#listen it’s the tooth gap and the height difference—

[wibixthecowboy]

Play the Song: Part 8: Say My Name

Task Force 141 needs a new sniper and despite their complaints, they're assigned Flash, a joke-making, ABBA-listening, 20-year-old sharpshooter with better aim than the whole team combined. In other words, Ghost is practically handed the love of his life but he needs time to adjust because she's a firecracker.  

Warnings/Tags: !graphic depictions of panic attacks!, references to suicide attempts (no descriptions), references to SA (no descriptions), Age gap (20/30-32), gore, descriptions of injury/blood/wounds, swearing, weapons, justified angst, tooth rotting fluff, I can fix him he just needs a hug, warning for an excessively bad taste in music, slow burn, protective ghost, family dynamic, big brother soap has an attitude problem, father figure Price, wholesome brother Gaz, touch starved Ghost, eventual smut, praise, thigh riding, unprotected (wrap it up people), size kink, oral f receiving, ghost will do anything to get his dick sucked, idk I’m sure it will get dirtier as I go, shifting POV  

A/N: Hello! I took a break to get settled for the new quarter but I am so beyond excited for the next chapter! These next few chapters will be a bit more plot heavy so they’ll have longer gaps in-between uploads but they’ll be A LOT longer! Enjoy :) P.S. As the story goes on lets make sure we’re reading the tags, and this goes for every fic you read. ALWAYS READ TAGS :,). 

Words: 5.8k 

Side note: All of these characters are fictional! Please don’t be weird about their real life actors, leave them out of this and be respectful!

Part 1  Part 2  Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

★Flash

   Ghost remains quiet for the rest of the short walk to the briefing room and Flash feels like a kid who’s gotten their hand caught in a cookie jar. She doesn’t know why. She hadn’t done anything wrong, she’d just followed Price’s instructions. Sure Alejandro may have brought it a step too far with the kiss, but it was just teasing. Right?

Despite her poor attempt at rationalizing her actions, Flash feels the heavy weight of guilt settle in her stomach when she looks up at Ghost. He walks stiffly beside her, hands in tight fists at his side. Because of their vast height difference, she can’t see his face, but that’s not necessary to know it’s twisted into a cold expression that makes the baby hairs at the back of her neck stand up.

She clears her throat to say something, to smooth the growing tension between them, to try and protect the small budding flower that had been growing between them for the past few days. Ghost interrupts her before she can open her mouth,

“Price has already completed the mission briefing and gone over it with us,” His voice lacks emotion, snipping the bud with his clipped tone, “this will be our second time listening, so pay attention this time. I don’t want to hear it again.”

Flash feels a mix of anger and embarrassment swirl in her stomach, creating a dangerous concoction. They had already planned and confirmed the mission without her. She thought that the small scolding she’d given Price back at the safe house would have clued him in. She wasn’t going to sit on the sidelines and take orders. She has just as much power as Soap and Gaz. So why weren’t they acting like it?

Her hands tighten into small fists at her side, nails digging into the skin at her palm. The pain does little to quell the growing urge in the back of her mind, the one that’s pushing her to take them all by the hair and shove their faces into her many certificates. Ghost especially.

When they reach the door at the end of the hall, she steps in front of Ghost to open it herself, wanting to feel somewhat in control of her actions, and ignores the huff that leaves his mouth at her rather childish display.

Price stands at the front of the room, at a small standing desk typing away on a laptop. Gaz and Soap sit at the horseshoe-shaped briefing table, both looking bored out of their mind. Papers and files are spread across the table, and a humming projector shines an image of a man and a brief description onto the wall behind Price. Flash wonders how much they’ve gone through while she was with Alejandro, and how many decisions they’ve made without her input.

She sits heavily in a chair, a few down from Soap and Gaz. They give her a questioning look but her anger must be clear as day with the way their gazes snap back over to Price. Whatever smart-ass comment they were going to make about her lesson with Alejandro dying on their tongue.

Ghost stalks past her and pulls out a chair beside Soap, opposite of Flash. He sits with a gruff sigh, crossing his muscular arms over his chest. She lets her eyes dip down for just a second, tracing the taught line of his forearm and the muscles banded around it. When she brings them back to his face, he’s watching her. A blush burns her cheeks at being caught in the act and she turns to look at Price with a huff.

Price scans the group with a small smile, it falters a bit when his eyes pass over Flash and her pinched brow. He taps a few more keys before letting out a long sigh and clapping his hands together.

“Okay, now that I’ve had some practice, let's go over this again.” Price turns to Flash, “How did your lesson go?”

“It went fine.” She clips, not bothering to hide her upset.

He quirks an eyebrow at her but doesn’t implore further. Just as he’s about to start the briefing the door opens.

Flash turns in her chair to see a grinning Alejandro leaning against the doorway, his gaze immediately fixes on her and she fights the urge to turn away. Not trusting her face to keep the embarrassment hidden, she keeps her head facing away from the rest of the group.

“I’m heading out Price. Send me the briefing and I’ll go over it with my side.” He’s speaking to Price but his eyes are set on Flash, dropping for a second to her chest and lingering before meeting her eyes again, gaze heated. Although her tank top is made of flowy fabric, she suddenly becomes aware of the way it hugs her chest. “As much as I would like to hold you again Mija, duty calls.”

She balks at his brashness and if it weren’t for the anger still coursing through her veins, she just might have melted into a puddle right then and there.

“Cool it Alejandro.” Price practically growls.

Alejandro raises his hands in surrender but the sly smirk he always seems to be sporting doesn’t leave his face. He winks at her once before slipping out the door and closing it behind him.

She turns away from the door, her cheeks burning at the way Soap and Gaz watch with raised eyebrows. Ghost on the other hand looks like he’s about to barrel out the door and tackle Alejandro to the ground, his cold eyes still locked on the spot the man had been standing in.

Price mumbles something under his breath about needing a vacation and roughly drags a hand down his face, breathing out one more heavy sigh before finally speaking.

“Flash and Ghost.” Flash gives Price her full attention, thankful for an excuse to look away from Ghost's penetrating gaze. “You’ll be leaving at around 6 PM Monday, we’ll have a car brought tomorrow and you two will drive yourselves. Once you get there you’ll no longer be using code names, you’ll be going under Jack and Abigail Cline, owners of an up-and-coming sorghum production company.” Flash doesn’t miss the use of one last name. “More details will be in your file.” He tosses a file in front of her, the word Flash is written in blocky letters at the top. She has to bite back a laugh at the spy movie stereotype.

Price moves to stand back in front of the desk, tapping a few more keys before a picture of a man is brought up on the projector. He reminds Flash of Alejandro, he has the same bronze skin and thick dark hair that’s styled into a neat combover. A jagged stripe of scar tissue reaches from his chin to the prominent curve of his cheekbone, without it, Flash could picture him on the cover of a magazine.

“This is Daniel Marín. One of the lead informants of the Las Almas cartel, he’s got eyes everywhere and knows practically everything.” Prices locks eyes with Flash, “He’s a dangerous man so you need to keep your distance, if he thinks he’s being watched he won't hesitate to have you two taken out back. All we need you to do is make sure he stays in the building until we’ve cleared the warehouse. There will be enough people there that you won’t need to converse with him. In fact, it’d be best if you didn’t at all.”

He leans over and taps the keyboard again and Daniel’s picture is swapped for a scaled-out map of a warehouse. Gaz and Soap sit straighter in their chairs, eyes focusing on Price now that the topic is relevant to them.

“This is the warehouse we’ll be clearing, we were originally just going to do a preliminary search but H.Q. is pushing so we’ll be scalping them.”

Flash’s focus wavers, her attention dwindling now that the briefing is less pertinent to her. The hard plastic of the chair has her side throbbing. She cups one of her hands to her waist, hoping that somehow the heat of her palm will calm the pain that spikes with every intake of her breath.

She looks away from Price to flip through the folder in front of her and catches Ghost staring at the hand still at her waist, his brows furrowed. When he looks up to meet her eyes, she raises a brow at him. He tilts his head to the side in a questioning gesture but otherwise ignores her challenge. It's such a small movement but it spikes her heart rate.

Ghost shifts in his chair and turns to face Price, breaking off whatever silent conversation they were having, and for the rest of the briefing, Flash is left to stew in silence.

_____

   Flash stays behind when Price finishes, letting the three other men pass by her. She looks up at Ghost’s masked face when he walks by, hoping to catch a glimpse of something, but his impassive expression has fallen back in place. Effectively hiding what she’d caught a glimpse of at the table.

“Price?” She asks, stepping up to the desk where he stands.

“What can I do for you Flash?” He asks, looking up from the screen of his laptop with tired eyes.

“I-” Her voice falters, the entire speech she’d come up with while stewing in her chair gone the moment she sees the purple shadows under his eyes. Flash clears her throat, trying again. “I’m in 100%.”

“What?” Price raises an eyebrow at her, not quite understanding her vague proclamation.

“I’m in 100%.” She repeats, standing straighter. “I mean, I’m not going to be sitting on the sidelines while you guys make the decisions.” Her voice lowers, hesitant to tack on the last part, “I’m ready to be put on the field.”

Price takes a moment, shutting his laptop and stepping past her to scoop the scattered papers on the table into a neat pile.“You understand what that means right?” He asks evenly.

“Yes.” Flash steps in front of him again and meets his gaze with the hard set of her eyes.

“You won’t just get to dust off your hands and sit back at the end of the day, this shit sticks with you.” Price says. “You understand why I’m so hesitant, right?”

And Flash already knows what he’s going to say. She’s heard the spiel a million and one times.

“That I’m inexperienced.” She says in a mocking tone. “That despite my multitude of achievements, I’m never quite what they’re looking for.”

Price hesitates for a moment, obviously taken aback by Flash’s blatant answer. She can tell she’s hit the nail on the head by the long pause that ensues.

“I haven’t seen you working under pressure.” He says finally. “These are high stake missions, Flash. Serious shit that has absolutely no room for error.”

Her gaze turns icy, and crossing her arms over her chest, she opens her mouth to defend herself.

“But,” He interrupts before she can speak, “I have no reason to believe that you can’t do it.”

Flash feels an unfamiliar burning in her chest at his words. It tightens her lungs as she swallows.

“Thank you.” She says quietly and any remaining anger dissipates at the soft smile he gives her in return. _____

  Flash paces back and forth in her room, the pain in her side making it impossible to fall asleep, leaving her restless. She stops her nervous fidgeting and goes back to her dresser to count the pills neatly lined up in the grooves of her wardrobe.

Four ibuprofen, two aspirin, and a mystery yellow pill that she’s almost certain is a vitamin. The only pills she was able to dig out of the various bags she hurriedly packed while at the academy. And all of them are barely capable of taking the edge off menstrual cramps.

She heaves a sigh before coming to terms with the fact that she would have to ask Price for something, that she would have to explain why she needs something. Looking over to the mirror, Flash in just a sports bra and sweats is able to see the dark outline taking shape on her side. The edge of the sidewalk had done the most damage, slamming perfectly into the curve of her waist and knocking the breath from her lungs. A few scrapes from the rough cement cut across the bruise, none of them worrying, but ugly just the same.

Biting the bullet, Flash slips on a shirt and steps out of her room to head to the second to last door at the end of the hall. Ghost had left just an hour before to pick up one last weapons transport, the one he had confirmed with the man at the market. Soap and Gaz had tagged along with the excuse of “traveling in a pack”. Price didn’t argue with them but settled Flash with a hard look before she even got the chance to ask if she could come. Apparently being 100% in doesn’t include leisurely nights out. So here she is, stuck at the base. Again.

She reluctantly makes her way down the short hallway to Price’s door, landing three short knocks on the wood. Price opens it almost immediately, checking either direction of the hallway before turning to her with a confused look.

“Can I help you?” He asks, and Flash stifles a laugh. Atop his nose sit a pair of wire glasses. Something her grandfather would wear.

“Uh yeah. I mean I hope so.” Flash mutters before lifting the hem of her shirt to show him the bruise. “I just need something to help with the pain. Sleeping is impossible.”

His brows crease at the sight and Flash hopes he’ll just give her something to take the edge off or tell her to suck it up. The last thing she needs right now is another safety training.

“Jesus.” He sighs, bringing his hands under his glasses to rub over his face and keeping them there for a second while he thinks. “I think I’ve got something, wait here.”

Price returns a moment later with a small white pill, setting it gently in the palm of her outstretched hand.

“Take it and go straight to bed, don’t wait for it to kick in.” He warns before giving her a smile. She can tell he’s forcing it, the lines around his eyes betray him every time. “Goodnight.”

He shuts the door and she can’t help but laugh at his abruptness. Price is not one to talk to after 10. Or any time late at night for that matter, he values his beauty sleep.

Flash stands there for a minute, studying the pill in her hand. It doesn’t look any bigger than the ibuprofen still sitting on her wardrobe, but she just shrugs and walks to the kitchen anyways, filling a cup and swallowing the pill down in a single gulp.

_____

  Twenty minutes later Flash has sprawled herself across one of the green recliners of the living room, watching the slow spin of the ceiling fan, a warm glow cushioning her body. Whatever pill Price had given her is working wonders. The pain in her side, along with all other worries, has diminished to nothing but a background thought.

Price’s words come back to her, ‘Go straight to bed’.

The sensible part of her brain heeds his warning, it isn’t smart to be so intoxicated in a military base for god's sake. But the small whining voice in the back of her mind brings up images of Soap and Gaz stumbling their way through the door on their Saturdays off. Clearly drunk and not caring what Price has to say.

Deciding that this is not the hill she wants to die on, Flash stands slowly, the wobble of her vision making it nearly impossible to walk across the faded carpet without stumbling. When she reaches the edge though, her foot catches on the curled corner and it sends her cascading to the floor.

She lands hard on the cold concrete, palms taking the brunt of her weight, before collapsing down into a fit of giggles. This is twice in one day now. Flash muffles her laughter with a hand, not wanting to wake Price and deal with the consequences of disobeying him.

With little ease, Flash makes her way to her bedroom door and leans heavily against it while she turns the knob, nearly falling to the floor again when it swings open with her weight.

Once again ignoring Price’s words, Flash, rather than curling into the familiar plush of her comforter, strides across her room and through the door of the bathroom, only hesitating a moment before swinging open Ghost's door.

The room smells familiar. The woodsy scent of his soap that made its way under her door every time he showered and the ever-present smell of metal and sweat.

Her eyes scan the room, stopping when they fall on his unmade bed. Flash’s feet push forward, urging her to throw herself onto the rumpled sheets.

Making note to listen for the loud rumble of the van, Flash gives in and takes slow measured steps toward the bed. Stopping when her shins meet the baseboard, she flops down, arms spread wide.

His scent immediately envelops her in a burst of pine and... citrus? Something she wasn't expecting but welcomes wholeheartedly. She breathes in deeply, he just smells so good. There’s something about his smell, the distinct masculinity, that leaves heat pooling in her abdomen.

Still entrapped by her heightened imagination, Flash thinks back to the first day that she climbed into the car filled with the 141 Team. How despite her years of experience with the military and military men, Ghost had left her a fidgeting mess. She thinks about the way his solid thigh had pressed into hers and the way he held her head while cleaning her cheek. How gentle he was the few times that they’d touched.

With just about as much emotional grace as a teenager, Flash falls into a spiral of scenarios. His warm hands cupping her head, working down to her chest, spreading wide across her ribcage and further down to the heat between her legs. The heat that burns now, begging her to slip a hand under the waistband of her sweatpants.

Shocked and embarrassed by her lack of self-control, Flash quickly peels herself off of the bed and into a standing position. Impulsively smoothing down her hair in an effort to calm her ragged breathing.

Her wide eyes fall to the random assortment of items on his chipped wooden nightstand. A pen and journal, a water bottle, a heavily worn copy of The Shining, and a small statue of a pig sit amongst other small knick knacks. Her embarrassment turns to shame when she realizes just how personal of a space he’s created, and how she’s just barged right in.

She turns to leave but a bright orange pill bottle resting on top of his dresser just a few feet away catches her eye. Flash starts toward it but is interrupted by the sharp sound of a car door slamming shut. Shit, she completely missed them pulling up. She scrambles to pull the sheet’s back into the half made state they were in previously and practically runs back to her room, head still swirling in a mix of curiosity and shame.

_____________________________________________________________

★Ghost

  His footsteps are heavy, weighed down by the stress of the day. Not only had they secured the last weapon transport, but Ghost was also forced to stop by the med bay and pick up his prescription from a probing Dr. Marks.

The doctor had questioned him about his ‘journey to domesticity’ in front of the receptionist at the counter, earning him a curious look through her thick lashes. Ghost had ignored him at first, focusing intently on signing the forms in front of him, but Marks pushed. Commenting on how beneficial opening up to ones ‘inner romantic’ can be. Ghost, annoyed by the lack of privacy, had shoved his pen back into the cup, slid the papers across the counter to the doctor, and ignored the knowing smile he’d given him as he stormed out the sliding doors.

The rest of the ride home had been less than comfortable, both Soap and Gaz silencing their chatter the moment Ghost climbed into the truck. Acutely aware of the tense set of his shoulders as he drove them back to the base.

Now, relishing in the quiet of his room, Ghost flicks on the bedside lamp. And much to his surprise the soft light catches a glowing strand of golden hair laying across one of his blankets. Ghost carefully pinches it between two fingers and holds it up to the light, admiring the long shimmering strand with a small smirk. There was no doubt whose hair it was.

He should feel upset at the intrusion, angry for the blatant disregard for privacy, but he can’t bring himself to care. Ghost just feels a peculiar sense of satisfaction knowing that Flash feels the same curiosity that he struggles to contain. The curiosity that has Ghost’s eyes lingering on her while she makes her breakfast in the morning. The curiosity that has him entering the bathroom right after she showers so he can once again be engulfed in the sweet vanilla of her shampoo. That same curiosity that his doctor told him to explore.

Too tired to push the thought further, Ghost sets the strand back where it was and heaves his backpack off of his shoulder and onto the chair, pulling out the white paper bag and setting the orange pill bottle it contained next to its twin on his wardrobe.

He walks to the bathroom next, intent on rinsing off, swallowing one of his new pills, and sleeping away his plaguing thoughts when he spots Flash through the cracked door.

Ghost hesitates for a moment before pushing it open and catching her attention. She’s there, struggling to wipe the injured area of her side with a wet cloth. The bruise has his breath faltering, a deep purple splotch that starts just above her hip and spreads up the curve of her waist, small scratches and dirt marking the area around it. An unfamiliar rage burns in his chest, catching him off guard. She must have hit the ground hard. A guilty thought burns in his mind, he should have been there sooner.

She turns to look at him and Ghost takes a step back. Her eyes are half lidded and foggy, and her hands fumble with the cloth as she brings it to the sink, nearly missing the stream of water.

“What did you do?” He can’t help the panic that rolls over him, freezing him in place. “What’s wrong?”

“Price gave me something to help with the pain.” She mutters, holding the cloth under the faucet for longer than necessary, intently watching the way the water swirls down the drain.

“Oh.” He breathes, relief washing over his chest in a cool wave. The panic that had violently wracked his body just a moment before dissipating and a sense of amusement taking its place. “So you’re high?” He asks, biting back a smile. An action that despite his protests has been becoming more frequent after Flash’s arrival.

“I don’t know.” She says, somewhat defensively, and pulls the cloth from the sink, it falls from her hand and lands on the tile with a wet smack. “Probably.” She relents with a small pout.

Ghost bends down and picks the sopping fabric up, sidestepping the puddle and wringing it out over the sink, before gesturing to her.

“Do you want some help?”

She looks at him for a moment, and although she’s far from thinking clearly, he can see the hesitance in her gaze and his newfound confidence falters. To his relief Flash nods once, bringing a hand down to pull her shirt up and over the arm of her injured side. She doesn’t acknowledge the choked cough he lets out at her sudden bareness. Flash is wearing a sports bra but the now-lifted shirt has exposed the top of her breasts and the way they’re pressed tightly together. He quickly averts his gaze, willing the beating of his heart to calm.

