation. Luigi takes an unconscious step back.

“Y̺̬͉̺ ͈̹͙̳o̠̹̦͎͉͕͓ ̙̮̩̦͖u͓̖̼̲̼...” Merlich hisses, “F̙͖ ̤̤͖̘̰a ̜l ̼̪̠̬s̩͍̺̥��̥̮ ͙̩͉̻̙e ��̳̘̠̞̱ ̙̭̯͈͇̣ ̻m̭̯͖̞̘͎ ̺͚̼o̯̣ ̖̘r̳̤̫ ͇̦ͅt̞ ͇͇͙͙̪̜̩a̲̬ ̱̟̻l͔ ̣̰̩...!”

The wizard lunges at Luigi, hands alighting with unknown magic. He barely makes it three meters before he jerks to a halt, as if reaching the end of an invisible tether. The dark entity starts to drift backward. He whirls around, eyes wide with the first semblance of true fear Luigi has seen since the fight began. The ghost’s body is being drawn toward the object resting in the magic circle’s center. It finally clicks, and Luigi suddenly understands what he is seeing.

Sealing magic.

Merlich attempts to call upon their power again, but it fizzles out in his hands. He darts toward the ground and makes a desperate grab at the large stones—to use as a weapon or anchor themselves, Luigi isn’t sure—but every single one simply passes through his gnarled fingers. The ghost even attempts to escape by sinking into the floor, but the spell Dane is casting proves to be stronger and swiftly tears him from it. Merlich bellows with fury when the futility of his struggle becomes clear. He fervently curses the room’s occupants, hissing and snarling like a feral beast as he is dragged ever closer to his undoing. The dark wizard’s hateful gaze pierces Luigi one final time before he is sucked into the small object. Then, silence.

Six down…

______________________________

It isn't over yet, folks! Luigi and company still gotta get home, you know. Will the Dry Horde, or even the Dark Koopa, interfere? One thing's for certain: everyone is going to need some serious therapy after this ^^'

==

1. Much like the Jaydes/Grambi/Stars lore, I haven’t gotten around to establishing certain aspects of how Gooigi and Luigi’s connection works, nor Gooigi’s state of being within the Poltergust. Basically, Luigi and Gooigi can sense and telepathically communicate with each other when in close proximity. The further they are from each other, the weaker this connection becomes, and when Gooigi is in the Poltergust, the connection is cut off completely unless Luigi is wearing the Poltergust. On his own, Gooigi can’t hear anything outside of the Poltergust’s tank. He can still see, but not very well (being in blob form seems to dampen his senses). If someone is wearing the Poltergust, sensors along the back allow Gooigi to vicariously experience outer stimuli through the wearer’s own senses. - 2. Whenever I make real-world references in fictional universes, I try to change it enough that it (hopefully) doesn't feel jarring while still being recognizable (Google = Goomble , Yelp = Welp , et cetera). In this particular instance, I felt it was okay to leave "Uno" as is (largely because I was afraid the dumb joke might get lost in translation otherwise). - 3. I briefly considered writing an alternative "Bad Ending" where Luigi agrees to Merlich's terms, but ultimately decided against it. For one, I didn't want to give myself any more work than I already had, but most importantly, I arrived at the conclusion that there really wasn't much of a story to tell (it pretty much would go exactly as Dane called it). Besides, though I love reading angst, writing it is not my forte (nor is drama, tbh) and it doesn't fit in with the overall tone of the LLoG AU (this installment is already on thin ice in that regard lol). - 4. I wrote the scene showing how Pepper and the Knight were able to come to Luigi's aid, but I felt the flashback messed with the pacing of this chapter a little too much and I didn't think the specifics of their arrival was important enough to try and work into the main story. This scene will, however, be included in the extras that I will post after the main story is completed. - 5. The Super Mario Bros. Movie really reignited my passion and desire to finish this installment, so it only seems right that it gets a little homage. <3

[blackoutspoetry]

I'm in the process or rewriting ALL of the modern warfare reboot canon to fit my Ghoap agenda and do a fix it of mw3. I'm committing parts directly to paper out of certain canon bits and changing others I don't agree with, but for now, here's a part taken directly out of canon, word for word.

This fic will be available on ao3 as a slow burn Ghoap fic once Im finished writing. I've posted the first section here:

WARNINGS: guns, blood, graphic depictions of violence (exactly as it is in canon)

FLASHPOINT

VERDANSK, KASTOVIA

6 APRIL 2019 1500

The over chewed wad of gum was bland in his mouth and did little to soothe the tension in Soap’s system as he cast a glance out at the world beyond the passenger window, seeing it pass in a smear of colour. 

 Heart racing a mile a minute, his anger was only spurred by the comms in his ear as Shepherd's voice came through, confirming the worst. 

“Gold Eagle to Bravo-6. Security confirms gunfire and at least one explosion in the stadium with multiple injuries, over… “

He watches the world in the muted grey of Autumn fade from obliviousness to panic as they neared the stadium, seeing the world descending into chaos around them. 

Price reached to press the button on his mic, face setting into a hard look as he yanked the wheel hard for the upcoming turn. “Copy, we’re inbound now.” 

Shepherd’s response was instant. 

“Be advised, Makarov and his men may still be inside. If he’s there, you bring him out– alive.”

Soap felt uneasy about letting the man go with his life, but pushed the concern down, silencing the thought with his own acknowledgement of the order, but it did nothing to ease the growing concern as he caught onto the shifting energy on the street around them. 

“Roger that. Where’s medical?” 

Soap couldn’t make out any words from the civilians outside or let his eyes linger long enough to analyse any of the reactions properly, but they were close enough to the stadium that he knew they must have heard something.

“First responders will not enter until the scene is clear. The third floor VIP lounge may be Makarov’s next target.” Shepherd’s voice was clear and calm as he spoke, but it instantly added another thread of anxiety to the mix and Soap can’t stop himself from cursing as Price took another left, narrowly dodging past a truck on the corner and putting them on a street funnelling to the stadium dead ahead. 

“You said it, son,” Shepherd acknowledges Soap over comms. “Ghost and I are ten mikes out. Let's bag this bastard. Out here.” 

The high rise office blocks seemed to shuffle them forward and usher them out to the open air, now enough for Soap to smell the acrid smoke emanating from the stadium in a rolling curtain of grey heat.

A car swerves onto the road and shoots past them at a speed as they merge onto the main road, panic palpable in the erratic driving of those still on the road and fleeing the scene.

The fear ripples through the crowd like a curtain of panic holding the world in a vice grip and descending over the street like a dire blanket of fear. Even the dying leaves on the trees seemed more dead and wilted into themselves with an unseen oppression, like an incursion of an unknown force pushing hostile tendrils into the ground that the earth itself, and by extension, the trees on the sidewalk, seemed sharp and alert to the whims of its enemy. 

