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writtenfangirl · 11 months

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The Light: Epilogue

I wanted to see if it was possible for me to write the sweetest, most tooth-rotting fic I could ever write and I did.

Also, can I just say, I genuinely love reading people’s comments and reblogs on my fics. I write my fics as a hobby and it honestly astounds me that there are people out there who enjoy reading the things I write. It’s a privilege, seriously.

Part 1

“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a large fortune, must be in want of a wife. However—“

“That is how you truly know this novel is fiction,” Benedict remarked, interrupting Y/N as she read from the book. She was laying on his lap, her back against the grass as the tree they leaned against shielded her eyes from the harsh rays of the sun. It was a beautiful day in the countryside, the breeze cool despite the heat of summer. Aubrey Hall sat below them, a towering figure despite their place on the crest of a hill. She could almost see the other Bridgertons out in the lawn, lazing about and spending the day together. Benedict had strictly forbade them from approaching them today and though she loved the other Bridgertons, the quiet was a welcome respite.

They’d taken a day together, just the two of them, after Y/N’s mother had written to her about her father’s current temperament. He still refuses to acknowledge Y/N’s existence after she refused to marry the Duke of Albany and chose to marry Benedict instead and Y/N’s father had told her mother that any child borne of their marriage will not be his grandchild. The letter had brought Y/N great pain and Benedict, in an effort to make Y/N feel better, had prepared a picnic for them and a whole day without responsibilities or talks of grandchildren and babies.

Because children was something at the forefront of every person’s mind when they came upon a childless wedded couple and Y/N’s and Benedict’s lack of a child had begun to worry Violet, especially as they had been married for a year. Despite repeatedly telling Violet not to worry too much about it as they were both very young and wanted to spend the early days of their marriage child-free, she did worry.

Y/N loved the Bridgertons like they were her own family but she missed the time she spent alone with her husband. Hence, Benedict’s idea of a picnic, just the two of them.

“And why is that?” She asked as she brought the book down and quirked a brow.

“I have met a great many men who have large fortunes, most of whom do not wish to marry.”

“What an astute observation, my love.“

“Do you mean to treat me with sarcasm, Mrs. Bridgerton?” Benedict’s brow was raised high but there was no denying the amused grin pulling at his lips.

“I treat you only with the best of my affections.” But her teasing smirk betrayed her true intentions. “Now, am I allowed to continue my reading or do you intend to interrupt me once again?”

Benedict leaned his head back, before tapping a finger against his chin. “Hmm. As much as I enjoy the sound of your voice, I do believe there are other activities better suited to it than reading. Although, if I were to interrupt you again, what, perhaps, would be the consequences of such an action?”

“Separate bedrooms.” Y/N’s grin could only be called devilish. She knew how much Benedict detested sleeping in separate rooms. They tried it the first two nights of their marriage before he declared that such an action was more akin to torture than rest. Ever since then, they occupied a single bedroom and it will remain that way until one of them perishes.

“What a grave consequence to such a small infraction. Very well then, my love. Continue your reading. I’d hate to have to learn to tolerate separate bedrooms.” Benedict’s face scrunched up in distaste.

“If we manage to read through the first three chapters, I will sit for you for an hour.”

Benedict’s face lightened, an almost giddy expression on his face. “Really?”

Y/N nodded, a smile gracing her lips. He’d been begging her for the past three days to once again sit for a painting as he thought the backdrop of Aubrey Hall would be beautiful, and though Y/N loved Benedict, sitting for a painting was always painful for her back. It took almost all of her concentration to sit still for the hours necessary to complete the painting and by the end of it, Y/N needed a very long and warm bath.

“Why you always choose me to be your subject is beyond me,” she said with a sniffle, “especially since my face now stands in the National Art Museum because of you. Is one painting of me not enough?”

“You have a very beautiful face. It should be shared with all of England.”

“You know how I hate myself in paintings.”

“How unfortunate for you to have married an artist enraptured by your looks.” This time, it was Benedict who’d let sarcasm run his tone, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.

“I adore art and so a painter for a husband was the natural choice. I simply do not like myself in paintings. I love your landscapes and your portraits of others but not of me.”

Benedict frowned, a serious tone creeping on his voice. “You, my love, are a thing of beauty. The paintings I make of you will always be my favorite. When I one day perish, it is my fervent hope that my paintings of you will be the ones that live on. That it is my paintings of you that the art students of tomorrow will study, that they may learn how passion and love can heighten the beauty of one’s art. Anyone can paint a sunset or draw a landscape but no one else can paint my wife but me.”

She will never ever be used to Benedict’s sudden declarations of love. She had married an artist, that much was true but sometimes, she imagined Benedict could be a poet with the way he articulated orated his love for her.

“You are incorrigible, Benedict Bridgerton.” But her words couldn’t hide the rising blush of her cheeks nor could it hide the bashful smile creeping at her lips.

“For you, my love? Always.” Benedict said with that crooked grin before bending down and placing a soft kiss on her forehead. “Now make haste and finish your chapters before the sun disappears on us. When I paint you, I want it captured by the light. Such beauty should never be kept in the dark.”

She didn’t pretend to act irate anymore. Instead she kept reading until she ended at chapter three. And when she was done, the sun was still high in the sky yet her husband’s face had turned contemplative.

“I have finished. Shell we go inside that you may now paint?”

But Benedict only frowned, his dark brows meeting together at the center of his face, his bottom lip pushed into a pout.

“Whatever is the matter, my love? The sun is still high in the sky and you still have time to paint. And as I don’t expect you to finish your painting all too soon, you can expect me to sit for you tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that one as well until your painting is complete.”

He smiled at her, the little grin she loved so much. “Sorry, my love, my mind wandered but not towards the painting.”

Now it was her turn to frown. “Speak of what ails you, Mr. Bridgerton, that I may find its remedy.”

“I was only thinking—“

“Oh, did it hurt terribly? There, there, my love. Let me kiss your head to make it better,” Y/N teased as she reached for Benedict’s forehead in an attempt to soothe it. If there was one way to ease the mind of any Bridgerton, it was through humor.

Benedict rolled his eyes but he still had that smile on his face. “Stop it. I am being serious.” But he bowed nonetheless, pressing a kiss on his wife’s hands.

“Alright then, go on. What were you thinking of?”

“In all the years humans have existed, there have been hundreds upon thousands of ways we have told each other how much we love one another. Shakespeare measured his love with sonnets while Bach composed music and Da Vinci made art.”

Y/N frowned once again. “Where are you going with this?”

“I make my art as a form of telling you how much I love you but I realize now that, it is not enough.”

“Darling—“

“Art is not a good enough medium nor is poetry or music. There are not enough words or notes or paint in this world that could show, truly, how much I love you. I do not think I love any differently than Shakespeare or Bach or Da Vinci but I do think you make all the difference in the world. If they loved you too, they would have struggled just as much as I do.”

Y/N was at a loss for words. Her heart soared, giddiness spreading all across her body.

She and Benedict had only been married for a year. A full year of bliss and happiness. She’d heard it said by other ladies that marriages normally went stale after six months and she herself had seen how little regard her parents had for each other. In fact, her own mother refused to speak to her father when he refused to come to Y/N’s wedding with Benedict after Y/N refused to be wed to the Duke of Albany. And even now, after a year, he refused to speak to her.

She knew she was lucky. She married the man she loved, a man who loved her just as much as she loved him. It was a fate most women of the ton could only dream of yet to her, it was reality.

“Benedict, I don’t even know what to say,” Y/N said, her voice filled with the same amount of love as her husband’s declaration.

“Say nothing. I can read your eyes clearly enough,” Benedict said with a smile before he leaned down and planted another kiss, this time on her lips.

His lips were soft like butter and tasted like summer, like the sweetness of the cool breeze and the light of the sun. He tasted like home.

There were still many things wrong in Y/N’s world.

Her father had still disowned her and they hadn’t spoken since she last saw him that fateful day in the drawing room at Aubrey Hall. There was still the manner of Violet Bridgerton probing for a grandchild. But she knew one thing and that thing brought her peace like no other. Everything could go wrong in this world but so long as Benedict Bridgerton was at her side, then everything would be all right.

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tuliptired · 7 days

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He’s Good People

Chapter 1: Ask me, I Won't Say No (How Could I?)

Pairing(s) Reader/Ray, Reader/Egon Reader/Winston

Summary: Janine's always told you that you had a strong "line of fate". Whatever that meant. When you lose your job and apartment, however, you're offered a (temporary) fix with her ever-generous employers.

Hopefully part of a series! A little Ray-centric- Check Ao3 for more tags and warnings.

read it on Ao3!

Today was the big day. You’d be working at your job at a major TV station for just about forever now, and it was about due time for a promotion. The pay was decent, enough to clothe and feed you and have the slightest amount left over, and you got to specialize in what you loved all day, everyday, while contributing to American television. The varieties of the entertainment industry.

But you were starting to come to the realization that maybe your skills were a little underappreciated. You worked quickly, feverishly, and passionately, after all. You’d be damned if you said you hadn’t been dreading turning up everyday for a little while now. You put off asking, figuring that you should be grateful to be employed at all, but coaxing from your very opinionated best friend you gained while interning in Brooklyn proved fruitful, as she sat on the phone with you.

“You’re worthy. You’re deserving, they’re lucky to have you, you’re doing them a favor by showing up,” she repeated the affirmation to you, undoubtedly breaking a rule or two as she used her work phone from her receptionist job for a personal call. She'd been your biggest supporter, from every new hairstyle or investment, and she knew you were more than capable of whatever a higher position could offer you. You, on the other hand, stared at your reflection in the mirror. You don't really know what you'd do if turned down. You need this, your heart clenches a bit.

You steeled your nerves, taking a deep breath in and a light breath out. “I am worthy, I am deserving, they’re lucky to have me, I’m doing them a favor by showing up,’ you chanted. The chord of the landline strained against the stretch you put it through from the kitchen to the bathroom.

“That’s the spirit,” she praised you on the other end. Before you could respond, a sharp beep interrupted you, and she groaned lightly.

“Other line. Listen, I gotta go, but I want details. You know where to call me- and call me as soon as you get word,” she ordered you, causing the fear in your stomach to reemerge, the moment coming closer. But, her voice did make you feel better, in a way.

“Thanks, Janine, pray for me,” you half-begged, desperation unashamedly showing in your tone.

“Mazel.” The phone clicked.

You took what felt like the hundredth calming breath, and it was only 9 am. As you exited your apartment, the world woke up around you, the walk to the bus a little more packed as you made your way down town. On the bus, there was an ad for the Ghostbusters across from you. You laughed to yourself at its presence, a square poster of the 4 men simply standing in a line. The only other design is a little tagline- ¨who you gonna call?¨

You´d always wanted to ask Janine about her place of employment, naturally. She only ever brushed it off as a day job that took up too much of her free time, but you were a bit more curious than that. Believing in ghosts and spirits and monsters wasn't something you were necessarily taken with, but if there's a ghost up somewhere in Albany, it's not your problem. Leave it to the professionals, if they wanted a call so bad. Their pseudo-celebrity statuses were admirable, though- their ads for drinks and toys and services took up 70% of your network’s commercial breaks.

