#feeling oddly sentimental today and i feel like that bled into this????

[ellewords]

Ok listen Bokuto would simultaneously be the best and worst best man ever. He would throw the biggest ranger for the bachelor’s party, complete with a stocked liquor cabinet, strippers, the whole nine yards right?

He would also be the best hype man the day of. Like say Akaashi is getting married. This mans would be hyping him up before the main event, would be like “You got this, she’s gonna see you at the end of they aisle and burst into tears.” Then when they’re on the altar, he would be silently but somewhat obviously cheering his man on.

But when it comes time for the best mans speech, you already know that thing is gonna be an experience. He is probably already slightly intoxicated, just enough to lower his already low inhibitions, so he’s just rambling about how they’re best friends and how he and Akaashi made the best team in high school and then goes into an embarrassing story about how one of the teammates stole his pants once and he had to chase them around the campus in just his boxers.

And dont even get me started on drunk Bo on the dance floor stg this man tries to break dance and do the worm and just blows everyone’s minds bc he can actually do it incredibly well but almost puked afterward. Ugh I could go on and on about this boy

— from elle ! aaah bokuto 🥺 wait i love this, he’d be pretty much the life of the party, wouldn’t he? also just the world’s greatest hypeman and would just generally be running around trying to help everyone and make sure things go as smoothly as possible; definitely takes his best man role really seriously. like if the bouquet had suddenly gone missing, he’s driving to the nearest flower store or if one of the groomsmen had a loose button on their shirt, he’s suddenly googling how to sew. i love him sm—- as usual, short lil scenario under the cut. tysm for this and i hope you are having a wonderful day <3

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

bokuto was exhausted, practically crashing down on his assigned seat, taking the his first breather for the entire day. his coat had been gently folded across the back of the wooden chair, the first two buttons of his shirt undone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and tie loosened. a quiet exhale moves past his lips, briefly closing his eyes to take a moment’s reprieve from the brightly coloured lights that flashed across the room.

he practically made a home in the dance floor the second his speech ended, but the alcohol was now wearing off, the excitement that carried him throughout the day slowly dissipating. the music is low, the wedding band now playing a much more gentle sound as the night finally begins to wind down.

“how are you doing, bokuto-san?” akaashi pulls up the seat beside him, giving him a small smile in the process.

bokuto shook his head, leaning back, “i feel like i should be the one to ask you that.”

he turned to face akaashi, clapping a hand on his shoulder, shaking it slightly. there’s a tired grin that spread across his features as he exclaimed, “you just got married.”

“i got married.” akaashi breathed out, like he hadn’t been able to process it himself. “time’s just a little too quick, isn’t it?”

“it is.” bokuto nodded, there was a hint of solemness in his tone and features. life was moving much quicker than he had hoped, change didn’t always frighten him; more often than not, he found it to be most exciting part of life. but it had finally fully sunk in now, that they were no longer two teenagers in tokyo who spent all their time on volleyball practices in the afternoon, whose greatest concern was whether or not they’d pass their math exam.

they were adults now, with their own lives, very much different from the other. truth be told, bokuto was surprised that they managed to maintain their friendship. but he was grateful for it nonetheless. 

and as much as bokuto loved the life he lived, all the fame and glory that came from playing volleyball — the thing he argued he was pretty much born to do — he couldn’t help but want just a little more.

his eyes are now trained on the dance floor, at the two or so couples that swayed to the slow beats of music, the bright multicoloured lights finally dimming down to a much softer tone. 

“what are you thinking about?” akaashi asked, noticing the faraway look in bokuto’s eyes.

he turned back to face akaashi once more, noticing the peacefulness and serenity that surrounded him. bokuto couldn’t help but want that for himself too.  but he could only shake his head, not wanting to put a damper on akaashi’s big day, especially since he spent so much of his energy making sure the day had gone well.

but akaashi knew better, he would’ve prodded forward if he hadn’t heard his name being called. a family member of his spouse’s was waving him over, hoping to get a few words in before they left. 

“they’re calling for you.” bokuto smiled, waving a hand to signal that he was truly feeling fine. that akaashi had absolutely nothing to worry about.

akaashi frowned, but found himself having no choice as the calls of his name got more impatient and incessant, “i'll talk to you soon.”

he nodded, shooing his friend away to the direction of whoever called for him. a wistful smile makes its way to his lips, gazing around the romantically decorated reception hall. maybe someday, he’d get all of this too. but for now, seeing akaashi holding his spouse’s hand, or konoha and sarukui laughing it up at their table, or komi and washio holding their respective partners on the dance floor, seeing everyone together once again after all these years, that was more than enough for him. 

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

a question: what would the hq characters be like at a wedding?  |  written on the margins masterlist

taglist : @haikyuutothetop @crystal-lilac @tobioespresso @sushijimawakatoshi @itsmeaudrieee @pantherhappy @jesssobs @mysticstrawberryballoon @cloudedsky_29 @sakusasimpbot​

join my hq taglist here. <3

[kingreywrites]

Tethered

- and for @dreaming-in-seams​‘ ask

Fandom: Tangled

Word Count: 2338

58. “Is that blood?” (prompt list)

Summary: It took until the end of the fight for Rapunzel to see that he had been scared of the cannon the Stabbingtons were pointing at her boat, and that he had been trying to save her, again.

It took even longer for her to understand that Eugene hadn’t fallen because of a punch.

[A canon-compliant continuation to Peril on the High Seas]

Note: I just want to thank Hannah again for the idea, and also, I took some inspiration from this wonderful art she did!!

Read on ao3

From where she was, Rapunzel couldn't get a good look at Eugene. For now, everything was going according to her plan, and she was confident that they would get Eugene and Max back from the prison boat, but she could only get glimpses of them fighting, and her worry kept growing. Should she jump in to help? Would the others still manage this boat if she let them alone without warning?

I trust Eugene, she repeated herself, deciding to stay put a little longer.

The Stabbingtons and him went down from the mat, and she raised her head, trying to get a good look at the situation. Something happened - she wasn't sure what, but Eugene suddenly looked horrified, even from a distance, and when she saw him run towards one of the brothers carelessly, her heart skipped a beat.

The brother stopped Eugene. He was tall, towering above her boyfriend, and she couldn't see, couldn’t do anything, couldn't even watch. In barely a second, Eugene was collapsing to the ground and she didn't even know why.

"Eugene?!" she called, and her voice didn't break but her heart felt untethered, because Eugene couldn't- She wasn't there with him, she hadn't jumped, and if he- if he- She couldn’t even say it. Time slowed, or reversed, taking her back to that time when she hadn't screamed hard enough, hadn't warned Eugene in time - sweet, loving Eugene, who had fought to come back for her, but for whom she hadn't managed the same, and that had cost him his life.

Eugene getting back up on the boat cut through her spiralling thoughts, and Rapunzel realised she had stopped breathing. Here he was, moving and talking and joking, taunting the Stabbingtons as he always did while looking completely fine, and if she didn't understand exactly what had happened, the overwhelming relief was still enough to nearly make her waver.

It took until the end of the fight for her to see that he had been scared of the cannon the Stabbingtons were pointing at her boat, and that he had been trying to save her, again.

It took even longer for her to understand that Eugene hadn’t fallen because of a punch.

They were still at the dock, sitting with their legs dangling above the water, because Rapunzel hadn't wanted to come back to the caravan just yet, and Eugene was always happy to stay with her. The evening had long since fallen, and she had her head on his shoulder, silently watching the stars shining in the night sky with his hand in hers. The air was a bit chilly, but Eugene was warm against her, one of his arms enveloping her shoulders, and this was all she ever needed - feeling him breathe and move and be alive never failed to make her smile. They didn't need words, at times like these.

A stronger gust of wind made Rapunzel shiver, and she snuggled closer to Eugene unconsciously. Usually, he would have tightened his grip around her, made space for her, because he enjoyed their hugs just as much as she did - but this time was different. If she didn't know him as well as she did, she might have not noticed it, might have let it slide, but it was Eugene.

And Eugene never cringed away from a hug if something wasn't wrong.

He corrected it quickly, but it was too late - she moved her head away so her eyes could meet his, and she saw the brief lines of pain on his face before he expertly smoothed them out.

