#The reflection being looked upon|Ghost Hunt

[galaxy-0f-muses]

@kitxkatrp from here

"It's alright." She was a bit used to this kind of thing by now, especially when it came to strangers and their own assumptions. This felt really similar to how most of SPR found out about it, too. If anything, it made it just a tad amusing to her with that fact in mind.

But then they went back through the recording that he was doing, which she completely forgot about . Perking up at the mention of a voice, she found herself instantly curious. "Really? What kind of voice? What'd it say?"

She figured this place was haunted, as it was a cemetery, but to actually have proof of it would be interesting. Not interesting enough for her boss, but still-

[peachesofteal]

Alone / Chapter 3

Part of the Sassy series. Chapter 3/3.

Simon Riley/female reader 9.1k words - AO3 18+ Minors DNI. Smut. Praise kink. Size difference/kink. Blood and violence. PTSD. Trauma. Panic attacks, night terrors, catatonia, relationship issues, emotional hurt/comfort. Medical stuff. Angst. Mentions of having a uterus/children. Soft dad Simon Riley. Simon is a great dad, that's all. Soap is a good uncle. John Price. Simon is living in a nightmare.

If you’re living in a nightmare, then Simon is living in hell.

It plagues his every waking second, invades his consciousness when he’s finally able to get to sleep, envelopes his reality at work, at home, everywhere. Anywhere. The sun has permanently set and there is only darkness now, only the bad, only the evil left, his existence devoid of your golden rays, his life bereft of your warmth on his face. 

It is easy to feel like a ghost. On the days he doesn't have Theo, or he's not on an op, he struggles to keep himself functioning, struggles to make sense of his day to day. The violence helps, when he's with the 141, the familiar feeling of executing, of hunting grounding him in a reality that doesn't seem so far fetched, doesn't seem so outlandish. When he's home, Soap helps by calling and texting incessantly, and Price consistently drops by, inviting him for dinner or asking him to look something over. Everyone makes an effort, to make sure he's not forgotten, to make sure he knows they care. 

This hell, this nightmare, feels oddly similar to being buried alive. It feels comparable to being trapped beneath the ground, dying, slowly, the air around him casually evaporating with every breath he dares to draw. It feels like when the earth tried to pulled him back under, when the clay tried to trap itself inside his lungs, clogging the passages of his alveoli, dirt mixing with blood mixing with saliva, caking itself in his throat and into his very conscious. 

It only feels different, feels less like hell and more like his old life, when he’s with Theo.

Sometimes, he pretends that it is still his old life. That he’s just out with Theo at the park, and when they get home, you’re going to be there. Or, he and Theo are out for “guy’s night”, as you used to call it, at the restaurant down the street, and you’re out somewhere else with Price’s wife, for a monthly happy hour that will undoubtedly bleed into dinner, and end with the two of you on the couch watching some god awful tv show until Price comes to collect her. He pretends when he’s grocery shopping that he’s checking off your list, each section sequenced to reflect the supermarket’s organization, something you always did to help make it easier for him, to get him in and out as quickly as possible, because you knew how he felt about large places with lots of bodies and too many obstacles. He pretends that the house that he rented is actually his home, pretends it the house down the street, the one that you live in, the one that you two of you bought together. He pretends that the bed is empty because you’re just working late again, up with tired eyes in front of your laptop, your brain computing and processing lines upon lines of numbers and formulas of things he doesn’t understand. 

All of these things, they happened before.

Before you were plucked from a springtime walk, Theo left crying in the pram on a sidewalk while you were injected with something that rendered you unconscious until you woke in a concrete room halfway across the world.

Before the phone call. Before the video.

Before the rescue. Before the massacre. Before he snapped. Before his rage, the path of bodies left in his wake, before Soap had to pull him off a corpse that he had pummeled to death. Before he cut off the hands of every single person who had touched you. Before the sound of the men begging for their lives lived in his head, before the intensive, four times a week therapy sessions that had to last hours long just to get him back to baseline. Just to get him back to a point where he could take care of Theo, take care of you.

Before the hospital and the damage from the infection and the complications from the injury to your lung.

Before the catatonia and the night terrors and the panic attacks that left you confused and alone inside your own head.

Before the rot invaded his home. Before its sticky, tentacled ropes of poison spread across the walls. Before it cast its sickly shadow across your face. 

Before, when you still called yourself his wife. When still wore your ring. When you still told him you loved him.

Before he failed.

Before you left him.

Before.

“I hate them.” Your sullen voice crackles through the phone, muffled and distorted. It’s the best reception he’s gotten in eight days, and you still sound like you’re a million miles away and underwater at the same time. He swallows the disappointment.

“They can’t be that bad.” 

“Oh, they’re bad, Si. They’re all helicopter moms. Prissy and obnoxious. One of them won’t even let their kid use the slide because she’s scared about some kind of toxic lining on it. I don’t know. Why did you bring your kid to a playgroup if they’re not allowed to play?” You huff, and he’s glad you’re not on a video call right now, because he’s smiling, his eyes are closed and he’s imagining you pacing in the kitchen, waving something around in your hand for added effect, tops of your thighs peeking out from under the hem of a too big t shirt. He knows if you caught him grinning when you’re all cross, there’d be hell to pay. 

“Is Theo havin’ fun?” 

“Eh. Yeah. He’s bigger than all the other ones his age so he kind of gets to do what he wants.” He chuckles at that, foolish pride blooming across his cheeks, and he can practically hear you rolling your eyes through the phone. “Still struggling with the concept of sharing.” You add, and he nods to himself. It's not a surprise to either of you, and sharing has been a work in progress at home. 

“He’d learn how to share a lot faster if he had a sibling.” He offers, and you laugh on the other end before abruptly going silent, like you’re holding onto to a secret. “Sass?” 

“I did it.” You breathe. 

“You did what?”

“I did, what we discussed. Last month, just before you left. I went to the doctor and… she took it out.” He sits straight up, boots scuffing along the dirty safehouse floor. 

“You got your IUD out?” His bones rattle in his body, eyes wide while he waits for you to confirm it. 

“Yeah, Si. I… I’m ready. I want to start trying when you get home.” 

“Are you sure? I thought you said-“ 

“I am. And I know… what I said. But I talked to my doctor, and she helped lessen some of my anxiety about it. I had an ultrasound to look at my uterus and she thinks the chances are good. I… feel good about it.” He pads the silicone ring with his thumb while he takes long, deep breaths to steady himself. “So, I guess, you better hurry and get home so we can start trying because it takes two, ya know?” You laugh again, but he hears the wet sound in the back of your throat, the thick, syrupy sound of your tears, and his heart clenches in his chest. 

“I-“ 

The timer on his watch goes off. It’s loud enough that you can hear it, and you sigh. 

“Gotta cut the line?” you volunteer, and he grunts out a yes even though he wants to stay on it for hours more, telling you how much he loves you, how excited he is, how he can’t wait to give you another baby. “Be safe, okay?” 

“Always. I love you. I’ll see you real soon.” 

“I love you too.” He presses the end call button and tucks the phone away in his pocket, leaning his head against the wood paneling of the door. Another baby, you wanted to have another baby. 

He’s still grinning like a complete fool when he comes down the stairs to where Johnny and Kyle are hunched over a tiny aluminum table, shoving some sort of MRE down their throats. When Gaz spots him, his brow furrows, and he half hollers with a mouth full of food to Johnny. 

“What’s got ‘im in such a good mood?” 

The hallways in the medical office building are beige, a shade lighter than the darker beige carpet, which complements the brown chairs of the waiting room. It used the bother him, the blandness, but now he supposes he’s grateful for it. It’s less distracting. Less obtrusive. It lets him think, which is exactly what he’s doing, thinking, about you, about Theo, when he pulls the big walnut colored door open and spots you curled in on yourself in a waiting room chair.

He’s surprised to see you here before him. He’s surprised you even showed up if he’s being honest. He knows how you feel about therapy in general, and with the way the last couple’s session went, he’s shocked you’re willing to give it another go.

It burns just the smallest amount of joy in his gut.

Don’t. Don’t get your hopes up. 

“Hi.” You croak.

“Hey, Sass.” Your face is guarded as you nod up at him, everything in your expression haunted and hesitant, the emptiness he knows you’re carrying around inside of you spilling out through your features as plain as day. He can’t stand it. “Sleep okay? Have a good late-night chat with Soap?” He probes and you scowl back at him, fire sparking behind your eyes while he fights the urge to smile. There’s my girl. He doesn’t mean to goad you, doesn’t want to anger or upset you, but he’ll take what he can get.

Besides, he already knows you must have in fact, slept better than usual, because you didn’t call Johnny. And he didn’t wake up in the middle of the night to the half a ring-hang up that you’ve started doing in these past few weeks, something that’s developed since the day the two of you watched Moana with Theo, and you fell asleep next to him on the couch after your panic attack. The day that felt like a dream, when Theo asked to go for a walk to the playground, and you shyly asked if he wanted to come along. The day that he’s been replaying over and over in his mind, the day that felt like progress, that felt like something more than this nightmare he’s been living inside.

He’s about to ask how Theo was for you this morning when the office door opens, and Dr. C is smiling at the two of you from the other side.

“Hi guys, come on in. I just need to grab a tea.” He motions for you to go first, and you falter in your steps before you’re brushing past him, your fingertips grazing the hand that lays lax at his side.

This time, he doesn’t hide his smile.

“How is she?” His pacing comes to an abrupt halt when his therapist, Dr. C comes out through the door, a tablet in her hand, lines of her face nearly impossible to read. She motions to a set of chairs, the uncomfortable ones that line the hall, and then takes a seat opposite of him. 

“The staff psychologist here wants to release her to an assisted living facility until she shows improvement.” 

“No.” 

“Mr. Riley, I-“

“No. She can’t go to one of those places. She can’t.” 

“They have places that specialize in care for cases like your wife. It’s not like sending her to a nursing home.” 

“I don’t care. She needs to come home, with us. Theo needs her. I need her. Once… once she gets home, she’ll do better.” Dr. C sighs. 

“She’s catatonic, Simon. She’ll need her PICC line for nutrition and medications, another IV for fluids. She’ll need someone to bathe her, turn her, do her wound care, things you’re not prepared to do.”

“The fuck ‘m not.” He doesn’t know how to do an IV, sure. But he can do everything else. And he knows he can hire a nurse or someone to do the other things, the medications, the tubes, the wound cleanings. “I’m not sending her away.” 

“That’s not what this is.” 

“It’s not happening. She’s coming home. With me.”

“Johnny took Theo to the park today. Bug tripped comin’ off the slide and nearly cut his chin open. He’s okay, just a deep scratch but it scared him. Johnny said he cried for you the whole way home.” He strokes the pad of his thumb across your cheek, watching your eyes for movement from where they stare, straight ahead, out the master bedroom window. You’re curled on your side, knees tucked up to protect your abdomen, hands clenched under the mountain of pillows. 

It's been so, so long since he’s heard your voice. So long since he’s seen you smile, or laugh, or even engaged in a single word that’s being spoken to you. 

He feels like he’s losing you. Like you’re slipping away from him, drowning right in front of him. 

It feels like Theo is losing his mom. 

It feels like he’s losing his mind. 

Sometimes, he wants to scream at you. Wants to grip you by your jaw and turn your face towards his and force a reaction from you. Wants to pull the tube that’s feeding you free from your chest and force you to eat on your own. Wants to beg and plead and cry at your feet, wants to shake you until you have no choice but to tell him to stop. 

Dr C. has told him again and again that it will take time. That you’re healing, your mind and your body is processing an unfathomable trauma, and that what’s happening to you, this catatonia, is the way your brain is helping protect itself. 

So, he tries to remember you, like before. He clings to his memories. The videos on his phone. The live photos that feel like stolen snippets from someone else’s life. He carries it all with him, every day. He shows you the photo and videos on a slideshow every night in hopes something will bright light to your lifeless eyes. He rubs your back and holds your hand, tries to comb through your hair as gently as he can, waters the plant that sits on the windowsill. He does Theo's bedtime routine in here now, reads his stories aloud to the two of you, Theo always curled up against him while you lay unmoving beside him. He reads from the stack of books that you have sitting next to your side of the bed, the collection of them that you were working through before you were taken. He massages ointment into your scars, press the pads of his thumbs into the arch of your feet like he did when you were pregnant, lays awake beside you and speaks aimlessly about nothing. He presses his lips gently to your cheek, your forehead, your mouth. Anything, everything he can do to try to bring you back. 

Nothing works. The bed feels like a grave. The house feels like a mausoleum. The only life left inside of either of you is your son.  

He sits there next to you until he hears the front door, the sound of Johnny bringing Theo back after their adventure out for takeaway forcing him to pull your blanket up under your chin, tucking you in gently until he’s satisfied it’s to your liking.

“I’ll be back up, after dinner, okay? I’ll bring Theo in to say goodnight.” 

“So, how have things been?” Simon likes Dr C, a revelation that he’s grown comfortable with in the past year or so. She is easy to talk to. She does not flinch away from the gruesome details of either of your lives. It helps that she specializes in PTSD and war related trauma therapy as well, of course, but she offers him warmth, and understanding in his sessions. He feels comfortable with her. He feels so comfortable with her, that when you were in desperate need of help, he thought of her first. He feels comfortable knowing that you’re seeing her for therapy and that you’re receiving the same kind of care and patience that he has. He knows Dr C is good at her job, and it brings him comfort, in a strange way, to know that someone who has helped him, is helping you, and the two of you now, together. 

“Mrs. Riley?” she tries to encourage you, and you meet her with a half hearted nod and a shrug.

“Okay, I guess.” She looks at him next, the same question bouncing around the room.

“We spent some time together, three weeks ago. Watched a bit of a movie with Theo, and then we all took a walk. Went to the park, even.” Your hands flex and tighten where they sit in your lap, shoulders high and tight.

“That’s great, I’m sure Theo was very excited. How do you feel it went?” He stays quiet, giving you time to talk if you decide that’s what you want. You don’t, and it doesn’t surprise him. Start slow. Nice and easy. 

“It went better than the last time we uh, tried a family activity.” He provides when you stay tight lipped, and you immediately cringe, guilt snapping across his skin. Could’ve phrased that better. He wants to grab your hand, stroke his thumb across your knuckles and press his lips to your pulse point all while telling you it wasn’t your fault. Wants to tell you he loves you, that nothing that has happened, has been your fault, even though he knows your own mind is eating you alive with the idea. He can see it all now, the stuff in your head. The awful, hellish landscape that has become your mind. He wants to take it away. Wishes he could scoop it out of your brain, pull away every piece of dark and infectious rot that plagues you, separate it from your nervous system like he's a surgeon. He can't. He's tried. 