You were practically dripping with a mix of assuredness, sweat from your walk, and a tinge of fear as you clocked in when inside the giant, bustling company. The walk to your workspace felt like you were walking into war, going over every point you wanted to make the moment you saw your supervisor. He was a little hard to get to, really. He was even able to convince you that the due date he had given you in writing was much, much earlier- and you believed him, until you were working overtime with your entire department for the 3rd night in a row for something you had a month to finish.

You were intercepted halfway to your desk, and your confidence dropped to your toes as his smile wasn’t the half-there, busy and distracted one he often held. It was deliberate. He wanted something from you.

“Y/N! Goodmorning, goodmorning. I need a quick word with you.” God damnit.

His sudden appearance derailed your ability to form respectable sentences, your fingers fumbling with the lapels of your shirt cuffs. “Actually, I was looking for you too,” your tone betraying you.

He led you into his office suite, a brown set of rooms that got less presentable as they went from reception to official-one-desk-two-chairs territory. He stopped you in the hall, where ambient lights illuminated pictures of happy talent, tv producers, and writers who struck it big under his guidance smiling big with awards in hand. “Spare a minute?” He put his hand on your shoulder. Asshole, you can’t refuse. You were already there.

He didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s been a real busy season, huh? Lots of work. Lots of talented stars. SNL’s really jumping off, isn’t it?” You smiled with a bit of pride, knowing the time you and your colleagues put into the success of an experimental show like it, albeit behind the scenes.

“I’m gonna tell it to you like it is, ‘cause you’re a smart kid. You went to Columbia, right?”

Flattery. You answered anyway. “Yeah. Yeah, I was gonna put some time aside for my masters,” you try and broach the conversation back into your favor. Tell him about your ambitions, your qualifications, and the job will fall into your lap.

He had an unreadable expression, his manufactured appearance unwavering. His mid length brown hair and brown suit nearly blended in with his decor. A blank slate was important in entertainment, he told you one day, you want to be what boys and girls want to see, he said. “You’re gonna have a hell of a lot of time then, kid.”

You blinked, words tumbling out your mouth before you could measure them. “I beg your pardon?” You asked earnestly.

“Lots of work. Lots of talented stars,” he repeats. “It costs a lot to keep the boys and girls happy. Too much to keep certain departments as big as they are.” He swallows, picking up where he left off. “I figured, you’d feel better hearing it from a friendly face then some corporate robot, huh?”

You don’t remember how you got to the payphone, but you did, and you shakily entered Janine’s work number as tears and snot threatened to spill over the dam that was your face.

So there you were, her by your side, sitting under a tree in a nearby park, leaving work for a “personal emergency”, ignoring the voice of her boss as she made her way downtown. You felt bad, coating her shoulder in your sadness, but you couldn’t help it.

“He sounds like a total jackass,” she insisted. “I would’ve put my foot up his…¨ She looked down at you, your cries resigned to snotty sniffles. “You okay?” She asked softly.

You looked at her weakly. “Am I a loser?” You choked out, feeling absolutely miserable. This was rock bottom if you’ve ever been there. Jobless and bawling in a public park.

Janine grabbed your hands. “Don’t ever say something like that again. I’m telling you, your fate is something bigger.” Your eyes got glossy again, and she shook you around forcefully.

“No more crying! C’mon,” she hoisted you to your feet, head spinning and tears dried out of whiplash. Silently, you let her drag you to a grocery without protest, watching numbly as she stopped at a candy counter with you clinging to her arm.

“10 Crunch bars. And as many of those red things that can fit in the bag.” The man behind the counter obliged, not without looking at the pair of you like a mother and her overgrown child. She took the paper bag, and loaded up another basket with the supplies to make your favorite dinners from the grocer, not forgetting a large tub of speciality ice cream.

“I can’t ask you to buy all of this,” you said softly, but your voice broke into a quiver as you realized what buying something entailed. “Now that I have no-no money,” your voice, wet and weak, about to break out into another session of hot tears.

“If you start crying again I’m leaving you at customer service,” She threatened as she opened her wallet, making her way to the cashier.

“D’you think the corner takes applications?” You walked in tandem to the bus that’d take you home.

“We can find out together. I’ve been telling you, there are men at Playboy who’d pay good money for-”

“WOW, Janine, your voice is a little loud, no?”

Her attempt at making you smile worked, and you felt a little better at her side on the bus. Stuffing the sack of candy in your bag, the bus rocked gently as Janine rested the large grocery haul on her lap.

You were ready to just fall into bed, with or without Janine there, but your droopy eyes were snapped open upon seeing a white envelope taped to your front door. With further inspection, Janine watched sadly as you read that it was a water bill due ridiculously soon. The best you could do was knock your head against the plaster of the wall and hand her your keys.

You had a whole feast of food to be prepared laid out on your counter as you lay on the couch, weak and unwilling to do anything as you pressed your face into the cushions. “Is your oven always this…not on?” Janine’s voice came confused from the kitchen, a bundt pan full of box-mix-cake batter in her left hand.

“You’re joking,” you peeled yourself from the couch, crouching in front of the oven. One spark, nothing. Two, nothing. Three, four, five…not even a match could lit the stovetop nor the burners in the oven. You slid to the ground, defeated. “Kill me, Janine.”

You could hear her click her tongue, before a tiny bleeping filled the room. She apologetically moved her way to your phone, explaining that her boss(es?) were paging her. While you wallow on the kitchen floor, she dials in a number and waits, a little frazzled.

“I told you, it was an emergency.” Her eyes look to yours, silently asking for permission to spill the worst day of your life to some guy you don’t know. You close them, surrendering as you melt into the ground. Maybe this was rock bottom?

“I'm by the theater, it’s a bus and a brisk walk…you can manage without me for a night…4 grown men can’t problem-solve?...Peter- friend of mine got laid off, and they’re pretty upset, ok?...Yes. No, not that one…yes, that one. Ask them yourself, Peter.” She glances at you, annoyed as she holds the receiver out. Not having a speck of pride left, you trudge over, taking the phone limply.

The line is silent for a bit, except for distant, deep voices you can’t hone in on, expect for the fact that they were arguing.

“Hello?” A voice starts.

“Hello.”

“Real sorry about your job, dear. Tell Janine to bring you around and we can show you a good-” Whoever the hell is on the other end is interrupted by a frantic voice, interrupting as they take hold of the call.

“Hello? This is Dr. Stantz. Uh, Ray is better. Janine told my friend Peter here about your work situation, we wanted to let you know we’re real sorry. Let Janine know she’s not in trouble, but she needs to get here soon, ok?” Dr. Stantz sounds genuinely sympathetic, and you can’t help but be comforted by his words.

“Thanks,” is all you can manage, if not rudely then a little flat.

“If you ever need anywhere to go, our headquarters are open! We have food, hot water, Janine,”’ he laughs on the other end, a little awkward. And a little on the nose for comfort. You react freely in the safety of the private nature of a phone call.

“Thank you?” You answer honestly. He clears his throat.

“If I could hear from Janine, please?”

You wordlessly pass it back to your unamused friend, and she listens to the other end.

A loud, low rumbling in your laundry closet cuts through the calm. You glance at each other, assuming the worst as you swing the door open.

Bubbles spill out onto the floor, your washer unit shaking and leaking onto the worn out wood. All things, this is what gets you the hardest. Your washer can´t break now. Out of all the horrible, awful things, your washer can not break now. You can't even cry, it's so ridiculous. Standing incredulously in ankle deep suds, all you can do is stare at the appliance spit and sputter liquid onto the floor. Janine breaks your bout of shock, pressing the phone into her shoulder so she can reach you. Her voice urges you to unplug it, and before you could break down again, you´re leaning against the lid, with the sudden realization that all the water and soap could start an electrical fire.

You have to lean your entire torso against the top, arms fumbling for the chord buried somewhere in the dark space against the wall. Soon, your legs are dangling over the edge. It would be a funny sight, if the machine wasn't shaking so monstrously underneath you.

Suddenly, there's a large hand on the back of your thigh. It was a cold, unnerving touch, sharp points digging into the flesh of your leg. As you could look back, to tell Janine to let go, your receiver drops to the ground. Her face is ghastly pale, and she´s suspended in a scream. As you look down towards the front of the washer, the large, reptilian claws try to grab you, to pull you into the washer with it. Your eyes widen, and you scream as you clamor to get out of its reach, to no avail.

Janine’s at your side, prying the digits off of your skin, the claws no doubt leaving marks in their wake. You climb to the top of the machine, legs to your chest, and she slams the door on the arms enough times to force it shut.

Catching her breath, she backs up to the phone slowly, her eyes on you as if you yourself were whatever beast residing in your washer.

¨Ray.¨ She says his name as if there’s a 3rd party in your little apartment listening. ¨You´re coming to us.¨

4 men in brown jumpsuits are at your door. They look much more frazzled than they do in their ads. There´s…a crocodile? A monster? Living in your house? Your brain can´t form cohort thoughts as you blink, eyes drying out. One of them tries to console you as you sit in your armchair, breaths shallow and skin cold. You can’t even freak over the local legends standing in your home.

You only recognized one of them personally, from Janine´s birthday a few months ago. You couldn't stay the whole night, only dropping by to give her well wishes and leave her gift behind, but you can remember a brief conversation. You arrived around the same time, and he had opened the entrance to the building for you with ease, the handle notoriously always needing a bit of extra effort to haul the door open after being buzzed up. He walked you, explaining that her boyfriend forgot to pick up the cake, pointing to the box in his hand, which you shared a laugh over. In the time it took to get into her apartment, he explained that he was Dr. Ray Stantz, and he worked with her. You ingenuously told him he was the splitting image of a young comedian on the show you work for, to which he smiled, wide and a little embarrassed. Your conversation was cut short- Janine emerged from another room and dragged you over to some corner to see a mutual friend.

One of the men flipped between the paper on a notepad, fixing the arms of his glasses. ¨If you don´t mind, we'd like to see the markings the ghost left on you.¨ He requests in a baritone voice, dark and monotone.

¨Egon!¨ Janine scolded him, rubbing your shoulders as you sat.

¨Only if you´re okay with that,¨ another mediated, as ¨Egon¨ opened his mouth. He cleared his throat. ¨For research. Their research. Not mine. I’m not really a science guy-¨

¨Unbelievable,¨ Janine mumbled, ushering you up and out the chair. Before she could take you out the apartment, Ray grabs the doorknob- not to keep you inside, but to catch her attention. He looked at you both gently, if not a little urgently.