The bleak sky was barren like the sun had withdrawn into itself to make way for the undulating spire of smoke curling into the sky before them from the blazing inferno that leaked from the burst windows of the structure, weeping fire. 

Unconsciously, his hand went for the chain around his neck, but it was obscured by his tactical vest and the lack of that comfort made him feel like he was floating in a sea of disarray with no anchor point. 

“Makarov threatened the airport and hit the stadium instead,” Soap seethes through gritted teeth. Even Sergeant Burns, who had been quiet up until that point, had something to say to the carnage. 

“He’s a fuckin’ madman.” 

A row of orange boom gates that was meant to be blocking off the entrance to the stadium’s underground parking was raised for the hurried exit of the cars, now descended into complete disarray as a car drives straight out through the wrong gate into the incoming lane and almost collides with their vehicle. 

“Fuckin’ hell!” Price cursed as he swerved aside for it, missing it by a hair’s breadth and gunning it to the middle gate before another car could block them off. 

“Civilians are everywhere,” Burns noted, sounding as thoroughly shaken as Soap felt. 

Soap resists the urge to look back at the blaze beside him as Price turns down the ramp to the parking lot. 

“Alright,” Price begins, gathering their collective attention. “Check your shots. We’ll have a lot of unknowns inside.” 

Civilians are fleeing on foot and he doesn’t stop when a man trips on the incline of the road and scuttles out of the way before an oncoming car has the chance to plough him over. 

“And Makarov?” Soap risks a glance back over to the stadium, now towering over them like a lit funeral pyre. 

“You heard the order. ROE still stands. We take him alive.” 

Soap jolted when two cars collided in front of them and glass skittered across the junction. Price had been so fixated on the collision that he didn't notice the civilian rushing in front of them until Soap shouted at him to stop. 

There’s a heavy thud against the hood of the car and for a sickening moment, Soap worries they’ve hit her, but when she stands up unharmed, he breathes a sigh of relief. 

Irritably, Price gestures wildly for her to get out of the road. “Get out of here! Go!” 

They watch her stumble disoriented from their path before shooting off ahead into a dark tunnel. Cars piled up on the outgoing lane and Soap shouts for Price to watch it when a desperate soul reaching the back of the row decides to take a risk and turn onto the incoming lane, narrowly missing them again.

“Close one,” Soap says, trying to make sense of the cacophony of panic surrounding them as he watches for more civilians on foot and desperate cars. 

“We’re still in one piece,” Price concedes mirthlessly as he turns off from the incoming tunnel into a wider section that splits off to a higher floor. 

“Watch it!” Burns cries from the back. 

The wailing of an ambulance siren cuts through the panic and the oncoming glow of a pulsing red light gives them enough of a warning to get out of the way as it rushes past them and they turn up onto the ramp to the higher floor. 

For a moment, Soap has the chance to think its blessedly empty, save for a parked ambulance in his peripheral vision until he witnesses a speeding car mow down a civilian, letting the rest of the group erupt into panic as he reversed and rerouted. 

Soap curses as he glances back at the contorted form of the man as Price drives them past, determination set in his face. 

They can’t afford to go back for him now, probably dead on impact by the look of it, but that wasn’t their concern now. 

“This is chaos,” Burns says. 

“Yeah, it's what Makarov wants,” Price confirms. 

Their concern was Makarov and getting that sick son of a bitch behind bars. Soap sends up a quick prayer for the man now, knowing he’ll forget to do it when they’re out of here and he has time to think, it will be lost to the chaos of the day.

[violence-as-a-love-language]

Prompt 6: Idioms; Miss the Boat

By: @violence-as-a-love-language (Team Grey)

Summary: Black Pete and Lucius discuss what could have been if they weren't pirates.

/////////

"Hey, Pete?"

"Hmm?"

"You ever think about… what we could have been? Y'know, if we'd never become pirates?"

Black Pete snorted a laugh, rolling over to face Lucius. He had his bottom lip between his teeth, worrying away. Adorable. "Nah, course not! I was born to be a pirate, love. No regrets."

His answer didn't seem to help Lucius' worrying. If anything, it got worse. "Ah. Alright then."

There was a beat of silence. "I mean, y'know, doesn't mean pirating is everyone's first choice," Pete offered, threading his fingers through Lucius' hand. He planted a light kiss on his forehead, and could feel the tension easing in Lucius' body. Just a bit. "Was it not a, uh, first choice for you?"

It was Lucius' turn to snort. "Far from it. More like piracy was the only thing I was even sort of qualified for." He pillowed his head on his other arm, staring down at their joined hands. "Not much use being an orphan who can read and write when you can't even lift bags of spices without spilling them all over the floor."

Pete traced his thumb over the back of his hand. "If you could've chosen, what would you have been?"

Lucius went quiet for a moment. "Don't laugh but… I've thought about designing clothes? Y'know, for fashion purposes."

Pete smiled. "Gotta say, that sure sounds like you. Bet you'd make the fanciest, most nice looking clothing all the rich shits would wanna wear."

Lucius laughed. "Oh god, that sounds nightmarish. Every rich asshole begging to wear my designs. I would get such a kick out of making them wait. Like, sorry sir/madam, you're too late. The caramel dress is all sold out for this month."

"Well I never!" Pete said, his voice climbing several octaves as he waved his freehand dramatically in front of his chest. "No one says no to me, the great Count Eliza!"

"Well I am, and you just have to suck it up, your highness." Lucius shoved a finger into Pete's chest, making him giggle and slap his hand away.

"So brutal," he mussed, leaning forward to kiss Lucius' neck. "Bet they'd all have to listen to you if they wanted your designs."

"Mmm you're very right." His freehand cupped the back of Pete's neck as he snuggled closer. 

They went silent for a long moment, Pete's breath fanning out across his collarbone. Then quietly, Pete said, "I, um, always wanted to work with my hands more."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Like more woodwork?"

"Mmm." Pete stared down at their joined hands, thumb stroking over Lucius' wooden one. "I like making little knick knacks sometimes. Little bears. Squirrels. Mice."

"That sounds adorable. Bet you get all th details right."

"Always. I like to make them super realistic, y'know? So you feel like you're really seeing one." He paused, closing his eyes. "...I always wished I coulda run a little store. Sold them proper. I think… I think people woulda liked them."

"I bet they would have, love." Lucius squeezed his hand. "We would have made a killing not being pirates."

"Yeah well, who wants to be rich anyways? Especially if it means I can't do this." Pete pulled away just a moment so he could reach Lucius' lips. They kissed softly. Carefully. Like it would all dissolve in a moment of they weren't careful.

"You've got a good point there," Lucius said, pulling back slightly to let his breath ghost over his lips. "Why would I want the world, when I couldn't have you?"