Ghost notices the towel has gone cold in his brief pause so he leans over her to turn the knob of the sink. He lets the water run for a bit until it's warm enough to not shock her skin, then holds a cloth under the stream, soaking it through before crouching behind her and wiping it gently across her scabbed side. She doesn’t react, too numbed by the pill she’d taken. It unnerves him to see her so unresponsive.

“Do you know how to dance?” She asks, and the question catches him off guard. He doesn’t have an opportunity to answer though before she’s speaking again. “Like Alejandro?”

Unable to contain it, a dark laugh escapes his lips.

“Better.” He bites.

“Oh.” Her response is quiet and he laughs again at her shock. “How?”

Ghost, despite knowing that she’ll likely have no memory of their conversation in the morning, elaborates.

“This isn’t my first time attending one of these events.” He hesitates on the last word, not quite sure how to label the dramatic displays of wealth that the cartel members frequently host.

She’s quiet for the next few minutes, letting him wipe at the dirt smeared over her soft skin. He revels in the closeness and although he can’t deny the slight tremor of his hand, the panic that had gripped him so tightly the last time he was tending to her wounds was significantly less this time. Whether that was due to her intoxication, or the growing trust, he didn’t know.

“That wasn’t very nice of you.” She mumbles, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled over them. He knows exactly what she’s talking about. The way he had handled the situation with Alejandro. It wasn’t his proudest moment, but he wouldn’t be apologizing anytime soon. Alejandro’s comments were getting out of hand, and Ghost didn’t have a problem showing him where the line was. If he’d known the extent to which the man would have taken their little dancing lesson, he’d have taught her himself.

“Well, I’m not a nice person.” He mutters, wishing she’d just drop the subject.

“I think you’re just a scared person.” She whispers and Ghost stills. He can feel her watching him through the mirror. He doesn’t look up though, focusing harder on the pinkened skin at her side, and ignoring the panic that dries his mouth.

The scrapes from the concrete had already healed over, dried blood trapping dirt and debris against her skin. Ghost unfolds the cloth and holds it gently against the scratched skin, hoping it would help soften the blood without scrubbing.

When he musters the courage to look up, his eyes meet hers in the mirror, they’re half-lidded and foggy. Her skin, flushing from a familiar pain med fever, has him wondering what it would feel like to lay his hand against the heated curve of her cheek. She wouldn’t remember it. He pushes the thought away, feeling ashamed at his weak resolve.

Her gaze, although clouded, stares straight through him, seeing something that he tries so hard to keep hidden. The same thing his doctor sees when picking apart his vague answers to the mans probing questions.

“We’re not having this conversation Flash.” He mumbles, peeling the rag from her skin to rinse it. Rust colored water drips into the stream, swirling into a light pink against the white of the basin. When he places the steaming cloth back against her waist she sighs and leans closer to him.

“Why not?” Her words drip like honey down his spine and cloud his head. Ghost focuses on dragging the cloth in small circles, eyes following the water that drips down her skin to soak into the waistline of her pants.

His heart beats heavily in his chest and he pulls back a few inches, ignoring the growing voice in the back of his head that screams to lean closer, to let her feel the way she sets his skin on fire.

“Because you’re barely coherent.” He says, tone harsher than the question warrants and he winces, thankful for the mask that hides his pinched brow.

“I think you’re too scared.” She persists, slightly slurring her words. “For how brave you are on the field, you lack tenacity in the emotion department.”

“Flash.” He says, hoping she’d hear the underlying warning.

She hums at the mention of her code name and presses into the hand that holds the uninjured side of her waist steady.

“Say my real name? Please?”

This catches him off guard. Ghost looks up from his hands to watch her in the mirror, her eyes are already on him, mouth twisting into a curious grin. But there’s a hint of desperation in her voice, almost like she’s forgotten and needs to be reminded.

“I don’t know your real name.” He says softly, wiping away another small streak of dirt and blood.

She goes to open her mouth and Ghost is quick to reach a hand around her and cover it. Knowing that now, when she’s clearly intoxicated, is not the time. Her words fall flat against his palm, incoherent.

He can feel her laughing behind it, small breaths of air warming his skin. Ghost sees the devilish glint in her eyes before she nips his hand with her teeth, he pulls back quickly, face heating under the balaclava.

When his hand leaves her mouth, she takes it as an opportunity to continue on with her topic, much to Ghost’s displeasure.

“I know your name.” She drawls “It's Simon isn’t it.” He stiffens, hand freezing against her skin.

“Flash please stop.” His voice is strained, the growing lump in his throat half suffocating him.

“I like it I think it suits you.” She turns and looks at him, her pupils are blown wide and the apples of her cheeks are darkening with that blush that has Ghost’s heart thrumming. He doesn’t respond.

Flash doesn’t take her eyes off him as she slowly reaches a hand up, palm splaying with the same trepidation you’d use while approaching a scared animal.

The pads of her fingers have nearly met his cheek when he brings a hand up to wrap around her wrist, stopping her movement. He brings it back down to rest at her side and with gentle hands turns her back to face the mirror.

Flash doesn’t resist and quickly changes the topic. As grateful as he is for her quick shift, he was still stuck on the way she had looked at him. Her blue eyes wide with curiosity, her previous hesitancy nowhere to be found. The way she seemingly wanted to touch him. He pushes the thought back, onto the rapidly growing pile of worries plaguing him, and focuses on her words.

“His name was Scotch.” She says, and Ghost has to make an effort to remember what exactly she’s talking about. “Dad said he was only good for the rats but he was a great cuddler.”

She was talking about her cat? Ghost, despite the situation, finds him biting back a smile at the innocence of the topic. At how her face has softened at the memory.

He smooths the cloth over her now clean skin and after leaving it to drain in the sink helps her slip her arm back into the loose fabric of her sleep shirt. Savoring the giggles that slip from her lips when her elbow catches in the opening.

Ghost walks with her to her bed, hand hovering just over her waist, just in case. If she notices she doesn’t mention it, still rambling on about Scotch and his hunting abilities.

“He had the softest orange fur and his eyes. Oh, he was a real charmer.” She rattles on, face lost in memory while pulling back her covers and climbing in. Her eyes droop the second her head meets the pillow.

“Mhm.” Ghost muses softly.

He takes a moment to admire the way her golden hair splays out across her pillow, glowing in the soft light of her bedside lamp. He feels that same urge to rub a lock between his fingers, to see if it feels as silky as it looks.

“I wish you could have met him.” She says softly, watching him through half-lidded eyes and a look that squeezes the breath out from his lungs, replacing it with something much lighter.

“I wish I could have met him too.” He whispers back and pushing against every wall he’s ever built, runs a hand along the comforter where the small shape of hers lays, not close enough to touch, but close enough that he can feel the heat radiating from her skin. “Good night.”

“Good night Ghost.” She mumbles, watching him leave her bedside and walk to the bathroom door. “Sleep well.”

Ghost nods gruffly and takes the last few steps to the bathroom in two long strides, shutting the door behind him as quickly as he can without being too loud.

He stalks over to the sink, ignoring the dirty rag in the basin, and rips the balaclava from his head. Ghost avoids looking in the mirror as he splashes a handful of water onto his face. Hoping the cold would calm his racing mind and shaking hands. It doesn’t.

The lights above the mirror grow impossibly brighter and when he makes the mistake of looking into the mirror, bile rises in the back of his throat. His face nearly matches Flash’s, eyes lidded and foggy, and cheeks flushed with heat. Completely gone. He had lost control again. He had let his desires pull him around like a puppet on a string.

Stumbling across the small space to the bathroom door, he races against the tightening of his chest to reach the small orange bottle in his room. He focuses on twisting the knob, and the feel of the carpet under his socked feet as he practically throws himself towards the wardrobe. The quick movement tilts his vision and he gags against the breath stuck in his throat.

His hands are shaking violently now, rattling the pills in the bottle and making it nearly impossible to twist off the cap. Ghost pulls roughly at the lid begging it to just open. When it does, he fumbles with the pills in the bottle, shoving a single pill between his lips and swallowing against the dry column of his throat.

The urge to puke passes and as he slides down the wardrobe he’s able to remember the breathing that the academy doctor had led him through. Pressing his palms to his forehead, Ghost focuses on slowing his breathing. It does little without the grounding hands the doctor had offered. He imagines Flash instead, her soft hand caressing his face, speaking to him in the low and calming way that the doctor had.

Whether it's the pills or the self-indulgent fantasy, Ghost feels the jackrabbiting of his heart calm and he’s able to pull himself off of the ground. Reluctantly reaching for the other pill bottle, he swallows down one of the sleeping pills and crawls into bed. Curling into the pillow, he lets the slow drag of the chemicals pull him into a restless sleep.  

Tag list: @urfavsunkissedleo @butskii @abbiesxox @itsasecrets-things @thatonewriterthatnooneknows

#ghost x reader #ghost x female oc #simon riley #Cod Fic #simon ghost riley #alejandro vargas #modern warefare 2 #ghost stories #john soap mactavish #mw2 headcannons #mw2

[spicytreesap]

WOW GUYS i can’t believe it’s brian and tim ,,, from marble hornets :”)

don’t even deny it lmaooo idek this show but they popped into my head immediately when i saw these guys

#listen it’s the tooth gap and the height difference— #marble hornets #creepypasta #brian and tim #brian thomas mh #brian thomas #tim wright mh #tim wright #marble hornets meme #mh meme #my post #brian marble hornets #tim marble hornets

[honey-dont]

*kicks down door*

GIMME ALL YOUR DUSTTOP HEADCANONS

okay!! i gotcha :)

there's an 8" difference between them so flat top is the perfect height to be used as a chin rest and dustin takes advantage of this all the time

flat top is always cold and he has no qualms about sticking his freezing hands on dustin to warm up

since the freight are a short line they sometimes hook up with cars from other yards and flat top has gotten them kicked out of places starting fights bc someone was mean to dustin

dustin was super shy about playing the harmonica when he was first learning but flat top rly loved listening to it, even if it was kinda bad sometimes :')

he'll also let dustin infodump about flowers on him for hours even if he has no idea what he's talking about

flat top's rly insecure about his tooth gap but dustin thinks it's cute! he doesn't smile very much bc of it so dustin tries to get him to laugh at least once a day :)

flat top has exclusive helmet-wearing privileges

dustin loves playing with flat top's hair! he tries doing little braids sometimes but he's not super good at it bc his hands are so big

they share the same stall so they were roommates before they got together...dustin would let flat top sleep in his bunk whenever it stormed bc he's scared of thunder

sometimes flat top misplaces his bricks so dustin will put them in his pockets for safekeeping

flat top got a big crush on dustin after he gave him a cool rock bc he's just that kind of person (train?) + the other freight were taking bets to see how long it'd take dustin to notice

dustin didn't have a specific moment, he just kinda noticed one day that he would get super nervous and shy around flat top. he spent a rly long time thinking there was no way flat top would ever be into him bc flat top likes cool things and he's not cool :(

after the race rusty and dustin went on a champion tour of the country and flat top finally got the courage to kiss him...like 5 minutes before they had to leave. dustin ended up coming back halfway through bc he got homesick (rusty took pearl for the rest!) and they had the whole "wait you like me? i thought you didn't!" talk...they're bfs now :)

#replies #starlight express #stex #stex dustin #stex flat top #kontent for like the 3 other ppl who ship them :') #man i forgot everything upon reading the ask i feel like i had so much more to say #thank you!!

[imagine-turtles]

Hey, thanks for answer! I love your blog and I was wondering If I could get a Bayverse 2016 match up, please?

I'm Gabriela, but my friends call me Raven, Gigi, Evie, Gabi and Gabika. I'm 15 years old girl from Slovakia 🇸🇰, Libra ♎, 5'9 ft tall and only child.

I have Russian accent since childhood, because I have ancestors from Russia and I curse a lot in Russian and I speak perfectly Russian and Spanish.

I have brown-green eyes, brown hair to my shoulders and slim figure 'cause I work out daily and I have little freckles and cute little gap in my tooth.

I'm introvert. I'm shy, very quiet ( some people thinks I'm mute), sweet, caring, cute, caring, loving, sensitive, funny, empathetic, loyal, honest and stubborn impulsive sarcastic and hothead person.

I have problem. I have sleep issues and I sleep max 2-3 hours. When I woke up, I'm not tired. When I am at sun, my head is spinning and my body hurts. That's why I go out only at night. We have special windows in our home.

I'm literally a vampire and others think that I will suck their blood and this bullshit.

My bro ask me if I can write it here so here we go : My bro is Casey. We know each other perfectly from childhood and his parents died when he was three years old. Car accident. From then, he live with us. He's my adoptive brother. When we were 6 years old, we found our passion is dancing. From then, we always dancing. He call me : cute little vampire" and I adore it.

My BIGGEST passion is cooking. On September 1 I'm going to High school Hotel Academy and my friends call me Evie cause I'm exactly like Evie from Descendants. They call me Raven, because I wear mostly black or blue clothes.

I love to make my own clothes and jewerly. Half of my closet are clothes that I made. I love drawing and painting.

My favorite music genre is pop, rock and rap. I love AC/ Kiss, Depeche Mode, Queen, Little Mix and Pentatonix. I love sci-fi films and serials. I love Stranger Things and Star Wars.

I love films Suicide Squad and Harley Quinn: Birds of Prey

I play on accordion, piano, tamburine, harmonica, electric and acoustic guitar. I love singing and my friends and I have acapella group called Nightsoul

Every night I go out on rooftop and I sing there my songs and I play on my acoustic guitar. I'm afraid of heights, spiders and rats.

I have lots of break downs, like I lean against wall crying, I go down until I touch the ground, sit down and crying because I random remembered my grandfather. He died three years ago and it's so painful for me, because we had a special relationship

That's everything. Thanks for doing this and I hope it's not too much. See ya ♥️♥️. Thanks again 💜💜

5’9” Libra gang let's GOOO ✌😤

I’m pairing you with Bayverse Donnie:

Your sleep schedules will probably sync up at some point. However, in Donnie’s case, he either power naps or sleeps 14 hours at a time. Not much in between. Hope you don't value consistency.

Even if 5'9" is a fairly average height, you'll still be way shorter than Donnie, who clocks in around 6'8"--nearly a foot taller than you if he remembers to stand up straight. He finds the height difference endearing, and not large enough to be inconvenient.

He loves the challenge of learning Russian! It’s widely believed to be one of the most difficult languages to learn by non-native speakers, but that factoid only makes him more determined. Besides, New York has a hefty Russian-speaking population, so he’s certain it’ll come in handy sooner or later.

Don loves your passion for music--it’s a science in itself, after all. He listens to a little bit of everything, so your tastes are bound to overlap, but he may try to sneakily introduce you to a few more genres. Genre-hopping remixes are always fun, right?

I’m getting a “pop-punk princess” vibe that would draw him in, from your first interaction. Donnie has an appreciation for personalities with a balanced dichotomy: think sweet and spicy, a pretty face with a bit of punky edge. He loves the type of person he feels can do it all.

You’d probably be the one informing the drive-thru cashier that he asked for no pickles, please. Not because he’s too shy, he just doesn’t think it’s worth making a fuss about. It is. Put that backbone to use.

Might want to address that fear of rats before a visit, though.

#we literally used to call my sister gigi omggg #tmnt matchup #donatello #tmnt #tmnt imagines #nightsoulsworld

[simply-trash5]

May I have a bnha match up please? If they’re closed then feel free to ignore this. I’m 18, female, bisexual, an infp, and an Pisces/Aquarius cusp. I’m 5’2 and on the chubby side. I have medium length curly, dirty blonde hair and dark blue eyes. I have a small tooth gap and pale skin too. I also a nose stud have 4 stick and pokes. 1 on each wrist and 1 on each ankle. At first I can come off as an asshole with my resting bitch face and I don’t talk much (deadass been asked if I was a mute before). In reality I’m just really awkward and kinda shy as hell. It takes me awhile to grow connections with people but once I do I go crazy go stupid. I love joking around with a dark or really stupid sense of humor and being dumb with my friends. However I’m also down to have deep conversations and just chill out. I also know when to be serious when it’s needed. I would say that I’m pretty protective over my friends too and I can get affectionate with them. I will admit though that I do have some anger issues and that I get be really moody, basically a hot head. I have a hard time expressing my emotions, so I usually mask things away by acting silly or shutting down. Sometimes I’m really do be drinking that dumb bitch juice too (I’m kinda dense most of the time). I enjoy napping, baking(I’ve got a huge sweet tooth), fashion (goth fashion is my jam), drawing, reading, skateboarding, playing video games, listening to music (rock, alternative, and sometimes k-pop), and watching true crime and horror related stuff(I absolutely love horror and occult stuff). I have a fear public speaking, heights, abandonment, and hospitals. What I look for in a partner is who is open and honest with me, knows when to be serious but knows when to be silly and fun too, and someone who is affectionate (like cuddling, hugs, kisses, etc) Thank you in advance!! <33

Oh my god thank you for being my first matchup! So after reading your amazing description (queen shit honestly) I think you would be perfect for Shinsou. Shinsou honestly comes off as a bitch too BUT he is a total sweetheart underneath it all. He hold love your fashion sense and your darker sense of humor. He would totally get not saying much, especially in public, but in private he would be all over you. (I see him as wanting you to play with his hair while he lays in your lap.) he would love your body too always wanting to nuzzle you. He thinks that your ability to bake is awesome and loves trying little treats you make. He would also love watching true crime and horror with you, and having suuuper deep conversation about it afterward. He also has anger issues so he understands. It may make things a little difficult between you two sometimes but you can’t stay mad at you for too long. Will 100% pick you up and force you to snuggle while you nap if you’ve had a bad day.

I really hope this was what you were looking for because this is TOTALLY different than anything I’ve done. I definitely had fun with it. You should put in some more requests sometime 🖤

#bnha #bnha matchup #Shinsou #shinsou x reader #bnha shinso hitoshi #MHA Shinsou #lilstompingghoul #simply trash5 200 event #thank you for the request bbi

[baronessblixen]

Peppermint pot anon here, I have a new prompt for u: Mulder and Scully play "the pocky game". It's a Japanese chocolate- or candy-coated biscuit snack. Two participants place the Pocky between them “Lady and the Tramp” style, and try to be the last to hold onto the biscuit, often resulting in a kiss. You could google pocky game for images hehe

Thank you so much for this prompt! I hope you enjoy the story. A post-ep for "Millennium". Tagging @today-in-fic

Day 25: new year's eve kiss

The Pocky Game

There's a hint of novelty in the air. Scully sneaks a glance at Mulder, who is trying to help her mother with the punch. Her one-armed gentleman. The smile on her face has been there for hours now. Who knew she'd end up smiling after a zombie attack? Never a dull moment when Mulder is involved, that's for sure.

There was no question as to where he would spend New Year's Eve. By her side. Especially after that first kiss. There hasn't been a repeat performance. Yet. It's no longer a question of if, just when.

For once, the new year holds so much promise.

"Fox, go sit down or… look, there's Dana," she hears her mother say and push Mulder towards her. He's wearing a sheepish expression as he makes his way over to her.

"What did you do?" Scully asks, bumping his hip with hers.

"It's not easy doing anything with one arm, Scully." She wants to kiss the pout off his face. Maybe not here, where everyone can see them. Most of the people here at her mother's house are neighbors she's only ever seen in passing. There are a few teenagers who obviously don't want to be here. A few kids running around and stealing snacks, convinced no one can see them. She is thankful that she's got Mulder. But are they ready to make it official? Whatever they are?

"Listen to my mother and sit down."

"Don't wanna."

"What do you want to do?" Uh oh, maybe she shouldn't have asked that. He doesn't answer and he doesn't need to. She sees it in the way his eyes take her in. It's in the way he licks his lips and smiles at her. The temperature in the living room rises with every second that passes. With every prolonged look they share.

