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lethalchiralium · 1 year

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Imagine It | Simon “Ghost” Riley x Wife!Reader

a/n: i have an itch i need to scratch and that is simon being happy. thanks

warnings: mentions of babies, mentions of simon’s kids winnie and mellie, mentions of simon’s past a little

summary: It was just a nice afternoon, your husband’s brothers in arms trying to name your imaginary baby for you.

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“Rhia?”

“Write it down.” You answered, wiping baby food off of your finger onto a paper towel. Mellie giggled in her high chair, watching you as you brought Simon the little glass jar of mashed bananas.

Soap scribbled the name down on the piece of paper, sitting next to Winnie at the dinner table. The little girl was drawing on Gaz’s arm with a Sharpie, you just didn’t have the heart to tell him that.

“I like Ava.” Gaz piped up, looking up from his crossword puzzle. Soap looked to his friend then to you, you shook your head.

“Had an Ava in middle school who stole my hair tie and cut it into pieces, and kept doing it until junior year of high school.” You moved back to the fridge, opening it and looking into it. “We don’t have that much food, boys.”

“Ye kept a grudge this long?”

You looked over the fridge door at Soap, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Sort of. My brother handled it by getting her expelled.” You closed the fridge, walking back towards your dinner table and pulling a chair from it. You settled yourself beside Simon as he fed Mellie her mushed bananas, her little head trying to get a peak at Price at the head of the table. But, of course, he was completely disguised by the newspaper he held up, just like a grandfather. “More suggestions?”

Soap looked down at the list of names he had printed and brought, shoving the paper past Winnie and to Gaz, the man put down his pencil and took the packet in his hand while giving the Scot a side-eye.

“Just going to roll them off.”

You looked to Simon, the unmasked man glanced at you with a nervous glare. You looked to your left and spoke gently, “Make sure they’re not stupid ones. We’ll say yes or no.”

“Lila.”

“No.”

“Penelope.”

“No.”

“We’re talkin’ to yer wife, buddy.” Soap commented, Ghost had rejected the names while you just smiled at your husband. His eyes were still on his daughter, the little baby’s gaze now on her father.

“We’re not even having a baby anytime soon.” The Lieutenant commented, you nodded.

Soap shrugged, Gaz scoffed. “We get to name the next one - this is a meeting, for your information.” The Brit looked down at Winnie, she was still focused on whatever she was drawing on his arm.

“Oh, so you lot get to name my baby?” You laughed a little. “Absolutely not.”

“Well, Mellie’s my godbaby!” Soap whined. “Gaz’s gotta have one too!”

“He’s right, I’ve got to have a godchild too.” Gaz declared, Winnie switched markers from black to blue, beginning to color in some of her drawings. “This one’s Price’s.”

“I’m not popping out kids for each of you to have if we both die.” Your voice was loud and declarative, Soap and Gaz shut their mouths. “What if these are the only two we have? You gonna go to court and get joint custody?”

“Leave the lady alone, muppets.” Price’s voice echoed through the kitchen, he flipped the page in his newspaper.

Soap turned to Gaz, a mischievous smile on his face. “We shuid git married sae we have joint custody.”

You burst out laughing, hand flying to your mouth as Gaz squawked like a bird. Simon glanced at you before staring at Soap, who was cackling and saying , “Wh-What?! ’m right!”

“They’ll be adults before I die anyway.” Your husband commented, before turning back to Mellie - her little hand was reaching for the spoonful of banana he had in his hand. He moved the spoon towards her hand, her fingers curled around the plastic as her father commented, “Last time I checked, my girls’ godfather is Price.”

“They’ll all raise ‘em together anyway,” You then looked back to Gaz and Soap. “Won’t you, boys?”

“Yes ma’am.” Both soldiers nodded, now looking away and interested in Winnie’s art.

Soap began to chuckle as he grabbed her black marker. “Ye'r gonnae hae her art oan yer arm forever, buddy.” He held up the Sharpie in Gaz’s face, whose face paled. He looked down at the marker she was coloring her drawings on his arm in, seeing that it was washable before staring at you.

“You gave her the marker!”

You shrugged, nudging your foot on Simon’s calf. He glanced at you before he took the spoon away from your baby, she made a noise of annoyance and tried to reach for it again. The eight month old let out a whine, tears bubbling up in her eyes but he was quick to hand her the spoonful of banana again. Mellie giggled, taking the spoon from his hand as he said, “Thank you.”

“You gotta name for ‘em, Price?” Soap asked, yanking his list of names from Gaz and grabbing the Sharpie.

Price hummed from behind his newspaper. “Yeah, my mum’s name. Used to be a volunteer at the women’s shelter, used to help troubled kids.” He flipped the page. “Her name was Lyra.”

Your eyes shot to Simon, who looked like a fish out of water for just a moment. His eyes narrowed just a little as he went to wipe away some food from Mellie’s cheek with a wipe. The baby babbled a little, trying to grab his hand and chew on it.

You saw Price’s eyes over the newspaper, the little crinkle of eyebrows told you all you needed.

Simon knew Price’s mom from when he was a kid, at the woman’s shelter Simon’s mom went to several times. He must have been one of those ‘troubled teens’. Your hand went to Simon’s knee, giving it a squeeze before looking back at Price, who had disappeared behind his newspaper again.

“Mumma,” Winnie spoke from beside Gaz, looking over to you.

“Yeah, honey?”

“Can I color on Uncle Soap?” Her hazel eyes were big, she looked as if she was going to pop her lip out to beg. You smirked and pointed to Soap, who had a big smile on his face.

“You need to ask Uncle Soap. Did you ask Uncle Gaz if he liked your art?” You nodded towards Gaz, who stared at the Sharpie in Soap’s hand until Winnie looked up at him.