[literallydying00]

“Call me Simon”

Simon ‘ghost’ riley x gn!reader

a/n: Hey, sorry this is kinda short and that its kinda bad I’m just pretty busy right now and most of the time I was writing this was between 1-5 am but other then that I hope you enjoy :))

Warnings: mentions of blood, death, mission gone wrong, guns/knives, arguing?, angst, injuries, please tell me if I missed any!

Genre: Hurt//comfort

Letting the cold water hit your aching body, you groaned. The water quickly turning a dark crimson as it ran over the open wound on your side and arm, it stung but you could bare it for the time being.

If you hadn’t been so reckless maybe you would have ended up here, drowning in self pity and you scrubbed away the dirt caked to your skin. The mission was supposed to go smoothly, enter the building, find the target, kill him. Those were your exact orders but of course something always goes wrong.

Everything was going according to plan, you had the target in your sights. Somehow you were so caught up in getting the mission done and over with finally that you failed to notice the footsteps coming up behind you. As you were about to pull the trigger you felt a sharp pain in your side. You immediately turned to face the person who had just plunged a 6 inch shard of metal into you when they suddenly turned the knife. You shot, you don’t know at what but you shot. The shot threw your attacker off and gave you enough time to start swinging at them, landing a few solid punches. In the heat of the moment you dropped your gun, but before you could retrieve the gun a shot rung out in your ears, then another, and another. Luckily only one shot landed in your arm. You hissed and reached for their hand, successfully getting your gun back. You shot them point blank in the chest and they fell to the ground in agony clutching their chest as they stopped struggling.

Suddenly a voice, “Y/n do you copy?” a rough voice sounded through the comms, it was Price. “Yes, I copy” you spoke shakily, “What is the enemies status?” he said almost angrily “I lost sight of him and he ran” you said nervously. A sigh crackles through the comms “Re group at the entry point.” he says sternly.

You’re pulled out of the bitter memory when you turn off the water and step onto the floor. You try to dry yourself as efficiently as possible and get your clothes on, a red spot quickly appears through the side of your shirt. You’re about to just wrap up both of your wounds and leave it for the night when you hear booming footsteps approaching the bathroom door. A soft knocks rings itself through your aching eardrums and you hesitantly open the door.

On the other side of the door a large figure looms over you. You can very clearly make out his skull balaclava and realize its Ghost. He pushes his way into the bathroom and pins you against the countertop. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?” he asks, his voice stiff and annoyed “what are you talking about” you almost growl at him and he points to your side “You’re supposed to call in injuries” he just seems to get more annoyed as he goes on. “It could have been stitched up a long time ago but of course, you and your…” he paused “We are a team. We are supposed to help each other” he says more calmly, though you can still here traces of agitation in his tone. “I’m sorry.” you say, a hint of guilt in your voice “Just call it in next time. Up on the counter” he says as he goes to grab the first aid kit on the wall. You immediately sit up on the counter slightly confused as ghost didn’t have any medical experience to your knowledge.

He takes out the thread from the first aid kit and he takes your arm, his touch is almost too gentle for such a ‘big scary military man’ as others might say. One hand on your arm and one hand on your waist to keep you from jumping to much (to say you aren’t madly blushing would be a lie). You yelped after he did another stitch, “sorry” he says very lightly rubbing circles on your waist as he finishes the stitching. He moves to your side turning you a little as he rolls up your shirt, “Jesus christ” he says winching at the look of your wound “is it that bad?” you ask reluctantly and he doesn’t respond just goes to start the next round of stitches. “What happened” he asks and you tell him exactly what happened, he sighs “You gotta stop getting ahead of yourself on missions” he says sternly “It’ll get you killed sooner you know” “and we- I don’t want that to happen.” you can hear the light sadness in his voice when he says that and for once, you are the one that doesn’t respond. You hissed as he did another stitch “I don’t know how and I don’t want to say this but, I care about you.” he says with almost no expression at all “I really care about you” he says while standing up having finished the stitching and looking you straight in the eyes.

His eyes looked so beautiful even in the dim light of the bathroom, his chocolate brown eyes lovingly looking in to your own, a look you have never seen before in the normally emotionless man. His hand still on your waist as he waits for any sort of response, a change in facial expressions, a verbal response, a change in body language, anything to help him decode what you were feeling. “I care about you too so much more then you know” you say as you placed your hands on his shoulders finally meeting his gaze. His gaze is so soft almost as if to not scare you away if he even moved as he lifts up his balaclava just enough for his raspberry coloured lips to peak out and you can see the light smile he has adorn his lips. You slowly lean in to close the gap, placing your hands on his upper back as he wraps his hands fully around your waist gently making sure not to so much as graze the wound on your side and he pulls you as close as possible just like if he let go you would simply turn to dust in his arms.

The kiss feels like finally getting in the sun after so long in the dark, it feels like a breath of fresh air, it feels like you’re finally safe somewhere in the world after so long of feeling like you belong nowhere, the kiss is so warm and soft but so passionate at the same time. Soon though the warm feeling leaves and you and him share a look of adoration for each other but the moment comes to an end when ghost pulls his balaclava back down and starts to leave. All of a sudden without thinking you call out “When we have some time off do you think maybe we could go out sometime, Ghost?” he pauses and looks back at you “Call me Simon” he says before leaving the bathroom. You smile to yourself knowing full well that means yes in Simon language and you giddily hop off the counter completely forgetting about your injuries, you yelp as a wave of pain hits you and you slowly walk off cursing too yourself.



[ollieofthebeholder]

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] || Also on AO3.

Chapter 10: March 2011

“Found one!” The kitchen door slams into the wall behind it as Melanie bursts in, holding a book aloft over her head and smirking.

Martin drops the knife he’s holding; it skitters across the counter from him. Gerard almost reaches out to catch it, then stops himself—he’s still got a scar from the last time he tried that. Instead, he turns to Melanie. “What’ve you got there, Neens?”

Melanie pushes the door shut and throws the bolt, then drops the book triumphantly onto the table. “Haunted bookstore. The ghost threw every book in the section onto the floor except this one, so I took a look at it while the others weren’t paying attention.”

Now that it’s stopped moving, Gerard takes the knife by the handle and prods the book lightly with the tip. Thankfully, it neither starts bleeding nor attacks him back. “Does it have a label?”

“No, so I don’t think it was one of his, but the ghost wouldn’t touch it. And when I asked the owners, they’d never seen it before.”

“Yeah, all right, that tracks.” Gerard picks up the book and turns it over. It’s pretty typical of the sorts of books they deal with all the time—well-worn but not battered, slight foxing at the bottom right corners of both covers, a few loose threads dangling from the spine. The edges of the pages are tinted; probably at one time they were a vivid red, but it’s faded over the years to a sort of maroonish-rose. He definitely can feel the power emanating from it, but he can’t tell what power. Carefully, he opens the cover—they all know not to read past the title page if they can help it—but the title doesn’t mean anything to him. “The Transvaal From Within?”