"Mulder…," she mumbles, wants to remind him where they are. But she can't find the words. He takes her hand in his and she watches their fingers lace together. It's a perfect fit, in every way.

"Miss Dana?" There's a soft tug on her sweater and as she looks down, she sees one of the smaller children. The little boy holds out a pack of candy to her. "Can you please open this? I can't."

"Are you allowed to have them?" Scully asks and the child blushes.

"You know what?" Mulder says, addressing the boy. "We won't tell anyone if you share with us." The kid nods enthusiastically, revealing a big tooth gap when he grins.

"Here you go," Scully hands back the confectionery. The child takes out a biscuit covered almost entirely in chocolate and offers it to Mulder.

"Only one?" He asks but the kid shrugs and runs away with the box of biscuits. "Well, Scully, looks like we have to share. Do you know the Pocky Game?"

"The what?" Mulder makes his 'ah' face that he always gets when he knows something she doesn't. He takes a deep breath and puts on a smile.

"You see, this stick – it's called Pocky in Japan where the game originates from. Each player takes one end in their mouth and bites off a piece until nothing's left."

"Like in Lady and the Tramp?"

Mulder beams at her. "Exactly. Just better because it's chocolate. Do you want to play?" She knows he let out an important part. The part about what happens once there's no more Pocky. But it's a new year and she feels adventurous so she nods.

Mulder takes the end that's not covered in chocolate. It's awkward with their height difference but they make it work. Their eyes are glued to each other while they bite off piece by piece.

Her heart speeds up the closer they get. The chocolate is sweet, but she's tasted Mulder now and she knows he tastes even sweeter. She wants more of that taste. His nose bumps into hers and she almost bites off too much of the Pocky. And then the chocolate is gone and is replaced with Mulder. She doesn't know who moves in first, whose tongue invades first. All she knows is that she's kissing Mulder again.

He breaks the kiss way too soon, still grinning. "I win."

"Hey wait, why do you win?" She asks.

"Got you to kiss me at your mother's New Year's Day party."

"You made up this game, didn't you?"

He shakes his head, cupping her cheek and gently stroking it with his thumb. "It's real. I just saw a chance and I took it."

"Maybe this year we can take more chances."

"I'd like that."

#advent calendar #it is done!!! #they had sex once that's gotta be enough #msr #xf fanfic #my writing #my fic

[shiveringpinkala]

voyage to the heart’s land

so, i wrote a fic for @renelemaires because i’m not good at headcanons as was initially requested, but i can do this apparently. sending happiness and good vibes your way!

voyage to the heart’s land; renee lemaire after the war w/ vague hints of baberoe, renee/gene and possible future renee/gene/babe. 2969 words.

Renee left Belgium two years after the war ended.

She loved her home, but the magic of the forests and memories of running around the city square in the blush of youth no longer held the easy charm that she associated with those times. And so, one day, in the height of July’s peaking summer, she pulled out an old atlas of her father’s – yellowed at the edges, curls crinkling on the front of most pages, one corner missing and taking a chuck of the Soviet Union, Egypt and Newfoundland with it – and looked for something new.

 She bookmarked Morocco for the language and Portugal for the ocean, but stopped completely when she reached the United States. Jagged borderlines between oddly shaped provinces and big – so much bigger than Belgium, bigger than Europe – and thought of Eugene. She traced her fingers down the neatly labeled Appalachian Montagnes, bypassing the likes of Virginia, the Carolinas, Georgia and sweeping over until she landed on Louisiana; little dots pointing out the towns of New Orleans and Baton Rouge. She tapped idly on the image and thought of the Eugene’s low voice and rough accent, the weary determination in his eyes. Her hands stilled.

 Louisiana is was then.

 Her mother kissed her cheeks at the train station. Her father tucked a riot of bills in her pocket and when she tried to protest, only said to write when she reached America. The subsequent journey took her out to England and then to an ocean liner setting sail for New York. She spent every waking moment she could on deck, drinking in the spray of ocean air and watching contentedly as an Irish mother of four tired to corral her children unsuccessfully.

 Once she landed in New York, she asked the nearest shop owner – a plump, friendly woman with a thick Polish accent – where she could find a telegraph office and was given an escort in the form of the woman’s ten year old son who delivered her to her destination with a gap toothed smile. She sent her message; carefully relaying the address that was postmarked on the envelope of the single letter Eugene had written her a year earlier, hoping he hadn’t gotten the urge to pick up roots as well in the time that had lapsed. From there, it was off to the currency exchange station, and then to a hotel. She spent two days in New York, enjoying the rush of bodies and movement despite herself, listening to the array of languages and marveling at the lights that never seemed to dim. On the third morning, she ventured to Grand Central Station and caught a train headed to Philadelphia.

 The ride was surprisingly short, but it was also dark and her next train wasn’t due to leave until the morning, but – to her surprise – when she stepped onto the platform there was a giant hand-written sign with her name on it in blocky letters. She blinked, caught out and cautiously approached the strangers huddled around it. One of the men, short and solidly built, braced on a pair of crutches, beamed when he spotted her approach and waved her over.

 “Hello?” She asked, still confused. The pretty – and lone – woman standing beside the man in question rolled her eyes at the man’s enthusiasm and held out a hand of Renee when she got close enough.

 “Ignore him,” she said, waving a hand at the man’s indignant bark, “I told him that no woman in their right mind would want to walk over to a group of strange rabble without reason, but he insisted,” she smiled, “I’m Frannie.”

 “Renee,” she answered bemused, “as you know, apparently. How did –”

 “Babe sent us,” the man said, accent broad and unfamiliar, but not unappealing, “Doc told him you were coming and he told us.”

 “Babe?” Renee asked, looking at Frannie to see if he was being serious.

 “You’ll meet him when you get down there,” he said, “My name’s Bill. Guarnere. I served with the Doc. And this here –” he looked over at the person holding the sign and then whacked at the legs peeking out underneath it with one crutch, “— put that down, ya idiot. There’s a lady present. This is Ralph Spina, one ‘a Doc’s fellow medics.”

 Ralph lowered the sign with her name and sent Bill a caustic glare, then looked back at her and nodded. “Nice ta meet you, ma’am.”

 “Renee is fine,” she smiled at the trio, unduly charmed, “it’s nice to meet you as well.”

 Frannie stepped forward and looped an arm through Renee’s and pointed at her bags, “Ralph get those, will you? Right this way, honey. No friend of Doc Roe is spending the night in some roachy motel. You like Italian? I was thinking ravioli or gnocchi, maybe.”

 Renee dropped the protest that she could carry her own luggage when Ralph picked it up immediately and followed in Frannie’s footsteps without complaint. She thought about Eugene and this Babe person arranging for her to have a welcoming party and let the bickering chatter between the three American’s envelope her in gentle waves.

 The dinner was amazing (“Now that rationing’s lifting, makes getting the right ingredients easier.” Bill laughed, wiggling his eyebrows at Ralph, and their other friend Joe Toye, who only rolled his eyes at Bill’s bombastic tone, “No more Army noodles here.”) and the company even better as they told her endless stories about what seemed to be every single man they’d served with. At some point, she realized she was laughing so hard that tears were actually welling in her eyes and the salt in them felt like a cleansing of some kind. Like a layer of heavy silt had been washed from her soul. She fell asleep on her borrowed bed that night with a smile on her face.

 To repay their generosity, she woke up early – not difficult as her internal clock was a mess from slipping between time zones so quickly – and made a somewhat augmented version of her mother’s waffles and homemade hot chocolate for everyone.

 Frannie took a sip while the boys ate seconds – or in Joe’s case, thirds – and said: “That was really good. If everything you make is this good, you should sell it. No point in giving heaven away for free.”  

 Renee thought about lazy mornings making bread with her mother in the kitchen of their old house. Kneading the dough, watching it rise and the whole house filling up with the smell as it baked. Regular cooking had never been something she’d had much patience for, but baking was something else entirely. She’d always found a peace in the careful measurements and methodical movements; her mind could wander away and rest from its troubles. The look on someone’s face when they took a bite was only a bonus.

 She stared down at her hands and thought, for the first time in a long time, that maybe there was something special about them.

 “Maybe,” she murmured and enjoyed the contentment of a job well done.

 Frannie and the boys saw her off hours later. “Write, you hear,” Frannie said, hugging her tightly, “I need more women in my life that’ll understand my pain.”

 “I am a goddamned joy and you know it,” Bill argued, but also pulled Renee into a one-armed embrace. “Tell those idiots to write too, ain’t like they don’t have pens and paper in the swamp.”

 “I will. And thank you,” she directed the last at the whole group, who waved away the gratitude with mumbled protests and continued waving as she stepped onto the train.

 This one took her to Charleston, down through rolling green hills and farmlands that gave the country some space, opening up into long tracks of fields that both reminded her of home and was nothing at all like it. It was only a stop over this time, but the hour of rest came with polite men and women, an ocean view and accents that were similar to Eugene’s. The leg after took her down to Georgia where she drank an ice-cold Coca-Cola from a Soda Fountain in the rail yard and watched a group of kids played a game right in the middle of the street with a ball and stick; jeers and cheers filtering into the open door of the Fountain. From Savannah, the train took her all the way to New Orleans.

 New Orleans was like stepping into a different world. Music seemed to be infused in the air around her from the minute she got off the train; slow saxophone’s and staccato snares, trumpets whisking a melody away into the melting summer breeze. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, taking in the atmosphere. She walked around some of the city; wandering into the French Quarter and marveling at the architecture and listening to accented French coming in fits and stops from the residents who tipped their hats at her as she passed. Eventually, she found herself in a kind of civic center and asked for directions to the town that Eugene had written to her from. The kindly older man working there, showed her where it was on a map and arranged for her to get a cab down.

 The bayou, as she learned the whole area was referred to, was almost like something out of a fairy tale. Swamps, running into jungle forests and moss covering everything from the trees to the roofs of the houses half-hidden from the road. The cab dropped her off at a little general store/café that the driver in question assured her would be helpful if she was looking for someone in particular.

 A few curious eyes lit on her when she walked into the open aired restaurant, but the stares were without hostility and her purpose was quickly deduced correctly because a kind looking woman with wild grey-touched curls in a faded red dress came up to her with a smile.

 “You look like a woman who could use a hand,” she said, eyeing the suitcase and bag at Renee’s feet, “I’m Bea, what can I help you with, sugar?”

 “I was told that you could help me find someone?” Renee asked.

 Bea’s eyes widened and she whistled lowly. “Honey, that is some pretty voice you got there. As for help, I know just about every person in this neck of the woods; and if I don’t, then they ain’t here. Who you looking for?”

 “Eugene Roe.”

 A fond smile settled on Bea’s lined face. “That boy got popular in Europe,” she commented and then led Renee over to one of the wrought iron tables in the café. “You sit tight and I’ll give ‘im a call, alright?”

 Renee thanked her and sat there, nerves suddenly erupting her stomach as she waited. It had been so long and she had basically invited herself. Maybe he’d be cross? But no, why send a welcoming committee in Philadelphia otherwise? She drummed her knuckles on the table and was only interrupted when Bea set some iced, amber colored liquid in front of her; condensation beading at the tall glass.

 “Sweet tea,” Bea explained, “It’s a staple down here. Best get used to it, if you’re staying.”

 Renee took a drink, flavor bursting across her tongue. The coolness of it hit her and relaxed some of the tension that had sprung up. “It’s good,” she said, a little surprised.

 “Glad to hear it,” Bea replied, grinning. She patted Renee on the shoulder and then twirled away to serve another customer.

 When Eugene finally arrived, it took Renee a moment to recognize him. Gone were the worn green army fatigues, and in its place was a pair of denim jeans and a button up checked shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His black hair was a bit longer and his skin had lost the deathly pale hue that she got used to seeing in Bastogne, warming to a pale caramel under his home’s beating sun. She couldn’t stop the smile from lighting up her face at the sight and stood up, so that he could see her better.

 Sure enough, he spotted her and froze in the middle of the café before a more subdued, but no less genuine version of his own, smile crossed his features. He resumed his walk and when he was standing in front of her and – after a moment’s hesitation – gently pulled her into his arms. The breath she’d been painfully holding in her lungs gave way, and she breathed in the woodsy citrus kick of his aftershave as she held on.

 “It’s good to see you,” he said into her hair, before pulling away to look at her.

 “Vous aussi,” she said which softened his smile into loveliness.

 “These your bags?”

 “Oui. They are.”

 “Well, okay then,” he reached down and picked them up, “I got the guest room made up,” he stopped for a moment and then shrugged, expression sheepish, “unless you’d rather stay at an inn? Your choice, o’ course.”

 “Your guest room is fine,” she said, following him out of the café, where they waved goodbyes to Bea, who hassled them into agreeing to lunch the next day, “as long as your friend doesn’t mind?”

 A series of emotions flickered over his face before settling into rueful. “Edward don’t mind; he’s the one been fretting about pillows or some such since your wire.”

 The last knot of anxiety loosened in her gut at that. “Then lead on.”

 Eugene’s – “Gene, I insist.” – house was a medium sized bungalow set back a little way from the dirt road and surrounded by a sparse, moss ridden wood with the nearest neighbors half-a-mile down the road. It was sweet and Renee found an instant kinship to the large dormer windows and wide porch that extended out from the house.

 “It’s not much,” he said, almost sounding apologetic.

 Renee refrained from saying that any standing building was stunning to her now, no matter the size or color or shape. “It’s beautiful,” she told him honestly.

 They were greeted at the dog by a floppy eared beagle whose whole hindquarters wriggled when Renee leaned down to pet him. “That’s Rex,” Gene said, rolling his eyes good naturedly at the pup, “wandered into the yard one day and never left. Ain’t much of a guard dog, as you can see.”

 “He doesn’t need to be. He’s lovely exactly the way he is,” she said, laughing when he took a chance to lick at her cheek.

 Gene led them into the house. Renee took in the cozy decorating, lacking a bit in the way that most male driven houses did, and was examining a series of photos on an end table when the last resident of the house came bounding around the corner, stopping abruptly when he saw her. He was as Bill had described him – skinny, redhaired, eyes too big for his ugly mug – though she would argue the ‘ugly’ descriptor; he had a sweet, open face that put her at ease immediately.

 “Hey,” he said, practically vibrating in anticipation, giving her a half-wave from his place in the doorway and biting his lip, “you must be Renee. It’s nice to meet you, finally.”

 “Enchante, Edward. I’ve heard much about you.”

 “You have? From – wait, Edward?” He looked over at Gene who was deliberately turned away, though Renee could see the hint of a pleased grin on his face. “Really, Gene; Edward?” He turned back to Renee in a mild huff. “Call me Babe, everyone does.”

 “Babe,” she agreed, noticing that some of the stiffness in his frame had disappeared in the wake of the mix-up. Probably, that was Gene’s intention all along.

 “Right. Are you hungry? Gene was making some kind of stew thing –”

 “It’s jambalaya, Babe, you know this.”

 “— before Bea called. It’ll make your senses wish they’d died, but it tastes amazing.”  

 Renee nodded. “I’d love to try some.”

 She sat at the dining table as Gene and Babe worked seamlessly around each other in the small kitchen, and rather than feeling awkward or forgotten, both men managed to include her in their ritual, making her feel as at home for the first time since the bombs began to fall. Babe, in a similar vein to Bill, gave her all the gossip about town, while Gene corrected the most outlandish claims the redhead made (“It did not try to eat you, Babe.” “It wanted too – I could tell, stared at my leg like it was a rack of ribs.” “It was an alligator snapping turtle not an actual gator.” “Well, what he hell’s it got alligator in its name for then, huh? Huh Gene? Answer me that!”) with a well-rehearsed fondness.

 The jambalaya was as Babe advertised it – amazing, but eye wateringly spicy – and was finished off with powered French pastries Gene called beignets. Gene asked about her journey and she indulged them with the story, making sure to thank them for setting Frannie and the others in her path.

 “Bill says that you two must write him sometime. He was quite insistent,” she said teasingly.

 Babe snorted. “Sure. Tomorrow I’ll send him a telegram: Dear Bill, screw you, Love Babe.”

 She laughed and Babe grinned all the brighter for it. Gene shook his head, but his eyes kept bouncing between them with a contentedness that Renee was glad to see he was capable of. It made the restless, inadequate feelings in her heart go into hibernation. A tranquil hush came to a rest in her blood. Whatever may come, she thought she could be herself here. Perhaps even be truly happy.

 It was a something to look forward too. A gift.

 And she intended to enjoy it.

#it's longer than i intended #(was supposed to be a ficlet) #hopefully you like it! #*fingers crossed* #band of brothers #gift fic #renee lemaire #eugene roe #babe heffron

[roger1na]

careful ch6 - john deacon x reader

summary: you are a ballet student at the royal ballet academy. To pay for your tuition, you work part-time at the celebrity gossip magazine, Seven. One fateful day you’re sent to interview a band on the rise, Queen, post-concert and fall in love with the sweetest man on the planet.

word count: 2.8k+

warnings: swearing

author's note: it's over 16k now, i'm legally allowed to call it a slowburn :,). aa i've had so much fun with all of this writing and this series wow thank u for all the sweet comments<3. also i know -15% about swan lake so it's probably hideous to read about that. (i tagged some people who didn't ask, so if u want to be untagged just shoot me a message).

[ch1] [ch2] [ch3] [ch4] [ch5] [ch6] [ch7] [ch8]

chapter six

The alarm pierced the silence of friday morning at 5am. You snoozed it groggily and buried your face into your pillow. You hadn’t slept properly at all. With the nerves of the show and the nerves of the promise you’d made to John.

“You didn’t pick up on the subtext that I’m definitely kissing you the next time I see you?”

You hadn’t kissed anybody in years. And back then, it was probably totally different. Maybe nowadays they wanted only tongue. Sometimes you slipped a glance at whatever your co-workers were righting. Kissing and sex were at the top of the list of celebrity scandals and sometimes they terrified you. What the hell was the world doing?

A piercing call made you jump. It wasn’t your alarm, but your phone ringing in the living room. The floorboards were cold as you raced barefooted to answer it.

“Y/N!” Rose shrieked in your ear as soon as you. You winced and held the phone further from yourself.

“Rose, what the fuck.” You groaned annoyed.

“She broke her leg!”

Your mind was struggling to connect the dots. Everything was hazy in the morning and you just really wanted some coffee.

“She broke it. It snapped in half like a fucking twig.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Frances! The prima!”

Slowly, the pieces were beginning to fit together. “What happened to her?”

“Freak accident! She was hit while driving. Or being driven around like the spoi-”

“Rose! She’s injured!”

“Oh yeah! You know what that means don’t you?”

“Rose you’re going to have to stop with the guessing games, I just woke up,” you mumbled and rubbed your forehead.

Rose shrieked on the other end impatiently. “Y/N you don’t get it. You’re the understudy.”

The phone slipped out of your hand as your arms went numb. Holy shit, you thought. If the original prima was unavailable, you’d be the one dancing. You were going to dance as Odette. That was your moment. It took a few seconds and then you screamed.

“Rose! I’m going to be dancing as a prima!” You were jumping around in hysterics. Then you paused for a moment and picked up the phone. “You didn’t have anything to do with the accident, did you?”

Rose giggled. “Of course not.”

“How come you’re the one calling me, not the studio or the teachers?”

“You never gave your number to the studio. I think half your documents are missing, you really need to get your shit in order. You’re going to be prima.”

“I’m going to be a prima!”

“Yes! Now get ready you dumbass, you’ve got a crowd to win over!”

You hopped around in excitement a bit more until you rushed to shower and get dressed. The sun was slowly peeking from the horizon and you grinned at your reflection in the mirror. Adrenaline coursed through your veins. It’d all been worth it. All of it.

London was only rising when you stepped into the musty tube carriage. Drunks coming home from nights slept away from their own beds and people in similar situations like yours, where work and life just started early. You flipped through a stranded newspaper, relieved that you didn’t find your own name among the pages.