¨We´ll get rid of it no problem, promise. Real exciting thing you got living in your apartment.” He gives you both a soft smile, before opening the door and letting you out. Before you cross the threshold, she turns her head to address them as you grab your bag.

¨There better not be a hair out of place!¨ She shoots eaaaach and every one of them a look, the targets stiffening in the process. The man with the voice you recognize as Peter over the phone bids her farewell with a mock salute.

¨Yes ma´am, Janine!¨

¨I´m sorry about those guys. They´re,¨ she pauses, hand on her chin as you sit on the stoop, ¨the best in their field.¨ A little hard to believe, Peter had almost knocked down one of your trinkets on the way in and put it back a little too haphazardly for taste.

“They seem like interesting people,¨ is all you can manage. ¨Egon-¨

¨Don´t mind him. His brain´s big, but a little empty. He’s a peach.”

¨I was gonna say he was Columbia´s resident myth. I just couldn´t remember his name for the life of me.¨

Janine perks up a bit. ¨Oh? What was he like?¨ She pries, always in the mood for a little gossip.

You roll your eyes, albeit not really annoyed. ¨Well, I remember every girl in my major wanted to be the one to ¨break¨ him. Lots of turned down dates, lots of time wasted pretending to care about mushrooms,” you laughed at the memory. ¨He's still, just, not like that, huh?¨

Before she could answer, the entrance from the stoop is swung open, and said man is barrelling down the steps to the white van they tote around, hastily opening the backdoors and pulling something out.

¨What's wrong?” You and Janine say simultaneously.

He turns to you, pausing mid-action. ¨Nothing,¨ he shuts the van door, making his way back up the steps at a much more measured pace. ¨Everything is fine.¨ Your apartment window slides open, impossibly quick.

¨EGON! Hurry up and get back here, it's got Winston!¨ Peter´s head is half out the window, face dirty and shaken up. Egon blinks once, and then resumes his pace back up to your apartment.

After what felt like half an hour, the 4 men stagger down the steps, worn and beat as you lift your head off Janine´s shoulder to asses the damages.

¨We got him,¨ Ray manages a weak smile, holding a machine billowing sickly chemical smoke.

¨He got us, ¨ Peter says flatly as he leans against Winston, who´s jaw is sporting a deep bruise. Hair disheveled, faces dark, and clothes stained, the men breathe heavily as they can finally relax, dragging themselves to the van. Janine stops Egon, taking his glasses off and saving a lens from popping out.

¨He was real mean,¨ Ray explains, ¨but a Class III of that size! Insane! I´d love to find out where he came from. Amphibious, malevolent ghost living in my washer- I´d pay to be you!¨ He´s excitable, even when his hands have light cuts littering them, his palms raw and pink.

“I’m sorry- I didn’t expect you all to get,” you pause to address their injuries. All things that will manifest after a hard-night’s rest. “So banged up.” You cringed.

“It’s nothing.” Peter started. “Eges, gimme your calculator, I need to run the bill.”

“No way!” Winston protested, hitting Peter on his tender arm, making the man recoil in pain.

“Don’t worry about the pay,” Egon cut in as he examined the trap in Ray’s hands. “We should be paying you , this particular ghost opens avenues for more experimentation. And I don’t mean that lightly.” His inflection remained the same throughout his entire sentence.

“More?” Peter complained.

“The workbench is getting crowded, Egon. Not everything can be a breakthrough.”

“You can never be too sure,” Ray insisted, opening the van door for the men to haul in. “If this thing’s connected to that beast back in Coney Island that we’re makin’ big strides.” He turned to you and Janine.

You couldn’t help but ask, noting the deep scuff marks on the workboots each man wore. “Can I count on getting my deposit back?” Ray couldn’t quite meet your eyes.

He chuckled weakly. “Sure-”

“We blasted a chemical-leaking electrical machine inside an enclosed space with unregulated units of atomic energy. If you don’t want a malignant disease, I suggest finding a hotel,” Egon said from the front, the door still open. You could hear the thump of a boot against a car seat immediately after.

Janine bit her lip, thinking, suddenly unphased about how they didn’t heed her warning. “I’ve got my sister and her kids staying over,” she apologized. You weren’t mad, you knew how cramped her place could get, but also how much she cared for her family. Plus, Louis’ spring allergies would drive you up the wall. Ray’s frown deepened, before his face lit up. He got modestly close to you, lowering his voice.

“Tell you what, I wasn’t joking when I said we have space at the firehouse. Spend the night, it’s the least we can do.” He smiled softly in your little aside. His words reminisced of the one’s exchanged between dozens of young men and women during late nights at the TV station when they think no one’s around, and one of them is leaning against the wall. It was always sweet, and a little awkward knowing you’d have to make coffee across from them the next morning, but you couldn’t help but feel a little jealous. Lord knows it’s been a long time before anyone’s even thought of you that way.

You don’t have any other options, really. At least not on short notice. You eventually nod, apologizing for impeding on their space.

“Don’t worry about it! My grandma used to tell me- be a fine fellow if you want faithful friends at your funeral.” What a boyscout. You couldn’t stop the grin that spread across your face.

“There’s that smile. C’mon, we’ll take you and Janine.” That definitely made you feel something, somewhere.

In the front, Ray drove while Egon sat next to him, and in the back, Peter sat on your right, Winston on your left, and Janine ending up having to sit herself on your lap. Ray blushed and apologized as he turned down the radio once the car’s engine turned on, speakers playing 70s rock directly into your ears.

“We never formally introduced ourselves. Not me, at least,” Winston spoke up at your side, Janine leaning forward so he could see you properly. “That’s Dr. Peter Venkman, Dr. Egon Spengler, you know that guy,” he pointed to Ray who looked at him in the rearview mirror with mock-anger, “and I’m Winston Zeddemore.” What a friendly man.

“You don’t like the sound of ‘doctor Zeddemore’?” You asked quietly, noting how he was a little out of place with the group of scientists.

He shook his head, not offended. “Not me. I would be- my dad wanted me to go the minister route, but I’m former air force,” he explains.

“He’s still smart,” Peter adds at his friend’s defense.

“I know I am,” Winston sits back in his seat.

“Hey, you two,” Ray starts as he gets closer to the firehouse, “we have a bust in a few minutes. We’ll be gone for most of the evening. You can sleep, eat something. Ask Janine to read your palm!” He adds enthusiastically.

You laugh at that as the car pulls into the large garage. “She told me I had a strong “line of career”. Funny how that worked out?” She pushed your head back with her hand.

“Fate! It’s also the line of fate, ” she reiterated as Winston scoots back to allow you both out.

“Is it fate that you’ll find a bill for $1000 under our pillows?” Peter mumbles, as Winston slides the door shut again. You can see the guys bickering through the windshield as Ray pulls out, honking the horn twice and flicking on the siren.

Inside, Janine slumps into her chair behind the front desk as you look around in awe. As soon as you open your mouth to ask if you can help with anything, she’s herding you up the stairs.

“You’ve had a horrible day,” she states, “sleep.” Opening the door to a repurposed fireman’s quarter’s, you swallow thickly.

“I can’t sleep in their beds,” you protest.

She surveys the room, examining each bed. “Winston, Egon, that one’s definitely Peter’s..Ray.” She stops in front of his bed. “He won’t mind.”

You can’t even retaliate before she’s out the door, shutting it behind her. Sighing, you gave in, unbuttoning the top few bottoms of your oh-so-professional promotion-guaranteed outfit. You were pretty spent. But to sleep in this nice man’s bed? Maybe you were overstaying your welcome. A yawn disturbs your thoughts. Okay, you were exhausted, and he offered…

You had the most melancholy nap of your life, the kind you can only achieve after crying all day. You tossed and turned a little, walking up in the weird not-sleeping-falling-back-asleep state a few times. You hugged the thick comforter around you, lulling yourself back to sleep as the natural smell of the bed made its way into your dreams.

You dreamt of being in highschool again, crushing and writing diary entries about a boy who smelt nice and made you laugh. It all felt so cathartic, that when you eventually dragged yourself awake you realized where the nostalgic scent was coming from- Ray’s bed. Your face got a little warm as you were broken out of sleepiness, remembering where you were. As you slowly sat up, your back pressed against something behind the pillow. On impulse, you reached backwards, pulling out a worn, soft Smokey the Bear plushie. You smiled to yourself at the sight, forgetting your embarrassment.

You crept out the room, praying to whoever was watching over that the men hadn’t returned and seen you slobbering all over their pillows. To your relief, it was only Janine, nursing many papers spilled over her narrow desk.

“What’s this?” You read the documents, what seem to be job reports that get more and more detailed the more unorganized the desk looks. Janine has different colored stamps balanced on her lap, as she juggles with the stability of a thick, 3 ringed diary against her computer screen.

“Notarizing,” is all she says, trying to bite back her frustration. Moving behind her, you can see that her thick tome his open to a double page spread of the different ghost classifications. You found her problem- the hand writing in the journal was abysmal, notes were scratched out, rewritten, written over.

“Do you need any help?” You ask, picking up a paper that fluttered to the floor.

She sighs, pushing her desk chair out and rubbing her eyes. “I need a nap myself.”

She disappears up the staircase, and you hear a door unlike the one with the beds fall shut. Glancing at her desk- and at the clock, you lower yourself into the chair. It’d be a while until they were back, right? And you really couldn’t leave this mess for Janine. It wouldn’t hurt to give her a hand. Plus, stamps were always a funtime.

You’d been stamping for an hour. Your eyes bulged at the clock, and then back at the neat, orderly piles of reports organized by date and class. Suddenly, the garage opens, and the men file out. Ray smiles upon seeing you, holding pizza boxes in his hands.

“I’m sorry! Janine just needed a break and..” your voice falters as Peter whistles at your work.

“You look nice behind a desk. Maybe we should get an extra chair and keep you with Janine full time. And you could understand my handwriting,” he raises his eyebrows, zipping down the front of his jumpsuit.

“Thanks for helping her out,” Ray takes a look, pleased at the sight, passing the boxes to Peter who takes them upstairs. “You’ve got a knack for clerical work!” Odd compliment, but you’re willing to take it.

Egon’s curiosity gets the better of him, peering at the documents as he takes the stairs up. You swear you can hear him hum contently as he looks down over the railing, Winston behind him.

“Wanna eat with us? We didn’t know what you’d like, and we figured everyone likes pizza,” Ray starts to shrug his own suit off.

“I’m sorry, again. I take your secretary, your money, your room, now your food.” Ray shakes his head hard, closing his locker. He waves his hands dismissively.

“I’m telling you, it’s nothing at all. You’re good people.” His colloquialism makes you smile, stubbornly. You cave, following him towards the stairs as he walks backwards toward it. As you reach the second floor, the other 3 men were already seated at a table, distributing the food amongst themselves. You freeze beside Ray, nerves picking back up for whatever reason.