She quietly asked him if he liked his new art, he smiled and said, “Love it. I’ll keep ‘em forever.”

The girl squealed in delight before looking back at Soap, blue marker in her hand. “Uncle Soap, can I pretty please draw on your arm?”

Soap jutted out his arm, letting the little girl grab it with one hand and immediately began to scribble. Soap’s smile got even bigger as he watched the little artist, you looked back at Simon. He settled the small glass jar on the table beside Soap’s packet, moving to wipe off Mellie’s face as she chewed on her spoon.

Your arms went around Simon’s bicep, moving to rest your cheek into his shoulder to gaze at your baby. You do want another one, but it’s up to your husband - another little girl that smiles just as wide as her sisters, or a boy that loves to play firefighter with his sisters.

You pressed a kiss to your husband’s shoulder before looking at the rest of your family at the dinner table, holding your husband just a little closer. He pressed a kiss to your head before trying to take back the spoon from his daughter, who almost started screaming bloody murder.

———

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x f!reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley call of duty #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley cod #simon ghost riley headcanons #simon ghost riley x fem!reader #simon ghost riley x afab!reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley call of duty #simon riley cod #simon riley #simon riley headcanons #simon riley mw2 #simon riley x you #simon riley x wife!reader #lethal chiralium #lethalchiralium

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cherry-bomb-ships · 10 days

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My brain: Hey we're drawing ur s/i for the first time you should keep it simple like a model sheet-

Me: shut up *draws them in a funky pose*

Here we are, it's my Powerpuff Girls self-insert, Cherry Coading! They work at a robotics company in Townsville and specialize in software and programming. In fact, they're one of the best in her field, which has made her a target in a few of Mojo Jojo's schemes. Even when being held hostage and made to work against her will, though, her sweet and sunny demeanor that could warm the coldest of souls never falters; they somehow always find a way to see the good in everything - and everyone.

[Reblogs are all seen and so appreciated!! 💖💖💖 S/i uses she/they interchangably.]

[WIP pics, pose reference, and tag list below the cut vvv]

Click here to be added, edited or removed from my tag list!

@ava-ships, @bee-ships, @beetleboyfriend, @canongf, @clawfull,

@cloudyvoid, @derelictdumbass, @judetama, @dissonantyote, @edencantstopfallininlove,

@final-catboy, @gible-love-nibles, @halsdaisy, @hoppinkiss, @hotrodharts,

@hyperionshipping, @iyamifucker, @lex-n-weegie, @little-miss-selfships, @little-shiny-sharpies,

@loogi-selfships, @mothfinite, @mandrakebrew, @mintpecks, @mrs-kelly,

@nameless-self-ships, @nerdstreak, @paper-carnation, @patches-and-her-selfships, @p-i-t-s,

@reds-self-ships, @rexscanonwife, @ship-trek, @spacestationstorybook, @squips-ship,

@flowering-darkness, @scroldie, @toogayforthistoday, @winterworlds

#eeeeee this was so fun to do!!! its been so long since i did traditional art 🥺💖💖💖💖💖💖#the linework was definitely the most fun to do hehehehe 💖💖💖#but man it hasnt even been 24 hours and i already have an s/i designed for this ship.... AAAAAAH #anyways here u go guys enjoy 🥺💖🥺💖🥺💖🥺#🍒🧬: emotional processing lag #💜: loving you's a felony #self shipping #self insert community #self ship community #oc x canon #ok to rb

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luizastarry · 4 months

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victim ava cosplay step one sharpie bath

#animator vs animation #animation vs minecraft

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daisychainsandbowties · 10 months

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Tomb Raider AU: without a radio on her, Ava tries to leave messages to Bea.

She can't leave any clues on how to actually find her, since there's over a hundred people with bad intentions looking for her and only one Bea, but she still spends a significant amount of her time trying to create little tokens of significance from basic survival gear, the junk she finds on the island, and the few personal possessions she has left.

She can't say "find me here," but she can say "I'm still alive, don't give up," and if she can somehow find the right combination of symbols and hidden meanings in the private language they share between them, maybe she can even manage "I love you."

(And then all she can do is pray Bea will find some of them *while* she's still alive.)

ava with her bow and her arrows and her improvised crutches untangling an old parachute from a tree, winding up all the strings and separating them from the ruined harness. she tries to ignore the traces of blood on the many straps and buckles.

she's good at that now, stepping past the blood.

it takes her an hour to rig the big rippling expanse of half-shredded parachute, letting the strings trail from the bottom and attaching some pieces of wood to the ends, as anchors.

first, ava sets it down on the forest floor, takes out the sharpie she always kept in her back pocket, mainly so she could write “lilith sucks my dick” on every possible wall and/or countertop back on the ship. cap between her teeth, legs twinging but letting her kneel without too much protest.

she’s been leaving messages on walls, picking the driest sections, using sharpie and deer blood to write out vague messages. just in case.

she saw the flare go up over the radio tower, but it could have been anyone. never mind that the streak of reddish fire made her stumble, looking at the comet-tail shape like Odysseus looking at the shore.

it was beautiful, but that doesn't mean it was her.

beatrice could be dead, washed up in the surf and picked over by crabs, birds, wolves.

there’s no reason to think she isn’t, except that ava’s not sure what she’s fighting for out here, if it’s not to get back to bea.

to the way she’d sit on her bed and offer one earphone to ava, scrolling through her playlists with a deft flick of the thumb. how she’d fall asleep over her books and put her boots up on the bed.

her secret stash of cookies and protein bars for when it was lilith’s turn to cook.

ava was just as bad, dumping plain tomato sauce onto spaghetti and then burning it to the bottom of the enormous pot, but bea always turned up to eat.