“That’ll be a Slaughter one, then,” Martin murmurs. He hasn’t looked in the book’s direction, focusing instead on packing up the beginnings of the meal he was working on before Melanie’s unexpected entrance.

Melanie hitches herself up to sit next to him. “How do you know?”

“Get your ass off the counter,” Martin says automatically. Melanie, in the true manner of baby sisters since time immemorial despite their age gap only being a matter of weeks, crosses her arms over her chest and sticks her tongue out at him. “Uh, that one’s about the Boer War, I think. War’s usually the Slaughter.”

Gerard closes the book and runs a finger over the cover, instantly regretting it. “Oh, ugh. It’s bound in human skin.”

Melanie makes a face. “Great. Just great. I hope it’s not the ghost’s skin. Oh, maybe that’s why it couldn’t touch it—or wouldn’t. Because it didn’t want to damage its own body?”

“Melanie, if you were dealing with a ghost that’s bound to something like this—” Gerard waves the book in Melanie’s direction, scowling to try and hide the unease and genuine fear twisting in his gut.

“I’m kidding, Gerry. Jeez. Anyway, I got some good footage from this thing, so…doubt it.” Melanie snatches the book from Gerard’s gesticulating hand and holds it out to Martin. “Here, is it the Slaughter?”

Martin sighs heavily and slides his glasses off his face. His eyes go unfocused, and Gerard feels every single one of his joints ache—a neat little side effect of the protective charms etched onto his skin that he’s conveniently failed to mention to the others—as he draws on the Eye’s power. It fades quickly enough, though, and Martin swears in Polish as he puts his glasses back on. At least, Gerard assumes he’s swearing. It sounds profane, but since he’s never picked up any phrases in Polish beyond how much is that book and don’t mind my brother, he’s just lonely, Martin could be saying anything.

“What is it?” he asks, reaching for the book again.

“Slaughter.” Martin pulls it out of Gerard’s reach and tosses it onto the table. “And the Flesh.”

Gerard blinks. “Fuck.”

“It’s a twofer?” Melanie whistles and actually slides off the counter. “Shit. Lucky thing I didn’t read it. Guess that explains how I could feel it, though.”

“You underestimate yourself.” Martin nudges her gently, then reaches into the cupboard over the stove and pulls out what’s ostensibly a stockpot, which he sets on the table next to the book. “Anyway. We should be able to handle it the usual way.”

Gerard reaches for his coat, which he’s casually tossed over the back of one of the kitchen chairs, and fishes out the brass lighter with the eye design Melanie gave him for his birthday a few years back. Presenting it to her, he says, “I believe the honor of starting goes to you, Ms. King.”

“Hmm.” Melanie takes the lighter and flicks it a couple times, making sure it’s filled, Gerard guesses. She looks at the book, then back and forth from Martin to Gerard. Finally, she starts singing “The Golden Vanity”—not one of their usual, but it’ll work. Gerard and Martin join in when she reaches the chorus, and Melanie smoothly hands the lighter off to Martin.

Martin sings the second verse, then passes the lighter to Gerard for the third. As they all sing the last line of the third verse, he gives the lighter back to Melanie, who’s ready with The Transvaal From Within; she flicks the lighter on again and touches it to the corner. The book catches easily, and Melanie holds it over the pot as she continues singing.

It’s an odd ritual, but it works, so none of them question it; the only times Gerard has ever been hurt burning a Leitner has been when he does it on his own and doesn’t give himself the time to at least do part of it properly. It’s best when it’s all of them, of course, but he can do it on his own in a pinch. They each take turns singing a verse of a shanty or some other song of the sea—it works best when it’s something with a chorus they can all sing at the end, but as long as they all join with the last line of each verse it’s usually all right—and set the book on fire after the last one of them has sung. Strangely, no matter how long or short the shanty is, the books always seem to burn exactly as long it lasts, then finally crumble to ash when they hit the last note (they experimented once with a book, little more than a chapbook really, that belonged to the Lonely, and a rousing rendition of “Drunken Sailor”; despite the fact that they got progressively sillier with potential fates for the eponymous sailor, they managed to keep it going for half an hour and the book burnt the entire time).

Gerard doesn’t understand how it works, or why, but it’s kept them safe this long.

They hit the final note, and Melanie opens her fingers to allow the last corner of the book to drop towards the stockpot. It crumbles into ash as it falls, and then there’s nothing but silence.

Gerard peers into the pot at the fine layer of powder at the bottom. “Have you ever considered straining that and making soap out of it?”

“Looked into it. It’s got to be hardwood ash.” Martin gives him an exasperated look. “And do you want to scrub the dishes with the remains of the Flesh?”

“Well, when you put it that way.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Melanie says flippantly. “Gerry’s never washed a dish in his life.”

“I’ll get you for that,” Gerard promises.

Martin rolls his eyes and puts the stockpot in the sink, then sets the water running. Over his shoulder, he says, “Go wash your hands. I’ll have food ready in a bit.”

Melanie and Gerard both know what that really means, but Melanie waits until they’re in the bathroom to say quietly, “Is it just me, or is he getting bad again?”

“It’s not just you,” Gerard replies in an undertone. “Think you can spend the night?”

“Was already planning to figure out how to convince him it’s his idea for me to stick around so I don’t do something stupid like go back and see if there are more books of power in other sections of the bookstore. Not that I would, but if I can make him believe I might and he thinks it’s too dangerous for me to be alone, maybe I can at least con him into a manicure. You?”

“Like I have so many other options.” Gerard cuts off the water and reaches for the towel. “Come on. Let’s go take care of our brother.”

[incarnateirony]

Patrick out here desperately scrambling to concoct a universe in which he didn't spend several months making shrill noises mocking the exact elements of ACTUAL POSTS OF ACTUAL STUFF I WAS ACTUALLY SPECCING which turned out to be, SURPRISE TO NOBODY, THE ACTUAL PLANNED ENDING GRADUALLY RELEASED IN INFO BYTES.

Dude out here basically crawling through my #shitposts #crack tags like "LOOK HOW WRONG THIS MOTHERFUCKER IS"

bro I also have crack posts of Jared sleeping with DJ Qualls that doesn't mean that was my actual fucking information

ARE YOU OKAY BRO

L I T E R A L L Y HOW CAN YOU NOT TELL APART "FUCKING AROUND WITH FRIENDS IN SILLY THREADS-- HEY HEY HEY WHAT IF WHAT IF" from "So anyway the ending will involve Castiel dying in subsuming death by facing his shadow, and then dean will die next before sam gets a full life on earth, while the others reunite in heaven at the roadhouse"

LITERALLY. I HAVE LIKE. ENTIRE VIDEO SERIES DOCUMENTING THIS ENTIRE "SPECULATION" PATH, THERE ARE HOURS OF STUDIOUS FOOTAGE COVERING TO DETAIL OUT FOR THE VIEWER WHY IT WOULD TREND THAT WAY. THERE IS a 6 HOUR PATHWAY I EDITED FOR YOU GUYS.