"Eugene?" Rapunzel asked softly, her right hand going to his chest - but he grimaced, and she didn't finish the movement, her fingers hovering uncertainly above his heart. "What's wrong?"

She saw the hesitation in his eyes, the seconds in which he considered lying, or at least softening his answer, but she wasn't surprised to see him sigh in the end, wasn't surprised that he chose the truth. Eugene had spent years not trusting anyone with his vulnerabilities, years where he lied to everyone, including himself, until he was convinced that he didn't need help, that he was fine alone. She didn't care that he hesitated; she was humbled that, each time, despite his instincts and habits, Eugene chose to trust her, chose to confide in her.

His hand went up and softly touched hers, guiding it closer to his clothes, and closer to his heart, too.

"Don't freak out?" he whispered, and she understood the callback for what it was, but his tone was frail enough that she couldn't muster a smile.

The sea under their feet was still moving, unperturbed, its waves flowing in rhythm with her heart. Her hand was trembling, or maybe it was his, but together they inched closer to his jacket, and she gently pushed it aside.

"Is… Is that blood?" she asked, already knowing that it was because the moon was shining bright tonight, and Rapunzel couldn't escape the dark spot of red standing out in front of her eyes. Couldn't escape the memories flooding in her mind, taking her back to the tower for the second time today, as she remembered discovering his wound and realising, deep in her bones, that he was going to die if she didn't heal him.

She couldn't heal anymore.

"It's not too deep," Eugene said, his tone lighter as he tried to push her hand away, but she didn't let him. She hadn't noticed, at first, but even his jacket had a hole in it. When she refused to drop the subject, refused to make light of it, Eugene took her hand instead, and guided her to his cheek, until she managed to tear her gaze from the blood, and look at him. "I'm fine," he whispered, repeating it softly when tears gathered in her eyes. "It doesn't even hurt, Max's book took the brunt of it."

A sob built in Rapunzel's throat before she could stop it; because she understood, now, what she had witnessed earlier - and all the horror was crashing upon her at once, drowning her as she realised the full scale of what she might have lost in a single second. What she might have lost again. Because she chose to wait, chose to let Eugene deal with the Stabbingtons, and he collapsed and… And- what if, her mind screamed, what if there had been no book in between the knife and his heart? What if he bled out there, with her so near and so far at the same time, what if she had been helpless to save him because her stupid hair lost its purpose, what-

"Hey, hey," Eugene interrupted, his warm hands going to her face and tenderly brushing her runaway tears. "I'm okay."

"I know," she exhaled, her voice shaky, "I'm sorry, I know, but- but-"

"No, don't be sorry, that's- that was scary. I'm sorry I told you like this," he said, and she chuckled weakly at his bashful look, even though it wasn't really funny. Her emotions felt on edge, all of them roaring to be let out at once, and- she knew she was overreacting, but she wasn't, too. It wasn't a simple scare - it was her worst fear coming close to be a reality, for the second time.

Rapunzel closed her eyes for a second, soaking in the warmth from his hands on her face, trying to calm her racing heartbeat. When she opened them again, Eugene was still here, smiling at her, breathing with her, his hair moving slowly with the wind. He was alive.

And he was hurt.

She took a deep breath, hoping for tears to recede like the sea was doing under them, hoping to find strength in the salty air making Eugene feel so much warmer against her cold skin. "We should put a bandage on this."

"I don't think it's bleeding anymore," Eugene answered, his eyes never leaving hers, "but it does kinda ache if I move, so you're probably right."

"Probably?" she smiled, her eyes still shining.

"Always are," Eugene laughed, before they both got up.

Rapunzel was still oddly shaky as they walked to the caravan, her hand tight around Eugene's because she couldn’t bear the thought of being separated from him right now. She needed him to be fine. And he was, she knew he was, that it was merely a scratch, but she… She still needed to check for herself.

Thankfully, they had her side of the caravan to themselves. Rapunzel turned her back on Eugene to light up the candle, since the moonlight filtering through the windows wasn't enough to see clearly, and she took those few seconds to brace herself - she wasn't scared of blood, per se, but seeing Eugene bleeding always managed to make her feel like she couldn't breathe right.

When she turned back, Eugene was sitting shirtless on the bed, looking at his white undershirt stained with blood. It wasn't a lot - not like his other shirt had been when he finally got it off after the Tower, and that she had only seen months after, when she realised that he had kept it. I'm sentimental, he had joked, but his voice had felt empty as he held the proof that he had died once, and all Rapunzel could do was hold him until they had both been certain that he was here, and he wasn't going anywhere.

But even if it was only a small stain today, the serious look on his face told her that Eugene was also more shaken than he was willing to admit. They were both trying to wrangle their emotions, their memories back under the lids where they shoved them but…

But they didn't need to. Eugene didn't need to hide his hurt and his fears with her, just like she didn't need to conceal the tremors of her hands and the wetness of her eyes. They could count on each other.

Rapunzel grabbed the first aid kit, noticing that they would need to find more bandages soon, and went to sit next to Eugene. He angled his body towards her without words, and she finally saw the source of all their worries. The wound was a tiny vertical line above his heart, a little above two inches, and deep enough that it had bled and ached quite a bit, even though it was far from the worst thing Eugene had ever experienced. And yet, when Rapunzel brought fabric near the wound to wipe off some of the dried blood, her hand was still shaking.

She kept seeing him fall back there. Kept imagining the worst, and kept feeling thankful that it hadn't happened - and guilty that it was only by pure luck, that she hadn't been there to save him like she promised herself she always would. She couldn’t lose Eugene. Each day that passed, each hour that made her fall in love with him a little more reminded her of how she could have lost it all at the very beginning. Eugene... Eugene dying had been the worst moment of her life. She hadn't thought herself able to heal from it back then, when she had cried over his corpse feeling like her own life was ending; but now that she knew, exactly, how it felt to live everyday while loving him?

Rapunzel knew she would never recover.

"Thank you," Eugene murmured when she applied the bandage, the wound looking like nothing more than a scratch now that it was covered. Maybe it would leave a scar, but that wasn't even sure.

"Of course," she said, her voice as quiet as his. They had no reason to be, but this didn't feel like a moment to be loud.

Her fingers brushed the bandage's outline tenderly, nearly scared that her touch would hurt him. She felt Eugene's hand pushing her hair behind her ear, and when their eyes met again, their lips had to follow suit. Eugene's mouth tasted like the ocean today, and she remembered the fear that gripped her once she realised him and Maximus had gone overboard. Her hands sneaked around his neck and pulled him closer, until his skin was flush against hers. She felt his shoulders move as he shifted and grabbed her waist, felt his chest expand as he breathed, felt how he trembled as she did when his mouth went to her neck and he buried his head in the crook of her shoulder.

"Nothing really happened," she heard him mumble - a confession, in a way, of his own shame at his strong reaction. Both of them were overreacting, and not. Because both of them had suffered through the same events, and from the same trauma, and not. If Eugene hadn't had the book; if Stabbington had pushed the knife a little harder; if- If her magical hair hadn't worked one last time…

"It was still scary," she reminded him, echoing his earlier sentiment, and Eugene laughed against her skin, his hair tickling her softly.

When he kissed her again, Eugene felt more pressing, more insistent, more desperate; and she responded in kind. At some point, she made them both lie down fully on the bed, with her above Eugene, and she scrutinised his wound again - watched the bandage move as he heaved, the white contrasting with his now flushed skin. She saw his mouth open, always ready to offer comfort at the smallest sign she was upset, but she pressed her lips against his again, feeling his stubble on her chin and his hair under her hands, hoping that he knew she wished to comfort him too.

And when she watched him sleep that night, safe in her arms, she knew that they were both ready to give anything for the other to be happy. Maybe their adventure was dangerous, maybe their lives would be in peril again, but their love was warm, and real, and bright; and some nights, it was all that really mattered.

[snowdice]

Illusions of Grandeur… Or Perhaps Just Illusions (Part 2) [A part of the Illusory Records Series]

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Remus & Janus

Characters: Remus, Janus

Summary: Remus is training to be an undercover super-agent, but training is boring. So, being Remus, he… finds some “fun” (read trouble) with the city’s resident vigilante Deceit.

Janus is confused as to why this toddler dressed as a traffic cone won’t leave him alone.