“you don’t have to pretend it’s good, just to make me feel better.”

bea, shrugging, “no i-i like it.”

she has to believe that beatrice is alive, because no one else would understand the messages she's scattered in her wake

‘miss your mint oreos <3’ and ‘i can’t believe you still listen to dubstep’

‘lilith sucks my dick’

this time, ava has a plan. she takes out her sharpie, writing in big broad strokes. the parachute ripples in the wind, trying to tug out from under her.

when she’s finished, she wraps the whole thing up into a careful ball and sticks it into her backpack. it’s bea’s - plain and black and mended in a couple of places. she stitches like a pro.

ava carries it up as high as she can climb, to a cliff with an old tori gate or something sticking out at the end. there’s a view from here down through forest, all the way to the ocean.

she smooths out the parachute, careful not to let it catch the wind. kneels down with it and presses her lips against the fabric, “please let her see this.”

and then, holding one side of the gate for support, legs sore and shaky from the climb, ava casts her line out over the island.

the strings whistle through her hands as she stands, waiting until she feel the ghost of an enormous tug before letting the little blocks of wood on the end fall through her hands. they’re not heavy, but they’re enough.

the parachute holds shape, whipping out over the forest, showing its message huge and bright against the morning sky.

hey bea, it reads. i’m alive

#tomb raider au #this is destroying me... thank you #avatrice

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d8tl55c · 2 days

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what if VI part 3 is just a weird fever dream flashback of all the reasons victim thinks he's right and his actions are completely justified

the first bit exactly explains how he survived his Flash file deleting, logically and clearly (clinically? detached from the emotion of the experience?), but the animation quality and/or style and tone are completely different to recent AvA, like something's missing, or this memory isn't all there anymore.

and think Meet the Pyro level of over-positivity in the beginning

leaning the ways of the city. snippets of how Rocket Corp. came to be, then built up over time.

maybe the mercs are victim's buddies like how orange has CG (credit for this idea to someone else.. ill find it... ghhgh it's a fanart post i think? i saw it so long ago.....(edit: so so sorry it's hopeless it's buried DEEP in my likes and i can't find it on vic or agent's tags- if someone else knows what it is that'd help ill link it later ANYWAY))?

most importantly, he learns that he's got charm and a knack for bringing other people together to do what he wants

interspersed with more and more doubts that are, at first, crushed into nothing - he'll never forget why he's doing this - but are getting louder in his ear

until the first test of the Box or a similar prototype of one of his worrying technologies: it goes bad.

unnamed worker 427 gets hurt in some horrifying way or whatever.

it's vic's call whether or not to continue.

this would be the first big step in the right direction, but is it... y'know... still the right direction?

vic realizes the little voice buzzing furiously in his ear all the time is too appalled to respond.

it's quiet for once.

huh. that's... nice.

they go ahead.

unreality of the vfx, editing, sound effects gets way worse from here. the colors are too strong or too washed out, there's tunnel vision vignettes hiding just enough detail from view to let you imagine what might be back there, and reports from hundreds of tests of various tech that you'd REALLY WANT TO GO 100% RIGHT with long sections redacted, and a thick sharpie lying next to the stack on vic's desk.

the only actually nice parts are like... slice of life of the nice parts of working in a big office building. setting up fun stuff to keep employee morale up (inspiration: RC company event shirts made by someone else lol) and such. but it's never too long before the work continues.

and things are going perfectly to plan.

...

whatever is left of the "voice" that was keeping him in check is now small and helpless

and he HATES IT FOR THAT

HE IS NOTHING LIKE (HE USED TO BE) THAT PATHETIC CREATURE

sometimes he practices fighting in his head with vicious fantasies of beating it down-

cough

uh,

anyway im curious about his perspective on all this

the description saying, "Anything goes, in The Box" on part 2 was SO CHILLING when i noticed it(!!!!!!), not to mention the contents of the ep itself- and id love a microscope pointed at his head, in a fic or somehow jammed into canon.

his favorite weapon is a WHIP guys?????

WHAT is going on in there

#playing with this idea below the cut #like king's and chosen's but 10x more fncked up and unnerving #alan becker #animator vs animation #ava victim #speculation #--/ story #ok that's all i got for now i gotta go help clean the housE #subpixels

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kurolumiis · 1 month

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CHAPTER ONE — a fated meeting

₊˚ everyday before work, edogawa ranpo goes to his local coffee shop. they make his coffee perfectly and there’s an equally perfect person working there. will feelings emerge?

warnings — edogawa ranpo x gn!reader, reader will use they/them pronouns, coffee shop!au, canon compliant (but will follow a different plot), a lil self indulgent/selfship coded but will try to make it as realistic to several readers as possible, possible short chapters, fluff, slight angst, jealousy, mentions of traumatic backstories, reader doesn’t have the best relationship with their family, kunikida is a bit of a father figure to reader, as of the time of posting this, possible ooc!ranpo (bare with me as i keep watching the show)

notes: sorry it’s so short </3 also i won’t be tagging chapters with ranpo tags so i don’t clog up the tag with my chapters, also send me asks or reblogs telling me how u like it so far ! im interested to hear what u guys have to say

send an ask to be added to the taglist <3

taglist: @d-a-r-k-s-w-a-n , @lyradia , @4channerguy

it was like any other day. it should’ve been like any other day. that was, until he walked through the door. dressed in a brown cap and matching cape, his attractiveness caught your eye.

he approached the counter in front of you, making you clear your throat and ask him what he’d like to order.

“i’m glad i’m not the only one who likes sweets, i always get scolded by my boss for liking sweets so much,” you chuckled, mainly to yourself. “name?”

“hm?” the man blinked, seemingly being brought out of a trance. he was looking at you the whole time though. “for your order?” you mentioned, tapping the large cup with your sharpie.