Dr C. allows the room to fall silent for a moment, as is her custom, before moving on. She does it for you, more than anyone. Gives you time to prepare, to switch gears. It also gives you an opportunity to speak, if you choose to.

You don’t, usually.

“We’re at the six-month mark this week.” His heart stops in his chest. No. “We did agree, that after six months, we would evaluate where we are and potentially discuss how you’re both feeling about the separation. Do you think that’s something you might be open to exploring, Mrs. Riley?” He watches your throat bob with a swallow, your gaze shifting from its absent state to something hopeless, something worried.

“It’s not the right time.” He rushes out to ease whatever it is that’s causing you turmoil. The therapist nods at him, acknowledging his words, but keeps her eyes on you.

“Mrs. Riley?” He holds his breath while you look down at your lap, eyes searching for something on your skin, some kind of an answer he hopes you won’t find. The room is dead silent while you slowly lift your neck, head turning so your eyes find his. Just like a hundred times before. 

Your voice is soft, angelic when you finally speak.

“Yes. I would open to talking about it.”

The scream is hard to distinguish. In the dark, it could just be a part of his ever-present nightmares, just another piece of his mind twisting his memories and his reality together to form a special kind of hell. It’s hard to tell at three in the morning, but he’s sure he’s awake in his own bed, your body twisting and turning beside him, terror pouring from your lips while you sweat against the sheets. His pulse thunders in his ears, the broken cries coming from you echoing throughout the room and stopping his heart. 

He rolls onto you immediately, trapping your kicking legs beneath his, a hand coming up to cradle your face and tapping your cheekbone with the pad of his index finger, a gentler way of trying to pull you out, a method that has had varied success in the past. 

“Come on, sweet girl. Wake up for me.” Your mouth presses into the pillow and you scream, your body shaking in his hold, face wet with tears. “Shhh. It’s alright. You’re alright, you’re safe.” You’re terrified, and he can’t soothe you, can’t wake you to bring you into reality, the desperation he feels compounding when your wet cheek presses into his palm. You thrash, arms swinging, and he tries to hold you steady while your voice crests with a sob that shifts in a shriek next to his ear. “Sass! Please. I’m here, I’m right here.” His voice breaks, raspy and raw, but nothing reaches you, nothing matters. You’re not here, you’re still there. In that room with the concrete floor that’s stained with your blood. Your hand moves again, this time making contact and digging into his face, his flesh parting beneath the fine edge of your nails, blood pooling underneath them when he pushes your arm away, pinning it down by your side while you cry. He’s helpless, trapped in this hell alongside of you, drowning beneath the current of your nightmare while you free fall through your terror, unconscious and unable to be woken. He can’t even feel the sting of his cheek, can’t feel the small wounds that are leaking blood down his skin, none of it registers. All he can do is hold you, talk to you as calmly as he can while you sob, your voice eventually falling into soft whimpers as you slowly settle. 

“Daddy?” Theo’s little voice calls from the door, where he’s standing wide eyed and terrified and Simon curses while you shiver in his arms. 

“It’s okay, bug. Go back to your bed.” Theo shakes his head no, unable to look away. He looks so scared and Simon’s heart shatters inside his chest, something he thought wasn’t even possible anymore. 

“Mum?” Theo cries, face scrunched up, hands clutching his blanket to his chest. Your cries are muffled now, and although you’re still shaking, he can’t leave Theo in the doorway, watching you like this. 

Simon pulls the blankets back up over your body, tucking you in as tightly as he can manage and then scoops Theo up, carrying him down the hall while he shushes him, running his fingers through his hair while he cries. 

“Shhh. She’s alright, Mum’s alright. She’s just havin’ a bad dream. Just like we do sometimes, yeah?” Simon coos while Theo sniffles, his face resting on Simon’s shoulder, blanket tucked between their bodies. “C’mere, let’s lay down.” He lays Theo on his kid’s sized bed, curling his own body around him, most of Simon’s legs hanging off the end. Theo holds onto to him so tight that it feels like he’s trying to burrow himself in Simon’s body, to hide there from his own fears and nightmares, and he rubs his back soothingly until Theo is blissfully asleep, safe in the arms of his dad.

He clips your nails short the next morning. You stare out the window and say nothing.

There’s a lot of noise in Simon’s head.

He can see your mouth moving, can see Dr. C’s mouth moving, but he can hardly hear either of you, your voices drowned out by the white noise-static sound that’s cutting through his brain, slicing down into his flesh, past his sternum to where his heart beats slowly.

“I don’t want a divorce.” The words ricochet between his ears, and he feels like he’s been doused with cold water, the shock of your words startling him from his stupor as he blinks stupidly at you. You don’t want a divorce. Joy, pure, unaltered, endless joy fills him until he’s nearly smiling, his cautionary behavior going out the window with your admission. You don’t want a divorce. Your voice is heavy with the weight of everything you’re feeling, and it feels sick to feel how he does right now when there are tears spilling over your waterline and down your face. “B-but I don’t know if I can be… how we were. I don’t know if I know how. Or… if I deserve…” you trail off, and he closes his eyes against the sinking feeling in his stomach. You don’t say anything else after that, lip tucked between your teeth, brow creased like you’re concentrating. The therapist says your name, twice, to try to bring you back, and then when you finally make eye contact, she continues on.

“Do you see a path, in your mind? A path forward, for your marriage?”

“I do-don’t know… I don’t know what it would look like.” Dr C. let’s the room go quiet again, and he’s surprised when you lift your gaze to his once more, your eyes seeking something in his. He’s not sure what it is, doesn’t know what to give you in this moment, which is a foreign concept, considering he used to be able to anticipate your moods and moves, your decisions and your ideas. The two of you used to know each other like the back of your hands and now… sometimes it feels like he’s in love with a stranger.

“I have an idea.” Dr C. says and you straight a little, looking at her with a somewhat grim expression. “Have you considered going on a date?”

“A date?” you blurt, and he tenses.

“Without Theo. Just the two of you, somewhere you both feel comfortable. Leave your expectations at home and take the time to talk to one another, one on one. Reconnect.” You’re going to say no. There’s no way you’ll go for this. You gnaw on your lip for a minute while your fingers play idly in your lap. He braces himself for the rejection, for you to say it’s too much, too soon, that you’re not ready, you can’t do it. All of these things, he would not blame you for.

All of these things, make him grateful he doesn’t have Theo tonight, and that he’s got a fresh bottle of bourbon on his kitchen table.

“Okay, well. I guess we can call Price and see if they want to babysit?” He turns to look at you, dumbfounded, mouth slack with shock while you give him the most nervous, the most hesitant smile. It blinds him, momentarily confusing him, like it’s a trick. Like it’s all wrong, and you’re going to change your mind, or something else is going to happen and derail this. It’s also, all right. You, smiling at him, looking like you actually might want to… spend time with him, see him without it having to be the usual Theo pass off. Like you might still want this, want him.

Dr C. clears her throat expectantly, and he stumbles to get his words out, to catch up.

“Yeah, Sass. Let’s… set it up.”

“Mum better?” Theo’s little fingers fold over his board book, eager smile on his face as he tips his head back to squint at Simon. He’s heard you, in the bedroom earlier, arguing with the nurse that comes every morning. It was quite a surprise for her when she got here, to see you sitting up in bed, eyes blinking and brow furrowed, Simon helping you rotate your wrists that have grown stiff and sore. “Pa’cakes fa Mum?” Simon smiles. Sweet lad. 

“Yes, we can make Mum pancakes. She can’t really eat a lot but I’m sure she’d love to have breakfast with you.” He rubs his chest absentmindedly, stroking over a particular raised bump of skin, a scar from an op years ago. You had been running your fingers over it, this morning when he woke up, shocked to feel you turned into him, tucked up against his chest, your hand tracing light touches over his skin. Your voice had been rough, scratchy from lack of use, and you complained that every muscle in your neck and back ached, along with you joints. 

He said you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. 

You told him you loved him. 

And then Theo woke up.

It’s a messy process, making pancakes with his son. Theo likes to do everything himself, including pouring the milk and cracking the eggs into the bowl. You usually handle it with such grace, such patience, giving Theo the time he needs to explore the mechanisms of it, feel out what interests him and explain every step to him. Simon tries to embody that part of you, he does, but it’s not as easy as you make it look. Especially when Theo cracks three eggs on the floor. 

“Uh oh!” he yells, and Simon closes his eyes, breathing through his nose until his chest is thoroughly expanded. He wants to be upstairs, with you. Wants more than the two hours he got at dawn before Theo woke up and then nurse came over, wants to hurry it up so they both can be up there, sitting with you, him and Theo. “Sorry, Daddy.” Theo’s sad voice brings him back to the now, and he snaps his eyes open to see his disappointed little face, eyes worried as he looks at the batter bowl. 

“It’s alright, bug. Accidents happen. Let’s try again, yeah?”

Forty minutes later, Simon’s finally got a stack of pancakes on a plate, him and Theo sitting on the bed next to you, and a cup of coffee in his hand. He’s cutting them one by one into little pieces, and then handing you the fork so you can help Theo. 

“Don’ need ‘elp mum!” Theo exclaims, wrapping a paw around your fingers and pushing the fork into his mouth, chewing with a smile. You laugh and lean over to kiss his head. 

“Where did my baby go? I swear just last week you were saying your first word.” It’s meant to be sweet, to be a throw back to when Theo was actually a baby, but it settles like lead in the bottom of Simon’s stomach, and when he glances up at you, you’re wearing a faraway look, thinking about something he cannot name.

Five days after the joint therapy session, Simon is standing in your living room trying not to feel completely dumbfounded. Or terrified. Or elated.

Or anything. He’s trying not to feel anything at all, because if he does, then it will mean something, it will matter, and it will possess the ability to ruin him. If he lets himself feel it, the hope, the happiness, it will make it all that much worse at the end, when this doesn’t work. When it’s too much for you.

He had even called you later that night, after the session, to make sure that this was something you actually wanted to do, that you hadn’t felt pressured into it by being in a room with him and the therapist. When you had doubled down, he hid his surprise as best he could, and reassured you that he also wanted to go when you asked him in a small, hesitant voice if he thought maybe, it wasn’t such a good idea.

“Can I have a kiss?” you ask Theo as you bend down, the curve of your ass displayed in the black cocktail dress you chose to wear. The dress, that had him gaping like a fish when you came down the stairs, the dress that highlighted the ins and outs of your body that he used to be so bloody familiar with. Theo wraps his arms around your neck as tight as he can, little face happy and excited with the prospect of spending all night with Price and his wife, who will assuredly allow him to eat all the cotton candy flavored ice cream he wants and put him to bed late. They’re taking him to theirs, something they’ve done in the past (albeit for far less joyous reasons) which works better for everyone. That way, they can sleep in their own bed instead of your guest bed or his couch, and Theo doesn’t have to be woken in the middle of the night to be carried home.

Price’s wife ruffles Theo’s hair as you hand her his little backpack. Simon pretends not to notice the way John tracks her movements, the way he catalogues everything she does with Theo. He pretends not to the see the brief flicker of something across his face, the flicker of wanting that shadows his blue eyes before they clear again. It’s not Simon’s place, to know these things. To notice them.

Instead, Simon bends to scoop Theo into his arms, giving him a big hug and breathing in the smell of his baby shampoo before placing back on his feet gently, his little boy grinning up at him with a face full of love that twists his heart sharply.

“Thanks again.” You smile at her, and she nods while John takes the backpack, and she takes Theo’s hand in hers. “You know the drill.” You shrug and she laughs softly before agreeing.

“We do! We’re going to have a lot of fun, huh Theo?” Theo nods excitedly and you manage to give him another kiss on the cheek before straightening.

“Alright, well. One of us will grab him, in the morning. I’ll text you.” You’re looking at her funny, something different in your eyes, something he’s not sure how to interpret. It’s odd, but it passes in a blink, and then she pulls you into her arms, whispering something in your ear that he cannot hear. You answer her softly, a quieted hum of words, before stepping away and giving the final nod to Price.

“Alright, honey. You two ready?” John’s hand presses to the small of her back, a reassuring and guiding touch, and then they’re all out the door, Theo holding both of their hands while they make the trek two blocks away to their own house. You watch them until they’ve faded from sight, and then turn around with your hands on your hips, a nervous expression that probably mirrors his, on your face. The hardwood beneath his feet feels like fucking sand.

“Well… should we?”

“You don’t get it! You’re not listening to me!” 

“There is no one in your life, on this planet, who understands the way you’re feeling more than I do.” He tries to explain it, tries to reason with you. Tries to make you see that he gets it, that he knows how it feels. You won’t listen, you don’t budge. You only take a step backwards, hand outstretched against his chest as a warning. 

“No you don’t! You didn’t die, Simon. You came back.” 

“So did you.” 

“No, I didn’t. I… I was fucked up before and you know it. Whatever was left was taken. I didn’t fight hard enough. I didn’t survive. It wasn’t enough.” Your voice is high, reedy, and a warning bell goes off in the back of his mind, the memory of your panic attack from last week fresh in his memory. You still have the stitches in your hand from the bathroom mirror glass, and he winces when you make a fist and thump it against your thigh. 

“Hey, hey. It's okay. You’re getting-“ 

“Stop!” you cry out. The haunted expression on your face looks all wrong, and he knows you’re sinking farther and farther into your own head, going somewhere he cannot reach you. “You fought and won, you survived. I was too weak. I c-couldn’t… I tried. But I failed.” You let out a gut-wrenching sob, arms wrapped tight around yourself. “I wanted to die! I gave up. You had to fucking save me, Simon.”

“Sass-“ He tries to reach for you, tries to pull you into his arms, into his body where he can protect you, but you jerk away. 

“Don’t touch me. I can’t… I don’t know what to do.” Your eyes are glassy, chest heaving while you struggle to breathe, fingers dug into your own scalp for dear life. “I don’t… I can’t do this.” You’re gasping now, trembling, eyes wide and panicked, and he steps closer, brushing his fingers along your forearm back and forth until you’re softening to him, slumping forward into his chest.

“It’s alright. You’re safe. You’re here, Theo’s here, I’m here. You’re not alone. There’s nothing to fear.” He says it over and over into your hair, lips just above your ear while he eases you to the floor, your fingers tight in his shirt, tears wetting the fabric. “I’ve got you.” He soothes, and your body folds up into his easily, his arm going around your back to hold you firm while he rocks the two of you in the dark of the bedroom until your gasping breaths turn to quiet sobs, and you fall asleep against his chest.

He takes you to the Italian restaurant. It’s the one he took you to after the two of you bought the house, when you first moved over here. It’s dark, and secluded, and only has two entrances/exits, both of which he can see from the table in the back. Most people consider the candlelit, barely lit atmosphere romantic, and it is, but for the two of you, it serves a different purpose. It allows you to relax. It allows him to remove his mask.