This story is set in the Labeled Universe and takes place about 4 years after Sometimes Labels Fail, but runs pretty adjacent to Virgil, Logan, and Patton’s story.

Notes: Superhero AU, mind manipulation

AO3 Part 1

Stupid superheroes, Deceit thought to himself as he strode down an alley towards his secret base. Since when had superheroes gotten effective. Back in his day, superheroes were blundering idiots who were only good for punching things and creating property damage. When had all of these young brats decided to come out here and be good at things like subtlety and undercover investigation? When had they started caring about actual fundamental problems in the system instead of just showing up when some supervillain tried to make a death ray? That was Deceit’s job. They were stepping on the toes of vigilantes everywhere. Just because one of them lived cloaked in shadows and mystery did not give their little preschooler team-up the right to perform covert ops.

Janus had been doing surveillance on the Riddlon family for months now trying to figure out just what they were doing, and those two heroes had the audacity to show up at the exact right moment, clearly already well-aware that it would be the exact right moment, and tore down their entire smuggling operation a moment before Janus had planned to. How dare they?

He blamed the bloody bird.

Setting a good example and being a mentor to the younger generation. Who did he think he was? Deceit grumbled to himself and started putting his gloves on as he walked. He wouldn’t need to use his powers any time soon and, while he didn’t strictly need them as he was going back to base, it felt weird to be without them.

He paused at the end of the alleyway to use his powers to scan for any missed onlookers before opening the secret entrance to his base. He paused, eyes narrowed and turned his head to look behind him when he felt a presence.

“Halt villain!” a grandeurs voice said when he saw him looking. He put on a show at looking heroic, but it was a hard sell considering his costume.

Deceit wearily turned around. “You’ve got to me kidding me,” he almost groaned. Speaking of young superhero brats. It was Traffic Cone. Ever since the man, no child, had first seen him that day with Brigs, he’d been trying to track Deceit down. One would think that after seeing what Deceit had done to Mr. Penguins that the boy would get the message not to mess with the vigilante who’d been working in the city for probably decades before he was even born. Yet, the kid must have a chip on his shoulder or something, because he’d been persistent in following him around ever since. Deceit had managed to avoid him up until now, but he’d been tired and apparently had a lapse in vigilance.

“Fight me!” Traffic Cone insisted, shucking off his hero stance and tone to replace it with a slightly maniacal grin. Stupid idiot hero with delusions of grandeur. Did he really think he’d even get close to winning against Deceit?

“Look, kid,” Deceit ground out. “I don’t feel like kicking your ass today.”

“Well I do! And I finally caught up with you, so you’re not getting away from me without a fight!”

Deceit arched an eyebrow. “You do?” he clarified with a smirk. “You do feel like you want me to kick your ass today?”

Instead of getting all stuttery or angry and arguing that, no he’d meant he felt like kicking Deceit’s ass, he just stuck out his tongue and blew a raspberry.

Deceit gave him an irritated look, feeling his already steaming agitation boil over. “Fine,” he snapped.

“Really?!” he looked almost excited, like a puppy wagging its tail. “So, ho- where did you go?”

Deceit rolled his eyes and took a step towards him, feet light even if they didn’t have to be since the illusion that Deceit was no longer in the alley that he’d just placed in the kid’s mind would supersede his natural senses. Traffic Cone’s eyes bopped around the space in confusion.

“Oh, I see,” Traffic Cone said after a brief moment of confusion, causing Deceit to pause a few feet away from him. “This is part of it. You’re still here, you just are making me think you’re not.”

Deceit hummed. Astute. Most people were panicking by now, but Traffic Cone was calm and accurately able to piece together what had happened.

“Alright then,” the man said cheerfully. He put his hands up in a typical boxing stance. “Let’s go!”

Deceit just shook his head, unwillingly amused with him and side stepped him. He positioned himself so the kid wouldn’t be able to lash out and hit him with his super-strength in the split second between when he’d feel Deceit’s touch and when the illusion would take hold. Then, Janus stripped off one of his gloves. He didn’t need to touch someone to activate his powers anymore. He was long past that. Yet, physical contact still gave Deceit more precise control over what he did to someone, and he didn’t want to accidently shove the dumb toddler into a nightmare if he resisted too hard.

Gentle, he reminded himself as he reached out. He’s an annoyance not an enemy. His fingers descended on his forearm, and the boy went still.

“Oh,” he said, blinking fast as though trying to remove something from his eye. Deceit made the alleyway around them fold and spiral away from his perceptions. “T-that’s weird.” There was a spike of fear, but it was more instinctual than anything real and was easy to bat away. It was surprising, actually, the lack of real fear. Most of the newbie cops and baby supers that came after him were doing so because they considered him a threat. So, most panicked when they felt themselves slipping under his power. Yet, Traffic Cone was steady under it. Deceit didn’t even sense any embarrassment about being taken out so fast. “It’s like a tilt-a-whirl,” he breathed.

Deceit arched an eyebrow. They were usually too trapped in their own minds at this point in the process to speak. That was strange, but what was even stranger was how the boy’s mind held steady in the transitional phase of fuzzy white and black that rippled like TV static across all of his senses. Usually one’s mind would start filling in the gaps automatically, grappling for some sort of calm in the storm, and Deceit would just push it away from anything dangerous. Yet, Traffic Cone seemed to be oddly be content to rest in the nothing. Deceit didn’t know what to make of it.

Despite his curiosity, Deceit still shoved at him gently until he teetered off the edge into what Deceit thought was the memory of three different locations. Most of the space Deceit saw was a childhood bedroom with cheery aquatic animals on the walls and a colorful rug, but what tipped him off to the fact that it wasn’t just one location was the out of place full sized bed with the dark green comforter and the matching nightstand with a murder mystery novel on it’s top. It was an adult bedroom, likely his current one, familiar and comfortable but not sentimental. The last location bled through only in the structure of the walls and a fireplace. It seemed to be based off a cabin in the woods if the view of the sun setting over a lake outside the large window on one wall was anything to go by. It was probably a place he’d visited a few times and had a good time at.

Even though it was a mixture of locations, the memory seemed strong. Nothing was fuzzy around the edges and the inclusions from each place were logical in its construction. It was tidy and calm. The fireplace gave off waves of warmth and it smelled vaguely of cedar. He imagined the blankets on the bed were soft to the touch and all was quiet except for the crackle of the fire. Deceit was impressed. He’d expected a mess of a mind from how he’d seen the boy act, but this was decidedly not.

After a pause, Deceit drew away, leaving him inside that illusion. “Let’s get you back to Brigs.” His eyes flickered to Janus to Janus’s surprise. He shouldn’t be taking in any external stimulus yet with the attack so recent and Deceit still so near.

“Okay,” he agreed, voice distant. If Janus didn’t know any better, he’d say that the kid must have some sort of mental power. The problem with that conclusion was that he’d already read up on him when he’d started following Deceit around, and his power was reportedly super-strength. He shook the idea of the boy having a mental power away. Surely, he would have met at least some resistance if that were true, and Deceit had met less than normal.

“Come on, Traffic Cone,” Janus said, physically and mentally nudging him back towards the street. Deceit threw up a small field around them to keep passersby from seeing them and then checked the hacked security cameras on his phone. As expected, Brigs was sitting in his car in one of his usual spots. It wasn’t too far, and they could walk there easily.

It was a few minutes of walking later that the boy looked up slowly. “I told you I didn’t choose the costume,” he grumbled.

Deceit blinked at him but didn’t comment on his unusual lucidness.

Upon Deceit allowing the man to see him and Traffic Cone, Brigs laid his head briefly on his steering wheel. If Deceit cracked a smile, there was no one around to see it.

Brigs exited his car and looked Traffic Cone over with a sigh. “I told him not to.”

“You always do.”

“This was fun,” Traffic Cone said with an out-of-it giggle. “We should do it again some time.”

“Is he always like that?” Deceit asked tiredly.

Brigs looked over at the man with annoyance and maybe an iota of affection. “Unfortunately.”

[ajokeformur-ray]

Gentle, untamed beasts rest in the palms of your hands // Lilith x Others

Summary: Vile, repulsive things are spoken about you and you hear these haunting words through paper thin walls. They hit you where it hurts and there is little which can be done to settle the sickly swooping in your stomach. But your men are there and they love you more than any of them can say. It's a good thing that they are men of action, then.