“o—oh, ranpo,” he answered, averting eye contact. “cute name,” you replied, smiling innocently at him, as if the compliment didn’t just make his stomach flutter.

“thanks,” he chuckled. “that’ll be right out to you, ranpo,” you told him, heading over to your co-worker. “hot coffee, half and half, with twelve sugar.”

“y/n, didn’t you already have a coffee? oh,” your co-worker said before glancing at the man behind you. “he’s cute.” she raised her brows. “ava, come on…okay fine, maybe he is,” you gushed, giggling with her.

she quickly made the drink and urged you to hand the drink to ranpo. “have a nice day..y/n,” he told you, looking at your pin. ranpo felt your fingertips skin over his as you handed the cup to him, making electric sparks course through both your veins. “you too, ranpo,” you replied, lips curving into a smile.

“he is so cute, did you give him your number?!” ava exclaimed, grabbing your hands and shaking them up and down. “what?! no! i’m not that kind of person,” you mentioned, covering your mouth to hide your flustered expression.

“oh come on, y/n. you gotta get into the dating pool.” “i hate swimming,” you stated, crossing your arms. “that’s why i’m here to help you!” ava said pridefully.

you sighed, face palming. ever since you had met ava, she had been trying to find a partner for you. “you’re hot and young!” she would always say.

continuing your shift, you didn’t even notice eyes on you. ranpo had decided to stay that day, watching your every move. he was enamored, to say the least. from your soft voice and fleeting touches, he was a little drawn in.

he wanted to get to know you more.

kurolumiis productions, 2024

#☕️ made with love!

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aggressivelyaverage21 · 3 months

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Chapter 3: The Amber Price of Whiskey

She's a badass, she's a lightweight

.... enter one Ava Silva

“Do you have a mirror under there? This is some Vegas magician shit you’re pulling.”

Suzanne peered out the screen door to the patio, where Mary and Shannon sat across from each other, evidently playing cards. A modest pile of beer bottles collected to their left. Mary slammed her cards down on the table.

“I’m just good!” Shannon, tall, fair, and smiling, laid her cards face down onto the table and leaned in with a smile.

Mary huffed and picked up her cards. “Chief? That you in there? Shannon’s cheating at cards again.” She turned back to Shannon. “And what am I, ‘o for seven, ‘o for eighteen now?”

“Stop cheating, Shannon,” called Superion.

“The next time I win, you’re cleaning the fucking toilet is what you’re doing,” Mary muttered.

Just then, a door closed somewhere in the house. Rather than Beatrice, Lilith walked into the kitchen. Lilith was tall and stern, with distinctive cheekbones and a delicate bone structure. It was modelesque in a way that could be intimidating. This wasn’t helped by the most severe case of resting bitch face Suzanne had ever seen—outside of her own, of course.

Lilith greeted her with a nod before opening the fridge. What she was looking for, Superion didn’t know; it was empty but for a beer called Alhambra when she’d just grabbed the water bottle.

Lilith closed the fridge, beer in hand. She nodded towards the whiskey. “I don’t know how you can stand that with no ice.”

“ This is for cooling off,” Superion held up the water. She held up her whiskey in the other, nodded toward it. “This is not.”

“Just drink beer like the rest of us, Chief, and you’ll get both at the same time,” Miguel said, sliding onto the stool next to Superion. He held out his hand toward Lilith and she obliged, tossing a beer across the kitchen. He caught it easily.

“Mmm. But then I’ll have to look like you.”

Just then, Beatrice walked through the living room and into the dining area. She’d caught the tail end of the conversion, so at face value, this was a wild thing to say. Miguel wasn’t Beatrice’s type, but she had eyes. The guy was fit, and not un attractive.

But you know what? Somehow that made it even funnier.

Beatrice continued into the kitchen comfortably, eyes settling on the beat-up yellow YETI cooler at Superion’s feet. On top, it had a dirty piece of duct tape labeled CANTINA in thick sharpie marker. Beatrice grimaced, amused. Almost every unit she’d deployed with had something similar, though the YETI was a step up from the beat up old Igloo held together by duct tape and dreams they’d had in Syria.

Miguel raised his head to look at Beatrice. “And you must be our little Sparrow.”

Mary leaned her chair back to more clearly see from the backyard into the apartment, hand over her brow to shade her eyes. “Hey, if you’re here to fix the air conditioner, it’s right around the corner. Thank you very much. Thank you for your service.”

Ah, ball busting, a tradition as integral to this job as much as any other. Beatrice ignored her and leaned on the back of the sofa. She did, however, fight a smile when she heard a thud followed by a whispered “ What ? I was just fucking with her.”

Superion set down her whisky glass and cleared her throat. “I’ll introduce you to everyone. That out there is my QRF team lead, Shannon. That across from her is Shotgun Mary.” She gestured to the shirtless blond to her right, then to the woman cracking a beer open by slamming it against the counter. “This is Miguel, and that’s Lilith.”

“We’ve met,” said Beatrice to Lilith. She offered a respectful nod toward the fellow Marine. Former Marine? Beatrice never could tell; some people said you could never be a former Marine. Beatrice tended to agree. “Villaumbrosia.”

They’d worked together a couple of times in Kuwait. Lilith was precise, meticulous, and to the point. A bit more abrasive than Beatrice usually preferred in her coworkers, but trustworthy and reliable overall. Lilith returned the nod. “Kline.”

The door shut, and everyone turned to see a short-haired brunette kick off her shoes, grocery bags in hand. “And I’m Camila”

Lilith set her beer down to help Camila with the grocery bags. Mary opened the screen door and came inside, moving counterclockwise around the kitchen bar and gathered crew to get to the fridge.

“Why Shotgun Mary?”

“Take a guess.” Snarky, but alright. Beatrice had earned that. Also, if it was anything like the other nicknames or callsigns, it was probably something incredibly stupid.