Tonight, it allows you to feel comfortable in a dress that clearly displays more skin than he’s seen you show in eight months. The darkness swallows your scars, drifts around you in an inky black cloud, envelopes your shoulders like a blanket. The candlelight flickers across your face, and he watches you sip your wine, putting the glass down and picking it back up again and again, before either of you have even ordered dinner.

“You look beautiful.” He offers it gently, tentatively, unsure of where to start, where to take this. A gift has been dumped in his lap, a priceless, perfect, beautiful gift and now he doesn’t know what to do with it. His heart wants to rip the band-aid off, tear the wrapping paper free, uncaring if he makes a mess or crinkles the paper, but his mind knows better. His mind knows he has to take it crease by crease, ribbon by ribbon, ensuring each fold unfurls correctly, ensuring each edge comes easily. 

“Thank you… you look pretty good yourself.” Your lips curl into a little half smile over the rim of your glass and he can’t help but return it, indulgently sinking into every word you say, every glance you give him. He feels intoxicated, drunk on you, flying high from the way you’re looking at him, like you still know him, like you still love him.

“So.” You play with the fork on the table, turning it from back to front repeatedly and he beats back the urge to reach for your hand and still you, to try to calm your nerves. It's me, Sass. It's just me. I'm right here. 

“So.” He parrots back, and your fingers wave in the air like you’re trying to conjure something. A safe topic of conversation maybe, or another glass of wine, since yours is now nearly empty. The candle sputters and then steadies, illuminating the expression of worry that’s etched into your face, and it spurs him forward, pushes him into momentum until he’s laying his forearm across the table, palm up, waiting, hoping.

He holds his breath.

You stare at him without saying a word for a long time, the restaurant and its patrons moving around you, the world continuing to turn while his oxygen depletes, and he holds himself as still as a statue. You stare, and you stare until-

Your hand lands in his, perfectly curled along the inside of his fingers, thumb pressed to the curve of his wrist, and you blink furiously at your lap.

When you lift your head, there are tears in your eyes, fat, wet tears that fall down your cheeks when you open your mouth.

“I miss you.”

“You don’t understand.” 

“THEN TELL ME!” your mouth drops open in shock and shame licks up his spine, horror icing through his body inch by inch as he stumbles to apologize. “I’m sorry, Sass. I’m sorry, I… I don’t mean to yell, I.." The words trail off when he comes up empty. He has no excuse. 

It’s been a long, long time since he’s raised his voice when speaking with you. The memory of the last time, the aftermath of the op where you intentionally disobeyed him and put yourself at risk feels a million miles away right now, and just like yesterday all at once. 

Except now, it’s not him running away from you. 

It’s you that’s running away from him.

Dinner flies. It feels like a dream, a soft, fragrant dream that he can smell and taste, something tangible, touchable. Something real. You order another glass of wine, and he orders a pour of bourbon, and then another. It lubricates the two of you, easing your tongues and pushing you into conversations that feel safe. You talk about Theo, and Johnny, and Price and his wife. The two of you go back and forth about the finer details of an op you’ve always been fond of arguing about.

His eyes don’t leave your face the entire time. He tries to decode your expressions, your posture, your body language, all through the meal and then after the check is paid. He watches you as he leads you out of the restaurant onto the street, clocks your steps as you turn in a circle on the sidewalk, a sly, hopeful look reflecting on your face when you step closer and say,

“Walk with me?”

It’s a long walk from the restaurant to the street where your respective houses sit, but he doesn’t mind. By the time the two of you are crawling to a stop in front of his door, you’ve got your hand in his, your arm pressed to his side, and he can feel the heat of your skin through his jacket. You’re quiet until you’re turning towards him on the front step, his sanity being held together in this moment with some tape and glue, and you step closer into his orbit, fingers lightly holding the front zipper of his jacket, head tilted back, face turned up towards his. You're the sun, you're the sun, you're the fucking sun and you’re not wearing your armor, there’s no vacant expression on your face, no layer of fear or sadness or anger. You look… like his wife in this moment. You look like Theo’s mom, his partner, his bomb tech, his sweet girl.

You look like you’re still his. You’re looking at him like he’s still yours.

Your lips part, and he leans into you, mouth hovering above yours, just out of reach for so many reasons. He shouldn’t do this. It’s too fast. You’ll pull back. You’ll slip away. This is too risky, it’s too much, it’s too fast, you’re not thinking clear- 

“Si.” You pull at him. “Kiss me.” He’s powerless to the command, or request, or whatever the bloody hell it is. It doesn’t matter, because he’s pressing his mouth to yours in less than a second, the searing heat of your tongue pushing into his mouth sending a cool shock down his spine and lighting every muscle in his body on fire.

Home. He’s home.

When he opens the front door, he doesn’t hear anything. No kid’s television shows, no sounds of you or Theo. No happy little boy running to greet him. No sign of you on the couch, no sound of you in the back or in the kitchen. 

He finds you in the bedroom, alone. 

“Where is Theo?” 

“He’s at the Price’s.” your voice is hollow. Empty, like your facial expression. Haunted, like your eyes. The quiet of the house makes him wary. Something prickles along his skin, raising the hair on the back of his neck. 

“Why?” 

“I wanted to talk and I… didn’t think he should be here.” 

“Talk about what?” It’s a grunt, a gruff question that he levels nonchalantly while he waits for you to speak as he strips off his boots and sits down on the bed. He doesn't ask you anything further, doesn't push for elaboration. He doesn't want to. Can't bring himself to hurry whatever it is along, uneasiness snaking up his spine while he observes your  uncomfortable posture.

“What do you see? When you look at me?” you ask, and he frowns. 

“I see… you, sweet girl. Theo’s mom. My person, my wife.” You don’t respond, you just continue to stare at your feet, so he says your name, your real name, as softly as he can manage, hoping to pull your attention. 

“Your person is broken.” 

“No, she’s not.” 

“She’s a nightmare.” 

“Stop.” His tone cuts through the air and you jerk, your eyes finding his, the despondence behind them enough to make his head spin.

“I should have died there.” You croak. “I should have died, Si. It would have been better than this. You could have buried me, moved on.” Nausea sweeps him. He feels ill, like he did when he found you in that room, like he did when he loaded you onto the heli barely alive. He takes a deep breath to steady himself before speaking again. 

“This… this will get better, Sass. You’re still healing, physically, mentally… it doesn’t happen overnight. It takes time.” He tries to pull your hand into his lap, but you wrench it away, standing up from the bed. 

“It’s not that easy.” You pace back and forth, and he wants so badly to stop you, to hold you and tell you everything will be alright. That he understands how you feel, and he promises you’ll feel better, one day. Even if it feels like it might never be true. His skin itches beneath his clothes.  

“I know it’s not. I know that it feels impossible right now and-“ 

“No.” You cut him off. 

“No?” 

“No, you don’t know. You’re not hearing me! You haven’t been listening to me at all.” You whirl on him. “I’m not like you Simon! I’m not… I don’t deserve you, or Theo, or anything. I don’t-“ 

“That’s enough. I can’t listen to this anymore.” He snaps, rising to full height. His temper breaks, his own sadness and anxiety burning together to form something else, something desperate, something afraid. It's not what he meant to say, not what he meant at all. He wants to tell you again, that it's not true. That you do deserve him, and your son, and good things. That you aren't weak, or pathetic, or dirty. He meant to tell you that he doesn't want you to say these things, these awful things about yourself anymore because speaking them out loud just makes them feel all the more true to you. It comes out wrong, all wrong and too sharp, too harsh and you step backwards, pulling the bedroom door wide before he can stop you. 

Your voice is a shattered chime when you whisper to him over your shoulder. 

“Your wife is broken, Simon. She’s gone.”

You’re tangled in one another. He barely gets the door locked before he’s lifting you by the thighs and pressing you against the wall as gently as he can manage, his cock hard for you beneath the thin cotton of his briefs, your hips rocking forward against him while your head leans back to expose your throat.

“Sass.” I love you. It almost spills from his lips, but he holds it back at the last moment, groaning into your skin instead, and you whine his name back to him, fingers flying over the buttons of his shirt, your hands pressing to his stomach while he rucks the bottom of your dress up past your hips. It’s not gentle, it’s not sweet. It’s frenzied, and frantic, and spurred on by the way your hands push and pull at him, your mouth desperately seeking his, your nails digging into his scalp as you press yourself against his cock. 

“Please.” You whimper, and how can he possibly deny you anything? He cannot. He would never. You reach beneath the waistband of his pants and grip him, hand stroking up and down his length, thumb pressing across where he’s dripping with pre-come.

“Bloody hell.” You’re squirming where he holds you up on the wall, his fingers pulling your thong to the side and stroking through where you’re soaked for him, circling your clit with quick touches until your thigh muscles are tensing around his waist. His size compared to yours is glaringly obvious in this position, your legs spread so wide before him, the mass of his body overtop yours like you're pinned beneath a mountain. He loves it. Always has. 

“Fuck, Simon. Please.” You beg again, your hips flexing, seeking friction, his hand spread across your rib cage to hold you steady while he unzips his pants and lowers you down the wall a fraction, just to the right height, just so he can-

Your breath hitches when he pushes inside of you, head tipped back, eyes clenched shut with your nails digging into his shoulders.

"Christ." he hisses between clenched teeth. You whimper, the noise something off key and he stills, cradling your face with his palms and lowering his mouth to yours again. "I know." He soothes you. "You're taking me so well, sweet girl." You’re so tight, so warm and wet and perfect for him it makes his head spin, makes his knees feel like they might collapse. You relax around him, softening and he praises you, nipping your bottom lip while he grinds his body against yours. "There you go. Good girl." He fucks you deeper, harder and harder until he's sure he could be hurting you, burning to bury himself as far as he can, burrow himself beneath your skin so you're never without him again. 

His. His girl. His wife. His love. His home. 

You’re home. You’re home. You’re home. 

He feels the swell of emotion rise inside of him, the sum of all his feelings, all his pain, all his hope coming together until he’s fucking crying, pressing his face into your neck to hide his tears.

“I love you.” he chokes, lips grazing along salt dotted skin, and you whimper something in response, something that sounds like I love you too, except slurred together, mushed between moans while he thrusts up into your cunt over and over.

I love you. I love you. I love you. 

He pulls you along with him towards your orgasm, his fingers working your clit expertly, the muscle memory searing the two of you together until you’re both gasping, shaking messes, bodies spent from explosive endings that were too much, too soon, when all he wanted was to be notched inside of you forever, fit within you perfectly, like it always was before.

You go languid in his arms, the sheen of your sweat glossing across your chest and up your neck, the corners of your lips upturned while you pant. He says nothing, just holds you there, stares down at you, stroking a thumb across your cheekbone gently, like you’re a thing made of glass, fragile and precious, the most valuable thing his arms have ever held.

As the seconds tick by, your smile shifts, fades like the setting sun, and your eyes change from half lidded to alert while your mouth tilts, the smile slipping away into a frown and then… into an o of surprise.

“Oh my god.”  You clasp your hand over your lips and unwrap yourself from around him, standing on your own two feet. “Oh.” You whisper it now, an adject expression of dismay on your face, and he holds his hands up, palms out, to try to contain you where you stand against the wall, like you’re a frightened animal he’s trying to catch.

“Sass.” He levels, keeping his voice even and steady, but you ignore him, stumbling to the couch where his black hoodie is sitting. You pull it over your head with trembling hands, your head shaking back and forth while it falls to your mid-thigh.

“This… I’m… I didn’t mean… I wasn’t-“ You cringe, your hand going to side of your face to cover your ear, like you’re hearing something that’s too loud, and horror washes through him.

“It’s alright. You’re safe.” He tries to calm you but it’s fruitless, your eyes are wide and frantic, and they’re darting between where he stands and the front door.

“This… I d-don’t… this was wrong.” The word smarts across his face like he’s been slapped. Wrong? “I… I meant t-to go slow to… not…” He gets within arm’s reach of you before you’re moving away, stepping backwards on hesitant feet, hands clenched together like you’re holding onto yourself for dear life.

“Sass, listen to me. I-“

“I ca-can’t.”  You’re panicked now, breaths coming in staggered gasps, and he wants so badly to hold you, keep you close to him, reassure you, promise you that everything’s okay.

He tries to move closer to you, to reach out to you but you’re already running away. Already moving towards the door on unsteady legs, clips of words spewing from your mouth that don’t make any sense. His vision doubles, then triples, and the world feels out of sync, off balance while air rapidly leaves his lungs and his brain feels like it's being split apart. No no no. Please don't go. Please. He can't breathe. He can't move. He can't do anything but watch his nightmares play out in real life, watch as you hold your head in your hands and slam your eyes shut like you too, are feeling what he's feeling. Please don't go. He's a child again, a small, frightened boy, screaming and crying and begging aloud to no one, pleading with someone to save him, to make it all stop. 

You reach for the door handle and he cannot bring himself to move. He's frozen in time, frozen to the floor, the gleam of his wedding ring mocking his heart and his hope while you tremble, your legs unsteady beneath you, his come leaking out from your body as you abandon him, run from him, leave him. Again. 

When the door clicks shut, he falls against the wall and succumbs to the first panic attack he's had since Theo was born, slumped over in his living room, empty handed and alone. 

[simp-ly-writes]

Chapter Six: Heavenly Stars

Can be read as a standalone: Personal Hell Series (pt.7)

Pairing: (Hazbin Hotel) Lucifer Morningstar x demon overlord!Reader

Summary: You wanted to be alone, to hatefully survive in the hole you found yourself in but when answers come knowing at your door, will you listen to their call even when it goes against everything you have established for yourself in this home?

Warnings: 4864 words, mentions of blood, gore, injury, metal health subjects, drowning, death, and emotional angst.

A/N: Apologies for the wait my Lucifer darlings! But *rubs hands together* we gain answers now.

Masterlist | Taglist | edited.

Hazbin Hotel Masterlist

The grandfather clock ticking away down the hall is the only sound found within the home besides your paint strokes against the canvas. You are multicoloured, covered in paint from head to tone in various shades and hues as you step back and observe the piece you had been working on. 

How long have I been here for? You think to yourself, muscles sore as you stand and move to get a new cup of water for your paint brushes. Since your time in the Gardens and you haven’t been able to sleep since, you cringe while catching a glimpse of your reflection in a window. The usual ringing in your head was all long gone from your past days without rest now your body feeling more energized than ever as you kept yourself busy with old hobbies in this newfound time. 

The sink whines open, a few droplets drip once you close the tap and find your way back to the balcony, overlooking hell's outer rings. That once cure you had found eons ago had come to fruition, now a vast scape of rolling hills and mature trees breathed with life as you felt jealousy stir within your bones, outlining another tree to your composition. Only accompanied by seemingly endless amounts of time, you felt more and more lost in this old and empty house. As if being sat with your old self that stared you down through each object left for dead in this place. It was equally comforting, being near death’s door again, that old self, but that cold loneliness haunted you more than the screams that plagued the back of your mind. 