You thought about John and how proud he’d be when he’d see you. He didn’t know about the news. Would he recognize you with heavy show make up and an tight bun? Would he wear a t-shirt and jeans combination? What did he know about ballet? Nerves coiled in your stomach, but you let them be. It was your day.

Across the city in a tiny student flat, John Deacon lay awake. He had tossed and turned all night thinking of you, your dance and your promise. He followed the cracks in the paint on the ceiling with his eyes, eyes tired but mind not letting him sleep.

The fact was, John Deacon had fallen in love. With your absent-minded gaze and with your babbling. With the way you stared off at him when you thought he couldn’t see. With the perfect way your palm fit into his. With the way your voice made him want to write a thousand embarrassing and poor quality love songs. And as he breathed and lay awake and pondered the great mysteries of the universe, he was brought back to the first night you had met.

Your eyes had glinted in the multicoloured lights of the show and you had been so mesmerised by the act on stage. And when you knocked on their dressing room door with confidence, John had almost felt apprehensive towards you. Like every interviewer, you were going to spin your own story without listening to them. But then you talked and listened and laughed at his jokes and suddenly the light caught your hair in a new glow and John came to love the confident interviewer in you. Not stuck up, not cruel and not fake. Just confident.

He loved how you let life take you but didn’t stand for its bullshit. How you were so vocal about issues in the workplace and misogyny in dancing and the issues in falling in love with an art and a person at the same time.

Overall, he just loved you. And sometimes it felt so stupid, so foolish to lie awake and dream of your peachy lips and rose scent but today of all days, the butterflies felt good. They felt promising.

The day wore on. With little sleep he walked to the studio, enjoying the fresh air and trying to ignore the growing fog in his mind. The boys couldn’t stop yelling today. He just sat in the corner, pouring over his notes for the song that you suggested he write.

It was called Misfire and it was exactly what it sounded like. He laughed when he thought about how you’d react to the lyrics. How you’d have a hesitant smirk at first, and then you’d be bouncing to the music, like the little ball of joy u were. Along the margins, he’d scrawled notes for another song he wasn’t quite ready to pull together. Words like sunshine, and my best friend jumped out from the messy handwriting, but otherwise it was almost illegible.

“He’s got her show today,” Freddie whispered over coffee. Brian and Roger were giving each other the silent treatment over Dear Friends and John was silent in the corner, scribbling his notes down. “Do you think he’s writing her a love song?” He continued.

“What, Deaky?” Brian looked up from his cup. “He doesn’t seem the type. His first song for Queen being a love song.”

“Bri’s right. He’ll write something silly. He’s like that.” Roger added. The argument diffused as fast as it had started. “You forget he’s only twenty two.”

“Twenty three in two weeks, right?”

“Yeah.”

They all looked at him simultaneously. John felt their stares and looked up, flashing a gap-toothed smile. “What?”

“Nothing,” they all replied in unison.

“You excited about seeing Y/N today? Do you need a suit?”

“Freddie,” John rolled his eyes and snapped his notebook shut. “I have a suit. The funky checkered and white one.”

“Aw,” Brian leaned on his hands. “Will Y/N like it?”

“Shut up, you all,” John walked over and took his coffee, black with one sugar, and took a sip. “I’m perfectly capable of going to see a ballet on my own. No need to be babied.”

“But you’re so small!” Roger grinned but John gave him a death glare.

“Bring her roses,” Freddie advised him. “You always give roses to a ballerina after a performance.”

“Gee, Freddie, you seem to know so much, why don’t you go instead? Kiss her for me as well.” John stuck his tongue out.

“You’re going to kiss her? John that’s first base!” Brian teased.

“I hate you all.” John groaned.

“We love you too,” they replied in unison once more.

“And she’s going to love you too,” Freddie grinned.

After an exhausting day of teasing for John and training for you, evening was drawing nearer. The girls were all in one room, putting glitter and makeup on each other’s faces and brushing up hair into tight buns.

“Y/N’s man is coming over today,” Rose told a girl who was dancing next to her, a she was applying mascara.

“Rose,” you warned her slightly.

“Ooh, who is it?” The girl, Pamela, blinked fast, adjusting to the mascara.

“This guy, he’s called John.” You mumbled, incredibly flustered suddenly.

“John Deacon.”

“Who the hell is that?” Beverly, the girl who danced as Odile asked.

“Only the bassist of Queen.” Rose bragged.

“Rose! Shut up, we’re barely dating.”

Rose mouthed, it’s because she’s a prude behind your back and the rest of the girls giggled.

“Well, Y/N, I hope your man can behave at a ballet show, if he’s from a rock band.” Pamela pumped her brows up a bit.

“He’s great! Calm, sweet, but so energetic.” You told them.

“Fantastic.” Beverly clapped her hands together. “I hope he’ll enjoy our show.”

“And what comes after it,” Rose teased. You frowned at her but didn’t reply. The bustling of the crowd outside was finally heard through the walls of the dressing room. Some children, younger siblings and all that, parents, boyfriends, girlfriends, dedicated friends all walking into the auditorium with an excited buzz.

Among them was John, fiddling nervously with a bouquet he’d bought for you. Red roses, almost blooming. He hoped they’d last through the show. Some people did a double take when they saw him, perplexed not only by his imposing height but also his long hair. A young girl came up and asked for an autograph, scribbled on the program they were handed at the entrance.

The auditorium was huge. Seats for maybe thousands. He elbowed his way to the front rows, hoping to have the best view of your dance. You’d told him you were dancing in the background with your friends Rose and Pamela and that when you wore identical makeup, it was almost impossible to separate you, except by Rose’s red locks. He had promised you he’d be able to recognize you among clones and you had playfully shoved him on the shoulder, although you were very happy.

The lights dimmed and the show started, delicate beginning notes being played on the piano. And then the main character he was told was called Odette danced on stage.

His breath stilled. It was you. You with your tight stage bun and glimmering makeup, so strong you were almost unrecognizable. But it definitely was you. You danced with a sorrow in your step. He was told that the story was really quite sad, and he saw it in your mourning movements.

You were so graceful, he couldn’t help but be in awe that he was so lucky to have you. Occasionally, when the music turned to a minor key and the dance turned into sadness and pain, he felt tears brimming in his eyes. When Freddie gushed about ballet, he had been skeptical at whether it was truly possible to convey such intense emotions through dance, but when he saw you in action, all his doubts dissipated.

You received a standing ovation. Well, from John. Everybody was clapping heartily, having enjoyed the show. Some people had stood up with John, others were wiping their eyes. Some children had already began an excited gabble to their parents about the show.

John beat the crowd outside, managed to get to the front of the buzzing people. He couldn’t stop his grin. He heard the girls chattering to themselves on the other side. Somebody screamed in joy and everybody laughed.

You were only separated by a pair of sturdy oak doors and a dimly lit hallway where at the end every dancer was cursing their sore legs and undoing tight hairdos. Rose helped to take out all your pins and you did the same for her whilst gushing in excitement.

“That went really well, don’t you think?” You smiled at her as she tried to to remove some of the glitter plastered on your face, with little success.

“I think so, yes,” she paused for a moment, tilting your head back to get some of the stuff off your neck. “Did you see him?”

You looked at her and smiled. “Well, uh no, not really, I got so caught in the stage and the motion and the music. But I felt him, y’know? Like, his dopey grin just shone to me.”

“Aw, Y/N’s been turned into a sap,” Beverly joked, pulling on a sweater and trousers.  

“Excuse me, you would too, if you were around him.”

“I wish I had someone,” Pamela wiped off her lipstick and grimaced.

Rose looked at her quickly, flushed a bright red only you noticed and then turned back to you, smiling sheepishly, saying nothing. You studied her face and caught her eye but didn’t say anything.

“You ready?” She whispered as you glanced in the mirror one more time before nodding and leaving the dressing room.

The chatter was becoming more obvious the more you neared the exit. Pushing the heavy doors open, a pang of hot air hit your face and then you were out and you heard the excitement and the little children and your eyes were searching the crowd.

When you saw him, with his lopsided bowtie and gorgeous red roses he was holding, your heart stopped. He was grinning, ear to ear, flushed with pride. John thought you were so beautiful, breathtaking, with your hair just taken down from a tight stage bun, show make up still glimmering slightly on your face.

Cupid twisted the arrow he’d embedded into your heart and common sense was thrown out of the window. The feeling of being in love embraced you and left your heart soaring. Nothing could stop you as you ran up to him and before he could open his mouth to congratulate you, you took his face in your hands and on tiptoes you kissed him, slightly missing the center of his lips but hitting the mark all the same.

He kissed back, almost dropping the roses. It wasn’t ferocious or possessive, it was sweet. He tasted of cigarettes and red wine and the smell of his cologne flooded your nose. It was like a dance, synchronised, almost practiced. It was perfect, passionate and soft.

When you pulled away, slightly out of breath, he was starstruck, eyes shining. “Wow, I-” he blinked and laughed. “If I got a kiss everytime I went to your shows, I would’ve come sooner.” You giggled and took the roses.

“Thank you.” People were staring, but you didn’t care. “Really, it means a lot.” He was still grinning like an idiot and you were sure the same grin graced your face, eyes squinting, nose wrinkly, all in the glory of being in love.

He giggled then he leaned down and pressed his forehead against yours. “You were so amazing dancing, I kept thinking I know her. You’re my favourite celebrity.”

"Oh, I'm hardly a celebrity," you laughed, blushing.

He handed you the roses after one more kiss and you marveled at how good they smelled. He had held them so close to him that part of his cologne had gotten stuck to it as well, and you revelled in the scent.

More people came up and congratulated you, a bit intimidated by John’s presence but happy for you all the same. A small child ran into you for a hug and gushed about you being their favourite princess. He was pulled away from you by embarrassed parents.

After the crowd had cleared a bit, John laced his fingers with yours. “Can I take you out to dinner?”

“Of course,” you smiled at him softly and on your tiptoes, kissed his cheek. You felt like you were in the best place. Warm and comfortable with his hand in yours, his hair tickling your face as he leaned down and whispered more compliments to you about the performance to you.

He lead you out, where the evening had darkened to night, making jokes and acting like the happiest man on earth.

“John?”

“Yes love?”

“Thank you,” you grinned as his eyes found yours and sparkled.

“What for?”

“For the roses. And the kiss. You’re a great kisser.”

“Oh?”

You nodded with a serious expression.

“Well, I’m not actually really sure how I think of you as a kisser, can I kiss you again? Just to be sure?”

You giggled and let him softly cup your face with his hands and lean down to kiss you gently. He pulled away fast and had a mockingly thoughtful expression on his face and he smacked his lips. “Hm, I’m not quite sure yet,” he teased before leaning down again. You giggled into the kiss, arms wrapping around him.

Your heart fluttered, but not from nervousness or confusing feelings which had been far too present for the past three weeks. Your heart was fluttering because you were in love and you were happy and okay with it. You were more than okay with it. You loved it.

***

@fourmisfits @deakysgirl @im-happy-at-home @obsessedwithrogertaylor @itsametaphorbriansblog @rhapso-kei @deacontaylormaymercury @queenmylovely @imgonnabeyourslave @weirdestmentalityphilosopher @thefatbottomedmay @heyyyyyyyleykiyoko @brujademente @painkiller80

#john deacon #deacy x reader #deaky x reader #deacy #deaky #john deacon x reader #joe!deaky #joe!john deacon x reader #joe!john x reader #joe!john deacon #joe!john #careful - jd #aa this part was sooo fun to write #but i wrote the kiss scene waaayyyy back #when it was still snowy outside actually #it just so happened i had inspo and i wrote it down so i wouldn't forget #so yeah #idk i had fun woohoo it only gets better now we can get to the real angst

[flwrpotts]

reggie mantle. some things.

age 7.

hair that shines blue-black in the sunlight. shiny scrapes on his elbows. gap-toothed grin. slurps his noodles at the dinner table. watches cartoons for hours on saturday morning. sleeps with a nerf gun in bed, just in case there’s a monster. colors on his desk during math lessons. greases his sled in the winter with his mother’s cooking oil so that he can go faster than archie. dirty sneakers. wide grin. bruise on his shoulder from where dad grabbed his arm last week after he didn’t pick up his room on time. feels the mark, even after it fades, even after there’s a new one there to take its place. oliver says look, don’t make him mad, reg and c’mon i’ll let you steer the car for me and put a band-aid on, you’re fine. has sleepovers with jason every friday night. plays every sport the peewee athletics program offers. spikes his hair up into a mohawk in the shower. learns how to be quiet at home. learns how to detect the anger coming like animals can detect storms. learns how to blame it on soccer, on football, on swimming, anything but the truth.

age 9.

yanks on betty’s ponytail when the teacher isn’t looking. teases jughead for the split seams of his winter boots, the frayed edge of his scarf, the way he prefers to read during recess instead of play with the rest of the class. likes the way the other kids laugh and high five him. doesn’t like the way that parent-teacher conferences keep him home from school for two whole days and sports practice for a week. shattered wrist, easy to happen to children’s bones, says the doctor, but flashes him an odd look as he does it. jerseys of all his favorite players. lanky limbs. tallest in the class. wanders around the weird halls of thornhill with jason. gets ice cream after baseball practice with archie. helps moose stick glow in the dark stars on his ceiling. gets a puppy and names her scooter. crawls into the kitchen when everyone’s asleep and calls oliver from the house phone, twining the cord around his fingers as he begs him to come home from college, just for a night, please.

age 11.

gelled back hair. height he uses to intimidate the other kids. mouth that always seems to get him into trouble. rolls his eyes when archie chastises him. stares at his hands when ms. greenway asks what the bruise on his wrist is from. blushes when betty pecks his cheek during the riverdale sixth grade valentine’s day dance. pretends he doesn’t. goes to the library when things are bad at home and reads all the books about sports. closes his eyes and imagines he’s jackie robinson, babe ruth, anyone but himself. stops sleeping in the same bed as jason during their sleepovers, because it’s weird now, bro. swears loudly when cheryl corners him in thornhill and kisses him, hard enough to break the skin on his bottom lip. always orders mint chocolate chip. always wants to watch the breakfast club when it’s his turn to pick a movie. always moving, always bouncing off the walls, always running from something he doesn’t know the name of.

age 13.

gets drunk at his birthday party from the bottle of malibu oliver left behind last time he was home from college. spends the next morning throwing up in the bathroom with jason, the two of them sick and miserable and laughing anyways, throwing advil at one another’s heads. hair stiff with sweat and gel. faint muscle starting to come in. protein shakes at the bottom of his backpack. calls oliver and doesn’t believe it when he says a few more years kid, and then you’ll get out. watches the girls stare as he walks past, collecting their smiles likes souvenirs. plays seven minutes and heaven and grins wolfishly when he comes out, midge trailing out slyly after him with lipstick smudged down her mouth. kisses jason after, drunk and high off vodka and shitty weed in the small hours of the morning. feels electricity crackle down his spine and pulse between his fingers, something he never knew he wanted until he did intensely, desperately. wakes up the next morning with a hangover pulsing between his teeth and says i was so wasted last night, man, i don’t remember a fucking thing. dreams vividly about the copper red of his hair, the alien paleness of his skin, the wet heat of his mouth.

age 15.

letterman jacket. sharp grin. bud light foam when the boys pull him up from a kegstand. nothing but raw shock in his system when jason’s body washes ashore, bullet hole in his forehead and face like a zombie’s. dreams about it for weeks after the register runs the autopsy photo. feels it like a blow when the blossoms don’t allow him to speak at the funeral. accepts when a boy in a leather jacket offers him a bump in the back of a house party. likes the way the white powder shoots through his brain, makes the room fizzle and pop like a fireworks display. discovers an appetite for more of it, and more, and more. watches as the town falls down around him, deaths falling down like dominoes. winces when veronica traces his shiner with her careful, lovely fingers after he tried to play the hero, to find the truth, to stand up to his dad. helps her run the bonne nuit and finds himself spiralling deeper into her incendiary wit, her steel-rendered fragility, that same cultured elegance that jason once possessed. knows it is another redhead she’s thinking about when she presses her mouth into his.

age 17.

tattoo on his bicep. picture of jason on the mantle. sports gear stacked in the corner. moves out of his house and into a little place, right near the newly rebuilt sunnyside. feels the freedom like a rush of blood to the head. kisses girls and boys and girls and boys and likes it enough not to bother with the difference between the two. helps archie adjust to life back home. helps betty fix up her serial killer father’s unfinished camaro. helps veronica kick sweet pea’s ass at flip cup at one of cheryl’s thornhill parties. works at the bonne nuit and watches it become a legitimate business. ruins said legitimacy by spiking his classmate’s drinks for a small fee. spins veronica off the ground when she offers him a managerial position. writes oliver a letter, a messy, stitled thing bleeding out the two decades of hurt. listens carefully when fred andrews talks to him quietly about trauma, about available resources. goes in and lights a candle at church for jason, for midge, for all of the others. still afraid of commitment. still too into college football. still kegstand champ of riverdale high.

#WE'RE BACK BABY #flaming bisexual disaster reggie mantle #should have already been a tag #anyways ive MISSED these lmk what other ones you want to see! #mine #some things #reggie mantle #riverdale

[rosahope-a]

G E N E R A L  —

HEIGHT.         Chibiusa  stands  at  a  petite  149  cm  (  4’11  ).  At  14,  she’s  short  for  her  age  and  one  of  the  smallest  girls  in  her  grade,  lending  credibility  to  the  affectionate  nickname  given  to  her  by  her  parents,  “Small  Lady”.  With  heels,  she  stands  anywhere  from  154  cm (  5’1  ) to  160  cm  (  5’3  ).  As  she  gets  older,  she  does  not  get  any  taller,  and  therefore  remains  the  same  height  even  as  an  adult,  much  to  her  chagrin.  

WEIGHT.         Chibiusa  is  43  kg  (  95  lbs  );  slight  and  petite,  she  is  often  mistaken  by  enemies  as  being  an  easy  target,  however  her  training  as  a  Senshi  and  general  activeness  has  given  her  toned  muscle  hidden  beneath  her  clothing.  Despite  her  size,  she  can  pack  a  punch  and  is  surprisingly  agile.  

ETHNICITY.         Japanese;  Chibiusa  was  born  in  CRYSTAL TOKYO,  the  epicenter  of  Japan  in  the  30th  century.  However,  given  her  mother’s  lineage  as  heir  to  the  original  Moon  Kingdom,  this  also  means  that  Chibiusa  is  HALF-LUNARIAN.  

OCCUPATION.         Chibiusa  is  the  CROWN  PRINCESS  of  Crystal  Tokyo  when  she’s  at  home.  However,  in  my  main  verse  she  lives  with  the  Tsukinos  in  present-day  Tokyo,  Japan.  There,  she’s  an  EIGHTH-GRADER  at  Juuban  Middle  School.  Aside  from  this,  she  keeps  the  city  safe  under  the  guise  of  ETERNAL  SAILOR  CHIBIMOON,  a  pretty-suited  soldier  of  love  and  justice.  As  she  gets  older,  this  carries  over  and  Chibiusa  takes  up  the  mantle  of  Neo  Sailor  Moon  when  she  returns  to  Crystal  Tokyo  permanently.    Later  in  life,  she  ascends  the  throne  as  Queen  Lady  Serenity.  

GENDER.         Cis-female.

SEXUAL & ROMANTIC ORIENTATION.         Chibiusa  is  demisexual,  meaning  that  she  often  requires  having  a  deep  connection  with  someone  before  she  can  be  intimate  with  them;  while  she  can  pursue  intimacy  with  someone  without  that  personal  connection,  Chibiusa  would  find  it  difficult  not  to  develop  some  level  of  emotional  attachment  to  a  partner  she  gives  her  all  to.  That  being  said,  Chibiusa  is  also  panromantic,  finding  that  anyone—no  matter  what  they  choose  to  identify  as—are  perfectly  capable  of  being  potential  candidates  for  lovers.  Chibiusa  is  a  romantic  at  heart,  and  finds  it  very  easy  to  get  attached  to  people.  