“Beatrice, can I get you a beer?” Superion stood and made like she was moving toward the kitchen.

“Just water, please.”

“Water,” sniggered Mary, not enough under her breath to not be a goad. Despite her protests, Camila sent a water bottle Beatrice’s way via air mail. It only narrowly missed Superion as she ducked out of the way.

Much to Beatrice’s relief, she didn’t bobble the bottle at all as she pulled it from the air, smoothly twisting the cap off as she raised it to her lips. Yikes. It was never a good sign when water tasted sweet. She should probably get on the hydration train fairly soon or she would be regretting it tomorrow, drinking today or not. “When do we start?”

“His family keeps an apartment here,” Superion answered, idly twisting her back as she moved around. Beatrice didn’t blame her—she felt stiff from the plane ride too—but each twitch as Suzanne subtly stretched a certain spot implied the woman had an old injury. “We have eyes on it. When she moves, we move.”

“And where does he stay?” Beatrice obviously had said she didn’t have a problem using this woman to get to her father, but it would be infinitely easier if she could just access the target with little to no fuss.

“That’s the million dollar question you’re here to answer.” The reply was provided with some satisfaction, like Superion was sure that she’d made the right choice with Beatrice.

Just then, Mary walked up to Beatrice, face smiling—practically a picture of compassion.

“Let’s see that,” Mary chided, taking the open water bottle directly from Beatrice’s hand and slamming a beer in its place. She looked Beatrice in the eye, set a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t doesn’t get drunk with me. Bottoms up, Babygirl.”

KEEP READING

#warrior nun #sister beatrice #save warrior nun #wn #sister shannon #beatrice no last name #shannon masters #shotgun mary #sister lilith #avatrice #mary delacroix #la samba del diablo #fic: la samba del diablo #special ops: lioness au

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unholyhelbig · 1 year

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Are you going to post the vampire fic here? PLS SAY YES

A/n: Oh dude, I've got you.

Summary: Bodies start popping up within the city drained of blood and torn at the throat. Detective Ava Silva and her new partner Beatrice Alexander are determined to crack the case before more victims are discovered. But when recent technological advancements threaten how things are done, Beatrice has to put more trust in her partner than ever before.

Trigger warning: This is quite possibly the darkest thing I've ever written. So please be cautious with this. There's a lot of gross imagery with the crime scenes.

[Also, I added a "The Nice Guys" reference in there, extra points if you can spot it.]

Masterlist | Read on Ao3 | Request Prompts

Read the First Chapter here

The Blood Ties that Bind | Chapter Two | Ava x Beatrice

It was a common misconception that Vampires could see better in the dark. Yes, Beatrice viewed the world without light through a gray haze that was often mimicked on a camcorder, but if one did not know the obstacles they would face in said, pitch area, then it was hardly effective. She was thankful for the pulsing red light of the exit sign.

Beatrice kept to the far side of the hallway where the span of the cameras didn’t reach. She’d feigned interest in the security system that Michael Salvius had installed a few weeks before. He regarded her icily, mumbling under his breath. He figured that she was mocking him, and she placed a soft hand on his shoulder.

She told Michael Salvius that his job was important. That without the Salvius security systems, they would be shit out of luck on most of their cases. The footage was always grainy, way too distorted by the city's rain to make anything out. But she sat on the edge of the desk and smiled at him while he installed the new tech.

It had disturbed her, to a degree, the way in which the world was changing. She remembers the distinct feeling of whiplash she got when she saw her first automobile. This surely won’t catch on, she naively thought. And for a time, it hadn’t. But soon they were rushing through the streets, not just for the rich, but for everyone.

Cameras, she figured, would be the exact same way as cars, as planes, and chewing gum. The world was prone to rushing around her and she wouldn’t notice one way or another until times like these when it hit her all at once. Allusivity was swiped away by bulky wires and hard drives.

She’d watched Michel out of curiosity, but was thankful now, that she had. It made getting into the lab in the basement of the precinct all the easier. Though, Beatrice wasn’t sure if the cameras could pick up her slinking form in the deep red light of the exit sign. She stopped directly across from the door to the lab and waited until the cherry-red color faded.

Then, she took a large step across the hall and broke the knob off the door entirely with one flick of the wrist. It was much like a bone, that way, a metal contraption that came apart so easily under her movements. Beatrice pushed her shoulder into the door and entered the darkness of the lab.

Death was a familiar scent to her. It wasn’t one that she used to describe herself or her kind. No, they were wrought with the earth tones of soil and leaden blood. The odor of decay on a normal, once-breathing, human body was different. It tickled the back of her throat with hints of vanilla and the acrid hum of formaldehyde.

The dead lined the wall of the morgue behind little metal doors like picture frames. Each was meticulously labeled with a sharpie. A series of numbers following the first three letters of a last name. Beatrice instinctively spotted PAL86 and kept her eyes on the darkness of the drawer.

Part of her believed that he would push it open, that his milky eyes would open the world and she would be the one that had to break it to him: Apologies for your death, you see, a girl that I promised to teach how to live is desperate to do so herself. Mistakes happen.

Richard “Barry” Palmer would not be rising from the dead. That wasn’t how things worked. But just like the advancement of automobiles and security systems, this too could change. Not tonight, though. Not while she strode past a large exam table and opened the cooling chamber for samples.

A bright white light nearly blinded her before she had the thought to place her finger over the sensor and plunge herself back into that granular darkness. Beatrice swore under her breath. Ava hadn’t been kidding, law enforcement was wising up. They saved everything. Small vials filled with hair samples, fingernail clippings, fibers from the carpet saturated in brown blood.