Just know that when you wish to dream- you will find me here… waiting. Shaking your head of these thoughts you pack up your supplies and go to the kitchen in search of sustenance. A bowl of pristine red apples glowed in your face, begging for attention, for you to take a bite as you stuck your head into the cabinets and finished out the supplies to make a fresh loaf of bread. 

In between paintings and trying your hand with an old shotgun to hunt for food, you would be found harvesting the overgrown crops of your greenhouse. It felt connecting, taking the time to watch your harvest grow, you had forgotten the wait, the patience of it all in recent times, just observing before going in for the grab. You had started journaling once more, keeping track of your sanity, allowing yourself the possible freedom of finally letting it all go….

You wipe the sweat from your forehead, setting the bread to rest on the windowsill as you look out towards Heaven and its sun-like quality in the red sky. You still do not feel tired, the wood of the structure groans, begging for you to rest like a casket but you clutch at the walls, silent tears falling but you cannot escape. You are forced awake, you cannot dare to dream of a life outside of this, finding yourself wearing the same clothes, his jacket resting against your body, a ghost of a hug that has your heart aching no more than your desire to finally burn that bridge for good. 

His voice haunts you. You can imagine his comforting words, his touch, the ghost of his breath falling upon your neck as your hands trail the various seams and buttons along the coat. You do not realise yourself to be smiling through these tears. You do not know yourself to be in the right or wrong- just horridly conflicted with past and present, vice and virtue. Morality calls to not be in vain, you grip your hair, immortality is a silent scream much to your own, crying out for you to be more. I just can’t seem to find a place to start…

--

After an awkward call to heaven, Lucifer leaves the hotel with a seedling of hope that has yet to be watered. A few guards bow to him as he passes down the mirrored maze of hallways and never ending staircases towards your office where he throws himself to the floor. His breathing is ragged, he watches possible futures flicker through his eyes. Blood and tears mix between songs as he brings his knees up to his chin. 

Throwing off his hat, he listens as the gold of his crown scrapes against the hardwood floors before the snake slithers its way over to him, wrapping its way around his throat, he reaches upwards to it, begging for it to release as his body directs him towards the shattered crown before him. He shakes his head, boots scraping against the floors as voices yell out from behind the closed doors. 

In a few hours, Charlie will be in Heaven, in another few days, your general will still not be there, The King thinks to himself as he cries, forcing himself to stand and lean against your desk as his hands grasp over the various maps and journals. The snake slowly lessens its grip as he takes in deep breaths, trembling fingers drifting over your handwriting.

He feels pathetic, smaller than he knows himself to appear. His mind keeps flickering to those last few moments with you, holding your hand, voicing his love for you to only watch you disappear and be set with the ghosts of you in these rooms and down these halls. He swears to hear your feet are running up to him with grand news or a mere correction to the weather report but nevertheless he ears strain to remember you voicing his name once again- to know that you call out to him. Yet he fails to dream any further as he sips cold tea and places signature after signature on the various reports left unfilled. 

--

A tapping at the window has you falling off the couch as your hands feel under the coffee table for your shotgun. Bringing the handle up to your chest, you stalk your way around the archway and make haste towards your front door. Looking through the peep-hole, not a single soul is present- your shoulders only tense as you raise the barrel and twist the door handle. Rushing outside as you check every corner only to hear a squawk, eyes darting downwards to see a Raven dancing its way from being stepped on by your black boots. 

“Shit,” you whisper to yourself, the bird flies up, resting on the barrel as it presents a wax-sealed envelope with your name written in glitter. Shaking your head, the raven transitions itself onto your shoulder as you take the letter from its beak and drop your gun on the coffee table once more, knocking over a stale cup of coffee as it stains the recent newspaper you snuck out to steal from the nearest village. 

The bird chirps in your ear, presenting its neck for a scratch as its wings flutter happily to your physical praise. Filling a bowl with water, you tip your shoulder down to the counter and watch as the raven dips itself inside and takes a drip. Ripping open the letter using a claw, your fingers trace over the Princesses signature, resembling much of the same qualities of her father. A common pattern of letters that you forged oh so many times in Hell's past. 

Your eyes drift over the shaken handwriting as concern etches its way into each wrinkle upon your face. The paper is stained with tears and a droplet of golden blood that has you seeing red- motherfuckers, you spit out, flipping to the next side that houses a simple request. “...I don’t know where else to go, but I need to be away from everyone, could I come stay with you?”

Obvious wear of the page signifies that this sentence had been scrapped and rewritten a multitude of times as you hum out in thought. You saw echoes of yourself in her words and actions, taking the chance to run for a moment, to find freedom from all the decisions that wear a person down overtime. The raven’s eyes pearce through your own that have started to shimmer a yellow hue in the moonlight. You rip a page from one of your journals, listing a simple yes with a request that the bird be the only one who shows her the way here. 

You open the kitchen window, watching as the bird flies up, becoming a mere black speck in the bloodied sky as you lean against the counter, observing your home and omitting a sigh, looking down to your hands. With a singular clap you listen as each scattered object finds its place upon shelves or in the sink beside you. Shoes walk their way towards the closet as your shotgun polishes itself back into its display. Small golden specks flicker and fall towards the floor, lost without a trace alongside the dust between the floorboards, the magic you used now settled as your blood becomes warm- happy that you made use of it. 

You can only roll your shoulder, the jacket appearing to dwarf over your frame as you shimmy it off, resting it against the back of the couch as you make your way upstairs, fighting mentally to come up with a nice outfit to greet the Princess with- Charlie with, your brain corrects you. Hands fly to button up a new shirt as you iron your pants and choose a clean pair of workboots and gloves. You bring up a bottle of wine from the cellar, eyeing the date with a laugh, gods I really am ancient. You think to yourself, this bottle was practically double Charlie's age and you could only reminisce of the sentences Husk would string together at the mere mention of such a luxury bottle of liquor. 

Popping off the lid, you lean your head back on the white jacket, an arm falling onto your shoulder as you swirl your glass, watching as the liquid falls from the walls, clashing back into itself. You can imagine these waves roaring, clashing and becoming one in the end- a pointless battle in the grand scheme of things to only be interrupted by the ringing of a doorbell as a distressed blonde collapses into your arms, their black mascara staining your fresh white gloves as you cradle their head. 

Charlie's glossy red eyes peer into your own as you still, at a loss for words. You had never seen Charlie so down, so utterly miserable as you squeezed the girl that bit harder and picked her up. Flicking your hand for the door to be closed behind you both and led her towards your living space. She looks up as you place her on the couch, conjuring a fresh plate of tea as you extend your hand, offering physical support as she latches on, nails digging into your palm as she sobs out, tears and snot choking her next words as you lean in to hear better. 

“I-I was so excited and then… it all goes to shit. I should have listened to everyone, to you, my dad… my mother…” You open your mouth, about to comment before she continues, eyeing up your glass of wine. “I understand the pain my father went through, now more than ever.”

“Charlie…” you breathe out in concern as you pull the hair from her tear stained cheeks, offering her your handkerchief as she dabs her eyes, looking up towards your vaulted ceilings. “I should have never gone to heaven, held these ‘loft dreams,’” she quotes in her fingers, dropping your hand as she exhales frustration, going to grip her hair, head falling between her knees. “I wanted so much then and now I feel the consequences. Vaggie is not the person I knew her to be- she's an angel and to even think that I admired heaven when these are the tricks they pull!” 

“Charlie-I-” 

“No! It's not fair, and now that motherfucker Adam!”

“Language,“ you state as Charlie flips you the finger, “okay dad/mom,” she states back, picking up her head and showcasing an eye roll as you pull her closer to you, resting her head under your own as you breeze past the title. “I remember Adam,” you state as Charlie looks up at you curiously, “did he declare to come and kill you first too?” 

“Actually-” you start to say while scanning through your memories. 

“You’re joking,” Charlie deadpans just as you shrug your shoulders. The Princesses face falls again soon after as she picks at her nail polish, “I am just as bad as the cruelest list of overlords in hell-”

“No you are not!’ you stand, anger filling your voice as shadows soon emerge from the floorboards before you gain a hold of yourself witnessing the terror starting to rise in Charlie's eyes as you drop to your knees and apologise. “You are not cruel Charlie, you are kind as you are strong. Any overlord in hell… misses those feats,” you state, wrapping her fathers jacket around her frame and pressing a cup of tea into her hands. 

“Now I know better than anyone that all these thoughts lead to nothing but more self wallowing,” you say, taking a sip of your drink before leaning against the arm of the couch opposite of Charlie as she raises an eyebrow. 

“Isn’t that why you are here?” Charlie questions, sneaking a sip of your wine with a small smile starting to form, knowing she caught you there. “Well as I have stated before, you are better than me in many ways,” you retort, shifting the fabric of your shirt to position itself on your elbows as you lean down to pick up a tea cup. 

Charlie laughs out softly, a ping of pride emanates from your chest in managing to cheer her up slightly yet both of your positive reactions soon fall as you summon forth your spear, horns growing out of the top of your head and through your healing hair with the information she presents you. “But that is all besides the point, I need people to fight this battle with me, I need you and I have already made deals-”

“YOU DID WHAT?!” you coldly ask, head tilting, your eyes now slits as you demand answers from the princess. Rank falling from any traditions you held, even with her fathers coat on, you stand at nothing but their utmost safety, even when it comes with disrespect to their pride filled backgrounds. “I made a deal with… well more like through Alastor. He said that I could only accept when I was sleeping so I got him to put me to sleep before coming over to you,” her words come out in waterfalls, spewing at a gallon a minute while you stab a hole into your floors as she continues her story. “A-and I was put in this space with water and a guy who looked a lot like my dad, but he wore these white clothes and called himself the Creator out of all things- I mean I have seen god and god is not him I shall have you know, anyways I-”

“Woah, woah, woah, WAIT!” You comment, racking your brain as horror coats your features, your spear clashing against the floor as you place your hands on her cheeks, moving her eyes to your own as you ensure the seriousness of your next question, “You have met THE god?” 

“He was there for my birth and well… the day of your death. I was too young to remember anymore, you would have to ask dad but…” Charlie conines to ramble, you fade out of reality, feeling your socks becoming yet, clouds flickering in Hell's skies before you drop your hands from her face and grip your head with stress. Becoming out of breath, Charlie soon slows her speech as you pick up on what she has to say once more, “...so I made the deal and now I owe him my dreams till Adam is dead.” She finishes as you grip the back of the couch, eyes starting past her head and into the kitchen window where heaven sits gleaming mockingly in your face. 

“I think it's time for you to catch some rest, I will be there with you in a moment… there's a few words I wish to share with your dealmaker,” you state with vice as Charlie swallows, nodding her head a few times just as the raven flies in through the still opened window, staring between the two of you before making your way upstairs and showing her to your guest room. Charlie clicks her hands together, suitcase flying its way into the room and on her bed as she yawns out, “thank you for letting me stay here,” she says in a small voice while looking down at her feet. 

“Thank you for coming to me when things like this happen,” you reply, pulling her in for one last hug just before you exit your room, once hearing the door close, you exhale a soft breath, a hand of your own trails from your waist, upwards you chest and rests upon your neck- grazing over the golden scar. You step towards your room, hands moving over your journals as you recount each conversation, preparing yourself to enter the dreamworld once again. 

You walk towards your washroom and run a bathtub, knowing you would be unable to sleep in normal ways. Your breath hitches as the tap squeals shut, the bird now taps rapidly against the glass window above your head, beckoning to be let in just as you undress, submerging toes to shoulders in water. You watch the water ripple to intake your form, your hands begin to float in the water as you gradually sink your back deeping into the warm waters.

Snapping your fingers, bubbles fill the tub, flying off towards the window, gleaming in Heaven's light, creating the only natural rainbows to be found in hell. Water now just up to your chin, you take in one last small breath before submerging your head. Your body unconsciously kicks, trying to force more air into your system but you stay, your feet twitch, your lungs scream and just as your nails ding into your skin and a droplet of pain enters your system- you are transported to the otherside. 

--

Your body is wrapped in fine cloth garments, silver patterns are sewn into the fabric in waving lines as you stand at the foot of a bed that houses a sleeping Charlie. You start to move to the side of the bed, raising your hand, just hovering over to tuck her in just as a hand is placed on your shoulder. You stand back upright in an instant, hand dropping and becoming covered in your robes once more as you face forward. Staring off into the horizon as sunlight fades and blues arise from the sea, coating the sky. 

Greetings, the deity calls to you, you feel the warmth of their breath on your skin as it crawls into your ear, making a home in your senses as you become senseless to their powers taking over your form just as the last. Why have you come to the Creator on this fine evening? A smile starts to form across their features, their rosy cheeks taking over your eyes as they expand to hold every pointed tooth in your eyes. 

Why speak, why even think if you already know the answer? You strike back, a hand of theirs now drifting from your shoulder down to your back as they lead you away from Charlie, your feet moving on their own as they spread the very water before you and towards a tea set primed for the occasion. A singular snake following in your robes, teeth latching on to a sleeve as it becomes lost under the waters. You feel its tug but cannot look back as you take your seat beside the deity, their hand now on your knee as they pat it thrice in contemplation. 

Where is the fun, immoral one when another can already speak for me? You roll your eyes in response as the snake now catches the corner of your eye. Its white scales disappear in your garments but hiss towards the man beside you, warning of what you have yet to discover. A question for a question, both never to be answered, you say, gaining control of your head the longer you sit in the waters. The deity still faces forwards, watching Charlie breath, your heart slows realizing the water had been rising but you kept on breathing. 

A choking sound can be heard, you feel yourself thrashing in the bathtub just as Charlie emits a silent scream in her dreams. Stop this, you state, the snake now slithering to rest its head in your hand as your knees begin to shake, you have to stand but their hand still rests on your knee. Their eyes flicker to gold coins, a scoff coming up from the back of their throat. It does not serve you well to beg, dearest, they tut out towards you just as your body shakes in anger. 

You will stop this cruelty this instant, she is young, unknowing in many of the wicked ways we have lived through. You speak, starting to stand, pushing up against the currents as fish swim around our eyes, finns swatting in your face. And just how would you know what I have lived through? They deity questions.

How do you know yourself to be the Creator when Creation itself happened to make you? You question back, their head tips over to you, neck cracking as the night had finally come, the once rosy pinks and orange waters now rich blues mistaken to be black and soulless. Bubbles rise when they laugh, they create waves as Charlie uses these air pockets to breathe. Her arms reach out to you even when she is unable to open her eyes. Her fingers flex and bend in search of comfort and you become distracted. The snake bites into your skin as you hiss out in pain, droplets of gold now rising towards the unseen surface, it glimmers in contrast to the depths of the ocean. 