MBTI.         ENFP,  The  Campaigner  –  The  Campaigner  personality  is  a  true  free  spirit.  They  are  often  the  life  of  the  party,  but  unlike  types  in  the  Explorer  Role  group,  Campaigners  are  less  interested  in  the  sheer  excitement  and  pleasure  of  the  moment  than  they  are  in  enjoying  the  social  and  emotional  connections  they  make  with  others.  CHARMING,  INDEPENDENT,  ENERGETIC  and  COMPASSIONATE,  the  7%  of  the  population  that  they  comprise  can  certainly  be  felt  in  any  crowd.

S P E C I F I C S  —

FAVOURITE  FOOD.          Shocking  absolutely  no  one,  Chibiusa  has  a  voracious  sweet  tooth.  Her  favourite  foods  are  often  high  in  sugar—things  like  pancakes,  puddings,  ice  cream.  She’ll  eat  just  about  anything  if  it’s  sweet,  but  her  absolute  favourite  is  STRAWBERRY  PUDDING.  

FAVOURITE  DRINK.         Chibiusa  is  a  big  milk  drinker.  Her  favourite,  of  course,  being  strawberry  milk.  When  she’s  not  drinking  milk,  she’s  either  drinking  tea  or  water;  but  she  always  tends  to  default  to  milk  if  she  can  help  it.  Despite  her  love  for  sweet  things,  she’s  not  a  huge  soda  drinker  as  the  carbonation  tends  to  upset  her  stomach.  

FAVOURITE  HOBBY.         Chibiusa’s  biggest  hobby  is  ART.  You  can  almost  always  find  her  with  a  sketchbook  in  hand  and  some  kind  of  pen  or  pencil,  drawing  away  in  her  notebook.  School  notes  are  often  littered  with  doodles  in  the  margins  and  even  her  diary  has  artistic  drawings  throughout  the  pages  to  accompany  whatever  event  happened  that  day.  Besides  drawing,  she  loves  to  paint  and  has  a  particular  fondness  for  watercolour.  Besides  art,  Chibiusa  is  also  very  fond  of  VIDEO  GAMES  and  is  very  good  at  them.  Living  for  over  900  years  has  given  her  plenty  of  time  to  practise  and  she  can  beat  just  about  any  game  you  give  her.  

FAVOURITE  SCENT.            Flowers;  specifically  roses.  One  of  her  favourite  places  in  the  Crystal  Palace  is  its  gardens,  where  she  spends  most  of  her  free  time  just  sitting  among  the  flowers  and  sketching  the  day  away  in  her  sketchbook  or  diary.  On  a  more  personal  note,  she  loves  the  smell  of  her  mother’s  perfume.  The  backpack  she  carries  when  she  travels  to  the  past  is  often  spritzed  with  this  perfume  so  that  any  time  she  feels  homesick,  she  can  smell  the  perfume  and  feel  like  she’s  close  to  her  mother  again.  

FAVOURITE  PERSON.         It  would  be  impossible  to  ask  her  to  name  her  favourite  person,  as  there  are  numerous  people  who  hold  a  special  place  in  her  heart—Usagi,  Mamoru,  her  parents,  Hotaru,  Pluto.  Even  Helios  has  taken  up  valuable  space  in  her  life,  despite  the  briefness  of  their  meeting.  

T E N   F A C T S  —

Besides  her  interest  in  art,  Chibiusa  is  also  active  in  the  GARDENING  CLUB at  Juuban  Middle  School.  She  loves  working  with  different  flowers  and  planting  them  around  the  school  with  the  other  kids  in  her  club.  Because  of  this,  she’s  developed  quite  a  talent  for  naming  flowers  and  their  meanings,  a  feat  she’s  accomplished  with  help  from  Makoto.

Unlike  Usagi’s,  Chibiusa’s  hair  is  very  thick,  meaning  that  it  takes  longer  for  it  to  grow  out.  Usagi’s  hair  was  already  ankle  length  by  the  time  she  was  fourteen,  but  it  will  take  Chibiusa  several  more  years  before  her  hair  reaches  the  same  length.  

As  a  child,  Chibiusa  would  often  go  to  the  park  to  sit  on  the  swingset  when  she  was  particularly  upset  or  sad  about  something.  Several  times  throughout  the  manga  and  anime,  she’s  depicted  sitting  on  the  swingset  during  moments  of  duress.  This  becomes  somewhat  of  a  tradition  as  she  gets  older;  the  swingset  becoming  her  own  quiet,  personal  space  to  think  about  things  that  are  troubling  her  and  unwind.  

Though  she  remembers  Wiseman  approaching  her,  Chibiusa  has no  recollection of  her  time  as  Black  Lady.  There  is  a  gap  in  her  memory  from  the  time  Wiseman  approached  her  to  her  awakening  as  Sailor  Chibimoon.  No  one  has  brought  it  up  to  her,  and  so  she  remains  oblivious  to  her  actions  under  Wiseman’s  control.  

Chibiusa  has  a  varying  degree  of  fluency  in  FIVE  DIFFERENT  LANGUAGES,  including  Japanese,  English,  French  and  reading  and  writing  fluency  in  Latin and  Greek.  Given  her  age  and  the  sheer  number  of  years  she’s  had  to  study,  she  finds  languages  fascinating  and  would  certainly  be  interested  in  learning  more.  She’s  particularly  interested  in  learning  Korean,  and  has  picked  up  bits  and  pieces  from  listening  to  music,  but  isn’t  fluent  enough  to  hold  any  level  of  conversation.  

Chibiusa’s  Ennagram  is  Type  4,  The  Individualist.  Fours  are  self-aware,  sensitive,  and  reserved.  They  are  emotionally  honest,  creative,  and  personal,  but  can  also  be  moody  and  self-conscious.  Withholding  themselves  from  others  due  to  feeling  vulnerable  and  defective,  they  can  also  feel  disdainful  and  exempt  from  ordinary  ways  of  living.  They  typically  have  problems  with  melancholy,  self-indulgence,  and  self-pity.  At  their  Best:  inspired  and  highly  creative,  they  are  able  to  renew  themselves  and  transform  their  experiences.  Type  Fours  have  a  desire  to  create  an  identity  for  themselves and  fear  having  no  personal  significance.  

Chibiusa  ascends  the  throne  of  Crystal  Tokyo  as  Queen  when  she  is  20  years  old,  taking  on  the  title  of  QUEEN  LADY  SERENITY,  or  SERENITY  III.  By  this  time,  King  Endymion  has  passed  away  and  Neo  Queen  Serenity  has  either  sent  her  Star  Seed  back  to  the  Galaxy  Cauldron  to  be  reincarnated  with  Endymion,  or  has  chosen  the  path  of  becoming  Sailor  Cosmos.  Regardless,  Neo  Queen  Serenity  worked  tirelessly  to  create  a  kingdom  that  would  love  her  daughter  once  she  inherited  it  and  thus,  Chibiusa’s  reign  as  queen  becomes  known  as  the  AURORA  MILLENNIUM.  

Each  of  the  Inner  Senshi  had  a  hand  in  personally  training  Chibiusa  as  a  Senshi  during  her  time  in  Crystal  Tokyo;  Mercury  taught  her  battle  tactics  and  basic  first  aid,  Mars  handled  the  humanitarian  side  of  things,  Jupiter  physically  trained  with  Chibiusa  to  build  up  her  strength,  and  Venus  mentored  her  in  the  ways  of  diplomacy  and  leadership.  

While  Chibiusa  no  longer  holds  the  fear  of  never  being  able  to  grow  up,  she  still  struggles  daily  with  INSECURITY  over  whether  or  not  she  can  really  live  up  to  Sailor  Moon’s  legacy.  Chibiusa  understands  that  she  is  her  own  person,  and  therefore  doesn’t  need  to  emulate  Sailor  Moon  or  her  mother;  but  making  her  proud  is  very,  very  important  to  her.  Often,  when  she  isn’t  sure  what  to  do  in  a  situation,  she  asks  herself  what  her  mother  would  do,  what  Usagi  would  do,  what  Sailor  Moon  would  do,  and  can  usually  find  her  way  from  there.  

Regardless  of  whether  they  end  up  together  or  not,  Chibiusa  more  or  less  considers  Helios  to  be  her  FIRST  LOVE.  He  was  one  of  the  few  she  felt  comfortable  enough  confiding  in  about  her  deepest  fears  and  concerns  and  he  never  treated  her  any  less  for  how  young  she  was  or  how  little  she  was.  Though  their  time  together  was  short,  she  will  always  be  grateful  for  the  way  he  treated  her  like  a  normal  girl  and  not  a  princess  who  needed  to  live  up  to  impossibly  high  expectations.  

FIVE  THINGS  SHE  LIKES.

Going out for MILKSHAKES with Hotaru and the Quartet.

RABBIT memorabilia.

COOKING lessons with Makoto.

Bubblegum pop music, particularly J-POP and K-POP.

Trashy ROMANCE manga.

FIVE  THINGS  SHE  DISLIKES.

Being UNDERESTIMATED because of her size.

Anyone HURTING her friends or family.

MIRRORS, especially in the dark. ( Thanks, Nehellenia. )

Generally rude, offensive or MISOGYNYSTIC behaviour.

Waiting – she’s very impatient.

COMMON  WORDS / PHRASES  THAT  ANNOY  THEM.          Anyone  insinuating  that  she  can’t  do  something  because  she’s  too  young  or too  little  is  a  sure  fire  way  to  dampen  her  mood.  Chibiusa  is  fiercely  independent,  and  will  make  it  a  matter  of  pride  to  prove  that  she  can  do  anything  she  sets  her  mind  to  regardless  of  her  age  or  size.  

PERSONALITY  TYPES  THEY  PREFER.         Chibiusa  gravitates  towards  calming,  reserved  personalities  like  Hotaru,  Mamoru,  or  Helios.  Boisterous  personalities,  like  Usagi,  she  tends  to  butt  heads  with  a  lot  because  of  their  personality  similarities.  She  needs  someone  to  balance  out  her  own  loud  personality.  In  other  words,  Chibiusa  can  dish  it  out,  but  she  can’t  take  her  own  medicine.  

PERSONALITY  TYPES  THEY  AVOID.         Chibiusa  immediately  avoids  anyone  with  discriminatory  or  offensive  views  such  as  racism,  homophobia,  sexism,  etc.  She  also  tends  to  avoid  people  who  are  openly  arrogant  or  conceited  as  that  kind  of  behaviour  grates  on  her  nerves.  For  the  most  part,  Chibiusa  can  get  along  with  just  about  anyone;  but  these  personality  types  are  definitely  people  she’d  rather  stay  away  from.  

WHAT  DO  YOU  FIND  DIFFERENT / DISTINCT  ABOUT  YOUR  PORTRAYAL?          I  think  I  definitely  take  to  exploring  Chibiusa  as  a  teenager/adult  way  more  than  the  average  person  in  the  fandom  does.  Most  of  the  information  and  interactions  on  this  blog  are  centered  around  a  post-canon  setting  that  lets  me  flesh  out  Chibiusa’s  life  beyond  what  Naoko  laid  out,  so  I  think  that’s  pretty  unique.  I  also  don’t  equate  Chibiusa  to  Usagi  nearly  as  much  as  she  is  in  actual  canon  or  the  fandom.  Chibiusa  is  more  than  a  carbon-copy  of  Usagi,  and  I  try  to  portray  that  and  expound  on  their  differences  any  chance  I  get;  also  showing  the  ways  that  she’s  similar  to  Mamoru/Endymion.      

#✧ — to become an elegant lady ╱ character study.

[dentistnewparlin-blog]

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[perksofbeingawaifu]

this is not what you think it is

canonverse (set sometime during the time skip), ereri, ~1800 words. trigger warnings: bondage--but not the way you think, ballgag--but not the way you think, ropes--again not what you’re thinking. minor violence.

The ropes dug into Eren’s flesh, raced across his naked chest trapping his arms at his side and over his bare thighs. He gave a little moan around the gag in his mouth and Levi thought, finally.

“You’re awake,” Levi ascertained. “Good.”

Eren made a noise that Levi assumed was “Captain?”

Levi at least was fully clothed, but because of his height, only came to Eren’s chest, which was very awkward because his tanned chest was very smooth, but also covered in Eren’s drool. Levi wiggled his wrists again, trying to get some blood flowing. Everything was too tight.

Eren looked around the room in horror and struggled to get free. Which was pointless really, their captors had wrapped Eren and Levi together several times over and bound them tight to keep Humanity’s Strongest from simply breaking the ropes and then threw in a chain on over the mess, because why not?

“Easy,” Levi ordered as Eren flailed. “I said easy!”

Eren rolled them both into a puddle of filth. The cistern water filled his ears and Levi’s nostrils flared. Eren realized his mistake because he let out a whimper as apology. Levi tensed up his core and with all his might rolled Eren over hard onto a rock.

“Calm down,” Levi snapped as Eren’s head spun.

“Ai tought it—“

“I don’t want to hear you talk with that thing in your mouth.”

But Levi knew what Eren was trying to say. He thought it was a dream. He thought it was a nightmare.

They’d wanted to try and lure out more Marleyan sympathizers. Not every one of those metal ships that came to the shores of Paradise Island sank with all crew aboard lost. Some had made it inward. Some had made it inside the walls. Some had help.

In that way, the plan was a success, they’d successfully routed out the culprits.

On the other hand, it was a complete failure because both Eren and Levi had been caught and taken hostage. Levi hadn’t been able to count, but it was at least thirty men—some of whom he’d killed—who rushed in on him at once. If Mikasa was worth one hundred soldiers, well then Levi knew he was worth thirty some traitors because that’s how many had grabbed him, nearly pulling his arm out of its socket. They’d beaten him and thrown nets around him and then, the worst yet, chained him to his subordinate. They’d stripped Eren nearly naked, trying to search him for knives or any other weapons he might possess.

“There you are, you devils,” said the man who must have been their leader. “I’m going to take the pair of you back to Boss. He can slice up the shortie in revenge and we can claim the Coordinate which is rightfully ours. And best part is, you can’t turn into that ugly titan because if you do, your Captain here will be just chunks of guts on the wall.”

The man laughed as he kicked Eren’s head and Levi closed his eyes, waiting to be nothing but brain matter, but nothing happened, just steam. And as Levi waited for Eren to wake he began taking stock of the cellar.

“Ahain Evi?” Eren asked, sounding so miserable, Levi couldn’t be mad at him for disobeying the order not to speak.

“Yes?”

“Ah ave to ‘ee.”

Levi closed his eyes for patience.

<*>

“Hold still,” Levi said.

He leaned up and bit at the strap holding the ball gag around Eren’s mouth and shook it back and forth. Walls. He was going to lose a tooth doing this. Eren too. Of course Eren’s grew back, the little monster. It was odd, doing this. His teeth scraped against Eren’s stubbled cheek. Levi could smell a hint of military issued aftershave.  

“AH!” Eren gasped.

Levi had shook it free enough so that the ball was out of Eren’s mouth but still so tight that it was trapped to his bottom lip, giving him an expression akin to a bulldog. Levi carefully took the gag in his mouth and as he did, his lips brushed against Eren’s. He paused. Really this was no time to be worried about nonsense like that. He pulled and tugged the gag down as far as he could with Eren shaking his head to try and free himself of it.

“Got it!” Eren gasped.

“My teeth are going to be sore for weeks,” Levi complained, cracking his jaw.

“Sorry Captain,” Eren apologized. “This is all my fault.”

“No, it’s not,” Levi sighed.

Levi respected Eren enough to not acknowledge Eren’s tears even as they stained his cravat.

“Listen, Eren. If they come back, I want you to transform.”

“But sir—“

“You heard me. Titans don’t work well underground, but at least that way you can try to escape.”

“No! Sir! I refuse.”

“You’re going to refuse a direct order from me again, Eren?” Levi asked dangerously.

Eren averted his gaze. “Please…sir, if I transform like this, it’s possible I could kill you. Please don’t make me a murderer.”

“You didn’t kill Armin and Mikasa when you saved them from that cannon ball, did you?” Levi asked. “Then I’ll be fine.”

“The ropes…if I transform the ropes could break your back or cut you into pieces. Please, sir.”

“Then let’s find a way out of here so that doesn’t happen,” Levi said calmly.

They came up with an odd way of searching the room. They rolled across the floor in tandem. Eren’s hair picked up bits of hay. They gained a bit of momentum and overshot their goal, Eren landing on top of Levi. His cheeks were red from exertion and he looked down at Levi breathlessly. He appeared to lose focus for a moment.

“You have spittle on your cheek,” Levi pointed out.

“Sorry,” Eren apologized. There was nothing he could do about it.

Levi felt something hard nudge him between his legs. Please no.

“What’s that?” Eren asked, perhaps as a distraction, nudging him and looking over behind a crate.

A bottle.

They wiggled towards it like two stuck inchworms.

“Roll me over so I can smash it with my hands,” Levi ordered. They were mostly numb but he could still crack it.

“No! Captain—“

“If you tell me ‘no’ one more time—“

“It’s just that you need your hands to hold your blades! Sir! An—and if you slice them, you’ll be unable to do that. I don’t have that problem. Use my hands. They’re worthless.”

Levi didn’t say anything, he only chewed on his lower lip before rolling so Eren could reach the bottle.

“A little closer,” Eren begged as his fingertips stretched for the bottle.

“I don’t think they’re worthless,” Levi said.

“Huh?” Eren asked, still stretching for the neck of the bottle.

“Your hands. I don’t think they’re worthless.”

A smile split across Eren’s face and he hummed, resting his forehead against Levi’s own. He pursed his lips and rested them in the center of the part in Levi’s hair. It was such a bizarre and unexpected gesture, Levi couldn’t find it within himself to chastise him, even as the touch lingered still longer.

“Got it!” Eren crowed.

“Quiet,” Levi hissed.

There was noise outside the door. They paused with bated breath, listening as the footsteps continued on and up the stairs.

“Hurry.”

It took a few tries but Eren eventually cracked the bottle on the stone and then began to saw at his bindings.

“I think there’s another piece here big enough for you,” Eren said, twisting and Levi rolled over him to grab it with his fingers.

He didn’t feel the bottle slice through his fingers until the blood started rushing back in and then everything began screaming in pain.

“Hurt today, live tomorrow. Hurt today, live tomorrow,” Levi muttered to himself as the blade became slippery from sweat and blood.

He didn’t even realize he was saying it aloud until he caught the determined look on Eren’s face. They could do nothing but wiggle the blade back and forth in silence.

The second the binding around Levi’s wrists fell free, he tilted his head back in relief. Once their hands were free, they made quick work of the other ropes. There was just the issue of the chain bound around their chests.

“Okay, let’s stand up—“ Levi said.

They both leaned in different directions, causing their heads to snap back together and crack their skulls loudly.

“Follow me,” Levi said through grit teeth.

“Sorry, sir,” Eren said meekly and they struggled up together.

“You need to hold on to me. As close as you can. Make yourself as small as possible, do you hear?”

“I…yes, sir.”

Eren couldn’t wrap his arms around Levi so he instead tucked his head into the crook of Levi’s neck in an attempt to close the gap between them. Levi closed his eyes as he worked on the chain, pulling it down mere inches at a time.  

“Here we need to breath in and then…out. Together,” Levi said and felt Eren’s hot mouth against his ear as he exhaled.

The chain slipped enough so that Levi could pull out his hand. He stared at it and flexed, wincing in pain.

“Here, let’s get you,” Levi said, pulling it so Eren could remove his own hands.

Then they pulled it down to the waist.

“Here, let me just—“

“Sir, you’re accidentally pulling my undershorts off—sir—“

Without the fabric in the way the chain around Eren slipped off easily. He fell out of it, naked and trying very much to hide that fact by covering himself.

“We’re soldiers Eren, it’s nothing we haven’t seen before,” Levi said, but his mouth went dry as Eren bent over to pick up his discarded clothing. “Here, help me with this. I can’t get it off.”