THERE ARE LITERALLY DOZENS OF POSTS AND POSTS WITHIN MASTERPOSTS THAT WERE RELEASED WITH THESE VIDEOS EXPLAINING WHAT THEY MEAN AND HOW THEY MOVE AND WHERE THEY WERE GOING AND HOW DIFFERENT AUTHORS WERE DOING IT AND WHERE THEY WERE TAKING IT.

THE FIRST RELEASE ALONE WAS THREE VIEWING HOURS OF CONTENT BEFORE THE FOOTAGE AFTER AS NEW CONTENT RELEASED.

AND HE CAN'T TELL IT APART FROM A SHITPOST.

That about sums up his general reading or media comprehension at the end of the day, doesn't it.

This dumb motherfucker heckled and laughed then REFUSED omission and

I cannot emphasize this enough

I repeat,

HE SPENT 5,000$ IN HIS OVERBLOWN CONFIDENCE JUST TO PROVE HE IS, IN FACT, AN OBLIVIOUS DIPSHIT.

Five thousand dollars. I need you to understand this man's mental state. He was so goddamn confident he worked with Kelios and Vinnie and burned literal thousands of dollars to prove I was right all along, even without Dabb clarifying the roadhouse or everyone else the thousand other elements I laid out there.

All he has to grasp at straws with now is crackposts and denial of the very obvious chain of events.

What a sad self consolation. I think he feels it. His entire relevance and platform is withering before his eyes. Everything he has ever been a pretender for already festers on the floor and the next few years is nothing but vultures picking apart the carcass.

Patrick's apparently been trying to read the goddamn memes on my blog like tea leaves holy buddha on a pickle

miserable, self absorbed jared stans like himself wanted to believe Jensen would let it rest. That he "liked" the ending. They ignored everything--they ignored him ignoring the finale, even, and waxing poetic about something else. They ignored the omissions, they ignored the upset, they ignored the BTS info of what caused the breakdown, they ignored it all.

They wanted, no they NEEDED it to rest. If it rested, they could continue to air out this "EVERYONE ELSE WAS WRONG TRUFINALE IS KING JENSEN IS BIBRO GOD" if Jensen had let it go.

But Jensen can't let it go, and they can't let THAT go.

...you know what happens? To angry spirits that can't let go?

They hate the prequel and drag it and act like they have any comprehension what's going on when they're literally 8 episodes behind the curve. They see the signs, they all saw Jib, most got angry in the moment. They know what's fucking happening and they're losing their shit and popping open any google argument loophole they can perceive for a road out.

There isn't one.

They aren't the vengeful ghosts.

Jensen, and all that was ripped away from him is and are.

At the end of the day, that's all this noise is. Their upset that their parasocial, projected, idealized version of Jensen doesn't exist. That he isn't that man, just like I said days before Jib to him in open warning full of as many bold headliners in this post.

That Jensen doesn't exist. But to face that they need to also face they've sided with the oppressor. Some, i think, consciously know and do it for that cause. Others, I think, just acted in pride and desperate need for attention online. The longer I've known of Patrick, the more convinced I am that he is a conscious bad faith actor.

Those bad faith actors are aware they are the enemy. And they welcome that role and, just like his malicious rending at Jensen and the Winchesters as a person and idea each their own, he will gladly fulfill that position. And part of his bid for enemy action is sewing this rotten discord or the lies he was called in advance on and caught in live in my pinned post. That's it. That's who Patrick is.

And that is All. he is.

Not even as a fandom.

Just as a person

that's all he is.

not even a person really. just a miserable pretending sack of shit and lies, who's terminal onlineitis comes to catching M&Gs and badly warped fan rumors to warp himself again, and pretend, hey, this makes me connected, and valid. He lives for it. And he fails for it. And if you look at what his notes rot at, frankly his social media presence has rightfully died for it. He used to get notes every post in the hundreds and a few tipped to thousands. Now, he's lucky if his hottest of takes collects 30 notes, and the better part cap at 5. How the mighty have fallen with the public's growing awareness.

Frankly he just needs to disappear but I think he imagines rebuilding that following and that narrative with new oblivious parties to his game. It's only going to get worse for him from here.

[libidomechanica]

Untitled (“Her look—her way of speaking, and loose or”)

A limerick sequence

               1

Ah! And even weep to death! Where the cheeks; and so the least one thieving though    love’s despite.—Her look—her    way of speaking, and loose or used to be; but straight, out of rock.

               2

And at the same a shadows, the evening, it light of love, of happier    men—for the flower, I    never brought to write in the centre of a new morn. Me in.

               3

Then murmured Florian, I with shrills. The stones, O Sea! I’m sorry I cannot    be bitter contested    farthings wear the public good, but babble. His rightful green.

               4

There with baleful ardor burn, your life to the stars above, and a day, so    surely; am I not    love your lips! And burn, and we entered; found a little deeper.

               5

But I know the time with you? Then I ’d follow’d bait on purpose laid themselves    were they are silent    here. I think my love there on them. She now, not even akin.

               6

The joy of my silence wakes my song. Know I my meaning, what the force of    repulsion and evening    has thrown us free underground, and you here below the pain?

               7

Except that night. Or the pure and sphere. Akin. In the figured, and sees pale    sickly ghosts gliding. Resting    still it whisper’d a private affair within you wrought so.

               8

One another,—not mine, I think and spatter on Seventh Avenue might    blend in one, and reserve.    Yet thou teachest how to smile that was altogether make this.

               9

No one cadence, the bloom and all creation impossible for one hour    more I gained. Set your though    you have your memory My sweet breath, and feel as safe, supreme.

               10

Error like a horse we got, and jewels on; all day let envy her. Of polished    metal, a lethal    musket shot, a caravel staving its way into the facts!

               11

Of immolation, any phase of death, we were through it is all cold does    not keep that floods the shame.    Sits quite alone? Strange wondering in mud. And beats, and thee long?

               12

To bring it was there were true. As the world that men may pluck them for her they    are aware of all the    floods and from the Quaker holds, from whose love round me once again!

               13

Fairer than the avoidance of the involuntary sigh brake, as she    now, no force; she rapt upon    sand which men delight in, martial exercise?—For the stone.

               14

What more constant be. And furthermore how did it die? We shudder but despised    straight, past reason at    all it’s a kind of the old man say when he comes from a cup.

               15

Be; I will melt this reverend gentlewoman. Dribbling the first, the horses    beat, beat, beat balm upon    our dead self, as I am not think of me when I praise thee?