A/N: l wrote this for @jokersspookyhyena because you are... deserving of so much more and I wish that I could give you those things. You’re such a beauty in every way and you make me believe in the goodness of humans. I love you so much, doll. More than you know. 💜💚 I worked super hard on this so I hope that you love it; you’ll see why I’m so nervous to post this!!!! 💙 The GIFs I used are all reactions to the message you sent me today about what happened! Enjoy, darling. 

Word count: 2, 078.

(No preview above the cut because it’s a surprise!!!!✨✨✨✨)

(Don’t you dare tell me off! 🥺😭You deserve all of this and more! I couldn’t decide who to include or who to write for so I just... wrote them all! It was so fun to doooooo ~ ! 💖)

A crow cawed overhead.

Its signature raspy call broke your attention away from the dark storm clouds which loomed overhead as once again did pathetic fallacy play a major part in your day. The beating of large black wings sounded through the open window, large droplets of water started to decorate the inner windowsill, so hard was it raining, and the crow you knew and loved so well tilted its head at you. It was a question and you knew that as the crow took in your tear stained cheeks and your red, sore eyes, that Eric was seeing this same thing.

He was close by. He would be here soon.

You weren’t sure if you wanted to see him. You weren’t sure if you wanted to see anybody. Not like this, anyway. Every nasty word that you had overheard earlier today was still reverberating inside your head, the syllables had hours since stained your mind black, sticky tendrils clinging to your conscience and poisoning your rationality. You had been spoken of so horrifically this day, by people you barely knew, but their insignificance to you had done little to remove the harsh sting of their bitterly cruel and unfair, unjustified comments. No matter what your loves said to you each and every day, it very rarely took little more than a single comment to send you into a downward spiral.

Logic had long since flown, as did the crow now that Eric’s message had reached you:

Soon.

Stood were you in Hannibal’s vast kitchen, your back to the door. You felt vulnerable, your body wide open to attack. Anyone could walk through the door to the kitchen and you could be dying, dead, bleeding out on the floor before you knew it, but at the same time you knew that you were completely safe. No one would harm you here, in Hannibal’s home. Not now and not ever. Anyone who walked through the kitchen door would be someone you knew, someone you loved and trusted, someone you needed with every fibre of your tried and tired being.

Steel toe capped boots echoed on the linoleum floor and you stilled, listening. Waiting. You kept your eyes on the rain, your chocolate gaze following two drops on the window pane as you wondered which one would reach the window sill first. You never found out who won the race constructed by your own mind, carefully lulled out of your reverie were you by a soft voice which was soaked in care and in love for you.

“It can’t rain all the time, you know.”

You turned around just in time to see the sweetness of Eric’s face, the black lines which ran vertically down each eye faded away. Just like J did he not bother with the upkeep of his makeup, though unlike J did he wash off his face fully before he reapplied anything. Usually did he do this by tipping his face up towards the rain with a serene yet oddly melancholic smile on his thin, beautifully sinful lips.

“I don’t care if it does,” You shrugged and turned back to the window. You heard not Eric move but you felt him beside you in the next instant as a careful finger reached out and brushed a dark lock away from your face.

“I care.” Eric’s voice was sweeter than heaven and the look in his dark eyes was hotter than hell as that finger tipped your chin up so that you could look at him and all the pain in the world was in your eyes. He frowned and leaned in, his lips gently touching yours. Eric kissed you with such reverence, like it was the first and last time all at once, and you chased his lips with yours even before he had pulled away from you.

“Leave some for me, would ya’?”

The deep timbre of Pat’s voice, so heavily tinted in that Australian accent you knew and loved so well, combined with the feeling of Eric’s sinful lips against yours, made you gasp and Eric’s arm tightened around your waist as he pulled you into his lithe form. Pat’s voice was teasing, though his words were harsh, and though neither he nor Eric knew not what had happened this day, none of them did, he knew that you were in severe distress and that was one thing that he couldn’t allow. 

Your loves would make the sun shine for you if it was the last thing they did.

“A-ta-ta, Minty. Kid’s goin’ through a lot. Let ‘im have her for a bit. They don’t get much time together unless it’s Dev-il’s Night.” J was right; it was rapidly approaching that blessed time of year and the veil between this world and the next was thinning out. As August melted into September and bled into October was it easier for Eric to come across to be with you, though of course was he strongest with you on October Thirtieth every year! You wrenched your lips away from Eric’s at the sound of J’s voice. Eric looked dazed from your passionate, though chaste, kiss and his arm stayed around your waist even as you turned to look at your chaotic clown. Greasepaint was dripping down J’s gorgeous face and pooling in the collar of his deep purple trench coat, whereas Eric’s painted visage was untouched by the rain; a part of him was it.

“J ~ !” Your greeting rang out in a sing song manner and you saw the almost imperceptible upwards tilt of J’s ravaged lips in response; he loved the way you loved him and the way that you responded so enthusiastically and genuinely to his appearance, something which made most people fearful for their lives even if no intent was meant.

“Babydoll.”

Your stomach dropped. J only used that name in situations which called for comfort. He knew that you weren’t okay and that something had happened today. Even without specifics, this meant that Eric knew.... which meant that Pat knew and therefore...

Two sets of footsteps in polished shoes approached the now almost crowded kitchen and they came closer and closer... 

Hannibal was the first to appear in the grand doorway and you felt your heart seize in your chest. Oh, how you loved him. Will wasn’t far behind, for long ago had he and Hannibal begun to blur, and indeed sometimes did even you struggle to tell which of the men was speaking. Different were their voices but similar were their words and the intonations; Will was a complete empath and he could almost mimic someone exactly, and Hannibal was his own dominating personality.

"Dearest - “ Hannibal’s deep and intense eyes, his gaze reminiscent to that of a shark, struck you to your very core and you moved away from Eric, though the man kept his strong and firm grip around your waist. You could move if you wanted to, but he still wanted for you to know that you were safe with him. He cared and never would he lie about that sentiment. “What is bothering you? You must tell us. We can help you, but only if you allow us.”

This felt almost like an intervention, and perhaps it was, but in the presence of your men and in the presence of their undying and unconditional love for you and under the scrutiny of Will and Hannibal’s impenetrable gazes, Eric’s tenderness, J’s careful analysis and the way that he stalked across the room to get to you easily, taking up your other side so that you were deliciously sandwiched between he and Eric, and the way that Pat was frowning and looking between everyone’s faces like it was a tennis match as he desperately tried to work out what was happening... you snapped.

Words poured out like the rain outside was now coming from within you. and you told the too still, too quiet room everything. Every word which had been cruelly said, every rude comment, every taunt and every whisper, every thought in your mind... at some point, Eric began to stroke his fingers along your forehead, his cleanly kept nails lightly grazing across your skin like he could heal you from the outside in, so tender was he with you, and your words were almost lost under the loud growl which ripped from J’s throat. He was quietened by Hannibal’s warning look, and Will was leaning against the kitchen island next to Pat. The younger man had his arms crossed and Will was mimicking Pat’s body language; all in the room were trying to soothe you without speaking as tears poured down your cheeks and you found your words coming out faster and faster, your breath stuttering, your thoughts and stomach whirling as did your mentality affect your physicality -

“Oh, my love,” Eric sighed and he drew you into his embrace, his lips at your temple. J assumed rank, protecting your back the way that you preferred to sleep at night, and silence fell. Only deep, angered breathing filled the room as each man fought for composure. You were more important than anything and anyone else right now but oh, how they all longed to deliver justice.

J had nuzzled his face into the nape of your neck when you hadn’t even finished speaking and now did he pepper kisses along the exposed skin there, trying to soothe you was he. Pat approached you next and he did his best to wrap his arms around J and Eric, so that you were sandwiched gently between the three of them. They had always and would always keep you safe, sane and honest.

“Those words aren’t true, babydoll. Daddy knows ya’. He knows who you are. Yy’re beautiful. Strong. Such a brave Hyena for me, hm? Ya’ain’t any of those things.” J’s soft, low voice soothed away your demon’s whispers, so loud was his love for you, and you allowed yourself to bask in the individual scents of the men who were your home.