He leaned over and whispered in your ear. “We’re not freaks, you know. Just, 200-something-pound men who walk around in onesies and share a bedroom.” You laugh yet again, feeling a little dumb whenever you’re next to him, giggling every few seconds like a teenaged girl.

Upon seeing you smile, Winston smiled in turn and pulled a chair out for you, putting the ice he held to his jaw down for a second. Gosh, you’d have to apologize for that again. Sitting down, he even passed you a plate of food, the two biggest slices out of all the others.

“You live near the Benjamin Fairhooke theater?” He asks, knowing it’ll spark interest in Egon.

“Old spooky haunted Abraham Lincoln theater, Winston.” Peter takes a sip from a beer can.

“Lincoln was shot in D.C.”

“Never seen it.”

You wipe your hands. “Abandoned for years. Some kids got in trouble for sneaking in. They were pretty spooked- they say they saw a headless body walking around.” Egon perks up at that. “They’ve got some strict security there now.” Your brain pings for a second, remembering a not so legal secret you had been holding.

“I had a friend who used to do city maintenance there, before they abandoned the refurbishing project. He moved to the west, and left me with the masterkey.”

Egon’s eyes widen, ever so slightly. “I’ve been trying to get a reading on that place, but Ray’s not willing to come with me.”

“Ray’s not willing to break in with you, Spenges,” he cuts in.

“Do you want the key?” You offer, before you could think about what you said.

Peter groaned, slumping back in his chair. “You’re encouraging him.”

“Very much so,” Egon nodded.

After the food was finished, mostly by the 200-something-pound men not realizing how much food they really took. You didn’t mind- you were the guest, after all. Ray suddenly realized that it was fairly late, and you still didn’t have an official place to stay. As the guys stood up to get ready for the night, he spoke up quickly.

He looked hopeful. “You don’t mind staying the night, do you?” Before you could answer, he starts to speak again. “Our extra bed hasn’t been broken in yet, you can take mine if you’d like!” Neither of you realize it, but Peter’s watching with more intent than the other 2 men.

“Where would you’d sleep, Raymond?” Peter’s suddenly interested in the paint chipping on the doorframe.

“The extra bed, I suppose”

“That’s no good, you’ll mess up your back”

Something was unspoken between the two of them, their eyes having a conversation of their own. Ray’s big brain slowed a bit. “The…loveseat?” He offered, as if asking for permission.

Peter made a buzzer noise. “I’ve already tried- it’s too small. And ocupado. Janine. She’s tiny. We’ll wake her up, send her home- you two figure it out.” Peter corales the other two, confused men out the room and down the hall.

Ray looked stumped, and a blush was slowly creeping from his ears. He seemed to be battling something in his head, before he refused the force tempting him as he shook his head. “I can take the floor,” he decides.

“What! I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not asking me. I’m telling you.” He wouldn’t budge. He started to clean up the mess his friends ever so gracefully left behind, before you moved to help him.

“Just let me,” you responded to his face. Ever the host. You cleaned together quietly, but comfortably.

“I want you to know,” he bent over to put a spray back under the sink, “that we know what it’s like. To lose our jobs.” He stood to face you. You had a flash a shame hit your features, which you really couldn’t help. To the Ghostbusters’ credit, they had a good way of making you forget things.

His face was understanding. “Really, we do. We started this whole thing ‘cause we lost our jobs. It was a dumpy feeling.” You purse your lips, turning your gaze down. His head followed your eyes, and your stomach felt a little woozy as he physically commanded your attention.

“I wouldn’t say it so much if I didn’t think you deserved it.”

You let out a soft puff of air out your nose at the potential to make a joke. “You’re ready to believe me?”

His serious face melted into that of pride, his mouth splitting into a full-toothed grin.

“You’re something else. Hell yeah, I am!” He squeezed your shoulder, before having you follow him down the steps and into a basement. He stuck his head into a door and said goodnight to Egon before entering what looked like a laundry room.

He swiped a few articles of clothing on hangers, hanging over most of the room’s perimeter. There were t shirts, longjohn’s, plain sweatshirts, smocks, of varying sizes, though they look like they’d seldom been used. He settled on gray sweat pants and a gray sweatshirt, holding them up to you from a respectable distance to measure.

“The firemen before us left all this. Joke’s on them, right?” He folds them loosely, handing them to you before rummaging through a cabinet for a toothbrush.

Your face unintentionally twitches as he holds the plastic wrapped brush out to you, wondering if it’s been here as long as the clothes you had in your arms.

He glances down at it once, before waving your fears away. “Janine bought new one’s last week, I promise.”

After muttering an apology and leaving for you to change, he leads you back to the sleeping quarters, opening the door slowly. Winston was fast asleep, always the first to be out when the day’s work took a particular toll on him. Ray listened to the silence for a second, piecing together Peter’s absence and the sudden running of the shower down the hall. He leans over, excusing himself to get ready for the night and letting you know there was a bathroom connected to the room, albeit very small.

After a quick brushing of your teeth, you emerge at almost the same time as him. He nearly jumps out of his skin noticing his stuffed animal still on his bed, stuttering how’d that get there’ s and it’s for memorie’ s.

“Don’t be mean to him,” you mock-scold him in a whisper. His cheeks are still pink. He’s wearing a matching pajama set- which was enough to make you shake your head and giggle to yourself.

He looks down, noticing his pink pajamas. “It’s light red . And you should be disappointed I passed on my Dr. Thirteen robe.” He remembers the bear still in his hands.

“You want him?” He holds the little toy out to you, Smokey’s been very clearly well loved, as his fur and outfit are fading slightly. “Take good care of him,” he looks as if he’s parting with a child.

“Promise.”

He makes his way to a wardrobe as quietly as possible, pulling out a pillow and blanket for his sleep on the floor. “You want new ones? Sheets, pillowcase? I’m not sure how nice mine are.”

Your mind flashes to the nice smell his bed had, and you promptly shook your head.

He sets up on the floor, unconsciously choosing to sleep at your technical-side. You set Smokey up next to you, tucking him in, watching Ray lay out the bedding, before he sits back and sighs up at you.

“I know it’s not the Marriott. Sorry you hafta share a room with us.” Sure, he could’ve set his den up next to Winston, or taken Egon’s currently unoccupied bed, but neither of you were gonna complain. He refused to even entertain the idea of you sleeping on the floor of whatever the room the loveseat was in, so this was how it would play out. “I can imagine you don’t often bunk with people you just met before.”

“It’s just a night,” saying it was a little useless- you had no idea how long you’d need to stay with them. You had no idea about anything at all anymore.

He fell silent. “A night?” You couldn’t decipher why his voice had a despondent tone.

“However long you’ll have me.”

A pause. “As long as you wanted.”

The clock on the opposite wall was ticking softly. It was getting late, 11:30.

“Goodnight, Ray. And thank you, really. Thank you.”

“Goodnight. I can…wake you up before the guys do, if that’s more comfortable for you. We’ll figure something out, ok?”

You nod, and he turns off the lamp on the side table above his head.

12:05. A freshly showered Peter opening the door to two bodies out of the three, softly breathing.

“Raymond Stantz. You were supposed to get into the bed, too.”

“Go to bed, Peter.” He pulled the covers over his eyes.

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rom-e-o · 4 months

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Liable To Fall - Chapter 1 (Scrooge/OC)(Post-Canon)

A nasty fall from a rickety footstool steals some of Ebenezer Scrooge's precious and recent memories. As his mortal self struggles to remember recent events, including his courtship and recent marriage, his Present conscious takes a ghostly form. With only the ghost of his former business partner privy to his misery, he is forced to watch the spectacle of his Past self attempt to readjust to his changed life.

A continuation of Begin Again.

Read on AO3

On an otherwise unsuspecting Thursday evening, the tranquility of the Scrooge manor was interrupted by a loud, bone-jostling crash. The disturbing resonance rattled the floorboards and accosted the walls, slithering through cracks and air vents with uncanny volume.

It was more than enough to startle the manor’s lady, Constance Albany DoGoode-Scrooge, out of her daydream. She’d been seated before a roaring fire in the home’s spacious second floor sitting room, reading her husband’s vintage copy of Robinson Crusoe by firelight while Prudence snored at her side.

“He told me it was for Men of desperate Fortunes on one Hand, or of aspiring, superior Fortunes on the other, who went abroad upon Adventures, to rise by Enterprize, and make themselves famous in Undertakings of a Nature out of the common Road; that these things were all either too far above me, or too far below me …” she read aloud, cheating glances at Prudence as she acted the different parts aloud. “Are you already snoozing?”

“Hmph!” the mastiff huffed, the dog's breath almost as warm as the firelight on her skin.

“Silly girl, we’ve just started!”

She rolled over and pawed at Constance's elbow, asking for pets. Uncle Harry gave the best belly rubs, but hers would have to do.

Obliging with a laugh, Constance continued to read, “… that mine was the middle State, or what might be called the upper Station of Low Life, which he had found by long Experience was the best State in the World, the most suited to human Happiness, not exposed to the Miseries and Hardships, the Labour and Sufferings of the mechanick Part of Mankind, and not embarass’d with the Pride, Luxury, Ambition and Envy of the upper Part of Mankind."

The dog’s large head had rested comfortably in the woman’s lap, her tongue occasionally lolling from between her fanged teeth to create a spot of drool on the woman’s nightgown. Even if Constance had noticed, she wouldn’t have cared.

“He told me, I might judge of the Happiness of this State, by this one thing—”

Then came the crash.

The strident sound screamed through the halls, interrupted the tranquility, and her narration. Upon hearing and feeling the reverberation of the impact in the floorboards, the woman and mastiff shared concerned looks.

“Ebenezer?” Constance called out in worry. She craned her neck in an attempt to peer past the doorway, as if her answer lay in the shadows of the dark corridors. “Is something wrong?”

No answer. “Magda? E-Errol?”

A flurry of footsteps sounded from another part of the house, but no tangible voice answered her call.

Was it possible that one of the Cratchits had stopped in for a visit? They were trusted friends and had keys to the home, but they always announced themselves, and rarely showed up past sunset. Harry and Hela were the same, and with a young daughter to take care of now, they

She was running out of people already, but the sound had to have come from somewhere. Unless … was someone else in the house? Had someone broken in?

Just as she stood to investigate, a distant yell reverberated from the house’s inner corridors.

“Constance, it’s Ebenezer!” Magda called out; her voice frayed with urgency. “H-He’s fallen in the study – come help me with him, please!”

Oh, no. No.

“Hurry!” the maid called again, more insistently this time.

Constance was up in a flash, abandoning everything in the sitting room and practically flying down the halls. In her haste she didn’t even reach for her candle, opting to leave it behind and feel her way through the familiar house. Guided only by instinct and traces of waning sunlight seeping through the cracked windows, she found her way without single delay or injury. The emerald-colored gown and golden dressing robe she wore billowed behind her as she ran through the home, skidding on the wooden floors on socked feet.