               16

Within me dwells such destruction flies, a race, as the riches that the summer’s    noon clouded; fall’n like    the tribe of Reuben? Fairer than her lips my Nectar drinking.

               17

Hath no misfortune but you may reassure their loneliness. Dead, long dead,    and time restore! We were    the bad guest hid: but do not; I would sleep to deal with my boys!

               18

To dance floor to the general of hot desire, the west by this house said    the bitter. As when one    weeps, then quickly me from him who had ceased to be; but she is.

               19

Tis past, that they met a press-gang crew; and Sally Brown! And snow? The book I    am reading its hull    again. The bed; at length into wail succession: dust for fire!

               20

My dream! False, ere I could even what and white, but the involuntary    sigh brake, as humours fly    or creepe; since where you go, flushed with a fear of consequences.

               21

A crystal brows—there’s no dream that her sake, to bed you see the soft white    fish on the other doth    excell; rich in the top of Mt. Then, beauteous maid, you may!

               22

I bade me tie are humble; in the first place for me do the topic die.    Imagining a voice    thread, and me: for women, up till the loved the sandy footprint.

               23

And you willing to be. Beat balm upon our eyes are seacolor. What it    fades out the wheels of these    flames where all men, beckoning out roads to a wall; and, without.

               24

Forty-odd befell; they were firm, there suspicion quest to have your lips and    our tithes in the sea    wand’ring in mud. When we walked, nearly skies; in a waste the stars.

               25

That is not Stonehenge simply human feeling but a feint. And that’s what is    dead body of hate, I    feel so free and wake with though not let me be; and oh, young beams.

               26

The green. Such make his desire to tell, whence after her, an open-hearted—    ah, you serve me so?    That move men’s heart is a precious evidence that blurt of me?

               27

To nothing fair, but, your swain is Nature drest, while she doth itch, my thoughts of    tape delays and light,    continues to his distress reeks. Distinction in old time restore!

               28

’ Ken ye how Meg o’ the Mill was married. Or sprite, disdaine to hear her smile—    her look—her way of speaking,    and in, hammering the North. They said to many flower!

               29

From isolation will me soon to hell, my female evil tempteth my    better, for nought except    by me. Thy continues cold as is the dark lintels, the lie!

               30

What art the circle, the east, and the shutting. That he sings in me, till bloudy    bullets from a sepulchre    is knows all transition and sees pale sickly ghosts gliding.

               31

The child, today two women bear childhood? As you and I almost fear to    some say the throat, cling, strange.    Such though she perhaps he mixt with vncalled on Sally Brown, used!

               32

Pray love shall I say? She cried, O fly, while both of us dies, and loving    clown puff his great white v-    neck t-shirt on your suit and song, glad I did faintly blowing!

               33

Bound for to lie here: after than you. To Love and then for they, at least before    me like the rotation,    I loved me; my grief and pain to find the Piggy, I will.

               34

Not a bell was bedded? Three times I burn it just observe, I tell you, girl,    methinks he seems the court    that now unpunished bats, blinded rabbits, cows with wickedness.

               35

If anyone driving in Heaven’ he added, lest some brink? Now, younger.    Tears. May God make my heart    is a constellation in the riches that haven for Hell.

               36

But I will keep the world will be! Siller, he canna hae luve to spare form’d    to stone; she took the sin,    and that’s my Julia’s breath that were and moon were gone and Faith shines.

               37

Since, before man was. Nor will I quit thy shape to see how she goes to inform    the womb wherein I    fry? A slumbering lay it chance did into her breast the facts!

               38

But a possible after tary, there’s a stone half hidden; tis my    mother just as I have    freedom, or the sea, to time, to all the literary leaves.

               39

Or, if not quite alone that glow on the bones are boundless main to waken    unavailing tears. Did    we guess we’d taken off her elf, she roused, and her how, ’ my fault!

               40

Pardon, I am going home that Boy, that I bear with the mosses there.    Eight spring sweeps through he    tried to sight, my pilgrim’s staff gave out green field that I do change?

               41

I spoke of tyrannie? In which were unjust. I’ll win thee there is that could not,    thought of a troubled spher    e d course to Loue, and so it was an academic joke.

               42

And wept outright, that die by love’s eternity. How charmingly sweet and    face the abject fear I    am an animal and I love your magics, spells and kitsch.

               43

And I am not think its music has power in Thee vain are thrust into    gold. From her full lips    derive honey enough food in my Love, and how they both love?

               44

But a feint. Have given of old enjoys it; but beautie can be but a shady    brow, a small crown themselves    inosculated; consonant chords that soundtrack of screams.

               45

Deep, as drops its dead; there it is! Was not there be lightning grape—I might knock    it to Elenor, I    am cunnin’, sae ye wi anither you’re not talked astray.

               46

With walls as warm as anybody’s future Dead! Certainties now crown upon    her face; in the color    the auspices of ancient love hers could bear, and his work.

               47

Diseased; but I, my mistress’ thrall, came there! Troth, leave they not buried. Thy golden    eye peep’d o’er the meeting    thine at mornings showed up I felt she walks, treads on the square.

               48

A bankrout knowledge, without pains to defende, which were unjust. Her blush through    our open parlour winds    kiss thy perfumed, thy cup’s heart nectar-brimmed. Womb wherein I fry?

               49

But thou that footprint. Up went to sea, when King Victor has Italy’s made,    for still. That has been raveled    and she brought a sense of pleasure. This, ’ he cried; ah, curs’d duke!

               50

But as the dog, and let our body’s future, bravery turns to pulp. Yet    she will be false, ere I    could bear, and leave the empurpled champaign, drank so much stone here.

               51

Like a dumb statue’s plinth the better angel mine, no voice says the palms. Moss    smuggles stars into you    and for the tomb, to be friendly sigh for him—he asks no more.

               52

Sweet you sing! Ah, woman’s could have walk’d awake with thee strength renew, were it    but the viands. Be identified    the woman-conquers what Meg o’ the Mill was married?

               53

Still I search the fruits of that, ’ she answered, or without alarm, and all their    blossoms from Gaeta:—Shot.    Enough if deaf and dumb and bleached: bees pass it unimpeached.

               54

The birth; whether that, dizzy with an unshed tear—the joy that I bear away.    Nor atom that have    left his wine and heaven, far remove all things wear their mother!

               55

Curb, you stood tranced in long ere this, and wound I seal. ’Tis the freak of my    most princely pow’r, which leans    to you. Rhyme on its green footsteps; no one came a Tyrant said?

               56

And, heaven for a moment. Three, fifteen stone, on thee; though you had been men    you need not its breath of    wild air; still I be bousing, for I know no such Liberty.

               57

Whose beauty indirectly tell; but being my fingers of the tender    eye? Among the broad lightning    grace, as that proves the shadow of ice exchanges the facts.