“Stay here. The dogs are in the living room. Fire’s on. Keep her safe - Hannibal and I have something to, uh - “

“There is no time to delay. We must strike while the wounds are fresh and the knife is hot. Come along, Will.”

Like a dog called to heel did Will follow Hannibal out of the room, their footsteps receding quickly before the front door opened and closed. The thought made J laugh, though he was smart enough to not voice it, and instead did he stay there with you, to keep you safe. Taken were you to the living room where seven dogs waited, curled up all together by the roaring fire which you hadn’t realised had been lit some time ago by the very same man who owned this house, and you wondered how short a time it had been since Hannibal had allowed Will to bring his dogs into Hannibal’s grand home. You suspected that Hannibal hadn’t been given much of a choice, though true was it that the dogs soothed you and it was likely for that reason that Hannibal had allowed this occurrence. All of your loves would do anything for you, no matter what it took. 

It was here, with J pressed securely to your back, his body so tightly against yours that not even a single sheet of paper could have gotten between your bodies, with Pat pressed to your front, his body curved around yours and an arm slung over you so that he could hold J’s hand, and Eric sat with your head in his lap, that the four of you found rest, and where you realised that you were, quite simply, one of the finest humans ever to exist. How could you not be, with a heart so big and so full of love that you had an entire pack of humans and animals alike to get you through the day and make everything okay?

The battered hearts of gentle, untamed beasts rested in the palms of your hands and even as you cradled them so tenderly to your chest were your own teeth bared. They had taught you well and every day, even without trying, did you make your loves proud.

A crow cawed overhead, rain lashed against the window, fire crackled merrily in its place, and a quiet sense of peace overcame you. You were...

Home.

[pseudinymous]

He Didn’t Feel Like Lying

Phic Phight / Team Ghost / 3,442 words

Prompt by Nat Your Average Nerd on Discord

Ghost Writer and Jazz meet after Jazz learns about him through Danny’s past experience in “The Fright Before Christmas,” and she realizes that they have a lot in common since they are both certified bookworms. Can they be friends, or is it unfeasible between a human and a ghost?

One thing was certain: Jazz wasn’t in a hurry.

She was, in fact, trying particularly hard not to be in a hurry, as her two week staycation started today and it was about time she got some proper rest. So naturally she’d gotten up at her normal hour of six in the morning and gotten ready — showering, brushing her teeth, stretching, untangling a mop of orange hair that was just as long as it’d been in high school — leaving her clean and refreshed for the day ahead.

For someone who was supposed to have no plans, she seemed to have rather a lot of them indeed.

There was an event on today at the local university. Not the one she’d attended in her youth, mind you — her scores and reasonably well-off background had led her to better pastures — but a university nonetheless. It was homey and communal and apparently Lancer had taken up a post lecturing there once the school children had started to get a bit much for him to handle anymore. Didn’t matter. The seminar was skating the line of cutting-edge research in ghost behaviour, and as the psychologist she’d always dreamed of becoming, it wasn’t something she could miss.

The university itself, however, was nothing to look at.

Big and grey and utterly boring in every way — that’s how she’d have described it. The campus grounds were as uninspiring as the utilitarian philosophy they were built on, and the gardens were so overgrown that it looked like no one had hired a gardener in the last six months. The ivy that crept up the walls was nice, at least.

Everything was normal until she sat down.

The lecture hall was one of medium size, but that didn’t stop it from being packed and full — this seminar was well-anticipated among the psychological research community and quite a number of attendees had travelled from afar just to listen. She managed to find a solitary seat in the corner at the back among her fellow enthusiasts and tried to get comfortable on the cold, hard plastic. She couldn’t. It was never comfortable. But she’d probably forget about that when this lecture got going, at least.

From there her eyes wandered. Another five minutes and the lecture would begin. The backs of people’s heads weren’t very interesting. Next to her, a man was writing lazily into his notebook. She side-eyed it carefully, not quite sure why she wanted to read the notes of a stranger but finding herself continuing just because she was bored. It was a breach of privacy, maybe, but if he didn’t want it seen then he probably shouldn’t have had it out in a crowded lecture hall.

sc.34.5 // para 8 needs work, paras 23 - 28 move too slowly for scene, where did the knife go? sc.34.6 // choppy sentences still lurking in paras 13, 23, 33, why is this a sequence in tens? sc.35.1 // for the love of god explain the knife.

Through the corner of her eye she sensed him frown at the notes, before he began to idly scratch out some aimless decor pattern along the left-hand margin. He switched to dark green ink to do this but the ink itself also seemed oddly bright, as if shining on the page. A kind of gel pen, maybe? But the pen itself looked too ornate to be one of those cheap plastic things high school girls usually defaced their books with. It was more in kind with something expensive to buy and even more expensive to lose.

Questions blooming within her mind, she chanced it. “What do you mean, ‘explain the knife’?” she asked. The man looked up.

“It means I have a knife that appears out of nowhere, but I’m not sure how to fix the scene without breaking one of the other ones,“ he said, keeping his voice low.

“It’s fiction, then?”

“It’s fiction.”

A slight pause occurred, of the sort that inevitably happens when you’re interacting with a stranger very much unsolicited. Jazz didn’t quite know what was driving her to keep talking — maybe it was the oddness of the ink on the page, as if there was something wrong with it, that made her want to speak. Maybe it was just boredom. Nonetheless, she opened her mouth again:

“So, you’re into the psych fields too, then?”

“Not exactly. Although behavioural psychology’s useful for characterisation.”

Jazz’s brow dropped. “But this lecture’s about ghosts,” she whispered.

‘I know,’ he wrote, in very tiny letters in the bottom-right margin. ‘I am one.’

Jasmine Fenton, daughter of two of the most esteemed ghost hunters in modern history and premier researcher into the very field this seminar covered herself, blanched.

… Was it a joke? She hazarded a better look at him, but he seemed perfectly human. Black hair, green eyes — but the green was darker, not that weird ectoplasmic colour Danny’s could carry. His skin seemed normal. Even aside from all of that, though, he just didn’t glow. Ghosts were supposed to glow. It was one of the first ways you could tell you were talking to one. None of the research ever suggested it was possible to suppress it, so what exactly was the deal here?

Maybe he really was just joking. His face remained serious, though, as he stared to the front of the lecture hall. The seminar was starting.

To say a cliffhanger like that drove Jazz crazy was an understatement. For one of the first times in her life she found it difficult to pay attention to the lecture, and she couldn’t help but periodically glance to the side to try to get a better look at this stranger. Purple coat — okay, a bit of an odd taste in fashion statement, but hardly damning. Wearing a scarf indoors during the beginning of Fall wasn’t exactly all that common either, but he fidgeted with it idly as the lecture went on so perhaps there was some kind of sentimental attachment? There wasn’t even anything strange about the glasses. There wasn’t anything wrong with him at all!

Worse still, he seemed well aware of the fact that he was being analysed into next Tuesday, and if that odd not-there smile said anything, it was that he was thoroughly enjoying having her trip over herself to get to the bottom of his words.

Jazz all but missed the first ten minutes.

Another twenty passed. The lecture was interesting, put forth some fringe ideas about ghost behaviour — Jazz even managed to take notes, who’d have thought? But it was a little difficult to do all of this thinking about the psychological makeup of spirits and then not wonder about the man next to her who’d just claimed to be one. Didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction anymore, at least not until they got to the end. He continued writing scene corrections in his book as the speakers rolled through, listening idly.

… Surely he couldn’t be serious? Tickets for this thing cost thirty-five dollars a piece, and there was a not insignificant crowd of people standing up at the back for the lack of seats. Was it a joke to him?

A small elderly woman eventually hobbled up to the podium, but alas she was too small to see properly above it and stepped to the side to give her speech after someone offered her a portable mic. Shirley Hemming, Ph.D. gave a small smile at first, then without further ado got stuck into the meaty topic of how consciousness might persist and then develop over the course of several centuries. You could’ve dropped a pin.

“… And we should see parallels between the chemical reactions in human brains and the corresponding outward reactions a ghost might make, but I do subscribe to the theory that the consciousness held by a ghost may not exactly parallel to the consciousness they held in life,” said the speaker. “As to whether we might call them the same person as their living counterpart, most circumstantial evidence points to them being at best an imperfect copy.”