When she practically stumbled over the threshold of Ebenezer’s study, she saw her husband laying unresponsive on the floor amidst a scattering of books, with Magda gently fitting the cushion from his desk chair under his head. Cast off to the side was a toppled stepladder, one of the rungs snapped in half, laying crooked before one of the towering bookcases.

Constance was on her knees at his side immediately. She knew better than to move him too much, but it didn’t take a doctor to see that he was unconscious – but still quite pale.

Once Constance was at her side, Magda quickly deposited Ebenezer’s larger hand into hers for safekeeping. The older woman had been taken it up to check the pulse in his wrist for any beat.

“Stay with him,” the maid said, “I’ll send Errol to fetch us a doctor right away!”

Picking up her skirt and moving faster than a rabbit in a fox hunt, she was down the main stairs and through the main entryway in a heartbeat. She didn’t waste the extra second it took to latch the door behind her, opting instead to let it swing on its hinges in the twilit evening’s icy air. Prudence also sprinted in, borderline frantic at the sight of her beloved owner in distress.

As she sat beside Constance and surveyed the scene with terrified and understanding eyes, the woman held firm at her husband’s side. All her energy went into staying calm and trying to make sure she did not disturb him for fear of aggravating his condition any further.

To siphon out the manic energy building inside her with every passing second, she stroked the sides of his face lovingly, fingers shaking as if she was out in the blistering cold.

All the while, she repeated his name like a mantra.

“Ebenezer…”

Constance shook her head in denial of everything, her copper hair falling loose from its wrappings to flow around her shoulders. Powerless to do anything else, she stooped over and pressed her forehead to his, tears running in silver rivers down her freckled cheeks.

“Ebenezer.”

“Well, this is certainly a surprise, old boy.”

Ebenezer awoke with a start, awakening to the sensation of tingling numbness throughout his entire body. It felt like needles pricking his skin all over, and ice racing through his veins like rain through London’s sprawling gutters. Regardless of this, he was able to stand, limbs somehow lead-like in clunkiness yet also light as dust clouds in weight.

One glimpse at his appendages, and they looked … wrong. They were misty and diaphanous as light, not solid as they should have been.

The rush of dizziness he felt after standing on his legs was not nearly as distressing as the sight his eyes fell upon a moment later; his own body, lying resigned on the floor with Constance cradling him, curled upon him like the mourning angels that decorated large gravestones.

Terror snapped at his heart like the jaw of a rapid animal.

“I …. I am…”

“Dead? No, you are not,” the familiar, corporeal voice said. “If you were, you wouldn’t be tethered to this mortal realm like I am. I’d say the closest comparison is that you are … lucid dreaming.”

Ebenezer veered around again, fighting another wave of dizziness, to see the source of the voice. There, before him, seated in his desk chair was his former mentor. An icy specter dressed in rags, icicles protruding from his bruised, frost-bitten skin. His slate-colored hair and mustache fluttered about weightlessly, as if he was suspended in water.

Most notably, the golden obols on his hollowed eyes sparked a shade of vibrant gold, a stark contrast to the icy hues that fully encapsulated the rest of the man’s uncannily preserved body.

“Jacob Marley…” he muttered again, shock temporarily absorbing his terror. “W-Wait. H-How is the possible? H-How are we…?”

He chanced another look down at his hands and noticed that the indentations of the walnut floor were visible through what should have been a solid layer of flesh. Barely holding back panic, he fell to his knees and scrambled to Constance’s side. He reached out to grasp her shoulders, but his hands slipped through her. Blinking, he retracted his hands from her, then more gently, teased his fingertips along her spine.

His fingers slipped right through the back of her robe. There was not a trace of the usual warmth he felt emanating from her, nor any indication that she was even there. It was as if they existed on two different planes of existence.

As if sensing the next question on his friend’s tongue, Jacob chuckled forlornly. “Relax. It’s quite normal, my boy. It took me seven years to talk to you, remember?”

“Yes, but you were dead!” he reminded him, pointing an accusing finger at the spirit. “Jacob, you … you are dead. That why you came to me that Christmas Eve night. Y-You spoke to me then.”

The ghost inclined its head. “I did, and I can see that the conversation paid quite bountiful dividends.”

His ghostly gaze flicked to the worried, copper-haired woman cradling Scrooge’s body unresponsive form. The ghost rose from the chair then, levitating mere inches off the ground as the chains and lockboxes continued to anchor him to the mortal plane and delay his ascension.

“You are a changed man,” Jacob murmured, his voice softer than Scrooge could ever remember hearing it, “I could not be prouder, nor more relieved, for you. You heeded my words …”

His gaze softened at his partner’s kind words. They breached his hardened heart “Jacob.”

“Finally!” the ghost said, throwing his hands up dramatically. “You were too bloody stubborn to listen to most of my advice in life! Now, almost a full decade after I breathed my last and had to literally haunt your dreams for attention, you finally get your act together. Bah! Well, better late than never, I suppose.”

“What?” Scrooge snapped back, close to shaking a finger in the spirit’s face. “Now, look here Jacob—”

Interrupted by the study door slamming open, Scrooge veered his head to see Magda and Errol rushing in, both flanking a physician carrying a rather large leather case.

Constance was forced to move away as the physician examined her husband, wanting the man to have all the space he needed to spread out and examine the man she loved. Unable to sit still, she stood and began to pace about the room frantically, only for Magda to catch her and pull her into a tight embrace. Scrooge’s heart shattered as he watched his wife fold immediately, wrapping the older woman in an embrace that could put the squeeze of a python to shame.

By reflex, he attempted to reach out … only for his hand to fall right through her shoulders, over her heart, and exit her lower back.

His breath began to come in quick, frantic gasps. “Y-You say I’m not deceased, but…”

“You above all others should know that I am always right, Ebenezer,” Jacob assured. “Did I not speak the truth about the Three Spirits that night?”

“Y-Yes, but—”

“Then cease your blabbering and listen. Oh, and don’t worry, you can still sit down. If you’d like.”

Ebenezer was in no mood to act playful (or cheeky, for that matter) with the ghost of his dead business partner. The occasion was strange enough in its own right without the horrible addition of watching a physician inspect his body mere feet away from him. Oh, and the horribly distressing sound of Constance crying. It was hard enough to focus without having his nerves shredded to ruins by the sound of her sobs.

Too tired and confused to argue further, he slinked over to his desk chair, where he’d been sitting just a few minutes prior when he’d decided to mount the old stepladder for a top-shelf book and sank into the seat. He felt nothing, but he was … sitting.

“Please, speak some comfort to me,” Ebenezer begged his friend. “Please.”

“This time, I can oblige you,” Jacob said, much to the other man’s palpable relief. “You are alive, but just a step beyond unconsciousness. You see, when you awaken, a part of you will not be intact.”

“A part of me?” he parroted. His hands patted at his ghostly body. “A-Am I injured?”

“Not physically. Some of your memories will be gone. Recent memories.”

The man’s stomach dropped. “H-How recent?”

“You should have a misty recollection of your entire life, even in this form, but the memories that are crystal clear to you will be the ones that that your physical brain has forgotten. Those memories are manifested by you.”

His lack of understanding must have made him look truly pitiful, because Jacob reached out to lay a long-fingered hand on his shoulder. “What is the last vivid memory you have, my boy?”

Ebenezer shut his eyes and forced himself to think back. Everything from the past month was clear. He easily recalled accompanying Bob and Ethel to Tim’s monthly physician appointment to check on the condition of his leg. Another memory from a few days ago of Prudence nearly knocking over an entire cabinet of glass collectibles in an antique store came to mind as well. Somehow, he and Constance had caught every piece before anything had smashed onto the ground, though they’d had to work themselves into quite the tangle to accomplish it.

His mind continued to drift. A few months prior, he remembered Constance and him getting married in a semi-private ceremony at his home. Every detail came to him easily, as if the whole ceremony had happened mere minutes before. He recalled the radiance of her gold-accented gown, the feeling of kissing her as he cried tears of joy, and the taste of their vanilla wedding cake somehow even sweeter when tasted off her lips. Later that night, he remembered experiencing a new, and very physical, level of joy between the sheets with her. He’d later awakened to her nude form curled beside him, her glorious smile curving against the slope of his bare chest. Maker, her smile. He could never forget it. Could he?

No.

Ebenezer’s mind raced as he retraced the steps of their relationship. He recalled dates as if they’d happened yesterday. The picnic in the countryside where he’d proposed was vivid as a painting in his mind. Her excited ‘Yes!’ rang through his mind with the musicality, and perhaps the foreboding knell, of a bell.

“Do you…remember meeting your wife at all, old boy?” he asked. “That first day, when the butcher the street over invited her out of the cold?”

“Of course, I do, I—" he snapped, before the implication hit him. “No. Oh, no. Jacob, please.”

When Ebenezer first stirred under the physician’s careful touch, Constance snapped out of her daze almost instantly. She flew to his side again, on her knees as he slowly worked to push himself upright.

“Easy now,” the physician said, one hand flattening against the man’s back as he helped usher him upright. “Nice and slow, Mr. Scrooge.”

“Augh, my head …” he groaned, his body folding up with agonizing slowness. Once mostly upright, his head almost instantly fell into his palm, a grimace slicing his face like a wound.

“Are you dizzy?” the doctor asked in concern.

“A bit, yes,” he croaked.

“That’s normal. Just take a moment to rally yourself.”

A few tense seconds passed before he dared to lift his head again. When he gathered the willpower to do so, he blinked slowly as he eyes adjusted to the light of the room. As he registered the wreath of spectators around the room, he let out an uneasy chuckle. “M-My, what an audience.”

Prudence padded over to her beloved papa, nosing at his arm and whimpering. The man turned to her and scratched under her jaw, making sire to pay extra attention to the spot right under her collar he knew she liked. As predicted, her tail began thumping the floor almost instantly, and with enough force to practically knock the pictures off the wall.

Constance, tearing up from relief and joy, leaned forward to embrace him. “Oh, Ebenezer! I’m so relieved you’re okay!”

The man allowed the redhead to lean into him, but visibly tensed as she wrapped her arms around him. Constance noticed this, and reeled away immediately, fearing she’d hurt him. “I-I’m sorry! That was too much, wasn’t it? Oh, I’m so sorry. I-I was just relieved to see that you woke up.”

“I-I…” Ebenezer stuttered, staring at the woman with wide eyes. “I-I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? Whatever for?”

“Probably for being a bloody fool and using that old stepladder alone,” Magda chimed in, overturning her fist to gently knock on the top of his head. “You stubborn codger. I told you to toss that old thing in the trash. Would make nice kindling, too!”