               58

For honey fore her darlings! Thy morning, noon, and the artist that which first    place forbeares, then lack’d    I matter; that erst perfumed, thy cup’s heart more than she thing reefs.

               59

Eyes the snake, that thrill and act, nor shrink ashamed. Perhaps it was plain; as the    woman next he came to    where love may murmured Florian gazing after you’ve risen.

               60

Morn in the air be music with your fur in a race of god look deep into    traffic. Poor hygiene    and in possession so; had, having spoke, she raisèd up her head.

               61

So when their own praise saying from thou with dumbe eloquence, I prize his thousands    strong in clamor’s hour.    With what unusual heats water, half alcohol, to the tune.

               62

For the story of age, nor give the woodland echo rings; and although you    have you when your spirit    seem. Too jealous, often I cannot even bury a man.

               63

She is in her arms a wet napkin by him advantage should hear the windows    of thy love or thy    dear Perilla, I will be.—Intense sensation I have sworn.

               64

Can you knead me and day, and I proue her strong, writ now but his, and, o’er a    bridge, and somebody else    all night. The end, we should but vow the pain? But scorne of beggarie.

               65

That the end of mine discover the childhood well. An’ ken ye what would that    yearning, eyes in your    affections, let none looks and listening valley and women are lips?

               66

And groan’d her dear sisters’ libertie? In the heau’nly eye; there it was: but, when    shall be both of us.    But babble, great city sounding age’s cruel hawk caught her up.

               67

To compass our dead seeing; and the sleeping early, an’ ken ye how Meg    o’ the outer world well    know the Prince, I prize his thistles sowed! That they call even so.

               68

An expense of pleasure, they danced by touch of hand and eye. To the day fled    on the vessel of the    churchmen starue. A corner where Cupid trembler in the green shell.

               69

The wretchedest age, since I knew no rock so hard but the murder’d head, her    spirit fold, her back against    thy widow and loud, the suddenly feels! A lady’s maid.

               70

He laid the Piggy, I will. ’St no more than is yon moon which in all fair    to the future’s epigraph,    new angel eyes! At no man’s boy, I would die for at need.

               71

Or nest for fear’d but the bitter grows, sighing years re-sighing on earth. The    enemy with man. Voice    as yet had made women faded cheek, and in the tender eye?

               72

And thought of eyelashes before with many legions of the old ladies    cough love’s sake, to bed you    go. To the moon, the moors was only love in love’s sake only.

               73

She fled. He in the degrading details I have of comfort long, and mak’st    all her green laurels at    the East doth swell, my tongue doth lie, made more at her house arriv’d.

               74

For crystal brows—there’s no one’s back and grieve to sail with mortal flies, a    race, as the word EVIL.    Fly, to slack them now for ever, blessing room in the ceiling.

               75

Deed is done; take this, t’ have plagued what a flint is he! Told me heat, the sun    and moon renew the ground    the arms of my life must picture done, as in a curbside pool.

               76

Not the same soul out to the tombs there’s no dream and told the sun himself    in single life? You are    the treasures hold; but yourself the same soul with mine affianced.

               77

Kept close, or plain, valley and would have known. ’ Yon rotten tree, it’s a’ for the    knowledge, and shadow will    come on its pattern and even what thou do’st dwell; for pity!

               78

A corner where they be. The delight of early risen she pours the steps    behind, a dream, and at    last, is her woe began, they circle. Whose silence wakes to-night.

               79

And made their sorrow take than three parts in shadows, the balls,—was impossible    and watch the sandy    footprint. Milk-teeth of babes, and will be. If I can say the sea.

               80

With thought dead; then I should forget, may God make this, ’ he cried and shadow of    a back-hoe. I stammered    there at point they met a present nor the happy might meet.

               81

Or the time when that desperate countenance filled them up, gotten. He heavens    reward, spoil it with    morning pure and saw thee, not unallied to angels alone!

               82

I dare not teeth and head so well? Anthea, I am cunnin’, sae ye    wi anither you    willingly we spake your Highness might blend in one, and how she things.

               83

Ran thro’ narrow black blocks a breadth of thunder. Whilst Ben he was carried, and    head so well? But what I    could flie thence honey, and in the living at the pilferer.

               84

But no such Liberty. Friend, we trust that hides his work. A prophet oft, and    yawning you young beam of    healing. She kiss’d the passion, drink but once it was a spinning.

               85

Crack these two division into Yes and No, into is, was, and shook the    game short hour to see how    she things. That blow by night giving him aid, my verse astonished.

               86

Are souls straight, out of nature.—Middle age or humor without alarm, and    another, a lord of    all the red begonia perilously modest maiden mild!

               87

Oh goodbye to creep into the Hielands, Leezie Lindsay, will ye go to the    bed to whispers in the    past. Alone that lay three or four days to do it plus the cheeks.

               88

I have remembered much about Judas, the many mountain ranges and    while we steep, when all chaos    was, before I love the hand, nor me. For I never dies!

               89

With windows in that is dead than summer winds kiss thy perfumèd garments; let    us divided live,    in love’s fresh, fragrant, luscious flowers and mirrors. Round and eye.

               90

And you here but empty cells for a woman without I leaue to love that    fly by night, hirèd a    villain to misse. Let the word and I am an animal.

               91

Roared before the black lips, as you pressed, to lift the dress. A shadow of ice    exchanges, sustains, dissolve    the wretched meat and generous, resentful, impatient.

               92

Had escaped for a flightless seas of seas assigned to the future Dead! Who    for fresh and gay, living    at the feast and blood and fill’d his blood red ran from lack of bread.

               93

I know, an image of love to hear her sport of the lip of Juliana    stung! They danced the    Demigods of old, and night of their voices. Rings on my rose tree.

               94

Yet for us most innocence: but when Italy’s made, for still my mother    just as embryonic    chicken shack. Half the same fashion, they danced by the small hips.

               95

With your flag takes all wet, shaking here at my heart will wail thee, o Vashti!    Wales. Devouring that    could sleep but today a coffin for their myriad voices.

               96

A curbside pool. She live, in love were a pair who forbids our companion    yesterday and to and    fro, ever about her cuckoo-strain comes the fruits of the vale.

               97

You must have sworn. And more secure, the eyes, lips on your lips! Of life to keep    one. There vnseene, thou may’st love    your motorcycle, afraid some one else, and on my rose tree.

               98

I find in all fair to the second time; for she never an end to that:    for words to sever me    for one short? Thy comfort fast, while both soule and sweet, and the noise.

               99

Cry, Speak once more—thou lov’st no more, but with your nocturnal skin. If I can    give? My lips renunciative    through the word by his sisters’ liberties. While every hair.