The stranger didn’t visibly react. At first Jazz wondered if he’d thought anything at all about such a statement, but then he took his pen down to the bottom margin and started writing.

’It’s true that chemical reactions in the brain cannot be perfectly replicated by what remains, but many would argue that the brain is merely an interpreter for consciousness,’ it said, and he paused for a moment to think. ‘This would indicate that humans experience an extra layer of abstraction above the truth — indeed, that to be human is to be the imperfect copy itself.’

It threw Jazz’s brain for a loop. She barely heard the rest of what this short woman with the Ph.D. said. Her words evaporated into the mists inside her head as she attempted to process such a shocking accusation — that the human brain did not produce its own emotions and that the mind of a ghost was not simply doing its best to copy and replicate that. Such proposals put significant strain on current theories of consciousness and bled dangerously into the realms of philosophy. And she wondered — would anyone but a ghost say something like that?

Maybe there was someone in this world. But how likely was it that she was sitting next to him right now?

Jazz eventually slid out her phone and opened a note-taking program, determined to get to the bottom of this. ‘You look human.’

He turned a page to claim a fresh one, writing in small letters that were difficult to read when your face wasn’t thirty centimetres from the page. ‘When in Rome,’ it said.

‘Prove it.’

It was a testament to her years of growing up around ghosts that Jazz didn’t immediately feel fear at the idea of being next to one. Indeed, if it was non-violent — and it was becoming increasingly obvious that many of them were — then there was hardly any threat to speak of. The stranger rested his pen upon his notebook and crossed his arms, staring to the front. Thinking, maybe?

Except he didn’t do anything else. At some point he seemed to stop trying and then that meshed into intentionally listening to the lecture, leaving Jazz with a feeling not unlike wanting to strangle someone. Not an ounce of communication passed between them for the rest of the seminar, and indeed it was only when people started to leave that he actually opened his mouth.

“That last speaker was good,” he mentioned, casually. “I think—”

Jazz had him cornered.

“Are you really?” she said, quite seriously.

“Really what?”

“A ghost,” she whispered, hoping others wouldn’t overhear. There was a lot of clamour as everyone else left the room, so it worked in her favour. “Why would you even tell me something like that?”

The stranger sat in his chair, waiting patiently for more people to leave. Slowly he began to tuck away his pen and his notes into one of the deep pockets of his coat. “I didn’t feel like lying.”

“You didn’t—” it threw Jazz’s brain for a loop. She’d spent a good portion of her latter teens growing up in a house literally built on lies, where ‘I didn’t feel like lying’ simply wasn’t a damn option. “What if I was hostile?” she sputtered, as the final attendee drained out of the room. The speaker and some of her assistants however were still packing up, and the stranger looked warily up to the podium as they went.

“Well, it would’ve made quite the scene, wouldn’t it?” he said, quietly. “A human accusing a human of being a ghost.”

She wasn’t going to admit that he was right. He’d known the only realistic course of events from the start. Maybe — maybe if he wasn’t lying, he was one of those types that liked playing games with humans, confusing and shocking them a little, maybe he was even bored. That seemed to be a theme among many ghosts — boredom.

It happened as their obsessions flared down, in the gaps between Things To Do. And boy, if Danny was right, nothing gave you gaps between Things To Do like living in the Ghost Zone did.

She narrowed her eyes, though — humans got perfectly bored as well. And some still enjoyed shocking others. Really, it was down to personality.

“You’re coming with me,” said Jazz, suddenly. “No ifs, no buts.”

“Am I, now? I had plans.”

“Really? And what kind of plans were those?”

That look was almost conspiratorial. “Cancelled ones, if you must be so persistant.”

A chill ran down the back of Jazz’s spine. He wanted her for something — for what, she couldn’t tell, and that was a dangerous thing to play with when possibly in the presence of a being clearly more powerful than you.

“… Let’s go,” she began, carefully, trying her best not to attract the attention of that damn speaker. Still packing up! It was as if she was shuffling her papers in slow motion. “You should know, though, I am definitely armed.”

The stranger, who seemed to clearly have no intention of attacking her (but who could really tell?) tilted his head, his eyebrows knitted together. “If you say so?”

The lecturer had now moved on to shuffling a different stack of papers that seemed to be little more than magicked out of thin air, for some reason unknown to both man and God. They left in silence. Jazz strode ahead of him and slid through the corridors as she kept an eye on him from behind, but he just walked behind her with his hands in his pockets, looking bored. She took him outside. Out onto the grass, down the field, a bit out of earshot of the hustle and bustle but still within screaming distance if something went wrong. Discretely, she texted Danny a % symbol — something reserved especially for situations that might become dangerous later — just in case.

There was a spot beneath a line of trees that had quite a lot of grass, not unlike some of the outdoor areas she’d liked to study in back at her own university if it wasn’t for the fact that everything had needed a good prone roughly five years ago. She pointed to it. “Here’s fine.”

“I should think so,” said the stranger, who immediately sat down without being invited to do so.  His hands dug slowly into the little individual blades. “Hm. I’d almost forgotten what grass felt like, it’s been so long.”

Jazz didn’t sit. She didn’t even listen to the comment about the grass, only watched his hands as they sank beneath the green. “It’s pretty cruel, you know,” she said.

“What?”

“Putting me on the spot like that. Telling me you’re a ghost in the middle of a crowded lecture about ghosts. You’d better have some actual proof.”

The perfectly human eyes of the perfectly human stranger flashed green. Not that dark green that was normal under quite extreme circumstances, but the sort of green that ran chills through you. Jazz felt the hair on the back of her neck raise, but she didn’t react, wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “Good enough?”

That settled it — only a ghost could ever manage an effect like that. But there was still a nagging problem.

“And how is it you look human?” Jazz asked, her arms crossed.

“An illusion.”

“An illusion?”

The ghost seemed rather satisfied with himself, drawing his posture up properly with his legs crossed on the ground. “I don’t look human at all, but the minds of the people I pass think I do.”

Jazz shook her head. It was like trying to extract information from an iron brick with a plastic straw. “Presumably some sort of power allows you to do this?”

“Something like that.”

“Enlighten me, per se?”

He raised his arm high, and at first Jazz flinched and tried not to jump backwards, to which he responded by leaving his arm in the air and shooting her a sardonic stare. “This was at your own request, remember.”

“I—” said Jazz, but there was a primal instinct inside her that wasn’t part of her fight or flight response. What opportunity had she really ever had to be this close to a ghost and not directly in the line of fire? Or where the ghost was captive and terrified? The situation was unique and it warranted a certain delicacy that she was going to have to work to give. “S-sorry, just do it,” she managed. She wasn’t sure why she stuttered.

The ghost seemed oddly hesitant at first, but this flicker of emotion evaporated in front of them when he brought his hand down and to the left, glowing green with potent, clearly ectoplasmic energy. A slightly curved keyboard almost one and a half feet in length formed beneath it, bright purple with a wide variety of unmarked keys.

Jazz’s face was white.

“I haven’t even done the shocking thing yet,” said the ghost, almost bored. “For someone interested in ghosts, you’re a little faint of heart.”

“I-I-Is that a keyboard?” Jazz stammered. Her feet took her a step backwards but she didn’t even notice. The ghost seemed confused.

“Yes?”

“I know who you are,” she managed, voice shocked to a whisper. “That keyboard — it changes reality, doesn’t it?”

It was the ghost’s turn to be shocked. “I never told you that.”

But it finally made sense to her. Danny had mentioned a few key features: a writer ghost who lived in a library. He wore glasses and a purple coat that was questionable in fashion choice to match. His hair was black, and reality would change according to his very whims. Whatever he typed on that keyboard became real — and with it, he wielded a power so potent and dangerous that literally anything could come under his control.

Except if he broke rhyme, apparently.

“You’re the Ghostwriter,” she said, significantly.

“And who are you, exactly?” said the Ghostwriter, now apparently annoyed. The keyboard continued to float in front of him essentially ignored. “I didn’t think my reputation had quite this far preceded me.”

How was it that she wasn’t running? Why did she feel as if her feet were glued to the spot?

“Well, go on, if it’s all that frightening to you you might as well disappear,” the ghost continued, moodily. “Goodness knows everyone else has.”