The snake bites you again, more droplets emerge as they rise above your head and they sliver away with them. Looking upwards, you watch as the snake curls into itself before bursting into the brightest light yet, the supposed god cowers in the display. You take a deep breath in at the sight of the patterns that your blood has created in the darkness you once emerged from. Constellations shown from earth's surface come into view, Orion’s sword and shield fall from the sky and into your hands as you slam the two together. The deity flies backwards from the impulse as you sprint before extending your legs, jumping and crashing into their awaiting fists as the water parts, Charlie falling behind you as she chokes up water. 

Her eyes open, she screams out in warning as the brother rushes up to you, clouds now battle axes as each connection of blades groans on impact. Your muscles ache, your lungs filled with frustration as you fight. Blood drips from their teeth, your smirk seeing their pain as Charlie stands back in horror seeing you so far removed from yourself. She thinks back to the tales her father told her, the depictions of the townsfolk when their version of self emerged in protection of her mother, her father, and now… her. 

Charlie ducks as an axe swings over her head, she watches as your back dips, the blade caressing your chin just as you kick his knee, making him tumble for balance as you place a cut to his arm and later to his chest. Gold pours out in vats as you cry out, cutting through fabric and skin down to bone. Exposing the dead-skin that laid underneath yet you paid no mind to it, even when an emptied hand came to hold your chin as your blade rests under their own. 

You are stunning like this dearest, a true waking dream, their last word echoing as the sky crashes down upon you, sun rises and drying any trace as the ground begins to crack- a desert forming in response to your aching bones as they lay before you, barely able to move. Charlie views the grey skin you had unleashed to the sky, it is a mere replica of the ground she now walks upon, removed of any prior life as fish flap around helplessly at her feet. 

You continuously speak about creations, fate, and now dreams. What are you, for the only object I see now is failure before me. Their eyes close, basking in the light rays just before golden eyes sparkle on their own. They do not show any greed, and promise for truth yet their lips move on their behalf, “I am the spirit of dreams, a heavy branch from the father himself. I twist fate in the most gorgeous of affairs, I bend time on a whim just as I destroy. I can revoke happiness, I can tempt death, I can so I do… until now, until you…” 

Your blade still holds strong against their throat, itching to make the same cursed line to match your own, their hand still rests upon your face, that once comforting feeling now a hollowed caress as they hum out peacefully in thought of their next words. “I have called myself the Creator so as to not confuse you with the many renditions you were before this. We have had a long relationship, a changing one two, you were once my greatest friend, a confidant and even lover…”

A sickness plagues your mind, you don’t recognise the plethora of visions that coat your memory, not feel as your blade shatters against the ground as Charlie moves to hug you, pleading for your return as you stare lifelessly off into the horizon. 

--

You wake in a distant memory. You find yourself in similar robes as you walk along the cosmos, galaxies are your furnishing as they are your being, you drift between them with grace as the stars twinkle and black holes bend to make way for your presence. A hand emerges from the darkened veil of space, a white glove pulls you through and into a home lost to time as a grandfather clock ticks in the background, the hands left unchanging yet it sounds just the same. Teeth smile into your neck, their hands on your waist as you drift between one another and you awake once more.  

--

“NO…” you state, coming back to cruel realities as you hold Charlie's head, comforting the girl by unknotting her hair with your claws as you yourself need to be grounded in some semblance of the current life you live. “Your greatest dream was to always have more time, dearest and I could never deny you of anything in my power. I paused the clocks as long as I could before father came knocking at my door and when the earth went to dream again, I didn't have you to join me. In this all, I had yet to discover my hatred for my brother truly, it was only when I saw you with that ‘King of Hell…’” he speaks the table to such spite as his wounds begin to heal and he stands to full height, hands extended towards you as Charlie blocks their touch with her body. “...I grew that hatred, that jealousy and revoked his dreams. I pleaded for your return and even when I received it… Lucifer always found a way to claw you back into hell, he gave you that extra time when I was unable to...”

“You twist your words…” you say, shaking your head in disbelief as the Spirit of Dreams smile fades to that of a smaller one as their hands drop. “Only when I must, but now I see that there is no longer a need for me to do so,” they say as their eyes drift over Charlie's blonde hair. 

Your eyes begin to feel drowsy as you emit a yawn, feeling exhausted for the first time in weeks and cannot help but feel giddy at the feeling. You watched relaxed as his robes drift off like clouds in the sky once more as a sunset rises from behind you all, an array of reds reminding you of Hell. They chuckle out lightly, their eyes flickering knowingly to your current state as they speak in mere whispers, your eyes fluttering closed. “You are due to wake up any moment now dearest.” 

He nods once towards Charlie, her eyes soon closing once again as she lets out a peaceful sigh, resting on your shoulder. “I am sorry for not dreaming enough for the two of us…” You shake your head at this, starting to fall slowly back into the tub as their voice softly shuts closed their domain. 

Hazbin Hotel Masterlist

↳ Taglist: @jtcat305 @tati-the-fangirl @randomgurl2326 @22carolina08 @amarokofficial @cynjinx0 @legacyreadsfics @repentant-repeller @ly-doodels

[mi-i-zori]

The Hunter and The Prey

CoD Fae!AU - Fae!Ghost x f!reader

SYNOPSIS : When the Hunter finds herself vulnerable in the middle of the Frost, a certain spirit decides to make it clear who exactly she belongs to.

WARNINGS : Gore, body horror, violence, predator behavior (Fae VS Human)...

Author’s note : This is part 3 of The Hunter’s story. As always, my take on this AU is inspired by @ghouljams ‘s works.

I do not give anyone permission to re-publish and/or translate my work, be it here or on any other platform.

Her wards are no more, and she doesn’t know why.

This hunt was supposed to be an easy one. And it had been, in a way ; her target had been born not so long ago, and couldn’t gather enough magical power to give her too much trouble. Yet, as she prepared to leave, all her protections had suddenly shattered, leaving her with only her weapons and experience to fight her way back to safety.

A curse falls from her lips. She can feel the shadows slowly tighten around her, their weight hindering her progress through the snow. She has become too vulnerable to be ignored. An easy meal for the beings of the Frost.

The creatures move within the misty darkness of the trees. In their hollow eyes, she sees nothing but the reflection of her own fearless expression. Although wary of the multiple weapons lining her clothes, they linger, waiting for the moment their potential meal will falter ; for a breach to exploit in the seemingly unbreakable walls of her mind. Yet, according to the magic dancing around her, a danger far greater than all of them combined hides in the shadows. While still keeping an eye on the freezing monsters, she steps forward, looking for the outline of a masked silhouette amidst the smog.

She survived many similar situations, she thinks. Hell ; as a child, her father even willingly put her in danger to hone her hunting skills. She can do this.

With a snarl, of the beasts suddenly rises in front of her. Gritting her teeth, she adjusts her stance in the slippery snow. Her dagger sits comfortably in her hand, its iron blade glistening in the wintery sun. Her opponent launches its scaly body at her, and her arm gets ready to plunge the cold metal in its flesh ; but the monster is suddenly covered in multiple layers of smoke, its muffled cries echoing within what soon looks like a thick, misty cocoon. It vanishes seconds later, leaving only a broken, hollow shell in its wake.

A cold, eerie silence falls upon the forest. The young woman suddenly tenses as black tendrils slowly wrap around her, dancing at the edges of her vision. The remaining creatures’ mouths tremble, teeth instinctively ready to rip the flesh from her bones ; yet they can’t stop a series of whimpers from escaping their throats as they crawl in front of the power emanating from the strips of darkness. A large, gloved hand rises from behind her to rest on her chest, a newfound warmth settling against her back and somehow preventing her blade from striking the invisible threat.

In front of her, the monsters take a step back. They know that, even with her wards destroyed and her body covered in wounds, the Hunter is still a threat to their very existence. But as a skull mask emerges from the overwhelming darkness above her, they all understand that, right now, the Spirit of the Fog is the one they should fear ; especially when he is powerful enough to remain unfazed by his close proximity to the living weapon standing right under his palm.

She can feel him shift behind her. His body curls around her own, just enough to dip his head against her shoulder. And, despite his size, he still manages to keep her back flush against his front. She can feel his breath on her neck, probably way too warm for a fae of Winter.

Just like his entire being.

It took her days of cleansing to get rid of just half of his scent. She has a feeling he is going to make this process much longer because of this.

And she knows it’s working just like he wants it to by the way the monsters in front of them keep cowering under the threat of the Ghost’s power.

- Fuck off.

His tone is commanding, somber, cold. The beasts don’t waste a second to scramble away, leaving them both alone in the middle of the misty forest. The silence weighs heavy on her chest as the fae keeps his hand above her heart. A single wrong move could be the end of her, whispers a voice in her mind, and her instincts are torn between fighting him and remaining still.

- Not trying your luck against me, Hunter ?

His low timbre echoes against her back, shaking her very core. Everything about him screams danger. She stays frozen as he slowly turns her around to face him. Her eyes stay focused on every one of his languid movements as he takes off one of his gloves to grab the hand holding her blade. Lifting it to his throat, he slides his fingers against the sharp iron, unbothered by the vicious burns it leaves on his skin. He tilts his head with a low hum, prompting her to answer. The ice of his eyes glow under his balaclava.

Whatever he is, she thinks, she greatly underestimated him. She barely manages to articulate the question that has been bothering her since he showed himself, her teeth almost cracking under the pressure of her jaws.

- You were the one who shattered my wards, weren’t you ?

The Spirit lets out a deep chuckle that sends shivers down her spine.

- What a clever girl.

He leans towards her, the bone of his mask coming to stand right before her face. His free hand steadies her in place when she tries to put some distance in-between their bodies, allowing him to get even closer to her ear.

- One more reason to make you mine.

She finally manages to push him away ; and he lets her, obstructing her view with a thick layer of smog when her dagger tries to strike him. And, just like the first time they met, he leaves her alone in the middle of the Frost, his back fearlessly facing the predator she was raised to be. But as she watches him disappear into the shadows, she can’t help but think that, right now, she feels more like a prey than ever.

What is he ?

[bonzosbunker]

I’ve been getting a lot of love for The Scareiff recently, so I wrote down a lot of lore and ideas n’ stuff for you all.

HIS STORY:

The Scareiff was outstanding in his field of entertainment, enough so that he was the star of his own show. His show was called “Scareiff’s Saloon” which combined family fun with crazy spaghetti western action! The show was a hit, and he had plenty of fans. But then everything changed when someone, thought to have been a fan of his, got too close to him. His show and him started going downhill. He started messing up his parts, he made bad PR for himself, and he became a total mess. Shortly after C. Rook came into the picture, he was booted from Cathode Entertainment and his show was cancelled. Nobody knows where he is now. But he’s somewhere out in that desert, hoping an opportunity will come by where he can prove his worth again.

THE BATTLE:

They didn’t call him a sheriff for nothing. He was an expert with a pistol, and he performed all of his stunts. This expertise in the art of combat is why you most certainly need the Shadow Mantle. With such, you’ll be able to effortlessly deflect his shimmering bullets. Then you can find his whereabouts in Dreamy Desert, inside of a place called Ghost Town. Pacifying him grants you the Gleam Badge, a badge made out of pure hope.

Taking the more aggressive route makes The Scareiff impossible to find in Ghost Town. Instead he will try to hunt you down. He hopes that by turning in The Fun Gang to Tenna that that’ll get him his show back. As soon as you find the Shadow Mantle, he ambushes you. The battle with him is significantly harder in this route, even with the mantle aiding you. If you manage to strike him down, he still refuses to give up, as if his unwavering hopes are what’s keeping him going. It is this overwhelming hope that begins to turn him into a mess of TV static, withering him down until there is nothing left but his Shadow Crystal. In the process, he drops his gilded Fire-Arm, something you can equip to Toriel.

THEMES:

- Ghost Town

- Music that plays upon finding The Scareiff’s hideout

- Standoff

- Song that plays when The Scareiff is encountered

- DARN SHOOT’N

- Pacifist/Normal Route battle theme

- SERVIN’ JUSTICE

- Aggressive Route battle theme

- Cancelled

- Post-Agressive Route battle scene

QUOTE EXAMPLES:

* Y- Y’ALL’VE NEVER’RE SEEN MY SHOW BEFORE… ?

* WELL THAT’RE BE A DARN SHAME. Y’ALL’RE MISS’N OUT!

* Y’THINK’N SOME RAGGEDY OL’ CAPE’S GUNNA STOP ME???

* YOU SHOULD’VE STUCK’T TO YER’ GUNS INSTEAD!

* WELL I GOT MY OWN HOPE’S N’ DREAM’S TOO Y’KNOW!

* SO IT’D BE GREAT IF Y’ALL’D JUST’T. LET. ME. WIN.

OTHER THOUGHTS AND IDEAS:

- The Scareiff’s unwavering hope and refusal to back down in the Aggressive Route is meant to reflect the fight with Undyne the Undying.

- Continuing the theme of all the secret bosses being “trapped” in some way. Despite all of The Scareiff’s hopes, he is never able to overcome that feeling and return to normalcy. But he does try his best, and comes considerably closer than any of the other secret bosses in my lore for the game.

- There is no “friend” inside of The Scareiff. There’s only hope and straw in there. However, if you’ve been looking at any of my past posts, there still is a “friend” in my take on Chapter 3.

- The Scareiff rode a horse at one point that left him a long time ago. He misses him, but he does have a cool stick horse now!

- The Scareiff knows about the other secret bosses, much like how Spamton knows Jevil. He thinks the rest of them are a bunch of weirdos and suckers. He especially doesn’t like Spamton, who he thinks is lousy and incapable of doing anything for himself.

[the-greatest-8]

Obi-wans master was dead. Or at the very least, claimed to be.

Master Qui-Gon Jinn, a Jedi who by all accounts while unconventional- or even downright rebellious when in regards to the council, did not seem to be dead.

Understandably, there were concerns over his mental well-being. Namely because despite the evidence, this being his continued physical existence, Master Jinn claimed to have died. To a Sith apprentice no less, then became a force ghost for awhile, trained his Padawan from the other side, and promptly returned to the land of the living. Obi-wan on the other hand?

Obi-wan did not mind his Masters new beliefs, even if he did not necessarily believe in them. He was actually quite pleased, Master Jinn had never been more open then he was now. The Master-Padawan bond between them was essentially flooded with warmth, peace, and pride. It was a vast change from the usual closed off disappointment, fear, and sadness his Master was never quite able to fully shield. Obi-wan would be more conflicted about his feelings if his Master didn't seem so content with where he was. Though, Obi-wan mused, the majority of the council did not share these feelings in the slightest; and neither did the healers.