Eren sank to his knees to help.

“It’s stuck on…a button, I think…” Eren complained, trying to free it from Levi’s shirt.

“Just rip it,” Levi said and Eren did.

A button clattered to the floor and they both stared at it, faces burning.

And yet with that small button they had finally won their limbs back but were not yet free of the cellar. Each took their spot at the door, waiting, listening.

“Captain…” Eren said.

“What?” Levi asked, trying to look through the gapped hinges of the door.

He stepped forward and placed his hands behind Levi’s neck and kissed him. Levi didn’t have time to revel in the moment. He stared at Eren with confusion.

“Focus,” he ordered, gripping Eren’s head with his hands. “When this door opens I want you to transform, do you hear me? I want you to make as much steam as you possibly can and then we are going to use the cover to get out of here. Can you do that for me?”

Eren licked his lips. “Yeah. Yes.”

“Good.” Levi released him. “And if you’re still alive when we make it out of here, you can kiss me again.”

“Yes, sir,” Eren saluted.

It took him a moment to fully realize what Levi had said, but by then they were off and running, making their desperate bid for freedom.

#ereri #snk #manga spoilers #snk manga spoilers #snkartists network #drabble #ummmm #*flees* #i'm so nervous i haven't posted a ficlet in forever #:S

[miamstix]

hm... uhh got any for matt? sorry if you wanted a different aspect hgdfjaf

yea!

I’m a bit to tired to spaz up the writing in this so it’s gonna be bare-bones bulleted list style

tendency to be very tired with random bursts of energy throughout the day; not particularly motivated by anything in life

really likes electro-dance and swing music; listens to it obsessively

plays guitar but not particularly good at it (can probably only play smoke on the water and wonderwall)

thanatophobia hardcore

rly nice falsetto (very impressive)

not athletic AT ALL but has quite a bit o’ natural muscle and hes rly proud of it

rly shitty stamina and gets tired out very easily, prone to black outs

secret not-so-secret tycoon type

very social and just a step below the “bro” type

very hard worker but very hard to be motivated to actually do work

agnostic

rarely brushes hair but still uses product (he tries to go for that bedhead look and almost pulls it off)

loves ghost rider

aspires to be ghost rider

favorite colors are mulberry and royal blue- tends to also like more earthy tones

Not personality ones

height is 5′10″-6′2″ depending

lean but muscular build

eyes are midnight blue

tooth gap

I’ve kinda just had this to myself but the HQ last name I’ve almost always had for them is “Herring”

sorry this took a while I’m pretty scattered rn also I didn’t edit it hahaha 

#reply #phobia mention

[curlyjoe7]

In March (I Think) It’ll Be 5 Years Of This Blog 🥳🎉

In celebration of this I thought I’d give an updated version facts about me! Last time I did this it was 2016 I believe and I have changed a lot for a lot of different reasons. I’m not the same person I was then so enjoy learning about me now <3

Let’s go starting with the basics~

My name is Lux which is a name I picked for myself! It’s Latin for 🌟light 🌟 and the nicknames I go by are Lulu, Louie and most commonly Lou. Though I consider Lux to be my real name, my birth name is Rachel.

I’m pansexual 💗💛💙

I’m agender (she/her pronouns & gender neutral terms)

I’m 5’1 1/2

I live in Florida 🐊

Me & my family have 3 cats 🐈🐈🐈, 1 snake 🐍 & a leopard guecko 🦎

I have depression

I have anxiety

I have OCD

Now onto the favorites~

My favorite colors are pink, blue, yellow (work with me on that they don’t have yellow) & black

My favorite animal is an elephant 🐘

My favorite food is pasta 🍝

My favorite genre of music is {pop}

My favorite music artists are BTS, Noah Cyrus, Julia Michaels, Marina (& The Diamonds), Halsey, Lorde, Astrid S, Selena Gomez, Taylor Swift, Fifth Harmony, Camila Cabello, Alessia Cara, Daya, Kiiara, Keith Urban, Owl City, Sabrina Carpenter, Trevor Moran & Olivia O’Brien

My favorite type of weither is rain 🌧

My favorite physical feature on myself is my tooth gap 🦷

My favorite person is my bf who is also my bff ❤️

My favorite game is Pokemon

My favorite Pokemon are Bellossom, Serperior, & Umbreon

My favorite Pokemon types are dark, grass and ghost!

My favorite legendary Pokemon is Celebi

My favorite movie is Alice In Wonderland (1951) & some of my other favorites are Ponyo, Ratatouille, The Little Mermaid, Tangled, The Emperor’s New Groove, Coraline, & The Parent Trap (Lohan one)

Here are things I like/like to do~

I like to make art of all mediums 👩🏻‍🎨

I like to write ✍🏻 , I love poetry most!

I like photography & taking pictures of what I find beautiful 📸

I like using my ⭐️imagination⭐️ & 💫creativity 💫

I like making things myself

I like vintage toys & collect them 🧸

I like snowglobes which I also collect

I like things most people would find creepy, eclectic &/or simply unusual & like going to thrift stores to find them

I like memes 😂

I like aesthetics

I like darkness

I like nighttime🌛 over daytime 🌞

I LIKE DUMPLINGS 🥟

I like fairies 🧚🏻‍♂️✨

I like children’s movies (preferably animated) over adult ones

I like going out for drives, exploring & walking around the beach, all when it’s dark out

I like having deep, meaningful conversations with the people I love <3

I like rainbows because they remind me of how gay I am 🏳️‍🌈

I like listening to music 🎵

I like food a lot 😋

I like nature 🌲

I like animals 🐑

I like tattoos

I like colorful hair

I like seeing the beauty in everything

Here are things I dislike/dislike to do~

I dislike sports ⚽️🏀🏈⚾️🎾

I dislike walking on eggshells around others

I dislike when people won’t just tell me what’s wrong

I dislike when people are afraid to talk about their emotions with me

I DISLIKE when people sing along to/over music with others around

I dislike reading poetry (only like writing it though there are a few people’s poetry I do read)

I dislike change

I dislike lots of noise 🗣

I dislike it being too quiet...

I dislike school

I dislike most vegetables 🥦

Fears~

Germs 🦠

Blood

Heights

Falling

Being alone

Dying

Living forever

Being alive when the world ends & witnessing it all

Bugs 🐜

Not feeling 90% secure

Change

People using me & not actually liking me

Lots of people

And personality traits~

Kind & sweet 🍯

Sympathetic

Empathic

Caring

Nonjudgmental

Listener & talker (I like to do both)

Funny

Weird 🤪

Dark 🖤

Honest/sometimes way too honest

Overthinker 🤔

Paranoia

Jealous 👁

Trust issues

And that’s all! I hope you all enjoyed learning more about me :)

#facts about me #curlyjoe7 #this took so long so I really hope you appreciate it lol

[prognoseas]

ROLEPLAY APPLICATION: AKATSUKI RYŪJIN.

word count: 1,027 words.

context: roleplay, for nightlands on jcink.

trigger warning: sacrilegious imageries, suicide, mental illnesses, body horror, parental neglect, implied violence.

暁龍神.

… at the beginning, there is nothing.

like this: send the pain down below. incisor mouth. stalactite teeth. a tongue that does not praise the gods. in heaven. in hell. on earth. on this forgotten nebula crafted out of skyscrapers, its streets veined along the line of its bodied intents. silt of its stomach speaks of incessant maladies, swelling in europolis like the foreboding downpour. acid rain. vitriol lies. he came, he saw. he conquered.

a smoke-stained tune that rippled at the balcony of a mansion in magatama. inquired himself, if the home of his ancestors would taste like this against his palate. the artifices were pungent, coloring his insides with decapitated splatters. it was plastic; could’ve fooled the boy, but he knew that these strangers did not chant prayers. there were no gods residing among the faux galaxies, each millimeter of them expanding into territories of the atheists. what is a god to a non-believer?

there was a kanji ( 神 ) at the tourniquet of the house that he never learned the meaning of, apart from the fact that it was derived from his name. it was forgotten, archaic. like ryujin, like him. father wore this like gauze around his knuckles, metaphorical walls against his fists. sometimes, ordained fingers, with his fingernails filthied from the entropy as foretold by the people whose words carried too many beasts. father contained the weight of the world on his globed shoulders, scavenging lives for spines that did not straighten. and he was a genius, even as a little boy, tracing the mementos of lumbar punctures down his father’s weary eyes and crinkled smiles. he did not believe in the lies the vultures whispered. father was a liar.

mother was an addict. the pale of her skin reminded him of sandpaper reveries, and she would stroke his face when she was not inebriated, tremors reverberating in her withering organs. she was sick. he did not know of what. but. viscera of her being too translucent. there was death written everywhere in the fracture of her syllables. she spoke in riddles. he did not return in answer. it did not make sense — someone who was alive would not proceed for personal manslaughter without any good reason. later on in life, he discovered that it was called suicide. but was it?

divinity was something to unlearn, undo. knot by knot. ridge by ridge. after mother’s funeral, he washed his mouth three times. his hands, ten. he called it a suicide.

生き甲斐.

he is a body martyred from baptismal waters, with their weight drenching his clothes, clinging to his skin. or perhaps, their weight soaking his skin. seeping, sleeping in the pores, with the mechanism of a forgotten religion ticking like a clockwork in the background. he’s done believing, he’s done devoting. there’s a form of ennui blooming against the back of his mind as he recalls what it tasted like to trust, and then, and then, and then, what it tasted like to lie. he likes the latter better. perhaps it’s the subdued peroxide that litters his mouth, rinsing it off the dissidents imprisoned among his tooth gaps. either way, there’s no hope in beliefs. no shrine in the wild, as they all once said.

what is a god to a non-believer? naught, it all comes down to zero sum.

father is riveting ennui that always expects him to revert to the boy he once was. reminds him of this: the culture of this oxblood is a fate determined by the corporation. he would smile, and nod. of course it is, of course it is. he has climbed to the pyramid of fallacies, too high in the sun for his father to reach. untruth: he grew up in the norms, following each rule by the pints. in this colossus of hierarchies decided on the rationed bloodlines, his paths were written for him way before his birth. and father has always been a tool, but he isn’t.

forked roads led him here, but he paved the second himself. in here, in the construct of mechanism that reaps for the rich, from the poor, he unstitches his ribcage one by one, liberating himself of the social confines that became the insignia to the wati corporate. at this height, he is invisible. and so, exploits it to the last drop. he is an addict. an apple does not fall far from its tree, and he is the rotten fruit shed from his mother’s last breath. except he does not down for additives, he kills. slowly, softly. this is the art of becoming.

犠牲者.

like the parasite that he is, he clings onto the intended victims, descending drought onto their thieved veins. blackmails become common normality; he likes listening to them writhe, the stench of fear bleeding into their voice through the encrypted calls. his own is cool, smoothened into a flatline. he’s heard of his victims, casualties. hung like chandeliers, swinging gently against the morning breeze. no amount of work would be able to pay off debts for the precarious bionics he sold them. effortless balances at first, enticing promises after.

his designs are branded with corruption, embedded into each like how he is. calls himself with the kanji — jin — for a long time. he is a god. it’s not a game anymore; he is made into a god in this epoch of technologies. there’s no signed contract like how he would do it in wati; instead, there’s a stamp of hushed tones. he pushes his limits, with far too much detachment added to his emotions. psychopathy, many would call it, but is he when he feels vicariously, distilling trepidation into his own satisfaction? he would agree to disagree, but nods anyway when it comes to the therapist’s words. brands him with a plea of insanity; but is he?

therapies, after all, are afforded to show the latest brand of old money.

this holocene rips into an emptied vessel of his body, draining memoirs siphoned out of his father’s untruths. he has become like his old man, if not twelve times worse. but what difference that it makes, apart from the fact that his father falls on his knees, bowing to the gods that do not listen? he, instead, turns the cogs for himself, ascending into the graffitied edges of lethal theologies. he is their god, all these lonely limbs with their victimized dreams. looks at them without pity, knowing too well that humans are driven by the things that scare them. he’s doing them a favor by becoming one. it is not a murder when the deaths are ruled as suicide, the retrieval of his bionics done by the cleaners he paid a bit too much.

and at the end of this street, there will be a man that sinks into the capillaries of the skies’ horizons, his hood drawn as he listens to the recorders that bloom in secrets. named after a god, so a good he becomes. in your wildfires, you will remember him, and pray that he won’t eat you alive with the phantom hands that you don’t remember having, and you don’t remember not having.

#writeblr #m #prognoseas

[get-a-new-lease-on-life]

Gallery of Memories - Missed Steps

It was bound to happen sooner or later, right? Funny how a person's priorities can change over time.

This chapter dedicated to Aeroza, Shelshokd, my nutty-hubby Cold, and all you other wonderful people who (maybe unintentionally) talked me into the madness about to happen. After all, in the immortal words of Cold Thomas, "Quit agonizin' over bullshit an' just knock'er up a'ready." Wish granted, Cold...this is gonna be hilarious! Chapter warning: Glen Devon - he talks. More important chapter warning: Here be munchkins - prepare for cavities.

Suggested Listening: Carrie Underwood "What I Never Knew I Always Wanted," Savage Garden "Truly, Madly, Deeply"

Missed Steps

Many years ago – sixteen years ago, in fact – a woman named Amber O'Brien died with only the regret that she never found a love worth living for. That was the official story but the truth was much more complicated: she found that love as a child in dreams of a boy from another world but the connection was doomed from the start. Two people from two different realities could never meet outside of dreams…at least, so they thought until Amber died and was given a new lease on life in his reality. Sixteen years, Amber considered with a wide, crooked grin, was really not that long after all—not when one considered she left behind the year 2011 and awoke in 2016. Ten years, now that was a much more impressive number to her. After all, a little over ten years ago she and Donatello pledged themselves to one another and began a new life together.

After over a decade the Lair was still very much the same as the day she first arrived there, if a little more spread out, expanded on, and improved. There were some changes - the kitchen was cramped nowadays what with all the extra mouths at mealtimes and the home's upkeep was more time-consuming. There were always repairs to be done, too. Things broke, structures weakened, little hands found new ways to injure themselves on supposedly safe surfaces…hence why Amber sat plopped down on a stool in the pantry doorway, screwdriver in hand, finishing up the install of hardware for a long-overdue door.

A wheezing nasal giggle drew her attention from the lock to the culprit responsible—a young boy barely six who had a naughty habit of climbing the pantry shelves to reach the cookie stash and getting stuck at the top. Byron  Isaac, or “Zack,” was her little miracle—well, one of them at least.

At first glance he seemed simply human—a little oddly formed with unusual proportions, granted, but he wasn't obviously a mutant. Still, anyone who looked closely enough could see the truth. His skin didn't match either parents'. The color was a smooth olive tone—paler and browner than Donnie's skin but much greener in color than a normal human could boast without terminal illness or a steady diet of pennies. Even at six years old his family could see that he would have his father's lean build and his impressive height. He had a flat, wide nose, chubby cheeks, full lips, small, flat ears, and an adorable gap-toothed grin that practically matched Donnie's as a child but with crooked teeth—and that was saying nothing of the most obvious trait. She shook her head at the irony, her grin only widening. He got her grey-green eyes, ears, and overbite but Donnie's thick, rough skin and complete inability to grow hair. Even now, hunched over with a hand-whittled brain-teaser puzzle and nearly cocooned in his favorite green afghan, his bare head was carefully covered with a matching knit cap.

"Check." Amber followed the proclamation to the man sitting at Zack's left. Straddling an old wooden chair, arms crossed across the backrest, Donnie stared down his opponent fairly exuding the sort of confidence that never failed to send her brain straight to Gutterville. Despite knowing he wasn't the only male in the kitchen who could pick up her 'screw-me' pheromones she couldn't resist a thorough once-over. Donnie's opponent scowled, grumbled something thick with brogue, and studied the blank pieces on the board for a way out. Unfortunately for Glen Devon, Blind Chess* was much more complex than traditional chess, and Donatello wasn't an easy opponent at either.

Amber's Gran'Da never fully recovered his health after developing pneumonia in the first year after his granddaughter's death. Every winter he grew weaker and wearier, and his family worried he wasn't much longer for their world. All that changed when Splinter reminded them of a rather obvious fact—every year in Amber's new reality was marked by two in her old one. Not too long after the family was first reunited from beyond the grave, the eldest mutant extended a standing invitation to his son's future grandfather-in-law—anytime, any day, for any length of time. After a short while of getting to know one another, the two were decided: the stay was permanent. Living in this new, slower-paced world was extending Glen's lifespan and being away from Missouri's harsh winters and humid summers was much easier on his weakened lungs. …and, of course, being out from under his daughter's roof, away from his son-in-law, and in the company of his beloved granddaughter and another similar in age, was a drastic improvement in his stress levels, temperament, and blood pressure.

The situation couldn't last forever—Glen would eventually pass on from this life to the next—but in the meantime, he had only one thing to say: "Hah!" he barked into his tumbler of fine single-malt. "Tak' tha'!"~ The taunt followed a rather well-executed move involving swiping Donnie's Bishop with a Knight. There was just one problem with that move…

"Not so fast," the mutant warned glancing pointedly at the piece Glen just moved. "Check it." Glen glared in open suspicion but obediently lifted the Knight he just moved…and swore a guttural Scots blue-streak only he and Amber understood. All the pieces on the board were pale unstained wood—unidentifiable by camp when upright—but every piece in each 'camp' was marked on the bottom with a dab of black or white paint. The Knight he used, like the Bishop he captured, was a black piece…and he was playing white. This twist was what made Blind Chess so tricky—players had to keep track of all their pieces at every move and there were consequences if they made a mistake.

"Aw, soak yer heid,"~ Glen groused shoving his small pile of captured pieces toward Donnie. The genius hummed thoughtfully as the other replaced the captured Bishop, contemplating his options, then replaced the pieces and returned a black pawn to the board…blocking his previous check on Glen's king. Glen smirked behind his thick beard and mustache, grey-blue eyes glinting, but said nothing of the concession.

A faint raspy noise split the silence in what used to be the barracks; Amber stilled, her every sense fixing on the small room just off the hallway. Sure enough, another cough followed, then a bout of sharp hacking and wheezing. The three at the table turned to her as one but she was already gone from their sight.

Amber tapped softly at the partially-open door; her instincts told her she was needed, that the occupant might not be able to answer her, but experience told her barging into the room was a definite no-go. "Emily?" No answer. She tapped at the door again, this time a little louder. "I'm comin' in, okay?" Not even one foot inside the small lavender and lace-decked bedroom and Amber could hear the young one's ailing lungs rattling; the underground, alas, wasn't the best place for a child with a cold. "Aw, Emmy," she murmured brushing the child's soft ginger curls off of her brow. The heat coming off that skin made her wince. "My poor lil' lahss…are you feelin' even a tad better?"

"N-N-ho," Emily croaked. "Throat h-hurts…"

"A cold'll do that, Em." It was the truth but one which wouldn't reassure anyone facing it, much less a child of six years. She stepped away to collect a glass bottle, medicine dropper, and small carton of some fruit-flavored drink from the dresser; after a glance at the sparkly blue clock on the wall, she turned to scrutinize her daughter's appearance. Emily Jane's olive-toned skin was even less brown and more verdant than Isaac's but now it was far too pale; sweat shimmered on her little round face from the fever and exertion of coughing. Further evidence of her struggle ringed her remarkable hazel eyes in puffy shadows, that evidence all-the-more visible without her purple-rimmed glasses. Her mind made up, Amber deftly drew another dose from the syrup bottle and popped open the juice box. "Still, you're not coughin' as badly today, an' you were able to handle some soup earlier—it may not seem it, but you are gettin' better, Lil' Scribs."~ She didn't mention the fact that Isaac was already mostly over his cold. It seemed he inherited their father's impressive immune system while Emily got stuck with her weaker defenses.