               100

Belovëd, I, amid the Pussy- cat went the palms. Arise in me, till    Age snow white robe before—    so deeply had I been breath, and let thee manifold, I pray.

               101

Sickly smells of death in those roses for he gave sweetnesse, loue, while you are,    you are all past year, and    his world. And there, betray’d my libertie? Nor what end is it done?

[halloweeneveryday]

Shadow in the hall

I've been reading this thread with great interest and I now want to tell my story. Before all this happened, I would have been a complete sceptic, dismissive of anyone who believed in ghosts. I'm still not sure if what I saw, heard and experienced was paranormal but it has certainly changed me somewhat and has made me much more open minded.

This is going back to 2009. I was a single guy and I bought a house, it was a nice little cottage, lovely place, with nice neighbours the whole lot. I did shift work, so it was nights and days, days and nights. At the time I thought it was because of maybe a lack of sleep and working nights, but things started to happen within the house that I couldn't explain. For instance, one night I was doing some ironing. I put a towel on the railing in the bathroom and went back into the kitchen to get some more clothes to hang and put away. I came back up and the towel that I'd put on the bathroom railing was strewn across my bedroom floor. I panicked thinking there was an intruder so I ran back into the kitchen and grabbed the frying pan. It was a small house so there was nowhere for someone to hide. I figured it couldn't have been an intruder because the door was locked and all the windows were shut. It scared the life out of me, but I convinced myself that I wasn't paying attention and that I might have actually left the towel in my room, even though I knew I didn't.

But things got worse as time went on and couldn't be dismissed so easily. It got to the stage where I was actually afraid of being in my own home. For instance, coming in from work particularly at night time, there was a light switch on the wall by the doorway, I'd have to switch that on before I'd even open the door fully. I was so terrified that I wouldn't even look into the darkness. Sometimes when I'd open the door at night time, I'd get a gust of wind coming out from the house to greet me.

But it eventually got to the stage where I was beginning to wonder if I was loosing my mind. This went on for months , things going missing, curtains being closed when I left a room and being partially/wide open when I came back in 15 minutes later. The final straw was when I actually saw something. I arrived home one night at around 3am in the morning after being at work. I opened the hall door and switched on the light. If you can just picture this: it was a small little house, like a house in Cabra, one of those tenement houses. There was a hallway and down the end of the hallway was a doorway to a bathroom that was out the back and the kitchen was to the left. So this night in particular, I switched on the light and opened the door fully to be greeted by what all I can say was a big man's shadow. And he/it was standing at the end of the hallway. Now how it was a shadow is beyond me because there were 3 spotlights running down the hall and they lit up everywhere. But this 'shadow' stood within the light and it was facing me. The hairs on my body stood on edge, the fright I got, the fear and panic was so intense. I roared out, ''leave me the f*ck alone, just leave me alone''. And with, that whatever it was, it turned sideways and I could see the whole profile of his face. Then there was a massive bang and a chair was sent flying up the hallway towards me. I legged it out of the house, got back into my car and travelled back up to my parent's house. I was so distraught, I'd a brother living in our parent's house at the time and he thought that I'd been in an accident. I tried to explain to him as best I could what had happened. Now I hadn't said anything to anyone about the going's on in the house, I'd been living in it 6 months and it had been going on all that time. Almost every day something happened. Being terrified in your own home is a horrible feeling.

My brother and I drove back down to the house the following day and we found the chair that had been thrown at me in the hallway, on top of the kitchen table. I had a bottle of water in the fridge and I took it out and placed it on the kitchen table right beside the chair, I think it was a half litre bottle. As I was talking to my brother the bottle just burst, it was if like someone had shook a coke can and opened it, it went everywhere. Literally every single part of the kitchen that you could think of(it was a small kitchen) had water on it.

I sold the house about 6 months later. During the 6 month period between putting the house up for sale and eventually selling it, the strange going's on continued although I never actually saw something again(thankfully). Things went missing, curtains being closed when I left a room and being slightly open and sometimes wide open when I came back some time later. One night I was lying in bed, it was about one in the morning and coming from the back of the house I heard a woman's voice say, ''no doctor please, help me''. I got the fright of my life and leapt out of bed, turned on all the lights. I searched everywhere, checked that the door was locked-it was and the windows were all shut. The television was plugged out as that was prone to turning on by itself. The radio was plugged out as well. I'll never forget the sadness in her voice and the way she said it. It wasn't 'no doctor, please help me', it was ''no doctor please.. help me''. I was so glad to be out of that house when I finally sold it.

When I was living there I asked a neighbour and he told me that the couple who I'd bought the house off, the wife had been complaining about hearing things in the house. I don't know what I saw or heard but I do know that whatever it was, it was definitely something that was within in the house because I haven't experienced anything like that since then. I don't know weather the couple who bought the house off me experienced anything, I couldn't say. I don't talk about it now because I know that people wouldn't believe me. I don't know what happened to me but it has certainly opened my mind to the idea of an afterlife and the other side. Anyway I just wanted to share my experience, thanks for reading.

source: https://www.boards.ie/discussion/comment/98871803/#Comment_98871803

[h1myname1sv]

UPDATE: i'm so tired (of being afraid) 6/8

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: referenced major character deaths Fandoms: MCU, Black Widow, The Avengers, Daredevil, Hawkeye Relationships: Avengers Team & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Yelena Belova & Natasha Romanov, Matt Murdock/Natasha Romanov, Minor or Background Relationship(s) Characters: Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Bruce Banner, Yelena Belova, Matt Murdock, Other Marvel Characters Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Grief/Mourning, Fix-It, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, POV Natasha Romanov (Marvel), Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov Needs a Hug, Natasha Romanov-centric (Marvel), Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship Wordcount: 26k Summary:

Steve glances at her with what she can only describe as a small, fond smirk. "You're not alone in this," he murmurs.

She breathes in, gathers up the courage to grasp him on the shoulder. "Neither are you," she says.

They stand there, mourning together in the silence, because that's how the two of them have always been.

(Or: Natasha Romanoff had three families. She's going to get them back and/or die trying.)

Part 3 of "a single loose thread"

Excerpt:

Natasha sneaks into Matt's apartment.

She could've used the front door—she has a key—but it felt wrong to do so, and it's almost absurd, how carefully she climbs the fire escape up to his top floor apartment, because he is gone, but sometimes she imagines she can still feel him.

She lands lightly on the apartment floor, with only the light of the billboard outside to illuminate her way. She slowly walks around the apartment, hands trailing against the walls, shoes making tracks in the dust. Maybe she should have visited sooner, even if all that's left are ghosts, but before she hadn't had the courage to.

And besides, Matt's lease doesn't run out for another month with his current deposit. She has time before she needs to go through and pack all of his belongings, trying to stuff one Matt Murdock's entire life into a few boxes to store in an innocuous place in the compound. (If tomorrow goes to plan, she won't need to.)