If anyone could be said to share Obi-wans feelings, it was Grandmaster Yoda. The Grandmaster could be found next to Master Jinn in the gardens, engaging in lively debates over the differences between living and not. Grandmaster Yoda did not appear overly concerned over Master Jinns beliefs, in fact, he appeared to be the only one willing to humor the man. Or- and Obi-wan did believe this to be the truth, Grandmaster Yoda took great pleasure in watching the frustration his fellow Council members had whenever they came across these 'discussions'.

Master Yan Dooku on the other hand, appeared to be regularly nursing a headache. However, his pains had nothing on Master Windus, who upon hearing Master Jinns claims, promptly collapsed for three days in force induced agony. Master Windu still would flinch when looking at Master Jinn, and had taken to desperate measures in avoiding him.

Healer Che was a different story entirely, where some Masters either took to avoiding Master Jinn or seeking him out with questions- Healer Che hunted him. She sought to drag the giant of a man kicking and screaming to Med-bay, but had been entirely unable to do so up until this point. Obi-wan admired his Masters talents- up until he was betrayed in the efforts of evasion. Now, Obi-wan would point to his Masters location whenever asked. Often laughing as his Master fled as fast as humanly possible from the irate healer.

Obi-wan reflected on this, while watching Healer Che march her way towards his distracted Master; whom was engaged with Grandmaster Yoda in one of their 'discussions'. Perhaps this time his Master would loose this game of mouse and tooka.

[vickyvicarious]

One thing I like about Mina also is that while she very much goes on and on and visibly blushes about how much stronger her husband has become (and honestly didn't we all. didn't we cheer when he got up on his feet and every part of him was in complete focus towards killing his abuser?), her praise for him wasn't reserved for when he got strong. She married him disabled, skin and bones, the dignified gaze she had loved about him now gone, waking up raving mad about demons and wolves and ghosts for a month. And she still kept talking about him as if she was talking about Prince Charming. (Because he always showed he was still the gentle and loving boy she had fallen in love with, under all the physical and mental changes.)

Yes, absolutely. Her letter about her husband is open about how weak he is and how he's a wreck and so on, and it's just as openly gushing and delighted to be his wife.

I feel that I can hardly recall anything of the journey, except that I knew I was coming to Jonathan, and, that as I should have to do some nursing, I had better get all the sleep I could.... I found my dear one, oh, so thin and pale and weak-looking. All the resolution has gone out of his dear eyes, and that quiet dignity which I told you was in his face has vanished. He is only a wreck of himself, and he does not remember anything that has happened to him for a long time past.

On reflection, one of my favorite lines is that bolded bit. Mina knew what she was going into. And rather than panicking over what could have happened to cause such a change, or worrying if she could handle it, or if he'd still be the man she loves, or any of that, her reaction is practical in such an absolutely loving way. She knows he's going to need nursing and care. Obviously she's going to dedicate all her energies towards that, and so she'll have to prepare by getting as much rest as she can now.

(There's also something to be said here about how excited Jonathan was to share his trip with Mina since she hasn't traveled, and how the first time she got to travel she ignored her surroundings completely in favor of him.)

They then decide to get married as soon as possible. In fact, Mina hunts Sister Agatha down to petition for an even earlier marriage after Jonathan entrusts her with the key to his trauma with the journal, and then is weak and needs to sleep again. It goes from him weakly collapsing to 'I'm waiting to hear if we can get married this afternoon' to 'we'll be married in an hour, or as soon as Jonathan wakes up'. Mention of Jonathan's illness/disability is tied to the wedding all the way through. They get married with him propped up in bed. The moment Mina says she's the happiest woman in the world comes right on the heels of Jonathan possibly being confused about time and Mina saying she expects him to have trouble even remembering what year it is:

Then he took my hand in his, and oh, Lucy, it was the first time he took his wife's hand, and said that it was the dearest thing in all the wide world, and that he would go through all the past again to win it, if need be. The poor dear meant to have said a part of the past, but he cannot think of time yet, and I shall not wonder if at first he mixes up not only the month, but the year. Well, my dear, what could I say? I could only tell him that I was the happiest woman in all the wide world, and that I had nothing to give him except myself, my life, and my trust, and that with these went my love and duty for all the days of my life. And, my dear, when he kissed me, and drew me to him with his poor weak hands, it was like a very solemn pledge between us....

It's absolutely undeniable that Mina is well aware of how Jonathan is weak and will be relying upon her very heavily. It's equally undeniable that she loves him and is completely willing to be his support. It's the same thing in her later letters and journals. She talks about his nightmares, his health being slow to return, his obvious stress only being compounded when he loses his father figure and is given lots of new responsibilities. And she admits it's hard. She tells Lucy keeping up her own cheer for his sake is wearing, and she has no one else to confide in. But she doesn't care, she would do it as long as necessary, because she loves Jonathan so much and she knows he loves her too. A lot of things have changed about him, but never that. Never who he is at his core. And that person is her Prince Charming. Sure, he cuts a fine figure with fury blazing in his eyes, strength recovered and then some, knife on his hip... She will obviously swoon over him then. But even in the worst of his recovery, the things he said to her clearly had her swooning then too.

It's not about what he does, it's about who he is. And he never stops being her Jonathan.

[thesoulspulse]

I've been getting this idea in my head I wanted to explore about a group of special ghosts known as Mistwalkers. They are the holy messengers of Evermore, in other words the final paradise only worthy souls are allowed to enter. Like Necromancers they served the will of the Angel of Death by helping bear witness to the judgement of souls who have either finally found their peace or have been exiled until such a time as they find redemption or seal their own damnation.

Story: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14297213/1/Vestige

Warning! There are story spoilers for "Vestige" written down below so read the rest at your own peril. Truth be told I mostly just wanted to sort of make a ghost that looked a little more like the classic bed-sheet ghost but with a bit more ethereal elegance. Also, this design is also partially inspired by my oc Luna who I sadly ended up removing from Owen's story and more or less replaced her with Eris as his main supporter/friend. She was just an ice ghost/witch though so there wasn't much of a connection to Death himself apart from maybe the 'deathly chill' someone might feel sort of like Danny's ghost sense.

No one has seen one of these divine spirits since Death sacrificed himself to give ghosts and the other spirits who resided within the Veil a fighting chance against Lilith by reshaping it into the Ghost Zone. Yet in the coming days this will change as the threat of a door opening once more between the Earth and the Ghost Zone that leads to an evil realm of pure darkness even ghosts know to fear draws closer. A realm where Lilith and her legions of Wraiths and other demonic monstrosities reside without an ounce of humanity or mercy to be found in their black hearts.

Death and these divine messengers are the reason why white hair is seen as a symbol of being close in nature to them. Owen might have been born with his partial albinism to symbolize this because he has the soul of the first Necromancer Death granted his power to but Vlad and Danny were 'touched by Death' as and chosen to help restore the lost balance between worlds. Unfortunately Vlad succumbed to his selfish desires and then his ghost form changed to reflect that growing darkness in his heart. But if his heart changes enough he might just be able to reclaim this unknown gift bestowed upon him that's remained buried this whole time. Danny on the other hand embraced his role as a protector and this is why his powers only keep growing stronger, it's a blessing because of his courageous heart as well as the bravery of his ghost hunting ancestors who once helped fight off many evil spirits.

[cocoabubbelle]

Watching “Scooby Doo, Where Are You?” (1969-1970 CBS) + Thoughts

Episode 24: Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Werewolf

Background/Scenery Art lovely as usual.

Dear colorists for the series, did you seriously believe werewolves have technicolor fur or were executives more interested in crooks in bright colors?

Camping episode! Also, color/design-coded tents so we know the boys sleep in the purple one with flowers and the girls use the light blue one with teal tie-dye designs (jk)

Daphne calls Shaggy and Scooby the Laurel and Hardy of their group. I wanna know who is the Laurel and who is the Hardy.

Scooby gets a pup tent of his own. Maybe. It’s a work in progress at least.

“There’s nothing I like better than food, unless it’s more food!”

Camera takes the time to focus on each character’s respective reaction of alarm upon hearing the titular werewolf’s howl.

Werewolf apparently has an invisibility cloak with holes for his eyes bc we see them not peaking out of darkness but right on top of a background of forest trees.

Ok who was in charge of the size ratio of the tents bc when we first saw them they seemed to be the height of an average man while Scooby’s was half his size but now suddenly it’s big enough to fit both him and Shaggy while the other tents are the size of huts???

It’s a good thing an artist made an effort to make Daphne place a hand on Fred’s shoulder again so I can recognize this as a Fraphne moment. (I say this both lovingly and teasingly.)

Look Shaggy you ditched Scoob earlier for food while his face was stuck in a tent; are you really going to be annoyed by him swiping your snacks?

Velma is able to tell that the footprints Scooby find that while they have the appearance of a large wolf, the repeated shapes indicate that it is a bipedal being as opposed to a quadrupedal one.

Animation Goof: Velma almost had the mother of double chins for a moment before the color of her turtleneck’s top reverted back to orange.

Graveyard! Fred think’s it’s sus that there is a fresh grave dug in such an old place. I know it is probably related to treasure hunting, but wouldn’t it be interesting if this episode’s masked menace was a murderer this time??

Fred , Velm, and Daph have no problem looking into a coffin while Shag and Scoob are more squeamish.

Silas Long doesn’t sound like a werewolf name to me, but who am I to judge?

Fred grabs Shaggy and Scoob by the shirt/tail before they run away. Shaggy carries a pair of scissors for situations like this so he can resume running. Fred just grabs them again.

“Oh-swell-it-ain’t-bad-enough-we’re-following-a-werewolf-now-it-looks-like-it’s-the-GHOST-of-a-werewolf!!” These are technically two separate sentences but the speed and delivery of these lines by the VA was so funny 😆

Also, I’d argue that it’s a zombie werewolf, since it’s leaving tracks.

SQUEE!! Frelma standing super close on one side of an old mill’s entrance, and Shaphne also standing super close on the other side with enough space dividing one ship from the other!! 🥰🥰🥰 also Scooby’s there.

Aaaand in the next scene, suddenly they’re mixed up again despite not moving (guess somebody wanted to fix the ‘mistake’ and move Daph right back to Fred’s side where Velma was and visa versa so now Velms is with Shaggy)

“We’ll split up. I’ll take the girls this wa—!” “Yeah, yeah*, I know. And Scooby and me will go the other way.” *admittedly I added a second yeah, but come on XD I couldn’t be the only one hearing Shaggy’s inner sass at Fred’s usual divisions of their group.

Scared-by-a-frightening-monster-only-to-discover-it’s-a-warped-shadow/reflection-of-a-tiny-and-harmless-creature gag

Guys. Please just turn around. He’s right there. Not even 6 feet behind you. Making loud steps. How can Scooby smell tracks but not a living, breathing stranger right next to them? I call shenanigans, writers!

…What is a stronger word for shenanigans that isn’t crossed with a curse word to describe the ridiculousness of the scenes that just followed? 😑

A tribal mask (little easter egg paying tribute to the prior episode?)

HAHAHAHA!!!! Ok I’m still annoyed by the previous scenes, but Shaggy pulling the mask and accidentally making the werewolf he and Scoob had no idea was so close to them fall through a trap door got me 🤣

Upon the trio coming across a map in a secret room, Daphne is about to correctly deduce that whoever they are looking for is a costumed criminal since ghost don’t need maps to find things when the Werewolf attacks.

Heh they all crash into each other upon reuniting.

Ah, here comes the chase scene music with singers we didn’t get last episode. Strange to admit I missed it.

Animation Goof: Shaggy’s running model is either going backwards or was flipped the wrong way.

Hey, I vaguely remember this song! At least the “Na na, na na na na” part.

There are many things ridiculous about this chase scene, but the main ones are: 1) the werewolf is only focused on chasing Shaggy and Scooby. Talk about biased; 2) Aerodynamic Trashcan Lids though honestly that is more fun than ridiculous 3) Scoob and Shag happening to fall into a convenient pile of wool.

“What do you suppose happened to Shag and Scoob after they fell on that old water wheel?” Bruh if you were watching the whole time and not doing anything as a potentially dangerous man was chasing your friend and dog—!

Not Fred-Velm-Daph and Shag-Scoob taking turns accidentally scaring and being scared by each other 😆

I kinda like Daphne’s model having her arms folded across her chest, even more so than when they are planted on her hips. The latter (and standard) pose makes her seem sassier than she actually is, while the former pose gives off her reserved nature a little more — at least in this series so far.

“I’d sure like to know how Mr. Creepy-Crawly fits in with all this.” “Yeah!” “Let’s go find him.” “Oh, why don’t I just keep quiet?” “Yeah.” Sorry boys, you’re the designated comic relief. You can’t help it.

Animation Goof: Is it me or does Fred seem significantly shorter than Shaggy in this frame??

“Come on, girls. Let’s go see where that railcar came from.” “Don’t tell me. Scoob and me go to see where it’s going, right?” C’mon Fred; try to be more creative. Shake the status quo up a bit!

*sees the shadow that is in the exact shape as the Werewolf Ghost that they’ve encountered* “Who’s that?” “And what’s he up to?”

Unless the window has been refurbished with new glass and frames, I don’t see why Fred doesn’t at least try to smash his elbow through it if it’s part of a supposedly old mill so he and the girls are no longer trapped.

Not me wondering why Shaggy and Scooby are racing the railcar during their investigation when actually they’re running away from the Werewolf ghost.

Pop Top Barge

Shaggy and Scooby begin swinging on a hook trying to escape Werewolf, and I’m trying to remember if that’s the same hook that snagged Daphne’s dress and disrupted Fred’s trap in an episode I vaguely remember watching as a child. Is this the same episode???

Either Shaggy used Ultra-Instinct to switch clothes lickety-split fast or this is an Animation Goof.

Shaggy tries to distract Werewolf by cutting his hair and Scooby filing his nails and shining his feet, when they COULD HAVE used the barber’s aprons to TIE HIM TO THE CHAIR. Also I bet the shaved look doesn’t last, though I would be pleasantly surprised if it does.

Shaved look staying so far.

“Sure would know what this thing is.” “I’d rather know how we’re gonna get out of here.” This is why I like Frelma 😁

“Dr. Livingstone and friends, I presume?”

Poor Shaggy being bullied by Frelma when they find his observations related to the railcars and pop top barge hard to believe.

“You know how Freddy and Velma are when they got a mystery to unsolve.” Even Shaggy sees Frelma. Yet most known adaptations/reboots are convinced Fraphne are meant to be. Maybe those creators ignored Shaphne content that followed later because Scrappy had joined his uncle’s adventures???