While Magda laughed amicably at her jest (as did Errol, the ever-faithful husband he was), Ebenezer still stared back at Constance with troubled eyes. There was something searching in his gaze, his pupils darting from one feature of hers to another. After studying her face, he shifted his attention to her clothes, her hair … before eventually landing back on her Atlantic-colored eyes.

“Um, miss, please pardon me,” he started slowly, “Um, perhaps that fall was severe after all.”

Constance cocked her head. Miss? He hadn’t called her that in…well, since they’d first met.

The woman reached out in an attempt to comfort him, but saw him shift away. She did the same, apologizing again under her breath.

“I’m so dreadfully sorry, but … do we know each other?” Ebenezer asked, obviously realizing the question was a painful one to impose on her.

When her face faltered, collapsing from relief into shock, he added sheepishly:

“I-I don’t believe I know who you are.”

If anyone else in the chamber could hear the otherworldly wail that left Ebenezer's spirit, it did not show on their faces.

List: @quill-pen, @crimson-phantom-designs @thedivinelights

Here we go~

#scrooge 2022 #scrooge a christmas carol #scrooge netflix #scrooge x oc #oc constance dogoode

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uma1ra · 7 months

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DUA FOR INCREASE AND BLESSINGS IN WEALTH & CHILDREN

To supplicate for ourselves say:

اللَّهُمَّ أَكْثِرْ مَالَي وَوَلَدَي، وَبَارِكْ لَي فيما أعطيتني

Allahumma akthir mali wa waladi, wa barik-li fima a’taitani

O Allah increase my wealth and offspring and bless me in what you have provided for me

For someone in front of you (in brackets for plural):

اللَّهُمَّ أَكْثِرْ مَالَكَ (مَالَكُم) وَوَلَدَكَ (وَوَلَدَكُم)، وَبَارِكْ لَكَ (وَبَارِكْ لَكُم) فِيمَا أَعْطَيْتَكَ (فِيمَا أَعْطَيْتَكُم)

Allahumma akthir malak (malakum) wa waladak (wa waladakum), wa barik-lak (wa barik-lakum) fima a’taitak (fima a’taitakum)

O Allah increase his/her (their) wealth and offspring and bless him/her (them) in what you have provided for him/her (them)

For someone not present (in brackets for plural):

اللَّهُمَّ أَكْثِرْ مَالَهُ (مالَهُم) وَوَلَدَهُ (وَوَلَدَهُم)، وَبَارِكْ لَهُ (وَبَارِكْ لَهُم) فِيمَا أَعْطَيْتَهُ (فِيمَا أَعْطَيْتَهُم)

Allahumma akthir malahu (malahum) wa waladahu (wa waladahum), wa barik-lahu (wa barik-lahum) fima a’taitahu (fima a’taitahum)

O Allah increase his/her (their) wealth and offspring and bless him/her (them) in what you have provided for him/her (them)

It is proven from the below hadith that we can make dua for increase in wealth and children:

From Qatada who said: I heard Anas saying: I heard Umm Sulaym who said: ‘O Messenger of Allah! Make Dua’ to Allah for Anas’, The Messenger -sallAllaahu alayhi wa sallam- said: ‘O Allah increase his wealth and offspring and bless him in what you have provided for him.’ [Collected by Bukhari 6334 and others]

Al-Albani Commented:

There are many benefits in this hadeeth, I will mention some of them briefly, except where detail is necessary:

1- That supplicating for increase in wealth and offspring is something which is legislated.

Bukhari has a chapter heading for this hadeeth: ‘Chapter: Supplicating for blessings in having lots of wealth and offspring.’

2- And that wealth and offspring are a blessing and goodness if Allaah -Tabaraka wa Ta’ala is obeyed in respect to them. How misguided is the one who tries to limit how many children they have, using so many different means, like birth control or regulating it, let alone aborting the foetus and for the most insignificant reasons, and obtaining Fatawa to make their actions permissible !!

3- Allah answered the Dua’ of His Prophet –sallAllaahu alayhi wa sallam– for Anas, and it became reality, until he became the one with the most wealth and offspring from amongst the Ansar. …..

#islam #quran #islamic #muslim #islamicquotes #pakistan #islamic group #muslim community #muslim countries #istanbul

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emlovesstates · 4 months

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<a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/52931011">21 years of being together 8th years of marriage</a> (2800 words) by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emiliylovestsates">Emiliylovestsates</a> Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/tags/Welcome%20To%20The%20Table%20-%20Ben%20Brainard%20(Web%20Series)">Welcome To The Table - Ben Brainard (Web Series)</a> Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Colorado/New York (Welcome To The Table) Characters: New York (Welcome To The Table), Colorado (Welcome To The Table), Denver (Welcome to the Table), Aspen (Welcome to the Table), Albany (Welcome To The Table), Buffalo (Welcome to the Table), Syracuse (Welcome To The Table) Summary: It was two days before their eighth wedding anniversary. New York was in the kitchen getting breakfast ready for Colorado. Colorado snuck up behind New York and wrapped his arms around New York's waist."morning."Colorado said, kissing New York's cheek. New York blush. Colorado smirks."21 years and I'm still getting you to blush."Coco laughed, while New York rolled his eyes. New York push Colorado off of him "go sit down Bella"New York says as he cooked breakfast

#ben brainard #welcome to the statehouse #welcome to the table #wttsh #wttt #wttt fanfic

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multiphandommess · 7 months

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Help Leads To Something More - Chapter 1 - The Case

Nicky helps out the BAU with a murder case involving her former dealer. When she flirts with one of the agents, will she get her number? Or will she get told off?

I didn't know what to title this thing, so sorry that it sucks, but I will change it if I get a better idea.

Olivia POV

This case was not easy to stomach or solve. 4 dead, no leads, hot NYC summer, this one was brutal. Even sweet JJ was fed up. We spent as much time as possible in the NYC police station and FBI building to stay out of the heat. It was me, Derek, Spencer, Emily, and Rossi all sitting around a conference table trying to put at least something together. Emily and JJ had just got back from one of the scenes and the body was decomposing so rapidly, we couldn’t get anything from it. All we got was an ID and a phone number that traces back to a burner phone. All hope was lost. That is until a junkie was arrested and also had the same phone number on him. After a lengthy integration (we had to wait a while for him to sober up enough for us to even ask his name) he revealed that the number belonged to his dealer. We didn’t have a name, but at least we had an occupation. After putting the number into the police database (their computers were conveniently down when we first got the number) we got a hit on another drug user case from a few years prior. A woman was picked up and only had an ID and the dealer's number on her. Luckily for us, she was in a women's prison in upstate New York, so me and Morgan went to pay her a visit. We drove almost 3 hours to Albany to visit Litchfield Women’s Facility. We walked in, showed our badges, went through the normal procedure, and walked down to a meeting room where inmate Nichols would be waiting for us. We walked in to find a very attractive woman with wild blonde hair, sitting in a chair in front of the table she was cuffed to.

“Miss Nichols? I’m Agent Morgan and this is Agent Brown, we’re with the FBI and we have a few questions about your former drug dealer.” Morgan said.

“Ah, do you now? Well as long as the hottie talks instead, I’m all ears,” Nichols replied.

“Alright well, can you confirm your name for us?” I asked.

“Nicole Nichols, but everyone calls me Nicky,” She answered.

“Thank you. Now what can you tell us about your former dealer?” Morgan asked.

“Ah, ah, ah. I said that the agent hottie can talk but not you,” Nichols stated. Morgan rolled his eyes.

“Alright, well can you at least tell me his name?” I asked.

“We called him Stephen King, but I don’t know his real name. We called him that because on his car was an IT and a Pet Sematary stickers, and that's how we knew it was him pulling up,” Nichols replied.

I turned to Morgan, “Wasn’t the card his number was identified as a page out of the IT book?” I asked.

“That makes more sense now,” He replied.

I turned back to Nicky, “Can you give us a description of Mr. King?”

“Sure, cutie. He’s about six feet tall, got short blonde hair, wore a black hoodie and jeans every time I saw him, white, and I think blue eyes,” She told us.

“Would you mind talking to a sketch artist?” I asked her.

“As long as I get something out of this,” She requested.

“Your sentence has 5 years left, right?” I asked. She nodded. “I think we could take a couple of those off as long as you tell us the location where you always met him as well as the sketch,” I suggested. Morgan agreed.

“Well you get that in writing, and bring the sketch man in here, and you got a deal,” She replied.

We walked out of the room, told a guard to keep inmate Nichols in the meeting room, and called Hotch. We explained the deal with Nichols and after the deal was typed up and sent to us, we called the sketch artist. 45 minutes later, Nichols, the artist, and I were in the room with me and the artist sitting opposite Nicky. Morgan was called back to a new scene in NYC, leaving me at the prison with no car. After the contract was signed, the sketch drawn, and his usual location received, the artist left. I decided to make use of my being stranded and I decided to continue to ask Nicky about Stephen.

#nicky nichols x reader #nicky nichols #oitnb

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yr-obedt-cicero · 1 year

Note

I just finished reading chapter one and I love it so far!! but j do have a few questions-

1. why does Frances have a crutch? did she actually have one historically?

2. how old is everyone?

3. ...why are they staying at the Schuyler's?

Glad you like it!

Frances was said to have been born with a swollen hip and thigh, such injuries being caused by a “careless” nurse. Shortly after her birth, the doctor had to cut off flesh. So, I made the personal headcannon she had a small crutch as this would have possibly caused a limp. But also just self-indulgent disability representation.

Hamilton; 38, Laurens; 41, Elizabeth; 37, Frances; 18, Philip; 13, Angelica; 11, Fanny; 10, Alexander Jr.; 9, James; 7, John C.; 3.

It's mentioned in there, but Hamilton has just resigned as Treasury Secretary, and James A. Hamilton said in his memoirs; “On his resignation, 31st of January, 1795, he left Philadelphia and went to the house of General Schuyler, in Albany, where he remained until the summer, when he returned to New York and resumed his business as a lawyer.” [x]

#Second Family Portrait #queries #essentialaegis

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albanyroyals · 11 months

Photo

Previous | Next

[TRANSCRIPT UNDER THE CUT]

10:51 AM | Whitehorse Polo Club, Merania

[Anthony]: Rina, the doctors said Mama will be fine. She'll make a full recovery by the end of the week, her injury was not fatal according to the doctors.

[Irene]: That's good to know. We have moved back to the palace, I'll be in charge there, don't worry.

[Anthony]: You're more than capable of doing the job. I know it. Irene: Thanks, Ant.

[Irene]: So, Mr. Secretary, where are we on the investigation?

[Secretary Jones]: With new pieces of evidence being submitted, we are making quick work.

[Irene]: And? Do we have a lead on who did it? Who tried to kill my mother? And how they are tied to the assassination of my father?

[Secretary Jones]: We have 4 suspects as of this moment Your Majesty. We are trying our best to narrow down the suspects.

[Irene]: When can I expect a final decision, Mr. Secretary?