She didn’t have much time, if the flash of light from the cooler had triggered the patrol officer damned to the security room, then she was fucked. Good and fucked. There was no logical way for her to explain why she had not only ripped the doorknob from its place but why she had rummaged through the fridge like she was up for a midnight snack.

Beatrice spotted two tubes labeled with PAL86. She didn’t hesitate to slip them into the pocket of her peacoat. She closed the cooler, careful with the light this time, and turned on her heel to exit the lab. Again, she waited for the pulsing light of the exit sign at the end of the hallway before she hastily made it to the stairwell, breathing a cool sigh of relief.

It’s fine. Everything is fine. She got in and out quickly, quietly, like the shadow that she was derived from. She hadn’t risked her position as a lead detective. She’d simply looked out for her own. And was that so bad? Ava was sure to thank her later, if later ever came along.

“Detective Alexander?”

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Beatrice had made it to the second stairwell. She instinctively tightened her fingers around the cold vials in her pocket and turned to face the medical examiner whom she had met on a few occasions. Her hair was sleep-worn, and a single eyebrow was raised in a questioning glance. She wore her coat over a buttoned pajama top.

“Doctor Amunet” Beatrice gave an easy smile. “What are you doing here so late?”

“I assume for the same reason as you.”

“Oh?”

Yasmine Amunet’s gaze was mild, her eyes the color of cold bourbon. She rubbed the corner of one, taking the sleepy haze right with it. “Nothing worse than being woken up by a corpse call in the middle of the night. I just have to grab my supplies and I’ll be headed down to the wharf.”

“Of course,” Beatrice swallowed hard. She prayed absently that Yasmine wouldn’t flick on the lights and notice the busted knob on the door to her lab. That the bag she was often seen with was subsequently in the office instead. “Would you like to go together? Two birds. One stone. That sort of thing.”

This was a solid play. Yasmine’s eyes lit up and all her drowsiness left her, replaced with excitement instead. Detectives worked closely with their medical examiners, but this was a different level of familiarity, an olive branch that was not often extended.

“Yeah, yes! Are you kidding me, of course.” She rocked excitedly on the balls of her feet.

Beatrice chuckled, “Go on, then. Make it quick. I’ll meet you out front.”

Yasmine schooled her expression but let a smile slip through just before she pivoted and rushed down the staircase to the basement. Beatrice could hear her shoes against the linoleum, fast and careless. One did not readily look for signs of distress when they were hurried. She counted on this as she took the side door out of the precinct and into the cold rain.

A shiver rushed down her spine. She lingered on the side of the building, taking both vials that were meticulously labeled PAL86 and dropping them into the rushing, mucky water that led to the storm drain. Beatrice took the toe of her boot and pressed down until she heard the glass shatter.

She watched as the shards were washed away into the storm drain with the rest of the runoff.

Any traces of lingering sleep dissipated from Detective Ava Silva’s mind as she pulled the Buick close enough to the weathered boardwalk for the wood to splinter. Rain slammed against the windshield, distorting the yellowed streetlamps, and the flashing squad cars. The wind had picked up and whipped viciously against Ava’s side as she slammed the car door.

There was no crowd this time. Bodies were pulled from the canal often and methodically. People who were down on their luck with the metal tip of a needle shoved into the nearest, unmarred vein. Women that stood on street corners while law enforcement looked the other way- because everyone needed to make a living somehow. Everyone needed to survive.

Ava was annoyed, at first. She had been in the kind of deep sleep that weighed heavy on your mind. Why pull her from bed for a body that would never be claimed? Though her grip relaxed on the steering wheel on the way here, and her shoulders slumped in defeat. A body is not simply a body. A life is not simply a life.

Guilt wracked her for being miffed in the first place. This was her job, after all, sleep be damned. She can sleep when her tank ran out of gas. She swallowed a stabilizing breath in the large drops of rain. The sea air was salty and clung to her skin like a film.

Detective Silva stepped over the slumping police tape, raged from the elements. By the time she got there, two police cars flanked the docks and a third, deep plum Ford Pinto was parked meticulously next to them. Ava recognized Detective Alexander’s flashy government-issued car. Okay- maybe Ava didn’t know if it was government issued, but no one could afford an 86’ model on a detective’s salary.

Her stomach churned when she crossed the threshold onto the rotted deck. She wasn’t a big fan of water, never had been. The hollow sound of her footfalls nearly made her want to turn back. Leave the corpse to Beatrice, seeing as she had gotten the jump on the case, to begin with.

There was already a sheet over the body. It reflected what little of the moon shown through the clouds each time they shifted. The rain had evened out, but the wind stayed strong. Beatrice had her jaw clenched; her hands shoved into the pockets of her coat. Yasmine held an umbrella over them both. She looked worse for wear, as green as Ava felt.

“Detective Silva,” Beatrice turned up the corner of her lip in a small smile. A white flag that bled red. “Nice of you to join us.”

She ignored the comment. “Why call us out here for a canal corpse?”

The thought rushed past her lips and exhibited in the mist of her breath, breaking the cold. She hadn’t meant to phrase it like that, really. Not with the uniforms glancing warily over their shoulders at the statement.

“That came out wrong. I mean, it’s not something you usually do.”

“You’re right, I don’t, but this… Detective Alexander was already at the station and decided to let me tag along. Good thing she did, your body is a Hispanic female in her early twenties.” She used the base of her hand to wipe away a drop of frigid rain that had dripped from the edge of the umbrella. “The neck is ripped into. Carotid artery shredded like an expired credit card.”

“Geez. Unidentified?”

Beatrice frowned “Actually, no, the victim is a model by the name of Sabrina Patrick, I’m guaranteeing that you’ve seen her on the side of busses, billboards, and storefronts. You name it. She’s recently branched out into acting; I believe she had a bit part in ‘Fright Night’.”