"N-hot fast en-hou—" Halfway through the word the tickle in her throat struck again and she delved into another hacking fit. It was silly to hope for anyone to recover from a bad cold overnight but Amber couldn't help but wish for just that—every moment Emily and Isaac were sick, even with the common cold, was a moment too long. How did her own mother manage to stay positive and pushy all the times she got sick as a child? "N-N-ho, duh' wan'—"

"Aw, wheesht now,"~ Amber chided mid-whine and helped her daughter sit up. "I know, this medicine tastes somethin' awful but it is helping—if you don't take it, you won't get better, hm?" Emily shot her mother a pucker-lipped, openly suspicious glare and Amber had to bite her lip to keep from laughing; it reminded her of her mother, Ginny, facing down a car salesman promising a low finance rate. "C'mon, Sweets, your Da blended this just for you an' your brother—it'll hurt his feelings if you won't take it." The scowl weakened, Em's little lips quivering just the slightest bit; she was, after all, Daddy's little princess no matter how much the nickname supposedly embarrassed her. "If you take it without arguing, I'll have Uncle Mikey bring you some orange sherbet later, okay?"

The magic words had an immediate effect, though Amber couldn't be sure whether the winning combo was orange sherbet or Uncle Mikey. Both were equally likely considering Emily's sore, scratchy throat and Michelangelo's 'professional fun-uncle' attitude. Even after silently downing the cough syrup, though, the girl pulled a gruesome face and gulped down the juice in one breath to rid herself of the after-taste. As she fought off nausea from the foul-tasting cough syrup, Emily turned to a favorite past time. "Mum…why y-hou…call me…lil'—"

"Lil' Scribs?" Amber finished when her daughter started coughing again. "We've told you that story so many times, Sweets. How aren't you tired of it yet?" Her answer was a shy smile and a lopsided shrug. Children weren't as prone to growing bored of the same tales over and over, as evidenced by the thrice-replaced binding on Isaac's favorite storybook; parents always tired of telling a story long before their children tired of hearing it. "When your Da an' I found out you an' your brother were on the way, we knew we needed to find the perfect names for you. We needed names that would tell you just how special you are to us, give you room to grow, an' remind you of what really matters in life."** Emily scooted her little bottom over on the bed to give her mother room; the moment Amber was seated the little redhead curled up against her mother's side.

"Your Da chose Isaac an' Jane," Amber continued, petting Emily's shoulder-length curls. "Your brother is named for a brilliant scientist Da greatly admires, an' who made great discoveries in his field. Your middle name comes from a strong, clever woman whose stories far outlast her; her name is Jane Austen. I chose Byron and Emily—your brother's name is for a poet my late Gran' loved, an' you're named for another poet—Emily Dickinson, one of my favorites."

"B-hut wh-hy Scribs?" Emily piped up; a gentle pop to the tip of her nose set her giggling, although with a pronounced wheeze in her lungs.

"There are few adults who've never heard any of Dickinson's poetry," Amber explained, "but beautiful as it is, the poetry's only part of her story. Like you, Miss Dickinson lived most of her life apart from the rest of the world but she was happy. She didn't need the world to love her so long as she loved herself." Granted, Emily Dickinson was a hermit and may have wanted to socialize more but the message of self-acceptance and confidence was just what the little hybrid needed.

"As for the nickname," Amber continued with a crooked smile, "Miss Dickinson had a funny way of writin' poetry: she wrote some of her best poems on envelopes an' sent them to friends an' family with letters. Her writing wasn't the neatest—more scribbles than handwriting—" Emily's shadow-hung eyes brightened in realization; even after countless retellings this part of the story always excited her most. "The messy handwriting might make people think she was plain, simple, an' nothin' so special. If they look beyond the writing, read the lines behind the scribbles, the truth is obvious: she was a beautiful soul with a beautiful mind, an' she accomplished great things in her time." Another fudge, alas—Emily Dickinson's moment in the sun didn't come until her time on earth was over, but it all happened because the right person saw past the scribbles and seclusion. Amber let the half-truth roll of her shoulders like a promise of Santa's yearly visit, again rationalizing that the message was what mattered, and she summed up the tale the same way she always did. "You're a beautiful soul, Sweets, with an equally beautiful mind; not everyone will understand you because of how truly special you are—"

"C-huz my Da's a mun…uh…h-he's a…a moo…" Her nose wrinkled in confusion, trying to recall the word she heard from Uncle Raphie last week.

"He's special," Amber corrected gently; she suspected the word was mutant but if Emily heard it from Raph during one of his self-disgust-fueled-turtle-tantrums it might also have been monster. That was one word Amber hoped the twins would never hear attached to their family, especially to them. "Da, your uncles, an' yer Gran'da Splinter are all special—they're not human on the outside but on the inside, where it matters, they're more human than most of New York. They aren't easily accepted by others because they look different, but that doesn't make them ugly—different isn't always bad." Emily's face fell, as always saddened by the realization that her father, uncles, and grandfather may never be accepted by the world. "You know what your Da said the first time he saw you?" Amber prompted to redirect that thinking; Emily shook her head, hazel eyes hopeful, and Amber repeated Donnie's words to the letter. "She's beautiful. You an' your brother don't look just like him, Em, an' you don't look just like me—you're each a wonderful mix of both of us. You an' your brother might not always be accepted by others because you look different, but to us, an' to anyone else who really matters, you're perfect, inside and out."

As always, the affirmation triggered Emily's shy nature and she burrowed into her mother's side to hide her blush and sheepish smile. Amber said nothing—she just petted Emily's hair and let her process the story and promise all over again. Normally, she'd recover quickly and want to hear more—stories, songs, poetry, anything went in these quiet moments. Normally, however, her daughter wasn't weak and weary from fighting a cold; for that reason, it came as no surprise when Amber felt the little body tucked into her side start to sag and slide down toward the mattress. She carefully extricated herself from the tiny lump leaning on her and laid Emily down to rest some more. As she tucked the blanket around the girl's shoulders and smoothed her frizzy hair away from her cartilage-shielded internal ears, she found a pair of light-refractive hazel-green eyes peering up at her. "Wu-hun more?" Amber hesitated. "…please?" That did it—how could her heart ever allow her to resist the puppy-dog eyes?

"Just one," she agreed softly, "then you need to rest a bit, a'right?" Emily gave a sluggish nod and squirmed into a more comfortable position in the blankets as Amber settled on the edge of the mattress again. "This poem was written by the woman you were named for," she revealed gently carding her fingers through her daughter's thick hair, "Emily Dickinson."*** She took a moment to collect herself, gather her breath, and pull the lines from her memories, then recited in a slow, careful murmur.

" 'Hope' is the thing with feathers – That perches in the soul – And sings the tune without the words – And never stops – at all –"

A gentle sigh broke the silent pause; dimming hazel eyes blinked slowly. Amber momentarily choked, her voice stolen by the sweetness of the moment, then continued softer than before.

"And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard – And sore must be the storm – That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm –"

This time the breath was a yawn, partly smothered in a frilly purple pillowcase. Amber slowed and softened her words, petting Emily's riotous hair instead of playing with it. "I've heard it in the chilliest land," she professed to the darkening eyes sliding closed, "and on the strangest Sea…yet…never…in Extremity…" She paused—a soft, wheezy snore answered her silence—a crooked grin split her lips. She ducked to leave a light kiss on the rust-colored hair. "…always, and entirely," she whispered altering the words and the message, "my lil' girl you'll be."

Mere minutes after she left the kitchen, Amber breezed back through the utility room again. "Hey, Hon," Donatello greeted his mate, "how's—" The question fell flat when he got only a watery smile and a squeeze to the shoulder on her way out of the kitchen. The genius twisted in his seat just in time to see her duck into the Lab and switch on the lights.

"Yer lahss is daein' jus' fine," Glen remarked, pointedly arching one grizzled eyebrow. "Hawd yer fashin'."~

When they first met—nay, even for the first couple years of the two men's acquaintance—Donnie wouldn't have understood even half of what the elder said. After he moved in, the two immediately began interacting regularly thanks to Amber's meddling. Thanks to that the genius was learning to 'talk the talk' – or, at least, how to interpret it. "I know," he admitted tugging at his already stiff neck. "It's just a cold. She's going to be fine and logically there's no reason to worry or fuss over something so small but—"

"She's yer lil' lahss, Son," Glen countered with a smirk. "Logic has naethin' fur tae do wi' it."~ Donnie nodded in silent agreement—all his prized logic and rationality went right out the window when the twins or their mother were involved. Curious how they could be his Achilles Heel and give him strength all at the same time… "Save a' 'at worryin' fur when she brings hame 'er firs' boyfrien',"~ the elder added with a smirk. The genius nodded mutely, eyes locked on the lab's open door; when it hit him what Glen said, though, he lurched around so hard he knocked into the table and toppled half the chessboard.

"Oh, Hell no!" he blurted, eyes practically bulging. At his right, Isaac burst out laughing at him and quickly devolved into wheezing snorts and SHNERKS. "No boyfriends! Not gonna happen, not over my dead—" An unexpected impact—a tossed pawn—hit him square in the forehead right over the bridge of his glasses. He physically cut the threat off with his teeth in an audible snap. Glen's smug grin sucked all the wind out of his sails—a favor he returned with an accusing glare as he worked to right the fallen chess pieces. After how many boyfriends Emily's mother had before they met in life, who could blame him for being wary of boys around their daughter?

"What's wrong with Mum?" The two adults turned to Isaac in open confusion; how did he get from cackling to concern so quickly? Donnie blinked. He smelled Mikey's influence. "She's gone quiet again…is she okay?" Donnie craned his neck to see around the wall of cabinets, searching for some explanation. Amber was, indeed, quiet—too quiet—and after so many years of fighting her demons along with her, Donnie knew it was happening for a reason.

"I'm sure she's fine, Zack," he reassured Isaac but he didn't really feel the smile he wore. "She's probably just thinking too loudly again." He glanced over at Glen—the elder gave a slow, pointed nod—he turned back to his son, sliding off his chair. "I'll be right back," he promised, heading toward the hall. "Keep an eye on Grahn'Dee for me, okay?" Predictably, Glen grumbled under his breath about his son-in-law using the kids' nickname for him but aimed a sly wink at the already grinning boy. The moment Donnie was out of sight and earshot, Glen reached for the chessboard and smoothly turned it around a full 180 degrees. The genius' black pieces—and field advantage—were now switched with his few remaining white pieces. "…an' naow," Glen stage-whispered to the laughing, wheezing, snorting six-year-old, "we wait."

In the silent Lab, Amber stared through the bookshelves lining one wall, wondering just how she found herself in that situation yet again. No, that didn't quite fit. She knew why she was in the lab—she came to find her favorite volume of Emily Dickinson's poetry on the thought that Emily might enjoy 'reading it' with her after her nap. How she wound up frozen in front of the bookshelves wasn't the question at all. The real question was why, after so many years, she still froze upon realizing the book wasn't on the shelves and never had been.

Ten years had elapsed since her new life began—ten long, confusing, heart-warming years of managing the healing scars from the death that led her to a new life. After ten years moments like this were nothing new but every time, they never failed to catch her off-guard. It was always something simple, so harmless she never thought to guard herself against an impending shock. The children asked about her life before she met their father, prompting her to search under the bed for a photo album. She heard the tail-end of a forgotten song on the radio and dug around on her computer for a digital file from a ripped CD. On movie nights, the brothers and their mates couldn't decide on a movie suitable for any young eyes watching with them and she hurried to find the perfect family-friendly classic on her shelves.

Every time she fully expected to find what she sought, exactly where she sought it; every time she was suddenly hit with the reality that what she searched for was never there to begin with. There were no photo albums under the bed she shared with her mate—the albums she remembered were all stashed in a footlocker under the bed in her old house. The computer she searched wasn't her rusty trusty '04 Toshiba dinosaur—it was a newer, higher quality laptop Donnie scavenged and refurbished for her without ever being asked. (He claimed Kimber's computer was 'older than Raph's turtle-tantrums and even less cooperative' but she suspected he just wanted to spoil her with some him-exclusive awesomeness.) The movie never existed in this reality, nor the shelves she kept it on along with the rest of her disks and tapes. Now the story was the same. That much-loved volume of poetry was gone with her old life; it fell apart with the storm-driven collapse of her old home and wouldn't be found on the bookshelves of this one.

All of those things—those pointless, silly, petty possessions that mattered none in the grand scheme of things—they were long gone with her old home, the home she left behind with her old life and old world. It was so ridiculous…that sudden moment of comprehension never failed to catch her off-guard. She didn't mourn her lost belongings; she simply dreaded recalling her death after having momentarily forgotten it.

Once, she sought to describe to Donatello the fallout after a panic attack, building off the words of another describing the death of a loved one: "It is like walking up the stairs to your bedroom in the dark," the writer explained, "and thinking there is one more stair than there is. Your foot falls down, through the air, and there is a sickly moment of dark surprise as you try and readjust the way you thought of things." The description was accurate she considered when concerning the death of another. Her situation was entirely different. This feeling was like rushing down the stairs in total darkness, realizing she counted one step short, and finding thin air beneath her outstretched sole.

A moment of weightlessness followed by the sickening pull of gravity…the expectation of solid ground and the threat of an unfeeling void…the certainty of a measured descent interrupted by the dread of an impending crash landing… Amber shuddered, cringing from the sick, twisting feeling of adrenaline flooding her bloodstream and turning her stomach. Learning of another's death was like counting a step too many; being reminded of her own death was counting a step too short and landing in a heap at the foot of the stairs.

A wrought iron bench dusted with pollen—a stately Yellowwood tree in full bloom—this place is for the dead, so why does it make her feel so alive? She forcibly shook off the memory, noting with pride that it didn't sicken like so many of its brethren once did. 'This rainy day, too, will pass.'#

"Amber?" The unexpected address startled her, but not nearly as much as it once would have. Donnie hovered in the open doorway, right hand still poised at the frame from knocking. "You alright, Honey?"

Amber gave him a small smile and nodded. "I will be," she promised with a shrug. He studied her silently, analyzing the smallest tells—from the precise compression of her developing crows' feet to the balance of blush and pallor in her cheeks, he always read her like a picture book. As always, he found the answers he was looking for…and right now, what he found was just what she always tried to spare the others. Once he would have pushed her for details, pled for an explanation and promised to take care of her, to fix her broken soul. Of course, during that time he would have found her cowering into the foot-well of his desk or drowning out an onslaught of memories with the pain of fingernails gouging her wrist. They were both well beyond that point—years beyond it—and they both knew it well.

He glanced out the door for witnesses or eavesdroppers. After a steady nod and thumbs-up at the concerned blonde and greener-than-usual brother watching from one of the old red tweed sofas, he pushed the door closed behind him. "There," he smiled and held his arms open in invitation. "No one's watching and worrying—if you're not fine, you don't have to pretend to be."

Amber's eyes watered at the unspoken truths hidden behind his words but no tears fell. In their first year together, she and Donatello were complete idiots about each other and everyone suffered for it. They couldn't communicate effectively and suffered over every miscommunication. He couldn't let go of his determination to save her from her problems long enough to realize she didn't need saving. She was sure every attempt she made at recovery was hopeless, never realizing she wasn't putting enough effort in it, to begin with. They hid their fears, worries, and dreads, and every time one of them stumbled over those secrets they couldn't believe the other felt like they had to hide any of it. He fell prey to suspicion and fear, and she to tears and anger. Now…

Amber sighed, stepping into her mate's protective embrace and soaking in his calming scent. Rich, pungent coffee—sweet spices and a note of citrus from his soap—the chemical tang of clean oil and the salty musk of honest sweat—she breathed in every note, mentally connecting sweet memories to each one. Within moments the churning in her gut smoothed and her scattered thoughts settled.

Now, she silently admitted to herself, they were more. They were past all those silly, ridiculous vices that once kept them apart and they were only growing stronger. She knew she wasn't the same person she was before she died. Something was taken from her in the storm-wrecked school—something else was left in its place when she woke in the underground—but those somethings were only a small part of her. Now she knew that she was capable of withstanding much more than memories of a time long gone. Donatello knew he couldn't solve her problems for her. He couldn't make all the dark memories of her past life go away, set her broken soul, or make good on his age-old vow to fix her. Now he was confident such things weren't needed. She was strong enough to weather life's downpour; she'd dance in it, too, especially if he joined her.

The atmosphere changed without any of the crackling that once made his scales crawl. Her breathing patterns were even; the fingers clutching his shoulder and opposite suspender strap were steady and gentle. Following their lead he dipped his head to nuzzle the juncture of her bare neck, grinning when she tilted her head invitingly. With one gentle pass of his lips over her pulse-point, he knew she was in control again. After a couple more pecks and a teasing nip for good measure, he leaned back to meet her eyes. "Better?" he asked without asking; she answered without speaking.

"A missed step," she explained without emphasis or shame. He nodded in understanding, well remembering her analogy of the stairs and the original she derived it from. "It's not as bad as before, not nearly that bad. It just always hits so…so suddenly…an' it takes a while to sink in, every time."

"Your thoughts realign and your memories fall back into place," he countered to show he understood, "and while it sinks in, you're vulnerable all over again—you feel lost, trapped, maybe even frightened…" Though she nodded she grimaced as though in disagreement and backed out of his arms, both hands quickly wrapping around her gut. "Nauseous, too?"

"Never to this extent," she muttered staring down at her stomach in accusation, "not for years." Her face went blank—her eyes drifted out of focus—then just as suddenly she shook it off as though discarding a ridiculous notion. "I'll be alright, Dee," she promised and let go of her stomach to cup his cheek in her palm. The pad of her thumb brushed along the pattern of prominent scales scattered across his cheekbone like freckles; her eyes followed the path wistfully as if mapping out a new constellation in the skies.

"I know you will," he answered returning the gesture and raising her a playful snout-to-nose nudge. Not so long ago, a moment so tender as this one would have ended with a long, breathless bout of lovemaking. Donnie wouldn't have thought twice about locking the doors and heeding that call, whether by spreading her naked across his workbench or bending her over his desk—the only question would be whether he wanted to meticulously draw out every last breath and shudder or crash her brain all at once like an over-worked processor. As sweet as the present was, he certainly missed the spontaneity from the years before the twins.

Now, alas, they had a reason to dial it back—technically two reasons, and one of them sat at the kitchen table chatting with his great-grandfather. Isaac had no idea yet what it meant when he noticed that 'funny smell' around his parents but neither was willing to endure answering those questions just yet. He was only six, how could they possibly explain sex pheromones to him without permanently scarring him?! Heck, he still got grossed out anytime they kissed around him and they never went to the lengths Raph and Mercy always did. Those two really needed to come with a parental advisory warning or something. At least one of the twins was probably too congested to notice any lingering Eau-de-Horndog on her parents…and if not, she should still be sleeping.

Immediately upon arrival in Emily's little blue and purple room, Donatello was all-business. He deftly checked her temperature, lungs, pulse, and a mess of other vital signs and organs that didn't necessarily need monitoring. He wasn't just checking on one of his human 'sisters,' or trying to figure out why Raph was ralphing when Mercy was the pregnant one.## Emily, she was his baby girl—he learned early on that there was practically nothing he wouldn't do for her, or for Isaac.

All the while he mentally charted their daughter's progress, Amber quietly wandered around the room needlessly tidying the already tidy room. Once the room was again neatened to her satisfaction and the vaporizer on the nightstand was verified still acceptably full, she turned to address her mate…only to find herself speechless and choking up.

It was like staring through a window to another time and another life, where an older, more bristly man tended to his flu-stricken granddaughter. In that life, Glen lounged in his massive old armchair with Amber curled up half on his lap and half on his shoulder. He read to her until she dozed off, then refused to move a muscle or let anyone move her until she woke of her own accord. In an adorable contrast, Donatello perched just on the edge of the twin bed, darkened eyes suspiciously shiny. He seemed unaware that he'd long since stopped petting Emily's hair, and even less aware that a few riotous red curls were wound around his fingers. The visual was too precious for words—Em always had him wrapped around her little fingers and the rust-colored locks tangled in his proved the feeling went both ways.