[Secretary Jones]: We will be giving you a full report by the end of the week Ma'am.

[Irene]: Thank you. You are dismissed.

[Irene]: I have a feeling that this investigation is taking too long. By the time this investigation is done, all of us would probably be dead.

[Anthony]: Don't say that. They are all doing their best to catch this criminal.

[Irene]: Ant, do me a favor, conduct your investigation on this case, and keep it only between you and me. Is that alright?

[Anthony]: Rina, I think we should put our utmost faith in the investigators assigned to this case. But... If it's for your peace of mind. I will do it.

[Irene]: Thank you so much! Keep me updated weekly or daily yeah?

[Anthony]: Alright.

#ts4 royal family #ts4 royalty #ts4 royal legacy #ts4 legacy #ts4 story #ts4 royal simblr #the sims 4 royalty #the sims 4 royal family #the sims 4 royal #the sims 4 monarchy #the sims 4 royal simblr #albanyroyalstory #albany: chapter 1

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ao3feed-charlottegeorge · 10 months

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To Those We Hold Tight

by dowhile

With three boys so far, the King and Queen hope for a daughter.

Words: 3000, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Queen Charlotte: A Bridgerton Story (TV)

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/M

Characters: Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz (1744 -1818), George III of the United Kingdom, George IV of the United Kingdom, Frederick Duke of York and Albany, William IV of the United Kingdom, Charlotte Augusta Matilda Queen of Württemberg

Relationships: George III of the United Kingdom & Charlotte Augusta Matilda Queen of Württemberg, Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz (1744 - 1818)/George III of the United Kingdom

Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, Father-Daughter Relationship, Parenthood, One Shot

from AO3 works tagged 'Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz (1744 - 1818)/George III of the United Kingdom' https://ift.tt/goBp84h

#charlottegeorge #charlotte x george #queen charlotte: a bridgerton story #fanfic #ao3feed #IFTTT

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dystopianam · 2 years

Text

In a video I saw that in Veronaville there are at least 50/60+ deleted sims.

With a search on the wiki I realized that most of the ancestors of the premades have been deleted and then recreated (many sims in fact have overwritten the data of other sims and for this reason they sometimes see as relatives sims who are not their relatives) so they can possibily be part of these deleted sims.

Who knows what strange development there was during the creation of all these sims, still I wonder what led the developers to practically delete 40/50+ tombstones of all ancestors, destroying their data even if for some reason they had already recreated some of them...

I have a theory that since there are no cemeteries in TS2 (at least before the Nightlife patch) the developers found inconvenient to leave the tombstones in the houses of the sims, these were peculiarities of only some families like the Goth, so they deleted the graves not knowing where to put them (not... knowing it would destroy sim data?)

I really don't understand Veronaville in "technical" terms.

1. Veronaville was the first neighborhood created before Pleasantview and Strangetown and the reason for having such large families was to show the potential of genetics, a completely new feature introduced only in the second chapter, but many sims are NOT biological sims of premades but were created in CAS.

2. I don't understand why they had to delete the tombstones of the ancestors. Didn't they have where to put them? Space matters? I really don't think there was no space in the huge gardens of the Capps and Montys... OR they used the "I'm dead" token cheat, with that token the tombstone is not spawned, but the fact that the data is destroyed makes me think that the tombstones were there but have been deleted.

3. Why is the lore completely different in some languages? For example I read that in some languages the game says Cornwall Capp is actually Hermia Capp's father but that the two don't get along (or I read that in some languages the game says that in Pleasantview, Darren and Dirk are brothers and not father and son).

I honestly wouldn't have minded this plotwist from Cornwall and Hermia, but someone could still use it for fun.

4. Puck and Bottom. Their genetics, their mysterious parents.

The game suggests that Titania and Oberon are sterile and can't have children therefore, even if sterility doesn't exist in the game. That aside, for this reason they adopted Puck and Bottom but... Puck and Bottom seem genetically their children.

Have you seenGoneril and Albany's children for example? They don't look like them at all even if in theory they are "biologically" their children. This is because they were created in CAS, but it's funny if you think that instead Puck and Bottom really look like the children of their adoptive parents.

Maybe I'll say nonsense but I strongly believe that Puck's parents and Bottom's parents existed in the game but have been deleted.

Both Puck and Bottom in simPe know "unknown" sims they are related to and then... there's this image. The baby in the image is Puck. THOSE are Puck's real parents.

#the sims 2 #veronaville #the sims 2 theory

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profestriga · 1 year

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My 2023 Reading List

Here's the books and articles that I read in 2023 (a large part of which was a push to finish my dissertation). I thought it might also be useful to others to see what my workload looks like as a 7th year grad student in a PhD. program, especially since I'm unmedicated with severe ADHD. This is what I'm able to get done while fighting through that. I bring this up because I know that it can seem fucking impossible, most notably when we see our neurotypical colleagues churning through incredible amounts of research. A final note: two of the books I'm including in here are books that I started reading in 2022 (Kagan and Stock). Also, note that many of these are re-reads; I've marked these with an Asterisk, and a couple of the books I read around 90%, but dropped a couple chapters that weren't relevant for my projects. These are marked with two asterisks. Be aware that my citations here are of a pretty rough and ready style. Philosophy has weird disciplinary standards (read, almost every journal is different), so I just have a "here's what you need to know to find it" style here. CW: I work on some dark things involving death, suicide, sexual assault, sex, race, and trans rights, including actively fighting trans-exclusive theorists, so there's a lot of possibly triggering things in here.

Updated: Jan 4, 2024

Abdollah, Serajian, Ebrahim Khosrow, and Sajad Ahmadizad. 2014. “Comparison of Anthropometric and Functional Characteristics of Elite Male Iranian Fencers in Three Weapons.” International Journal of Applied Sport Sciences 26 (1): 11–17.

Alcoff, Linda. 1991. “The Problem of Speaking for Others.” Cultural Critique No. 20 5–32.

Alcoff, Linda. 2007. “Epistemologies of Ignorance: Three Types.” In Race and Epistemologies of Ignorance, edited by Shannon and Tuana Sullivan, Nancy, 39–50. Albany: State University of New York Press.

Anderson, Elizabeth. 2012. “Epistemic Justice as a Virtue of Social Institutions.” Social Epistemology 26 (2): 163–73.

Andler, Matthew. 2017. “Gender Identity and Exclusion: A Reply to Jenkins.” Ethics

Ashley, Florence. 2023. “What is it Like to Have a Gender Identity.” Mind 132 (528): 1053–73.

Ballantyne, Nathan. 2019. “Epistemic Trespassing.” Mind 128 (510): 367–95.

Ballantyne, Nathan, Jared Celniker, and David Dunning. 2022. “Do Your Own Research.” Social Epistemology

Barnett, Brian S, Ariana E Nesbit, and Reneé M Sorrentino. 2018. “The Transgender Bathroom Debate At the Intersection of Politics, Law, Ethics, and Science.” J Am Acad Psychiatry Law 46 (2): 232–41.*

Berg, Amy. 2022. “Is There a Duty to Read the News.” Journal of Moral Philosophy 20 (3-4): 243–67.

Bergero-Miguel, Trinidad, María A García-Encinas, Amelia Villena-Jimena, Lucía Pérez-Costillas, Nicolás Sánchez-Álvarez, Yolanda de Diego-Otero, and Jose Guzman-Parra. 2016. “Gender Dysphoria and Social Anxiety: An Exploratory Study in Spain.” J Sex Med 13 (8): 1270–78.*

Bettcher, Talia Mae. 2009. “Trans Identities and First-Person Authority.” In You’Ve Changed: Sex Reassignment and Personal Identity, edited by Laurie Shrage, 98–120. Oxford University Press.*

Biggs, Michael. Suicide By Trans-Identified Children in England and Wales. Transgender Trend.*

Blair, Karen L., and Rhea Ashley Hoskin. 2019. “Transgender Exclusion From the World of Dating: Patterns of Acceptance and Rejection of Hypothetical Trans Dating Partners as a Function of Sexual and Gender Identity.” Journal of Social and Personal Relationships 36 (7): 2074–95.

Blanchard, Matt, and Barry Farber. 2016. “Lying in Psychotherapy: Why and What Clients Don’t Tell Their Therapist About Therapy and Their Relationship.” Counselling Psychology Quarterly 29 (1): 90–112.

Blanchard, Matt, and Barry Farber. 2020. “”It is Never Okay to Talk About Suicide”: Patients’ Reasons for Concealing Suicidal Ideation in Psychotherapy.” Psychother Res 30 (1): 124–36.

Bochicchio, Lauren, Kelsey Reeder, Lauren Aronson, Charles McTavish, and Ana Stefancic. 2021. “Understanding Factors Associated With Suicidality Among Transgender and Gender-Diverse Identified Youth.” LGBT Health 8 (4): 245–53.

Bradley, Ben. 2012. “Doing Away With Harm.” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 85, No. 2 390–412.*

Brown, Brookes. 2023. “Bearing Witness: The Duty of Non‐indifference and the Case for Reading the News.” Pacific Philosophical Quarterly 104 (2): 368–91.

Bustos, Valeria P, Samyd S Bustos, Andres Mascaro, Gabriel Del Corral, Antonio J Forte, Pedro Ciudad, Esther A Kim, Howard N Langstein, and Oscar J Manrique. 2021. “Regret After Gender-Affirmation Surgery: A Systematic Review and Meta-Analysis of Prevalence.” Plast Reconstr Surg Glob Open 9 (3): e3477.*

Byrne, Alex. 2020. “Are Women Adult Human Females.” Philosophical Studies 177 (12): 3783–803.

Carel, Havi, and Ian Kidd. 2014. “Epistemic Injustice in Healthcare: A Philosophical Analysis.” Med Health Care Philos 17 (4): 529–40.

Cattien, Jana. 2019. “Against “Transracialism”: Revisiting the Debate.” Hypatia 34 (4): 713–35.

Clements-Nolle, Kristen, Rani Marx, and Mitchell Katz. 2006. “Attempted Suicide Among Transgender Persons: The Influence of Gender-Based Discrimination and Victimization.” Journal of Homosexuality 51 (3): 53–69.*

Congdon, Matthew. 2018. ““Knower” as an Ethical Concept: From Epistemic Agency to Mutual Recognition.” Feminist Philosophy Quarterly 4 (4):

Costa, Rosalia, and Marco Colizzi. 2016. “The Effect of Cross-Sex Hormonal Treatment on Gender Dysphoria Individuals’ Mental Health: A Systematic Review.” Neuropsychiatr Dis Treat 12 1953–66.*

Crichton, Carel, & Kidd. 2017. Epistemic Injustice in Psychiatry. BJPsych Bulletin. 41:65-70.

Crocker, David. 1991. “Insiders and Outsiders in International Development.” Ethics and International Affairs 5 149–73.