“No shit! I’ve seen that one!” Ava smacked Beatrice’s arm excitedly and lowered her voice, wiggling her fingers wickedly “Welcome to Fright night… for real.”

Yasmine pinched the bridge of her nose with an exasperated sigh that painted the sky. Beatrice let out a groan and stared at the silver interworking of the umbrella. Ava wasn’t a huge fan of vampires herself, but she did enjoy the campy feel of the movie, and the lead actress wasn’t entirely an eyesore.

Ava schooled her face into professionalism. She felt foolish for asking this question, but it slipped up anyway. “She have her blood?”

“Detective Silva, enough with the movie references,” Beatrice warned.

“Actually, no,” Yasmine said. “Not all of it.”

The last address listed on Sabrina Patrick’s driver's license led Detective Alexander and Detective Silva to a small duplex on a rougher end of town. Much too rough for a successful model, and upcoming actress. Beatrice thought this as she wrapped her hands around the chain link fence that surrounded the property.

It looked untouched, abandoned for the most part. The grass hadn’t been cut in at least a month. It had died and turned a rotten, mushy gray with the oversaturation of the rain. One pane of the large bay window had been shattered and patched up with silver duct tape and a black trash bag that flopped in the wind.

The red words BEWARE OF DOG curled in around itself. Ava reached over the fence and unlatched it before pushing the gate in. An ungodly screech of forgotten hinges made Beatrice’s jaw ache. There was a pit in the center of her stomach that continued to grow, reaching its cold edges out to her ribs, and to her slow-beating heart. Something was not right here.

Her fingers numbly reached for her sidearm, the fabric of her coat scratchy against dry skin. Ava spared her a glance. She was wielding a flashlight, though, Beatrice was sure that she wished she had something more as if she didn’t trust Beatrice to aim and fire her weapon if need be.

Beatrice recalls the first time she fired a gun, her brother's LeMat pistol. It was weighed and inscribed with his initials. Their father had gifted it to him the Christmas before the Civil War began. He taught her how to manage the kickback, and how to hit old cans of food, rusted and empty. Then small animals, squirrels and rabbits were utilized for their pelts.

She could handle the Government regulation gun in her hand now. Beatrice was a quick shot, she bet quicker than Ava. However, neither of them spoke as they tested the strength of the porch. Ava used two knuckles to bang on the chipped door.

“CPD, please come to the door,” She said, commanding.

A shiver worked its way up Beatrice’s spine at the deepness of Ava’s voice, the steadiness in which she delivered her command. They listened for movement inside. Ava couldn’t hear anything, and Beatrice could make out the dull drip of a leak in the kitchen, but not the dull, bugs-buzz of electric, or breathing, or even a rapid heartbeat.

“We’re not going to ask again. Open up!” There was a beat of five more seconds before Ava straightened her posture. “Well. No one’s home.”

“You’re sure?”

Detective Silva removed her jacket. Her arms flexed under the dull morning light. The clouds gave everything a mucky green color that shaded her features. In this light, the daring tightness behind Ava’s eyes, there was a bit of attractiveness. Ava could be quite charming when she wasn’t being a stubborn asshole.

However, those thoughts went right out the window when Ava wrapped her hand in the jacket and used it to shatter out the other half of the window. She took the taped trash bag with it, careful for the remaining shards of glass as she reached around and unclicked the lock.

“Ava, there are protocols!”

She shrugged and shook out her jacket before draping it over the termite-ridden railing at the front of the porch. Ava had a Cheshire grin that dared Beatrice to test her, even with her fingers near the trigger of the gun. “Probable cause.”

Ava opened the door and the stench that instantly hit them made Beatrice swallow back a gag. Detective Silva groaned. It was putrid, a mix of urine and rotting food that made the uneasiness of Beatrice’s stomach deepen.

Newspapers saturated with water and mold were stacked to the ceiling in a long, dark hallway. Insects scattered as new light made its way into the house, the flashlight sweeping over a staircase. There was a living area to the left, and a dining room to the right. All stacked high with newspapers, old DVDs, bottles that contained sticky forgotten soda, and take-out containers that squirmed with maggots.

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” Ava retched.

“Don’t take the lord's name in vain.” Beatrice’s eyes were watering. Everything was so defined and she couldn’t take a deep breath if she tried. Her lungs contracted.

“I did not take the lord's name in vain.” Ava used one arm to cover her nose, tentatively taking a step through the threshold “I found it very useful, actually. Are you coming?”

She kept her firearm lowered to her side, though the home exhibited all the signs of being long abandoned, Beatrice felt the same cloying anxiety she got every single time she entered a new residence. Her partner couldn’t exactly invite her in. The rules were finicky, but one stayed consistent: She could not enter without being invited in by the owner.

Subsequently, if there was no owner, she could step through the doorway. She held her breath for more than one reason, but took one foot and exhaled when she heard the rubber sole of her shoe crunch against the broken glass from the window.

Ava shook her head when Beatrice lifted her chin to the living area. They had to follow a strict pathway. There was a clear direction carved out amongst the garbage, the old National Geographic magazines, and the dirt-caked clothing. She was too humble to open her mouth and protest. Beatrice was not prepared to dry heave.

The steps to the second level were sturdy and Beatrice stuck close to the small circle of light that Ava provided. They made it to the top of the steps before Ava turned, the blinding light flashing across Beatrice’s stare before moving back to the floor.

“We should call for backup,” Beatrice mumbled, watching as a cockroach skittered over her shoe. “This place needs to be searched and condemned.”

However, Ava wasn’t listening to her. Instead, she was frowning. Beatrice reared back as the beam of light crossed her gaze three more times, Ava staring at her with an intensity that Beatrice had to blink away, along with the silver flashes of the light. She reached out and grabbed Ava’s wrist gently.

“What are you doing?”

“Your eyes are weird.”