Animation Goof: it looked like the costumed creep found a replacement mask with a head of hair, but the following frames show him with the shaved head 😆

Sheep? SHEEP!

“I think I’m beginning to get the picture, right Freddy?” “Right.” So much Frelma content this episode that was probably unintentional but so welcome!

Let’s see how well this plan of Fred’s works.

Animation Goof: Daph and Velma’s models look more fuzzy/out of focus compared to Fred’s despite being right next to him.

This IS the episode where Daphne gets snagged by a hook!!!!! DARN YOU FRED THIS IS YOUR FAULT! 😂

“I’d trade almost anything for a good, fast motor right now.” “Except me?” “Right. Anything except you, pal.” Friendship Goals, anyone?

Random Purple Fish.

“I’ve got an idea!” Hon, your last one didn’t work out so well.

I’d call shenanigans over how Fred, Velma, and Daph were able to make/find a big enough net with a handle, find an area stable enough to stand on, find a strong and conveniently shaped support, and get there on time to save their friends, but Velma looks adorable hanging on the end of the handle so I’ll let it slide.

Frelma standing together again, then a bonus shot of Fred’s arm around Velma.

Werewolf ditches his commitment to the act and cries wolf for help before he plummets to his death.

Handsome Sheriff alert. Also, the “werewolf” is a sheep rustler.

Minor Shaphne standing together.

“Shucks, [the werewolf sheep rustler] didn’t scare Scoob and me for a minute.” Nope. Not at all.

Day 24 of no “And I would have gotten away with it too, if it weren’t for you meddling kids.”

Also, I don’t know if I’ll be able to finish watching all the episodes while balancing schedules and work since I’m not the breadwinner in my family and we might not keep HBO Max. Whatever may happen, thank you to those who are having fun reading my thoughts and enduring my shenanigans as I watch Scooby Doo!

[definesanity]

One of The Many Tales of The Tomo Family.

Or: One Of My Tutors Wants To Know About My Lore.

Philip's day started, and he then heard someone falling down the stairs.

By this point, he has developed something of an additional sense to figuring out who fell down the stairs. But this time, a deep, feminine groan of pain told him it was Gunn.

Getting up, he made his way over to do his morning routine. Shower, brush his teeth, do his hair, put on his clothes; and as he looked at his mirror, and his reflection gazed back.

He was skinny. Nearly anorexic. Yet, his white hair fell back gracefully down to just above his knees, as deep purple eyes gazed back, little lavalamp earrings glittering. His everyday ensemble was extravagant to some; a greyish-purple tailcoat suit, with grey pants, boots and a large, purple cape.

The cape kept a little something he has as a surprise tool in check. But he'd have worn one anyways. If a bit smaller. Because he looks like Batman and not Ezio.

Philopator Agronium Isekaiden Tomo. And yes, his father was drunk while naming him. And everyone else.

He went downstairs, where he saw M'Gunnhildr Midorri Misstral Tomo, or Gunn, on the floor sprawled out. Short, dyed green hair and damp green eyes looked at Philip, herself dressed in a casual ensemble of pants and a t-shirt that says, 'yes i'm gay, was it the vibes that told you?'.

"Having fun?" Philip dryly asked.

"Oh, an amazing time." came Gunn's equally as dry reply. "Mind helping? I really can't be bothered this early in the morning."

Roll his eyes he did, but Philip still helped her up. Gumi's long ribcage expanded around her body, similar to an endoskeleton, and gave her the defence of a brick wall. Thankfully, not the intelligence.

"So, what's your work for the day?" Gunn called from the table, as Philip started to make breakfast. And with Gunn, it's always milk and cereal. In that order.

It's 2026 AMV, give her a break.

"A sudden Cocen meeting; I have to find Llo'Llo and An."

The Coven is the unofficial government of Diianas, and more of a talk show. Llo'Llo, the pint sized Ghoul Huntress, is a member, with her daughter Llo'An, or just An, as a guest, her daughter a Ghost Soother.

The point is, they have yet to come home after a late night ghost hunt. Normally, it wouldn't be a concern, but it was one ghost.

From behind the frame of the door, Malikuth Jiyuux Lilliean Tomo, her Marfan Syndrome riddled body coming into line of sight, looked at Philip, light blue eyes dead and her long blue hair in loose twintails lifeless.

Philip pushed the coffee mug to her and she nearly drank it all in one gulp. After a moment, and a silent "'Scuse me", Maliku looked up, eyes now less dead inside, as she tried to smooth out her creased suit and trousers.

"Thanks, I feel like I just hit by a bus." Maliku's voice wasn't as deep as Gunn's, mostly part to her being born female sans having the male reproduction organ, and more due to her tiredness in the morning. Usually, she sounds like someone who gets things done.

"Didn't you, though?" Gunn asked, a small quirk of her lips at Maliku, who blinked and sat down at the long table.

"'Bout a year back."

Another yawn, and as Philip exited the kitchen, T'hœmaas Makalinotol Tomo sat down, dark blue hair short minus the long wolftail at the back, along with dark blue eyes on an effeminate face. He wore his usually outfit, a suit over a blouse, and took a sip from his Darjeeling tea.

"Ah, excellen'. 'Ow are ya'all?" he sounded suspiciously like Mòrag from Xenoblade Chronicles 2. And that wasn't even a joke, he literally just sounds like her.

"Just about to head out, Thomas. I should be back in... call it an hour or two maybe."

"Righ', righ'. Off ya trot, troublemaker." that wry grin came upon his face, and Philip rolled his eyes, but a small smile was on his face.

"Sure, sure."

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

He first checked out the Bridge of St. Sophie. Llo'Llo is short, about 4'0, and her skittish personality off work doesn't help show she's 59 years old.

He did, however, find a short, black-haired girl and a taller, brown-haired girl.

Saiori, now called Heir Saiori of Haravin, and Nakitchi, the disgraced noble of Obliviution.

"Kcantro, lovebirds." a simple wave was all that was needed. "Enjoying the morning sun?"

That was something of a inside joke; Diianas was in the Frozen North, and many mountains, including Mt. Kiiriel, blocked out most of the sun. In this, enjoying the morning sun was more akin to, enjoying when it starts getting slighter brighter and before the Luxz turned on.

"Philip. And, eh." a nod and a shrug from Saiori. "The heck are you doing up so early?"

"Coven meeting in two hours; trying to find Llo'Llo."

Saiori's eyes, a molten gold, squinted. "You have got to be aljiralfrin joking me."

"Omaru, language." Nakitchi quietly spoke up, pink eyes glittering as she looked at her fiancé. Turning to Philip, she shook her head. "I'm sorry, but no. Last I heard was she was in the Garden."

"That helps, and nice talking to you both. See you later on, Saiori."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever..."

They're nice, really. Just not in the mornings, heh.

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

Next was Llizel's Garden.

Finding the pale green of Llo'Lo's hair is difficult enough, even when her yellow eyes glow like traffic lights.

Even then, he next came across the stranger visitors of Diianas, from the neighbouring Minor City of Twerkana.

Trisha, X, and Ar'qil. Trisha was a regular human, with X an alien and Ar'qil on the same boat as X.

He quickly walked past them No offence to them, he just needs someone who gets around a lot and not just around the bedroom.

Which led to the blond magician and her black-haired helper, Marie and Mary.

Marie was very... flamboyant. Mary was quiet. And also very gay for each other.

It's 2211008 AD, give them a break.

This then led Philip to the Neon Streets, and to Katrinka, the debt collector, who actually had seen Llo'Llo earlier that day. Following the trail then led to Charlie, a newreporter from the other City, Will, who is Charlie's father and has a relationship with his son that Philip realky doesn't want to try and figure out, Shovai Noir, the resident goth, and Reii, the person who might be the eldritch being, Omega, but that's a story for another day.

Finally, he reached a small building, and inside was numerous supplies. Philip himself was no Ghoul Hunter, but he could tell that the two were pulled into an illusion cast by the Ghoul.

Quickly and efficiently, he used the limited resources--Thank you, paranoia of Llo'Llo--and made a door. The goal of the door was to appear in the illusion and get them out.

And a moment later, Llo'Llo and An came tumbling out.

"W-WHY DO I KEEP THIS JOOOOOOOOB?!" came Llo'Llo's cry.

An shrugged. "More fool us, heh."

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

They sat around in a circle of chairs.

Professor Kanae Severus, Dynol Cyn, Roshiua, Xaltrin, Llo'Llo, and Saiori.

"Everyone here?" Cyn's calming voice echoed throughout the room. Nods were given.

"Excellent." she smiled. "And then, with this, The Coven shall converse."

[liichkiing]

YOU'D BETTER PICK YOUR WEAPONS UP

AND THROW YOUR MERCY DOWN

Hi everybody look at my Hollow Knight oc. Their name is Raiko and they are a scorpion from a kingdom far from Hallownest. Infodumping (which kind of reads like a little story) and also several more sketches under the cut!!!!

SO basically they were raised as a brainwashed soldier but then they assassinated their king and tried to stage a full on revolution but their heavily militaristic kingdom quashed it really quickly. And as punishment they were "made an example of" (dismembered slowly and publicly). Their fellow rebels snuck in and freed them before their stinger was removed though, and one of the others had started making them prosthetic arms. Their hideout got raided before their second, third, or fourth sets of missing limbs had proper finished prosthetics, so they only have the one set of arms. They and their fellows scattered, and they haven't seen or heard from any of them since. They have no idea if anyone else even survived that raid.

Anyway. They fled to the ruins of Hallownest, since it's a death trap. They assumed their pursuers wouldn't follow them there, as the assumption could safely be made that they were either dead or miserable down there.

They are alone for a while until they happen upon the mantis tribe. A younger mantis warrior named Kas'il recognizes them as a dangerous individual and tries to take them down, but Raiko has a lot more experience and quickly takes her down. They don't kill her, though, because she's one of the first non-infected bugs they've seen around. Slowly, they end up bonding, and Kas'il tells them that if they can best her tribe's Lords in combat, then her tribe will no longer be hostile to them even though they are a terrifying huge scorpion and are very reminiscent of the beasts of Deepnest.

So, Raiko fights the Mantis Lords, and they come to respect each other. They're able to freely travel into Deepnest, which they are hesitant to do at first, but they're very much drawn to the dark. Part of them feels like they belong in Deepnest. This is their self loathing talking, but, hey, it happens.

At some point, they hear stories about the Mask Maker, and, given that their face and horns were disfigured during their failed rebellion, they are a bit desperate for. Again, they have a lot of self loathing and survivor's guilt, and they hate being reminded of their failures every time that they see their reflection.

They spend increasing amounts of time isolating themself in Deepnest, killing a lot of dirtcarvers in the process. They end up carving out a little hole for themself in the tunnels somewhere. Eventually they don't even talk to Kas'il anymore.

One day a strange, pale little thing breaks into their home, catching them off guard. They fight, and after several (or maybe just one) attempts, the little ghost defeats them. With Raiko feigning death, the ghost leaves. Not long after, though, it returns. Raiko tells it that they don't want to fight it, since it's clearly a determined and formidable foe. Instead, they offer stories from their distant home--a new tale every time that their strange visitor returns.

After several stories, they realize how much talking about their life has made them feel... Happy. They didn't know they could even feel happy. It was strange and perhaps a bit scary, but, with their newfound motivation, they knew that they had to do something for their strange companion. They made a gift: a charm, much like the one they'd been granted by the mantises, but with their own twist.

Venomous Blade

Imbued with the power and guilt of a deadly beast. The bearer's nail is coated with scorpion venom and deals more damage over time. When hit, the bearer's strength resets.

Shortly after the Absolute Radiance is killed and the Infection is no more, Raiko happens across a Nosk hunting a strange little glowing beetle. Raiko kills the Nosk, but the little beetle reminds them of a friend they once had, and so (although they look delicious) they let the beetle live and opt to protect the little adventurer.

(And then they fall in love and adopt some weird little vessels.)

(Kite, the luma beetle, belongs to @ivory-obsidian ::^D)

[galaxy-0f-muses]

@eternalstarlights asked: Regulus with a white sheet over his head quietly sneaked behind Mai and screamed, "Boo!" Unprompted

"H-huh?!" She nearly screamed, but the moment she realized it was a physical object, and moreso, a person, she managed to find it in herself to not absolutely lose her mind. If she had done that and scared the others, goodness she would've felt so bad-

"Oh, R-regulus, is that you? Don't scare me like that, you nearly gave me a heart attack!" And she had enough of those when she worked a job like this one-- There were too many spirits that could possibly kill them, people that might want to do worse at times, and scenarios that she ended up in that made her question her bad luck streak. She wasn't upset, just very confused as to why he decided to scare the living life out of her.

"Where did you even get the sheet from, anyway?" She didn't recall anyone from the group having one like that, so he either had to have brought it himself, or borrowed it from the location they were at. Mai definitely wasn't going to question it too much. After all, if it was from the location itself, she wasn't going to be the one to let herself get into trouble. . .

Or would she be in the eyes of Naru, who claimed she should be the one watching him?

[raayllum]

I just wanna say I absolutely love all your analysis and metas of the Rayla-Aaravos parallels. I'm a big believer of their devastating circumstances more than I was before. You captivated them very well. Elves who've been backstabbed and betrayed by their people as well as being banished from their communities. It's fascinating yet heartbreaking. Especially with the short stories. I'm beyond excited for the next short stories they have coming up and where their character arcs go.

Keep being awesome, fam. ❤️👏

Thank you!! I caught onto the Aaravos-Rayla parallels at first because the mirror reminded me of the Ghosting - a sort of exile and obviously communication through certain reflective surfaces - and then in the places they held in Viren and Callum's life: elven guides who aid them in travelling deeper into their magical journeys, accessing greater power due to that bond (power that dooms Viren, and saves Callum). I still think the bulk of Rayla and Aaravos' parallels are tethered to their dynamics with their respective high mages (Aaravos will save Viren, who is being hunted by Rayla; Rayla will save Callum, who is being hunted by Aaravos, etc) but they have some really juicy ones all on their own like

Their relationship with truth telling that constantly goes back and forth ("I'm not lying, I never lie" vs "I've been keeping something from him, hiding the truth" "White lies are illusions you build with your words to protect the hearts of those you love"). Rayla hating water, Aaravos being imprisoned (seemingly) under water. "You keep calling it a monster. Does it think? Does it feel? Does it have a family? Then is it the last of its kind?" Rayla consistently having the water reflection motif / ripples. Aaravos believing his return is inevitable while Rayla dreads that her failures are. Doing something even when the odds seem impossible ("[Finding Aaravos] is hopeless") and even when your own people might misunderstand and turn against you. Rayla being branded as a Ghost and a coward (worse than death / dying honourably) while Aaravos himself is something worse than death. Their metaphorical masks and literal hood reveals, both of them being echoes of Thunder ("he is the reason I am where I am" whether in prison or on the assassination mission, cloaked by the storm and illuminated by lightning). "I have not seen the stars in centuries, but when I see them again - when the stars are forced to look upon their dark brother - they will know I have waited" and "I wish I could say that we will see each other again, but I don't know if will. I hope so." The way that Rayla is the first to correctly and consistently identify Aaravos' Key: "It's a toy, probably a piece from a children's game" "It's a glow toy" and "or are you losing to Bait at a game of rolly-cubes?"