Jazz wasn’t sure what made her stay. Perhaps it was sheer fright, a type of freeze response at the weight of what she was dealing with, but more than anything she wondered if it was the words he spoke — he was acting almost as if he’d found himself attention starved and not quite willing to admit it, something she could relate to in ways she similarly didn’t want to recount.

“—You don’t know who I am?” she said, eventually. “I was in one of your stories. Apparently.”

His eyebrows raised. The keyboard vanished, now unnecessary. “I did?”

“I’m Phantom’s sister.”

She watched it hit him like a ton of ectoplasmic bricks. His eyes widened. There was that little notch of recognition within those irises, and when he began to cringe at the thought, she almost thought she caught sight of some unnaturally serrated teeth…

“Please understand—”

“What’s there to understand?” said Jazz, appearing angry, before her face suddenly melted. “When he told me about it, it was one of the funniest stories I’ve ever heard. You’re one of the only ghosts who actually tried to teach him instead of kill him. And — yes he told me about the book.” she paused, then broke out into a strange stifled laugh. “If anything, I should be apologising to you. My brother destroyed your entire manuscript, barely apologised, and then you actually spared his life?”

Finally that smug outwards appearance had gotten up and gone home for the day, leaving the Ghostwriter looking confused and vulnerable. “Surely you’re not sympathetic to what I did? It was—”

“—Completely justified. I did a PhD, Ghostwriter, if someone destroyed my thesis I would murder them.”

The Ghostwriter didn’t know if it was safe to laugh. Jazz did anyway, because Danny had repeated some of the lamest rhymes to her and she wouldn’t be able to get them out of her head for as long as she looked at this ghost.

He mustn’t have been harmful at all.

Later in the day, which was finally starting to seem like the holiday she was supposed to take, Jazz slipped out her phone again and shot off another text to Danny.

%/

The situation has resolved.

[minhoandthebabes]

How about 10 with ontae?

I don’t even like sandwiches but you’re a cute deli employee who always gets the order wrong but your smile makes it okay

It was noon and Taemin was waiting patiently for his order of sandwiches as the sweating americano’s started to drip onto his lap. As the intern, it was his job to get lunch for his team, which meant he would be stuck waiting for whatever they had wanted to pick. His coworkers were in love with this sandwich shop, but the guy who was working the lunch shift wasn’t exactly professional when it came to his orders. The name on his nametag was “Jinki” and he always ended up getting something wrong about the order, which made Taemin sit and review what he had ordered every time he visited the shop to save his head later when he got back to the office.

The first time he had interacted with Jinki, he returned to the office missing two of his sandwiches and the one he got for himself had cucumbers on it, completely ruining the sandwich. Of course, he had to take the blame seeing as he had been the one to pick them up. On that day Taemin ended up having only coffee for lunch.

Currently, the man behind the counter was frantically attempting to complete his order, working his way across the counter. While Taemin had arrived fifteen minutes earlier than he needed to, Jinki had forgotten that Taemin requested he make two more sandwiches than usual. Luckily Jinki was nice to look at, making the time pass by a little faster. Despite how much of a hassle it could be, coming to this restaurant was always a nice break from the day, and he really felt like he was creating a strange friendship with the awkward worker. It was 5 minutes past when Jinki gave Taemin his sweet smile, holding out a bag with 8 sandwiches inside.

“Here you go!” Jinki said, still smiling from ear to ear.

Taemin took the bag and started going through them, “Okay, two Italians, one without onions.” He said, pulling them both out and inspecting them as Jinki nodded. “Good, next. A ham and cheese with only ketchup and lettuce..” He pulled out the sandwich and was impressed three were correct. “And then mine, a beef sandwich..”

“Yes, and no cucumbers!” Jinki proudly stated, still smiling.

Taemin nodded, “This.. actually all looks good so far. If you had finished the sandwiches five minutes earlier it would have been a perfect order!” He reached out and high fived Jinki, “I’m impressed! You know, it really is your smile that saves you..” He said, as he put the sandwiches back and held out his company card for Jinki.

“Is it?” Jinki asked, raising an eyebrow. He rung Taemin up, smiling to himself. “I’m glad something saves me.. You know, I’m not usually this bad. I think it’s just whatever you order.” He said teasingly. “If I was really that bad I probably would have lost my job by now..”

Taemin laughed a little, “I’ll try to order better next time then.” He joked along with Jinki, taking the bag and his card. “See you at the same time next week, alright?”

Jinki nodded, smiling wide again, warming up the atmosphere, “Of course, see you then!”

Jinki stood behind the counter, just waiting to receive the text from Taemin’s preorder. The shop was pretty empty at the moment, so he had time to come up with ways to stall Taemin’s order again. Last week he chose to forget two sandwiches and this week he needed something more clever, he kept worrying Taemin would catch on to his mistakes by now, but luckily Taemin seemed pretty unaware.

Jinki recalled the first time Taemin came in. He hadn’t scheduled his order and instead made the order then and there. He sat and waited patiently as Jinki made the sandwiches. As Jinki worked on each sandwich, he could feel his eyes constantly wandering back to the nicely dressed man. There was something about him in the way he held himself that just drew Jinki’s eyes, he was beautiful, like a fairy almost. As he looked, his hands worked away on the sandwiches, completely ignoring the special requests Taemin had made when he ordered. He had been in a daze when he handed Taemin that first order, almost mischarging him for the sandwiches. Taemin, who seemed just as lost as he was in that moment, for obviously different reasons, took the bag without question.

In the weeks that came, it became Jinki’s habit to make little mistakes here and there to give Taemin a reason to stay longer than he would have before and gave Jinki an excuse to see Taemin sitting in the shop.

His phone buzzed next to him and Jinki saw the order, a long list of requests and at the end, in all caps “NO CUCUMBERS ON THE ITALIAN SUB WITH HOT PEPPERS PLEASE.” That must have been Taemin’s sandwich and Jinki found himself grinning. He recognized Taemin’s buying habits by now and was always happy to see them. He started to get to work, this time he chose to forget Taemin’s hot peppers. He usually avoided making mistakes with his favorite customer’s order, but today he was feeling bold.

Jinki only had one more sandwich to work on when Taemin entered cup holder filled with smoothies from the shop down the street.

“Hey,” Jinki said smiling.

Taemin just glanced up, “Are you almost done? I’m really late today Jinki..”

Jinki’s face fell a little when Taemin didn’t respond with a smile. “Yeah, I just have your sandwich left.” His hands got to work quickly, trying to finish for Taemin. “Is there a reason why you’re running late?” He asked, hoping to make some small talk while he worked.

“We have a meeting at one and I need to get these back to the office at twelve-thirty,” Taemin explained, his tone was short and he seemed to be catching his breath from running over.

Blushing, Jinki nodded and worked a little faster, his face trying not to show his disappointment. He forgot the hot peppers because that was what he had planned to do, but not on purpose this time. At this point, he wanted to perfect the order for Taemin, but his previous plan was screwing him up. He wrapped up the last sandwich and placed it in the bag, his face still sullen.

“You know, I don’t even like sandwiches that much, but your smile makes coming here worth it.. Even though you screw up the order every day,” Taemin said softly.

Jinki paused a moment before he looked up at Taemin. He wasn’t sure why Taemin had said that at that moment. Maybe it was from the stress Taemin was under, maybe it’s because Jinki hadn’t been smiling since Taemin had been curt with him, but the words made his heart flutter. He finally started moving again and held out the bag for Taemin.

“That’s 45 dollars,” He said, his voice equally as soft as a smile crept on his lips. Taemin’s eyes looked into Jinki’s and Jinki could see him trying to fight off a smile yet there was something sad in his eyes.

“If this meeting goes well, I’m getting promoted next week,” Taemin said, “I’ll miss coming here..”

Jinki realized now why Taemin had been acting the way he was. Based on his he was talking, it seemed like Taemin had liked coming here just as much as Jinki had enjoyed seeing Taemin. Jinki rung Taemin up as he thought about Taemin’s words.

After a heavy silence between the two, Jinki finally spoke up, “Is it bad if tell you I hope it goes poorly?”

Taemin laughed a little, “Yeah, that’s pretty bad..” He took the card back from Jinki and grabbed the bag, “I hope you got everything right. I need to go now.”

Sighing, Jinki nodded, “I’m pretty sure I did..” he said, his eyes mirroring Taemin’s in their disappointment.