Without warning, a pair of bespectacled hazel eyes lifted to meet Amber's, brown in the shadowed room. "Was your hair ever this red?" he asked in a whisper.

"No," Amber admitted rubbing his bare shoulder, "but Gran's hair was to the day we lost'er…an' if Gran'Da's tales are true, my uncle's hair was nearly this bright before he faded to blond."

"Wh—he went blond? –but his hair's white!" Amber nodded, her eyes drawn to a fine trace of paler color gleaming from Emily's otherwise russet hair.

"I told you early greying runs in the family," she reminded him as they gingerly rose to their feet. "Red in your hair can fade fastest, but true redheads tend to fade to blonde long before they go white. Bart went white while he was still in high school…Mum says he wasn't much older than Emily when his red started fading." She thoughtfully tugged at the end of one waist-length braid shot with thick grey locks, considering the hint of strawberry blonde in her daughter's hair. "Her hair's always been so bright, so warm," she sighed, "the ultimate ginger. I hoped the early greying skipped over her since Mum only started blonding when I was in college. I didn't start seeing grey until I was a teenager…but...Em may end up white before she's old enough to drive."

For a moment the room was still, the silence only broken by the sniffles and faint wheezing of the still-sleeping child. Perhaps that silence was why the unexpected contact—a work-roughened hand cupping Amber's jaw and cheek—gave her a start. Donnie's eyes were soft and his smile even softer, almost humoring. "When you see yourself," he pointed out, "you tend to miss the brown and see only the grey. When Emmy's hair starts to fade, I'm sure you'll see the blonde more than the red…but if you break that pattern, you'll see something wonderful."

Amber glanced up at her grey-shot bangs—momentarily going cross-eyed from the awkward angle—then down at Emily's russet hair, and finally back up to Donnie's eyes. "I don't follow ya," she admitted. "What're ya haverin' 'bout now, Speccy?"~

At first, he didn't answer—he just curled one arm around her soft waist and coaxed her close enough to share breath. He caught her right braid in his thick fingers and pointedly wound it around both. He ducked to inhale the lingering perfume of her shampoo. A few years back the generic coconut was slowly replaced by a more mature coconut oil and shea butter blend; he approved more every time he smelled it on her. "You see grey and blonde, Braids," he professed into the grey-streaked plait, "but me? I see silver and gold."

Silver and gold…someone, Amber decided with a decidedly wet sniffle, was intent on killing her with feels. Vividly she recalled the day Donatello first discovered her greying hair—the day she and Mercy started leeching out Kimber's punch-red dye and found the nest of coarse grey vipers infesting her otherwise brown hair. When the color started fading from her hair at nineteen, Amber quickly learned to despise it. She endured endless stares, unwanted advice for hiding the grey, and scornful looks when she decided dying it just wasn't worth the cost or trouble. Donatello took one look at those wire-coarse streaks and compared them to starlight in a scene straight out of a cheesy anime.

"Besides," he pointed out leading her back toward the kitchen, "remember what Issac got from me?" He cast a pointed glance up toward the ceiling with an entirely too innocent smile then playfully waggled his bare eyebrows at her. "Bald. He got bald." Amber couldn't contain her convulsive laughter; he barely dodged the teasing swat to his bicep.

"Oh, Dunnie, yer horrible!"

When Donnie and Amber stepped into the kitchen, all activity and sound suddenly cut off and the two occupants stared at them intently. The couple exchanged a suspicious glance, easily communicating their concerns without a single word. Amber checked Isaac's clothes for cookie crumbs but found only the bright, lip-gnawing grin of a child anticipating something hilarious. The genius, meanwhile, searched for clues from his crotchety chess partner but gave no sign of his thoughts. Finding no reason for suspicion Amber shrugged it off, put the kettle on to boil for some Echinacea tea, and set to emptying the dishwasher. On his way back to the table Donnie paused to teasingly ruffle the soft yarn blanketing Isaac's scalp. The boy squirmed, yanked his cap down over his ears, and giggled a protest at the teasing almost-noogie; the moment Donnie took his seat again Zack hop-scooted his stool closer anyway.

"Weel?" Glen reminded dryly as the boy snuggled up against his father's side. "I's still yer turn."~ It was a challenge, Donnie realized with a smirk—a challenge he'd gladly accept. His eyes dropped to the board, quickly taking in the locations of each remaining piece and their proximity the rest. Never taking his eyes off the board, he reached out to a seemingly random pawn, tapping the rounded top in a show of consideration. The smug grin in Glen's eyes fizzled out when the genius returned the taunting stare over his glasses. He shifted to a piece on the exact opposite side of the board, flashed the rook's black dot at his opponent, and replaced the piece right in the kill zone of the nearby king. Glen visibly deflated, seeming to sag from his faded hair to his stark white mutton-chops; he repeatedly glanced from the board to Donnie and back again in disbelief.

"Well?" the younger reminded in with no small amount of sarcasm and a high-arched eye-ridge. "Now it's your turn." A muscle by Glen's left eye twitched and a flood of heat followed it.

"Really boys?" Amber chastised, passing mugs of hot tea to her mate and son then sitting down. "Do I need'a separate you two?" The answer came, as it so often does, from the mouths of babes—or, rather, one young boy laughing so hard he could barely breathe between snorts and wheezes.

"Da' b-beat Gran'Dee!" Isaac howled as the embarrassed blush on Glen's face darkened to an irritable heat. "He—he even cheated—an'—an' Da still won!" Amber shot a stern glare at the elder but the crooked, toothy grin at her lips contradicted it.

"Oh, really?" she drawled. Her question went unanswered so she inspected the bottom of the trapped king herself. It was, indeed, Glen's king, and he didn't have any way of getting out of the trap. "You cheated an' still lost? What an excellent example to set for the young'uns, hm?" Glen bristled and fired back a long stream of unusually thick brogue in protest.

"Ah wiznae cheatin' th' bludy bawheid,"~ he groused at her, for once not bothering to tone down his burr for their benefit. "Ah wiz jist tryin' tae keep'im oan his taes."~ Donnie and Zak exchanged equally perplexed glances then shared a mutual shrug—after all, other than cheatin', the insult, and a couple of commonly twisted words, the rest of it was far too thick for either to understand him. Amber, of course, understood every word and snorted in dismissal.

"Secretly switchin' sides hardly strikes me as keepin' him on his toes," she countered with a teasing wink at her mate. "Just admit it, ya sleekit auld sook, ya were tryin'a make Zack live up to his name."~ At first, the only result was the red fading from Glen's face; then a deep, guttural chuckle rasped upward from his lungs.

"Ah'll drink tae tha',"~ he rasped aiming a grin at Isaac then Donnie; he tipped his glass of Scotch to his granddaughter then lifted it for a sip. One moment, everything was fine—the mood of the room was jovial and the stress level nonexistent; the next every eye was fastened on Amber's suddenly pale face in horror. Eyes wide, hand covering her mouth and nose, she lurched out of her chair and bolted from the room, clipping the doorframe on her way through the utility room. Glen's glass never made it to his lips, instead, hovering mid-air as he puzzled out her bizarre reaction. "Weel, 'at was odd! She loves th' reek ay—" Mid-sentence he picked up a trace of a familiar noise from the bathroom beyond. He froze. Slowly, menacingly, he turned to fix a dark, accusing scowl at Donatello. "Ahmber loves this stuff," he reminded as clearly as possible. "Why cannae she now handle the smell?"

Easily recognizing the insinuation and the threat accompanying it, Donnie stammered an apology, scrambled out of his chair, dodged around the table, and bolted after her. A moment later he ducked back to the doorway wearing a forced smile. "It's probably nothing," he told his son with a weak, tinny laugh. "I've got this." When he fled again, Isaac turned to his grandfather with a suspicious whine.

"Mum's gonna get fat like Aunt Mercy, isn't she?"

Sure enough, Donatello found Amber bent over the nearest commode retching like a frat-boy coming off a three-night bender. Heaving a sigh he stepped into the tiled cubicle, pulled her twin braids to safety, and started rubbing her back. When the dry-heaving was over and the mess dealt with he followed her back out to the sink. He held his silence while she rinsed her mouth and splashed water on her face; she turned to him with a cringe. "I don't suppose that was another missed step," he deadpanned.

Amber held up one finger – a universal 'hang on a second' gesture – dug out her phone and checked the calendar. As she swiped further and further back in time her eyes grew wider and wider, then finally screwed shut entirely. She let out a rather pitiful sound halfway between a whine and a groan and slumped against his front, smacking her forehead against his plastron repeatedly. "Yup," she finally muttered to his waistband, "a big one."

In hopes he was misreading the situation but doubtful just the same, Donnie retrieved the phone from her grasp. Sure enough, 45 day-slots in a row were unmarked with little red icons in the corner, and there were no less than three missed reminders at the top of the screen. "You missed a shot?!" The braided head buried in his chest nodded weakly. A closer look at the screen revealed a probable explanation – her last contraceptive shot was due a couple days after Briallen brought a cold home from work and started generously sharing it with everyone in the Lair. Everyone spent the next two-and-a-half weeks playing hot-potato with the virus, then Isaac and Emily finally picked it up, too…and when the kids got sick, all bets were off. Between nursing the rest of the family and their usual tasks, they hadn't even had the energy for a half-awake tussle in almost a month... Donnie scrubbed his hand down his face, shaking his head in disbelief. Ridiculous though it may seem, he totally blamed the mutagen; how else would his swimmers have survived camping out until the coast was clear? "Glen's gonna kill me," he groaned, "again."

"If it's twins again," Amber snorted, "I'm'onna kill ya first."

"Heaven forbid you should appreciate we only had two." He rolled his eyes. "In the wild, a typical red-eared slider female would lay anywhere from two to twenty eggs per clutch." A tense, awkward silence followed the remark—he cringed. "That just buried me deeper, didn't it?"

"Yep," Amber answered dryly. "Good thing I like ya, Speccy; that's grounds for neutering."

After a long, rough day at the grade-school, all Briallen wanted was to come home, shower off all the sweat, kid snot, and finger paint, and curl up for a rom-com with her Mikey. Alas, this was not to be; one step through the bathroom door and she was faced with the worst news possible.

Amber and Donnie were necking against the trough sink. Amber's closed eyes were crusted with salt…her cheeks were stretched taut around a grin…one of Donnie's hands was protectively cupping her belly…and they were freaking glowing. There was only one possible explanation…

"He knocked you up again?!" Bree's horrified screech startled the couple apart mid-nuzzle. Her eyes darted frantically around her for some sort of defense but all she found was a can of disinfectant spray on the garbage can lid; she snatched, shook, and aimed it, all in one rapid movement. "Back!" she warned, "Back I say!" Amber and Donnie exchanged matching 'you're kidding me' expressions then turned to glare at her almost as one.

"Bree," Amber said dryly, "ya can't catch pregnant. It's not like that cold you brought us."

"Yeah?! Well, you two also said humans and mutants can't procreate!" she reminded shrilly. "Now we've got two hybrids underfoot and Dog knows how many more on the way when Mercy pops! I work with kids! They're terrors! Having my own would be like bringing work home, I'm not ri—"

The bathroom door swung open without warning, the handle cracking into the shower stall door behind it hard enough to dent the metal; before it even cleared Mikey barreled through in search of the fire. It took a minute but he figured out the situation rather quickly. After all, there was only one reason he could think of for his mate to threaten Amber and Donnie with a can of Lysol. All emotion drained from his face leaving him visibly exhausted. "Oh for Pete's sake, Bree," sighed dragging his hand down his face. "Lighten up already. It's not their fault you're late."

Even after everything that happened that day, no one would have ever expected the once-in-a-lifetime event that followed…

Briallen Hardy swore.

Yeah, that was s a Once-in-a-lifetime event because BREE DOESN'T CUSS. She spends too much time with kids to let herself pick up the habit.

NOTES

- TITLE from a quote from Lemony Snicket's "Horseradish," also used in the first "Series of Unfortunate Events" film. This quote is included word-for-word in the scene in the Lab. That scene is actually what spawned this entire one-shot, to tell you the truth, and it's based on a very real occurrence. Almost a decade has gone by since my own storm happened and it's gotten easier to handle; that said, there are still moments that trip me up, usually out of the blue. A ridiculously common one is like what happened here, and it plays out almost identically. I'll go looking for a book, usually a non-fiction or a non-reference book I use for writing references, fail to find it, then suddenly realize I can't find it because it's gone...and it's been gone for years. I lost over half of my belonging when my home was destroyed but it never really strikes me as important or tragic. They were just possessions - clothes, dishes, keepsakes, all stuff I can live without - no one was hurt or lost, and that's what matters to me. The only exception to that is the books...my books are the only possessions I ever really mourned the loss of.

*Blind Chess – I don't believe this game exists IRL – or at least I've never heard of it – but it sounds like something Donnie would come up with to make regular chess more of a challenge. He's a genius so he's gonna have to give most opponents a handicap, hence this version. All the chess pieces are carved of the same wood and unstained, and they're identified as black or white by paint on the underside. Gameplay is very much like regular chess but with a 'card-matching' element to it. To play you have to keep close track of which pieces are whose WHILE preventing the owner from muscling in on your turf. If you lift a piece to check whose it is and it's yours, you have to play it; if it's theirs, you lose a turn. If you capture one of your own pieces or, in this case, capture your opponent's piece with one of their pieces, your opponent gets to pick a captured piece from your stash and put it back into play on any square they prefer provided it's the right color for that piece. Because Donnie's friggin' brilliant and IS going to have the advantage, he would give the other player a handicap if he's ahead—for instance letting them have the first-turn advantage by playing black, letting his opponent pick where his reclaimed pieces go, and as shown here, putting his piece back in play in a way that breaks his 'check' on his opponent's king. Lastly, it isn't mentioned in-story because Amber wouldn't be aware of it, but Donnie's games with her grandfather are an attempt on his part to keep Glen's brain healthy and lucid. Glen is getting on in his years by this point—Ginny was eldest, born in his early twenties, Amber was born in HER twenties, and Amber was in her thirties when she died in 2011; add the number of years that passed in Amber's world before Glen agreed to come to the new world, and he's at an age where Alzheimer's would most likely have already set in. It's not a cure but by encouraging critical thinking and logic-heavy mental exercises in an elderly brain, sometimes the onset of Alzheimer's can be slowed if caught in time.

** Byron Isaac and Emily Jane – in TMNT fanfiction it's common for kids to be named for artists or given Italian names to 'complete the set.' Honestly, that's done so often I felt more comfortable breaking the pattern, especially since in the Paramount-verse Splinter didn't choose his boys' names – they were chosen by April as a child. That said, I felt it would be fitting for the guys to choose names of people they admired based on the message they wanted to send their children. I personally expect there will be a LONG argument between Raph and Mercy about why it's a bad idea to name their kids after Vin Deisel or Alice Cooper.

*** The poem is Emily Dickinson's "Hope is the thing with feathers." It was the first poem of hers I ever came across and remains the one I love most out of many favorites by her.

# The memory of the Yellowwood tree and bench – Recall the return to Amber's Willsdale in "Absolutes." (Ch. 52 - 55) In chapter 53 Amber went to check on her family, stopped by the cemetery on the way to deliver Mercy's sobriety coin to Ellis Ross and found her grave. This memory depicts that moment, and the quote is from the scene.

##Raph's ralphing because he has 'sympathy morning sickness' – alas, this IS a real thing – sometimes new fathers start developing similar pregnancy woes to their expectant wives. Common problems are food cravings, food and smell aversions, fatigue, morning sickness, abdominal pain and bloating, and back pain. The scientific term is Couvade syndrome. If you look it up, be prepared to read a lot of Freudian "men want to bone their mothers" theories. XP

WORDS

Note – I've deviated from my usual method for Scots in this installment and am not yet certain how it worked. After literally YEARS of searching for a reliable online English – Scots translator I finally found one that seems at least halfway legit. Thus most of Glen's speech here has been directly translated thus with a few small changes to keep it in accordance with his previously-shown speech patterns.

~Tak' tha'! – Take that! (he's bragging at what he thought was a kickass maneuver. SOOOOO mature, right?) ~Aw, soak yer heid – Go soak your head. Basically, he's saying 'screw you, ya braggart.' (Totally mature.) ~Lil' Scribs – In case anyone missed this, the name is an abbreviated version of "little scribbles," a reference to the noted habit of Dickinson's. (that is "scribbling poems on envelopes." A relative of mine introduced me to a book last year called "The Gorgeous Nothings" which reproduces Emily Dickinson's envelope writings in print and photos; I'd highly recommend it for anyone who enjoys poetry. ~Wheesht – Scots hush or be quiet, doesn't necessarily indicate aggression or cruelty; often used in a teasing or affectionate manner. ~Yer lahss is daein' jus' fine, hawd yer fashin' – Your daughter's doing just fine, stop this silly fussing. ~She's yer lil' lahss, Son - logic has naethin' fur tae do wi' it – She's your little girl, Son – [you're going to be worried,] logic has nothing to do with it. ~ Save a' 'at worryin' fur when she brings hame 'er firs' boyfrien' – Save all that worrying for the day she brings home her first boyfriend. YES, he SERIOUSLY went there! XD ~ What're ya haverin' 'bout now, Speccy? – Scots and MWT blend, roughly What nonsense are you spouting off now? Also, in case anyone's forgotten, Scots "Speccy" just means he wears glasses. ~Weel? I's still yer turn – Well? It's still your turn. ~Ah wasnae cheatin' th' bludy bawheid - I wasn't cheating the bloody bawheid. Bawheid – ballhead / bald person. Considering Amber picked up her tendency to tease her loved ones from Glen and Bart we can safely assume they both use the term simply as a way of saying 'that bald guy.' Keep in mind, though, the term can also be used to mean stupid or empty-headed so neither would ever use it as a serious insult OR aim it at Isaac. He's bald, true, but it would come across more as a real insult than a tease. ~Ah wiz jist tryin' tae keep heem oan his taes – I was just trying to keep [Donnie] on his toes. [challenge him] ~Ya sleekit auld sook / you were tryin'a make Zack live up to his name. – you sly old softy. / The name "Isaac" is from Hebrew, and the meaning is usually given as "he will laugh." Thus, Glen was being silly to make his sick grandson laugh. Like my own late grand'dad, this old softy is bristly with adults but turns into an absolute goofball around kids. ~Ah'll drink tae tha'! – I'll drink to that! ~Weel, 'at was odd! She loves th' reek ay—[pause] Why cannae she now handle the smell? – Well, THAT was odd! She loves the smell of [Scotch whiskey.] Why can't she handle the smell now? Basically, he's demanding "What did you do to my precious gran'baby?" (No, he really doesn't want to know, he's just being intimidating.)

A quick note: I'm not 100% settled on the timeline in this - it may change as the story progresses. I have a feeling that being a parent would mellow out Raph and strengthen his control, but the same would probably drive Donnie a little loony. After all, there's so much that can go wrong with kids - he's going to be worrying himself to death over everything from proper nutrition for a mammalian-reptilian hybrid to the dangers of gluten, sugar, and bleached diaper fabric. And let's not even get started on when his little heartbreaker daughter starts showing an interest in boys... I see a hacked Skype session in the future, with a MUCH more effective threat than he sent April:

"You don't know me and I don't know you, but if I find out you made my daughter cry, they will NEVER find all the pieces of your body. You've been warned."

Meanwhile Raph would probably just jump the BF in an alley, scare him straight, and act menacing anytime he saw the kids around each other. LOTS of vicious grins because he’s an incredibly violent teddy bear.

#TMNT #teenage mutant ninja turtles #Ninja Turtles #TMNT Fanfiction #Fanfiction #Donatello #Raphael #Leonardo #Michelangelo #Donnie/OC #Raph/OC #Leo/OC #Mikey/OC #Romance #Drama #Hurt/Comfort #PTSD #Non-Sue OCs #A New Lease on Life #ANLoL #Get-a-new-lease-on-life #Plot Twists