Cullison, Andrew. 2010. “On the Nature of Testimony.” Episteme

Daniels, Norman. 2015. “Why We Should Care About the Social Determinants of Health.” Am J Bioeth 15 (3): 37–38.

Davey, Amanda, Walter Pierre Bouman, Caroline Meyer, and Jon Arcelus. 2015. “Interpersonal Functioning Among Treatment-Seeking Trans Individuals.” J Clin Psychol 71 (12): 1173–85.*

Davey, Amanda, Walter Pierre Bouman, Jon Arcelus, and Caroline Meyer. 2014. “Social Support and Psychological Well-Being in Gender Dysphoria: A Comparison of Patients With Matched Controls.” J Sex Med 11 (12): 2976–85.*

Davis, Emmalon. 2016. “Typecasts, Tokens, and Spokespersons: A Case for Credibility Excess as Testimonial Injustice.” Hypatia 31 (3): 485–501.

Dees, Richard H. 2019. “Primum Non Nocere Mortuis: Bioethics and the Lives of the Dead.” Journal of Medicine and Philosophy 44 (6): 732–55.

Dembroff, Robin. 2020. “Beyond Binary: Genderqueer as Critical Gender Kind.” Philosophers’ Imprint 20 (9): 1–23.*

Dembroff, Robin, and Dennis Whitcomb. Forthcoming. “Content-Focused Epistemic Injustice.” Oxford Studies in Epistemology*

DiPaolo, Joshua. 2022. “What’s Wrong With Epistemic Trespassing.” Philosophical Studies 179 (1): 223–43.

DiPaolo, Joshua. Forthcoming. “”I’m, Like, a Very Smart Person” on Self-Licensing and Perils of Reflection.” Oxford Studies in Epistemology

Dormandy, Katherine. 2018. “Epistemic Authority: Preemption or Proper Basing.” Erkenntnis 83 (4): 773–91.

Dotson, Kristie. 2008. “In Search of Tanzania: Are Effective Epistemic Practices Sufficient for Just Epistemic Practices?” Southern Journal of Philosophy 46 (S1): 52–64.*

Dotson, Kristie. 2011. “Tracking Epistemic Violence, Tracking Practices of Silencing.” Hypatia 26 (2): 236–57.*

Dotson, Kristie. 2012. “A Cautionary Tale: On Limiting Epistemic Oppression.” Frontiers: A Journal of Women Studies 33 (1): 24–47.*

Dotson, Kristie. 2014. “Conceptualizing Epistemic Oppression.” Social Epistemology 28 (2): 115–38.*

Frost-Arnold, Karen. 2014a. “Imposters, Tricksters, and Trustworthiness as an Epistemic Virtue.” Hypatia 29 (4): 790–807.

Frost-Arnold, Karen. 2014b. “The Cognitive Attitude of Rational Trust.” Synthese 191 (9): 1957–74.

Frost-Arnold, Karen. 2014c. “Trustworthiness and Truth: The Epistemic Pitfalls of Internet Accountability.” Episteme 11 (1): 63–81.

Funkhouser, Eric. 2017. “Beliefs as Signals: A New Function for Belief.” Philosophical Psychology 30 (6): 809–31.

Gardner, Molly. 2015. “A Harm-Based Solution to the Non-Identity Problem.” Ergo 2 427–44.*

Gardner, Molly. 2019. “When Good Things Happen to Harmed People.” Ethical Theory and Moral Practice 22 (4): 893–908.

Gijs, Luk, and Anne Brewaeys. 2007. “Surgical Treatment of Gender Dysphoria in Adults and Adolescents: Recent Developments, Effectiveness, and Challenges.” Annual Review of Sex Research 18 (1): 178–224.*

Goldman, Alvin I. 2001. “Experts: Which Ones Should You Trust.” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 63 (1): 85–110.

Harcourt, Edward. 2021. “Epistemic Injustice, Children and Mental Illness.” J Med Ethics 47 (11): 729–35.

Hardwig, John. 1985. “Epistemic Dependence.” The Journal of Philosophy 82 (7): 335–49.

Harvin, Cassandra Byers. 1996. “Conversations I Can’t Have.” One the Issues: The Progressive Women’s Quartery 5 (2): 15–16.

Hookway, Christopher. 2010. “Some Varieties of Epistemic Injustice: Reflections on Fricker.” Episteme 7 (2): 151–63.

Intemann, Kristen. 2010. “25 Years of Feminist Empiricism and Standpoint Theory: Where Are We Now.” Hypatia 25 (4): 778–96.

Jaggar, Alison M. 1998. “Globalizing Feminist Ethics.” Hypatia 13 (2): 7–31.

Jenkins, Katharine. 2016. “Amelioration and Inclusion: Gender Identity and the Concept of Woman.” Ethics 126 (2): 394–421.*

Jenkins, Katharine. 2018. “Toward an Account of Gender Identity.” Ergo, an Open Access Journal of Philosophy 5 (20201214):

Jenness, Valerie, Cheryl L. Maxson, Kristy N Matsuda, and Jennifer Macy Sumner. 2007. “Violence in California Correctional Facilities: An Empirical Examination of Sexual Assault.” The Bulletin 2 (2): 1–4.

Joshi, Hrishikesh. 2022a. “Debunking Creedal Beliefs.” Synthese 200 (6):

Joshi, Hrishikesh. 2022b. “The Epistemic Significance of Social Pressure.” Canadian Journal of Philosophy 52 (4): 396–410.

Kaltial-Heino, Rittakerttu, Maria Sumia, Marja Työläjärvi, and Nina Lindberg. 2015. “Two Years of Gender Identity Service for Minors: Overrepresentation of Natal Girls With Severe Problems in Adolescent Development.” Child and Adolescent Psychiatry and Mental Health 9 (9): *

Kidd, Ian James, Lucienne Spencer, and Havi Carel. 2023. “Epistemic Injustice in Psychiatric Research and Practice.” Philosophical Psychology 1–29.

Kukla, Rebecca. 2007. “Objectivity and Perspective in Empirical Knowledge.” Episteme 3 (1-2): 80–95.

Kurs, Rena, and Alexander Grinshpoon. 2018. “Vulnerability of Individuals With Mental Disorders to Epistemic Injustice in Both Clinical and Social Domains.” Ethics & Behavior 28 (4): 336–46.

Larbalestier, Jan. 1990. “The Politics of Representation: Australian Aboriginal Women and Feminism.” Anthropological Forum 6 (2): 143–57.

Lee, J. Y. 2021. “Anticipatory Epistemic Injustice.” Social Epistemology 35 (6): 564–76.

Levy, Andrea, Aaron Scherer, Brian Zikmund-Fisher, Knoll Larkin, Geoffrey Barnes, and Angela Fagerlin. 2018. “Prevalence of and Factors Associated With Patient Nondisclosure of Medically Relevant Information to Clinicians.” JAMA Netw Open 1 (7): e185293.

Lin, Eden. 2021. “The Experience Requirement on Well-Being.” Philosophical Studies 178 (3): 867–86.

Longino, Helen E. 1990. Science as Social Knowledge. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

Love, Heather A., and Preston C. Morgan. 2021. “You Can Tell Me Anything: Disclosure of Suicidal Thoughts and Behaviors in Psychotherapy.” Psychotherapy (Chic) 58 (4): 533–43.

Love, Melanie, and Barry A. Farber. 2019. “Honesty in Psychotherapy: Results of an Online Survey Comparing High Vs. Low Self-Concealers.” Psychother Res 29 (5): 607–20.

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Medina, José. 2011. “The Relevance of Credibility Excess in a Proportional View of Epistemic Injustice: Differential Epistemic Authority and the Social Imaginary.” Social Epistemology 25 (1): 15–35.

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Nguyen, C. Thi. 2020b. “Echo Chambers and Epistemic Bubbles.” Episteme 17 (2): 141–61.

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Books

Camus, Albert. 1955 [1942]. Trans Justin O'Brien. The Myth of Sisysphus and Other Essays. Hamish and Hamilton.*

Farber, Barry A., Matt Blanchard, and Melanie Love. 2019. Secrets and Lies in Psychotherapy. Washington: American Psychological Association.**

Fricker, Miranda. 2007. Epistemic Injustice: Power and the Ethics of Knowing. Oxford University Press.

Kagan, Shelly. 2012. The Geometry of Desert. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Kidd, Ian James, José Medina, and Gaile Pohlhaus Jr., eds. 2017. The Routledge Handbook of Epistemic Injustice. London, New York: Routledge.**

Sherman, Benjamin and Gouguen, Stacy, eds. 2019. Overcoming Epistemic Injustice: Social and Psycholofical perspectives. Rowman and Littlefield.

Stock, Kathleen. 2021. Material Girls: Why Reality Matters for Feminism. Fleet.

Book Chapters

Ballantyne, Nathan. 2022. “Novices and Expert Disagreement.” In Reason, Bias, and Inquiry, edited by Nathan Ballantyne, and David Dunning, 227–53. Oxford University Press.

Collins, Patricia Hill. 2000. Chapter 5: The Power of Self-Definition. in Black Feminist Thought: Knowledge, Consciousness, and the Politics of Empowerment. Second Edition. Routledge. 97-121.

Crenshaw, Kimberlé. 1997. “Intersectionality and Identity Politics: Learning From Violence Against Women of Color.” In Reconstructing Political Theory: Feminist Perspectives, edited by Mary Lyndon Shanley, and Uma Narayan, 178–93. University Park, Pennsylvania: Penn State Press.

Feinberg, Joel. 1993. “Harm to Others.” In The Metaphysics of Death, edited by John Martin Fischer, 169–90. Stanford: Stanford University Press.

Fricker, Elizabeth. 2006. “Testimony and Epistemic Autonomy.” In The Epistemology of Testimony, edited by Jennifer Lackey, and Ernest Sosa, 225–50. Oxford University Press.

Gardner, Molly. 2021. “What is Harming?” In Principles and Persons, edited by Jeff McMahan, Tim Campbell, James Goodrich, and Ketan Ramakrishnan, Oxford University Press.

Kierkegaard, Søren. 2004 [1843]. trans. Howard V. and Edna H. Hong. "Problema I." in Basic Writings of Existentialism, edited by Gordon Marino. The Modern Library. 7-23.*

Kierkegaard, Søren. 2003 [1843]. trans. Howard V. and Edna H. Hong. "Problema II." in Basic Writings of Existentialism, edited by Gordon Marino. The Modern Library. 24-39.*

Phelan, Shane. 1989. Chapter 4: Definition and Community. in Identity Politics. Temple University Press. 59-80.

Phelan, Shane. 1989. Chapter 7: The Limits of Community. in Identity Politics. Temple University Press. 135-151.

Sartre, Jean Paul. 1993 [1943]. trans. Hazel Barnes. "Introduction: The Pursuit of Being." in. Being and Nothingness. Washington Square Press. xlv-lxvii.*

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