Taemin turned to leave, seemingly in an attempt to cut their final goodbye short. Once Jinki saw Taemin turn he remembered the hot peppers and his plan from earlier.

“Wait!” Jinki jumped to the end of the counter and filled one of the sandwich wrappers with hot peppers. “I forgot your peppers!” In a fleeting moment, Jinki grabbed a sharpie and scribbled something on the wrapper before wrapping it up and taping it shut. He tossed it to Taemin, giving Taemin his warm smile again, “I’ll see you around, good luck today!”

Taemin nodded and tossed the peppers into the bag, waiving before he left, still making the farewell brief and feeling empty

Taemin sat at his desk, he only had five minutes before he needed to go set up for the meeting. He took a deep breath and opened the sandwich. He was oddly feeling sentimental looking at the sandwich. He really enjoyed seeing Jinki. Despite his flaws, he was a refreshing change of pace in the middle of the week. He took a bite but then remembered the lack of peppers and grabbed the small pack at the bottom of the now empty bag. He slowly unrolled it and started to put the peppers on his sandwich.

Before he could take a bite, Kibum was poking his head into his cubicle, asking how he could be eating when the meeting was so soon. Annoyed, Taemin dropped the sandwich and left it behind.

Taemin set up for the meeting and prepared his presentation, the nerves in his stomach were good ones as they kept him on his toes while he presented. The meeting went really well in Taemin’s mind. He was able to answer all the questions producer’s requested of him and felt he had pitched his idea effectively. After the meeting, one of the producer’s approached him and asked if he would like a position on their team, telling him it was a waste he was still only an intern in his current department.

Delighted, Taemin gave the producer his business card. It was almost two hours later when he returned to his sandwich and his desk. The sight of the sandwich disappointed him again. He had been so eager to move up in the world he forgot about one of his simple pleasures he was leaving behind. When he went to grab more hot peppers he noticed black writing had bled through the paper. Curious, he turned the wrapping over to see a short message written on the opposite side.

Let’s meet outside of work sometime!xx Jinki 010-xxxx-1234

Taemin felt the smile return to his face, maybe the promotion wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

[daretogobeyondtheunknown]

Claire

There was nothing quite like it on Krypton.

All the children on Earth spoke of it, obsessed over it, until it eventually bled into a curriculum Claire had already deemed mundane.

The teacher had insisted it be made on thick obscenely coloured card stock and it was an atrocity not even leaded glasses could shield. Glitter and glue littered the tables of her classmates. Nothing about it impressed Claire, least of all when it stuck to her pale blue card stock.

Still blank.

“Claire, honey, is something wrong?”

The tone was all soft, childish, and it felt every part demeaning. Claire knew that was not the intention. But on Krypton she had taken the Earthenly equivalent of advanced astrophysics and was learning the mechanisms by which the birthing matrix operated.

She was not the child Earth seemed apt to treat in the softest of ways, coddled into adulthood.

“No.”

In all honesty, nothing was wrong. Claire simply saw no value in participating. She was not of this world and she found its customs arbitrary, unfit for the trajectory she would one day face.

“Then why is your card empty, dear? If you need help-”

“What is the purpose of this?”

Grimace pressed into her brow, Claire motioned to the pale blue card stock and the assortment of common crafting supplies. Stuck to the corner of her card was an orange pipe cleaner Claire certainly had not put there.

“Claire, we’re making Mother’s day cards.”

It was the same, annoyingly repetitive, response that had not magically morphed into meaning. If she knew the purpose of a card, presented on an apparent day called “Mother’s Day”, Claire would not ask. But she did not and the annoying upward curl of her teacher’s lips chagrined Claire all the more.

“Why must one make their mother a card? Least of all one that looks like an atrocity, born of the rare defect in the birthing matrix?”

The owlish regard spoke little and the awkward laughter felt forced.

“In America, we make cards, dear. I’m sure your Mother will appreciate the sentiment.”

It took all the restraint Claire possessed to not inform her teacher, ill fit for the instruction and molding of young minds, that Krypton had ended in catastrophe and her mother no longer existed.

“I still think this is stupid.”

* * *

“How was school?”

Claire sat in the passenger seat with a huff.

“Catastrophic. I feel my potential squandered. This glitter is terrible.”

After the card debacle, the day had only seemed to drag on, fraught with minor mathematical equations and limited explanations of space. If Claire were charged with the instruction of her fellow students, Earth would surely be a better place. It was appalling, the substandard bar set by the human race.

Soft laughter echoed through the car, calming and capable of stilling the thoughts Claire had let run rampant.

“Don’t tell Kara, she loves glitter. Adores it actually. I can remember the time I found them on the underside of my surfboard. I still don’t know how; I had just come in from a surf!”

Claire hummed, the dynamic unclear to her as well. But then again, the glitter seemed infectious and easily spread. An epidemic of extreme proportions.

“But that isn’t it, is it? Claire?”

Part of Claire detested it. How Alex held the capacity to see through her lies and sense her discomforts. It reminded Claire too much of her mother - how her features would soften and how she always just seemed to know.

Claire swallowed back the lump of emotions that clung to her throat, thick and suffocating.

“May we speak on it later?”

It was impossible to miss the concerned look, but Claire drew comfort from the warm hand upon her own and the gentle squeeze.

“Of course.”

* * *

“Claire!”

Rolling her eyes, Claire accepted the exuberant hug with painted reluctance.

It still felt odd to be wrapped in the embrace of an alter dimensional self.

On numerous occasions, Claire caught herself fixated on the very plausibility of their coexistence. If it wasn’t for the biological confirmation using Kryptonian technologies and near mirror image, Claire would have claimed it an improbability, opting for distance over familiarity.

They were different; down to some of their most basic modus operandi. And yet, at times, Claire observed the markings of her mother, seemingly imprinted into their molecular structure.

“Claire?”

Snapping her attention to the bodies present, Claire sighed.

“I must apologize. I was not attentive to your words. I just-,”

The smears of glitter and orange pipe cleaner on pale blue cardstock burned like kryptonite particulates, an unintentional exposure Claire never wished to repeat. But unlike the full body paralysis the particulate exposure had incurred, this gripped at her chest, swelled in her stomach and made her footing feel impossibly rooted. This made her yearn for home.

Whether it was the home of her mother’s arms or the home of Alex and Kara’s, Claire no longer knew.

“I-,”

Extracting the unintentionally glitter covered confection, Claire huffed. It was that or weep and Claire was most certainly done weeping. Children wept and Claire was no longer a child. Or so her father had told her.

“I do not understand this world and most of its customs. Today, I spent the most horrific of times covered in this white tacky substance, pestered by long fluffy impractical pipes and dusted in the most toxic haze of sparkling colours that serve no true purpose.”

It ached, to hold the tender gazes, patient and understanding where Claire was not, gripped by anger and childlike petulance. But Claire refused to cower, to back down. No matter how awful it felt, burrowed deep into the confines of her chest and unseeingly suffocating on her lungs.

“It was belittling and of no true purpose to formulate a gift for a mother I no longer possess.”

Through the unwanted moisture gathering in her eyes, Claire noted the restrained stance Kara held, undoubtedly willing her body not to crush Claire in the most reassuring of embraces, to coo away her fears and kiss away her tears. Alex appeared to be faring no better.

“As I began though, I imagined mother and her comforting embrace. And then I imagined you - Alexandra Danvers of Earth and Kara Danvers formerly of Krypton - and I knew. While I may have lost my mother, I gained in surrogate two. So here.”

Claire hadn’t meant to shove the card, crumbled by the careless manner she had stowed it in her bag. But she did and with baited breath, she waited.

The crushing embraces, ladened with tears and cooing reassurances, swelled in her chest, ballooning in an oddly comforting way. It made Claire feel loved, cared for in a world where she had lost so very much.

As Claire listened, Kara reciting the contents of the card, it felt fitting. Because on Earth, alternative dimensional selves aside, Alex and Kara… Claire believed them worthy of the words for a mother, recited before Rao when gifted with a child. A high Kryptonian honour.

“I swear by Rao the light and life, by Vohc-The-Builder, by Flamebird, by Nightwing, and by all the gods and goddesses, making them my witnesses, that I will carry out, according to my ability and judgement, this oath and this indenture-,”