“Yes, most likely due to the asbestos in here,” Beatrice growled, redirecting the light with the soft push of Ava’s hand. “Now, can we please finish the sweep and get out of here?”

Ava seemed to let it go. They pulled apart from one another and made the careful journey that the pathway allowed. Beatrice tried not to think about what crunched under her feet. They made it to the bedroom at the end of the hall: something that Beatrice assumed was a bedroom.

She was still blinking blotches of red and blue from her vision, But when it did focus, she located the four-post bed. It floated in a sea of debris. She got a sudden whiff of congealed blood, deteriorated flesh.

The brittle corpse of an older man, or at least what Beatrice made out to be one. It was hard, under the squirming mass of insects that had made a home between his ribs, and hollowed-out cheeks. Flies flanked the windows, daylight flitting through their wings. The buzzing was deafening.

This time, Ava did vomit, bile, and coffee joining the other masses on the floor. When she keeled over, her flashlight hit something that caught Beatrice’s attention. She placed a comforting hand on the small of Ava’s back but worked the flashlight from her hand at the same time.

Drywall had begun to crumble from the far wall, exposing brick, and wood, the innards of the house. Flies circled a painted symbol on the wall, once a vibrant red color. It had faded into the deep brown that only blood could afford.

“What the fuck is that?” Ava asked. She spits the acrid taste from her mouth. “Seriously, that’s… God, I’m going to be sick.”

Beatrice’s mouth was dry. A cross, a very specific cross, had been etched onto the wall. Arrows tipped every end, and large, stretching lines belted them. She’d seen it before, she’d had it carved into her shoulder blade with the chemical quickness that even she couldn’t heal from.

Detective Alexander fought the urge to stick the gun to her temple, and Detective Silva heaved the other half of her breakfast.

Three showers later and Beatrice could still clock the odor of decay on her skin. It was masked by vanilla, the slightest bit of detergent, and sweat. But it was there, lurking under the surface. She didn’t bother drying her hair. Instead, she padded into the living area and curled up on one end of the sofa. The rain had begun to fall again, barely noticeable.

She loved the view of the city slightly more, knowing that it wasn’t choked with flies swarming in a colony. In all her years, all the death, all the torture, all the pain, she had never seen deterioration such as that.

Many of her kind lost the ability to feel. It came with the territory. Day in and day out, the world would spin on its axis and empathy would escape the soul in small, barely noticeable breaths, until there was nothing left at all.

Beatrice was convinced that Lilith was getting there, and with nothing to be done about stopping it, she watched. Her roommate was absent, and she was grateful for the fact. What’s another corpse? This was not simply a corpse; this was a message. If not to her, then to the city. Then to those who did not know of the dangers that lurked just below the surface.

Eighty-four-year-old Tom Thornton had rented out his spare room to up-and-coming actress Sabrina Patrick seven months ago. She went missing after filming Fright Night over the summer. Within that time, the home had become a nest, of sorts. She had no idea how many were living there, for how long.

Tom Thornton was most likely killed within hours of Sabrina, left to fester. Beatrice curled deeper into herself, ran her fingers over the seam of her sweatpants, and clenched her eyes shut. She could move, leave the city, leave Detective Silva in the wreckage. But then again, she found the girl endearing and she was never much of a runner.

“Bea?”

Beatrice must have drifted into something of a fitful dissociation. The silvery scent of blood made her mouth water, her jaw ache as her canines threatened to slip into her mouth. Camila was sitting on the coffee table, a steaming mug in her hands.

“You should eat something.”

It was a peace offering, Beatrice guessed. She took the mug gratefully, not realizing how hungry she was until that subtle burn in the back of her throat ignited into full flame. She took a sip, warmed in the microwave like popcorn.

Camila had guilt written all over her face. Beatrice had taught the girl, away from most civilization, how to function as a member of the undead. They’d curbed the initial, dominating feeling of want that crossed over to the other side, the sensitivity to the sun. How to take what you needed without taking too much.

She’d given the same instruction to Lilith, who had taken to it naturally. But Camila was different. It wasn’t about survival for her, it was about empathy, about doing things right and there was nothing right about what they’d become.

“I wanted to apologize.” She started after Beatrice had slowly gulped down half of the mug. “For the banker, I mean. I’ve risked our existence here, and so soon after we’ve settled. I understand if you want me to go.”

Beatrice placed a steadying hand on the girl’s knee “Camila, I could never ask such a thing. Besides, it’s been taken care of. You must be more vigilant, though. You know I’ve never restricted how you feed, when you feed.”

“I know,” She whispered, using the edge of her hand to wipe away an escaped tear. “I know, and I am grateful. I was… chased away, I couldn’t finish what I started.”

Beatrice straightened, putting both feet on the floor. The tears were flowing freely from Camila’s red-rimmed eyes now. She had clasped her hands between her knees nervously.

“Chased?”

“Yeah. Yes. By a group of vampires. There were five or six of them… no, definitely five. I guess they smelled the blood. Too many for me to fight off, and I didn’t want to initiate something like that. I didn’t know we traveled in that big of groups.”

“We don’t.”

Beatrice had reluctantly turned Lilith herself and had done the same for Camila. It wasn’t unheard of for sires to stick with their makers, but five? She couldn’t create that many in an immortal lifetime if she tried. It was draining, nearly unfathomable.

Though, she knew someone who had dreams of grandeur such as those.

She swallowed down the rest of the liquid in the cup, used her thumb to wipe the blotch of color from the corner of her lip. There were others in the city, she knew, others that had slain methodically.

Beatrice clenched her eyes shut and draped her head over the back of the couch. Despite the fear, the symbol painted on the wall, and a city sure to be overrun with sired vampires, she could only think one thing: She should rent Fright Night from Blockbuster.

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