It's so so good, not even touching on the ways they largely represent Callum's two (perhaps not mutually exclusive) paths post-s4. I'm so freaking excited to see how they're intertwined next

[cassieuncaged]

Uneasy Alliance - Chapter 1

Cassie Cage x Nyx (my oc)

Summary: When Kano decides he needs to hunt down a turncoat agent, it's up to Cassie to to protect her.

TW: canon typical violence, language, etc.

WC: 1.2 K

A/N: With the new MK game coming out, I decided to repost my old Cassie/Nyx story in hopes of continuing it. Also, Nyx might be back now.

Taglist: @roofgeese, @detectivelokis, @areyenotfondofmelobster, @poisonedtruth, @confidentandgood, @emotionalcadaver, @chadillacboseman @enightshade89, @imwithyoutiltheendofthelinebucky, @illiana-mystery, @unpetitoiseau, @spacestephh, @pinkcatminht

Cassie sat in command central, tapping her fingers on the counter. Incensed by being blatantly ignored, she snapped her gum aggressively. General Blade slammed a fist against stainless steel.

“What’s more important than this debriefing¸ commander?” Sonya looked up from beneath heavy-lidded eyes, equally tired as she was annoyed. Letting reflective aviators fall to the tip of a rounded nose, Cassie heaved herself up onto the counter. Classified folders were carelessly knocked to the ground.

“What’s more important is the Special Forces teaming up with one of Kano’s hired gun? This could really bite us in the ass.”

“Codename Nyx has some intel on the Black Dragon, commander.”

“Nyx? Is she going to hand over all of Kano’s secrets before selling us some shitty make up?” Cassie bristled upon receiving a cool silence. “You of all people should know what the Black Dragon is capable of, General Blade.”

Sliding to booted feet, the younger woman flattened her palms on her hips. Sonya pressed her tongue flat against her front teeth, counting to ten before turning her back to the commander. This was her subordinate first, daughter second.

Lest she say something she'd regret.

Cassie may have looked identical to a Blade though she acted and sounded like a Cage. Johnny would be proud, probably encouraging his daughter if he weren’t currently in Australia for a shoot. Now she was in charge of her entire faction and a kid that had never really grown out of her rebellious teen phase.

“Remember your station, commander.” Though the warning meant little to her daughter who only blew another bubble before obnoxiously snapping her gum once more before being swallowed by the sliding doors.

*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*

Wriggling, the burlap scarped against her cheek again.

Her breath was hot against her upper lip, cuffs chafing the fair skin of bony wrists. Understanding the constraints was simple though it did nothing to make Nyx any less anxious. But she’d had her slate cleaned before, this was no different.

Then why was she so nervous? It wasn’t an emotion to she was used to experiencing anymore.

An empty confidence had replaced anything she’d been before Kano, making Nyx a cold-blooded killer with a trained trigger finger. Yet, a ball of lead had settled in the pit of her stomach. All she’d known in this husk of a life was showing up at the Black Dragon once a week, getting her marks and cashing in the others that had been silenced.

Kano had groomed her, hardening her heart until it was icy and uncaring. Profiting off her duty to protect her family by becoming a ghost. Taking advantage of a troubled specter that did nothing but wallow alone in the night.

No. She wouldn’t cry. Not now, not because of him.

The armored truck hit a shallow pot hole, sending her sharply off the bench as the chains around booted ankles kept her grounded with a painful thud.

She wanted to scream at the military dunces that loaded her into this high-tech paddy wagon, to take back all the information she’d promised General Blade. Maybe they’d be forced to put her down like a dog in the alley.

It could all be over.

As soon as any cogent plan for escape came to mind, the truck stopped as the sound of several others followed suit. There was a cacophony of doors being opened then slammed shut, voices talking over others until booted feet stopped at the mouth of the van.

She could see nothing, only fabric as dark as night with her own white hair sticking to it. Doors creaked open, sunlight blasting into the compartment. Looking at the source confirmed nothing, as the sound of pointed steps came closer mixed with gum being snapped.

“General Blade?” the assassin attempted to sound cordial, especially to the one person who could keep her safe from the Black Dragon.

“ERRRR,” The imitation buzzer noise was enough of answer as the unseen figure pulled the fabric from her face. A blonde who was the spitting image of Sonya stood at Nyx’s feet. “The answer we were looking for was ‘Commander Cage’.”

Sporting reflective aviator sunglasses, it didn’t take long to put two and two together.

“I was expecting your mother.” Procuring a key, the blonde leaned down to undo the ankle restraints before bouncing back up.

“You got mommy issues too?” The prisoner stiffened as Cassie audibly sighed in annoyance, “Relax. You’ll be face to face with good ole mama Blade soon enough. Have to get you debriefed so let’s get on our feet and start walking.”

Shuffling onto heavy boots, Nyx couldn’t help but stare at the curve of the woman’s back side in a rather tight uniform. Damn, it had been a long time.

“Oh yeah, be on your best behavior. Got a couple pistols that are always itching to fire some bullets into a pretty face.”

Hopping easily to the asphalt, the woman followed in suit. Blinking as the bright sun burned sensitive corneas, she wobbled to the ground. The compound was filled with hundreds of soldiers, milling about or goose stepping.

It was enough to make Nyx uneasy, swallowing dryly at nothing.

What had she gotten herself into?

*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*

“Jacqui was supposed to bring her out,” Sonya paced, “Not you, commander.”

“I outrank her,” Cassie shrugged, eyes glued to the young woman on the other side of one-way glass.

“What have I said about pulling rank?”

“Do it?” Kano’s turncoat was a similar build to the blonde, probably close in age. According to Sonya, everything about the woman had been wiped a long time ago and she wasn’t ready to share.

No concrete information remained. Other than her Black Dragon ties and her code name.

Nyx.

Cage liked it, though she’d never admit aloud. To be a shadow in the dark that no one could catch. It seemed more ideal than being the offspring of the Johnny Cage. In fact, she didn’t follow in her father’s footsteps in an attempt to sidestep predictability.

Keep everyone guessing.

“Little Ms. Night Shadow have an agenda?” Pulling her sunglasses away, the commander took a moment to study their captive. Long, stick straight hair that fell to broad shoulders. Dyed down the center, one half was jet black while the other was white as snow. A lot of black leather and fishnets, topped off by a Sisters of Mercy t-shirt and fingerless gloves.

“Did you listen to a thing I said, commander?” A few of the privates tittered, falling back when Briggs demanded they do so.

“What? No. But I want to know what we have on her.”

“Do you ever read the briefings?” the general sighed, becoming agitated by her daughter’s unprofessionalism.

“Skim. I skim. Why’s she here?” After a moment, striking eyes met her own. Nyx saw her own reflection though Cassie thought she felt a presence. Searching someone's soul unknowingly. Yet there was a gnawing voice in her own head that informed her next words. “Let me talk to her.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Please.” There was something compelling about the woman, “I can do it. I won’t fuck it up. Pinky promise.”

[angelsarewatching]

Sickly, Sickly in Love

for @onlycodcanjudgeme WIP wednesday! This is a Simon “Ghost” Riley/John “Soap” MacTavish fic.

Summary: A well tattooed truck driver with a semi-soft spot for the stray cats in his neighborhood gets roped into the chaotic life of an anarchist on the run. Inspired by the prompt “A truck driver and a ratchet goth anarchist get together.”

It’s exactly eight AM when John blinked his eyes open, groggy and half awake. He forced himself out of the hard mattress and manages to get up through sheer will alone, yawning groggily, a trail of saliva at the crevices of his mouth. He thumbed the button for his alarm to be quiet—though he had winced internally for pressing too hard. It was a worn down alarm clock that he got for a few cents at a yard sale. He couldn’t be bothered to buy an expensive one – he would need a few dollars at least, and he was living from paycheck to paycheck. Every penny counted.

He didn’t eat breakfast—he didn’t know anyone who ate three square meals a day. He always ate in meager amounts, after he found out that eating a cube of cheese made a bit of his hunger away. While it wasn’t healthy, it was a substitute for the calories he needed for the day. He yawned, and rubbed his eyes as he blinked, trying to feel more awake. He had gotten home early from work, stumbling inside half awake, immediately heading straight to bed.

Cable was expensive, everything was expensive in his eyes—and since he didn’t have anything else to do, he got a jacket from the clothing rack and headed outside.

The bitter stench of liquor and cigarettes from his neighbors’ midnight drinking party had slowly crept up to the crevices of the hallway, emitting a putrid, bitter scent that only made John more eager to get out of the apartment building. With no phone and nothing to do, he wandered around aimlessly, sitting on top of benches or staying at parks watching other middle class people, whose faces glowed with health and financial stability.

The cold wind whisked against his cheeks, so he pulled his jacket closer. He took a shaky breath in, the air cold as it seeped inside his lungs.

Where should he go?

He wandered around, aimlessly, looking for something mildly interesting to pass the time. He wondered if he should get another job aside from being a truck driver. He looked at the lamp posts, studying the black sheen upon coats of paint and how it reflected against the grim sunlight behind cloudy skies.

Then he saw a group of people huddled outside a television store, mothers whispering to each other indiscreetly as he passed. Old men on benches outside of restaurants and cafes held the newspaper with bold, bright cover pages and squinted at the contents. Something seemed to be up.

He decided to go see what was the commotion about, and oh boy, was he not prepared for what he saw.

Plastered upon the large screen televisions were photos of unrest and discontent, people wearing masks that varied from makeshift bandanas to gas masks, holding out against heavily armed police with riot shields and tear gas.

Another protest? Damn, he thought. His attention quickly drifted away from all the bustle of the crowd, and before he was about to leave, the monotone news reporter’s tone changed.

Protestors are now being hunted down by the police force.

His eyes widened. Weren’t they being too harsh on the protestors? And why would such a thing happen? What the hell were the protests about? He squinted at the television screens above the heads that had communed outside, and made out what seemed to be people wearing masks and hoodies to conceal their faces, wearing worn down sneakers waving fiery molotovs and using tennis rackets to deter the tear gas being thrown at them.

Damn.

His attention on it was only for so long, before his interest was piqued by something other than the violent protests, which were images full of houses on fire and police cars in shambles displayed on the bright screens of the television store. Some horrified gasps were heard, and the sight of occasional shaking of heads, mothers clutching rosaries and whispering silent prayers for the protests to be contained.

Huh. He grimaced at the news. He missed the days when the news was boring, a celebrity divorce, a new scandal, but now, it seemed like the cameras had turned to the violent protests on the streets of London. Now wanted posters flooded the streets, of people on the run,  was the start of sparking a global fury and unionization of people around the world. Soon, the peaceful protests, unheard of and barely recognized on the media, became violent ones, and now they had all eyes on them.

This is what they want. To be seen. Acknowledged, and heard of. To inspire. He feels a tad sorry for the sods who were lambasted by their bosses so much that it sparked a global revolution of starting unions in workplaces—and the press couldn’t get enough of it. Grim news, of people murdered, dying, or injured were always on the front cover. Peace was off the table. It was now bloody.

Shaking his head, he walked down further the avenue, wanting to take his mind off the grim events.

Something caught his eye as he was walking. In the distance, was what seemed to be a figure leaning in an alley, bits of red seeping through a bleached hoodie.

What were they doing? It was rude to stare, and John knew that—but his curiosity peaked and he wanted to know why. The figure moved shiftily in the shadows, a hand over their stomach as they tried to put pressure on the bleeding. They had a hood over their head and wore a jet black mask, just like the protestors on the screen, wearing black converse sneakers and baggy jeans.

Then they suddenly recoiled, blood gushing out of their mouth. John’s eyes widened, and before he knew what he was doing, he was running towards them.

“Hey! Hey!”

Want to keep reading? Check me out at eldritchseraph on AO3, I post all my works there!

[woodsborotm]

𝖨𝖳'𝖲 𝖠 𝗦𝗖𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗠! welcome to woodsboro, sidney prescott and sam carpenter! 010 out of 020 mun spots have now been filled along with the faceclaims of neve campbell, and melissa barrera.

please follow the new member checklist here and don't forget to join the server with 24hrs of your acceptance.

⋆ ⁎     melissa barrera, cis woman, she/her, scream 6   |   𝖨𝖳'𝖲 𝖠 𝗦𝗖𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗠!     for samantha carpenter, being a survivor in woodsboro is no small feat. the twenty-five year old bowling alley attendant can easily be spotted based on their affinity for their gold christopher pendant and their signature bomber jacket look. it helps that their mere presence causes funeral by neoni to rattle your ears. it seems that everyone in town tends to think of a charming smile turning feral, covering mirrors to avoid your own reflection ( & so you stop seeing things that aren't there ), staying up all night to see the sunrise just to make sure it still comes up, longing for the irresponsibility of childhood when you didn't know what you know now, infamy follows in your wake when sam is brought up. their tendency to be rather - brash, - obstinate, and - volatile could get them killed around here, but the taurus has proven themselves to be rather + protective, + charismatic, and + independent when it matters, so maybe they should get a free pass. if ghostface is looking for them, tell the ghost they can be found at the local park, engaging in a little enjoying the peace & silence ( and writing in her therapy journal ). i swear they live there more than their own home in neighborhood. then again, if i was being hunted down by ghostface, i'd want to unwind too.

⋆ ⁎ neve campbell, ciswoman, she/her, scream — scream 5 | 𝖨𝖳'𝖲 𝖠 𝗦𝗖𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗠! for sidney prescott, being a survivor in woodsboro is no small feat. the eighteen year old theatre major can easily be spotted based on their silver watch on her left wrist and their signature blue jean jacket look. it helps that their mere presence causes zombies by the cranberries to rattle your ears. it seems that everyone in town tends to think of sharp and clever with deep lonely eyes, the raw instinct to survive, idyllic dreams crushed like rose petals, whispers of old wounds upon your skin, loyalty beyond compare when sid is brought up. their tendency to be rather - overwrought, - fickle, and - enigmatic could get them killed around here, but the pisces has proven themselves to be rather + resourceful, + resilient, and + dauntless when it matters, so maybe they should get a free pass. if ghostface is looking for them, tell the ghost they can be found at the prescott home, engaging in a little writing. i swear they live there more than their own home in woodboro. then again, if i was being hunted down by ghostface, i'd want to unwind too.